Daffy 1, Bugs 0

A wee bit drowsy, but I've made it to Paris, where David and MJ are serving as my gracious hosts (David being my sister's husband's father, and MJ being my sister's husband's father's wife -- there's got to be a name for that (other than MJ) ... any suggestions?).

Trained it down from Amsterdam (a city which failed to cook my brain but succeeded in frying my mp3 player -- damn Welsh... the people, the jam, the old A's pitcher) and did a quick sightseeing primer before the heavy touristing of the next few days.



Walked by the Louvre (didn't see Mary's corpse), the garden thing nearby, the Seine, the Arc de Triomphe (where a ceremony of sorts was taking place), witnessed a minor car accident (old guy decides not to go at green light, young blond girl behind him does), saw some crazy obelisk-type thing and wandered down Champs Elysees. And took the metro a few times. And made breakfast plans for far too early tomorrow.

FUN FACT: The Louvre is quite large. But it would neither confirm nor deny that it also is in charge.

Also ate rabbit on the train. It wasn't being served -- I just brought my own.

Was tempted to have duck later. But one cute animal per day is plenty. The actual dish can be seen here. On a happier note, the advertised "potato salad" really was roasted potatoes with some other yummy stuff, not that gross mayo-mixed stuff. Go train!

Too tired to write more and worry about formatting. So I won't.

I knew better

In my last post I wrote:

And on that note... My Amsteradventure essentially comes to an end -- assuming the bus doesn't take me back through Haarlem (or Harlem) and leave me there.

That wasn't the original. My first attempt read something like this:

And on that note... My Amsteradventure essentially comes to an end -- assuming the bus doesn't crash.

I didn't want to jinx myself. Good thing.

On our way back, some car -- apparently driving in a lane he shouldn't have been in, and driving very, very fast -- nearly plowed into our bus as it pulled away from a stop. Missed by inches.

On the bus I was confronted with one of today's greatest moral dilemmas. I sat next to someone when I got on, taking the first available open seat. About 10 minutes later, two seats opened up across the aisle. Do I get up and move to give the other person more space? Is it odd if I stay? Would they be offended if I left?

I stood my ground (or sat it, as it may be) and didn't change seats. And I don't regret it. Not for a second.

Also, I saw another Kentucky Fried Chicken. That's three. Way inordinate.

So I get back to the room and nobody is there. But I can predict what will happen.

I just get to bed when everyone storms in, turns on the lights and makes as much noise as possible. Then they start doing bong hits and the entire room fills with smoke. So much for airing out my clothes by hanging them up.

One of the guys decides to leave the room for a while around 2 a.m. but he doesn't bring his key. So later he spends about 15 minutes banging on the door before anyone lets him in. (I'm sure it's hotel security, as drug use here is a no-no, so I wasn't going to get the door ... unless I could have been the turncoat!).

Eventually people do fall asleep, but the dude in the next bunk over is snoring like there's no tomorrow -- which for him almost became a reality.

Not surprisingly, I'm up and out first. They trashed that place beyond belief. They left wrappers on my bed. F'ing Welsh. Is it petty that I'm glad Cardiff lost?

OK, now really I'm on my way out...

Janga jenga

As I finish my pastry and type on this addictive little pocketPC, some people at my table are trying to figure out who I am .. Or who I look like. One told their theory to another, who kept trying to surreptitiously look over. The first finally decides, "yeah, that's who it is."

I sort of hope they ask me, because I'm curious. Really, who wouldn't want to know who they are? This mystery is more engaging than the Rembrandt House, at least.

Wondering how wise it is to blog right now. But maybe it's good to document what I may have forgotten by tomorrow morning. I just hope I can find the bus.

(I'm greatly exaggerating here ... The cake has had virtually no effect.)

"The thought of the guy jiggling his cornpipe out the window...," the person who knows me says in response to someone else in her group.

I hope that ain't who they think I am.

I ordered a vanilla shake here. But they had run out. I said I thought it would be a good combo. The guy here at The Bulldog agreed.

"That's why we're sold out," he said.

Indeed.

They now are playing jenga. I was watching. They invited me to play. I guess whoever I am doesn't come with much on an intimidation factor.

Holy crap -- maybe I am Campbell Scott after all! Or a Ukrainian.

I left without ever finding out.

There are an inordinate number of Kentucky Fried Chickens here (it's not KFC in Holland yet). I've seen two thus far (including on this walk to the bus; no, that wasn't a space cake-induced random thought), which seems inordinate enough.

And on that note... My Amsteradventure essentially comes to an end -- assuming the bus doesn't take me back through Haarlem (or Harlem) and leave me there. It's kinda like Vegas here -- OK in moderation and probably much, much more fun in a group, but no desire to go back anytime soon.

On to Pa-ree.

P.S.: "First generation turbo lighters (something something)," some guy just mumbled to nobody in particular as he ambled on by.

Just seemed like something that should be shared.

So there.

Amsterdamned if you do ...

Made it to Rembrandt House. Not worth the trip. Seeing as how just about everything was a replica and it was more about him dealing art and going bankrupt than his art itself, 20 minutes with Wikipedia might have done the trick (his prints/etchings were a highlight -- possibly the only one).

Of course, I could just pretend it was the torture museum ... In that case, it was perfect!

Then, in this crappy weather, cabbed out to my hostel in the middle of nowhere ad got a room with some frat-like dudes who had torn the place apart (and possibly used my bed, too -- lovely).

Yep, shoulda just stayed in Dublin. Oh well.

OK, after meeting and chatting with my drunken but friendly hostelmates from Wales (they were bummed as Cardiff lost the League Cup final), getting settled, figuring out how/where to take the bus and making my reservation for tomorrow's train to Paris, I've calmed down about being here. Still would rather be in Dublin (or York ...), but this will do.

Also, realizing that I hadn't eaten since a small breakfast explained some of the crankiness. That and the Heineken Experience being closed (one of the reasons I wanted to come back here).

I tried fries and mayo (a local favorite). I don't get it. But a homeless guy did help me buy a bus ticket. Too bad I had no pizza to give him.

Shortly thereafter I saw what can only be described as a drunken mega-bike (well, there are other ways to describe it, but whatever). Basically is was eight guys facing each other -- four on each side -- with one guy in front steering. And they all were pedaling this contraption. And chanting. And drinking. There was room for a few small kegs on there.

Smart money's on that thing joining the many bikes at the bottom of the canal by the end of the night.

And it actually turned out to be a nice night weather-wise. Cool but clear.

And I got to try out one of those outdoor facilities I mentioned a couple of entries back. Too funny.

(I'm typing this as I polish off a pastry of sorts while watching people play jenga.)

FUN FACT: An event known as The Miracle of Amsterdam caused quite a stir for Christians a few centuries back. Many embarked on pilgrimages here to see the miracle. Here's the gist:

Old man is very sick, is given last rites and sacrament. But he's so ill that he can't keep it down, so he pukes it all up. A nun tending to him worries about disease and quickly tosses it all on the fire.

In the morning, floating above the fire, is one piece of bread. Uncharred.

Holy vomit, Batman.

Christians see this as proof of Christ, as the sacrament is supposed to be his body. And it survived fire (and stomach acid). So they took the bread and displayed it in a nice box for all to see. But the place burned down.

Yet the bread survived again.

Only to have some guy steal the next nice box it was in and toss the bread into a canal, never to be seen again.

So there ya go. The Miracle of Amsterdam.

Meanwhile...
Earlier in the day at the Dublin airport I heard someone say, "He's probably going to Hartford."

Yep, I was wearing my UConn shirt again. It was a Quinnipiac student and her family (she asked if I go to UConn ... Now I look 22?).

Not going to Hartford. Yet.

When the Whale comes back, my friends. When the Whale comes back.

Zito. Or in this case, Zalapski.

Record the new song in Dublin

A few miscellaneous thoughts as I leave Dublin:

* The guy at the post office this morning thinks Bush is a f---ing idiot, but that most folks think Americans are fine. It's just their president ...

I totally dig this place.

Oh, Dad and Joanie, I shipped myself a box of stuff to your house. But no stripper this time. Sorry.

* On the streets there are look left/look right guides to help people avoid getting plowed by a bus. Got to admit, they came in pretty useful.

* Upon further review, Amsterdam's airport is worse than Heathrow. And Dublin kicks both their butts.

* In airport I sat in what I thought was an open seat. I asked the guy sitting next to it if it was open. Hey made some gesture that couldn't definitely be called an affirmative or negative. So I asked again, rephrased and possibly setting up a double negative (I felt like a Bonds prosecutor) and he seemed to indicate that it was OK for me to sit down.

So I did. And he said nothing.

Several minutes later a woman came over and sat across from the man, who shrugged at her as if to say, "dude jacked your seat, beeatch." I thought about offering to switch, but I was having too much fun waiting to see if either of them (I think they were Czech) said anything.

They didn't. Few minutes later they left.

I win.

* The lead opinion piece in today's British Times is headlined, "Woman with organised handbag is a formidable foe."

No wonder we kicked their butts in those wars (that's right, don't forget about 1812).

* It occurred to me that I haven't written much about the weather when the lady my brother somehow convinced to marry him asked me about it. Fortunately, there hasn't been much to report. Some drizzles in Assisi, one rainy day in Florence, and that's about it. Pretty solid otherwise.

* Also occurs to me that I've whined about the cost of things a couple of times. Really, it just comes down to paying for silly stuff, like water in a restaurant, the right to sit in a restaurant, a bag at a convenience store to carry items just purchased at said store.

Many odd examples of stupid little things we take for granted (and for free) in U.S.

Of course, the dollar sucks and our economy is in bad shape, so maybe Italy, Germany and Ireland have it right (the Irish do have free water).

I will come back here ... Maybe when the dollar is stronger.

FUN FACT: All kids in Irish schools are forced to learn Gaelic, and all official signs are in both English and Gaelic. I'd suggest that all Americans should learn Esperanto, but I'm working to make it better with six of Miller High Life.

* Today's agenda: return to Amsterdam, hit the Rembrandt House and possibly a silly torture museum, maybe have some space cake, send some postcards and get ready to roll into Paris on Sunday.

Paris. Last stop on this tour. Crazy.

--------
OK, so just got back to the Netherlands, and it's chilly and rainy. Damnsterdam!

I also missed my train (no biggie, as they run every 10 minutes) because I was fighting with the ticket machines. I even risked putting my credit card in. Rejected, but at least it spit it back out.

Incidentally, I wonder where all these extra vowels came from.

Not so iffy on the Liffey

Lots of travel and walking+four ciders=need for sleep.

Got plenty last night after taking in the Jess Klein show (no, I was not forcibly removed from the premises -- I left of my own accord ... after it was strongly suggested several times that I do so).

Bummed around Temple Bar today, had good ol' Irish Pub food (and some great Bailey's cheesecake). Wandered by the Dublin castle (leeches! i think ...), saw a man fight with a piece of plastic, took my photo on the famous ha'penny bridge, wondering what's so special about it.

Was planning to do a music pub crawl later. And unsuccessfully resist the groovy Irish souvenirs.

And that's about it. And on the 16th day, he rested.

_________

Fast forward to post-nap Friday, and I did manage to unsuccessfully resist groovy Irish souvenirs. Then hit the pub crawl, which was more of a quick jaunt at first and then eventually a stroll rather than a crawl.

Anyway, our guides are musicians who played some tunes, talked some Irish musical history and encouraged audience participation. It was great.

Our first stop, the Ha'Penny Pub (by the bridge ... which decidedly is not the same one I took a picture on earlier in the day), is "the Only pub in Temple Bar not turned into Irish pub," one of our guides said. "Like someone's living room."

Basically, Temple Bar is a young and touristy area. So many of the pubs have been pub-ified. Not this one. But that didn't stop people from talking throughout their first song. Why are you even here, folks?

Among the overheard: "Holy crap. It's thick ... But smooth."

First Guinness.

Our hosts talked about lock-ins, which basically entail a pub owner deciding around midnight that he doesn't think he'll be raided, so he's locking the doors, closing the blinds and staying open. That's when the real music happens.

"They're illegal but fairly common in Ireland," our guide said. "Complete disregard for the law."

Basically, traditional Irish folk music is learned directly from others rather than a class or radio. That's how it's passed on.

So during these lock-ins, there are "noble calls." Anyone in attendance, good voice or no, is invited to bring and share tunes from wherever they are from, in whichever language they speak. People share and learn.

One of our hosts (Larry, I think ... let's just call him that) once heard an American girl sing "Ice, Ice Baby."

So they called on us tonight, saying American Pie and Bohemian Rhapsody are banned. A guy from NY sang "You can't always get what you want," these three sisters from D.C. kicked butt with a three-part harmonized "Ashgrove," some people from some eastern country performed some traditional march which seemed to have something to do with domestic abuse (at least based upon their hand gestures), the guy from N.Y.'s mom (who thought I was from the Ukraine) sang "You've got a friend (in Pennsylvania)" and a Brazilian woman sang "Girl from Ipanema" in Portuguese -- which was far more tolerable than the English version.

After all this, I finally started to get up the courage to do my stupid version of "Leaving on a Jet Plane," but they shut down the audience participation segment at that point. Ah, missed opportunities.

Either way, these songs and the traditional Irish ones often turned into singalongs. Larry and the other guy kept saying music here is about sharing. That came across clearly.

I was totally jazzed by this ("It's the music, stupid," I remind myself), which clearly ranks in the top five in terms of best experiences of this entire trip (right behind the streets and fort of Assisi and the free Gummy Bears). And it's everywhere; any town, almost any pub. Was one of the highlights of previous Ireland trip, too. And most people here are so damn friendly, too.

I head back to the pub where I had lunch and take in a little more traditional music (he sang "Puff the Magic Dragon" -- I thought I had left Amsterdam...) and had a Guinness before calling it a night. On way downstairs to main area of the bar, "Born in the USA" was on.

Outside, a bunch of college-aged kids (who seem to overdress the same everywhere) were belting out, in group, some friggin' Oasis song. Hey, Bruce rocks, but do these kids not understand what they have here?

Anyway, walked back to hostel, capping the evening with a gelato (there's a place by the Promenade I may start frequenting).

Jess Klein, fun Dublin, great Irish music. Good couple of nights.

Oh, almost forgot. I gave a piece of my pizza to a homeless guy, which apparently is becoming my thing.

But I refused to pay 42 cents for a bag. Have to draw the line somewhere. A 52-cent waffle, on the other hand, would have been perfectly acceptable.

Luck o' the Baumish

Had to get out of Amsterdam (and the continent in general). And despite "March of the Belgian Paratroopers" being one of my favorite concert band tunes from high school (I was a drummer, damnit -- that ain't fineable), Brussels just wasn't providing the necessary allure.

There were two places (well, three if you count Spain, which I'll hit someday) I was wanting to get to during this trip that just didn't quite fit on the itinerary. The first was the island of Corsica. For those who understand that one, c'mon, how great would that have been?!

The second? Dublin.

So here I am in Ireland for the first time since Laurie, Owen and I tore it up here for New Years '99 (what ARE we talking about?). Weather is crisp but clear, people are friendly (the folks working at my hostel totally rock), pubs are plentiful, and here I am taking a break from Europe by eating at a Johnny Rocket's-type place.

It's called Eddie Rocket's. Yeah.

They took my order right away and served me my above-mediocre food quickly. With a vanilla shake. I needed this.

OK, so there is a significant ulterior motive here. Back in blog entry No. 1 I mentioned the slight possibility of seeing one of my favorite singer/songwriters. Well, just so happens that she (Jess Klein) is playing here tonight.

I think.

Her website says yes. The venue's website says no.

Local listings say yes. Other local listings say she played there already.

A person from her own website says yes, she absolutely is playing. The guy at the ticket office had no idea what I was talking about.

Oye.

After wandering through energetic Dublin to the ticket office, I talk to the same guy I spoke with over the phone. He does more research, finds out that Ms. Klein is playing in their upstairs venue tonight, tix available at door.

Phew.

Don't get me wrong -- there's plenty to do here without seeing the same singer for the (insert scary-high number here)st time, but I would have been pretty annoyed had the show not gone off -- especially since a) I've made an art form out of finding ways to miss her shows, and b) I already was a little testy, what with Amsterdam's airport making a serious run at Heathrow's level of suckiness earlier in the day (they're bagging check-in system blew them right past Heathrow, but their security line format offered some redemption).

By the way, I ordered another glass of water about 10 minutes ago. Nothing. Typical Eddie Rocket's.

Before the airport I managed to hit the Vincent Van Gogh museum. Good stuff. They also had a Rodin, some Monets and a Picasso. Will try to see what Rembrandt has to offer upon my brief return to Amsterdam before heading to Paris.

Oh, and I might have left my shades in a taxi. And still no water. But once again "Manic Monday" is on.

Maybe Jess will cover that one tonight. And maybe a restraining order will be waiting.