København. What a wad of flavor...


København. You can see it in my smile...


København. Do yourself a favor...go.
København. Drives them pretty girls wild (err, actually, those pretty girls drive you wild).

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About 95 percent of y'all didn't get that intro at all. I can see your eyebrows scrunching up all the way from Scandinavia.

"What the hell is København, how do you even pronounce it, and why in Jesus' name is that 'o' wearing a Miss America sash?"

Good questions.

København = Copenhagen, Denmark, which is not "the capital of Sweden," as people who "didn't invent the deep bowl" often think; it's pronounced koob'n-HOWN; and I have no clue as to why the Danes have to have 29 letters in their alphabet, so don't ask me.

...Your forehead is still creased, and now your eyelids are getting into the act, aren't they? I can tell you still don't get the allusions (most of you, that is).

"Okay, great...but what is the flavor of the wad that we can see in your smile? And what is it a wad of? And why can we see it in your smile?"

You are obviously not from Texas.

Go to iTunes, download "Copenhagen" by Robert Earl Keen, Jr., and always remember: If you dip Copenhagen long cut tobacco, and especially if you dip Copenhagen snuff, you gotta spit. And I mean really spit. Spit often, and spit hard. Because if you don't, trust me: You won't be able to see much of anything in your smile, for two reasons. 1) You won't be smiling. 2) Anything that had been visible in that grin of yours will be floating in a toilet somewhere, awaiting the flush that will take it away from Regurgitation Station.

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"So, Bailey's, how do you and Josefine know each other?" Ana, a roomate of Josefine's friend Sofia asked me at dinner Friday night.

I looked over at the girl I supposedly "knew" and tried to decipher how to answer, based on the facial expressions she made back at me.

"Uhhhh, we know each other from Spain."

Which was true ... technically. But the honest answer would have been, "Uhhh, we really don't."

Strangers? Then how was it that I found myself in a hip Copenhagen apartment at that very moment, eating a homemade dinner and drinking Carlsbergs and bottles of Golden Ladies like I was an old friend in town for the weekend?

E-mail: The most powerful tool since the opposable thumb. From a chance run-in with three blonde Danish lookers in a Barcelona hostel back in Sept. 2004 to me inviting myself to their hometown nearly two years later ... it was all due to the miracle of email that I was able to land on Josefine's couch for the past five nights, free of charge.

None of it would have happened were it not for the ultimate "stay in touch" machine that Al Gore helped invent.

I met Josefine, along with two of her friends, Laura and Malou while traveling through Spain for my first time, during the fall break of my semester abroad in Geneva. Alongside two other American dudes, I, too, did a double fist-pump upon realizing who our new next-door neighbors were. On the balcony of that Barcelona hostel, all the way down on the end of Las Ramblas were three good-looking blonde Danish girls, all of whom spoke English, and spoke it well.

They took us out to a club that night, and we chilled a bit the night after that, but then, the whole thing vanished into the creases of my brain's memory, kept alive only by the descriptions in my travel journal and their contact information scribbled in the margins.

When I began to gear up for a return to Europe, I went back to that journal to see if my old friends remembered the Texan who said "y'all" without an accent. Only one of the three responded to my email.

We may have not remembered what each other looked like as recently as last Wednesday, but we sure won't forget it now. Even if I never see her again, Josefine and I will be friends for life. That's what a Thursday-Friday-Saturday-Sunday-Monday self-invite will do to your relationship with a total stranger.

Even if she does steal people's bikes without a trace of guilt, the girl with eyes the color of the North Carolina road jerseys is probably the nicest human being on the planet. And one of the most knowledgeable, too -- did you know that deodorant only works if you cleanse your skin of the old layers of sweat and previous deodorant stick rolls before re-applying? I do now.

And to think I will smell better for the rest of my life only because we happened to choose the perfect Barcelona hostel two years ago ... and because of how easy it is to regain contact with fleeting acquaintances through the power of email.

It's why you gotta love traveling: You never know what taking a right instead of a left will do for the outcome of your journey -- both on a Eurail trip and in life.

For now, let it suffice to say that a trip is only a trip because of the people you meet along the way. Can't you see it in my smile?

 

I don't think you can really make it out, but this crossing light is a throwback to the old Communist days of East Berlin. The Commies wanted even the stick figure meaning "Go" to identify with the proletariat, so they gave the common man a hat -- legend has it, the only crossing light man in the world to wear one.


In the early days following the fall of the Wall, people instinctively tried to purge East Berlin of anything and everything Communist. So of course, that meant bye-bye to their beloved Green Man-Red Man figures. The problem was, this was about the only exciting and sexy thing the Communist world ever thought up. Look at these guys, then go outside and look at one of ours. Ours suck. Theirs are awesome. So by popular demand, scattered throughout Berlin at random intersections are the Communist crossing signals, hats on, ready to guide you across the street. There is apparently even a store in Berlin that sells nothing but stuff with these guys' images plastered on it -- I never saw it.


Even though the Danes are better at sarcasm than ANY other European country (it really is not even close, and I think it's because all of their channels are in English with Danish subtitles, rather than going with the dub), Marie, a Dane on my bike tour, wasn't quick enough to understand why I had to take a picture of this place.

Me: "Hey, Marie. Wanna go get some Balzac coffee?"
Marie: "Why?"
Me: (sheepish giggling)


You have to love American soldiers and their potty humor during war. This magnificent statue in the heart of the Tiergarten, erected in triumph after a defeat of the French in the 19th century, was affectionately titled "Chick on a Stick" by our G.I.s.

 

I just liked the Buddy Bears so much, I had to show you some more.


Yeah, I'd be feelin' a little blue if I was from Lebanon, too.


In France, everything but their hearts are made of gold.



Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. And people think HOUSTON has an inferiority complex? (I just learned that the Rice website has a link that says, "Houston: It's Cooler Than You Think"). I doubt we would have to tell people where we sit geographically if Kofi asked us to make a Buddy Bear.

Serbia. Those dots you see are bullet holes. I can't tell if that was the artistic vision, or if the bear was ambushed along the way to Berlin.
 

You know the Cow Parade? This is a UN project called the Buddy Bears. Every nation represented. It is wild.


Just take one guess.


Apparently, in China, Winnie the Pooh lives in an opium den.


Miguel? Miguel San Juan? Why didn't you TELL me you were gonna be in Germany??


Once again, take one guess.
 

BÍLLY = TORTUGA

 

You know a city has a rich history when there can be a building like this and I don't have any recollection of what it is, why it's there, or whether or not it is even that significant in the grand scheme of things. But Berlin is like that, kind of like Houston in a way (ever heard of the Eighth Wonder of the World, folks?).

But Randall, the dread from Australia who splits his year between Berlin, where he gives bike tours all summer, and Guatemala, where he works in a program which supports impoverished urban youth, is the real reason I chose this shot. Basically, Randall is hilarious. And I wish I could remember all of his one-liners, which he has undoubtedly perfected after a billion tours given (it seriously is like a stand-up comedy routine with these people...they have an act, they have material, they have audiences that make or break the show, and very few, if any, have much money).

Here are the two that stand out.

1) In front of a remnant of the Berlin Wall, which was subject to a lot of vandalism in the immediate wake of reunification, mostly because everyone wanted a souvenir from the legendary David Hasselhoff concert on the Brandenburg Gate: "And as you can see, this former part of the Wall is now itself protected from the public by a wall -- kind of ironic, don't ya think?"

Maybe you had to be there.

2) During his intro speech about Berlin: "Now, Berlin is no longer the Germany of the Reich by any means. In fact, it's one of the most diverse cities in the world. Berlin has the third-largest gay population in the world, as well as the world's third-largest Turkish population. I haven't seen the figures just yet, but by my calculations, that would give Berlin the most gay Turks in the world."

Huh, huh? That one is funny no matter where you hear/read it.

 

I caved and did a tour when I got to Berlin, only because it's a city over eight (EIGHT) times the physical size of Paris, and there is no center to move outward from. But I did a bike tour, not a regular one, which meant that for four hours, I rode around on a beach cruiser in one of the coolest cities I've seen on my trip. AND I got a turtle squeaky toy on my bike, which is fitting for the man who himself looks like a turtle.

Our Aussie-Aussie-Aussie, Oy-Oy-Oy guide, Randall, is taking a photo of Marie and Rebecca, two girls who came to Berlin from Denmark just to see Robbie Williams play.

Apparently, he has more than just one song ... which means that milleniuuuuuuum is not the first word that pops into their heads when they hear the name Robbie. (His lyrics are much deeper than that, according to Marie: "He has one song where he says, 'I put the Brit in celebrity!'") And they wonder why I wouldn't stay two extra nights to go to the show with them...for only 50 euros.

Oh, and Marie and Rebecca are posing with Uncle Marx.
 

Man, no WONDER Chuck Knoblauch began to stink so much! Bahahah. (For those of you who don't "habla Deutsch," Knoblauch is German for... the niño!)

Just kidding, it means garlic. 

IT'S BOOTY TIME.

Like always, you people are on a little bit of delay as to where exactly I am. At the moment, it's Copenhagen. The few days before that, it was Berlin. This little story comes from my time in Den Haag, a.k.a. The Hague. (You know the reason the UN chose this city for the International Criminal Court has to be the intimidation factor that goes hand-in-hand with definite article place names. If you're Charles Taylor, used to running the show in Monrovia, and you roll into THE Hague, all shackled and humiliated, you'd be feeling a little scared, no?)

Anyway, I went to THE beach in THE Hague. Trying to avoid the crush of people that flock to the center of activity, I took a right and started walking, and walking, and walking.....

....until I realized, by the sights all around me, that I had walked so far, I was now on the nude portion of the playa.

"I'm alone, I'm in Europe, I've never done the whole nude beach thing....." I thought, checking both ways before I crossed the street into Adam and Eve Land. "What the hell."

And down came the trousers.

Step two was digging out a little chair for myself in the beach, which must have been a really attractive sight for the nudistas behind me: A full rear view of Billy bent over, my scoof-maloof saying hello, both my hands digging and digging and digging, until the underground seat was deep enough.

That's where I am in this picture.


Then, a lightbulb went off.

"Oh man, it would be great to set up the self-timer on my camera and get a picture of my bare ass on the blog."

Clearly.

So out came the scoofy show, once again, as I crawled out of my beach hole and started setting up the view finder to rest on the coast line. It took a while with the sun making everything hard to see, and I assumed the risk of people seeing me with a camera on a nude beach -- a no no, I figured, even in Holland.

Well....it's only a no no if the people who think they're being photographed don't want to be photographed, as I learned thirty seconds later.

"I saw you take a peek-chah! I saw you take a peek-chah!" Great. Another Dutch cartoon character on acid type, coming my way in the water. I had just walked into the ocean, not knowing whether the self timer trick had worked, and here was this dude, also naked, trying to make small talk. And the worst thing was, he thought I had taken a picture of HIM.

"You take a peek-chah! Yes! Haha, you take a peek-chah!"

Where's the Dutch word for "self-timer" when you need it???? It was lost in translation, as this dude now thought I was into him.

"Do you want me to take a peek-chah of you?"

"No."

"I take a peek-chah, it's okay!"

"Naw, man, I'm cool."

When he started talking about his boyfriend in America, that is when I began to walk back to my beach hole.

And just to let you know, shrinkage definitely exists, and is very apparent on the nude beaches.

 

The two things I have lost and miss the most: my Nalgene bottle and my Gold Bond powder.

Gold Bond, WHERE ARE YOU????? My scoofy is beginning to be rash in its decision-making and I need your help to calm down the region. Please don't pull a Condi on me.

And the Nalgene...I guess it was finally time. I had almost lost it on four other occasions -- on this trip alone. But the worst thing is that I can't replace it here. They don't know about the water bottle trend. And I can't replace my Chaco's, which I didn't lose, but whose soles are beginning to crack like the San Andreas. Ironically, both the water bottle and the sandals were given to me by the same person in the same year -- one of my original Little Leaguers from the Dixie Pawns is the heir to the Blue Ridge Mountain Sports empire. Mr. Smith, if you read this somehow, it'd be great if you could send me another pair of those green ones with my new water bottle as well. Size 12.

But today, it was really annoying, because I had to pay for water. This is what chump travelers do -- rookies pay for water, folks. Rookies. You don't pay for the one thing that is free universally...and while I'm still in the West, where I'm able to drink this stuff, I'm pinching every penny I can.

And of course, what happens the first time I pay for water? I accidentally get the freaking mineral water...the one with gas.

"How could this have happened?" I began to fret once I heard the unmistakable fizz explosion sound coming from the mondo bottle. "In Den Haag the guy told me that ALL blue labels were REGULAR!!"

Well, that was Holland. This is Germany. Blue labels do not necessarily mean good water.

Can't we get a committee together from across the EU and Switzerland to come up with some commong ground regarding this issue? Everywhere you go in the world, the big, red octagon with the word "STOP" on it means stop. Everywhere. So I don't see it as impossible to bring about a N.W.O. where "blue" means "no gas," and "red" means "gas."

I've never actually tasted pee, but red can't be far off.

(happy ending -- I was able to use the gas water bottle as a pillow while I read in the park)

I know someone named Rambo. Do you?

I have now spent four days in Den Haag, which is a cool city because it's not that touristy, people are nice as hell, the beach is really cool with nice temperature water, there are parks, etc. But I have been chilling full time at this place called Cremer's, after the hostel girl recommended it and I found out I could pick up Internet for free.

I have been here like six times now. I'm here right now, actually -- for two hours before I take a train to Berlin, and then on to Copenhagen Thursday.

In my many hours spent at Cremer's, I have met some interesting people. But the pattern has pretty much been crazy Dutch acid cartoon character guy, cool person not born in Holland, crazy Dutch acid cartoon character guy, cool people not born in Holland, and so on.

Geop (pronounced Joop!) and the other guy whose name I can't remember were the cartoon character people -- these types of crazies have one main sentence that they will tell you, and continue telling you in 30-second intervals until they finally depart from your presence. Geop's was, "I plan on studying in WisCONsin, I heard there's a uniVERsity there" (8 times). Where he picked Wisconsin, I have no idea. My money is he saw some MTV Spring Break special on some chicks from Madison. The other guy's was, "Everyone in Holland speaks ENGlish! We learn it in SCHOO-ule!" He seriously went through this for five minutes with me, and then capped off this brilliant oral dissertation with, "Soo....I guess that's why we speak ENGlish in HOLLand!"

But Rambo was one of the cool folks. He's from Turkey, but came to Holland in 1976.

He rolled up next to where I am sitting right now, in his wheelchair, and asked if he could sit with me. Soon, we began talking. Then, Lebanon came up.

"Too much killing, too much fighting. I do not support this."

Rambo sure wasn't living up to his namesake.

"I am Islamista," he said. But his form is Islamism did not sound too familiar. "Do you know why they fight us? They are scared of this..." Rambo searched for a pen before even trying to find the words, his English not refined enough to express the dream.

On the back of a coaster, he wrote one word.

ISLAM.

Then, a downward arrow. From that point, five arrows all pointing downwards, separated by about fifteen degrees each to give them their own, distinct directions.

Rambo took another coaster.

1.

It was an alpha & omega story, and only one word had to be written. Coaster No. 1 was today's Muslim world, divided by ethnicity, geography, language, culture and some pretty violent arguments between the Shia, who think Ali, Islam's fourth caliph, was all that and a bag of chips, and the Sunnis, who think he was just one big-timer in a list of many.

"They are scared that we will form this," he said once it became clear that I understood Coaster No. 1. Rambo was pointing at Coaster No. 2.

Islamists have a simple goal: the reunification of the ummah, the worldwide Islamic population. But Rambo didn't sound like he was too anxious to harken the reign of sharia in Holland. And he sure didn't sound like someone who wanted to see infidels die en masse. Rambo, who could probably still put a beat down on me despite having lost the use of his legs due to polio, was not your typical Islamista.

"You know what Quran say?" I couldn't say that I did. "It say you must respect the Bible. You no know that, see. Ahh," he waved me away, acting disgusted by my ignorance.

But his message intrigued me.

It was almost like a "We Are the World, We Are the Children" form of uniting all Muslims to live as brothers, just like Muhammad wanted it to be like. But not to be attained through violent means. A Muslim...Islamist...hippie?

Far out.

As he continued to pontificate, I got that feeling. You know the one. Like you've met this person before. In another life?

It was the way he spoke -- the way he said his words, the types of ideas he had...he sounded like Bob Marley would have had he grown up in Trenchtown, Saudi Arabia.

"Excuse me, Rambo, do you know who Bob Marley is?" I had to ask.

Rambo started to chuckle, as if to say, "What kind of question is that?"

"I learned English from listening to Bob Marley."

Holy God. I cannot describe the amount of restraint it took to not scream -- loudly.

"More, more," I said, wanting to hear the story.

"I started listening to him in 1982..."

"...One year too late!" I interjected. Rambo shook his head in dismay -- Bob Marley died in 1981.

"I learned one word at a time. I listen, and I ask my friend, I say, 'What is this? What is this?' And I learn that way.

"The beat really," he struggled for words, and just patted his heart with his fist, "...for me."

We talked about this for obviously another 30 minutes, exchanging favorite songs, phone numbers and the like. And when it was time to go, he insisted that I photograph him with something "very special to him."

Rambo was easy-going and very non-threatening the entire conversation, but it wasn't until he got on his scooter that I saw a real smile.





 

This is George. George is dangerous.

Our friendship began my second day at the hostel in Den Haag, Holland (The Hague). Paranoid to the max about my laptop, my baby, getting stolen, even a quick dash inside for a refill on coffee made me think twice. So I see this short, bald, ROUND man sitting next to me, smoking a cig, drinking his joe black, looking extremely Middle Eastern.

I didn't know if he knew English, but I knew he would understand the universal sign for "I'm watching you, buddy." Two fingers, pointed at my eyes, looking straight at him.

"I'll remember what you look like," I said as I walked by, assuming he would not understand the sarcasm, thereby making the situation humorous for me.

When I came back 15 seconds later, the computer was still there, next to big, grinning George.

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"Seven thousand years ago!" he said, arms raised above his head to form what I found out 30 seconds later was a pyramid. All I had asked was where the man was from, and he was all about letting me know how old school his Egyptian society was.

"I am NOT Arab!" he warned. "There are some Egyptians with Arab blood, but we are not Arabs." To distinguish himself even more, George made sure to let me know that he was a Coptic Christian, as well.

"The Islam, he say 'Oh, yes, Allah, Islam, pray,' you know? But then he go with the women! He say (thrusting motions). The Chreestian is good, the Islam is no good!"

This was ten minutes before a group of semi-attractive, buns of steel French girls walked by.

"Wow," he said to himself, but definitely a little louder than is normal for saying something "to yourself."

His attention caught completely by the tall one in the white pants, George's eyes zoned out, staring without seeing.

"This is George." Now facing me, he spoke with pride.

"George is dangerous," he said with a sly-like-a-fox grin, boasting about his libido in the way that construction workers patented. "I have 57 years, but I am dangerous."

A few laughs, the periodical wiping of the forehead to collect beads of perspiration, and George began laying out the scene of his dangerzone.

"Nice whiskey" was the first step in the process. "Nice wine, nice bed..." George was still looking at me, his daily-shaven pate burning holes in my retinas, a pleasant smile on his face. He paused before the fourth and fifth steps.

"Clean woman...and then, after," his eyebrows raised to finish the thought. "This is George."

 

Isi was the only one that EMBRACED the "penis buttah." And the apple? I'd say it's even better than the banana, personally.
 

These guys have got the right idea. RAFTS are what you should bring, every time. It's a must.

I'm a Pisces, so I'm supposed to swim like a fish, right? I love the water, and all, but I really would say that I'm more like a seal. The climax of swimming is the drying off part.

That pier was my sunning rock.


 

It's my experience that hip hop is now officially the music of our generation. Let's just make it official.

And whenever you're at a festival with a bunch of heady white kids, and the music is all either reggae or all jam bands, etc., the one hip hop group gets people going crazy. It's like people have just been waiting to act like badasses, which is what white people feel like when they're cruising down the street in their Saturns, sunglasses on and a ferocious head nod going, cuz murda was the case dat they gave you.

I was at Saian Supa Crew (FR) with Zizou and Nawiee. They had already been complaining earlier in the weekend about the montony of reggae (not the first time I've heard the complaint), and they were overtly "hip hop guys," so I was happy to be there with them.

The way I was grooving in Abenberg to Gentleman...well, these two Frankfurters weren't going that crazy, but they were jamming.

And it was halfway through the show, when Zizou had been getting into it pretty hard, that he turns to me in his German accent and says, "Zie people, have been longing, for hip hop."

Yes they have, Fabian.

HOW GREAT IS THAT QUOTE?


 

Mascha -- and everyone in Germany -- says "hallo" when she answers the phone.
And as for Officer Hanaa...I mean, seriously, hottest cop of all time?

Johannes used to have a pet named Max Peter. It was named after his uncle. The pet was a retarded chicken. Johannes is a country boy -- a hunter and fisherman, which is pretty rare in Germany because it costs like two BMWs to get a license. So he has some chickens, and some sort of heating machine that takes care of the hens' maternal responsibilities by warming all the eggs. Well...one time, Johannes messed up and cracked one of the eggs towards the time they were going to hatch. Clearly, scotch tape is the solution, right? That's what this kid thought. Somehow, the thing survived, despite having a litany of birth defects that included it being a freak in all aspects. And Hans Peter became a pet..until it died a few months later.

Isi is down with peanut butter after living in the U.S. for a year, so I'm down with her.

And poor Mascha, who left the night before the final day -- her three favorite bands that she missed, Joy Denalane, Patrice and Saian Supa Crew, ended up being my favorite three shows.
This is what you do whenever Rene says, "Let's have a chill out, mon" in the deepest German accent I've ever heard.

Okay, anyone who went to Strake with me, Laeo is Jeremy Yeglin. Same body structure, same facial expressions, it is unbelievable. Just not as hyper.

And Max is like the opposite of TK -- tall, but not like TK.