Nic's Wild European Adventure: Vienna

Alright, we're about to wind down the crazy European Adventure, and what better place to do it than the Original Seattle. That's right, I'm talking about Vienna, home to the world's greatest classical musicians. The city was home at one point or another to Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, among many others--the Mudhoney, Nirvana, and Pearl Jam of their day, respectively. As a student and lover of music, I of course made a pilgrimage to each of their homes, and took many pictures of old sheet music and harpsichords. You know, the kind of stuff we need to drive up web traffic here at WDR. That's the ticket!

Now back to the beginning. I got to Vienna after a scheduled 16 hour train trip turned into a 21 hour slog. That shouldn't be too much of a big deal--I would only be missing breakfast, though some vital museum-visiting time as well--but some point within the last ten years they've decided to do away with actual dining cars on these trains. Instead, you have a dude who periodically opens a chest filled with the barest of snacks. As a result, I was blessed with a breakfast of champions that morning--a small loaf of bread and a Beck's. This can only bode well.

Once again, when I entered the city I did my routine of finding a tourist map and planning a route to hit as many sites as possible within the day. If you want to know how to lose twenty-five pounds over a summer, I recommend touring the capitals of Europe in just such a manner, with minimal stops for hot dogs and beer. As a fan of architecture and just plain old not-standing-around, this is really the best way to go about sight-seeing. And Vienna was perfect for this--wonderful cathedrals, various arts buildings, and numerous museums all held me in rapt attention. All this, and the beautiful Blue Danube as well.



Of course, when you keep walking, you sometimes end up having to return at some point. As I attempted to make my way to the Viennese version of the Copa Cabana, I ended getting up lost in what could pass as the ghetto of Vienna. As darkness descended, a quick "fuck that" order was issued and I made my way to the subway station. The only problem was that the map at this subway station was completely indecipherable to an outsider, and I had no idea which route would go in the right direction. This led to me hiring a taxi, which was fine enough--you get to see different parts of the city this way that you can't see just by walking--but also led to another chance to rip Nic off, as the driver feigned having trouble with the credit card sliding mechanism, and giving himself a fat 40% tip.


I returned late at night to my hostel, a place I heartily recommend (in fact, my co-worker ended up going to the same hostel the next night, and had the same rave review I had). I then decided to explore further this more "urban" neighborhood, and quickly realized that I was basically in the Viennese version of the Red Light District. At first I thought those two skimpily attired women were just being friendly, but my suspicions were immediately raised when I walked by the "club" they stood outside of and saw the logo which featured a very naked lady. I then proceeded to take a better view of my surroundings and saw that indeed there were many strip clubs and the like in this area. The best part were some of the names--apparently this is what they think of when they see the word "Manhattan", or that naming your club "Okay" implies that the women are anything but. It wasn't just these blatant displays--I also walked by a coffeehouse with an "upstairs" and what were clearly women of the night going down the stairs. Oh yeah, then there were the two ladies dressed in bra and panties standing on the corner. I think that was the last subtle hint I needed.

But all this talk of Red Light this and Hooker that sells short how beautiful and interesting the city of Vienna is. As I mentioned, there is some absolutely stunning architecture, from the Volkstheater to the different palaces to the giant Ferris Wheel, the Prater. Also, Vienna is home to a lot of weirdness with which the denizens of the Pacific Northwest are certainly familiar--we wouldn't bat an eye at a sticker proclaiming "Space Invaders Against Sexism" for example. Combine this with museums like the Albertina which houses some fascinating Modern Art, and you have a true city of the arts. Vienna has a very unique identity, and is definitely worth a visit.


And so ends the massive recap of the big trip. I hope I didn't make you just envious of me, but instead provided some fun stories and some insight into unfamiliar areas. But of course, knowing me, I probably failed in all regards. Well, tough shit, that's all you're going to get from me.

Nic's Wild European Adventure: Prague

After a week of total relaxation, it was once again back to the sight-seeing grind. Next was a trip that I had been dreaming about for years, a journey into the heart of Eastern Europe and into Prague. Now, I don't really know anything about Prague, either than it was the home of a number of artists and scientists and so on, including one of my favorite authors, Franz Kafka. I didn't even really know about any of the tourist attractions in the city--I had only in passing heard about the Charles Bridge or the famous Astrological Clock. But I knew I still wanted to have a visit to a city that had charmed so many of Europe's intelligentsia.

I could sit and tell you how Prague was a fascinating mixture of East and West, where you had your more or less typical European capital feel in the city contrasted with the spare utilitarian train that takes you into town, but I'm sure you don't give a shit. I could also mention that the many sights were indeed spectacular; including the above, you had numerous sculptures throughout the city, the hanging gardens, the peacocks in the Senate courtyard, and even the vintage cars that you could take on tours of the area. Again, something you could find in a guidebook. I could also tell how the countryside was a beautiful rolling green hillside, practically unspoiled by development and dotted with intriguing old villages, but fuck, this is Europe, that shit is everywhere. Instead I'll present two little vignettes that should prove entertaining.


One of the cooler sites in Prague is the Communist Museum, which goes over in great detail what life was like in Czechoslovakia during the time of the Soviet occupation. Now I understand that life under that regime was very difficult, and indeed I understand that people would want to distance themselves as far as possible from the horrors of that rule and would embrace the West with great fervor. That being said, there were many parts of the museum that either gave a chuckle in terms of the propaganda or just a snicker at the irony on display. These ranged from the cheap shots at Marx in his biography to the fact that the Museum was situated across the plaza from a McDonald's and next door to a casino. But there were two displays that were especially hilarious: the first one was an exhibit which bemoaned how Marxism focused so much on industry and manufacturing, to the detriment of the economy--of course now as the United States attempts to make its way out of the recession, many point to our shipping of manufacturing jobs overseas as an important cause; the second was a different exhibit which gave a view of the dastardly interrogation processes used by the Soviets that violated all sense of due process, in stark contrast to the fair methods used by the West--tragically hilarious, considering the news we hear each day of America's post 9/11 behavior.


The other experience I want to mention is my trip to the go-kart track. Yes, I traveled halfway around the world into one of the jewels of Europe and spent my Sunday afternoon at a go-kart track--if you thought I would do otherwise, you clearly don't know me. This is a guy who will drive 45 minutes away just so he can race his friends on such a track; believe me, the irony of using a real car to go drive a fake one is not lost on me. But we were told that this track was either the biggest or the fastest in Europe, and while I wouldn't argue either of those points, I'd add that it probably was also the "HOLY FUCK I'M GOING TO DIE AS MY LEG IS CRUSHED INTO KART"-iest of all the tracks in Europe.

Now I don't know why I would be surprised about the obviously lax safety standards of an Eastern European Go-Kart track; I've experienced terrifying carnival rides put together by degenerate drunks and would rank them only slightly higher on the trust scale. But that's nothing compared to hurtling yourself at 40 mph in giant steel deathtraps (complete with holes to get your foot stuck and pointy pieces galore), smelling of pure gasoline as you navigate the tightest fucking hairpin curves as some Czech punk kid careens past you without touching the brake. I think the race was restricted to only 5 minutes, but those were among the five longest minutes of my life. It didn't help that afterward I had to spend another few minutes dislodging my Strongbad-type helmet from my virtual planetoid of a cranium.



In other words, Prague was a blast.

Nic's Wild European Adventure: Visiting the Motherland

The next weekend I decided to quit the whole sight-seeing deal, and get down to brass-tacks. Time to update the agenda and readjust priorities so we can concentrate on what's really important: relaxing. And what better place to do that than the beautiful beaches of Greece?


For this weekend I took a plane with some co-workers down to our beachhouse in Halkidiki, where we relaxed and had ourselves a loooong weekend (Thank you, vacation days!). We met up with my mom, who proceeded to play the role of the entertaining host, charming my fellow travelers the whole time. We spent our days relaxing at the beach or traveling up and down the coasts and taking in the beautiful scenery, and then went out at night to indulge in fresh fish and other fine Greek cuisine. You just can't beat a weekend like that.


It was during this weekend I began to ruminate some serious philosophical shit, as the kids say, and compare American versus Greek attitudes toward work. Which is better--working like a dog to achieve modest productivity gains and maybe getting a bigger tv, or working enough during the week and then piling into a car and driving to the beach to enjoy the weekend? I'm beginning to lean toward the latter. It was then that I realized that I already had what people spend their life working for (Thanks Dad!). Makes the rat race seem all the more pointless, and my decision to not engage in Early Interview Week shenanigans all the wiser.

Now sit back and enjoy the pictures.

Nic's Wild European Adventure: Berlin With Ze Germans

Berlin marked a new traveling experience for me. Instead of going with a compadre, this trip was done totally solo. A frightening proposition, considering I had to confront multiple train switches and otherwise navigate myself around a town without knowing more than three words of German (well, beyond the essentials of "beer," "sausage," and "sauerkraut."). Hell, even the train station was imposing--the Hauptbahnhof is fancier than most airports. In other words, there was a strong chance that shit was about to get real.

However, nothing of the sort really occurred. Despite initial confusion in determining which U-Train to take into town, and where the hell my map faced in the middle of Kreuzberg, there would be no snags on this trip. In fact, once I found a tourist map I was able to hit the road and take a walk around the entire center of Berlin. This is key, since all the major tourist sights are in the center of the city (Sorry Dahlem Museum, you get the shaft!). In a day I was able to see Checkpoint Charlie, the Reichstag, Brandenburg Gate, the Siegessäule, and the great Cathedral, all within a few hours of brisk walking.


Did I mention that I came during the Gay Pride Festival?

Yeah, my timing made half of my walking tour a journey into fantastic debauchery, with drinking in the streets and what we will call "tomfoolery" of a sort in various floats, all resulting in a trashing of the Brandenburg plaza that rivals my previous experience at Mardi Gras. I experienced a tradeoff--while it made the trip more interesting (and provided a great story), it also meant I had a great slog to go through the throngs of trannies in half of my tour. However, I did my fair share of drinking and dancing in the streets, participating in a dance circle of some anarchists (oh anarchists, when will your contradictions ever not be funny?).


Perhaps the most impressive thing was how open the Germans were with their past.
There was no effort to conceal their participation in some of the greatest atrocities of the previous century--no, they instead took steps to confront their actions. On the guided tour I took the next day they pointed out many infamous sites from WWII, and outside one of the train stations I found a heartbreaking statue dedicated to the victims of the Holocaust. Let's just say other countries could take heart from these lessons.

Overall, Berlin was probably my favorite city to visit. It wasn't just the beautiful architecture, the clean air, and the mix of urban and pastoral that did it for me. There was just something in the air that made it seem like a pleasant city in which to stay, and if that wasn't good enough, there was always something to do late at night. It also was interesting to visit the different sections of the city, like say comparing the immigrant area of Kreuzberg with the Mitte District. While I got a good feel for the town over a weekend, I'd probably enjoy a much longer stay in the area. Oh yeah, and it's way cheaper than the Netherlands.

Word to the Wise--get your cash at the train station. I walked for miles and miles around Berlin without spotting anything that looked like an ATM. They're all hidden in banks, and it's tough to decipher what the hell is a bank. See, come to WDR for the Ronnie Colman breakfast, and stay for the useful travel tips.

Nic's Wild European Adventure: Copenhagen

The next stop was my first venture into Scandinavia. We took what can only be described as an epic train ride from Den Haag into Copenhagen, using our fancy-pants Eurail passes. This time we paid a bit extra on the way in by taking a night train and paying for some beds. This was totally worth the extra 30 euros--It's not the most comfortable sleep in the world, especially when you have a paranoia of missing your stop (even if it's the final destination), but it sure beats the alternative (staring straight into the seat in front of you--you know, like an airplane). It also would mark an interesting hostel experience--Ireland had been my first experience in one, but here we had the treat of sleeping in a giant 64-bed room. This was surprisingly not as crazy as it sounds, since we had small private areas marked off by cubicles. Who knew the Danes would be influenced so much by Dilbert?


We arrived into town with little to no idea of what sights we should see. I remembered vaguely The Little Mermaid statue and some Hans Christian Andersen shit, but that wasn't going to fill a weekend. I then remembered that there was a really old amusement park (yeah!) and some castles, including the one that belonged to "Hamlet". Too bad we didn't visit those last two (too pricey and too not-in-the-city, respectively).

We ended up grabbing a map and just walking the entirety of the center of the city, walking from garden to garden and so on. Not ten minutes after we set out did we get confronted with a flash-rain storm, which made our decision to leave our umbrellas behind seem altogether foolish. Nevertheless, we braved the elements and persevered, determined to see nature and all that. One of the gardens had an interesting bachelorette party featuring an event that would make Freud blush. Oh, and there was a puppet show and a castle too!

We then kept up our trek and found a fort THAT IS STILL IN USE by the Danish navy. Honestly, I have no idea who the Danes are so fearful of--I'm not sure Norway's going to fight for Greenland all over again, at least not via submarine. There we met up with many ducks who apparently emigrated from Oregon, and they had some stories to tell. Too bad they were mainly about bread. But we also saw the Little Mermaid, which was you know, actually little. Interesting statue, nonetheless. Charmed.


We next went to one of the most unique aspects of Copenhagen, the anarchist commune known as Christania. As you might expect, "Sketch City" could have doubled as the name of this place. People seemed on edge, which is understandable considering the police presence that always hovers around nearby--one bar claimed to have been raided over 4000 times in 10 years. And what can one expect from an anarchist commune? Lots of pipes and graffiti everywhere. Good to see society might have a purpose.

We then proceeded to not get dinner, since everything in Copenhagen is absofuckingly ridiculously expensive. When New York prices seem reasonable in comparison, there's a problem. Besides, we were saving money to enjoy the nightlife, which is actually pretty good in the 'hagen. We then made another trek out into the center to visit a bar promising all-you-can-drink for ten euros. Once there though, we were confronted by the hard backhand of the dress code--apparently even though i was dressed in a nice button-down shirt and khakis, my solid-black sneakers were apparently a no-go for these folks. This led to a lengthy argument with my compatriot over the arbitrary nature of dress codes, which will certainly be rehashed at a later date in these here parts. However, despite that setback, we found a couple of good real-local-type places and enjoyed seeing the Danes let their freak flag fly and party down. We then proceeded to essentially crawl back to our hostel room and wind down before departing early the next morning.


Despite all setbacks, I recommend people visit the town, as long as there's money burning a hole in your pocket. There's some fantastic architecture and thousands of statues--a definite must if you love seeing dudes battle dragons and other mystical shit.

Nic's Wild European Adventure: London Towne

Next stop on the tour was a familiar spot--London (no "merry old England" crap from this guy, I'll tell you wha). I've been to the city many times before--my mom has a cousin that lives there, and we've often spent some time in her brownstone up in Archway. However, the last time I was there I was just entering high school, so this trip promised to be slightly different. Of course, considering that I spent most of my time the last time trying to figure out just how the hell you play cricket, that isn't saying too much (the verdict after three days of watching cricket: still no clue).


So yeah, I was now an adult let loose in London, as opposed to a sniveling teenager attached to his family. Wait, was I really sniveling? (Ed. note: Probably) That meant instead of the touristy stuff, it was mainly seeing different parts of the city--i.e., how people really lived. That meant visiting the sections of town that were full of immigrants and/or clubs. Each had its own merits.

The first part of our day out mainly consisted of visiting a large outdoor market near the center of London. As a guy, this didn't interest me much, but as a guy who was conditioned to shopping with ladies (many years spent doing so with the mom and the sister), this wasn't such a big deal. It did give me the chance to take a picture of a most hilariously racist t-shirt--one that claimed "Jim Crow" as some sort of fashion icon, with an actual crow, a la Joe Camel. Unfortunately, that photo was done on a compatriot's camera, and I have yet to receive it. So you just have to trust my word on that one.


Following the market, whose only other noteworthy characteristic was a decent selection of 45s and other LPs (and the shady area, with all the drug paraphernalia), we headed out to try to meet up with some guy who knew of this really great English pub. Unfortunately, the only result was *Clusterfuck*, because said guy lost his phone the night before. The end result was some time traveling around the part of London that's worse than Times Square (but home to Top Shop, ladies!), and then a ghastly busride back on a double-decker that lacked A/C.

But that night we all went out to the West End and had quite the party. I basically got my Eurotrash on and danced the night away, but also had to keep an eye out to play the part of bodyguard for the ladies in our party, a task that is ALWAYS enjoyable. Bah, don't listen, I had a great time.

And then the next day I spent 2 hours cramming in a bunch of sightseeing anyway, then took the train and flew out. Where I then proceeded to get pulled over by the Dutch police because they thought I was drunk-driving my bike. Memories abound!

Nic's Wild European Adventure: Bruges

If I grew up on a farm, and was retarded, Bruges might impress me but I didn't, so it doesn't.

One of the best and most hilarious movies to come out last year was a little film called In Bruges. It got some minor notice and some rave reviews, but for the most part people haven't really heard too much about it. Which is a damn shame. I mean, just reading the quotes page is enough for hours of entertainment.

So where did my co-worker and I decide to spend the second weekend? In one place that was skewered for ninety-something minutes as one of the most boring places on the planet, which was my only previous reference point. Did the city live up to its reputation? Yeah, if I had to spend the rest of my life there, sure. But for a quick weekend trip, Bruges definitely lives up to Harry's memories as an idyllic town.


So what's in Bruges? A bunch of really old churches, including one with "Christ's blood". We visited that one, but there was a service going on at the time, so it would have been kind of awkward to walk up to the altar and give the blood an old looksy. And there's the giant Belfry which played a part in the movie. It is indeed as narrow and hazardous to the fatty as the movie suggested, so the American should have heeded Ray's advice. He would have had a terrible time negotiating the narrow stairway, and he wouldn't even have to pull his co-workers giant duffel of weekend luggage up the whole way.

Even though the Belfry was quite the sight, the one in Bruges didn't match the one that I had found in Delft. I'm only bringing this up because I have an incredibly stupid story to tell about that place. The belfry in Delft was narrower and taller, and featured several points where I hit my head on low-hanging bar. Its exterior also was eight-hundred and fifty-seven times more fright inducing, considering the low waist bar that was the only protection from certain death on the narrow walkway. But I only bring the whole experience up because I saw some fresh graffiti in the stairwell from some Americans--"Bill '09 and Melissa '09", all luvy-duvy. I was prepared to add my own contribution--"My Balls '09", since they hit the same spot as I negotiated the previously-stated low-hanging bar. Damn shame I didn't have a pen on me.

Trust me, that was all much funnier in my head.


Bruges has also apparently earned itself the reputation as being the place for bachelor parties in Northern Europe. We came across several parties, including one that featured a traveling cycling kegmachine, which we attempted to join (once we finished our forties in the town square--no joke). For a sleepy-ass medieval village, the place sure had a lot of nice clubs to help out said folk. It's also home to a few bars that served hundreds of different beers. It's interesting that Belgium is now seen as the new hot place for beer, considering that Belgian-style ales are pretty weaksauce. However, we were able to sample a few great-tasting beers, even if one of them was the more feminine pineapple-flavored beer. But as my co-authors could attest, I still found a way to pull that one off.

Beyond that, there's not too much to say about Bruges. I did get my Eurotrash on, but that only leads too tears. I've also previously commented on how Flemish is a terrible, terrible language, so we've covered that. There was some weird chocolate, but hell, everyone already knows the Belgians are known for their chocolate--they invented it so the molesters could get to the children. So I'm just going to end this with just a plain inexplicable photograph, and hope you understand what the Venice of the North is all about.

Nic's Wild European Adventure: Ireland

Even though I'm back State-side, I never gave you readers the full rundown of what happened over in Euro-Land. While I did provide a great look into the day-to-day life of a stranger in a strange land (Dutchland), I didn't have a chance to go over all the trips that I took to different countries over each weekend. So, before my vacation ends, I'm going to spend this week running down the full list of destinations. And we're going to do two-a-day, to fully capture the Rules of Attraction style nature of the whole trip (we reference this movie way too much considering how bad the entire film was). First up, we have Ireland.


1. Guinness snobs are right. I spent my first weekend in Dublin, and it would seem to be a good omen for the rest of my time overseas. I had always wanted to visit, but even though I had been to the UK many times we were never able to make the short trip over. So I was excited to visit, even though I knew nothing of the sights to see. We saw an old college which has an old Bible, and a couple of random old churches. But I did know that they had one must-see destination: the Guinness Brewery.

The tour of the brewery itself was worthwhile, as we got a glimpse into the brewing process. However, the true highlight was the many pints of beer that we had on the premises. And I hate to confirm what I had heard before, but the beer really does taste better in Dublin than it does elsewhere--and I say that as a guy that enjoys his Guinness. We had our share of other pints, but we always came back to the Guinness.


2. Ireland can apparently be confused with the South of France. We chose the one great weekend in terms of weather to visit, as it was wonderfully sunny and a very pleasant 70 degrees the entire weekend. And as we toured the green countryside, we were able to take the most spectacular pictures. Ireland would seem to be known more for its rustic charm, but under the right light, it's just plain beautiful.

3. Who would think you could get barred from entering a club in Dublin for being too drunk? We ended up joining an international group of travelers in our nighttime Dublin experience, and we had a great time searching for cheap drinks and good times. In the center of the city it can be tough to find a good deal, as they're mostly cashing in on ignorant tourists, so it was a struggle. We did receive one setback when one bouncer would not let in our group because I and another compadre were said too bee "too drunk" to enter the club--strange, considering we hadn't had a drink for hours at that point. No matter--we just found a nice neighborhood pub and enjoyed a drink with the locals, and many friendships were made that day.

Nic Ouzo's Wild European Adventure: My Second Encounter with Dutch Police

I did a previous post that documented my initial encounter with Dutch Police. While they gave me somewhat of a hard time, they actually let me off pretty easy. The Police would only be a minor character in my travels if that had remained the sole encounter, something that I could merely laugh off. However, that was not to be the case, as I eventually ventured into a Kafkaesque journey into the depths of bureaucracy and powerwhoring. In other words, it was just a lovely experience.

The story begins simply enough, and with the best of intentions. I had gone away for the weekend, to Berlin I believe. I had left my bike chained outside my place for the weekend, and everything should have been fine. However, I saw a note tied to my handlebars; I presumed it was a note from a car about hitting my bike, especially since the car that was parked there had jumped the curb. I took the note into my landlord to translate it for me, and she told me I was mistaken--the story was in fact that I had left the key to the lock in place, and that this kind soul had been worried about potential theft, so he/she had dropped the key off at the nearby Police station. Well, that was quite thoughtful--I'll drop off my stuff and go pick it up in a little bit.

I walked the two kilometers to the station, only to find it closed for the night. Granted, it was past 10 pm on a Sunday, but I thought if anything was going to be open late in Holland it would be the Police (in addition to the coffee shops, sure). Fine, I'll come in the next morning.

I get up early before work, and make the trek once again before I take a shower. I am buzzed in to the reception area, and realize that the station shares space with a bank. They direct me to the officers, and I begin to describe the situation. I show them the note, and describe the missing keys. They check around, but nothing can be found. Then one officer speaks up and says "it's probably in the weekend box." Alright, can we check it? "We'll open that up in the afternoon." Umm...ok. Fine, I'll go during my lunch hour to get the key, and I'll be able to ride my bike to work no problem. Plus, I get an excuse to try a restaurant for lunch outside of my usual area.

I arrive in the afternoon and repeat once again my story (new cops had taken the originals' place). After some time spent making the usual mistakes, someone finally opens the weekend box. I describe the keys in detail--three keys, one of which is long and for a garage, the other two for the locks on the bike; the keychain was a small little clog. "Is this one it?" Indeed, that's great! Alright, we can proceed and finish this up. "Alright, we just need the registration of the bike."


This is when the story comes off the rails. The bike is not mine, it belongs to my employer--I'm only here for the summer, there's no reason for me to spend money for my own bike, and they had a spare. Perfect solution. I explain to the Police that the bike belongs to my employer, and that I was using it. "Sorry, we need the registration or a spare key." I'm wondering if they realize that if I had a spare key, I'd probably not bother with this shit in the first place, much less three times. I tell them I don't have it, but they can call my employer and they can confirm that indeed I am responsible for the bike. "Let me ask the Sergeant."

Those turned out to be very unpleasant words to hear. The Sergeant was not good people, so to speak, full of hot air and eager to show she was in control (common courtesy prevents me from engaging in potential misogynistic rants, but let's say certain derogatory terms definitely came to mind). Once again, we run through the story--the note, the key, etc. I point out that this is the key, something I was able to describe without looking. "We need the registration." Can't you call my employer and ask to see it? I doubt they even have it, but they'll clear it up. "No, we cannot call them! YOU must do that." Um, alright. But I don't know their number. "You don't know the number where you work?!?" [Fuck you] Well no, I don't have to call my work, and I've only been there a month. Don't you have a phonebook? "No, we do not." [Um, the fuck you don't] So I'm left with the task of calling co-workers to look up the office number, writing that down, and getting through to the proper representative, so to speak. I ask for the registration, and of course they don't have it--the bike's an old piece of shit (though it does work), and who saves that kind of paperwork? I tell the police that I have my employer on the phone, and they don't have the registration, but they can corroborate my story! There's some hesitation, but I hand over the phone and a discussion ensues. And we're of course left back at the beginning--no registration, no keys, even though we have confirmation, fucking confirmation, of the proper stewardship of the bike. The Sergeant continues to yell at me, and eventually storms out--"How can we tell that you are not trying to steal the bike?!" [I don't know, maybe by exercising a little fucking common sense?.]

I keep explaining to them, how would I know to pick this bike, get the note TRANSLATED, come to the police 3 times, and be able to identify the keychain exactly without seeing it. "You could have just pulled this off a random bike!" Um no, that's quite the assumption--besides, HOW DID I KNOW WHAT THE KEYCHAIN WAS?! And we did have confirmation from THE OWNER that I'm the one in charge! This is an awful lot of preparation for some foreign kid to try and steal a bike, especially considering there are 8 million bikes in the city, many of which are tied up in much less secure fashions than this one. Isn't there a Detective on staff that could help explain this?



So there goes my entire lunch hour, and I head back to work. Eventually we're able to find a spare key, and I was set to just junk this whole fucking expedition. In the mean time, the Good Samaritan leaves another note, presumably repeating the same story as before. I check to see if the key works, and...it works for the lock that's built into the box, but it lacks the one to untie the chain. Fuuuuck, I gotta deal with these assholes one more time, and hopefully I won't have to prove BOTH keys. Once again, I return, for trip number four. After 20 minutes of waiting, I show them the spare key. They check it after 8 minutes, confirming that they're identical. Of course, this was after 15 minutes of getting confused about the situation ONCE AGAIN. However, since they're identical, I'm entitled to receive my keys back...after one hours worth of bullshit paperwork.

Mindless bureaucracy, power-mad supervisors, and inconvenient hours--here we have a recipe for success. Imagine if the notemaker realized all the trouble that would have resulted from their kind gesture--do you think they'd do it again?



The lesson is: don't be nice. It's only going to be irritating for everyone in the end.

We Must Win the War for Hot Dog Technological Supremacy

When you're traveling on a budget, some things have to be sacrificed. One area where a lot of money can be saved is in the food part of your budget. As a result, even though I've been traveling to different countries every week, I haven't taken the time to indulge in some of the finer cuisine.

That isn't to say I haven't sampled the local flavors, it's just usually on the cheaper side. One of the joys of going to Northern/Central Europe is the abundance of various sausages. I mean, beer and sausage, who doesn't love a healthy balanced meal?

Here's how a proper German bratwurst looks like. Notice the great size, and the good amount of mustard. Much to my disappointment, sauerkraut was not an option.



Now the disparity between bread and hot dog is just ridiculous. In this case, the bread acts as merely a hot dog-holding device, much like a glorified potholder. It's comical and inefficient.

Now compare this to the sausage from Vienna. No, this wasn't a Vienna sausage, stop trying to confuse me. I believe this was a bratwurst as well, but I was just picking wursts at random--whatever sounded good and spicy was my sole criterion for choosing.



Now notice the difference in the bread. This is an amazing use of bread technology to help support the enjoyment of the hot dog. As most sausage enthusiasts are too well aware, the bread often breaks apart, or provides insufficient coverage to protect the taster from spillover of precious precious condiments. But this design of the bread solves all problems! The condiments are contained, and there is no mess! Truly a tasty, enjoyable experience.

My question is why hasn't pure American ingenuity come up with this design? We must steal the blueprints for this and proceed posthaste in constructing an American prototype. WE MUST NOT ALLOW FOR A HOT DOG GAP!

There's No Better Way To Sum Up This Day

Than to share this picture of my old room. This poster is fittingly taking the spot of my poster of the album cover of Rage Against the Machine's "Evil Empire".



Don't worry, I still have that poster at my new place though.

You can tell it was a good New Year's party...

When this is what you wake up to in the morning.



I know that it’s true
It’s gonna be a good year...

As a followup to Mr. Zhuang's Post

I too am saddened to see the demise of Mr. Zhuang's auto-mobile. We hardly knew ye, random Grandma car.

However, unlike Mr. Zhuang, I have a picture of the deceased here so you can all witness its glory. If I knew how to post a picture in the comments, then I wouldn't have to artificially inflate our post count this way.



And it's good to see Zhuang driving a minivan. He knows the value of the soccer-mom acceleration. My vote for a name? I'm going with Betsy.

The WDR 1 Year Anniversary Blowout Craptacular!

Wow, we can't believe that it's been an entire year since we polluted the internet with our demented worldview, but we've done it. We've gained more than a few readers during this long, strange journey, and some of them weren't even looking for "Banana Bread Rape" (an actual search term, and yes, I'm serious). Hopefully you've enjoyed reading as much as we've enjoyed writing this crap, and frankly, if you enjoyed it 1/17th as much as we did, then I guess we should be satisfied.

So, after over 250 270 (?!) posts, WDR has decided to have a little celebration. We decided to build a true Pong Table, in the spirit of my beloved Alma Mater, and we brought along a camera to document the process. I'm sure Werner Herzog would be proud of our efforts.

Our quest began with a trip to the Home Depot. which is so far out of the reach of civilization that it's next to the KOA campgrounds. Once there, we selected a gigantic piece of lumber, which turned out to be a rather large 8x4 board. We were originally going to cut it, but we said "Fuck it, let's go big." While not the dimensions of a true Pong table, this would be suitable for our purposes. Of course, we didn't realize we might have a problem fitting our awesome table in my minivan.



You can see we had issues. But we are nothing if not resourceful, and since Joe Reefer is some kind of engineer (let the record show that once this fact was brought up, Mr. Zhuang made the "drinky drinky" motion), we became unperturbed once again. Fuck it, we're strapping that shit to the roof of our car!



The minivan did look good with its new hat, but not nearly as badass as it did when the back bumper fell off. Now THERE was a car you weren't going to mess with. Next came the awesome task of spray-painting the giant board. We chose green, because, well, I don't know why. We of course took the job of painting very seriously.



While we were waiting for the paint to dry, we tackled the most important part of our quest: securing the beer. And secure we did, amassing quite the bounty of beer, ranging in quality from "delicious" to "goddammit, did we really have to drink a case of Keystone Light" (yes we did, it's tradition--plus, when you assholes got drunk too early and were so full from our good German beer, light beer sounded good, didn't it?).



So now that everything was taken care of, we were set to begin with The Playing of the Pong. We used my random potted-plant holders as supports for our Giant Board, which proved effective (until a drunken associate of WDR overturned the board 10 days later, then we made plans to reassess our options). As for a net, we used my trusty hockey stick, which had served us well in our New Years' celebrations for the past few years (we are fans of destroying piñatas in our celebrations, with said stick being our Weapon of Choice). And we of course had our ping pong equipment, complete WITH PADDLES. As I explained, this game is called Pong, it's not called "throw a ball into a cup". You can take that bastardization and call it Beirut, but never call it Pong (/rant). I eventually had all the rules explained, set up an excellent soundtrack for the party (Beck and The Thermals, so I must say that it was "bumpin'"), and then we played until the late late late hours, when the sun was shining in our face.



Who won? Yeah, I did. Every single game. But there are no losers in Pong, because we all got to drink.

I imagine this post, in true WDR fashion, will be viewable only after at least a week since it was "published". In the meantime, we're taking a much deserved break, and we'll be back warping your psyches in July. In the meantime, if you want to do something awesome like nominate your favorite post or author or comment, now would be a good time to do so. Or not. You know, whatever.

Nic Ouzo Visits The Motherland

As I alluded to yesterday, you may have noticed my absence from the pages of WDR. I mean, I'm not just calling attention to myself when I say that my lack of activity was noticeable. There are hard numbers (and perhaps soft numbers, who is to say) that back me up on this. Not that any of you care, it seems--our visit count stayed right around average during my absence, and not one of you wrote a comment asking "what the hell happened to Nic Ouzo?" or "I need more vital information like this in my life". You're all assholes.

To answer your non-questions about my absence, the title pretty much explains it all. You may ask, "what's the motherland?", and I'd smack you in the mouth, you petulant little shit, haven't you looked at my name? That's right, I spent the last two weeks relaxing in the country known for its olives and its startling lack of anything of value in the past 2500 years. We just bought a new house/condo/apartment/dwelling out there (I wasn't entirely sure what it was exactly--turns out the proper term may be "villa", but the Italians may sue over the use of that one), and I had to take a visit out there. Which meant I had to immediately drop my schedule of Not Doing A Fucking Thing, and instead go to a country where I speak 8 words (mainly, "please", "thank you", "cat", and "watermelon"--surprisingly, this helps in hundreds of conversations), and do all my nothing over there, on a beautiful secluded beach.



Unsurprisingly, that meant pretty much a total lack of internet, and therefore no words from The Nic Ouzo, Himself. I had to travel to the nearest two-goat village to be able to check my e-mail, and twenty kilometer treks by donkey are no walk in the park (they are in fact worse than 16 kilometer treks done via donkey). At some point in the trip, I was at the point where my thoughts consisted of "No TV and No Internet Make Nic Ouzo Something Something", but I managed. And despite assurances by my co-authors that either things would go smoothly here at WDR/they'd go nuts, I instead get a drunken post about a Cypress Hill cover, and that pretty much was it. Kudos you guys, you really earned your bonus this year.

In the end, I had a great time, and have a wealth of stories that I can share for the blog. I mean, what's not to like about beautiful mountains, fantastically clear blue water, awe-inspiring beaches, and...that German tourist is taking his girlfriend out from behind. Lovely.

The People's Republic Of Cambridge Can Be Hilarious

I'll be sure to give you a more thorough glimpse into life on the East Coast. But I just had to post this great picture.



In case you don't notice what's great about this building, let me just say that There Is A Face. And it's ears are steaming. Adding to the hilarity is the fact that it's also the home of the Jewish Club at Harvard. When those lights are on and the ears are steaming, break out the Manischewitz because it's time to party!