An American Rogue in Europe: Chapter Ten

Planes, Trains and Czechoslovakian Buses

We had a lot scheduled for our time in Europe. Our itinerary was full but not stuffed. In fact, one day aside, it might seem almost leisurely. That "day aside" had come. On Monday, May 14th, we awoke in Prague. By that evening we needed to make it to Rome. The rest of our trip hinged on this day. Our original plan was to take trains the whole way (we spent hundreds on Eurail passes after all). This would have taken more than 20 hours of travel (with untold layovers in out-of-the-way train stations), so we passed. Thanks to the beauty of discount airlines and intercontinental travel we found we could fly to Rome for less than 40 Euro a piece. The catch was we had to fly from Frankfurt which is a considerable distance from Prague. Still, about six hours on a train and then two on a plane and we'd be enjoying an "evening in Roma." Not bad, by anyone's standards. Except it's not that easy. Ryan Air (the cheap European airline of choice) likes to cut corners. One of the ways it does that is by flying out of smaller airports. So when you say you are flying from Frankfurt to Rome with Ryan Air what you mean is you are flying from Hahn to Rome.

Hahn is two hours from Frankfurt. You cannot reach Hahn by train. The only way (barring car rental) we could get there was by bus (12 Euro a piece) from Frankfurt's main train station. So, Plan C: A train to Frankfurt, bus to Hahn, plane to Rome. But our train (scheduled to leave Prague at about 9:30am) didn't arrive in Frankfurt until about five minutes after the last shuttle for Hahn had left. We needed an earlier train. And so we found ourselves, six Americans, hustling our luggage from the Czech Inn to the Metro to the train station in the wee hours of that Monday morning.

Leading up to this trip I had often contemplated the advantages of the European train system and bemoaned the lack of an American equivalent. That Monday morning, one of the disadvantages of such a system, presented itself. Or original train left just after 9am. It got us to our destination about 10 minutes too late. The next earliest train left Prague at 6:15am, but only arrived forty-five minutes early. The later train would have been largely non-stop, with only one or two train changes. The early train would get us to our plain on time but it would make roughly a million stops in between with half that many changeovers. The downside to this itinerary seems obvious. The upside is a little harder to perceive.

On the Monday of hellish travel from Eastern Europe to the cradle of Western Civilization, I rode on roughly a fourth of all the trains in Europe. Fast trains and slow trains. Air conditioned trains and open-air cars. Regional and High-speed. Trains that filled the station and seemed to stretch for miles and (crossing the German border from the Czech Republic) a little one car one engine train that looked like a fifties diner that had lost its waiters. We rode on all of them. Infuriating, exciting, comfortable, excruciating and everything in between, the one thing rail travel in Europe isn't is boring.

If our day had just been filled with train travel, I think we'd look back fondly on this day. As it currently stands, we remember it as one of the most hellish (and hilariously funny) days of our trip. After riding three or four different trains toward the Czech Republic border we stopped at a train station where everyone started to get off. This wasn't our stop so we stayed put. Shortly we were joined by an engineer.

"Kwachzinky nuff no putzin Kaput!" he said, or seemed to since none of us spoke Czech. He stared at us for a minute pointing to the exit and then finally realized, "English," he asked. "Ya!" Richard replied. The engineer thought for a minute about the best way to get his message across and then said simply, "Train kaput." He then turned his back to us and waived us toward the exit. (We later learned that there had been a fairly serious problem with the tracks ahead of us and we were to be routed around them on buses).


I have nothing against buses (in principle) but our current problem was we were up against a deadline. We had a limited amount of time to make it to our next connection and since a bus is generally slower (and more circuitous) than a train, there was a real possibility that we were gonna be late. While Richard, Allie and I worried about our schedule, Ella was thrilled at the prospect of seeing some Czech countryside. She snapped pictures through the windows of that bus until we were deposited at the next train station (apparently past the Kaput train tracks). Back on the rails we swiftly made it to the German border (surprising considering what we were riding on at times). There we took our first high speed train.

The Germans call them ICE trains or Inter-City Express. These look like luxury vehicles when compared to the local trains we had ridden that morning. For these trains we needed reservations (an added expense) but that meant we were guaranteed seats. And what seats they were. Two captain's chairs side by side, facing two more with a fold-away table in between is what awaited us. This setup was perfect for playing cards and we used it in our several hours on the train.

Anytime you spend more than an hour or two in one place, it's likely that the bathroom might be needed. I'm sure most of you (there is the occasional germaphobe that only uses his own hermetically sealed facilities) have used a public bathroom before. Other than its mobile nature, the toilets on European trains are not drastically different from those ordinary public bathrooms. Smaller than the stalls at the mall, larger than an airplane bathroom, and magically fascinating to those interested in the question of "Where does the poop go?" The short answer is "It hits the road...or at least the track."

Comfortable bathrooms and seats aside, the ICE train did have one large drawback. It was significantly higher off the tracks (the passenger car anyway, the wheels, I'm sure, went all the way down) than the smaller local trains. This might have enabled them to travel at much higher speeds and provide a less bumpy ride, but it also meant that you spent your time on the ICE swaying back and forth like you were at sea. If you've spent most of your life as a sailor that might be welcome but for little-old-landlocked Rogue, I didn't care for it.

The entire time we had been in Europe (and even before we arrived) Richard had been praising the beauty of German beer, in particular the Hefe-weizen or wheat beer. Hefe-weizen (or Hefe for short) is a thick beer. The wheat (I assume it's the wheat, I'm not a chemist) can actually be seen floating around in the bottle. This makes the beer opaque (like Guinness) even though it's a light color beer. It also makes the beer sit very heavy on your stomach. Richard later went on to tell me that for tax purposes, Germans classify their beer as food. This is good information to have before following up a big meal of wiener and schnitzel (whatever the hell that is) with a couple of half liters of Hefe.

As soon as we got on board the ICE, Richard said "A train this nice should probably has a diner car. We could go get a Hefe." It took a little convincing (I hated to leave the comfort of our seats after our morning escapades) but he and I eventually made the trek through the train in search of beer. Remember how I told you earlier that the ICE rocked back and forth like a boat? Well, if you've ever seen a film where sailors fight their way across the ships deck during a bad storm, that's what Richard and I looked like as we made our way to the diner car. Looking back, it probably wasn't worth it. The beer (and everything else in the diner car for that matter) was terrifically overpriced and not high quality to begin with. Richard told me that the beer almost didn't even taste like a Hefe-weizen. He waited to tell me that of course until after I had spent 5 Euro on it.

A little peeved by the gouging we took in the diner car, and a little sea-sick from tossing about, we finally arrived in Frankfurt. But of course, not at the right station in Frankfurt. We would need to switch trains one more time (we wouldn't have it any other way) before we would finally reach our destination (the bus that would take us to Hahn and the airplane that would take us to Rome), but we were so happy to be close we didn't even mind.

An American Rogue in Europe: Chapter Nine

Last Tango in Prague

Sunday was the day of the Marathon. Alex, Allie and Christine all left long before Richard, Ella and I awoke. We expected Allie to finish the race (based on her half-marathon pace) somewhere around 2pm. By 11am we were all up, dressed and ready for the day's excursion. We ambled through an American bookstore (filled strangely enough with Czech books), a used LP shop (filled with overpriced Beatles, Dylan and Bob Marley albums), picked up a little McDonald's (minus the absurdly peppery hamburger) and headed towards Old Town Square.

Alex was there at the finish line with beers for the three of us from our friendly KFC. That's one thing that still shakes me about Europe, you can get beer EVERYWHERE and wine almost everywhere. We had barely made it to the square by two, but it turned out our timing was perfect. Allie and Christine finished in less than a half hour with times just below and above five and half hours. That may sound like a lot, but you try running 26 and a half miles. If you finish AT ALL then we'll discuss good marathon times.

It has occurred to me as I write this that some of you may not know where the Marathon comes from. As general purveyor of knowledge and all around smart guy, I'll fill you in. Many moons ago, the Greek city states (Athens in particular) were warring with the Persian Empire. You might have seen a film about one of the battles called "300". Long before that battle the Greeks dealt a harsh blow to the Persians, defeating them at Marathon on Greece's east coast.

After seeing the battle was won (and probably having fought bravely himself) a Greek Hoppalite (foot soldier) ran all the way back to Athens to spread the good news. The trip was long (26 and one half miles) and he ran it at such a furious pace that upon reaching his destination and delivering the message, the Hoppalite fell dead, his heart had given out.

Now, all over the world, mentally deranged people like Allie do this for fun. Me, I like bowling.

After the girls finished their death race and got their medals for finishing, they were pretty hungry but more in need of a cold shower and a change of clothes. We headed to the Metro stop, but before we got there, Ella (who had expected to eat by now) was starving. She decided to stop off at KFC (the march of American culture continues) and I stayed behind with her. As if our rude waiters from the night before hadn't been enough, Ella was waited no at this KFC by a fairly anti-American Czech girl. As I've said before, I can understand getting fed up with tourists and I can completely see how you could get tired of speaking someone else's language in your country but doesn't it seem a little humorous that someone with those feelings would get a job in an American restaurant?

Ella and I got on the Metro and returned to the hostel. I've used subway systems before (particularly New York) but Prague was the first place I ever felt like I learned the system. By the end of our time in Czech, I could easily make my way across the city using the subway only, without even consulting the map. Paris and Rome both have subway systems but neither was as accessible or as useful as Prague.

Ella wanted to shower, Richard and I wanted to drink, and the rest just wanted to eat. Ella stayed behind at the hostel to clean up while everyone else went to our home away from home, Ublinu. Generally, a big meal and drinks in the early afternoon would be a bad idea (especially if you are, as we were, planning on site-seeing) but, we needed to wind the evening down early since the next day would be our roughest travel day.

After lunch, we hooked up with Ella and headed back into town. Alex wasn't finished showing our little party everything Prague had to offer and our time was running out. Prague has a tremendous history as a major European Jewish settlement. There we were strolling along through our amazingly beautiful city, snapping pictures left and right when suddenly the architecture changed. The Eastern European look gave way to a Middle Eastern flair. On our left was a graveyard, lined with the empty booths of vendors, on our right a synagogue flanked by a very large (and obviously old) mausoleum. Maybe these weren't sights as visually stunning as the Charles Bridge, but the emotional impact was significantly greater.

When Hitler was conquering Europe and remaking it in his image, an area like this might have been destroyed. It would have been, in fact, but for the hubris of the Nazis. They were so confident that they would be successful in their attempted extermination of the Jewish people that they chose (very specifically) to leave this part of Prague alone. These beautiful buildings, these ancient graves, would stand as a monument, a memorial to the Jewish people, proof that they ever existed and a testament to the efficiency of the Nazi forces. But the God of Abraham is still worshiped in this little corner of Prague, and Hitler, while not forgotten, is a distant memory.

Our next tour stop was a decidedly less grand one, but still beautiful in its own way. Shortly after the death of John Lennon a memorial was painted by a graffiti artist in the Old Town. Rather than be painted over or washed away, it has been added to over the years by fans from all over the world. We had seen it in photos but wanted to lay eyes on it ourselves.

The problem was, our map of Old Town was less than decipherable. We walked this way and that, circling the area the map said should have held the wall, but found nothing. The hour was getting late, and even if two of our party hadn't just run 26 and a half miles we would have all been tired, anticipating our early morning the next day. We finally called off the search, vowed to find Lennon's memorial on our next trip to Prague and headed home to pack for the next day's journey.

An American Rogue in Europe: Chapter Eight

It seems like a lifetime ago that Mrs. Rogue and I went to Europe. It seems like about 3/4 of a lifetime since I posted the last installment in our travel journal. Sorry I've put it off so long, but you might have noticed that I've created a link list on the right side of this page with links to those previous blogs. So, if you missed them the first time around, or have forgotten where we were in the story, check them out. Even if you remember them perfectly, you might want to breeze through them as they've been updated with photos from our trip. Now, let's get on with it.


The Marathon and the Mean Waiters

Prague was never in our original plans. We only came to the Czech Republic because Allie and Christine were running in the Prague marathon. While the race itself was set for Sunday, they had to sign in and get their gear (passes, numbers, informational maps etc.) Saturday morning. The late night visiting and the jet lag having gotten the better of Ella and I (those couple of rounds at Ublinu probably didn't help either) we, Richard and Alex decided to sleep late, start on our own and meet Allie and Christine in the old town square around lunch. We got to the Metro station (slightly confusing in Czech but incredibly useful) bought our day pass and were on our way.

Before heading to Old Town (the historic center of Prague) we stopped off at McDonald's for my first international McStop. It looked the same, felt the same and smelled the same, but one bite let me know that something was not right. McDonald's (even in the States) seasons their meat with a mixture of salt and pepper.
This particular Czech McDonald's must have loved that seasoning. It was so thick on my burger that it literally crunched when I bit it and burned my mouth as I chewed. Luckily it's pretty much impossible to screw up french fries and mine were outstanding.

Weaving in and out of the streets towards Old Town (kudos to Alex for her excellent map skills) we quickly realized that the National Museum was not the only beautiful building in Prague. Everywhere there were interesting architectural designs and fascinating features waiting to be photographed, and we took plenty. We knew there were going to be quite a few people in town for the marathon, but as we entered the square we were taken aback by the size of the crowd. Thousands of people filled the area as bands played on a stage in the center flanked by a Trinitron. We had barely entered the square before a couple of college students wearing matching t-shirts thrust beers into our hands. Whether the company was promoting a new flavor or just sponsoring the marathon we never found out, but we took them up on the free beers several times that afternoon. Alex had sent Allie and Christine a text message informing them that we had arrived and they replied that they would join us shortly. We found a bench and enjoyed the music, beer and atmosphere.

Having never attended a marathon before I can't be sure whether this party was standard or especially lively because it was Prague, but either way, it was jumpin'! A rock band had been playing as we found our seats but quickly finished their set and were replaced by a Brazilian drum and dance group. If I hadn't been enjoying myself up to this point, I definitely would have been on board now. Good beer, fantastic music, and a massive throng of happy people in the middle of a beautiful city make it hard to be sad. On the way to the square we had passed a cute little open-air cafe called "La Scala Resterante Pizzeria". Once Allie and Christine found us we were all (save me, thanks to McDonald's) sufficiently hungry so we headed back there. The prices were a little higher than Ublinu, but low enough for our budget. Beers for everyone (except Christine who doesn't care for it and instead ordered a tequila sunrise), a hearty Czech "cheers" and we were well into a great afternoon.

Here's a good time for a brief opinion on the service (particularly food service) industry. In high school, I for a (very) brief time worked at McDonald's. Most people think this would have soured me on fast food, but in truth I was astounded at how clean they have to stay (in the kitchen at least) and it actually may have added to my psychotic desire for McFood. In the short time I worked there, I was quite unhappy. It's an unpleasant job and as soon as I saw a way around having it, I left. However, I feel that while I was there, I did the job to the best of my ability and was always more than pleasant and polite to customers. I feel this is the minimum you owe an employer. You don't have to love a job to do it well, and if you are not going to do it well, what's the point of having it?

I know there is an immeasurable difference between serving hamburgers and fries at Mickey D's and waiting tables at a real restaurant. Waiting tables at a restaurant in a tourist section of Prague where more than half of the customers speak a language other than your first, is an even tougher job, but still, I think you should give it your best. Some people claim to be stuck, in dead end jobs, in bad neighborhoods or in habits. Perhaps they are, I'm not them, and I don't know what life is like for them. But in my experience (limited though it is) the U.S. in particular and the world at large is a place where someone with desire to do so can better themselves and their situation. Life is too short to be trapped. In the words of Parliament Funkadelic "Free your mind, and your ass will follow."

While the waiter that afternoon was quite good, later that afternoon we would encounter not one, but two HORRIBLE waiters. But that Saturday afternoon, twenty steps from Old Town Square in Prague halfway around the world from our homes, we were loving life.

Alex had studied the city's history and sights and had a plan of attack for the afternoon. We saw the Charles Bridge (spectacular) and enjoyed music provided street performers as we strolled across it. Artists sold photos and paintings of the city, beggars pleaded for our Krohns and music (jazz, tribal and blues) filled the air. The views from Charles Bridge really are amazing. You can see the city as it was and has been for centuries. The bridge is decorated with a series of beautiful statues, all religious in nature. the crowning glory is a crucifixion statue mirrored by a simple cross on the opposite side of the bridge.

When we first passed under the tower and entered Charles Bridge, I needed to use the bathroom. By the time we were nearing its end, it was becoming an emergency. Voicing my concerns to Richard, he imparted that he was experiencing the same difficulty. Less than 100 meters (look at me, using the metric system) from the end of the bridge, we found a set of stairs leading to a side street full of restaurants. Certain we could find a WC somewhere there, we took the side street and began the search. Building after building passed with no luck and I was beginning to contemplate using the alleyway when Richard saw a toilette sign inside a cafe. We ducked in, always maintaining that look that says "We belong here" and answered nature's call without incident. Relieved and rejuvenated we joined the girls who had already found the restaurant they wanted to eat dinner in.

Anyone who has ever gone to New York knows that the restaurants right around Time Square are more expensive than similar restaurants just a few streets away. Largely the same is true in Europe. Having just left Charles Bridge and still being in the historic part of town, near the river, we knew dinner would cost us a bit more. The restaurant the girls had fallen for couldn't have been in a more picturesque spot, right on the edge of the river, with the city skyline and Charles Bridge in the background. The piece de resistance (or however you say that in Czech) was the alleyway that led to the restaurant. The only way to get there was down a set of stairs so narrow that only one person could go at a time, and there was no room to pass someone headed the opposite way, so the alleyway stairs were equipped with a traffic light. A byproduct of this charming entryway is that it becomes a barrier to your swift exit, as we would soon find out.

We found a table and sat down, only to be shuffled to another section, then another. When we finally did get to relax and enjoy the view it included ridiculously high prices on the menus. As a group we decided to just order a few appetizers, a round of beer and wine and enjoy our surroundings before moving on for a cheaper dinner. Alex ordered an appetizer and was told it was unavailable. She requested another and that also was "Not available." I ordered french fries (clearly listed on the menu as two euro) and was told they only came with a meal. The waiter already had our drink orders (including what we discovered was a two Euro glass of tap water for Ella) and as we all sat in stunned silence he snapped, "Only drinks," and marched off. Truthfully, we didn't even want drinks from him and this restaurant anymore but the narrow exit (and Allie's conscience) kept us from running out on our (beverage only) order. Upon returning with our drinks the waiter demanded payment immediately (confirming our assumption that he didn't think we had any money) and then glared at us from ten to fifteen feet away until we left.

One experience like that in an evening would be enough, but on our way to the metro we saw a great outdoor restaurant with dark beer advertisements and a sign touting "roasted piglet." That sealed the deal for Richard and we found a table. After what seemed like several minutes of sitting by ourselves, passed up by the one waiter working the courtyard, finally he approached our table. "What do you need?" he asked as he flipped open his notepad. We all looked at each other, wandering if we'd missed his speech about the specials of the day or if AGAIN we'd gotten a classically rude waiter.

Alex broke the silence, "Can we have a menu?" she asked in Czech. Our waiter huffed, but did stalk off to retrieve the menus. As he slapped them down in front of us he barked, "To drink?" Richard ordered the dark beer whose signs decorated the courtyard. "No dark," the waiter said, less informative and more denial. For a moment Richard discussed what he meant by "no" but eventually felt that they'd just run out and settled for the light beer. Put off by the entire thing (and still peeved about paying three Euro for beer I didn't want at the last restaurant) I passed altogether. The waiter left to fill our orders and while he was gone we discussed our bad luck and what we might have done to anger the restaurant gods. Suddenly, Richard noticed another waiter delivering a tray of drinks to a table behind us, a tray that included three dark beers.

Shortly our waiter returned with our drinks, and a light beer for Richard. "I wanted dark beer," Richard said. "Yeah, it's out," the waiter replied. "They just got three," Richard said, pointing to the table behind us. "Well, there's no more now," the waiter finished, and walked away. Those that had ordered downed our drinks, left exactly enough Krohns on the table to pay for them (and nothing more) and left. This time we headed straight to Ublinu, our own personal Czechoslovakian cheers, where everybody knows our name...or at least brings us the food we order. Surely, lightning wouldn't strike three times.

An American Rogue in Europe: Chapter Seven

When I wrote the last chapter in this travel log series (a tribute to my man love for Richard) I didn't intend for it to hang out there all on it's own for two weeks. I figured it would be a matter of days at most before the next installment was posted, switching the focus of the story from my boyfriend to my exploits as a world traveller. However, fate intervened.

The wife and I have recently relocated to New Orleans. We're both gainfully employed but until recently have been without a home of our own (thank heavens for the Rogue's gallery of friends and their exceptionally large extra bedrooms). This means that pretty much every waking moment not spent at work or eating has been spent looking for a house. This has, understandably, cut into my blogging time. Sorry about that.

Now Drunken Rogue Publishing brings you the continuing saga of an American Rogue in Europe, here now...

Chapter Seven: On the Road to Prague

I don't think Bob Hope ever made a film by that title, but he should have. The Bavarian forest and the Czech countryside are ripe with comedic possibilities. We left the Army base by taxi travelling to the local train station and met up with our companions for the first leg of our trip. Alex, a security guard working with DOD, and Christine, a military wife like Allie, were going to Prague with us. Christine to run the marathon and Alex just to get in on some sightseeing with us.

The Prague trip was actually an unexpected addendum to our trip. Allie and Christine had been in training for the marathon since Christmas and were expecting to have already run the race before we arrived in Europe. The plan was to scoop Allie up off the pavement, throw her on a plane to Rome and be off. Then Richard's leave was moved up. Our plans were shifted one week ahead. The marathon, now became the send-off for our excursion. And what a starting line!

Prague to me meant spies. My American diet of explosive action films had told me I was as likely to get caught up in international espionage there as anywhere in the world. I didn't see any spies while in Prague, but then again, if I had seen them they wouldn't be very good, would they?

Our arrival in Prague (Praha in Czech) was unheralded and a little depressing. A dingy train station (vaguely reminiscent of the underground scenes in "Demolition Man") awaited us, and immediately put a damper on our excitement. We asked for directions to our hostel (The Czech Inn) turned down the offered taxi rides and trams ("It's only a ten minute walk!") and lugged our sizable possessions towards our temporary home.

It is not a ten minute walk. Those of you familiar with sarcasm (especially my fondness for it) might have noticed the foreshadowing in the previous paragraph. Empty-handed, well-rested and fully hydrated, we might have made it in twenty. Loaded down with gear and tired from a long train ride, it took us nearly an hour.

As much as we had been disappointed by the Prague train station we were immediately pleased by Prague itself. Even carrying our bags and searching for our hostel we couldn't help but be stunned by the beauty of the National Museum.

Situated directly above a train stop, the museum's gigantic facade is capped by a beautiful fountain and faces a statue of King Wencelas (of Christmas carol fame). The combination of the statue, the water and the impressively large museum was a bit breathtaking. For a bunch of traveling Americans who looked on Prague more as a bonus than an integral part of the trip, this museum was an incredibly good omen. It didn't hurt that just across from the fountain I spied the first McDonald's I had seen in Prague.

I haven't really mentioned it yet because I'm assuming, if you're reading this you already know, but I the pickiest of eaters. Whether you think of it as a disorder, a psychosis or just plain stubbornness, I'm weird. My diet consists almost entirely of fast food hamburgers (McDonald's and Burger King being my favorites) served plain, meat and bread only, and french fries. You can see how this might cause issues on our European vacation. Luckily, the American culture (and with it, fast food) has spread to almost every corner of the civilized world. I can travel pretty much anywhere in Christendom without missing a meal!

At the end of our long and tiring hike through Prague we finally located our hostel. The Czech Inn may sound a little corny but as we stepped into the lobby, it became clear that it was supremely hip. Modern, minimalistic furniture, high tech computer terminals and trendy graphic design filled the lobby. We checked in (show the passport so we couldn't skip on the bill) got our keys and headed towards the elevator. While not small, the elevator was absolutely not up to the task of hauling all of us and our our luggage. Ella and I stayed behind to wait on the next trip. By the time we made it to our room, it was clear we had a nice one. Our companions could be heard from the hallway exclaiming excitedly.

Since there were six of us, we had decided to rent a three bedroom apartment situated on the top floor of the hostel. We expected it to be sizable but spartan. While the style was minimalistic the rooms were amazing. A foyer opened into the main bathroom as well as a kitchen and seating area. High ceilings with exposed beams and a huge slanted, roll out window seemed to turn the simple kitchenette into a banquet hall. Two bedrooms opened out of the main room, both with high ceilings and great views, one with a private bathroom. Ella quickly claimed that one. She still swears she didn't realize it had the only private bathroom but either way, she was the fastest to lay dibs. As I was taking in our room, Ella and Richard called me into the third bedroom. Up a staircase from the kitchen, it was significantly larger than the other two bedrooms, but without a window to view the city. It more than made up for the loss of the window however with the reveal of a door leading to a balcony patio shared by the two other top floor apartments. While I had at first worried we might be spending too much on this hostel (71 euros per person for our three nights), by the time I made it to the balcony I was convinced we had made a brilliant discovery.

Everyone settled into their rooms and resituated for the night's meal. The desk clerk had provided us with maps of the city and even marked the two necessities (ATM's and good food). The walk to the ATM, while again uphill (I was beginning to think everything was uphill in Prague) was significantly more pleasant as everyone was unencumbered by luggage and in better moods since food (and beer) was within sight. After taking out enough money for a day or two ("Is a Krohn worth a 20th of a Euro or a 30th of a Euro?") we promptly turned around, since our restaurant, Ublinu, was between the ATM and our hostel. Situated on the corner about two blocks from the Czech Inn, Ublinu (pronounced OOh-ble-noh) was a quaint little family style restaurant with a clean feel and a friendly host. We were seated and served by the same man, who though he spoke little English, took care of us swiftly and gladly. The food was excellent (or so everyone told me, I had french fries. They were quite good.) and the prices very reasonable (especially with the low value of the Krohn) but the real highlight of the evening was the beer.

Having unsuccessfully ordered dark beer on the first round (language barrier) we instead all had a blonde, Pilsner Urquell. It was great, but Richard, Alex and I all were looking forward to a dark beer and were more clear when ordering the second round. Our persistence paid off when we were all brought a large bottle (.5 liter) of Vel Kopopivicky Kozel Cerny. This was, without a doubt, one of the best beers I had ever had. it was dark and heavy but without the thickness of Guinness. Due to the great food prices we were free to spend a little extra on beer and we took full advantage. We talked and laughed sipping our beer, excited to be there together. Prague, and our trip as a whole, was off to a great start.

Coming soon (hopefully) -- Chapter Eight: The Marathon and the Mean Waiters

An American Rogue in Europe: Chapter Six

Moses had Aaron. JFK had Bobby. Batman had Robin (and, I suppose, Batgirl but that's not important right now). Everybody needs a sidekick. I'm not really sure whether today's topic is my sidekick or I'm his (probably the latter) but regardless, here comes...

Chapter Six: Tricky Dick and the Traveling Sharptons

I have been fortunate enough in my short lifetime to be gifted with many friends. Loyal, exciting, talented and above all fun-loving, they are all dear to me. There are only a couple I'd travel around the world to see, but for Richard, I'd swim. To say I was excited to see him would be the definition of understatement.

Since Richard and I met we were largely inseparable. Then he went and enlisted in the Army and he and his lovely wife, Allie, got sent half-way around the world. Ella and I attended their wedding (the night of Hurricane Rita) and then said goodbye. A year and change later, they visited us in Ruston while home for Christmas. That was five months before our trip.

As we landed in Nurembourg Ella and I agreed, "visit on the way home, sleep when we get to their house." We had an early morning to catch the train to Prague and knew we needed the sleep to get over our jet lag. All that went out the window when they picked us up.

One of my favorite things about Richard is that our friendship has more to do with personality and world outlook and less to do with day to day activities. Conversation flows just as easily whether it's been a day or a year since we last saw each other. That's why we ended up staying awake for 36 hours straight during his Christmas visit and why we didn't stop visiting and actually sleep until after 2AM that first night. It's good to have friends you can't get enough of.

Maybe it's technically against the rules, but I'm gonna quote myself here about my introduction to Richard. Ladies and Gentlemen, an excerpt from The Life and Times of the Drunken Rogue: Part Four...

Richard was a transfer from some Junior college in Mississippi, who after a year or so at Tech, had decided to get involved in the theatre. He was in "Goiter" (I shudder every time I write that name) but since I wasn't, we hadn't seen a lot of each other. It turned out we had a lot in common, and before long, we were hanging out frequently. We both liked to talk about music, movies, and politics. We both had open and inquisitive minds as far as spirituality was concerned and we both liked pretty girls. The pretty girl he had his eye on at the time (or more accurately that had her eye on him) was Allie. Allie is a year younger than me, but considering I didn't start dabbling in the theater until a year into my college career (and, that I graduated a year late) she might as well be in my class. Spunky, funny, beautiful, with a southern drawl (or is that yak?), Allie was the preeminent overachiever. She always went to class, was President of the theatre organization, made solid grades, and was beloved as dependable and trustworthy by her professors. I was, largely, none of those things. My grades were acceptable, I didn't lie but I'm not sure I would be called trustworthy, and while most of my professors liked me, they also knew I'd take the easy way if I could. I always liked Allie, but you have to see the dichotomy that existed. Richard was more like Allie I think in the beginning. Hungry to learn and prove himself. However, the more he and I hung out, the more we reinforced each others inner slackers.

So Allie and Richard got more serious as a couple, Richard and I got lazier, and theatre continued to happen. Amazing isn't it how much goes on in the theatre building?

Three reasons I love Richard:

1. Richard, Kevin and the janky TV -- Richard, like me was a film-lover. So much so, that in the early days of DVD, he had gone out and purchased a television with S-Video inputs. At the time it was fairly state-of-the-art, especially for a college kid, with zero money. He blew some $500 bucks on this TV and enjoyed for years the best video image he could afford. However by the time I knew him, this TV had seen it's better days. The audio output on the back had a loose connection on the inside, and while watching a movie, the sound would suddenly disappear. Without missing a beat, Richard or (his then roommate) Kevin would just stamp their foot down on the floor of their little rent house, shaking the TV set and turning back on the sound. Of course he could have gotten a new tv set, but probably not one with S-Video inputs. Richard was willing to endure the annoyance of dropping the audio occasionally so as to maintain high fidelity video.

2. Richard vs. Wendy's -- Yes, I mean Wendy's the fast food establishment. While Richard understands the health hazards and low-quality food of the fast food business, he also doesn't mind it as a whole. He and I have grazed at McDonald's more times than I care to count, and the man's love for Taco Bell knows no bounds. He does have a deep-seated resentment and anger at Dave Thomas' chain of burger joints. While the roots of this hatred, may be much deeper, the surface injury is easy to explain. Wendy's has, and still does, market itself as an "up-scale" fast food restaurant. They claim (and some swear to it) that the food is simply better than the "other guys." Richard stands offended. How dare they claim to be "up-scale" fast food and charge an extra thirty cents for the same crappy food? (This is Richard's opinion, I personally find Wendy's delightful).

3. He's a MonkeyBall Wizard -- For those that have not had the pleasure, let me introduce you to the single greatest video game series of all time. Super Monkey Ball from Sega. It's multi-platform now, out for PS2 and the Xbox, but I played it on Gamecube. Richard might claim otherwise, now that he's a serious military man and all, but let me tell, "That boy plays a mean monkey ball." The idea of the game is like Labyrinth or Marble Madness. You maneuver a ball through a maze, not by moving the ball, but the whole maze...oh and there's a little monkey in the ball. The game also includes dozens of mini-games, like bowling, target, soccer, baseball etc. all with the monkey-in-a-ball theme. Richard and I spent the better part of a year playing this game. We were very productive.

Now that we've been re-introduced to all the main characters (Allie, Richard, Ella and the Rogue) and experienced the obstacles we overcame to even get to Europe, it's almost time for our real journey to begin...

Coming soon -- Chapter Seven: On the Road to Prague

An American Rogue in Europe: Chapter Five

You've stumbled on (or perhaps, surfed directly to) the account of one American's (and his wife, best friend and HIS wife) journey across the sprawling playground of Europe. If you've been here before, you know the deal. If this is your first visit to Drunkenrogue.com, check out Chapters One through Four.

Chapter Five: Tulips, Wooden Shoes, and Dikes, The Drunken Rogue in the Smoky City

The Dutch are not only interested in Cannabis Sativa and its pharmacological effects. They also love art, gardening water and its redirection and (apparently) tobacco.

Ella and I spent a large portion of our day in Amsterdam discussing our lack of culture shock. Most people spoke English (though not all of them spoke it well), the land itself looks a lot like New Orleans and even the open use of marijuana isn't so shocking. I've been in a smoke shop, and had coffee with stoners, what's so radical about putting the two of them together? What is shocking is the complete infiltration of the cigarette into the Dutch lifestyle. While you really have to go back thirty years or more to find a time in the U.S. when one could smoke without stigma, in Amsterdam it's the non-smokers who stick out. Relegated to small, unoccupied sections of the food courts and public areas, here it is the abstainer who feels like the unwanted. I don't mind smoke. I married a smoker and even occasionally enjoy a cigar myself, so I sat amongst the "in-crowd" and breathed that beautiful (and thick) second hand!

Amsterdam is a deceptively large city. When all you have to go on are Rick Steve's tiny maps and the second-hand reminisces of your sister (who only spent one weekend in the city and God knows what the locals slipped her while she was there) it may seem (as it did to us) the kind of city that can be crisscrossed thoroughly in a matter of hours with time to spare for museums and pubs. If by hours, you mean half a dozen and the crisscrossing is to be done by men fitter and younger than I, then yes, it can be done. Ella and I had a shortlist of places we'd like to see in the city (Van Gogh's Museum, Vandle Park, The Old Church and maybe, maybe the Anne Frank house) and as soon as we could make it through customs we were on our way.

I love Rick Steve. His guide books have been (if nothing else) thoroughly enjoyable but I now know his maps are more like impressionistic paintings of a city any sort of geographically true representation. Do not, I repeat, do not, plan your day based on the layout of his maps. Ella and I had done exactly that. We left the airport by tram at 11:30 local time. We returned to Schipol satisfied but defeated by the city a short five hours later. Truthfully, the city had defeated us long before that, but we had some trouble getting back.

Vandle Park (pronounced VOO-ndUHL) is a lovely little spot for a picnic, or so Rick Steve would have us believe. What he doesn't tell you is you need to pack a lunch just to get there. If one wants to stay in the city, it's about as far away from the Central Train station as you can get. So obviously that's where we went.

Amsterdam is a town, not unlike New Orleans, that is almost assuredly past its prime. In its early history merchants and shippers worked their way into the upper class bringing sophistication and culture without the snobbery that so often accompanies it. With the advent of air travel and now the Internet, its function in Europe's economy is largely tourism-based (again, not unlike New Orleans). Amsterdam has maintained its love for art and culture as well as an open "anything goes" attitude that makes it popular with young people (the drug culture doesn't hurt). As we left the train station, after a thoroughly enjoyable 20 minute tram ride, we were immediately surrounded by bicycles. I've been to New York, D.C. and Pittsburgh. I've seen cities with a bike culture, but this goes beyond anything I had seen before.

According to Rick Steve there are 16 million people in Amsterdam and there are (roughly) 16 million bikes. At the exit of Central Station there were literally dozens lying around chained to anything standing still. As Ella and I took in our first view of the city, we saw a peculiar sight, a bicycle parking garage. Two levels each almost a city block in size and literally overflowing with bikes. The idea of trying to find your bike in that mess terrifies me. I'm told the ability to get around quickly while not using any power other than leg power appeals to the Dutch. It appeals to me too, but not enough to warrant keeping up with a bike in a sea of man-powered vehicles.

We were told Amsterdam was an open-minded, free-thinking town. We had read that their attitudes largely consisted of live and let live. We finally understood this attitude about three blocks from the train station when we discovered a McDonald's immediately next to a sex shop. Dollar menus and dildos, Happy Meals and happy endings all in one locale.

Amsterdam's architecture is beautiful and at times gravity defying. Buildings seem to rise at impossible angles having settled sideways, doorways and bricks lie slightly askew. The canals that crisscross the city are lovely, though you are as likely to find trash in them as a moving boat. Coming from the south, I find Europe a little dry, but Amsterdam's canals made up for that nicely.

The churches are probably the most interesting and exciting buildings in Amsterdam. My lack of education in architecture history is here apparent as I can't really place the influence of the design. Suffice it to say it's lovely and you'll see plenty of pictures if you ask me.

An hour and a half into our excursion the hunger bug bit Ella. The timing was impeccable since we had just happened upon a square full of restaurants, bars and cafes. There were almost too many choices. Everything looked good but we finally decided on an "English Styled Pub" named "The Old Bell". The Euro system still confounded us but the food looked good and they had beer. Ella had mushroom soup and a Strongbow Cider.
I passed on the soup but did have an awesome beer by the name of Murphy's Irish Red. I know, I was in Amsterdam, I should have had Amstel or even Heineken but alas. As Ella enjoyed her soup, I enjoyed the beer and we both enjoyed the antics of a lovely tabby pub-cat. We discussed the Euro exchange rates and whether we were getting a good deal.

Ever since the European states began to combine economically the Euro has been on the rise as compared to the Dollar. Currently, the Euro fluctuates between 125% and 150% of the Dollar's value. The problem arises from the fact that pricing structure is roughly the same as America. So if bread costs $1.50 in America, then it probably costs 1.5 Euro in Europe. That's fine for the Europeans who get paid in Euros but sucks for Americans who are trying to stretch our pitiful Dollar. We had changed a good bit of cash to Euros at the Airport so that we could eat at my little slice of American heaven, Burger King. Having a thousand dollars plus available by ATM and more on our credit card makes you think you're prepared for anything but transposing that to Euros makes your stash look significantly smaller. Our dinner finished and our Euros (far too large a pile of them) spent we continued on our way towards Vandle Park.

The WC (water closet, or bathroom for your Yankees) is like a little shang-ri-la for the traveller (especially the beer drinker). They are often dirty, sometimes not free and almost always hard to find. I used the (delightfully clean) WC at the Old Bell but a half liter of Murphy's Irish Red doesn't move out too quickly. Beer, it has been said, is never purchased but rented. My deposit was apparently due. We had found Vandle Park (hint: it's roughly a thousand miles from the train station) and I was ecstatic at the prospect of the public WC's. We walked and walked, and walked. Lots of park, but no toilet in sight. I wasn't really worried about peeing on myself but I did begin to think my bladder was in danger of exploding. Suddenly, out of the dense Dutch forest, there was a beacon of light. The Amsterdam film museum. It's lucky for the Dutch film lover that it actually had a bathroom, because I was peeing somewhere in that building. Business having been accomplished and a couple of Euro cents dropped in the tray (a strange European custom) as thanks, Ella and I discussed our options.

We could continue searching for the Van Gogh museum or we could head back to the Airport early leaving us room for getting food or even to check out an art exhibit at the Airport. We had searched for the museum and hadn't found it yet, and I wasn't very hopeful that another hour of walking would make the difference. The idea of having another hour of stress on my legs without any Van Gogh to show for it was simply unacceptable. We decided to cut our losses and say goodbye to Amsterdam. A very confusing trip to the tram stop and a kindly tram operator who took pity on a couple of Americans with tram passes but a strong desire not to walk to the train station, led us to our train home...sort of.

The train we took did indeed go to the Airport but a limited night's sleep (thank you, in flight entertainment center) and a day's walk around Amsterdam had given Ella and I a case of the sleepys. As we slumbered with visions of French cheese (Ella) and Double Whoppers (Joel) swimming in our heads we overshot the Airport by roughly twenty minutes. Thank God we had decided to head back early.

We corrected our course and reentered Schipol International Customs and Passport Check. One more round of customs and passport check (we must have made a wrong turn) and voila! Ella and Joel, two and a half hours early for their plane. We had originally come back early to see the art exhibit but frankly we were too pooped to peruse. Schipol Airport (a beautiful one, by the way) is equipped with "comfort chairs" throughout the facility and they were calling our names. Ella parked it and immediately fell asleep. I stowed my bag under my chair, hooked up my Ipod (yay, Louis Armstrong) and wrote for a while. With forty-five minutes to board our flight, I woke Ella up, we grabbed a coffee and one more very public cigarette and prepared to take the final leg of our journey to Allie and Richard.

Coming soon -- Chapter Six: Tricky Dick and the Traveling Sharptons

An American Rogue in Europe: Chapter Three and Four

Any adventure worth going on takes a lot of preparation. Just think about "Lord of the Rings," they spent like an hour and a half before they ever started towards Mordor. It only took me two blogs before the actual trip part of this trip journal kicked in.

Chapter Three: The Amsterdam Hustle

Passport in hand, Ella and I arrived far too early for our flight from Dallas/Fort Worth,
but in plenty of time to get shafted on prices of airport food. Bellies full we sat and waited for our European adventure to begin in earnest.

Here I must say a special thank you to DFW. Ella and I have been without cable for almost two months now and so I am somewhat behind the times as far as current events are concerned. Even when we did have cable I never watched CNN or Headline News and boy was I missing out! I had no idea that Wolf Blitzer's new (not so new anymore) show, "The Situation Room" was so thoroughly enjoyable. A friend had described it as "news for ADD adults"
but you really don't understand until you've seen it firsthand. Wolf strolls back and forth in front of a bank of monitors pointing at and discussing (never very thoroughly) the sensationalistic events of the day.

"Here's an explosion!" "This is a riot going on in Paris." "Ooh! A hurricane!" It's really quite fascinating.

Wolf's dulcet tones (by the way, what are the odds that "Wolf" is his real name?) sped the time by and shortly we were in the air...or at least on the runway. It seemed the fates weren't ready to let me go just yet and planned on toying with me a little longer. A storm system was literally surrounding DFW airport and the flight tower wasn't letting anyone off the ground. Our hour and a half layover in Memphis became an hour, then a half-hour and then...takeoff. Our pilot (surely a meteorological genius) had found a hole in the storm and we were given clearance from the tower. We knew it was going to be a close call whether or not we made our connecting flight to Amsterdam. I figured it was a win-win situation. Either we'd make the flight and get to spend our planned afternoon in Amsterdam or we'd miss it, take a later flight, still make our final flight to Germany and get some free flights as compensation for the delay. I was familiar with the "if we screw up, give them a free flight" protocol because it sent Ella on a free trip to Boston a year ago. I love that policy by the way. If they complain, give them free stuff until they go away. It works for McDonald's and it works for the airlines, only the price tag of the comps changes.

Halfway through our flight to Memphis we got the news that we would make it in time for our trans-Atlantic flight, but without any time to spare. And I don't mean with little time to spare. I mean none. We got off at gate B-4 and our connection was leaving (immanently) from Gate B34. I never ran with the bulls in Pompeii, nor am I particularly interested in doing so, but I imagine it looks a lot like we did running down that corridor. Ella skillfully dodging, jumping and circumventing obstacles and fellow travellers, while my bloated (probably slobbering) carcass tried to keep time with her. I've been to Amsterdam now, I know it's a charming little city, but I mean the people of the Netherlands no ill will when I say an afternoon in Amsterdam was probably not worth that run and what it cost my health and dignity.

Chapter Four: The $24000 Question

As this account is eventually published, and for years from now whenever we tell the story of our trip, one question is almost guaranteed to come up, "Did you smoke pot in Amsterdam?"

I can, without reservation, say that I (and Ella) did not partake in the greenest of local pastimes. I was a Theatre student in college, I'm a writer by profession and an artist (if only in my mind). I'm about as open minded on this subject as I could be, believing in and supporting decriminalization in the U.S. and yes, I experimented once upon a time and I did inhale. But on this trip, in this place, I had no high more potent than a good beer and a bit of disorientation from my first high altitude flight.

You might be asking, "If you think it's alright, you've already done it before and it's not only legal but encouraged there, why not?"

I've got three reasons.

1. I had only just caught my breath from the run in Memphis, why do something to hinder my lung function further?

2. I'm a little older and wiser now (I'd like to think so anyway) and would rather remember the trip than "the trip."

3. I have to admit, having it legal, available and above board rids it of some of the appeal. When someone smokes pot in America, they are a free-thinker, a rebel, a dissenter. When you smoke pot in Amsterdam you're the 1,000th customer today...and a sucker for high priced snack vendors.

Coming Soon -- Chapter Five: Tulips, Wooden Shoes and Dykes, The Drunken Rogue in the Smoky City

An American Rogue in Europe: Chapter Two

I was told yesterday that my first shot at blogging after my significant hiatus was too short, I apologize. Today's entry, I'm sure will be more pleasing.

Chapter Two: The Big Easy, the Hard Way

It was Saturday at noon when we finished moving the furniture out of our house. Our crew, Ella, myself, Mom and Dad, Randy (father-in-law extraordinaire), Jena (Lil sis), Kyle (crazy Austin filmmaker), Bear (cousin and talented artist) and Dee (cousin's girl and ice cream entrepreneur) were enjoying lunch at Jena's house (since there were no chairs at ours) when I decided to check on my passport.

I love the United States. I'm a bit of a flag-waver and have been accused of being a little xenophobic, but I have absolutely no love for the Department of State or the application process is absolutely ridiculous.

Roughly ten weeks before my expected travel date I got my small fortune together and travelled to Grambling's Post Office. Grambling is roughly a quarter of the size of Ruston but apparently the residents of Grambling are much more likely to travel internationally since Ruston's Post Office has no passport service but Grambling's does.

I was alone in the Grambling Post Office and remained alone for the entire 25 minutes it took me to finish the application. That did not hinder the clerk from inquiring as to whether I had scheduled an appointment and implying that he shouldn't take my application since I hadn't made one. He finally did take my paperwork, my money and my picture. He did the last very poorly leaving me with a passport photo that makes me look more than a little like a sex offender. The good news is I'll only be using for the next ten years, so no worries. Finally, my application was done, Grambling's finest mailman wished me a good day, and I went home to await my documentation.

Eight weeks later, still no passport. 10 days before my trip, I called the 1-800 number. This is an exercise in patience and perseverance all on its own. A series of messages alerting me to the current workload of the passport office all but made it impossible for me to ever reach an actual operator. After four full cycles through the phone system, I finally made it on hold. A short thirty minutes later, I was actually speaking to a person. She was polite, apologetic, and foreign. I hate to make a snap judgement, but if I was guessing, I'd say that English wasn't even her third language. She found my passport application record in the computer quickly once I gave her my social security number, passport application number, mother's maiden name, address, three personal references, shoe size, and sexual history.

The good news was, my passport was still being processed. My friendly passport agent told me she would "put a rush" on it, no charge to me, and I should receive it either Friday or Saturday morning with several days to spare. I thanked my new foreign friend and said goodbye. Saturday came and still no passport. Again I waded through the answering service quagmire, and this time my passport agent (again foreign) had sadder news. My passport was not on its way. It was, in fact, not ready for delivery. Worst of all, it would not be ready in time for my trip. No manner of expedition, no amount of money would get it to me in time to leave Wednesday. My one hope was to journey to my regional passport office and apply in person. With proof of my impending journey (and barring any outstanding warrants for my arrest) I'd be able to walk away, passport in hand that afternoon. I questioned a system that couldn't finish my passport in time on its own, but with me nearby, urging them on, would be able to whip together a passport in a matter of hours, but eventually I gave in and set up an appointment.

Now for a geography lesson: The little wife and I have made our home for the past three years (and separately for several before that) in North Louisiana. Ruston to be specific. Our flight to Europe was to leave from Dallas, Texas, some four hours west. New Orleans, and my passport lay some five hours to the south of Ruston. For those that are a little slow on the uptake, that is the exact opposite of convenient.

By Sunday evening Ella and I had completely moved out of our house, cleaned it thoroughly (enough) and headed north to my parent's house. We unloaded a few things, visited for a moment and set out for the Crescent City. Leaving a few minutes before midnight, we knew it would be a long trip. Some five and half hours later, we pulled into our future home. The original plan was that we would visit our friend's house before heading to the passport agency, seeing as we didn't really know where the office was, and as we only had two hours until we had been told to arrive, we decided to head downtown.

New Orleans is a beautiful city. Designed long before it was built, and then rebuilt in the image of a long line of Imperial masters, it is both comfortingly predictable and fascinatingly surprising. For the record, the passport office is located on the thirteenth floor of 365 Canal Street, within spitting distance of the Mississippi River, and just across from the all-new Harrah's Casino. We had found the office (after a slight detour through the Shops at Canal Place Mall) and set up second in line after a couple of college students from Northern Arkansas. The four of us commiserated over our struggles with the State Department and I chided myself for worrying so much about our five hour trip when these guys had driven more than seven (we would later meet a guy who had come all the way from Northern Alabama, more than 10 hours, just to pick up his passport and turn around again).

I've never really been in a disaster or tragedy but I've heard that people that find themselves in such situations often end up with an unnatural familiarity and uncommon courtesy towards one another. The passport office wasn't exactly a disaster area. but we were all put out and could have reacted with anger at the clerks and each other. Overwhelmingly that was not the case. I wouldn't call it pleasant, but my fellow prospective travellers made it immensely bearable.

Coming soon -- Chapter Three: The Amsterdam Hustle

An American Rogue in Europe: The Journey Begins...

Well, hello there. My it's been a long, long time.

Yes, I know that's a song. A great one, by one of my personal favorite artist, Willie Nelson. But it is also a very appropriate way to start this post. It's been quite a while since the Rogue spoke to the faceless millions (alright dozens) that follow his exploits through the magic of cyberspace. I've gone to the farthest reaches of the globe (well, the Czech Republic), have braved horrific conditions (sometimes, I went a whole day without seeing a McDonald's) and have returned to tell the tale. So without further ado...

Chapter One: Walking Away

I believe the proverb is something about a journey of a thousand miles beginning with one step. That's bull. A journey of a thousand miles (or in my case several thousand) begins with a half dozen false starts, a handful of surprises and a lot of self-analysis about how completely unprepared you are for this journey.

Most people take a vacation to Europe as a brief respite from the daily grind of the real world. We took ours as an exclamation point at the end of our college sentence. This had its advantages and drawbacks. On the one hand, we are the prime age for backpacking and hostel-staying. We looked like all of our fellow travelers and were already used to sleeping in less than pristine conditions. This "end-of-an-era" travelling also meant that we had longer to travel. Most vacationers are lucky to get more than a week away from work. Since we were technically (and in my case, literally) unemployed we could just move to Europe (although the scarcity of McDonald's would bother me). We had allowed ourselves a full three weeks to crisscross "the old country". Thank you, unemployment!

Vacationing in a transition period is not all roses and butterflies, however. The biggest issue is where to put the junk you're not carrying halfway 'round the world. We could have moved into a new place before traveling, but we really couldn't find anything and the money we would have to pay for deposits and such could instead be applied to the trip. We could have stayed in our current house, but then we'd have to have spent the first two days post-vacation moving. I don't know if you've ever moved before (it is possible that you are Amish and you and your family have lived in your house for generations. Although, if you are Amish, what the hell are you doing on the Internet?) but it's not something you want to do when you aren't well rested.

Regardless of wisdom or folly, we decided to move out of our house and into a lovely storage unit. In case you were wondering, my life is roughly 10'x20' minus my television which is vacationing at my Aunt's house. It's an interesting thing, seeing your life boxed up and locked away. Unnerving, how easy it is to count up. "Six boxes of DVD's, two computers, two suitcases of clothes and a guitar case." What does it say about me that I have literally three times as many movies as clothes? I'm not sure, but I think I like it.

Coming Soon -- Chapter Two: The Big Easy, The Hard Way