Dos and Don'ts

It's hard to believe, but I crossed the one-month mark on the road last weekend, promptly celebrating in London with two of my buddies from SF who were in town for work, Gina and Julie. London greeted us with the sunniest day I've ever seen in England - the kind of day George Harrison must have been singing about - which we somewhat squandered when the gals took naps in the early afternoon. Sorry, ladies. Them's just the facts. 

Pre-nap in Sunny London

Post nap - all better

 They made up for it later in the day, though, when we celebrated 20/4 in style: wait. How does that work in Europe? Is a 20-4 a punishable offense? Damn you and your logical-date-styling ways, Euros. 4/20 is easier to use as a counter-culture holiday. 20/4 is just a cumbersome way to write out Kiefer Sutherland's TV show. I repeat: Damn you, Euros (and rest of the world who all write out the date from the smallest increment to the largest, day/month/year.) I don't care if it makes more sense. Just do it our way. 

And now that you mentioned things that make logical sense but hurt American brains: the metric system and Celsius. Come on!

Small perturbances notwithstanding, we managed to have a lot of fun, visiting Ryan and Loni's local and spending the night talking 'merica with a few cool Irish dudes. And it gave me an idea: in honor of my first month on the road, I've devised a handy list of rules I've come up with so far.

Here they are:

DO: Pack light. No matter what you bring, you're gonna hate your clothes. Even your favorite npr t-shirt. Hard to believe, but I'm sick of that damn thing. And my two favorite pairs of jeans? Ready to chuck 'em and spend too much on new ones. The every-other-day rotation has stopped fooling me into thinking I brought more than two pairs. But you know what you're gonna hate more? Stuffing everything you own into a suitcase every week. That. Sucks.

(I know, I know. You're holding the world's smallest violin.)

DO: ask "is it okay if I speak English?" Even when they look at you and say "of course" in a way not designed to come across as smug as it does, it's nice not to assume they'll just ignore the language their country has been speaking for centuries for the foreigner who thinks he rules the world. And even though you'd be screwed if they ever said "no," it's still the polite thing to do. Unless...

DON'T: ask if it's okay to speak English when you're in England. They don't care that you just spent three weeks on the continent, and they're only too happy to add yours into their cache of "dumb American" stories next to the girl who asked them if they had African-Americans in England and anything Homer Simpson ever said. Noooo...I didn't actually do that. I'm just helping you out, in case you're ever traveling yourself. Got to protect our Yankee rep. I'd never do something like ask an English person if he speaks English. 

Okay, I did it. But I had just spent three weeks on the continent, and I was on four hours sleep. Don't be like that English guy and look down your nose at me. Cut me some slack! And yes, African-Americans do visit England, but I think she was asking if there were black English people. Which there are, of course. They wouldn't be American; they'd just wish they were. 

ZING!

DO: Play the SIM card shuffle. I've had three phone numbers already, but these iPhones sure are useful when on the road. I'm sure Androids would be, too, if you have bad taste in phone operating systems, since they allegedly offer the same vital services we've all become dependent on: maps, email, pictures, texts, games, music, proof that your bit of trivia is right, restaurant recommendations, etc. (Google maps and I are back on speaking terms after our rocky start) It's no different on the road, and since SIM cards are cheap, I highly recommend buying a new one each time you hit a different part of the world. Look no further than the kind of stuff people will do when they don't have cell coverage for a few days. They do super weird things, like ignore friends they haven't seen for a month because the London pub they're in has free wifi, allowing them to play Candy Crush Saga for the first time since Friday. Then they blame it on Baruch, who got them started on the game in the first place. It's usually a good strategy to blame it on Baruch, but I'm not buying it this time. It's just easier to get a local SIM card. Right, Jules?

DON'T: Fall in love with your plans. To quote my prescient cookie fortune: be prepared to change your plans. And I have. A lot. I may have once said I'd go to the Baltics, to Morocco, to three continents, "maybe more." But nope. I scrapped the Baltics and Morocco entirely, opting instead to spend the next few weeks in Italy. All it took to change my mind? Three weeks in Northern Europe in April, and one brown puffy jacket I got sick of wearing. Bring on the flip flops, pasta, and vino rojo. But I'm still thinking I'll end up in three continents before it's all said and done. Substitute Australia for Africa, and we've got our third.

I think.

DO: bring interesting t-shirts. My nickname in Copenhagen was "Google Maps," because I wore that awesome shirt my buddy Adam Hughes gave me a few years ago. Consider your shirts a sartorial icebreaker. Just trust me. It worked again last night, introducing me to my new best friends from Brazil who almost made me miss my flight this morning. Good people, Brazilians.

DON'T: convert the following currencies back to dollars when paying for stuff: Swiss Francs, Norwegian, Swedish, or Dutch Krone(r). You're just gonna want to punch someone, and it's not productive. Just buy your $14 extra value meal at McDonalds, recognize it's the same two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions, and sesame seed bun that you get at home, and eat it. No need to worry about the cost. After all, you get to go to SE Asia soon, where you won't believe everything costs only $2. 

Side note: never, ever get into a debate about the "Big Mac Index" with a super-awkward American kid who moved to Sweden without a job. He means well, he just doesn't get it. And you'll end up worrying that the reasonable, genial Indian dude you're dining with may actually engage in fisticuffs with him. Which just isn't worth it.

DO: make liberal use of Spotify's offline mode. I don't care what you say, Rdio heds, Spotify's the best. It's comforting to have a few albums in the queue when you don't want to burn through your mobile phone plan's data allowance. My obsession for the last month? ∆'s "An Awesome Wave," (hold down alt-j on your keyboard to make their symbol...cool, eh?). It's like having that old friend who speaks in poems all the time right there with you on long bus/train rides where you don't feel like reading and you already watched the best documentary ever, "Searching for Sugarman." Okay, so I don't actually have an old friend who speaks in poems, but if I did, I'm sure he'd say things like "triangles are my favorite shape" and then justify them with specious support like "three points where two lines meet." And then I'd spend the next few weeks pondering why we need to pick a favorite shape. I thought we'd agreed on needing the following favorites: color, food, restaurant, song, movie, book. That's it. Now we need shapes? Confusing. I'm also pretty sure that my poem-speaking friend would wax one about Natalie Portman's character in The Professional (Leon for the international audience), Matilda, because she was a lovely little sprite. And that I need to find different things to spend my time on.

Here are a few candidates in the contest to be my favorite shape, courtesy of lovely Krakow.

DON'T: tell your fellow travelers that you're the crown prince of Norway slumming it on holiday. Turns out they have google everywhere, and unless you take the time to memorize your wife and kids' names, or learn a few words in Norwegian, you're gonna get caught. Quickly. 

A Tour of Hell

Yesterday, I spent the day in Auschwitz, taking a three hour tour of both camps that are still standing, Auschwitz 1 and Birkenau (Auschwitz 2). I felt compelled to see it for myself at some point in my life, and it's everything you expect; a massive pile of "fuck you, Nazis" that makes you question how humanity even works when it's capable of something like this. Near the end of the tour, we were led to the ruins of the two main gas chambers in Birkenau (the second camp that was designed explicitly to more efficiently kill people), demolished by the Germans in the waning days of the war to hide any evidence of their crimes. Standing there, 10 feet from the spot where hundreds of thousands of people were murdered, I looked across the train tracks to the other side of the camp where a group of tourists were carrying flags near the other chamber. Israeli flags. Five of them, flapping triumphantly in the wind high above the ruins of evil.

Awhile later, as the tour wrapped up and we were leaving, I looked toward the main gate entering Birkenau, the one the trains passed through when they delivered a fresh group of Jews to be slaughtered, 500 people at a time stuffed into railcars designed to comfortably fit 20. And there they were again, marching out through the gate, five white flags flying, a blue Star of David rolling into visibility with each ripple in the wind. 

Of all the unforgettable stuff I saw there - the piles of human hair that were waiting to be shipped to factories to make socks for German soldiers, the pond next to the gas chamber still containing human ashes, the ovens, the "standing cells" smaller than my shower that four Jews at a time were forced to stand in for weeks until they finally died - that's the scene from Auschwitz I hope I think of first till the day I die. Five Israeli flags flapping in the wind, a group of 20 Jews walking freely out of the gate that used to mean sure death, the one that more than a million people crossed through to enter the camp 70 years ago. Five flags carried down a dirt road by 20 smiling, thriving people who just finished touring a museum, now quietly exiting the camp that people like them only used to enter.

Getting in their cars. 

And driving away. 

The Gate

Back in Stockholm for the weekend, then off to Rome next week. 

Shalom. 

Poker with Carter

I'm in Sweden this week visiting my good buddy, Nick Carter, whom I met 13 years ago on the MLB Road Show and the Brighton Bucs baseball team. In the meantime, Nick's had a pretty interesting run: he went to Leeds University in northern England to study PE, was tabbed as a talented dancer and pursued a career in ballet, moonlighting on the poker tournament circuit to make ends meet, then moved to Sweden for a beautiful girl and a teaching career.

Nick will always star in one of my most vivid memories: September 11th, 2001, my last day in England after a second year on the Road Show. We were spending the day together with Alex, burning James albums onto CDs for me to spread the word in the USA that they were more than just the song "Laid," which, ironically, is still his ring tone today. We were also playing poker, notable only because I had never really played before and was completely terrible at it, a fact that hasn't changed in the 12 years since despite the best efforts of my friends in San Francisco. Sometime in the early afternoon, just past 1:00, Nick's girlfriend called with dreadful news: something crazy was happening in New York. Al and I listened to Nick's half of the conversation, alarm creeping into our faces with each question out of his mouth. 

"What was it, a kama sutra...er, a kamikaze?" 

"How many people are dead?"

Al and I went to the living room and turned on the TV just in time to watch the second tower collapse. Word trickled out about other planes crashing in DC and Pennsylvania, and rumors spread that several more planes were headed for big cities like bombs in the sky. One thing was for sure: I wasn't going home the next day.

We all have a story like this; everybody remembers where they were when the towers collapsed. 

Then came this week.

Monday night, Nick's roommates and I started playing poker around 9:00 PM in Stockholm, the second time in my life I've played cards with Nick Carter. The first strange thing to happen? I won most of the money. Even the worst poker player can have a good night, I guess. I offered to put the guys in touch with Colin, Gilbert, Rector, Jacob, and the rest of San Francisco to ensure I wasn't hustling. The second strange thing didn't come to my attention for 14 more hours: some miserable asshole(s) bombed the finish line at the Boston Marathon, killing three innocent people and maiming more than one hundred more. I spent two hours Tuesday stealing wifi in rainy Stockholm reading accounts from the finish line, the stories of heroism we've come to expect when miserable assholes do this kind of thing throughout the world. People running toward the blasts to see how they can help. Not away from the fire, but right into it. Charlie Pierce - more than just a great contestant on Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me - put me right there in Copley Square, with the first of many chills-inducing accounts I've read this week. My mind drifted to the Bostonians I know; to my times walking through the Back Bay, on Boylston Street, the miniature books exhibit I saw in the Boston Public Library right on the Square. Then it drifted to the race itself, to my friends who've run The Marathon before, to that incredible achievement of crossing the finish line in the gold standard race; the one only the best runners are allowed to enter. I thought of the time when the explosions happened - four hours after it started - and my ego couldn't help but take me to the time I ran a marathon myself, crossing the line roughly four hours after starting, an emotional ball of exhilaration, exhaustion, and the kind of pride you can only feel when you've done something you didn't think you could. I thought of the people deprived of that achievement that day, mere hundreds of yards from grasping it, nothing like the tragedy happening around them but unacceptable nonetheless.

In one of life's strange coincidences, I've played poker with Nick Carter twice, and each time miserable assholes perpetrated a vicious attack on innocent people back home. Each time, I've been outside the country looking in, instantly uninterested in spending the day in another museum or ancient church, visiting with foreign friends and feeling very American at the same time, taken by a strong longing to be with fellow Yanks who can't explain why they, too, feel under attack, and choosing to ignore the cold, intellectual analysis of the assembled foreigners who implicitly blame the USA for exposing itself to such atrocity. Is America perfect? Of course not. But nobody asks for this.

And tonight, here in Stockholm - a gorgeous archipelago of endless bridges, cobblestone streets, spires, hills and waterways - thousands of miles away from the very real pain inflicted on hundreds of lives at home, completely insulated from the true loss experienced by those families in Massachusetts, I'm getting together with a band of expats and locals to spend my last night in Sweden together. Carter organized it, and it promises to be a great time with great people.

What's on the agenda? Poker, Round Three. Miserable assholes be damned.

Ausfahrts, Sorties, and Life Lessons

I made it to the Netherlands last Sunday night fresh off a great weekend in Norway, where I was never asked for an autograph despite running around the Royal Palace for a few hours. Guess I don't look like the Crown Prince, after all. My buddy Thomas Ten Bokum, ever the gracious host, scooped me at Schipol airport in Amsterdam and drove me to his house 45 minutes south just outside of Utrecht. Our agenda for the week? A road trip.

Where to? I had no idea.

"I have a friend in Lausanne, Switzerland. Want to drive there and do some hiking and maybe rock climbing?"

And, just like that, we had our destination.

One night in Dusseldorf

After spending a day in Utrecht riding BMX bicycles through a swimming pool, we loaded up his white Volvo speedster and headed south. Since the trip was well over 500 miles, we decided to break it up with a night in Dusseldorf, hardly halfway but meant to be a nice city right on the Rhine River. One of the largest cities in Germany, Dusseldorf's quaint old town has a main pedestrian drag full of bars and restaurants, normally the perfect ingredients for a fun night out. While it seemed to be lacking another essential ingredient for fun - lots of people - we set out to find ourselves some mischief.

The evening began tamely, with a nice dinner near the promenade along the river that forms the old city's western edge. We hopped into an outdoor cafe at one of the famous brauhauses to taste the local delicacy: "altbier," a particularly hoppy, darkish beer that erases the contents of your brain after only a few pints. Our waitress was friendly, and I hoped one of my patented dumb questions may open up the secret to a fun night.

"So is Tuesday a big night in Dusseldorf?"

She didn't skip a beat. "Is Tuesday a big night anywhere?"

Fair point, meine Freundin.

Tuesday night in Dusseldorf

A few more pints in by 10 PM, we hit up an Irish pub near our hotel for a few more drinks and started making friends: the sardonic Swedish bartender who told me I'll hate Stockholm because it's full of smug Swedes staring at iPhones (thanks dude!), the very friendly Colombian guy living in Dusseldorf to study German, the Australian waitress who wasn't amused by any of our antics, and the shots of jaeger our new Colombian friend paid the Swede to give us.

Sometime later, Senor Colombiano, now taking an increasingly strong liking to Thomas, walked us to another bar in the old town to extend the night into Bill Cosby territory. ("Nothing good ever happens between the hours of midnight and 5:00 AM"). When a bald Iraqi joined our table and aggressively tried to sell us cocaine, we should have merely aggressively declined. Instead, we aggressively declined and handed him Thomas's iPhone to take a picture of the three of us, teaching the night's first important life lesson: don't give your iPhone to Iraqi drug dealers if you've been drinking all night.

An hour later, our unbelievably friendly Colombiano walked us to the police station in search of Thomas's missing iPhone, which he realized was gone sometime after the Iraqi left. Miraculously, thanks to the Colombian's German skills and incredibly accurate description of the drug dealer (he clearly didn't have any of those pints of altbier), the police solved the mystery of the stolen iPhone at 4:00 AM.

In a private celebratory moment waiting for the loot to be returned, Thomas's Colombian hero seized the moment. "Thomas, you should know something. I'm gay. I've had a great night and I want something to remember you by."

Thomas, grateful for his new friend's help in recovering his phone, happens to not be gay. "I had fun, too."

"I have a request."

"Yes....." I mean, what could he want? A picture of them together? His phone number? A hug?

"Can I see your d---?"

What? That's, like, a thing?

Men are gross.

Thomas got his phone and went home, armed with life lesson number two: never trust that a friendly Colombian who buys you shots, follows you around to three bars, and takes you to the police station at 3:00 AM has altruistic motives.

On the Road...

The next morning, nursing brutal headaches and bruised egos, we hit the road, meandering south through Germany into Switzerland. We crossed through Bern - where street signs switch from German to French, and ausfahrts become sorties - and large puffy clouds conspired with snowy mountaintops and still lakes to make my jaw drop. The rolling hills, draped with a deep green blanket of grass (or somewhat orange-ish for the color impaired), evoked images of Julie Andrews frolicking around, singing that they were alive with the sound of music. Let there be no doubt: Switzerland is as gorgeous as I imagined.

The advantage of German highways

Road trippin'

We arrived in Lausanne - home to the IOC and many of the major international sports' federations (including volleyball and, strangely, baseball) - and spent the next few days indoors avoiding the persistent rain. Instead of hiking or rock climbing outside and risking a lightning strike, we found an indoor climbing gym to expend some energy. We visited with my old MLB Road Show buddy, Ian Young, who moved to Lausanne to work in baseball but now finds himself a burgeoning burger mogul. We drove through vineyards that climb the hills around Lake Geneva and walked through the bustling old city to enjoy the views from the hilltop cathedral. Two days of rest and relaxation in the books, we headed back to the Netherlands.

Lausanne

Um...the Alps got...uh, nothing(?) on Healdsburg

The drive home was much easier - amazing how much you can endure when you're not hungover - and we decided to cross through four countries and make it back to Utrecht in one fell swoop. We crossed the border from Germany into France, not far from the Maginot Line, and found a tiny cafe in a charming little village for lunch. Two years of college French helped me conjure up enough vocabulary to say hello and thank you, and the waitress decided to leave the ordering to herself. Soon after, we were served a hearty "plat du jour" of meatloaf, white beans, and potatoes (nice choice, madame), then hit the road again, zipping through Germany past Luxemborg and Belgium, arriving in Utrecht in time for dinner.

All in all, a great week of road trippin' with Tommy Ten Bucks.

...and now I'm off again, hoping to prove the Swedish bartender wrong in Stockholm, starting tomorrow morning. Back to London on Friday night, then Poland the following week.

Prost!

Climbin'

It tolls for thee. Duh.

Just me riding a bike in a pool wearing Nike running gloves and Vans

Thomas making me feel good about my photography skills

Atta boy, Ian!

Wearing my Ricky Gervais costume, Utrecht

The Happiest Place(s) on Earth

Sometime last year, I read one of those Forbes reports listing the happiest places in the world, according to a complex algorithm of completely objective factors. After 10 lovely days in England (HUGE thanks to Loni and Ryan, Jay and Dimitra, Al and Nat, and Rosemary for their humbling hospitality), I met my English mate Nick Carter in Stockholm early Easter morning for a tour of the countries topping the list: Norway, Denmark, and Sweden.

Naturally, I had several questions I wanted answered. Are they really the happiest places on Earth? Even happier than Disneyland or the Oakland Coliseum in the summer? Are Forbes' criteria objective and provable? Does everybody really look like an underwear model? Does a bottle of water really cost the average hourly wage of a McDonalds' employee? Is Forbes complicit in a leftist plot to turn the whole world into secular socialists who hate freedom? My enquiring mind wanted to know.

Nick and I spent Easter in Malmo, a sleepy hamlet in western Sweden that was completely empty in honor of Christ's Resurrection, a fact that's somewhat odd in a country whose population is 82% atheist. The third largest city in Sweden, I'm afraid it will remain memorable for only one reason: it's a 25-minute train ride to Copenhagen, one of the most charming towns I ever did see.

Copenhagen

Keeping with my standard pace, I fell in love with Copenhagen the minute I walked out of the train station. Our hostel was a short walk through the old city, and we breezed along cobblestone streets to the center of town, crossing the city's renowned canals, passing stone and brick buildings with ornamental towers, Gothic churches with brooding spires, and one gazillion bicycles along the way.

Because Trip Advisor is so freaking awesome, I found a very clever tour through the old city: a 10k run. Some guy who lives here and works a real job by day (IT Solutions something or other) started his own business guiding tourists around the old city by evening. While running. For about 60 bucks. A workout and a few stories about the city? Perfect.

The biggest attraction in town, Copehagen's Big Ben, Eiffel Tower, Golden Gate Bridge, or Empire State Building, is the iconic statue of the Little Mermaid. Nominally erected to commemorate favorite son Hans Christian Andersen's legendary Disney movie, the real motivation was much more salacious: the guy who commissioned it - the son of that great Dane who invented Carlsberg beer - fell in love with a married ballerina and wanted something of her to call his own. So, as any filthy rich person would do, he hired the best sculptor in town to memorialize her with an extremely underwhelming statue.

Thingamabobs? I've got twenty.

As we all know, this part of the world brought us Angry Birds, Spotify, Skype, urinal-top video games that help improve a guy's aim (not kidding), Elin Nordegren, and a convenient villain in our constant games of political demagoguery: the prototype socialist welfare state. No trip to Scandinavia would be complete without learning more about it, and my running guide gave me some interesting scoop, vis a vis the student population: not only is university completely free of charge (just like all medical care, by the bye), but students are given a $1,300 stipend every month to prevent them from taking jobs that detract from their studies. Four years of free money and a free education? Nope. It's even sweeter than that. Four years of undergrad, one year for a masters, and one year for a sabbatical. All paid for by the government.

In my next life, remind me to grow up in a small, homogenous, resource-rich country, then move west so I don't pay 52% income tax and never have to say the words "it's 0 degrees outside" or "let's go to this place, their small coffee is only $5."

I can certainly say this: people in Copenhagen do seem very happy. The vibe is active, with men and women donning lycra pants and running shoes to weave through town. Lululemon would make a killing here, since the entire city's male population has no shame. Thirty-six percent of all travel in the city is done by bicycle, and nifty bike paths abut car lanes on every street in town. The people are fit, friendly, and extremely modest, and the city manages to maintain its old-world feel despite its abundant new-world amenities: every merchant takes credit cards, the BUSSES have free wifi, the trains are clean, fast, and new. In fact, it only took us 12 minutes on their metro to get to the airport Thursday morning to head to Oslo.

Everywhere a bike...

Everywhere a bike lane.

Also, I went to Oslo.

Oslo doesn't have the same old-world feel of Copenhagen, but it is nestled into a gorgeous nook right on the water, not too unlike Seattle. The skyline is quirky, with newly built office buildings and condo towers in funky shapes and colors everywhere you look. The people are similarly active and friendly, and the public transit again blows San Francisco's out of the water. The waterfront looks like it caught a rash of construction cranes; real estate investment is booming in the happiest country on Earth.

Funky Oslo

"Art"

In other news, I'm a prince.

Nick and I are staying at a Norwegian friend of a friend's guest house not far from Oslo's city center, and since I'm the only one with an international phone/data plan, I took care of arranging our meetup for dinner last night using Facebook Messenger. During dinner, our Norwegian friend admitted that she expected me to look different than my FB pic.

Why?

"I thought you changed your profile picture to one of our Crown Prince as a joke."

Um....what?

Norway has something called a crown prince? Adorable.

And, oh yeah, as somebody who never actually gets pegged to a celebrity doppleganger, I was a little surprised to hear that I look like royalty. She showed us a few google images of Haakon - next in line for the Norwegian throne - and, well, see for yourself.

Separated at birth?

I'm headed back to Sweden in a few weeks to spend some time in Stockholm, but so far, I'm making progress on answering my questions. Norway and Denmark, as seen through the extremely limited lens of their largest cities, do seem pretty freaking happy. The people are indeed gorgeous (especially the Norwegian Royal Family), everything is ridiculously, unbelievably expensive, and yes, Forbes is clearly a poorly disguised Bolshevik propaganda machine.

And I love it here, no question.

Next week, I'm headed to Holland for a road trip with my good buddy Thomas ten Bokum. Looking forward to spending some time outside of the city.

Cheers.

Traditional Danish dish: mutant bacon and boiled potatoes

Tight squeeze

Copenhagen's "Green Light District" smelled like home