Euro Summary:

Day 1: Drove to LAX and caught a British Airways flight to Heathrow. Had good luck with traffic. No snags. Getting through security was a breeze. We had hours to kill at the gate.

Day 2: We walked from our London hotel next to the BBC building, all the way to Harrod’s. Checked out the place, had an ass-reaming lunch in the store, then caught a tube train to Westminster Abby. Took the Abby tour, and it was one of the major highlights of the trip.

Day 3: We caught a cab to London’s St. Pancreas station and hopped on the Eurostar for Paris. We had time to kill at the station. The shopping available there rivals any shopping center around San Diego. Caught a cab at Paris-Nord station to our Paris hotel, in the Invalides area. We like being near Neapolitan. Our hotel clerk was a great guy, spoke English very well, and was very helpful. That night we walked down a main drag, headed for Lipps, one of Hemingway’s hangouts. I was in shorts, so they told us to fuck off. So we walked across the street to Maggots, another of Hemingway’s haunts, and they were happy to take our money. We had a good meal there, and a nice waiter.

Day 4: We had breakfast at a very good sidewalk café on Rue Cler. Then we humped over to the Loo, and took a tour of famous objects de art. That was a strenuous day. We did everything on foot. That night we rode halfway up the Awful Tower. Once you’ve got the Loo and the Awful Tower on your resume, you don’t ever need to go back to France.

Day 5: We hopped a tour bus and got the overview of the city. On the tour we identified some targets for later, namely, the restaurant where Hemingway wrote his first novel, “The Sun Also Rises.” So we got off the bus and walked back to our hotel and got dressed up, and took the subway to the Montparnasse area, and then walked to the restaurant. BZ ordered Absinthe before dinner, and they gave her the full pouring ceremony at the table. It was an ass-reaming for less-than-amazing food, but after enough absinthe, Hemingway’s ghost appeared before us, and that made it all worth it. Hemingway’s ghost was manly, and wanted to fight. We then took the subway to the Champs de Lesse, and did a long, insane walk up the Seine, and back to our hotel.

Day 6: B-Day. Boat Day. We had to be at Paris-Nord by 10:30 a.m. to catch our Euro Star back under the Channel to Ashbury, catch another train to Dover, and then a taxi to the Boat. The Boat was to sail at 7 p.m. Well, we didn’t even start working on a taxi til 9:30 a.m., and they are hard to get in Paris at rush hour. Bottom line: we missed our Euro Star. That cost us $300 a piece, extre. And we got the last two seats on a train that didn’t even leave til 3:30. When we got to Ashbury, I was on my way back from the food car, where I had been stuffing my marzipan hole, and the congestion in the isles prevented me from getting back in time. The train had been stopped for five minutes or less, when the automatic doors slammed, making us prisoners on the train. It dragged us all the way to London. We jumped off at St. Pancreas and ran to the Euro Star people, who got us on a pretty fast commuter train back to Ashbury. No charge. The train was only two minutes from pulling out when we dove through the doors. At Ashbury we moved to the front half of the train, which separated from the rear half, and went on to Dover. Again, no charge. At Dover we caught a taxi to the cruise terminal, and at the terminal, there were people aware of our plight, who were waving us aboard. Officials ran with us down the hall, all of us tilted forward about 30 degrees to the vertical, and gave us a thoughtful push as we leapt the ten foot gap over the water to the boat. Then they hurled our bags across, and we dragged them inside, where more officials waited for us. Four toughs escorted us to our cabin, where they ransacked our luggage, but were satisfied and wished us a happy voyage as they left. It was a fucking miracle that we were on that boat. So we took some booze topside and watched the White Cliffs of Dover pass by the ship. Food was good at dinner that night, but they warned me that I couldn’t wear shorts any more to their jerk-off-all-night-cuz-it’s-so-fucking-great dining room. Fine. I happened to have some emergency pants that were good enough to satisfy even the arrogant Parisians.

Day 7: We disemboweled early in Amsterdam. We weren’t even out of the cruise terminal, before a fast talker had sold us a hop-on, hop-off canal boat ride. Finding the damn canal boats wasn’t easy, but a good Sumerian saw us puzzling over a map, and offered to help. He escorted us through a huge rail station, and pointed us to the boats. There were three boat loops, that could be used for sight-seeing, or just getting around town. They have tour audio running continuously. So we headed for the Van Gogh museum. We spent much less time there than we wanted, but we did get to see some of our favorite VG paintings. Then back onto the boats, and back down the canal to Ann Frank’s house. There was a queue that would put Space Mountain to shame. Fortunately, we got our tix online before the trip, and therefore were able to jump the line and go in through the special entrance. The Ann Frank house was like a holy place, and people spoke in whispers. It was very moving. So then we grabbed a quick bite for lunch. I had Vicodin, and washed it down with a vodka and pear juice. Then we humped over to Kandinsky’s to get some Space Cake for desert. It’s cake with shit baked right in, and it gets you fucked up. We were told to be careful. So outside the cruise terminal we ate about a third, and waited. We then got back on the ship. After an hour, not much was happening, so we ate more. We then had to muster. That was brutal. We had to stand lined up like prisoners, for about 45 minutes, and listen to a life vest explanation in about six languages. We then went back to our cabin and ate the rest of the space cake. Then things started getting weird. We went topside to look out at the ocean. The boat was bobbing, and BZ said her head felt like it was bobbing with the boat, but that her head was not attached to her neck. We were experiencing more of a “trip,” than a typical pot high. We then went back to the cabin and napped. I had really weird, trippy dreams. I was half awake, and could not seem to control the weird visual images and sounds I was perceiving. BZ would start convulsing in her sleep, as if having a seizure. I woke her up, but she insisted that nothing weird was going on with her, and that I was too fucked up to be a reliable observer. Well, she went back to sleep and started convulsing again. So we got up and walked to the customer service desk, several decks up. We had some bidness with them. We both suddenly felt terrible, and had to sit down. We were afraid we were going to pass out, or worse. Becky was insanely thirsty, and ran into the restroom to cup her hands and drink. She had been avoiding tap water from the boat, at least up to that point. We felt a little better sitting down, and agreed to move VERY slowly back to the cabin. We managed to get back to the cabin, but I was sick for the next 24 hours. We’ll never know what was in that Space Cake. It wasn’t like any pot I’ve ever had. We got to know one of the performers on board the ship, an American singer who now lives in Italy. She’s pretty familiar with the dope scene in Amsterdam, and she thinks our experience was very unusual, even for the inexperienced. She thinks we got something unusually potent.

Day 8: When the boat tied up in Hamburg, I still wasn’t right, but by the time we boarded the bus to Lubec, I wasn’t feeling too bad. Hamburg was bombed out in WWII, but Lubec was spared, and is a much more interesting place than Hamburg. So a sunburnt German lady led us around Lubec, on foot, and laid it all down for us. Before she turned us loose for our free time, she recommended a little one-beer brewery. So BZ and I humped down to the little brewery, and enjoyed some great beer and food. I had shitzel, with a spicy, bell pepper sauce. Really good. We also ordered some cute little kartoffelvankuchen. Also really good. During the death march around town, I axed the Kraut lady if I could buy a cookoo clock in Lubec. My mom wanted me to buy her a cuckoo clock. Well, this Kraut acted almost insulted, and said she thinks cuckoo clocks are an “American thing.” Fact is, in southern Germany, the Germans make cuckoo clocks. But I guess they don’t find their way north. After we regrouped, we boarded the bus and rode back to Hamburg, and got a mini tour of Hamburg, before unloading at the boat. I would say that Lubec was the best food experience of the trip, speaking only for myself.

STOP THE PRESSES. This is a late addition to Day 8: After Hamburg/Lubec, we re-emboweled and attended a cocktail party celebrating American National Day! All sixteen Americans on board were invited, but about ten showed up. There was an a capella quartet of Brothers from Chicago and Michigan performing on the boat, and attending the party, and we made great friends with them. The Brothers always like me. And we got to know a female American singer, also performing on the boat, and wearing more eye goop than BZ had in her entire suitcase. She was the one who said our Space Cake trip was definitely out of the ordinary. We had no idea she was a singer, until our hosts put on a recording of the Star Spangled Banner, to which the Brothers and I and some others started singing, and then she started singing, and wowee wow wow, what a pro she obviously was. I wish I’d had my video camera. It would have made a great youtube.

Day 9: At sea.

Day 10: Like two days before in Hamburg, the first order of bidness in Copenhagen was getting off the boat and getting on the tour bus. Tivoli Gardens, sort of a fossilized embryo of Disneyland (and indeed the place Walt Himself visited to rip off ideas for Disneyland, when he wasn’t ripping off Knott’s Berry Farm) was a place we very much wanted to see. Problem was, by the time the tour was over, there probably would not be time left to see Tivoli. So about half way through the tour, when they stopped to let us have some free time, we informed our tour guide that we were fleeing the tour, and to please make no attempt to follow us. The shopping area was on THE tourist main drag, and was plugged straight in to Tivoli. It was just a matter of walking a few blocks up the street and we were there. So that’s what we did. Tivoli Gardens is sort of like a neighborhood Disneyland. Meticulously manicured lawns and gardens, cute little buildings bordered with twinkly lights, phony river, theme rides, the whole bit. The rides pale in comparison to what the Mouse has to offer, however. So we paid about 20 Euros a head and spent about an hour there. Then we walked back down the main drag, looking for some famous Danish beer. BZ had a boner for some kind of freakin’ Danish beer. We walked a couple of blocks off the beaten path, to a back street with a cramped little bar, the tiny door to which was blocked by two bored Tuborg horses, harnessed to a Turborg beer wagon. Big Clydesdale-type horses. We petted the horsies, and they were soft and nice and BZ loved them. She sort of zoned out and had some kind of bestial communion with them. We then said bye-bye to the nice horses and squeezed through the crack twixt beast and bar, only to pass through a second small fissure and find ourselves in a closet-sized bar full of sour-puss Danes. No Danes deigned to talk to us, smile at us, or even look at us. I don’t think they liked Americans babbling English in their shitty little bar. Well, the bar maid was at least willing to talk beer. Communication was tough, but I did find out they don’t take Tinker Bell credit cards, or Euros. Crap. But the nice lady gave us a couple of glasses of Tuborg, BEFORE I had walked down to the corner bank to exchange some Pounds for Crowns. So we were wedged into this shitty, sweaty bar, at a shitty little table with unfriendly patrons. Oh, man, then the BAND came in! You gotta be freakin’ shitting me, Lars. The band was going to somehow carve out some territory, set up musical instruments, and play music in this broom closet. Far out, man. Well, we were after local flavor, and we got it. I ordered one more Tuborg, gave the lady a nice tip, for which she curtsied, and we left. We caught a Costa shuttle back to the boat. Fun day. No close calls. No disasters. And unlike the female Darth Vader of Socialist Tour Guides, in Oslo, our tour did not track us down.

Day 11: Oslo: As usual, have breakfast, get off da damn boat, get on da damn bus. The tour took us around town, and the Viking, as BZ dubbed her, told us about Oslo. She was patriotic and proud of her country. She told us about Norway’s accomplishments. But she had no illusions. She said very evenly and matter-of-factly, “We are a welfare country. If you work, you will be heavily taxed, up to sixty percent. If you do not work, you will be paid.” That’s the deal. That’s how they do it. The Norwegians go to Sweden to shop for groceries, because Sweden is in the EU and therefor shit is cheaper there. The Viking hates street performers. She calls them professional beggars, and says there is no excuse for that, because anybody can go to the government and get an easy handout. She says there is no poverty in Norway, because money is free for anybody who wants it. The first stop was the Opera House. The Viking is very proud of it. We actually scrambled around on the Italian-marble roof, in the rain. It’s hard to get booze in Oslo. The Viking told us Norwegians have no bad habits, like smoking, drinking, or eating. Everybody is healthy, vigorous, green, and back to Nature. When we booked the tour, we were promised a stop at an “ice bar,” where we would be served Absolut vodka in an ice glass, in a frozen-water bar. We got the ice glass, but no Absolut. It was before one o’clock, and selling hard liquor before one o’clock is illegal. So we got some kind of crappy champagne drink, instead. Next stop on the tour was a huge park full of naked statues. Statues of naked people of all ages. Objects de art. The Viking is very proud of this place, and gave us the low down on the art. I’ve never thought that decorating with people was very appealing, and this park was totally decorated with people. The Viking cracks the whip. You have to keep up. You have to keep track of her rainbow umbrella. Well, BZ and I were fucking up pretty regularly on this trip, and this day was no exception. We were busy with the video camera, and before we knew it, the Viking had vanished into the mist, with all the Euro tourists. Plus BZ had to pee, and the Norwegians don’t have that bad habit either, making it hard to find a twalett. Oo sohn toilett, Fritz? So we decided to find a twalett, and then return to the parking lot and hang out with the bus. When we got to the parking lot, the boose was gone. We managed to get a message across to the driver of another Costa boose, and he made some cell calls. Eventually, our boose showed up. We think our boose had circled to the opposite side of the park, and picked up the tour there. There was such a look of relief on the Viking’s face when she saw us, but when I attempted to apologize, I just got a Socialist glare from Hell. I felt like I was being stared at by Darth Vader, and the Force was shrinking me down to about an inch tall. I felt like I had become less than nonexistent. I felt like I had never been born. I apologized to the whole boose, though it was not very full, and sat down. The boose escort from Costa was out in the park searching for us, for the second time. The minutes dragged as everybody’s time was being wasted, thanks to us. BZ’s attitude was much different: Fuck ‘em. We paid, so they have to take care of us. If we get lost, too bad, Viking. Eat it. Finally, the escort returned, and we were off once again, to a very interesting Viking museum, full of Viking shit, boats, and bones. Man, this time I made damn sure I was back on that bus, well ahead of time. The Viking was bitching, however, about some other people who were not yet back to the boose. She said large tours get back on time, but the small tours are always full of losers. Once everybody was aboard, the boose rolled back to the boat through the damp grey Socialist-paradise of Oslo. We didn’t even tip the Viking. What assholes.

Day 12: At sea.

Day 13: After leaving Oslo, the boat really kicked some ass. It actually had someplace to go for a change. Le Havre (lew AH-vreh) is a fer piece from Oslo. So over two nights and a day, we covered some ground, er, water. In San Diego we had booked a tour to the Normandy beaches, but the tour was cancelled with no explanation. Could be that too few English speakers were interested. So we reserved an Alamo car, with the intention of driving our own asses to Omaha beach, and surrounding points of interest and museums. We got off the boat the next morning in Le Havre, and walked into town. We found the Alamo outlet, and got our car. Some kind of hybrid. I had tried to purchase liability insurance from the Alamo lady, but she couldn’t figure out what the hell I was talking about. She finally did show me a piece of paper that cleared up the problem. It said that everybody is by law covered for liability. I don’t know if that means Alamo is required to cover us, or if the French government covers us. Anyway, we were covered. I should have remembered that everything is free in a Socialist paradise. Well, we had some crummy maps, and a mush-mouthed GPS from Alamo that couldn’t pronounce French street names any better than I could. Add to that the fact that only about one in five intersections had street signs, and I was lost before I was two miles from the boat. We HAD to get back to the fucking boat by 7 pm, and I was already lost. And sometimes the roads just disappear, leaving a big gap of ocean in front of you. So you have to improvise some other route. The probability was very high that if we attempted the Normandy beaches, we would never get back to the boat in time; indeed that we would be sixty miles down the coast and totally lost. It was early afternoon before we even got going, because of complications that morning. Just finding Alamo was time consuming. It didn’t help that it was in a National car rental office. So we gave up. We gave the car back. It was no trivial matter even getting back to Alamo. $150 down the tube. We just like paying for train seats and rental cars and not using them. So we purchased a taxi tour of nearby Honfleur. A charming old fishing village. Once on the road, we told our bro Yannick about our rental car debacle. Together we made some calculations, and decided a surgical strike on Arromanches and Omaha beach was feasible. So we paid a fortune for a taxi ride down there. Yannick was a great tour guide, and really took to us personally. He took us to the museum at Arromanches, where the Winston Churchill artificial port was constructed. Some of the floating port is still there to see. After a brief stay, we hauled ass to Omaha beach. We hiked down to the beach, and then back up to see the American cemetery. Then we hit the road for Le Havre and the boat. We had been very conservative with our time, and had enough left for a stop at Honfleur, where we bought some expensive, 15 year-old Calvados. Apple brandy. Powerful stuff. Yannick then got our asses back to the boat. Mission accomplished, but at great cost. That’s the way it always goes, when you invade Normandy.

Day 14: We disemboweled in Dover on our last day, and met our pre-booked ride to Heathrow. Very professional guy, with a very nice van. He was widely traveled and very intelligent, and very interesting to pass the time with. He got us to Heathrow with no snags. The airport was DEAD, and we just breezed through security. We had hours to kill before our flight. The customs lady at LAX gave us the worst imaginable welcome home. What a bitch. About half way to San Diego I was so tired I had to pull off the freeway and take a half-hour nap. But that’s all I needed, and we came dragging into town sometime after midnight, I guess.