Things You Really Don't Want to Hear

On my way over to the health center the other day, the evangelicals were standing outside the Russell House handing out pamphlets against evolution. The van they were standing beside had "George W. Bush is NOT pro-life!" painted on it and they had numerous signs up claiming that "Sodomy is against the laws of SC! Sodomy is against the laws of the US! Sodomy is against the laws of God!" I politely accepted the pamphlet that was thrust towards my wayward soul and made my way to the second floor of the Russell House to grab a quick bite to eat before my appointment.

As I waited in the checkout line, I thumbed through the anti-evolution pamphlet. When I got to the register, the thoroughly unattractive woman tending it, in her late 30's/early 40's, said, "Oh boy! I guess the nutjobs are back out there again!"

"Yup," I replied, "They're explaining to everyone how sodomy is against God's law."

"Sweetheart," she laughed, "I'm Catholic and I'm dating a Muslim! What do you think happens to me?"

Absolutely flabbergasted and appalled, I laughed nervously as she then continued, "Plus I'm a feminist!"

I'm not 100% sure what she meant by that but I sincerely hope that it didn't mean she returned the favor.

The Last One about Europe. Promise.

Those from summer 2005 may remember little cousin Shay, the stubborn, smelly-footed 12- year- old, whom I kidnapped (with the permission of his mother, cousin Elizabeth, of course) and dragged up the East Coast and into Canada. I took him to three Major League Baseball games, a roller-coaster park, and Niagara Falls, among other places, and still he held firm that I had ruined his life. When he wasn't in arm's reach, he was brave enough to name me "The Devil" (which I'm not- so- secretly proud of, I must say). Now a petulant, if somewhat hulking, 14, Shay had thought it safe to deride me when I was finally across an ocean. Literary criticism knows no blood ties (as Pop more than illustrates...).

Last night when I arrived at Cousin Elizabeth's from the airport, too tired to attempt to drive up to Columbia from Charleston, I expressed to the beleaguered cousin Elizabeth my intention to "annihilate [him] a little" to return the natural order of things. He and his older brother were well asleep at this point and had no idea I was there. Poor, sweet, ever suffering Elizabeth, ever striving for just a moment's peace as the single mother of two teenagers, expressly forbade me from thrashing the boy (well, I was probably just going to hogtie him or give him a swirlie, to be honest). Reluctantly, I submitted, thoroughly convinced she had forgotten what a good time was unless it bit her in the

I held to my word. Really, I did. I didn't touch the boy. But when I coincidentally woke up ten minutes before he was supposed to, to get a cup of water, I decided that I would just scare the living hell out of him. Quietly, I tip toed into his room. The bear-like family dog gave me a once over and fell back asleep on the floor next to his bed. Great watchdog. I got in position next to his bed, arms out, hands gripped into claws, whatever muscles I could manage flexed, and...waited. There in the pitch-black, I stood in my tidy-whities trying not to laugh at the silliness of the whole thing. Still, I know (from experience, sadly...) that waking up and seeing me first thing qualifies as absolute terror on normal people's scale of such matters.

His mother came into the room to wake him up; she didn't bat an eye but simply told me to get the hell out. I told her that I wasn't going to touch him, as per our arrangement, but just the act of standing there in the dark was damn funny; it would be even funnier when he woke up, groggily looked up, and soiled himself. Finally, she had the good sense to agree with me, always the proper course of action, and left me to my hijinks. The boy slept through our exchange because a nuclear bomb hadn't been detonated.

Problem was that the not-so-little cretin hadn't set his alarm the night before. I was willing to go the extra mile for my art (of being a pain in the tookus) but this wouldn't stand. I pressed the radio button to speed things up and, lightening quick, got back in my hunched, terrorizing pose. Shay, thoroughly annoyed at his alarm for inconveniencing his beauty sleep, rolled over and went for the clock. As we made eye contact, I roared, my morning breath no doubt adding another frightening dimension to the whole ordeal. The sloth thrust himself back with a gasp and a speed I've never seen before and nearly went through the drywall. I howled with laughter. His mother laughed in the kitchen. He claimed, rather angrily, "You know you're not funny, right?"

Amsterdam and the End (Finally)

It took quite some doing (and more than a bit of manipulation of the French Rail System), but I made it out of Nice and, after a day of high-speed training, I was in Amsterdam. Considering the spleen with which I've addressed cannibis and women of ill repute, it probably seems a tad daft to head to their European capital (it's the world capital in marijuana, but I'm pretty sure Bangkok wins for ladies of the night). I choose to see it as facing my adversaries down. So, I wandered in the rain, the first of my trip, and passed many of the famed coffee houses as I struggled to find the hostel.

The office/bar/coffee shop was down from street-level and I descended into the haze and procured a bed, and after having one Heineken (I won't admit to any more after various elders threatened to send me packing to the establishment of the recently bereaved presidential widow due to the alcoholic content of these emails), I went off to find my bed and sleep.

The next morning, the seventh, I left my bags and wandered the city. What with the overcast day, the muted color of the buildings, and the lack of others out and about, I was a tad depressed. Going to the museum at the Anne Frank house didn't help matters. After another museum visit I was in dire need of cheering up and so I went to see the whores.

Even though I rarely care what people think of me, particularly strangers in foreign lands, I was more than a trifle embarrassed when i had to ask twice for directons to the famous Red-Light District. It would appear I don't have a nose for these sorts of things. Upon arrival two things struck me.

The first was that picking prostitutes is apparently like picking a puppy at the pound. Not you, not you, not you... Of course, personality is important in a puppy. I don't think the working girls could hear through the glass if I asked, "What's your favorite movie? Do you watch Oprah?"

My second profound observation was that the day shift was ROUGH. Maybe they trotted out the plain ones for those desperate enough to come calling in broad daylight; maybe beer goggles transform them into irresistable objects of desire; maybe at night, the darkness and red lights make them hard to see and thus mysteriously beautiful or perhaps just not too egregiously slovenly. Oh and they had bad posture. Every single one of them. The hookers of Amsterdam could use a good etiquette class, I think.

Other than the typical travel complaints, the trip back to the US was uneventful. Thus, blessedly (for the readership) ends my European Adventure.

P.S. I was rather amused to see that the first Latin inscription that I could perfectly translate was in Amsterdam, at a peristyle, which said, "Homo Sapiens non urinat in ventum". I think we can all learn from that. I think it's from Cicero.

A Nice Respite

I have since discovered that problems are not uncommon when trying to escape Italy (See 'A Farewell To Arms'); my Ozzie friends Daniel and Dana, had a similar if much more harrowing experience getting out of the boot. As for me, after being told that train after train was booked solid, I finally just said I wanted anywhere out of the country. The clerk's fingers flew, the printer spat out a ticket and I scurried off to catch my train which left in five minutes. It turned out I was off to the Cote D'Azur.

I got to Nice after dark and so made my way to a nearby internet cafe where I looked up information on hostels. A cheap, well-reviewed one was not far away. Hostel Chez Patrick had the highest ratings according to the websites I'd scanned. I'll never know though because Paddy never answered the buzzer when I rang.

Instead a little old French lady (LOFL) who ran the restaurant next door asked me if I had a reservation next door and when I said I didn't, she herded me into the restaurant and started filling out forms. My French is probably the best of the languages I don't speak so I got that I was filling out paperwork for a three nights' stay at a good price, but it took the LOFL bringing down a young woman to translate for me to realize that it was for a competing hostel. Fine by me.

I'd come all that way, had brought my grammar book with me and studied on the train; I wanted to speak French. The girl would only answer to English. I thought perhaps my pronunciation was off but LOFL understood me just fine and repeated what I said to the girl. Eg:

Girl: "What country are you from?"
Me: "Les Etats-Unis."
G: (Blank Stare)
LOFL: (to girl) "Les Etats-Unis. Les Etats-Unis."
G: (Blank Stare)
Me: "The United States."
G: "Ah!"

Soon I discovered she was German, had come to Nice three months ago and didn't speak a word of French when she arrived.

The girl led me up to the hostel on the fourth floor, showed me my bed, and invited me to join the trest of the gang who were in another room smoking, drinking and fiddling with a guitar. I put my things away and joined the 'party.' It wasn't much of one.

I stumbled into a room of five Canadians, two Argentinians, and the German sitting on mattresses on the ground, rolling and passing around joints, drinking beer and wine and working out their plan to destroy the United States. Partly to get out of the swirling cloud of marijuana which had taken hold of the top five feet of the room and partly to add my two cents to such a prestigious undertaking, I sat down and helped them iron out the kinks in their plan, of which there were many since they didn't know anything about the US but what they'd seen in movies.

It turned out they hated American tourists, though they were nice enough to apologize for hating me. I don't like American tourists either so I told them I wasn't very fond of me either. Of course they then asked me about THE war. A 19y.o. Canadian girl, baked to the gills, asked me if I was for it. Knowing my audience, I answered, "No one in their right mind is for war. It's not like I say, 'Yay, war!'"

Not noticing that I didn't put the definitive article before war, they then unleashed their thoughts on American soldiers, particularly as one had only recently left the hostel. I have my doubts as to if the guy really was a soldier because he just sounded unhinged. Apparently, he'd spent his time in Nice doing push-ups, trying to show his hostel mates how to 'clear' a room on a raid, and muttering to himself. He also took every opportunity to tell them all about his tour in Afghanistan and the people he'd killed.

That last part is why I'm fairly certain he really was a pathological liar. Vets in general, me included, don't have a lot to say to other people about war zones. They'll talk to vets, since they can fathom what the experience was like and truly commiserate, but not much with civilians, particularly not foreign tourists. Also, in my experience, the ones who went through the worst REALLY don't talk about it.

At the start of these emails, I said that miserable experiences are a way to remember, to have markers in your life. Tha'ts only true for challenging times that you'll want to remember. I'd say one of the chief beauties of time is that when something truly overwhelmingly bad happens, eventually it's no more than a passing comment.

I didn't have a bad stretch in Iraq. I didn't fire my weapon and no one shot directly at me. Still, I hated every minute being there and a year of my life was basically erased. When I was there I'd comfort myself with the thought that someday the entirety of the experience would boil down to simply, "Yes, I served in Iraq," and perhaps later it won't even come up directly.

I'll be on the front porch, bouncing a laughing grandchild on my knee. He or she will ask what the world was like when I was young, and as I mention boyhood, adolescence, going to college, getting married, working, and having children I'll simply mention in passing that I was in the Army.

When I have gone through wretched, painful times the thought that someday I wouldn't recall or that they would simply become a passing comment has helped me get through them. Thinking that way has gotten me through heartbreak and war; hopefully it won't have to provide succor to me through worse. Time doesn't heal all wounds, but it does provide enough distractions.

Back to the Party. As I described the proper way to overthrow the US, they all listened attentively and smoked vast fields in the process. Then the 19y.o. wanted to repeatedly ask me why people in the military could be so slef-righteous and supposedly religious when "Thou shalt not kill." I felt that I were back in high school again, the only one not stoned in the room, vainly trying to explain a rather simple point. In this case, "The Greater Love..." wasn't getting through so I gave up and agreed that all soldiers were self-righteous, murdering hypocrites. She was very pleased with her victory, as her smile indicated, or she was simply in a stupor.

My time in Nice was pleasant, boring and, thankfully, inexpensive. I wandered all about the winding, narrow passages of the old town and was convinced that the police must have no other job than to make sure one joint is smoked every fifty feet. Strict state enforcement is the only way I can comprehend the wearisome regularity of walking through such fog. That being said, the more I walked around, the better time I had...

The water is as spectacular as can be expeted of a place so boldly named Azure. It was fairly warm and there were one or two brave souls who swam, but for the most part there were just sun bathers. The French Riviera is legendary for its beaches and for good reason. In the summer, tey are filled with legions of beautiful women with perfect figures, many topless. Alas, I'd come in winter. I was treated to (scarred by) the sight of rows of old, overweight Frenchmen in speedos. Have they no shame? The most egregious violator was a blonde, barrel of a geezer who had man-boobs. I thought to myself, "Honestly, I don't know why he's out here like that. No woman would touch a man like that with a ten foot pole. Hell, the vast majority won't touch me with a five..."

It was only when I got closer to that sad specimen that I realized attracting women was the last of his concerns as he was a she. After running screaming and crying, I resolved that if I ever get the chance, I'm outlawing swimsuit makers from producing for the elderly, obese market. Actually, I'm going to outlaw people from all clothes that they shouldn't wear. My arms are like twigs and my excuse for a chest chirps. I know not to wear a tank top in public. People need to understand the impact of their limitations. Seriously.

I was pulled out of the suicidal funk of having seen breasts that were last frim before Vietnam when my Christmas buddies came into town. Daniel and Dana were welcome distractions (someday I'll never remember that old lady, someday I'll never remember that old lady, someday I'll never remember that old lady...) and I showed themaround town, avoiding the beach. We ate at a bizarre French attempt at an American steakhouse and then watched a movie at the cinema. I'd heard that Eragon was terrible, so not having to put up with the dialog was a bonus. The dialog Daniel came up with (only Daniel) was far more entertaining, if far more inappropriately and overwhelmingly crass.

The Odyssey Continues

I shan't say much of New Year's Eve, other than to mention that when I finally fell asleep, over 24 hours after I'd woken on Olympus, I had done my part to usher in 2007. Exhausted delirium played a far greater role in my hijinks than alcohol did and, though I wasn't up to my usual manic standard, I did christen the dance floor and thus truly got the party started.

I must say that I began to regret it when the overweight, drunk American girls climbed on to the sorely aggrieved table and started dancing. The legs began to splay as if the table might impersonate Bambi on ice, but the girls, dressed in the height of tranny hooker fashion, paid no notice and took pictures of themselves.

I'd had to sleep in the mezzanine above the hostel bar/lounge, so when they cranked on the radio the next morning, early, I decided it was a sign from God to move on. As money has become a bit (HUGE) issue after the ticket, I figured it was best to travel. I don't spend money on trains. I decided to head back to the port of Patras; there, if I could catch a ferry to Ithaca, home of the great contender Odysseus, I would do so, biding my time on the sleepy, inexpensive island until it was time for the great trip north. On the way to Patras I succumbed to the narcolepsy I'd acquired after eleven hours sleep in the past three days.

Unfortunately, no ferry was going to Ithaca til the next day. I hopped on a ferry to Ancona instead. I don't spend money on trains, but I do on ferries (I'm so glad that I didn't have a Freudian slip just now and type 'fairies'. That would have been embarrassing. Waitaminute...). When trapped for nineteen hours with no food but from the overpriced restaurant on board, I had but little choice.

The ferry was late arriving so I missed my intended train; however, not too much later I caught one to Milan. All of Italy must have thought January 2nd was a good day for a trip to Milan as I stood in the compartment before the main compartment, where the bathroom is located, along with a dozen or so of the great unwashed. Sadly, or gladly I suppose, that was the most action I have gotten on the trip, as everyone in the compartment jostled against me, pressing me against the door to the world speeding by, in their attempts to finagle an extra micron of space.

A little girl thought it was great fun to wander amongst the forest of adults' legs while her mother screamed for her to return; when she did get back to her mama, the five year old mouthed her mother's clothed breast. The woman swatted away the daughter with no more concern than if she were a fly. That portion of the ride was understandably idyllic. At Bologna, enough of the herd departed that I was able to get a seat. The remaining two hours to Milan were much more comfortable if far less uncomfortably entertaining.

Alas, catching the later train had thrown off all my plans, as all the overnight trains out of the country had been booked solid, and so I had ended up in the one scenario I didn't want: being forced to spend significant time in the most expensive city in Italy. I considered finding a park to sleep in, but after I finally made my way out of the cavernous train station, so large it dwarfs many parliaments, I discovered that the streets were awash in graffitti and roving bands of unsavory, impoverished hoodlums. Damn. I had to find a place to stay.

I shall ever be eternally thankful that I managed to find a cheap hotel nearby without being stabbed in the process. The hotels are required by law to be rated by stars. I think I found the only one star in town. Regardless of its rating, I expected the height of opulence for the 40€ ($50) I forked over, and I was not overly disappointed when I entered the room.

The room was a tad cramped and Spartan (Hooray!), but it was warm and the bed was large. I was surprised to discover the bathroom had a bidet. Opulence indeed...but then I was a bit astounded that there was not a shower. No matter. The accomodations would suffice. For the first time on the trip, I would be able to sleep alone, with not even my dear, sweet, departed gearshift to intrude.

I've had intermittent sleeping problems for years and I've been particularly beleaguered with a fever of sorts on this trip, so I was greatly looking forward to the pleasant slumber which I'd paid so dearly to attain. I soon discovered that something was amiss in the land of Denmark, as it were. The walls in an American motel are an amusing nuisance at best; here, where the floors are all tiled, it counts as a veritable curse from the Almighty.

As this is the least expensive hotel in the city, I can't be sure if the incessant percussion came from prostitutes in stillettos dragging along their boot-wearing johns, or perhaps from a herd of tap-shod goats. At least the monotonous trampling was broken up throughout the night by yelling and door slamming.

Those who suffer greatly are greatly rewarded, and so I was when I pleasantly discovered there was in fact a shower in the bathroom. Ordinarily, misplacing one is difficult to do, but in my defense I was looking for a shower stall, not simply the head and two knobs sticking out of the wall next to the toilet.

Sorely in need of a wash to pull me from my sleepless trance, I took one. I finally experienced the opulence I so greatly desired and deserved. There was a giddy pleasure to be had as water caromed off me and splattered the walls, the sink, the mirror, the toilet, and the bidet; I soaked the roll of toilet paper, and gladly. At first I must admit I was a tad hesitant and embarrassed, but then, since it was obviously expected of me, I let myself go and enjoyed the experience, much like when I've made water when swimming at the beach. It was one hell of a 40€ shower.