Transient Being

I opened a pizzeria! or, Hoping to boost web traffic with little to no effort

2011-01-31T13:45:00.000-08:00

To anyone who still may be reading this for whatever reason (boredom? slow reader? haven't yet discovered reddit?), I'm back in the States and I've opened up a pizza shop!

It's called SLICE on Broadway in Pittsburgh. Check out the menu at http://www.sliceonbroadway.com !

Cheers,
J

Reports of My Death are Greatly Exaggerated, or, For Your Consideration

2008-12-20T07:21:00.000-08:00

Hello, old friends.

A few of you have recently expressed concern as to whether or not I am still, in fact, alive. First, allow me to say that your consideration is greatly appreciated. And second, yes, I am still very much alive.

This blog, on the other hand, has obviously been CTD ("circling the drain," newbie) for some time now. I am truly sorry about that, but trust that we're doing everything we can to keep her alive. Let's just pray she's a fighter.

I've got loads of tales to tell, and they'll all make their way onto this here blog in due time. Until then, however, I submit for your consideration a little time lapse photography experiment I threw together. It's nothing special; I'm really just trying to get the hang of making videofilms for the intrawebs.

Goddamn, that's a great song.

Happy Festivus!
J

Day 27, Split: Just Slightly Prettier Than Wildwood, New Jersey, or, A Hairy Situation

2008-12-04T04:38:00.000-08:00

7 October 2008

I've been here only a day, and already I'm completely enamored by the Croatian coast. As the Autumn sun kisses the ancient Roman ruins within which my lodge is nestled, a premonition of joyous optimism seizes my spirit. Croatia is so beautiful, in fact, that I can't help but spew prolix, amateurish prose to describe it (see previous sentence). I'll try and keep it to a minimum.

The hostel was a tad breezy. Great views, though.

Today, I visit not one but TWO beaches: the first, a typical, sandy affair close to the ruins, where I meet a couple of girls after brazenly interjecting upon their conversation, which had something to do with Chicago.

One is an artsy-fartsy American from "the Cleve" who, much like myself, has decided to commemorate her travels by giving up shaving. This doesn't come up in conversation, but judging from the tumbleweeds this chick is smuggling under her arms, one can only assume it's some sort of art project/social statement. Obviously, tending to one's prolific body hair is plebeian, oppressive and patriarchal, and she's going to let Croatia know about it. I still think it looks better on me, though.

Enchantée, ma chère! Might I buy you a drink? Or perhaps a Lady Remington?

The other lass is a well-kempt, unremarkable Aussie; she doesn't say much. We make plans to meet later for a few pints; I pray that Chewbacca wears long sleeves.

Beach number two, appropriately named Bene (Italian for "Fuckin' A"), is big, rocky and magnificent. As a boorish American whose beach experience mostly comprises summers in Wildwood, New Jersey, I'm stricken by the awesome, aromatic, heady beauty of a rocky shore saturated with conifers and bathed in seemingly constant sunlight.

All this natural majesty possesses me, of course, to play tough guy. I find a secluded and especially rocky corner of the coast that is clearly not intended for swimming, and I decide to take a swim. The water is cold. The ground beneath the water is littered with either sea urchins or broken glass. I cut my feet up something fierce.

This looks like a safe place for a dive, no?

I snap this photo:

Joe Ciotti: Man.

I head for dry land, trying to feel tough while tip-toeing all the way back.

I watch the following sunset, which immediately heals my wounded feet and eradicates any remaining Hungarian AIDS cells. I hope you'll feel a similar effect. Sorry about the crappy editing.

After chasing down a bus in soggy plastic flip flops to make it back to town, I meet Chewie and Aussie-face, and we explore the tiny Dalmatian streets in search of a pub. Having little luck on our own, we soon hook up with some Croatian sailors in an alleyway (that doesn't sound right at all).

These scurvy seadogs escort us to a little pub (they're all little), shamelessly dance with the girls, complain about how Americans don't know anything, and boast that Split is home to the world's oldest cathedral.

I'd love to argue, but I have no idea whether this is true. I am, after all, only American.

###

Day 26, Zagreb: Hostel Living with the Swedish Bikini Team, or, Non-Ninja Turtles and the Croatian Crime Syndicate

2008-11-29T04:53:00.000-08:00

6 October 2008

I guess I spoke too soon on the whole "no more carnal temptation" thing.

Last night, when I arrived in my hostel in Zagreb, what did I encounter but two Swedish girls (yes, Swedish girls) walking around in their underwear, nonchalantly chatting me up about this and that. I say "this and that" because I blacked out and have no idea what we actually talked about. Pillow fights and bikini tours, I imagine.

Typical hostel environment.

Damned Swedes and their casual regard for the human form. Thank God for sleeping pills.

With only an afternoon to kill before I "split" for the coast (you'll get that joke by the next blog post), I duck into a botanical garden near the train station. Pretty cool, actually. I get to play with turtles, despite strict Croatian laws forbidding me to do so.

NO TOUCHING!

I feel like Master Splinter.

Quit playing grab-ass and start fighting some crime, you lazy turtles!

Oh, and I get to see some real-life criminal intrigue. A bunch of cops and reporters are clustered around an old townhouse, where, at least according to the slackjawed gawkers milling about, a "mafioso" is being taken down.

"So, uh, did you see those Swedish chicks from earlier in the blog post? Pretty... pretty... pretty nice! What, that was a good Larry David! You don't watch 'Curb'? You should, it's pretty funny! Shit, here comes the chief, act serious." (Note: This caption funniest when read in thick Eastern European accent.)

Some day, my baby turtles will clean up this town.

###

Day 25, Budapest to Zagreb: The Truth Behind Hungarian Economics, or, The Consonant-Heavy Word of God

2008-11-29T02:00:00.000-08:00

5 October 2008

On the train from Budapest to Zagreb (Croatia, soon to be revealed as the happiest place on Earth), I encounter a Hungarian student at an American Bible School in Hungary (there has to be a less clumsy way of wording that).

Not only a student of the Word of God, this genteel and optimistic young lad is also a student of words in general, fancying himself something of a poet. We speak for only a few moments, but from these few moments I learn a great deal about Hungarian culture.

1,000 Hungarian Forints to the first person to successfully translate this gobbledygook.

- Ridiculous as the Magyar language may be, Hungarians at large LOVE language and poetry. Or they did, at least, until Hollywood killed it. Don't worry, I tell my faithful chum, God will smite Hollywood soon enough.

The Anti-Christ, as depicted by chihuahuas.

- Hungary's economy is currently in a shitty state.
- Hungary's economy is, and will continue to be, in such a shitty state because Hungarian girls are way too hot for the men to get anything done (this is coming from a man of the cloth, so it's got to be true).

I don't get the chance to share much about American culture with Father So-and-So, but I do admit that if I ever need proof of the existence of God, I need only go so far as a discotheque in Budapest on a Saturday night.

That said, I'm happy to get away from all this carnal temptation for a while.

Good Lord.

###

Day 24, Budapest: "If I Can Make It In Budapest, I'll Make It Anywhere!", or, My Man-Date

2008-11-28T07:00:00.000-08:00

4 October 2008

My bland-but-friendly South African "mate" and I decide to venture out into the thick of Pest, past the fast food chains and tourist hot spots, to take in a real live soccer game between Budapest's two biggest teams. Excited as we are to pretend to be real Europeans for a few hours, neither of us bothers to get actual directions to the stadium.

This proves to be a problem. We get nowhere near it, and since my Hungarian is a little rusty, I struggle to obtain suitable directions.

"No worries," as my inescapable Aussie compatriots would say. We pop into a dingy pub in a dingy neighborhood on the dingy outskirts of town and watch the game over a couple of pints of Arany Ászok.

At least I think it was a pub. It looks more like a finished basement.

This little impromptu man-date forces me to pretend to give a flying fuck about apartheid and its after-effects, something I haven't had to do since 11th grade Humanities class. The game is rubbish: Újpest bests MTK 4-1.

Not wanting the magic to end, we continue our man-date with a bit of live jazz, Hungarian style. "Hungarian style," for the record, means watching an old lady croon American classics like "New York, New York," occasionally replacing "New York" with "Budapest" (clever!).

It must be a pretty good set, as one rather boisterous gentleman gets excited enough to be escorted out by police.

That Michael Flatley has really let himself go.

This man-date has been a total fiasco. I'll call you though, I promise.

###

Day 23 (cont'd), Budapest: Free Ska at the Youth Center, or, Hungarian Teens Love To Skank It Up

2008-11-28T06:00:00.000-08:00

3 October 2008

Hajj, our friendly British hostel drone who has nothing better to do than hang out with fucking backpackers, accompanies us to a free concert. A free ska concert. Remember ska?

Yes, this was actually kind of cool at one point. Wait, no it wasn't.

For those of you who forget, ska is what happens when kids in the high school band smoke weed in their parents basement and think, hey, I bet we'd get way more ass if we started our own band and wore cheap thrift store suits.

"Stars and Stripes Forever"

The name of this particular ska band is Paso Soundsystem, and as free ska shows go, this one is actually pretty good.

Without missing a beat, I am 15 years old again, skankin' the night away while self-consciously hoping that all the cute teenyboppers surrounding me don't think I look like a poseur.

Stop judging me!

Speaking of cute teenyboppers, this place is crawling with them. It's enough to make one wonder whether Hungary has liberal statutory laws.

Good as the concert is, it makes me wonder: did the Hungarians just get ska? Or were they simply waiting for the Americans to weed out the riff raff? (I'm looking at you, Reel Big Fish.)

Sell outs.

###

Sleepless in London, or, Please Take Me Back

2008-11-28T03:56:00.000-08:00

Oh, hey!

Haven't seen you in a while. How have you been? You look great! Are those new highlights? They look really good on you.

I've been good. Super busy, actually. Seeing sights, snapping photos, butchering languages, that sort of thing. You know me!

Why, yes, I have lost a bit of weight, actually. Thank you for noticing!

Why haven't I blogged? Well, I've been meaning to, it's just that ... I've been really busy, and it's hard to find a good internet connection in these hostels, and ... well, you know how it is.

Besides, it's not as if you've been posting comments every day, is it?! For all I know, you've found some fancy new blog with a nice car and a condo you've been commenting on! You probably even have a link to it on Facebook, don't you?

You're right, I'm sorry. That was out of line. Here, I brought you a flower. It's from Spain!

You don't have to carry it around all day if you don't want to.

Not romantic enough for you? How about some human skulls arranged in the shape of a heart?

Endless love.

I haven't forgotten you. I think about you every day, reader. In fact, you'll be happy to know that I've been consumed by guilt for neglecting you as long as I have. Why my suffering brings you joy, I'll never know.

But I'm still having fun, don't worry. In fact, I've got some crazy stories to share, if you still want to hear them. Tales of whimsy and wonder, of excitement and danger, of loves won and lost, of smashed TVs, of French karaoke, of lesbians dancing on bars. Oh, the tales I have to tell.

Look, here's the deal. It's tough blogging on the road. Especially when every new city has a dozen old churches and castles to see. But I'm going to try harder.

So keep your eyes here and I'll do my best to get a post or two up every few days.

Thanks for taking me back, baby! You won't regret it!

Forever yours,
J

P.S. You may have noticed in the past that blog posts have been dated to correspond with the day on which the related events actually transpired, not the day on which they were posted. This has caused endless confusion, usually in the form of "You haven't updated your blog in like a month! WTF?"

No more. From now on, posts will be dated with the day they are posted. I know this seems absurdly complicated, so if you get confused, just send me an email and I'll be happy to belittle you with lots of swear words until you act right.

###

Day Something or Other: Forgive My Negligence, or, Have You Seen This Man?

2008-11-12T12:37:00.000-08:00

Dear Friends,

As previously mentioned, I'm getting down to the final days of my Eurail-forced mad dash about Western Europe, and as you've probably noticed, that hasn't given me much time for blogging. Some of you have expressed disappointment or disdain, while others have abandoned ship entirely (I know who you are).

But just to show you that I haven't completely fallen off the face of the Earth (but that I'm pretty damn close to it), please enjoy this photo of my latest look.

It's gonna get a whole lot worse before it gets better.

Remind you of anyone?

Second Sexiest Man Alive.

That "mess of posts" I promised is still coming soon. Keep the faith, kiddies.

-J

###

Day 23, Budapest: Bacterial Budapestian Bacchanalia, or, My Much-Needed Bath

2008-10-03T17:07:00.000-07:00

Today is my day to be a tourist. I wake up wheneverish, strap on the ol' backpack, and head for the nearest, biggest thing I can see. In Budapest, that big thing happens to be a citadel carved into a mosquito-infested mountain. Good enough for me.

Maybe an old Habsburg hang-out? Who cares.

Next is a big monument of some kind. I don't really know what it's for; it could be little more than a big fancy skate park. I don't really care. Hungarian history means nothing to me.

Let us never forget when those one guys defeated those other guys! Long live Hungary!

I finally encounter precisely what I'm looking for: the famed Hungarian bath house. A bacterial bacchanal of flabby flesh, skimpy swimsuits and ambiguous aromas, the Hungarian bath house is a must see for anyone who enjoys hot water and the hideous human form.

A delightful little cesspool.

It's easy livin' here, and I'm lovin' it.

This may or may not apply to all Hungarian bath houses, but the one I visit has three distinct flavors of bath:

1) Mild: water temperature 60-65 degrees Fahrenheit. Perfect for swimming laps, erecting nipples, shrinking genitals.

2) Medium: water temperature 70-80 degrees Fahrenheit. Perfect for old ladies, microorganisms, bubble aficionados.

3) Caliente: water temperature 90+ degrees Fahrenheit. Perfect for killing off bacteria accumulated from previous two pools.

I conclude my touristy day with a sauna and a casual traipse back to the hostel. There's mid-90s excitement on the agenda for tonight, and I've got to practice my skankin'.

###

Day 22, Budapest: Hungarian Girls Are All Porn Stars-In-Traning, or, How and Where to Contract Hungarian AIDS

2008-10-02T23:13:00.000-07:00

Budapest appears to be a pretty groovy city. They are clearly working hard to make tourists feel at home.

This message brought to you by the Hungarian Joint Ministries of Tourism and Alcoholism.

As far as I can tell, all the hostels are tucked away in converted apartments in which real human beings still reside.

Has anyone seen my red gym shorts? Oh, there they are.

My hostel, as I'm sure is the case with others, even has an angry cat lady who lives downstairs and gets mad when hostel rats ash their cigarettes into her courtyard. Relax, lady.

[Unintelligible Magyar profanities]

So I hook up with a couple of fellow rats -- one, a nice vanilla South African whom everyone keeps mistaking for Australian; the other, a know-it-all Columbian with aobnoxiously stereotypical y=j accent ("Jou know what I saying, mang?") -- and, upon the advice of the caretaker, head to a club called Szimpla.

Has anyone seen my three pet bunnies? Oh, there they are. On the ceiling.

Now I don't know if this place technically counts as "underground," but it certainly was fuck hard to find. Tucked through a few alleys, past more than a few hobos, and through a long corridor ending with one of those dirty plastic dividers they use in walk-in freezers, Szimpla is worth searching for.

The decor appears to be the result of years of laborious dumpster diving, and the women appear to be the result of years of successful eugenic research.

Has anyone seen my two ridiculously hot Hungarian girlfriends? Oh, there they are.

Seriously, Hungarian girls are hot. Porn star hot. They are so hot, in fact, that I find myself pounding pilsners to find the courage to actually talk to them.

Big mistake.

Not only is Magyar arguably the most ludicrous language on the planet, but the girls can actually use it to confound and alienate the hell out of unwelcome suitors. The few English phrases these girls appear to have learned equate roughly to "fuck off."

I do draw the attention of one woman, however: a drunken, rambunctious, disease-ridden hellhound, whom I suspect of giving me Hungarian AIDS by coughing into my beer and kicking me in the bum repeatedly.

Avoiding staring directly at her for as long as possible, I finally have to tell this medusa that I will slice her fucking head off if she comes near me again. She smiles wickedly and saunters off to the next poor bastard dumb enough to make eye contact.

Release the Kraken!

Now I have Hungarian AIDS. Great.

###

Day Whatever: A Life Without Internets Is No Life At All, or, Get Ready for a Whole Mess of Posts

2008-10-02T01:00:00.000-07:00

For the past few days, I've been forced to lead a life without access to Internet tubes (if you can even call that living). This will continue to be the case for just a little while longer.

It's been difficult. I have no idea whether the black guy or the hot retarded chick is going to be the next Prime Minister of America; if the global economy still exists, or if it has devolved into a post-Apocalyptic system of bartering and bloodsport; or, most importantly, which of my friends have new profile pictures on Facebook.

What's worse, you've been forced to rough it with me: no "Transient Being" updates in probably a fortnight. This fills me with great shame, and no doubt fills you with feelings of abandonment and rage. Good. Use these feelings to vanquish your enemies.

Sadly, the quantity and quality of blog posts will continue to be sparse at best for the next week or two. My Eurail pass is fast approaching its expiration date, and I have a bit of catching up to do travel-wise. (A word of advice to future backpackers: the Eurail pass is a pain in the ass and a waste of money. More on that later.)

But know that you are always in my heart, loyal readers, and that when I finally do get a steady stream of Internet tubage at my disposal, I'm going to bust a load of blog posts so big and so disgusting, it'll put "2 Girls 1 Cup" to shame.

Ciao for now,
J

###

Days 20 & 21, Vienna: The U.N. is Bullshit, or, I'll Come Back When I'm Retired

2008-10-01T13:59:00.000-07:00

Vienna looks like a lovely city, brimming with museums, opera houses, theatre and art.

I take advantage of all this high culture by sleeping 12 hours a day, blogging in my hostel, and occasionally running across the street for wiener schnitzel.

Sustenance.

I'll come back when I'm retired.

The only remotely fascinating thing to report about my stay in Vienna is that I meet a United Nations peacekeeper on holiday. An Australian stationed in Dubai, if I'm not mistaken. After discussing geopolitics for only a few moments, he informs me with great certitude that "the UN is bullshit," and that he would like nothing more than to see it completely dissolved so the world can get on with its life.

I guess he's not looking to climb the ranks.

I'm not quite sure how to respond, so I just say that Kim Jong Il and Hugo Chavez are two crazy motherfuckers, and that when China takes over the world we're all fucked. He agrees.

Here are a couple more remotely fascinating things I observe in Vienna:

I heard that the Gypsies would look a little different, but this is ridiculous.

Haven't I seen you somewhere before?

You two-timin' bitch!

Off to Budapest.

###

Day 19, Prague: Pretty Pictures and Ugly Urges, or, On Art Nouveau and Chicken McNuggets

2008-09-29T16:59:00.000-07:00

Today I visit the Mucha Museum. For the plebes reading this, Alphonse (Alfons) Mucha was arguably the father of the Art Nouveau movement, a school typified by colorful ads full of pretty girls suggesting dirty deeds, big hair, and lots of swirly thingies.

Totally asking for it.

Once again, I find the solitude of travel taking its toll. All of these swirly pictures of half-naked women serve as little more than a painful reminder of my own base humanity, completely quashing the inner sophisticate who so desperately wants to appreciate art for art's sake. In short: all I see are boobies and cigarettes.

Don't Bogart that J, lady.

I think I'm going to have to stay away from art museums for a while.

Some food will draw my attention from these evil urges.

Seizing my last opportunity to enjoy traditional Czech fare, I duck into an authentic-looking restaurant and order their incomprehensible lunch special, hoping for something crazy.

Turns out, it's a 5-piece McNugget Extra Value Meal. And it doesn't even come with any dipping sauce.

Could I get some Sweet 'N Sour sauce over here?

That's enough of you, Prague. Off to Vienna, where all the food is miniature and eaten with toothpicks.

Party in a can.

###

Day 18, Prague: Much Ado About Karlstejn, or, The Obligatory Medieval Post

2008-09-28T23:06:00.000-07:00

Good morrow, faire readers!

'Tis a glorious day in the kingdom! Sun shining, birds singing, a hint of harvest magic wafting delicately though the air.

The Kingdom.

Think I'll sleep til 2 in the afternoon, then sit around in my underwear for another hour.

Ah, that was infinitely pleasant. Now to venture into the out-of-doors.

Our benevolent Peruvian host knows of a fascinating medieval castle called Karlstejn, a lovely 30 minute drive into the country. Apparently, if you've seen one castle in Prague, you haven't seen them all.

So, we drive out to Karlstejn, and to our surprise, a rather lively wine festival called Karlštejnské Vinobraní is taking place around the castle grounds. For this, they unleash the burčák, a sweet young thang made from partially fermented grape juice.

The Czechs say burčák hangovers are as bad as they come. They've obviously never drunk Mad Dog.

Enjoyed by humans and yellow jackets alike, burčák is essentially unfinished wine for impatient peasants, and makes the perfect accompaniment to many other unfinished products, including and Guns N' Roses' "Chinese Democracy."

"Seriously, it's almost done!"

It also goes great with hordes of folk in medieval garb, who appear to have fallen en masse through a tear in the space-time continuum and can't get enough modern-day cigarettes. It sort of breaks the mood, but hey, smoketh 'em if thou haveth 'em.

"You guys see the melons on that wench over yonder? Forsooth!"

After touring the castle and taking in a performance, we deign to meander idly through the surrounding streets, whither poxy peasants hock more burčák, meats, cheeses and other touristy crap.

"Dude, it's fine, I'll just have an orange."

I imbibe my share of burčák, down some delicious klobasa, and support the local economy by purchasing a sweet switch blade/torch lighter combo that may prove quite useful in the future, should I ever become a crackhead.

Oh, sure, I've got a light...

Smoking doesn't kill people. I do.

On the drive home, we stop at a quarry, which I'm pretty sure the Czechs used to hurl potential witches into to see if they would use their demonic powers to fly away. Nice view.

Some purty rocks.

Finally, after a veritable feast of royal burritos prepared by yours truly, it is time for this young noble to hang his frilly hat and retire for the evening. For the road ahead is long and fraught with peril.

Fare thee well, loyal subjects!

###

Day 17, Prague: On Absinthe, or, Not Worth Losing an Ear Over

2008-09-27T23:44:00.000-07:00

Today, I had two missions:

1) Finish the laundry that's been soaking in Diego's broken washing machine since yesterday.
2) Drink absinthe until I hallucinate.

Mission #1 wasn't much of a problem; Diego took me to a laundromat in town, and after a bit of shouting and way too much money spent on a single teaspoon of detergent, that was that.

Mission #2 was a bit trickier. Those of you who know me know that I'm not much for shots, particularly shots of anything that could melt a hole clear through a Buick. At 140 proof, "The Green Fairy" certainly fits the bill.

But I was committed. Any drink that can supposedly possess a man to slice off his own ear is a drink for which I'll gladly suffer. I suffered through three rather sizable shots. I would have gone for more, too, had the bar not closed.

Normal....

...Magic!

The conclusion I've come to is this: modern Absinthe is not a hallucinogen; it's just a strong fucking drink. Granted, the sort of drunk you get from absinthe is a bit different than the sort from, say, gin or beer or Listerine. It's a warm, smiley, I'd-hug-you-if-I-could-get-up sort of drunk. But it's also a sort that keeps you constantly preoccupied with wanting to hallucinate, so you eventually start forcing it.

If you ever see someone at a bar in Prague repeatedly waving his hand back and forth across his eyes, wearing a disappointed expression on his face, that guy was probably drinking Absinthe for the first time.

I'm treading a line dangerously close to plagiarism now, so I'll let Mitch Hedberg take it from here.

Regardless of its dubious hallucinogenic properties, absinthe does make a fine foundation for a night of solid boozing. Our crew (no Aussies, thank Crikey) ended up at a rather touristy disco bar in the center of town. I normally wouldn't have been thrilled about this, but it afforded me the opportunity to dance with some hot Asian chicks, so I didn't mind putting my tourist hat on and paying something like 4,000 Czech koruna for a beer.

Super terrific happy fun! Party time #1!

And I'm spent.

Busted Stereotypes:
- Absinthe is a hallucinogen

###

Day 16, Prague: Breaking Appliances, or Hand Jivin' All Over Town

2008-09-26T23:48:00.000-07:00

As I've been traveling, I've held it in the utmost regard to adhere to the traditions of my host country. I believe it is critical to uphold these customs, no matter how foreign or destructive they may seem.

Here in Prague, for instance, it is a little known but extremely important custom that, when staying as a guest in someone's home, you must sacrifice at least one household appliance to the gods, as a token of remembrance and appreciation.

While it may seem like an inconvenience to the host, it actually serves as a useful souvenir of your stay, while at the same time reminding the host not to open their doors to future freeloaders.

With little choice but to oblige, I decided to break my host's washing machine. This was not in any way because I am retarded and can't grasp the complicated mechanisms of the European-style washing machine. No, it was a sacrifice to the gods, and by God, Diego will remember my stay.

You're welcome, Diego.

Um, what else did I do today?

Ah, yes, I took a visit to Prague Castle. It's all right. Looks kind of like a big church, if I recall.

My history is a bit fuzzy, but I think the Czech Pope lives here.

I drank Absinthe for the first time. Not the most delicious thing I've ever consumed (tastes like licorice and burning), but any drink that involves lighting things on fire is all right with me. I didn't drink enough to hallucinate, unfortunately, but I did feel a bit, shall we say, blurry.

No, the camera is not out of focus. Absinthe actually makes you blurry.

I concluded the day with a jaunt at a few of the local "Disco Bars." I must say, there are some nice looking women in Prague. Sadly, however, the days of Americans being viewed as prized catches for locals have long since passed. But at least I got some nice photos.

Sure, baby, I'm Canadian!

Clubs here aren't much different from clubs anywhere else, save for the fact that the Czechs have a weird obsession with "Grease." I haven't hand jived this much since grade school.*

Crank dat Hand Jive.

*To clarify: for some odd reason, our gym teacher used to make us do the hand jive as a warm-up exercise -- that is, when we weren't doing the Electric Slide.

More tomorrow. Ciao for now.

###

Day 15, Prague: Pills Are For Pussies, or, Struggling in Prague

2008-09-25T19:44:00.000-07:00

Life is hard in the Soviet Bloc.

I keep getting lost, injured, sick, rained on, bitten by mosquitoes and taxed to death.

According to the kid with the fucked up back/hips/kidneys who lives with Diego and can't get any decent meds (or maybe just isn't willing to share), Czechs maintain that pills are for pussies. So, my only weapons for fighting off these angry maladies are pivo, goulash and bread dumplings.

Take eight of these and call me in the morning. Or whenever you wake up.

Painkiller.

I think I'm going to be all right.

I can see why people used to stand in line for this stuff.

###

Day 14 (cont'd), Prague: Throwin' Rocks Tonight, or, Bowling + Nudity = Fun

2008-09-23T23:59:00.000-07:00

I'll keep this post short. We went bowling tonight, and I dominated. Czech out this talent:

I'm throwin' rocks tonight! Mark it, Dude!

Others were not so graceful:

Dead in the water.

You'd think bowling in Prague wouldn't be much different than bowling anywhere else, and for the most part, you'd be right. But leave it to the Europeans to inject a bit of nudity where it most likely doesn't belong.

You see, every time a strike or spare was rolled, a naked person showed up on the monitor. Sometimes it was a lady. Sometimes it was a dude. You could never be quite sure what you were shooting for.

I think I rolled a 109.

Confirmed Stereotypes:
- Europeans will improve anything with nudity

###

Day 14 (cont'd), Prague: Video Killed the Soviet Star, or, Hip Commies and The Retro Cycle

2008-09-23T23:55:00.000-07:00

Upon arriving at Holešovice station in Prague, all my hopes, dreams and ignorant impressions of Central Europe are speciously confirmed: it's dingy, it's dirty, it's rainy, it's comically outdated, and it's rife with bootleggers, homeless people and other shady characters milling about.

Is this where the bread line starts?

I may be thinking wishfully, and it could just be that train stations everywhere resemble the Soviet Union to some extent, but a part of me desperately wants to believe that Prague hasn't developed quite so much as everyone says.

With time to kill before being picked up by my Peruvian friend, I decide to hang around the adjacent McDonald's for a while, since it's either that or shoo away flies and vagabonds at the train station. This is where I find the picture of the former Communist bloc for which I so desperately hoped.

They've got TV screens littered about the restaurant, and they're airing a station called MyTV (though not the one that plays old "Malcolm in the Middle" reruns). No, this is more like MTV, but with a Y, as in, "Y the fuck are they playing a Spin Doctors video in 2008?"

I took the liberty of recording a sample of the playlist for your reading pleasure:

"Video Killed the Radio Star," The Buggles (incidentally, the first video ever aired on MTV)
"Amish Paradise," Weird Al Yankovic (Do they have Amish people in Central Europe? Do the jokes even translate?)
"Private Eyes," Hall and Oates
"What's Up," 4 Non Blondes
"Two Princes," The Spin Doctors

If that's not a Communist party waiting to break out, I don't know what is. And since I know nothing of these people, it's impossible to determine exactly whether these videos are being played nostalgically or not. I figured that globalization would have wiped out such out-of-touch commie cliches by now, but maybe old habits die hard.

Which brings me to another point: Hipsters have always reminded me of Eastern Europeans, and vice versa. This could be because, at least prior to the age of the Internet, the time it took for an outmoded fashion trend to become "retro" seemed to be exactly the amount of time for the Eastern bloc to receive it in the first place. This lends credence to my theory that Eastern Europeans are and will always be the hippest people in the world, whether they are aware of it or not.

Hipster or impoverished Eastern European? You make the call.

Now, perhaps this McDonald's exists inside a vacuum, and perhaps it does not. In any case, I pity the poor bastards who still have rap metal to look forward to.

Other observations from the train station:

- One of the local vagrants, upon learning that I was American, decided to demonstrate American and Russian politics to me in a rather dramatic fashion. Basically, he started dancing around like a chicken. Those of you familiar with "Arrested Development" will know exactly what I'm talking about:

To you, Mr. Bush, I say only this: Caw ca caw ca caw!

- The Czechs appear to be very specific in their prohibitions:

So much for that roller disco birthday party I've been planning.

###

Day 14, Dresden: A Beautiful, Modern City, or, What a Disappointment

2008-09-23T18:00:00.000-07:00

Here we are, back in the past: September 23, 2008. Dresden, Germany.

But where's all the rubble?

I was to understand that some pretty ruthless American soldiers firebombed this place back to the stone age back in WWII. So what's the deal?

I see bustling streets, I see shopping centers, I see public transit. I see no fire, no rubble, no crying, scorched, homeless peasants.

What a disappointment.

Despite having bombed my expectations of a ruined city, Dresden is still a very cool place. Good bars, an interesting fascination with shisha, and some remarkably beautiful sites.

Pardon My Zwinger.

However, there are still a few remnants of the legendary firebombing, and the rebuilding process continues unabated.

Ugly-bombed by Allied forces in the 1980s, several decades after the conclusion of World War II.

Site of a future Starbucks, which will commemorate the victims of the Dresden bombings with its "Double-Caf Cinnamon Macchiato... It's The Bomb!"

Stereotypes busted:
- Dresden is a big pile of rubble

###

Drunk in Croatia, or, A Quantum Leap Through Time

2008-09-23T15:33:00.000-07:00

Hello, friends. I've had a few pints tonight here in beautiful Split, Croatia, and I feel compelled to throw up a quick post asking you to power through the lulls and keep reading. But in order to do that, we must hop into the Delorean and take a quantum leap through time and space, to October 8, 2008.

"Where we're going, we don't NEED roads!"

Last you read, it was September, and I was biking around Berlin. How did I get to the Croatian coast so quickly, you ask? Well, by skipping over Dresden, Prague, Vienna, Budapest and Zagreb, where at least a few mildly amusing things happened.

But fear not, loyal readers. You'll hear all about my wacky wanderings in these little towns soon enough. I just wanted to provide a preview of things to come, lest you lose interest and start reading the rest of the rubbish strewn about the Interne t.

So look forward to tales of carpet bombings, the myth of absinthe's hallucinogenic properties, bowling, coffee, absurd stereotypes about the former Soviet bloc, Renaissance fairs, naked Hungarian men, scantily clad Swedish women, foot-slicing shorelines and more. You won't want to miss it.

See you in the past!

Cheers,
J

Won't you wait just a wee bit longer?

Day 13, Berlin: You Will Thank Your Party Leaders for This Glorious Blog Post, or, Biking Berlin

2008-09-22T15:46:00.000-07:00

Today was a blast. Took a free bike tour of Berlin. Saw some cool sites and learned much about this city's intriguing and tumultuous history.

For instance, many know of the famed TV tower in East Berlin.

Eyesore.

But did you know that it was originally constructed in 1965 to house a giant rotating TV and loudspeaker, which was designed to continuously command citizens to work harder for their glorious party leaders? True story!

"I will crush you!"

Another fascinating site was the relatively new Holocaust Memorial, which, due to its abstract design, was not at all depressing.

Ooh, this is pretty! Wait, it's a memorial for what? Oh.

Our tour guide claims that the designer found his inspiration from the Jewish Museum in Prague. Those of us who grew up in the '80s, however, know what he was really thinking about.

Taking in as much actual culture as I could for one day, I concluded the evening with a rabid hunt for beer and sausage. This was much more difficult than one might expect it to be in Germany, but it ultimately paid off.

Wurst is the best!

Now that the tank is full, I'm off to Dresden to see some rubble piles.

Auf Wiedersehen, meine Kinder!

Stereotypes Created:
- Germans love anthropomorphic food (but then, who doesn't?)

American.

###

Day 12, Berlin (cont'd): On the Greatest Corporate Mascot Ever, or, Introducing Sub Wayne

2008-09-21T23:33:00.000-07:00

I've discovered a man here in Germany.

Well, not a man, exactly. More a phallic, anthropomorphic sub sandwich.

His name is Wayne. Sub Wayne.

And he may just be the greatest corporate mascot ever.

So frisch and so clean, clean.

Why so great, you ask? For starters, he looks like a Muppet penis, and he only speaks German. He's everything you love about subs, and everything you love about Waynes.

He yells a lot. He plays leek guitar. He cheats at poker. He even seems to do all right with the ladies.

And, perhaps most importantly, he is not Jared Fogle.

The worst.

Put all these things together, and you've got a mascot sweeter than a Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki sandwich.

A winning formula.

I move that we give baggy-skinned Jared the old heave-ho, and bring Sub Wayne over to the States ASAP. No translating, though. A talking sub can only be funny in German.

Stay frisch, all.

###

Day 12, Berlin: German Girls Are Stiff, or, Give Up The Funk

2008-09-21T23:07:00.000-07:00

I have to say, I probably would not recommend the Generator hostel in Berlin to fellow travelers, despite its claim as being "the world's funkiest hostel." Not only is it absurdly large and decidedly unfunky, but it is also full of uppity German preadolescents, stark neon light fixtures, socks with sandals, and cold, indifferent people.

Berlin's Generator Hostel: cold, monolithic, alarmingly short on funk

So I didn't spend much time there. Instead, I opted to aimlessly wander about the city. It's a good thing, too, because I met a girl!

Might I trouble fräulein for ein kiss?

Danke schoen, darling!

She's a bit stiff (she's German, after all), but she rarely wears clothes and is constantly gushing over me.

I don't know if it's going to last, though. Her father is a bit protective, and she's not into traveling.

Not on my watch, Yank.

Love on the road is a slippery thing, indeed.

Confirmed stereotypes:
- Germans are cold, wear socks with sandals

###

Inferior European Tubes, or, Stay Tuned

2008-09-21T05:11:00.000-07:00

Loyal readers,

Please accept my apologies for the lack of posts as of late. I've been having a lot of trouble uploading photos, and I'm sure none of you wants to read a bunch of boring old words. I blame the inferior Internet tube infrastructure here in Europe.

So stick with me, and I promise that your patience will be rewarded.

As a gesture of good faith, please enjoy this hint of posts to come.

Cheers,
J

###

Day 11, Berlin: Look Around You, There Are Many Things To See!, or, Ich Bin Ein Freeloader

2008-09-20T23:52:00.000-07:00

I've just taken in 6 hours and 24 minutes of beautiful German countryside, and I'm ready to party.

Oh no! I'm out of cash and have no way to get around!

Ha ha! Silly American!

Public transit is free in Berlin! Well, not free in that it doesn't cost anything, but free in that nobody pays for it. It's pretty great.

Keep up the good work!

In other news, I may have finally met some decent Americans. Some SoCal kids (actors, of course) joined me on a hunt for Haus music, and they actually could, like, talk and stuff.

Not that it really mattered. Before making our way to the club (Pittsburghers, take note: they have a Matrix here too, and it's pretty much the same thing), we managed to crash a house party where no one spoke English, but no one seemed to mind. It was really weird; we just moseyed on in, acted like we belonged there, doled out a few high fives, drank their beer, ate their delicious party spread of bread and butter, danced around to the two sweet DJs, then left without saying a word to anyone.

I guess that "Ich bin ein Berliner" shit worked pretty well after all.

My own stab at international diplomacy would have made JFK proud: bolstering U.S.-Denmark relations through a couple of hot Danish chicks, who informed me that Denmark's primary export is shipping equipment, and that its national food is the hot dog (?).

This photo only cost me 60 Danish Krones. Totally worth it!

I even met a nice little gnome called Cedrick on the metro. Pleasant enough guy, but a bit of a talker.

"What do you mean, Gnomes don't ride around on foxes? Poppycock!"

###

Day 10, Amsterdam: Have You Tried The Hawaiian Haze?, or, Time to Move On

2008-09-20T16:48:00.000-07:00

Amsterdam is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live here. There's nothing but stoners and whores and bikes and phony coke dealers in this town. Not that there's anything wrong with any of those things.

Amsterdam: a bike-friendly town.

A random Amsterdam weirdo for your viewing pleasure (and yes, that's the baby from Dinosaurs singing backup.)

I mean, I'm all for having a good time, but having lengthy, circular conversations about weed and mushrooms with a bunch of self-proclaimed drug connoisseurs is not really my idea of fun.

I get it, you like to get high, and it's hella sweet that you can buy weed anywhere here, but come on, guy. You really have nothing to talk about other than how the purple haze is a total head high but the G13 is more of an all-over body high?

I guess I'm just getting old.

"Um... I'll just have some Coke. No, wait, that came out wrong!"

An entire family of American yokels from ol' Virginny infested my hostel room this morning, and that certainly isn't helping. They sit in the room and watch TV all day. Bad TV, too, like "King of Queens" and "According to Jim."

So, I'm off to Berlin in hopes of feeling young again.

Ciao for now.

###

Day 9, Amsterdam (cont'd): Aussies of the World Unite (For Another Pub Crawl), or, How Sarah Palin Became The Most Hated American on Planet Earth

2008-09-18T23:56:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the infrequent posts, all. "Tomorrow" is a relative term when traveling.

"Is this a... What day is this?"

As I was saying some days ago, my day trip in Amsterdam is only half the story. After I'd come back to Earth for a bit, a bunch of hostel rats convened for yet another a pub crawl (as they tend to do). As the only American present, I felt obligated to represent the stars and stripes, so I reluctantly tagged along.

I'm convinced that if there's anything that will compel roving Aussies to assemble, it's a pub crawl. I'm not sure if they teach mandatory pub crawl attendance in grade school or if there's just something about crawling and drinking that innately appeals to Australians, but either way, they always turn out in spades.

This can be an annoying thing for a non-Australian, since there's nothing like beer and numbers to convince an Australian that s/he is the shiz (despite being descended from convicts and prostitutes). It was as a result of such circumstances that I had my first genuine anti-American encounter.

Of the laundry list of things for foreigners to hate about America, one Sarah Palin has recently skyrocketed to the top of the list. To anyone not living on a farm in Middle America, the woman is seen as the quintessence of everything ridiculous about American politics.

Now I don't mean to get all political (Rock Us, Dukakis!), but I have to say I agree with them. The fact that a short-term governor of one of the least populated (and least contiguous) states in the Union - a woman whose international experience consists of egging on a mad Russki for a Cold War reprise, a woman who believes that dinosaurs and humans once lived side-by-side - wasn't immediately laughed off the political stage is something of an embarrassment.

Historically accurate.

This is an opinion I'd be happy to share with anyone willing to listen. But nobody wants to hear that shit from an American when they can just as easily bark it right back and receive a few high-fives in the process. So, yeah, if you're into Sarah Palin, don't go to Europe. Or Australia. Or anywhere in Russia, for that matter.

But I digress. The pub crawl was decent enough, and I got sufficiently wasted on Heineken and sugary vodka, but I think it will be my last for a while. I had way more fun rock-star-smashing this TV I found on the way home.

"Let's see if anything's on the tube..."

"Scrubs again? Rawwrrr!!!"

It didn't get me signed, but it sure impressed the hell out of a couple of Canadians.

Confirmed stereotypes:
- American politics are a joke.
- Aussies like drinking (reconfirmed).
- Canadians are extremely passive.

- The Dutch love wooden shoes.

"Do you have this in a 9?"

###

Day 9, Amsterdam: Day Trippin', or, 1 + 1 ≠ 2

2008-09-18T15:53:00.000-07:00

Woah. What the fuck just happened?

Not sure what day it is, but a recessed corner of my mind is telling me that I have much to recount. But first, a warning for the weak-minded: I've had my mind blown to smithereens a number of times since arriving here, and I'm not sure whether it's contagious, so if you're not prepared to see your entire world shatter before your eyes, you may want to skip ahead to the bits about Berlin.

My hostel is situated right smack in the center of the Red Light District. I look out my window and see prostitutes smiling at me. I think they like me.

The view from upstairs. Katja sends her regards.

A Rastafarian caretaker going by the handle of King Shiloh Ras Iyiapo Tafari delivered an impromptu lecture on "Words, Sound and Power" to a bunch of us hostel rats whilst pretending to paint over scuffs in our room. The King also claims to have delivered lectures in America, most recently in Colorado Springs, but that very well could have been a street corner somewhere in Eastern Europe.

King Shiloh drops some wisdom. (Praise Jah.)

I couldn't possibly do his lecture justice by relating it here, but I'll at least share with you a few nuggets of universal wisdom to ruminate upon later - that is, if you're ready:

- 1 + 1 ≠ 2. Instead, 1 + 1 = 3, since whenever two entities come together they create a third entity composed of pure energy.

- History = "his" story = not fact, simply one person's opinion (though King Shiloh may have stolen this from the King of Pop).

- What's bigger than everything? Nothing. Therefore, if you want to have more than everything, simply work to have nothing.

- Don't understand. To stand under something is to be obscured by it. Instead, overstand.

- By the same token, don't appreciate, apprecilove. (Hey, they can't all be gems.)

With this being the start of my day, I had a feeling things were going to get trippier. They did.

After sampling some of the fungal fare, I made my way down to the Van Gogh Museum to take in a bit of high culture. That lasted less than an hour. Driven by an uncontrollable desire to be outside, I bolted to the nearest exit and headed for the park outside the museum, where I spent an indeterminate amount of time sitting, staring at things, and thinking groovy thoughts about grass and clouds.

(Note: If you'd like to know how we're all just like grass and clouds, email me and prepare to have your mind blown.)

The whole of existence.

After peering into the depths of the universe for a nice long while, I washed down this false sense of grandeur with a plate of pan-Asian noodles and a brief prayer to Buddha that this all be over soon. It ended shortly thereafter.

That was part one of my day.

Tune in tomorrow as I relate my second European pub crawl, my first anti-American encounter, and my deteriorating patience with these ubiquitous Aussies.

Stay groovy, Planet Earth.

###

Day 8, Amsterdam:

2008-09-18T15:52:00.000-07:00

...

Day 7, Amsterdam:

2008-09-17T15:51:00.000-07:00

...

Day 6 (cont'd.), Amsterdam: Quaint Port Town of the Netherlands, or, I Think I Could Use Some Coffee

2008-09-16T15:41:00.000-07:00

Well, I've just arrived in Amsterdam, which appears to be a quaint, conservative, charming little port town embracing the banks of the North Sea. It must be an absurdly pleasant place to live, since everyone is smiling ear-to-ear and no one appears to be in any particular rush. I think I may find this little stopover to be rather relaxing.

Amsterdam: A good, clean, Christian town.

It's a good thing, too. All this traveling has rendered me a bit sluggish. I think I'll pop into one of the many coffeeshops dotting the streets for a quick pick-me-up.

Keep your eyes peeled for another post tomorrow, though I can't imagine I'll have much to talk about...

###

Day 6, Brussels: Frites, the Perfect Condiment, or Dude, Where's My Train?

2008-09-16T15:30:00.000-07:00

Not feeling tip-top. They put frites on everything here in Brussels, which does wonders to alleviate homesickness, but doesn't do much for one's actual physical health. In an effort to boost the nutritional value of my last meal here, I decided to supplement my delicious bratwurst-frite-mayonnaise sandwich with a can of orange juice. A body needs nutrients.

Health food.

Fortunately for my immune system, my next stop is Amsterdam, a city that I know nothing about, other than that I've heard that it has excellent drug stores. Hopefully I'll find something to ward off these sniffles.

Nonsequitur: I've noticed that being around non-native English speakers causes me to speak in broken English, appending an invisible question mark to the end of each sentence, as though I'm not sure that I'm using the correct word for "train" or "cheese" or "prostitute."

Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go find my, how do you say, prostitute? No? Train? Ah, yes.

Salukes for now.

###

New posts coming soon...

2008-09-16T10:29:00.000-07:00

Loyal readers,

Internet tubes have been tough to come by for the last few days, hence the dearth of new posts. However, lest my readership grow "jaded and disinterested" (to use one reader's words), I just wanted to let everyone know that new posts are coming tomorrow.

In the meantime, please to entertain yourselves with some passive aggressive notes.

Not into reading? Then here's a cute video of a cat defending her master's ta-tas.

Cheers,
J

Day 5, Brussels: Mission Accomplished, or, I May Never Eat Another Eggo

2008-09-15T14:27:00.000-07:00

First things first - the frites. They're good, but honestly, they're just fries. Perhaps I'm biased, but I still think The Potato Patch at Kennywood does it better. The sauces, on the other hand, are pretty outstanding. I had a spicy mayo number that I easily could put on my Frosted Flakes from here on out.

Rasta-Fry Man Approves

Second, a word on Belgian waffles: wow. I was fortunate enough to find an American expat in my hostel (a Texan, no less!) who knew of a very good spot for waffles. This thing was roughly the equivalent of 12 simultaneous orgasms. Crispy and caramelized on the outside, warm, soft and inviting on the inside, notes of vanilla exploding in your mouth like a cream dream, all topped with delicious caramel ice cream. I may never eat an Eggo again.

Belgium to Eggo: 'Get fucked.'

Finally, to the beer. To find some, I assembled a troupe of hostel rats comprising another American, two Italian girls, an Irishman, an Aussie and a couple of Columbians to accompany to a bar called the Delirium Cafe. Oh, you've heard of it? Then you must have been reading the 2004 Guinness Book of World Records, which affirmed that the bar's 2,000+ collection of beers was the largest on earth.

Struggling to sample the entire beer list, I was able to get through about six delicious drafts, including a strawberry variety in a fabulous shade of fuchsia that branded me a homosexual for the rest of the evening. The "19"-year-old Irish boy in tow probably got through a few more.

"I'm a walking cliche!"

Confirmed stereotypes:
- Belgian beer = good
- The Irish love to drink
- The Italians are absurdly affectionate, and will touch your leg when talking to you. If you're me, this will make you melt faster than ice cream on a hot Belgian waffle.
- Americans are boors (again)

(Note: I wanted to post a video of an Australian pick-up artist telling a racist joke about Tasmanians [which I assume are somehow different from Australians], but I'm having a bit of trouble uploading. Check back later, if only to hear a raunchy joke in a funny accent.)

###

Day 4 (cont'd.), Brussels: A Frightening Train Station Late Sunday Night, or, Three Simple Goals

2008-09-14T14:25:00.000-07:00

It is after midnight, I've just arrived in Brussels by train, and my first impression of the city is a frightening one. Being in Paris' Latin Quarter one moment and an all-but-abandoned train station in Brussels the next is a jarring transition. In Paris, it's easy to forget that the world is composed of mostly unattractive people. In Gare du Midi, it's quite apparent.

Perhaps I'm just sullen because I'm tired and I don't understand a word of this perverted mish-mash of a language. No matter. I'm here with three simple goals in mind:

1) Beer
2) Pomme frites
3) Waffles

To add a fourth: sleep.

###

Day 4, Paris: Street Music Abounds, or, Sacre Bleu! Live at the Sacre Coeur!

2008-09-14T04:19:00.000-07:00

Today brought much good fortune. I got to sleep in until 11. Jetlag is finally beginning to subside. I got to participate in the world's longest kebab session (nearly two hours; average kebab session: 7 minutes). And I got to witness at least three separate incidents of live street music of varying quality.

First, a man crooning karaoke to no one in particular (we filled in the lyrics; apparently the man has lost his monkey and is very broken up about it).

Second, a kind of sweet, kind of jazzy, kind of Latin-sounding band hammering away at congo buckets and a melodica while a beautiful, olive-skinned woman sold CDs for five euro a pop.

(Photo not available; instead enjoy this stock photo of a melodica)

Finally, a small band of possible Spaniards playing American and British pop classics like REM's "Losing My Religion" and Oasis' "Wonderwall" on the steps of the Basilica du Sacre Coeur, which overlooks the city. They weren't especially talented and they fucked up pretty frequently, but given their surroundings, they could have been singing Yoko Ono covers and it would have sounded like heaven.

A quick, totally unrelated sidenote: The Brits have only just recently discovered beer pong, and they are completely enamored by it. Let's not let them get their grubby paws on Cornhole (aka Bags).

Off to Brussels!

###

Day 3, Paris (cont'd): My First Brush With Roving Aussies, or, How To Irreparably Damage Your Liver in Just A Few Short Hours

2008-09-14T04:14:00.000-07:00

Tonight I went on a pub crawl with a couple of charming young Brits and some slightly less charming young Americans (if only due to the lack of an accent). On this pub crawl, we immediately encountered a rather rambunctious group roving Australians, who were on the back end of a 12-week European tour. By van.

These Aussies, they weren't drinking Fosters. No, they were drinking LITs (that's Long Island Iced Teas to you non-Bucknellians). What's more, though the pub crawl started at 9 PM, they had been drinking since noon. Granted, if I were living in a van with four other smelly Australians for 12 weeks, I'd be in need of a stiff drink as well. But filling a bunch of boisterous Australian dudes with LITs is like giving a chainsaw to a 5-year-old. Things are going to get demolished, and someone's going to end up crying.

These Aussies were given to punching each other (not lightly, either), calling each other "cunt," and calling me "Security." It seems that the dapper outfit I threw together resembles something a security guard in Australia might wear (as if there were such a thing), so every few minutes, I was greeted with "Oi, Security! You gonna arrest me, oi? Have a shot, oi?" and so forth.

Needless to say, I got pretty fucked. Though not "proper fucked."

Confirmed stereotypes:
- Everything you've ever heard about Australians is true
- Girls of every ilk love a British accent

Goodnight.

###

Day 3, Paris: On The World's Greatest Collection of Art, or, Sexy Religious Figures and Unsexy American Bachelorettes

2008-09-13T14:09:00.000-07:00

Paris is a sexy town, to be sure, and it seems to have the profound effect of making things that aren't necessarily sexy seem, well, sexier. As I sit drafting this entry on a small circular sofa in the Pavillon Denon of the Louvre, I'm struck by how sexy a scantily-clad martyr can be. Now I don't know from art, but I do know sexy. And Mary Magdalene is one fine looking piece of art.

A group of a half-dozen-or-so American tourists in matching "Sex and the City" t-shirts who look like they boarded the wrong plane to their "What-Happens-In-Vegas" bachelorette party, however, is not sexy.

Americans.

Confirmed stereotypes:
- Americans are boors
- Classical art is boring
- Paris is sexy

Camera dead. Jetlag attacking. Need sleep. More later.

###

Day 2, Paris: Not Feeling So Haute, or, I Wish I Had Brought Cooler Outfits

2008-09-12T05:12:00.000-07:00

First, just to get it out of the way: yes, Parisians are fashionable. I can't say I'm surprised that folks living in the vortex of haute couture know how to throw an outfit together. What does surprise me, however, is just how stylish the modern backpacker can be. It was my understanding that if one wanted to live out of a backpack for any considerable length of time, one had to check his or her sense of style at customs. Convertible pants and moisture-wicking shirts are not exactly the apex of fashion, after all.

But these kids, they must have skipped that chapter of the backpacking handbook, because there are some debonair cats here at Young & Happy. I'm talking skinny jeans, weird screenprinted tees, Chuck Taylors as far as the eye can see, even accessories. Who packs accessories?

Being the resourcefully dapper fellow that I am, I'm sure I'll be able to throw something club-worthy together in a pinch. I'll just have to use an impressionist's stroke. Nylon looks much better from afar.

In other obvious news, street food in this town is ridiculous. Crepes, paninis, croissants, pizza, kebabs, all of it relatively cheap and absurdly delicious. I don't know how I survived this long without crepes.

I'm apparently a big hit with some Argentinians (below), who have taken to shouting "JOEY!" upon seeing me. I may have to add a South American leg to the tour.

Finally, I met some cool cats in a punk rock band from Seattle and told them I'd link to their MySpace page. They're called The Plankton Beat, and I doubt the four of you reading this would really be into them, but if you ever see their names on a marquee, pay the $5 and let 'em keep drinking.

That's all for now.

###

Day 1, Paris: Hidden Gem on the Seine, or, These Shoes Aren't As Comfortable As They Look

2008-09-11T05:01:00.000-07:00

Contrary to popular belief, Paris is actually quite a beautiful city. Unfortunately, however, it seems that a small number of tourists have begun to take notice, and as a result, off-the-beaten-path travelers like myself are becoming more likely to spot a tourist or two in this otherwise hidden gem in the north of France.

Despite the newly burgeoning tourist crowd, Paris can still be a pleasant destination, hosting at least a few attractions. Consider tucked away destinations like La Tour Eiffel – a large iron relic of a 19th-century World Fair that the city failed to properly dismantle and discard – or the Louvre, which is apparently some sort of large souvenir shoppe.

After taking a bit of time to traverse the city by foot (since my hostel kicks me out from 11 AM to 4 PM each day), I decided to reward myself with a quick use of the facilities in Le Pantheon, the resting place of many of France’s greatest historical figures (and, now, at least one of America’s), followed by a nice nap and a bit of fresh air for these raw, swollen hams under my shoes.

More adventures tomorrow. Bonsoir for now!

###

Philadelphia: Paris on the Delaware, or, How to Visit Friends for Free Simply by Controlling the Weather

2008-09-10T04:43:00.000-07:00

In a fortuitous turn of events, for my very first venture across the Atlantic – and only second across any international border (hooray for hand jobs in Montreal!) – my connecting flight between Pittsburgh and Paris was delayed. As a result, I missed my flight to Paris and got to spend the night in historic Philadelphia, America’s window to Europe. This turned out to be quite a nice surprise, in fact, as I got to spend the evening drinking Coors Original, eating a cheese steak and playing Rock Band with some old college chums.

I then spent the following afternoon tooling around Philly (which is gritty, beautiful and exceptionally walkable), seeing a few sites of interest and enjoying a second cheese steak. And I got to see the Liberty Bell, which, frankly, is little more than a large example of shoddy iron workmanship. But it made for a nice photo op.

Next stop, Paris town!

A note on the Liberty Bell:

The Liberty Bell, or “Le Ding Dong du Liberte,” was originally a gift to America from France, given in the late 1600s. The bell was used to alert the townsfolk of Wiccan activity, hangings, and attacks from Native Americans, who at that time were called “Mexicans.” The bell was bestowed upon the fledgling nation by Napoleon II as part of the first and less well-known Louisiana Purchase, a transaction through which the French acquired a large portion of North America in exchange for a poorly constructed bell. The territory was later reclaimed by the U.S. in the second, more famous Louisiana Purchase for the sum of several shiny beads.

This lesson in history brought to you by Wikipedia.*

*Historical accuracy not guaranteed.

Special thanks to Rainbow, Russell and Spada for their hospitality and their Coors Original.

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Preface: From America With Love, or, We're Really Doin' It, Guys!

2008-09-09T04:24:00.000-07:00

Backpacking Europe. What else can one say about trekking a trail that’s already been blazed ad nauseam by students, slackers, stoners, senior citizens and the perpetually restless alike?

Little that hasn't already been said, to be sure. That won't stop me from trying, of course. But I'm not here to break any new ground. I'm just out to see a small slice of the world not yet overrun with strip malls and office parks while I’m still young enough to actually appreciate it.

Not that I have anything against America. Amber waves, purple mountains, big cars, fried foods, free refills, an intellectually stunted political system – I get it, it’s great, I love it. But I’ve done it to death, and it’s high time I see how folks do things across the pond.

Now, I understand that it’s not for everyone. However, just because you’re stuck in your cubicle while I’m quaffing wine on the banks of the Seine, or sunbathing in Greece, or downing delicious beers in Brussels or gorging myself in Italy until my pants no longer fit, that doesn’t mean you can’t live vicariously through me. That’s what this blog is all about.

Here are a few things you can expect to find on “Transient Being”

- Hilarious observations
- Confirmed stereotypes
- Mediocre travel writing
- Funny mistranslations
- Epic fails (and perhaps an occasional win)
- Photos
- Videos
- Adventures in facial hair

Here are a few things you are not likely to find on “Transient Being”:

- Sentiment
- Frequent updates
- Twittering
- Political pedantry
- Lolcats
- Light beer

So join me as I postpone adulthood indefinitely under the guise of broadening my cultural horizons.

At the very least, it should distract you from work.

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