Finally, A Real Mountain (of Financial Ruin)

I got to the little town at the base of Mt. Olympus yesterday at 430pm. The sun was behind the home of the gods, but there was still plenty of light, so I drove up as far as I could to reconnoitre. There was a woman working at the park station. She said it takes five hours to summit and she didn't think it would be a smart idea for me to try it alone. I thanked her, though I was a bit bummed at not being able to climb the whole mountain. When I got up to the trailhead, just as dusk was settling, some pleasure hikers were coming off the trail and said that as far as they went, about an hour each way, the trail was fine.

I headed back down to the town and, after eating and reading for a bit, I took the car the 22 km back up to the trailhead, which was at 1100m (approx. 3600ft). The plan was to sleep there ion the car til dawn and put in a couple of hours so I could get the mountain in my legs. The trailhead parking lot was covered in snow as I went to bed at 10pm.

Thoroughly dehydrated, I woke up at 230am. I couldn't accept having come all that distance and not at least trying to summit. Before, I figured it was an impossibility because I had to get the car back to Athens, but if I headed out soon and was faster on the way down than the way up, I could just make it.

When I get an idea in my head, it sticks. So, usually if I want something bad enough, I get it... unless it has the ability to say no ("Oh, you have a boyfriend...well, it's been a real pleasure talking to you all night and buying all those cocktails before you thought to tell me...").

So, it is winter and Mt. Olympus is the highest mountain in Greece at 2918 meters (9500ft), so I put on all my layers and brought my sleeping bag and extra clothes in my backpack. I also left a note in the window of the car with a message that there was a problem if I wasn't back by 3pm. I left my brother's email, just in case...

I figured that if a blizzard or something suddenly hit, the 0 degree sleeping bag would keep me alive, particularly if I buried myself in snow for insulation. It was definitely below freezing when I stepped off at 330am as the condensation from my breath had frozen to the windows in the car.

Even in the cold, I had to start peeling layers within minutes; a backpack is a magnificent heater, as any hiker will tell you. The woods were silent and bathed in starlight so I didn't have to use the flashlight but every once in a while when it looked like the trail split. Occasionally, the trees would bunch and so not only were the stars blocked out but the snow wasn't on the ground to reflect the ambient light. When that happened, I'd either have to break out the flashlight or bravely stumble along like Aeneas in the smoke of Troy.

My thoughts ventured to the Greek gods. If vicious Cerberus, a three- headed hell-hound protected the entrance to the decrepit underwold, what on earth would greet me as I made my way to Zeus' throne?

I made fairly good time for the first hour and then the mountain quit playing with me. The path increased its slope by nearly double and I had to stop every fifty feet or so to catch my breath momentarily and let the fire in my legs simmer down.

After canoing this summer, my legs had atrophied substantially and it took months for me to be able to try to run again. I'd gone at it pretty hard for the three weeks before I left, but apparently a week of sitting on trains had put me back to square one. Also hindering me was the fact I can't handle altitude very well. In Peru, I couldn't keep a thing down and moved like an octogenarian as my buddy Andrew, part mountain goat, sped right along with no problems. I certainly wasn't as high as I'd been in the Andes, but I was up over a mile and it was having an effect.

Regardless, I still made the summer shelter, the halfway point, at the two and a half hour mark. The patches of mountain without snow had long fallen below me. A sign said I was at 2100m (6600ft). Eight hundred meters in two and a half more hours left. Yeah, I could do that. I pressed forward.

"It turned out I didn't need the two and a half hours as I made it to the top in just under two. Surprisingly, it hadn't been windy so I stayed there for fifteen minutes, enjoying the sunrise and reading a chapter of Twain. Yup, one more goal down."

I would love to truthfully say that, but I can't. I made it another hundred meters or so up when the other footprints stopped. There was a solitary set of tracks that continued up the mountain but they were very large and had claw marks. I couldn't figure out what it was until I saw holes in the snow a foot away on either side of the tracks. A man was using crampons and poles.

I figured I'd follow his steps since he'd broken through the now thick, crusted, virgin snow. That worked for only a couple dozen feet because when he tried to make the switchback climb where the trail should have been (and was, just buried underneath several feet of snow) he wasn't heavy enough and so only his claws and his sticks grabbed hold.

I tried to make the climb and actually did make the first switchback, but the next 700 meters would be the same pace and I felt it had been very stupid to even climb that particular 15 foot section as I looked down. Because the snow was uniform, all it would take is one fall for me to go launching down the side of the mountain.

As I'd started the hike, I'd asked God to help give me the wisdom and courage to stop if it got too dangerous. Bloodied and broken, and probably unfound until spring, were my highest probabilities if I continued on.

I sighed and carefully made my way back to solid footing. I was back to the summer shelter in no time. It had a spectacular view so I decided to wait there for the thirty minutes until sunrise. As I did, I concluded that those that don't strive don't become. Sure, I hadn't made it, but I certainly wouldn't have if I didn't try (psychologists call this justifying). Failure is frustrating, to be sure, but it sure is a hell of a lot more interesting than winning every time (Hell with the Yankees!). I'm a Gamecock and Cubs fan; failing's a point of pride with me. Besides, I've found people like hearing a good story about a screw up more than a success. Almost no one asks about the river, but when I mention that I once planned to walk the country and stopped after four days, I get grilled. Doesn't matter much to me (baldfaced lie.-Ed.), I just like to tell stories.

On the way down, three foreigners were hiking up the trail. I said "Good Morning," but they were rude and barely acknowledged me. No matter, they were a bunch of sissies. They were all dressed alike, in pretty little boots, lycra pants, fleece jackets, thermal head bands, camelbacks, and a pair of hiking sticks. I must not have been cool enough looking for their club since I was in my Aussie hat, trench coat, black jeans, sneakers, and the backpack. And I only had a used Fanta bottle for a canteen. Dear God! I'm glad I was allowed on the mountain looking like that.

As I was getting to the car, I realized that a year ago today, I was with my friend Chris, scaling the highest peak above Boulder, CO. I've inadvertently started a tradition.

And now the financial ruin part...

With so little sleep in the past few days I just wanted to get back the 300 miles to Athens before I hallucinated. A @#$!ing truck decided it would be fun to go 10-20k (6-12mph) below the speed limit, so at the first opportunity I passed him, only narrowly making it because he sped up as I did. Oh lucky day! The Greek police had a radar checkpoint set up there and caught me going 30k (18mph) over the limit when I passed.

They not only handed me a 187.50 Euro ticket, but took the plates off the car. I was furious since that's $240 and I haven't sped in years (drive dangerously, yes; speed, no).

When I got the car to the rental place it turned out I had to pay double the fee to get the tags returned within twenty days, plus I had to pay a minor fee for the company's inconvenience of having to cross the country to retrieve the plates. It was either that or pay to rent the car for the 20 days it would take for the police to mail the plates. So, that was easily the most painful ticket I'll ever get at just over $500. I talked to some fellow travellers and they said to challenge the ticket through the embassy. Ugh. I sure hope 2007 starts better than 2006 ended. However, the trip is now 100% memorable. Hooray!

Cold Mountain

Where I have failed as a Spartan, I have succeeded in my goals to a) get cold, and b) be adventurously miserable. I wasn't being simply dramatic when I said I was heading to the hills to sleep. I did. Actually, I understated it; they were full-fledged mountains and even had snow dusting the peaks.

I would love to say that I took off from Sparta on foot and hiked my way to the highest peak, where, balancing precariously on the tippy-top point, I slept soundly in the nude with naught but snow as a blanket. None of that happened I can happily report. I took the Flintstone mobile up the side of a mountain, winding back and forth on a rocky dirt road that was partially washed out in places. If I could get that hunk of junk up there, I might be able to summit Everest with a Humvee.

I made it about 3/4ths of the way, far enough to see the lights of Sparta and its environs spreading out like intricate, incandescent spider webs. Thus at the end of the path, I parked and laid out my sleeping bag on an incline in front of the car.

I've found that, for whatever reason, the bag doesn't get as warm if I'm clothed, so I stripped down to my skivvies in the shivering cold and then nestled my clothes and myself into the cocoon of the sleeping bag. My first thoughts were with the constellations I saw shimmering clearly overhead. Orion, Taurus, Cassiopeia, the Pleiades. There I was, staring at them in the land where they were given their names. I know their stories.

I was distracted a bit from the stars by the not so insignificant point that I didn't have a sleeping pad. Even in a sleeping bag, one is necessary. Not for the padding, which would have been nice considering the bed of rocky daggers I'd laid the bag on, but to retain heat, to keep the ground from stealing warmth. Ground doesn't warm up without sun. Mountain side doesn't do that. Fading in and out of sleep, I turned from one side to the other to thaw myself out.

Somewhere in there I had a dream of being attacked by wolves. When I woke up next to shift, I couldn't go back to sleep. I was terrified of wolves; I prayed for wolves. I got the knife ready. The wind blew, the leaves rustled, and my senses sharpened, waiting to hear the nearly imperceptible predators making their way towards me. Thunder off in the distance and I listened for howls.

I war-gamed it out. I would make Menelaus, Lycurgus, and Leonidas proud. A wolf would attack; I'd spring out of the bag, sacrifice my left forearm, shielding my neck as it lunged for me, taking the lacerations to my thighs that its paws made, all as I slammed the knife just below the sternum and thrust down, spilling its innards at my feet. The beast would yelp its last breath, and thus release my arm. Victorious, I would calmly flay my noble opponent, cutting strips for tournequets to stanch the flow from my wounds, which I would bear stoically. Forswearing the use of the car, I'd hike down to the hospital with naught but the pelt as a covering. Me, Hercules reborn!

Then I thought realistically. Wolves are pack animals. I don't need to war-game that. Every scenario above ONE wolf (and even one would do me in) ends with clumps of André fertilizing flowers at the pack's depositing grounds. Plus I remembered that it wasn't so simple as popping out of the bag battle-ready. "Um...Hold off on eating my exposed face while I un-velcro myself and struggle to find the zipper in the dark." Plus, I don't think Hercules ever wore white briefs that his mom sewed his childhood nickname into.

Still, resigned to...whatever, I tried to sleep, but when it began to drizzle (not rain, just drizzle), I used that as my excuse and, still in the bag, bunny-hopped over to the car, unlocked it, and hopped in. Though it was not the same as being exposed on a pointy, rock-faced mountain side, I truthfully can state that a Fiat is no pleasure to sleep in. On a positive note, the gear shift and I accidently became intimately acquainted for approximately one millisecond during the courst of one of my million repositionings for [dis]comfort.

I managed to wake up at dawn. Homer describes it as "rhododactylos eos", or "rosy-fingered dawn." Unlike his description of the "wine-dark sea," he is one hundred percent correct about daybreak. A sliver of saffron capped the opposite peaks as the violet above lost its hold. Below, in the valley, Sparta and its suburbs twinkled on with no idea of the spectacle playing out above. I gazed at it all through thoroughly bloodshot eyes and with a weary, unrested body; perhaps I am Tithonus reborn. I was almost upset that such a fantastic sight would dare interrupt my nearly exquisite miserable experience of the night.

The next morning I made my way towards Mt. Olympus, clear on the other end of the country. Along the 450 miles, I stopped to tour Mycenae, seat of Ancient Greek power and kingdom of Agamemnon, and paused briefly to admire the valiance of Leonidas' three hundred at Thermopylae.

Peloponnese

I am become Death, destroyer of worlds.

Behold! I am the terror of the roads of Greece!

Having procured rental of a wheeled coffin, a Fiat so small I might leisurely park it in a closet, I take to the roads in the fashion of the locals. At first, I must admit that some of my derring- do is simply the result of the clutch, brakes, and gas pedals being too close to one another so that the slightest mispress of either foot results in any number of bizarrre movements. Fortunately, no matter the surprise, be it blasting off or stopping on a dime, it is always severe. I hate to do things half-way.

Driving that would get me in a wreck in the States, and did in January, is apparently what is required in Greece. Lanes, regardless of direction, are fair game for abrupt entry, and thus are only suggestions. On the Greek version of the interstate, I pass trucks in the emergency lane. On the mountain highways I pass on complete curves and switchbacks. I do not feel bad about this; I've not done one thing I've not been subjected to repeatedly. The thrill of mangled, fiery death as I hurtle down a cliff keeps my reflexes sharp.

Still, as fun as this video game is, the breathtaking beauty of the land mesmerizes and distracts me. Thankfully, I've been able to get back on the road in time so far; I'm glad I paid extra for insurance and road-side assistance. I may get a funeral pyre for free.

I stop first at ancient Epidaurus, site of the famous temple to Asclepios, the god of medicine. The temple and town around it was the Cedar-Mount Sinai, as well as Betty Ford Clinic, of its day. The best preserved building is the theater. No wonder greek playwrights were so good; they had to battle for the audience's attention against the jaw-dropping backdrop of snow-capped moujntains descending into the impossible blue of the sea. Broadway might be rejuvenated if it relocated to the Pacific Coast Highway.

I eat a late lunch of gyros and beer in the scenic Venetian town of Nafplio. I sit on a bench in a square and soak in the atmosphere of the terracotta-tiled town as four boys play soccer across the way. In The Innocents Abroad, which I am now reading, Twain says, "Human nature is very much the same all over the world." Two of the boys collide going for the ball and collapse in a heap. The larger, fully at fault, gets up and kicks the smaller for having done him the service of breaking his fall and for having the audacity to be there in the first place. The smaller boy, unhurt save his pride, glares, then jaws, at the older one, but in a moment the ball's been retrieved by one of the others and all is forgotten as they tear after it. I smile as I polish off my beer. I was always the smaller boy.

Back on the road, I wind through Argos on my way to Sparta. I get there at dusk. Gone indeed are the days of intentional deprivation. The helots must have won out; the streets bustle with commerce. I bet Sparta will produce the world's next great fashion designer before a warrior of even middling renown. Still, I plan on communing with the ancients of the place, even if it can't be Sparta proper, so I head to the hills, sleeping bag in hand, to suffer appropriately.

Athens

I had to wait for some time in the stinking station at Rome before I could finally get on the train for the port of Bari, where I'd be crossing the Adriatic. I got there just after dark and would have been much confused were it not for the fact that I met four Aussie girls getting off the train and joined up with them. We made it to the ferry with little incident.

I vaguely remember the fery rides we took to Greece when I was a child. The ferries themselves were nowhere near this nice. Today, they are floating hotels, with restaurants, bars, shops, a pool, etc; then, they were much like troop transports.

At the time of my previous crossing I was but an obnoxious seven year old being dragged around the continent with my brother and five cousins by my oft- beleaguered parents. The ferry today takes fifteen hours; I can't fathom what it was back then. Mom and Pop chose to travel with seven kids, six boys and a girl, ages 7-17. Little wonder the marraige broke up shortly after we returned. The bonds of marraige can only bear so much it would appear (they said it was all my fault, but I'm sure it was the trip.).

At any rate, the only thing I remember from the trip is that as I did endless laps around the decks, I recalled a sad-looking, small child eyeing me and my stuffed rabbit I had in tow. Each time I would pass he would stare at the bunny longingly and his eyes would rim with tears.

Whatever evils and ills I've committed, whatever trespasses, I pray, come Judgment Day, I get to submit the act of giving that morose child the bunny as evidence of some ember of goodwill and charity that I once bore. I'm sure it would look better for me with the Holy Arbiter if I never said a word to anyone, but, alas, I have no faith in my past or current nature. Quite surely I must have told my parents, rather proudly I should think, just how selfless I had been and just how happy I had made the poor little scamp. Though I can't remember specifically, if I recall my father from those days, he most likely chastised me for giving away something he paid good money for. Secretly, I would bet he was thrilled his seven-year-old son, far to old for such a thing, had finally gotten rid of the damned stuffed animal.

We landed in Patros just after noon on the 28th. Five hours and two trains later and we were in fabled Athens. The girls and I, with an Equadorian-Californian now in tow, went to their hostel, which thankfully had room for me. The hostel was packed and had a bar in the lobby. The various Americans, Aussies (which the girls insisted I pronounce 'ozzies'), Canadians, and other backpackers packed booze away like Prohibition was starting the next day. I may have had a drink, just to be social...

A pretty fifth grade teacher from NJ, Jen, assumed command and ordered the group to a dance club across town. The motley, scraggly group cut quite the positive impression as we yelled and stumbled our way through the subway and streets of Athens.

For the first time this trip I unleashed the full splendor of my dance moves. For some reason, I always seem to save my best performances for strangers in foreign lands, though my fellow law students have caught glimpses from time to time. This may have been the best dancing I will ever hope to do. I don't know exactly why, surely not the meager liters of beer I'd consumed, but I got up on the stage where the band's equipment was set up for their gig later and let loose.

They say that VX gas causes people to spasm so violently that they break their own backs. Whatever I evidently got a whiff of was on par with that as I flailed, gyrated, and contorted my gangly fram in a fumbling of Bacchic ecstasy. I pulled up a girl from Boulder, CO, who'd been a professional dancer in France for the past four months (and no, Mr. Cleveland, I don't mean stripper), and she lent an air of grace and sophistication to my footloose insanity.

The next day, with sore joints and creaking vertebrae, the girls and I made our way up to the Akropolis. The girls asked me to be their tour guide and I hesitated for a moment, if only because I wasn't sure any normal people could withstand the torrent once the dam had been breached, but then gamely dove into it. I did my best to keep myself to the pertinent facts required to appreciate the marvels at hand but found myself straying "to put things into context." I was absolutely sure that I'd bored them to tears, but they insisted it was exactly what they wanted. Whether that was true or not I'll never know, nor want to, but I will say that I heard the professional guides appropriating much of what I'd said as they moved into the spots I'd given my spiels.

The rest of the day involved wandering through the thronging multitudes in the flea market, eating delicious and inexpensive gyros, and hiking up to the highest hill in the city. From up there, we looked down on the Akropolis, the maze of streets, and the mostly white tenement buildings that stretched to the sea. All the city before us was covered in a misty haze that gave it a dream-like, ethereal quality, though behind us all was submerged in an all too real mass of smog.

Rome

I failed to mention that I shaved off the conquistador when I was in Budapest. I'd grown it thinking that it would be an extra way not to look like an American soldier, in case anti-war sentiment was high, but, as it's been a non-existent or at least not expressed, I figured I could do away with it. It took me a few days to recognize my face without it. Oh, and when I shaved of course I paused for a moment when it was down to a Hitler 'stache, laughed, and then finished up.

There was no way to get to Rome from Budapest so I had to go back to Vienna to catch an overnight to the Eternal City. I barely made the connection and was joined in my compartment by an Aussie girl and an Austrian man. Sure enough, the Austrian, an artist, wanted to talk about Iraq. Yippee.

I dodged and deflected as best I could, shifting the conversation as far away as possible, sometimes to very unexpected places such as AIDS, immigration reform, drug dealing, nazi-ism, declining birthrates (and the Roman Emperor Augustus' opinion on the problem), the particular particularities of both European and American toilets, and the Coriolis effect, to name but a few.

The Austrian, Wagner, meant well and was an interesting guy in his own right. Though 30, he was starting grad school for video art without ever having gotten an undergraduate degree. He also worked full time and had a three year old son with his girlfriend of seven years. When he mentioned that his girlfriend's father is the head of Siemans, a multi-billion dollar global corporation, I told him that she might be a keeper. Wagner got off the train fairly early, but Leah, the pretty Aussie and I gamely rode on through the night, vainly trying to sleep in our uncomfortable seats while ignoring the stench.

Our train smelled like feet. I might have been accused of that sort of thing before, and rightly so, but this had nothing to do with me as I never took off my shoes (especially not in front of a pretty girl). The Italian train was just filthy. Compared to the other trains I've ridden this was the worst. The bathroom didn't even have a septic system. The toilets were just holes that opened to the ground speeding below. Consequently, the stations smell wonderfully as well. What the hell is wrong with Italians?

My primary concern had been acquiring lodging since I figured the pilgrims would be filling the city for Christmas. Leah took me to the hostel where she had a reservation and it turned out they had a space. The place was so dingy that Leah refused to stay there and went off to another hostel. I didn't mind since it was cheap so I stayed. We agreed to meet up later to catch a bite to eat before we made out way to the Vatican for midnight mass. I went and saw the Pantheon in the meantime, as the last time I was in Rome it was closed due to a museum workers strike. They objected to working 35 hours a week or somesuch if I remember correctly.

After taking a nap, I met Leah and we found ourselves in a pizzaria. As we walked in, we were greeted by a table of unrefrigerated assorted meats, in various stages of preservation. Yum. Italian pizza is different from American. At least ours was. All the ingredients were separated. There was a slab of ham on one half, while a quarter got all the mushrooms and then an artichoke heart and two olives got the other fourth. Oh and there was a sliced egg somewhere on there as well.

We ate the bizarre pie, drank wine, and were serenaded by an Italian Christmas album sung by the Chipmunks. It was all very romantic in a Satanic sort of way. Italian, ordinarily an exquisitely beautiful language, becomes the tongue of hell when rendered into Chipmunk.

As we had some time and brain cells to kill we went searching for bars. Ordinarily that's not hard to do, but, with it being Christmas eve, it took all our skills of alcohol divination to accomplish. We found ourselves at the forum buying cans of Beck's from a sandwich vendor.

While in the area, I couldn't resist the opportunity to wax on about the minutiae of Roman history as I bombarded the poor girl with all sorts of useless facts about the colosseum. The alcohol no doubt exacerbated the problem, but I know myself well enough to know I'd have done it sober. Alas.

After I'd exhausted her on the Colosseum I dragged her to the Arch of Titus, next to it, and went on and on, particularly about how Titus sacked Jerusalem and took away the temple menorah and other sacred objects. The arch is protected by a fence and so I circled, trying to find the best place to point out the interior frieze which showed the Romans carrying away the holy items.

"Um...If this is Titus, why does it say Constantine up there?" she queried, pointing to the Arch's engraving.

"Because I'm an idiot." I tried to recover by telling her whatever I could think of about the Arch of Constantine, but I petered out quickly, still embarrassed, and so off we went in search of more booze.

Thank God for the Irish. An Irish pub was open and in we went. I sat Leah down next to a group of American sailors watching an NFL game and went to get her a black and tan, which she'd never had before.

There at the bar was a hispanic with the military haircut.

"You're a sailor too?"

"Hell no! Soldier."

Chris Navarro was a 121 Signal Battalion soldier from Darmstadt, Germany. We had both been to Iraq at the same time and he knew my good friend Liz. As those who have been over there are wont to do, we commiserated for some time before I remembered the pretty Aussie and extricated myself.

Leah and I drank as I tried, rather unsuccessfully, to explain why American football is wonderful, even when I had to agree with her that most of the time it is "everyone standing around for a long time before a man runs a couple of meters and falls down. Then they stand around again."

I had just gotten another guinness after the requisite Iraq complaining with Chris and sat down when Leah mentioned we had best get a move on. I may not have simply gulped once, like fellow law student Matthew Baden is able to do, but I polished off the pint in ten seconds. Leah's eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open, before she heartily congratulated me on such a display. Draining that pint would turn out to be a bad idea.

Our brisk walk to the Vatican turned into a staggering stumble at some point as the final guinness kicked in. Leah was thoroughly amused, so I was too, even though the world was a blur and my motor skills had regressed to a baby's.

In spite of such condition, I not only made it there but even insisted on us buying more beer from a vendor, which we took with us to the square, which I have to think was rather sacrilegious looking back on it.

I had been most certain that the flocks of pilgrims would make getting around difficult, but the square was mostly empty. We walked straight up to the barricades which were thirty yards or so from the steps of the Basilica and staked our claim. Perhaps the fact that it was cold, far colder than anywhere else I've been so far helped keep the crowds away in droves; I know for certain that I could have done without the fierce wind, though it did give me an excuse to share my trenchcoat with the shivering lass. Though entirely inappropriate to the situation, the beer mitigated the cold as well.

We watched the mass going on in the Basilica on giant video screens and hoped against hope that it would finish soon and the Pope would come out on the balcony in his Miter and robes and do or say something Pope-y. Alas by 0130, when I remembered I had to be back at the hostel by 0200, he was still going strong in the church.

We skeedaddled but when it became apparent we weren't going to make it on foot, I walked out into the street directly in front of a taxi. I pleasantly accepted his tongue lashing and then he gave us a ride to our respective hostels.

Christmas morning, I groggily woke up and joined my hostel mates in the lounge. I was a bit loopy, what with my chemistry being in a supreme state of flux, though apparently the Aussie lad and lass and the Texan found it amusing. As the Aussies ate Christmas cake, the Texan and I competed in entertaining them. Finally, the Texan, a devout Catholic, mentioned that besides having gotten in to the Basilica for mass last night, he was about to go back to the square to hear the Pope's address. The Australians and I invited ourselves along.

The square was packed this time and we impatiently waited for the Pope to speak English. He went down a roll of about thirty languages, including Arabic and Swahili, and when he spoke English we cheered wildly, just as every linguistic contingent did before and after us. Surprisingly, even though Benedictine is a German, he speaks English with an Italian accent. When he finished his stunning display he switched to Latin and absolved us all of our sins, to the great approval of the crowd. The Aussies and I were quite thrilled until I realized that since we're all heretics we're still going to burn. Still, I suppose it was the thought that counted.

We walked towards the forum and stopped off at the area sacra along the way. I'd given it a quick once over on my way to the Pantheon. I paid more attention this time and, reading the posted sign, saw that it was where Julius Caesar had been murdered 2050 years ago. We walked over and took pictures of the site.

The interesting part of traveling so far is that names are by and large incidental. As so many people pop in and out of a traveler's life, we tend to forget to introduce ourselves and simply enjoy others' orbits for the time allotted. Though we'd been wandering around the city for hours and even shared in absolution, it took us quite some time to remember to ask names. Thus I met Daniel and Dana from Brisbon and John the Texan. I already knew that Dana was a science major, Daniel a business major, and John was studying neuroscience on scholarship at UT Dallas, but just didn't have the names. Strangely enough, none of the four of us wielded the accents to be expected from our places of birth.

John, as should be apparent, was an especially intelligent guy, and so, after he regaled us with his knowledge of church Latin at the Vatican, he and I played dueling tour guides for Dana and Daniel in the forum. Not at all used to having others tread on my territory, I had to dive deep into minutiae to finally put him to rest; our Nerd Arms Race was entertaining to the Aussies at least.

On the way back to the hostel, we were treated to a stunning display of the famous Mediterranean temper as a small man screamed, "Bastardo, Bastardo, Bastardo!" while walking behind and pointing to a relatively large, swarthy man, who apparently was ignorant as to his paternal heritage. It was only when the swarthy man got to his own neighborhood and five of his swarthy friends joined him that the town crier backed away, though he kept up his cacophonous din even while doing so.

John picked up three bottles of whine and when we got back to the hostel he proceeded to lecture the three of us on Texan and Scottish history and then when a NYer came in, they teamed up to teach the bewildered Aussies the finer points of American football. John polished off two bottles during the course of his lecture so, shortly before we left for supper, he'd begun, much to our amusement, to repeat himself egregiously. That, to go along with his penchant for staring at himself in the mirror across from him and behind us as he talked, obviously admiring the great conviction and passion with which he thundered, was truly hysterical.

We hid our laughter at him by way of a long-running, obscene train of thought which I'd started earlier in the day which cannot be properly appreciated out of the moment. Indeed, a fellow hostel mate, a homosexual Syrian, asked what was so uproariously funny and when we briefly tried to explain it he asked, "What does the Kama Sutra and the Queen of England got to do with each other?" We nearly cried laughing, much to his bewilderment.

Though John could barely keep his eyes together at the pizzaria he proceeded to buy an extra box of wine on our way back to the hostel as I bought a bottle. Once back, he polished off the third bottle and tore into the box as he continued on his diatribe. By then, thoroughly smashed, he returned to his favorite topics of the Alamo and the Battle of Culloden, though this time he acquired a brogue and spoke as though he were the narrator of a documentary.

"The morning of the 20th of July, 1743, was clouded with ill omen and fog as the leader of the Scots, Bonnie Prince Charley, made a most ruinous tactical error and listened to that bastard Irishman O'Sullivan, on account of a falling out with his Scottish General. He chose boggy lowland for the place of battle, which along with th fact that he waited several hours into the battle to use it, completely negated that most famous weapon of the Scots, the HIGHLAND CHARGE!"

Suffice it to say, as his synapses misfired we heard all about the bastard O'Sullivan, the foolish Bonnie Prince Charley, and the fearsome HIGHLAND CHARGE! at successively louder repetitions, until finally someone came out of one of the bedrooms and said, "I don't know which one of you he is, but I can't sleep because of the Texan."

We managed to quiet him down a bit but John continued in his brogue to tell us yet agoin about the Alamo and how legend had it that a Scottish bagpiper amongst that doomed group had done musical battle with Davy Crockett and achieved no less than a draw. Finally, after he told us of his clan, the McCleans, and how all but 40 of 800 threw down their lives in a battle for their chieftain, we managed to convince him to pass out. Dana and I sat up drinking wine and saying wonderfully prurient things about royalty until nearly four in the morning.

Blessedly groggily and miserably, I woke up four hours later, aware that Boxing Day was going to be a horrible travel day. In the lounge, Daniel, Dana and I sat quietly as the three NYers and their Floridian friend acted like perfectly horrible American tourists.

Obnoxiously loud, impossibly US-centric and ignorant, they babbled on, to my horror and the Aussies delight. At one point the Floridian girl made some statement to the effect that she didn't know how people lived before the internet. As I myself had miraculously managed such a stunning accomplishment, I made a smart-ass remark to that effect.

"Well, if you're so smart, what's the word for the time before the internet?"

"I don't think there is one, but I think if anybody should, you should come up with it."

"Okay then, the word is going to be B.N. Since it was before knowledge."

I didn't so much other than laugh, which she did too since she thought I appreciated her joke. One of her friends tried to clue her in that knowledge doesn't start with an 'n', but to no avail. She laughed on, howling like a banshee in full satisfaction of her stunning wit.

Budapest

In what has come as a great surprise to me, and no doubt the rest, it turns out there is quantifiable evidence that I am NOT the smartest person in the history of ever. In fact, apparently, it turns out I am completely average. I would have bet on the Bills winning the Super Bowl before me getting a better grade in Legal Writing than Contracts (and I didn't get a great grade in Legal Writing). Well, as they say, "When at first you don't succeed, lower your standards." According to the law school, I should be thrilled to string together polysyllabic words without drooling. Which I am...

For those who have stayed with me so far, I feel now is time for clarification. I am by no means a pessimist; indeed, far from it. I'm actually a cynic. According to my father, who with his quantifiable proof (2 PhDs) might be the smartest person in the history of ever now that my title is up for grabs, a cynic is a romantic who knows the world's going to let him down. That pretty much sums me up. I certainly hope for the best, even when I prepare for the worst.

The following snippet, from the poem I posted at the end of each of my exams (average...pshaw!), hits the nail on the head:

From "Terrence, This Is Stupid Stuff" by A.E. Houseman

Therefore, while the world has still

much good, but much less good than ill,

and while the sun and moon endure

luck's a chance but trouble's sure,

I'd face it as a wise man would

and train for ill and not for good.

So, yes, I have learned to treat bad times as adventures instead of misfortunes, but that doesn't really mean that I therefore reject pleasures or happy times, no matter my bombastic claims to the contrary. I always hope to have a good time and, since I prepare to meet the adversity that chance throws my way, I generally do so.

All that being said, pleasant times and happiness do not a good story make, as stated before, so rest assured that this most unreliable narrator will continue in his quest to entertain, even if it means playing the part of the carmudgeon. Therefore...

I cut Vienna short because I didn`t want to ruin my perfect experience and I discovered I'm running a bit tight on time as far as getting to Rome on Christmas Eve day. One zesty jaunt from the hostel, which I now believe it was, to the train station later, and I was off to Budapest.

I realized I was live without a net since I speak ZERO hungarian. No polite words, no way to say I don't speak Hungarian, no way to order beer. Pointing, grunting and smiling will have to do. When the Hungarian border patrol asked to see my passport, I put two and two together and got it out, but I also accidently grabbed a hundred euro bill when I did so (both being in my necklace pouch) and thus looked like I was trying to bribe him. He looked at me very oddly as I snatched back the money and turned red.

Fortunately, right as we were getting into the station a hostel representative, who rides the last segment of trains into the city to catch tourists, offered to get me a cheap place to stay. Feeling very wary because of my inability to understand anything and being so dependent, I agreed to follow him, but made sure to tuck a credit card where I hoped they wouldn't find it when I got mugged. I also got the knife ready.

He was on the level, it appeared, as he got me a shuttle to the hostel. The drive was pleasantly terrifying as the young teenage driver drove in the tram lanes, swerved into oncoming traffic from time to time, and cut off great swaths of traffic at a time. I've never seen anyone else turn right when they were in the outermost lane of a four lane road. He's missing his calling as a getaway driver. Or maybe that's his day job.

As for the city, I did the requisite hiking around and even took a tour boat ride on the Danube. It was all pretty standard sightseeing, to be honest, and thus not worthy of mention, save for my experience at the St. Stephen's Basilica.

It didn't quite register when I first entered that there was singing. In fact, it was only when the singing stopped did I realize it had been there. That is not to say that it was run of the mill, not by any means. It had just seemed so appropriate that I couldn't fathom being there without it. It turned out I was there for a rehearsal of a girls choir who apparently would be making a performance for Christmas. Their choirmaster had only stopped momentarily to berate them and they started once more.

As their angelic voices strove with each other, complementing, rising, softening, soaring, reverberating in all the nooks, crannies, and alcoves of the basilica, I stood rapt. The beauty of that moment was such that I was nearly driven to tears. I assure you that is not hyperbole. Words cannot express how powerful it was. It was easily the strongest emotional, as well as religious, experience I've had in years.

But on to ligher matters...

Last night, I had an amusing back and forth with a waiter. I ordered a Budweiser Budvar, the famous Czech beer. He condescendingly informed me, "It's not the American one."

"No [poop]. This one tastes good."

Apparently, my penchant for sleeping in my tidy-whities sent the vast majority of my hostel mates fleeing into other rooms, which was my goal from the start. Except for one Mexican. I slept with one eye open and the knife under the pillow.

This morning, he struck up a conversation with me as I was packing out. I mangled the Spanish language a bit, explaining to him that I tend to jumble up the fragments of the Spanish, Italian, French, and Latin I know into the indecipherable language of Splatalench. He tried to coax me on a bit with the Spanish and I gamely tried, but to middling success. It was only as I went to leave that he geared it up an extra level.

I swear he asked me where the prostitutes where and how much they cost, as I know I heard some variation of the word prostitute and "cuenta". When I said, "Que?" and he said whatever it was again even faster, that pretty much sealed it. "Um...No se?" He came over and shook my hand as I left, which I thought was a mighty decent thing for him to do for a man who wouldn't spill the beans on hookers.

Vienna

As some prefer what I consider to be castrated writing, I shall now summarize Vienna in only 17 syllables.

Went to Vienna.

I had a wonderful time.

Can you believe it?

Also, I don't wish to trespass to chattels (which is what I discovered "spam" is this semester), so if these emails and the replies from the peanut gallery are too much, let me know and I'll pull you off the list (and rest assured, I most certainly won't be offended...except if it's from you, Mom and Dad).

For the rest of you who might care to hear the overblown story:

First I must thank the inestimable David T----, who caught an egregious typo in one of the previous emails. The Parthenon in Athens is not a dome; the Pantheon in Rome is. I was concentrating a bit too hard on these strange German keyboards and didn't catch it. Also, David informed me that the Pantheon was surpassed by the Duomo in Florence in 1440, though there's some contention as to that fact (at least on what I could find on so reliable a source of information as the Internet). But, without further ado...

I got off the train in Vienna and headed into town. Different country, same bleak weather; I love it. The hostel is called "Believe It or Not Hostel." I hope I don't wake up in the middle of the night with a knife to my throat and a husky voice saying, "NOT!"

I ditched the bags and set out for the heart of Vienna, the old town, and was delighted to discover that the Viennese are classy people, what with the "Peep Show!" club and the dirty video store, whose sidewalk window proudly displayed the uncensored cover to "Anal Adventures", along with several items that even I, with my warped, soldier perversity, couldn't figure out how they could possibly be used on the human body. Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore.

I stopped to eat at a restaurant that specializes in schnitzels as I'd only had pork for every meal since I'd arrived in Europe. Before I spoke, the waitress handed me an English menu and sat me down. When she came back, she asked me what I wanted to drink. I responded with a perfect Bavarian accent, "Haben sie dunkelweizen?" She took a step back and gasped, as though the family poodle had spoken. She regained her composure and came back shortly with my dark, wheat nectar. As for the meal, I guessed and ended up getting a schnitzel (deep-fried pork loin) covered in ham and cheese to go along with deep fried potatoes. At the rate I'm going with vitamins and vegetable consumption, I'll have scurvy in the next few weeks.

I carried the bowling ball of food in my gut as I explored the city. Vienna is flat-out gorgeous. From the museums (which I didn't go inside...all museumed out for a few days), to the palaces, to the parliament, to the rathaus (city hall), every building was larger than life and exquisite. In front of the rathaus was a Christkindlmarkt that put the one in Berlin to shame, and when I entered the rathaus, there were all sorts of arts and crafts classes for children being held, where they learned to make cookies and paint ornaments. As there were many hundreds, if not over a thousand, small children screaming in one place, I quickly got the hell out.

I stopped by the Freud Museum but didn't go in. I wonder how many first-year psych majors would love to go there. On a completely different note, why are psych majors usually crazy as hell? Maybe the population as a whole is and I just notice them because of the hypocrisy, like dissolute divinity majors.

After stopping off to see Roman ruins and inspecting the perfectly nice but forgettable Dom, I made my way to the Karlskirche (St. Charles Church). I've never seen a church with triumphal columns in the manner of Trajan or Napoleon before, but that wasn't the remarkable part about the church. It was undergoing extensive renovations to the dome frescoes and had scaffolding up 100 feet above. There was an elevator for tourists and so up I went.

Arriving at the rickety platform, I grabbed a rail and looked down. Looking down that far inside a building makes a strange, strange feeling. On that platform was another smaller scaffolding that rose another 40-50 feet to the cupola. Up I went again, taking my time to admire the massive frescoes and to ponder how exactly the then-75y.o. (now long dead) artist managed to make that in five years (right as he finished he died). From up in the cuppola, the view wasn't spectacular, but that was definitely a case where it was the journey, not the destination.

As it was dark, I went back to the rathaus to soak in the ambience of the market and I was mightily impressed by the lighting. During the day, I hadn't noticed, but, up in the massive leafless trees on either side of the market and in front of the rathaus, all sorts of ornamental lights in the shapes of hearts, stars, candy canes, etc. had been hung up. At night, the skeletons of the trees couldn't be seen, just the lights, and so they looked like they were floating in place. Those, along with the white and blue lights used to accentuate the 16th century gothic rathaus, were indescribably beautiful.

I was in such a fantastic mood about the vibe of the whole place that I didn't even mind the bazillion tiny children caterwauling. For some reason, it make me think of when I was small and they used to dress up King Street and shut down traffic. I don't know if that memory is real or not, but I hope it is.

Finally, I tore myself away and headed to one of Vienna's many coffee shops. Admittedly, I felt stupid asking for a decaf Irish coffee, but that damn caffeine is a killer. In all honesty, I've been drinking much less over here, away from all of my friends. I guess I was right when I told one of them, "I drink to make you more interesting."

With one day in Vienna in the books, I can easily say that this is a fantastic city and one of the best Christmas experiences I can remember having. It's too back I enjoyed it so much, because, of course, I won't remember it.

Berlin (Part 2)

At some point in the night, roaring staccato bursts that emanated from the only other man among my five roommates nearly sent me diving to the floor to avoid machine gun fire as my post traumatic stress disorder kicked in with a vengeance. He continued to sleep blissfully as I lay there frozen. My hard breathing gave the girls the impression that it was me who´d woken them up.

Upon waking for good some hours later, I made my way to the shower. A firehose of hot water nearly sent me through the door before shutting off abruptly three seconds later. I braced myself, held the button in place and bathed, all the while watching most of my hair go down the drain.

Leaving my bags at the hostel, I made my way out to the famed Museum Island. At first I was thrilled that the winter sun was out and blazing, but then, after walking directly towards it with it reflecting off the just-washed streets and sidewalks for fifteen minutes, I was ready not to see it for awhile.

As, beyond seeking bad times, I also seek out beauty, I spent the next six and a half hours in four museums. The most famous peices I came across where Rodin´s "Thinker" and the bust of Nefertiti. She is roundly hailed as the most beautiful woman in the ancient world, but she comes a distant second to a stunner I ran across Friday night who´s infected my mind. Tongue-tied and intimidated, I meekly and lamely told that goddess, "You look very nice," before scurrying away, when what I should have declared was "My God! You´re gorgeous!" and then made my gaze burn a hole in her soul. That wouldn´t have worked though; she looked through me like I wasn´t there, or like she wished I weren´t.

General Ripper would not be happy at all with being here as water is scarcer than coffee and alcohol (which I guess means, conversely, that law students would love it). Really. At one point in the day, I stopped at one of the museum cafes and asked if I might simply have water. The woman behind the counter said "of course" and then measured out a shot from the tap. Using my left hand to pry open my parched mouth, I threw the water back with my right, slammed down the glass on the counter, and marched out, fully refreshed.

Once I´d finished with the museums I trudged back in the dark to the hostel and picked up my bags. Yet again I hiked down the Unter Den Linden, all the while singing loudly (why not when you know that no one know you?), and under the Brandenburg gate. On the way to the station, I passed the Holocaust memorial, the former site of Hitler´s bunker, and Potzdammer Platz.

On the train, I curled into a ball and slept soundly, having taken two tylenol PMs to help me with the jet lag. A few hours later, I was pleased to discover just how right a certain silly frenchman was when he stated, "Hell is other people." Two teenage girls, one of whom was surprisingly attractive, barged into my berth, bringing with them more baggage than Imelda Marcos. They giggled, talked, and went back and forth to the hallway to smoke for some time before finally petering out and getting to sleep. Later, a man checked our tickets yet again, simply so he could get a good look at the pretty one. A few hours after that, as I helped them haul their gear out at their stop, I considered telling her she was pretty, but decided against it. Why don´t pretty girls and I ever speak the same language...even when it´s English?

Berlin

To preface, as it has been brought to my attention, most serenely, that some might not "give a f@§! about [my] trip" and that to send these speaks volumes as to my "self-absorbtion" (not my spelling, but I allow literary critics to express themselves as they see fit), please feel free to send hate- email or simply press the delete button. But, now, back to me and why everything I do is great...

December 18th (Continued)

I was awakened most rudely by a teenage girl who kicked me in the foot and spouted gibberish. It took me a moment or two of looking at her like something was growing out of her forehead for me to remember where I was. She switched to English, "You´re in my seat. I reserved it." Dazed or not, I´m a B.S. artist so I can smell it a mile away. She had an unmarked seat reserved, or she wanted the only guy sitting off away from the businessmen and their computers to move so that she could sit next to her friends? Hmm... Whatever. I moved and didn´t wake up again ´til Berlin.

Berlin´s hauptbahnhof was a gigundous 22nd century contraption from which I quickly extricated myself. A taxi ride later and I was at the hostel. I´ve been in country five hours and my money is hemorraging faster than a Romanov. Between the overnight reservation to Vienna for tomorrow night, a notebook, the taxi ride and the hostel, I´m already 50€ down. It´ll take some time ´til the third coming of Christ for me to pay back this trip.

Having ditched my backpack and books, I set out in the dim cold. When I was first stationed in Germany, I didn´t see the sun for two weeks. Then, one day as I was about to go into a building, the clouds parted and I saw ole Sol for three seconds. The clouds crashed back together and I didn´t see it for another three weeks. Berlin is farther north than where I´d been stationed, but just as overcast. It started getting dark at 4pm or so.

I´m glad I wanted cold because I got it. The thermometer was hovering at freezing before the sun gave up. The wind added some kick. Hey, at least when it´s biting cold you feel alive. Ridiculous hot and you just wanna die.

I quickly found myself in one of the ubitquitous doner kebap shops. A doner is just like a gyro except that its meat is from a gigantic slab of processed chicken slathered in chemical death, instead of lamb. I bet my body won´t decompose an extra two years because of the doners I´ve pumped into it. Hey, they´re 2€; whatcha gonna do?

As I wandered I came across the Berlin Dom (Cathedral). In I went and was immediately dumbstruck by the immensity of it. I know for a fact that the Parthenon is bigger (it was the world´s largest dome until...the superdome...how lame), but that doesn´t take away from the Dom. It´s dang impressive.

I was also struck by how much the boulevard Unter Den Linden reminded me of the Champs Elysees, what with the lit up trees lining it and the ridiculously exorbitant shops (Ferrari and Bugati, to name two).

At the end sat the famous Brandenburg Gate. Goddess Victory (Nike?) rode in her four-horse-drawn chariot hoisting an Iron Cross above her head. As interesting as she was, I was more fascinated by the friezes of who appeared to be Hercules. They didn´t all correspond to his labors. I´ll be interested to discover their significance.

After Brandenburg gate, it was over to the Reichstag, the German Capitol. After a fifteen minute wait where I got to hear some jackass explain global terror politics to his girlfriend with an indeterminate accent and complete masturbatory glee, I got in the elevator and was transported to the roof. I walked around, silently surveying the city and then I climbed to the top of its glass dome. Jackass and dumbass followed a short distance behind, continuing with their incessant drivel.

After leaving, I went back towards the Dom, down the other side of Unter Den Linden, taking a moment to appreciate the giant menorah, screen, and stage erected in front of the gate where a Jewish was set to start.

I stopped at a kristkindlmarkt and sipped spicy, piping hot glühwein as I watched people skating on a rink nearby. After that I wandered on until I came to a fair that would put the SC State Fair to shame. Even the carnies were attractive (well, the women only, obviously) and, ordinarily, I´m not into Germans. The downside was that the music was horrible. I hate current American music, so of course I´m going to hate music that wouldn´t even see the light of day in the States. The upside was that even though I was wearing a trench coat, had a hat pulled down low to cover my bloodshot eyes, and was sporting classic French priest facial hair, not one person looked at me like I was a pervert.

I made it back to the hostel and, after a pair of fantabulous beers in the downstairs bar (they alone might make the crushing debt of this trip worth it), I turned in for much needed sleep.

That Was Special

I have said before that when I travel my goal is to have as bad a time as possible, shy of being maimed, killed, or raped (especially raped...). In a way, I got this from my father, the Green Beret and Ranger, who certainly taught me to seek out and thrive in misery, which we have done on countless occasions. In fact, he came to call his intentional infliction of dire circumstances, usually involving weekend hikes through the likes of the aptly named Hellhole Swamp, as "Planned Misery." The difference in our perspectives is that while he sees a weekend or two a year as a way to more perfectly appreciate the other 360+ days, I view a horrific time as no less than the essence of life itself.

Shy of this transitory, ever-fleeting present, our lives are truly our memories. Of those, I submit, the far greater part are not our joys, but our misfortunes. Perhaps the people who argue this point are sincere but my own experience and my observation of others holds it as true.

As a child I went to Disney World, what many consider the acme of childhood delights, nearly a dozen times. Of all those times being there I can hardly recall a specific episode, save, of course, for the time that it was cold and rainy. No, I can´t recall that sort of thing, but I remember quite distinctly and vividly the night on our first swamp trip when an unexpected cold front came in. We´d all packed for seventy degrees and it dropped into the low forties/ high thirties, and that was after a day of wading neck-deep in the swamp. I stayed up all night tending the fire as Pop and the cadets were curled up around me, constantly rotating as if on a spit, so as to stave off that piercing cold. In the morning, Pop discovered his plastic raincoat had melted from his trying to get so close to the fire.

It was a truly miserable night. And I love it. I know I love it now, in retrospect, but even when I´m in the moment of a truly bad time, I find I love it. Certainly not from any warped masochism, but simply for the fact that I´ll remember it; I´ll have survived it; I´ll have conquered it in a way. So most people want vague recollections of general serenity...I´ll take the ingrained knowledge of contending, of running the gauntlet and making it out the other side.

I´m sure I´m right about this, and, besides, who wants to hear about someone else´s good time? Nobody. Okay...maybe your parents, but that´s it. Good times aren´t interesting. Struggle, conflict, these are the bases of story-telling. If people want to hear about good times, why is the word commiserate?

So without further ado...

Homeland Security Agent Knuckles was refreshingly tender, yet thorough, and I was through the gate and into the pond-jumper in no time. Having to stand hunched over as the plane was apparently designed for Lilliputians was a novel experience, but after take-off, when I attempted to use the facilities and found wedging my frame into that cabinet nigh on impossible, I considered that it was perhaps I who was Brobdingnagian.

Curled in a ball, I read contentedly until we made our descent and I looked out over miles and miles of perfectly rowed and surveyed suburbs. Allow me to correct myself: exciting misery is my goal. The hellish life of the wage slave living in one of those boxes outside Detroit would never hold appeal for me, which is most of the reason why I´m not sure I´ll ever be a lawyer. Life should be living, not trying to make partner.

Bleary-eyed, the Detroit airport seemed a nice enough place. In between terminals was a long walkway tunnel. I suppose the idea was to have rapidly changing colored lights run the length of the cylinder to go along with soothing sounds and thus help travelers shed stress and think positively, but the whole thing came off like another trip down the birth canal. Born again in Detroit! Oh joy...

Despite my greatest efforts, I did suffer a most gruesome violation (of my finances, mind you) by way of a honey-tongued waitress at an airport cafe where I ate lunch. The beer she brought me could have financed a new front on the Global War on Terror. Her kind words to me couldn´t hide the fact that she´d gotten what she wanted and so I had to go. Completely disheveled, I awkwardly bid her adieu and stumbled out, feeling confused and ashamed at what had just been done to me.

As for my fun nine hours crossing the planet, I was a proper fit for my seat, though of course there were screaming babies all around, the stewardess spilled water in my lap, and I was plagued by those two bane ulences of the locked- in traveler: turb and flat. Someone also evidently thought as that it was minus- seventy outside the plane, that it should be positive- one hundred ten inside. I peeled out of my layers and cursed the heat. I´ve been in 130 degrees and I think I broke my sweat glands on the river last summer. Part of the allure of going on this trip was to finally freeze my tuckus off. I swear I might move up to Maine.

I was pleased upon landing to get the horrible recollection of being deaf, mute, and illiterate. My ability to say only "I don´t speak German; do you speak English?"; "Please"; "Thank you"; and "Yes, Mr. Bartender, I would absolutely, positively adore yet another satisfying, delicious, glorious beer" will have to do. I pulled some play money out of the ATM, stumbled on to the train to Berlin, and collapsed in a heap.

P.S. Reading law books for a semester is like weight-lifting. I thought that perhaps I brought too many books with me, but I polished off Charles Frazier´s (Cold Mountain) new book, 13 Moons, by the time I landed here.

Bon Voyage

Fully armed with a eurail pass, the requisite ridiculous facial hair, and no plan, I head off to Europe (for three weeks) tomorrow. As ever, my hopes are to have the worst time possible shy of being maimed or killed (...or raped) . Perhaps a trip to a Hungarian prison or thrashing by neo-nazis is in order as I'd certainly hate to have an ordinary time (and I need some sort of craziness after being locked in Columbia for five months). Should stumble into any adventures, be advised, I'll let y'all know.

Merry Christmas, Happy Channukah, Super Kwanzaa, and Terrific Solstice.

An Ode to Sarah Henry

This evening as the group walked out
and went to get some food,
Ms. Henry did begin to pout
and claimed that I was rude.

"André, you're always quick to tease,
not one nice thing to say.
For once in your life, pretty please,
throw compliments my way."

"Sarah, I just cannot comply
as much as I would want.
I'll leave that for some other guy,
whose dreams you no doubt haunt.

"It is just not in my nature
to say what's plain to see.
You've a stunning smile, eyes that lure,
inspiring beauty.

"Heaven forbid that you should know
and ruin what is best.
Your glorious lack of ego
sets you out from the rest."

"Many are the less pretty girls
who think that they are great,
and when their vanity unfurls
it makes me quite irate.

"So better yet I tease you well
than lose you to the mass.
If you don't like it, go to hell.
I will not kiss your ass."

And then she punched me in the face...