Sosauce: European Panorama Journal

Blow it Away

Thu, 18 Sep 2008 21:32:50 GMT

In response to what I witnessed in Amsterdam.

Blow it Away (before the candle goes out)

Gorgeous world

Where do we begin?

Gorgeous world

Where do we begin?

Consumers cultured in their ways,

In capitalism always pays,

Communications instant waves –

The trait of patience sorely flunked

When gratification is won –

Forget to think and take a sweet whirl

A ride on the ferris wheel,

Where to begin when there is no end?

Waiting on the plastic promise to come

Waiting on lipstick kisses for fun,

Well don’t we know we can only show

Everything we own?

Until we’re gone we save and play

But don’t we know we have to pay

The final price in the final prize,

Cause the final cost is a zero sum.

Buy now, bye now, by now

Every desire can be sought

Buy now, bye now, by now

Every dollar can be bought

Buy now, bye now, by now

Every liar can be caught –

Because by now/

We just don’t know

We are Light to the world,

Because by now/

We just don’t know

We are The American way,

All in excesses and

The rest just thrown away.

One day the fuse will be lit

Only a matter of time

Just wait for it

Because a stick of TNT

Will blow it away

Because a stick of TNT

Will blow it away –

In the distance can you hear the sound?

Try and listen as the boom goes down to bust,

See and feel our golden land turn to trodden dust.

Watch the new high-rises rising higher

While the person under we let turn to rust.

Our stolen land has turned on us

Just waiting on the plastic promise to come

Our stolen land has turned on us

Just waiting on the plastic promise to come

Our stolen land has turned on us

Bogus Joys and Sorrows (Leaving Tomorrow)

Thu, 18 Sep 2008 21:22:11 GMT

Amsterdam is a place of bogus joys and sorrows, a glorified city of sex and sensimilia where bikers have the right to run you over if you unwittingly step foot into their bike-path. It is a spot well-marked by X, literally poring over with them within its infamous quarters known so ubiquitously for their Red Lights. It is not my choice of final destination, but it is here that I find myself, an innocent bystander to the circus of affairs that unfolds before me. The people, looking in the windows; the scene, taking in the smell, it is all surreal. It is what we have learned of in legends and tales but now are finally touching. I have a keen feeling I have been swept into a vortex transposing me into a post-apocalyptic world.

Before we step foot into this alternate universe where night creatures roam free, we are warned for the 37^th time not to take any pictures inside, or a brooding beast of a man will appear to smash our camera and possibly our face. I feel the rapid need to clutch my precious digital camera with all my might. I’ve come too far on this journey to lose all my pictures now. We are also so cautiously warned to take mushrooms only at our own risk. Apparently, the kind of shrooms you can find at “smart shops” has sent one tourist or another plummeting to his death. The first place of interest called to our attention is The Grasshopper, a 3-story bar/cafe appropriately named for the main item on its menu, of which there are many kinds. Without warning, we are led through streets where it becomes almost irrelevant where you look – a different variation of the same image is everywhere – I hold onto my camera in one hand and Katie’s in the other. I never fully imagined the awkwardness that would play out in this situation. My palms go clammy while my mind clamors for some sort of escape from the mental imagery. But perhaps I’m glad I did this, as a lesson in the realms of human depravity. I think everyone should experience it at least once in their life.

Those in the group who choose not to go to the sex show split into two groups. Those who wish to smoke, and those who don’t. I am the only guy amongst the non-ganja smokers, and as a result end up taking a turn into several underground sex shops. Katie and I follow along as some of the other girls look for something to get their boyfriends. One of them actually picks up a porno flick for her dad. Something in particular seems to be elusive, as we continue to enter similarly depraved sex shops so that Anna can get exactly what she’s in search of. What this is exactly I am not sure, for she is whispering to the others. Each of these shops are filled with men and women of all ages and races, as are the more crowded streets, which offer something uniquely nefarious. The women behind the windows, we are told, are actually separated along ethnic lines. Whether this is true or not, I could not be sure. I barely wager a sideways glance as we pass. We arrive back outside the entrance of the sex show awaiting the rest of our group, only to find Chris and Peter along with the two Canadians sitting stoned out of their mind on some of Amsterdam’s finest cannabis. Chris is looking around wild-eyed repeating something to himself, while the others appear simply motionless and devoid of life. Outside on the street another tour group stops right in front of us. The tour guide leads one of the women over to a spot to show her something. At that exact moment a line of water sprays from a plastic elephant’s trunk perched on top of the sex show façade. It is no coincidence what this large trunk is shaped to look like. Upon landing in the women’s hair, she reacts hysterically, screaming and running. It is the first time I am able to laugh at what I have seen in the district known for selling sex and drugs. And what else is there, really, besides rock n’ roll. The city has captured the essence of hedonistic desires, fulfilling peoples’ need for the obscene pleasure-seeking thrill, while capitalizing on the color red (and tiny green buds) to stimulate what they’re really after. I Amsterdam is the picture many tourists come away with, and I’m sure they’ve had a good frolic. Yet of all the tastes, good and bad, left in my mouth throughout the trip, this one is the hardest to swallow.

You simply can’t imagine a place like Amsterdam in your mind. No way. You have to see it and breathe it to actually know it exists, to understand its aura of filthiness. It’s hard to believe that our European jaunt is nearing to an end on such a low-note. The lows on this tour have, no doubt, been devastating, but this is something more than low. It is coming to the realization that a place, an idea of a way of life for some, is enormously hollow. Thank goodness we are only in this Godless place 1 more night. I’m ready for normalcy and my own pillow again.

Amsterdam Approaching

Tue, 16 Sep 2008 19:03:33 GMT

We are approaching our last stop. What else could be left on my European adventure?

It’s been an emotional rollercoaster so far and I’m starting to think I can’t handle anything else. 28 days never seemed like it would be such an exciting, exhausting journey. Who’d a thought the Hoffbrau House could be a relatively boring place? On this expedition of ours, a Rhine River cruise is just another alcohol-selling river taxi along the way. By purchasing either wine or beer on board a miniature Rheinfahrt River Cruise glass can be all ours. The group finds the deal too good to pass up. The bodies of this assembly can not lie though. With a few exceptions, everybody appears lethargic and lazy. Frankly, at this point, I don’t know how Amsterdam will be accomplished. It is The Last Stop of our tour. Karl and Kaycee, along with Chris and Aaron seem surprisingly wild with anticipation.

The Dutch town of Edam presents a chance to visit a factory that produces cheese coupled with clogs, a perfect combination. The giant overgrown pig, cute baby ducks and quietly roaming sheep are a nice compliment. Pictures are taken, and inside we learn how we could make American cheese and colorful wooden clogs back home. A mighty room waits afterwards flowing with edible gifts, fine-tasting wine, comfy slippers and key-ring clogs and beautifully detailed tiny painted windmills. I should mention this is all part of our scheduled itinerary. Glen and Derek have led the tour like a well-oiled machine. It is full-steam ahead to Amsterdam. The Triple X city is our final party.

On the third to last full day of our European Panorama, before we hit The Dam, we enjoy a wandering bicycle ride along its famous Dutch Canals. It is a peaceful and laid back stroll, but far too short to fully appreciate I fear. I wonder to myself on the short bus ride into the city how Katie will react in the Red Light District. Besides witnessing Van Gogh’s Absinthe induced paintings and visiting Anne Frank’s tiny Hiding Place, I’m not sure I’m prepared for what I should be expecting. Others on the coach are gradually gaining enthusiasm. Meanwhile, I’m trying to figure out whether tonight will be an early evening or an early morning.

I Love You Mother

Thu, 11 Sep 2008 18:55:42 GMT

A mystery to behold

What we are given

Surrounds and envelopes us

Like a baby in the womb

All I want is to be

Introduced

To the world of the unknown –

The evening sky that fills these mountains and trees,

The cool blue water from the falls as this breeze,

The plush green pastures, full of magnificent creatures,

In an instant to rush past us;

The mystery of what is pure bliss –

In ignorance of what we know too well,

Weary from traipsing to and fro

We gladly sit and stare

Into the glare of the unknown,

When the light of the bright moon shown upon us

We lay still, hidden in the mist,

Face down in the tall grass –

Cover ourselves

From the Maker of this splendor felt,

Despite all we have been dealt,

We remain confined

To deceptive vices we have given license,

Content and helpless while they open this wound

Left of flesh and bone,

Our souls uncovered –

The disease of human nature

From the womb of the mother,

Lest His blessed creation all for not

May we turn and run as a Lot,

The beauty of Mother Nature

In the face of her Creator –

From birth on this ground

Given for free,

Found in the mystery

Unconditional and without bound,

For this I graciously thank

The one who gave me life

Of which there is no other,

I love you mother

The Swiss Mountain Air

Tue, 09 Sep 2008 16:41:03 GMT

We have just completed our gondola ride ascension to our mountain top lodgings atop the Swiss peak Mt. Pilatus, which sits at over 7,000 ft. above sea level. It immediately provided us with some of the most breathtaking views we have undoubtedly ever witnessed; lush green valleys below us, in front of us snow-capped mountains. The sound of cowbells fills the mountainous air, signaling the delight with which the healthy Swiss cows chomp away. Although I have been higher before, in Lake Tahoe and Whistler, British Columbia, their panoramic views can’t hold a candle to what I am witnessing now. My only regret is that it’s the wrong season. If it were winter I’d be skiing the Swiss Alps. Ah well, I suppose I can make do. Below us by some 2,000 ft. sits stunning Lake Lucerne. We will have the chance to take a cruise of it tomorrow.

At dusk, when all the tourists not staying at the hotel have gone their separate ways, the mountain goats come out to graze. We watch them eat the grass, roam free and engage in playful rounds of sparring. I feel as if I am the camera man for a Discovery channel documentary entitled, “Mountain Goats: Nature’s Climbers.” We assume the position of curious bystanders trying to get close enough for the best picture possible, yet not so close as to provoke their antagonism. While the little ones seem cute and cuddly, up close the males’ potential to harm with its 4 ft. long horns is enough to illicit fear from anybody. They use these menacing horns not just as a defense mechanism, but to scratch their backs and to battle with competing males. It appears to be their method of showing their masculinity to the females. We look on in amazement as they scale jagged mountain rocks with effortless grace. By the same measure, we are equally impressed when we witness one descend what looks to be an impossible rock face. But best of all is spotting the baby mountain goats learning how to use their legs from watching their mother.

So adorable are these tiny creatures that Katie feels compelled to make strange, baby noises in their direction. Oddly enough, however, when she did this the mountain tots turned and stared directly at her, enraptured by the cooing noise they had surely never heard. Standing there almost frozen so as not to make any sudden movements, I am utterly fascinated by what is taking place: human beings in a somewhat imperfect cohabitation with mountain goats. Following their mother over the cliff and disappearing out of sight, just like that they leave us, perhaps tired of our company. Katie, in turn, quickly moves on, focusing her attention on other baby mountain goats. We come along a threesome of young on the heels of their mother. As they are perched above us, one stops in response to Katie’s baby sounds. After a minute or so, it begins to make a tiny whining noise – the hair on both our necks stands straight up – the young mountain goat is actually communicating with her. It is undoubtedly one of the most amazing things I have ever seen in nature. Up there with the time I spotted a black bear cub in the Smokey Mountains. Two hours have gone by and the thin night air is turning black, still our eyes remain glued to every motion the spry mountain creatures make.

Although that moment may have lasted only a few short seconds, it is a moment we will always remember. Over time, I imagine we will think fondly of this night in the Swiss Alps. We walk the windy mountain trail back to our hotel feeling privileged to have been given such an intimate glimpse into the lives of mountain goats. It is something no television image can touch, it is better than any Discovery channel program (ok, maybe not Planet Earth), and something no walk in the zoo will ever replicate. Hell, I feel as if the trip could end right now and I would be happy, no, elated with the thrill of experiencing Mother and child up close and personal. These beautiful mountain beings and the memories we shared observing them – interacting with them – is something Katie and I will cherish for as long as we live. It is only a small picture of the many amazing sights we have witnessed on our European Panorama, yet it is more than anything, the Enduring Picture of the entire trip.

George's Boat

Mon, 08 Sep 2008 21:20:27 GMT

I have been undoubtedly lazy in keeping up a journal as of late. The first week is always the easiest, but then late nights and early mornings begin to take their toll. To be sure, the rigorous schedule of our excursions coupled with the extensive partying habits of the group leave me with little time and energy to record my thoughts. No doubt, traveling in the N.M. phase of my journey has had an effect on me as well. I won’t pretend to complain or beg your sympathy for this, but mention it simply as a way of excusing my own amusement over perceived diligence. Indeed, there has been a significant lull in my journal. Far too much has happened for me to attempt to abbreviate it now. However, my memory will try to do it justice.

Our last day in Corfu was a delightful foray into the obscene. Aboard George’s Boat for a cruise around Greek waters, we are inundated with his never-ending stream of perverse, sexual humor. Overweight, balding and Greek to top it off, no girl on the trip is safe from George’s jesting. Again and again, he tells us to eat the Greek olives he has made so plentiful on his boat, as they are “good for your sex life,” he says. The boat is relatively small, perhaps intentionally so as to encourage physical contact. I can’t be sure. He has stocked his boat with coolers full of 2 euro beers, and provided box wine for the ladies. He has made shirts and tank-tops, suitable for both sexes, with a 69 on the front and an orgy on the back. The words "Come!Afloat" are printed alongside it. These illustrative and graphic tee’s are quite literally just that. They are an immense hit with most of the group. Imagining the look on my mother’s face if she ever saw me wearing one, I gladly abstain.

We head to a spot George has dubbed “skinny-dippy island”. It has become a notorious place for past Contiki patrons to strip down and take a dip in their birthday suit. No one on this trip is bold enough, or perhaps drunk enough, to follow his wishes. His deck-hand, who reminds of an Indian pirate, goes naked by himself. With our trunks on, many of us dive from the front of the boat, plunging 10 feet underwater and re-emerging with water logged ears. In the midst of such wholesome fun, another tragedy strikes. While diving, Kaycee from New Zealand manages to lose the engagement ring her fiancé, Karl, gave her last year. Some of the guys (myself not included) take turns borrowing a scuba mask to comb the ocean floor for a shimmering light. Again and again they take the plunge. The rest of us watch in resolved Failure as Karl keeps up the search for 15 minutes more. Instead of “God save the Queen,” we all hope, please, “God save the ring.” But alas, he comes up empty handed. The Kiwi couple is despondent, justifiably so, but in a twisted way, their stroke of bad luck has made me feel better about my own misfortunes. Wisely, I keep these feelings a secret.

The following morning we depart the treasure-filled waters of Greece and set out on a full day and night cruise across the Adriatic Sea towards Venice. Despite losing my wallet and experiencing the uncouth Greeks, it was a relaxing three days and my spirits are high. We tanned, we drank, we conquered. For the most part.

Corfu (Don't Drink the Water)

Wed, 24 Sep 2008 14:07:12 GMT

From the intoxication felt yesterday walking in the fabled Coliseum, to a similarly dizzying effect leaving the Space Discoteque last night, it is safe to say we are all experiencing a hang-over this morning as we travel by ferry to the island of Corfu. It is never a pleasant feeling to watch yourself moving while you are actually standing still, and only less so when you are trying to recover from the inebriation of the night before. The Greek ferry we are traveling on is about as far away from a cruise liner as McDonalds is to The Melting Pot. I am not mincing words here. It is nothing short of miserable. Chain smokers who also happen to be ignorant of proper manners abound on this overnight water-taxi. Every inch of the boat is covered in the foggy, disgusting haze of cigarette smoke. Except the non-smoking area, approximately all of six tables and located directly next to a smoke-filled bar. In the kitchen where food is being served on trays cafeteria style, the man behind it is blowing smoke in our face, ashing god knows where. The food of the Greeks may be delicious, but the astronomical price paid on the ferry makes me sick to my stomach.

In our cabin sleep does not come easy. Earlier, one of the girls spotted bed bugs crawling out from under the flimsy blankets on the bunks. These sorry sleeping quarters contain 2 bunks within an 8 by 10 room, each bunk being no larger than a cot. Now that we are officially in Greek waters, we are informed we can no longer drink the water from the faucet. Not even from your toothbrush. This means we must drop 3 euro on bottled water so we can safely clean our teeth. One more thing, you can never flush any paper down the toilets in Greece, including on your way there. If you do, you are in for a spitefully nauseating surprise. All night long our bunks rock mercilessly to the tune of a knuckle rapping on a desk. The next morning I am at a loss for words. By the time we depart the cursed smoker’s longue I am overwhelmed with joy but too tired to stand. With my iPod in and sunglasses on, I lean on Katie’s arm as we walk to the coach, hoping to soon fade into a deep sleep.

I wake up with a view of the Greek Isles in my window. We are at our hotel, where the first thing we wish to do is relax beside the pool, order a drink or two and work on our tan. This truly is the life. I think I can understand why the Greeks work on “ish” time. “Ish” time refers to their method of arriving, say if a Greek bus is supposed to be where you are waiting at 5 o’clock, it may actually arrive at 5:20, or what the bus driver would call 5-ish. After a night out just to ourselves, Katie and I walk back to where the bus from our hotel dropped us off. We wait nearly a half-hour for the bus to come to a halt in front of us. The bus just happens to be completely empty. The driver opens his door and shouts to us, “Where you going!” Of course, not knowing the name of this particular hotel in what has been a long line of hotels on our trip, Katie opens her purse to look for the card that carries the name. In a second, the bus driver closes the door and speeds away, leaving us to piece together what just happened. As we begin to walk listlessly in a daze, my head is spinning with insults I wish to hurl at the next bus driver that crosses our path. As we continue our walk all the way back to the place we ate dinner, I unknowingly surge ahead of Katie, who is now lagging some 15 feet behind me. Perhaps I was too locked inside my own head to realize the folly of my deed. When I hailed a cab and realized she wasn’t next to me, I understood her reasons for not talking the entire ride to our hotel. As a result of our silence, I took out my wallet and laid it in my lap, preparing to pay the driver when we pulled up. This I did, and then reached in my pocket for some change to give as a tip. This is the beginning of what I shall call the wallet incident, for it is the event that clearly delineated my excitement and joy for the rest of the trip. I believe it could be best summed up by describing our European voyage now in two phases: the Wallet Present phase, or W.P., and the N.M. phase, or the no money for the rest of the entire trip phase. Although I am not certain as to the details of how my wallet was lost, it could have a, fallen out when I got out, or b, never got out of the cab at all. What I know for certain is that I have no money to call my own for the rest of the trip. Generously, Katie has offered to pay for my stupidity once again. Although I am willing to concede it was not the worst that could have happened – I still have my passport – it is a crushing blow to my self-esteem.

Perhaps the number 1 rule of European travel: keep your cash, along with your passport in a safe place at all times, preferably in a money belt around your waist. I was an idiot, but I'm sorry, I’m still never going to carry a money belt.

The Eternal City

Fri, 29 Aug 2008 21:30:45 GMT

The fabled Coliseum

A relic of its former fame,

Some 2,000 years before

Blood-sport for the thirsty masses’ game –

Beneath the now invisible floor

There remains their ever-potent smell,

Gladiators, Christians and Slaves;

Kept masked in waiting cells

Before being raised to the fight,

The fight of the depraved

Almost always short-lived

For either glory or life,

Brought to an end by the sword of survival

And the cheers of callous Romans

Falling on their shoulders –

All roads lead to the immortal and imperfect Eternal City,

How do you say, when in Rome, “See what the Romans did?”

Stroll past the Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon and Piazza Navona,

Discover Italian cuisine and wine in a local trattoria,

Watch the world go by with a gelato or two.

Insert your hand into the mouth of truth,

Explore the Vatican City and witness

The Birth of Man directly above you.

When in Rome!

Tue, 26 Aug 2008 20:28:28 GMT

Our included meal in Paris is hysterical for its irony. First, let me explain. By included, I mean paid for in the price of the trip, but listed as included in our trip itinerary so as to make us feel we are not spending as much as we really are. It does not work. We all feel cheated after this dinner. Burgers without a bun, blackened on the outside, served of course with fries but without the one thing that could possibly make it edible: ketchup. Jenny, from South Korea, pours mayo on everything. Despite our disappointment the group manages to find amusement in the French cuisine we have been served. Some French wine helps as well. None of us came for the free meals anyway.

We have not yet made it to the fabled Coliseum of Rome, but there is an expression spreading its way through the group. As we work our way through our European panorama, the chorus is growing louder and louder: When in Rome! When in Rome! It is simple and straight to the point. But it also manages to paint an adequate picture of the consensus attitude on this shared adventure. It began with two of the more vigorous Aussies, started as a way to celebrate their exploits in each stop along the way, indulging just a bit here and there. It is a precise description of how nearly half of the young people on this trip view this experience. Half, by the way, come from a land down under. Two more are Kiwis, a single girl from Seoul, seven Americans, four Canucks and the same of Brazilians rounds out our international travel group. As a once in a lifetime rite-of-passage, felt by some more so than others, there is nothing that can be left undone. A will to say anything goes and nothing’s off limits. Nothing. It seems as if this care-free sentiment of throwing caution to the wind is only growing as each new night extends further into the early morning hours. Of all the countries represented on this tour, Australia certainly contains the most enthusiastic of travelers, and in one aspect of traveling in particular. Partying. Shot, beer, wine, it doesn’t matter. To say they know how to have a good time does them a tremendous disservice.

I’ll say it anyway. They know how to have a good time, and show many of us more timid folks how to get our feet wet.

One late night early on in our 28-day escapade, Chris, the originator of “When in Rome,” is compelled to try the drunk spider-man kick on the hotel walls. The result the next morning for everyone to see: a gaping hole in the cheap drywall, and a ridiculous 300 euro fee to replace it by the hotel manager. “No big deal,” he says, shrugging it off. The cost of a couple drinks often leads to something just such as this happening.

A vodka and red bull, by the way, in Barcelona fittingly enough, ran us 11 euro. A rum and coke 9 euro. These unheard of deterrents to getting drunk were merely laughed at as the chant of “When in Rome” morphed into a raucous call and response. “When in Rome!” Chris yells, and as a good group of partiers we reply, “When in Rome!” Our tour-guide, Glen, I believe has come under the influence of his fellow, younger Aussies, and by now highlights each tourist destination with an equally “amazing” night on the town. Amazing are of course his own words. Judgment is perhaps better suited when it is reserved for the morning after. A half-full bottle of Excedrin is no match for the hangover many are feeling as we travel through the fabled region of Provence en route to the Mediterranean city of Nice – the jewel of the French Riviera. Even Glen is not as chipper on this coach ride.

It is only day 6 and I see no end in sight to the hard-partying ways of this group.

Despair in Paris

Tue, 26 Aug 2008 19:28:20 GMT

It was the last time I will ever touch Katie’s camera. It was despair in Paris.

On the third day of the trip, our second day in la ville, Katie makes a remark she has repeated several times, this time on our way to the Moulin Rouge. The lighting on her digital camera appears to be darker than usual. She wants to make sure her camera is on the right setting for taking shots of Paris at night. Supposing I can assist her with this minor problem, I attempt to fix the problem and unknowingly create a much larger problem for both of us. On her camera menu I find a selection that reads low-level format. I am not sure what this means, but ignorantly select okay. Almost instantly I am struck with the realization I have committed a terrible mistake. One of those frozen moments when everything seems to move in slow motion, the pictures on her camera, every single one of them, have been erased. Gone, suddenly removed from time and place. Her pictures from graduation, her pictures from her birthday in old town Alexandria, her pictures from our day in London, her pictures of us smiling in front of the Eiffel Tower, are now nowhere to be found. To her, what has just happened is nothing short of a tragedy.

Why, why couldn’t I at least get one picture of us with our backs to the tower every tourist of Paris is intent on capturing? Because I was unable to see just such a moment as this happening, I failed to take any pictures of us standing before the world’s most famous landmark. A failure of epic proportions on my part, Katie is at first in shock. She can only manage to continually exclaim in disbelief, where are my pictures? Where are my pictures? It can only be met with a painful echo. I have no words to offer her. When it hits her they are banished forever she erupts into tears. She is inconsolable. People all around us on our coach ask me in no uncertain terms, “What the hell just happened?” The word hell is a fitting one for the occasion, for it is precisely how I feel. My tongue, since my stupidity gone mute, comes back to life to utter pathetically, “I am sorry, I’m so sorry.” I promise you I’ll make it up to you, somehow manages to escape from my mouth. Those near us on the bus all have a way they think can restore her pictures. We restart her camera, we take out the disk. Nothing works. Her camera does not respond to human intercession. All her shots of our first three days in Europe are lost.

Katie is in tears when we arrive at the Moulin Rouge, her excitement replaced by despair. Meanwhile, I can only continue my sad, tired apology. Others offer her their words of encouragement. “We’re in Paris, the Moulin Rouge, just let it go.” She seems to at least respond to them. Me she hardly notices. The way she walks in front of me as we enter speaks to her anger. She did pay for both of our tickets. How could I be this stupid? Staring at her back I begin to realize I have no answer. I tell myself it is a mistake anyone could have made. But I don’t truly believe it.

One second of my life that I wish I could have back, or perhaps erase from my memory as simply as my foolish finger did her pictures. One second. One second managed to drastically change our day for the worse. Technology is great, I have no doubt of this, but it really makes you feel small and worthless sometimes. Good thing we can’t take pictures inside the Moulin Rouge. I’d like to forget this night.

Lost in Picadilly Circus

Mon, 01 Dec 2008 21:06:25 GMT

Leaving Dulles Inter-national airport at 10pm we arrive in London at 10 the next morning. Sadly, we are in the city for only one day. Sleeping little on the airplane over the ocean the first thing I wish to see is the bed inside our hotel room. Fortunately, after a much needed peaceful rest we wager down to the hotel lobby. We ask the bald-headed Brit which direction to the Imperial Hotel, where the rest of our Contiki group is meeting. I believe he tells us to go straight and then left, but after walking far too long and circling back we ask again, this time I hear him say straight and a right and it will be on our left. By the point of our arrival we have missed the group. Our tour guide is a 26-year old Australian, Glen, who proclaims to us this is his third and final year leading a European excursion for Contiki. The coach driver is Derek, a young Scot with an accent difficult to understand.

Katie, myself, and TJ, an American from Seattle whom me meet in the lobby of our hotel go out on the town for our first cheers of the trip. We stumble upon an old English pub in Piccadilly Circus. One shot of white rum, a shot of dark rum and a hard British cider get the blood flowing. We sit down and order. Mutton and chips, chicken pot pie and a chocolate pudding are split between the three of us. While drinking and eating we find time to take pictures of our opening night meal in Europe together. Over our meals we share stories and our conversation shifts to politics. We find we also share a common fondness for Barack Obama.

We leave the bar in high spirits around 9 but daylight still remains. The streets are crowded with people and the iconic red double-decker buses. We wind our way through back alleys and into the underground; the city lights provide perfectly unplanned pictures. When we make it to the floor of the next pub the atmosphere is lively inside. The bartender, less than hospitable to us as we order yager bombs, seems agitated. He throws our pounds we leave on the wooden bar with considerable determination into a copper tin, making a loud clanging noise as we turn to walk away. TJ leaves to meet his cousin from California checked into a hotel around the corner.

Meanwhile, Katie and I take up residence at a spot near the end of the bar. We meet a man speaking with a Spanish accent and learn he hails from Bogotá, Columbia, is here travelling with his wife and daughter, whom he mentions has a rebellious side, and that he works for Halliburton as a petroleum explorer. More than content to let the conversation of his work die we divert our talk to travel. An easier subject to discuss over drinks, I tell the man of my trip to Brazil last summer and of my desire to go back to his South American continent. Shortly thereafter we are interrupted by a man yelling to us that the pub closes in 10 minutes. We are slow to move until he repeats his command 5 minutes later. We move outside and find TJ and his cousin conveniently chatting and bid farewell to our Columbian friend.

It is still early and not quite time to return to our respective hotels. We ask around and find out about a bar open until 1. A short walk leads us to our brief drinking area. Inside we find a booth and order another round. Although the pub is relatively quiet at this hour, it fills with the echo of chatter and high-pitched laughter of Londoners. Katie, seeking a cigarette, is the first to make their acquaintance and soon we follow. The tallest, loudest, drunkest of the bunch is a jolly man impossible to understand and ceaseless in his noise. Somehow we are able to decipher from him that his boys plan on continuing to a late night club, of which they are more than willing to show us. Feeling drunk enough, we decide to call it a night. We must be ready to leave early the next morning for Paris. They hardly seem to notice when we quietly depart. The London pubs have been typical and much what I expected.

The coach pulls out of the parking lot of the Imperial hotel at 8am sharp. TJ kindly agrees to be our wake-up call as we ride up to the third floor where sleep awaits.