Sept. 19, 2006

You know what, I'm really tired of being that guy. That mister.

The guy who gets to Europe without his bag. The guy who loses his passport. The guy who misses his train to Torino (you can blame that one on Dar, though I could have been more persistent in my tugging).

So I put my bank card in the ATM, selected 250 Euros, heard the sound of cash being shuffled and a receipt being printed, then looked down to find nothing. I heard the receipt being printed but a receipt there was not. I thought I heard cash being shuffled but none had appeared. The digital screen gave me no help, either. It said "Please take your card."

A little help here, please? Maybe a hint? OK, so I'm by myself and out of cash in the middle of Torino, Italy. And on top of that I have no Pearl Jam tickets. I'll get to that in a bit.

So I could use a little break for once. Can I not be that guy for a day? Mr. unlucky?

"Did you just deduct 25O fucking Euros from my bank account and not give it to me?" I asked the ATM machine in English.

Have you ever heard of an ATM error? Like asking for $50 and getting $500? I've had plenty of those fantasies, but I've NEVER heard a truthful story about one really happening. And I've never heard a story about getting scammed by the ATM, either. I think they're the most flawless machines on planet Earth. Now, if I could get Mr. genius who works on those to take a look at my laptop.

Anyway, if someone is going to get scammed by an ATM that's incapable of errors, it's going to be me. I'm that guy.

"No, not anymore," I told myself.

So I took a deep breath, tried my card again, and began hearing the same sounds as the first time: the shuffling of money, the sound of a receipt being printed. And this time Euros did appear, as well as the receipt. Now, about the first 250. I'll be checking my account the next time I have Internet access. And if they deducted them they'll be giving them back. IMMEDIATELY. Why?

Because I'm not that guy. Not anymore. In fact, you can call me Mr. Not Taking Shit From Anyone from now on.

I began walking back to the stadium with an extra hop in my step and a can of pissed off firmly clutched in my hand. But before I get to the part about whether they let me in to see Pearl Jam -- the greatest rock n' roll band that ever existed -- I should tell you first about how I got to this point. I jumped in halfway through the season when I should have showed you the pilot.

After missing our train yesterday, Daren and I were determined not to fuck up again trying to find our ride to Torino. We rushed to the station, which was only a football field away (whichever form of "football" tickles your pickled will work fine). When we sat down in our seats, it was 9:07 a.m. in Lyon, France. Our train was scheduled to leave at 9:15. That was 8 minutes before departure. Not bad. But Daren and I looked at each other with an expression of "that was too close," and I think he said as much.

It definitely was too close given that we were on a mission to see Pearl Jam, the greatest rock n' roll band that ever existed. One slip on the train journey today would completely derail our plans. Pun intended.

Daren and I had a very tense experience switching trains once along the way. We were fine, but it was the thought in the back of our minds that if we messed up, we'd end up missing Pearl Jam, which is the greatest rock n' roll band that ever existed.

We arrived in Torino at 1:30 p.m. It was hot, sunny and reminded us that there's a little bit of summer left in the season. I looked around and ogled at all the beautiful Italians (the women and even the misters around here are both good looking -- generally tan with dark skin and dark hair), while Daren went right to work finding our bearings.

He picked up a map for 5 Euros and began plotting our course. We both agreed that we were in good shape to be in Torino at 1:30 p.m. for a 9 o'clock concert. But we didn't want to take any chances. After all, if we slipped up we could end up missing Pearl Jam, which, if I hadn't mentioned earlier, is the greatest rock n' roll band that ever existed.

Daren's 5-Euro map from a shanty street vendor was the worst we've used on this trip. It took us at least 45 minutes to know whether we were going in the right direction. And at one point Daren and I split up so I could walk in a circle and play Mr. Photographer, taking photos of all the street signs for him to study.

It took us two hours to reach Stadio Olimpico from the train station (this is where the Winter Olympics just took place). Along the long walk we saw a lot of graffiti, including several communist hammers and sickles, plus the word "Bacon" scrawled across a university building. Maybe Bacon is the name of some Mr. Important Philosopher, I thought to myself, or maybe somebody just really likes those dog food commercials.

I caught a lot of video and studied the buildings intently. Then I came to a realization like so many I'd come to before: This is exactly how I'd pictured Italy in my mind.

Then I came to another realization: These places are probably looking they way I'd pictured them because I've seen pictures of them. Brilliant.

At one point during our two-hour walk, Daren went off on a tirade about the map. "If I see the guy who gave me this map again I'm going to shove it up his ass," Daren said. I visualized that in my mind, then started to feel sorry for the poor mister.

We arrived at Stadio Olimpico at 3:30 p.m. We were good shape. The concert didn't start for another 5 ½ hours. Plenty of time, we thought.

Several concert fans had already coalesced around the stadium, and an enormous line had formed at the place where it looked like you were supposed to pick up or purchase your tickets. Daren decided to guard the bags and I headed for the line. In my hand were two pieces of paper I've been guarding more vigilantly than my passport or my own two nuts. My ticket verification documents.

I purchased my concert tickets over the Internet 16 days ago in Twin Falls, Idaho. It was a bitch trying to get them online. First you had to go through the hassle of an Italian Web site. Then my Wells Fargo credit card wouldn't work. I tried again and again, changing the way I wrote my address on the Italian order form. At one point I even adding that I was a "Mr." Troy Foster to see if that would work. But the card would not go through.

Finally I pulled out an American Express card and guess what? It worked the first time. Shortly afterward, my phone rang. It was a fraud protection agency working for Wells Fargo. They called to ask me if I was trying to buy concert tickets in Italy, because the purchase had been flagged as a case of a stolen credit card. "No," I'd said curtly. "I just sometimes like to explore the wild terrain outside Twin Falls. So stop putting a freeze on my card every time I try to use it in Las Vegas or Beaverton, Oregon. Oh yeah, and Italy, too. I'm going there and I'm going use this credit card when I see Pearl Jam, which is the greatest rock n' roll band that ever existed."

"Have a nice day then, Mr. Foster," the nice lady told me. I'll give her that. "Have a nice day" is the most brilliant way of saying "Go fuck yourself," and you can't do anything about it. What, call back and tell her supervisor she said "Have a nice day."

So I'm here in Italy, right. Waiting in line to pick up the concert tickets I purchased online in Twin Falls, Idaho. In my had is a copy of two e-mails from TicketOne that show a confirmation number and the exact place where we'll be sitting.

It takes me at least half an hour to get to the front of the line, and I do exactly what everyone else before me has done. I produce my e-mail confirmation, plus ID. The cute little Italian girl behind the window shouts back "Trrrrroy Fohstere" (five R rolls in the Troy and more like a "Foe stair" sound with the last name) and the ticket people begin digging.

You know where this story is going, so I'll skip right to it. I'm that guy. Mr. Unlucky. Mr. Unbelievable. Mr. guy who came halfway around the world to see Pearl Jam (the greatest rock n' roll band that ever existed) but doesn't have tickets.

When they finally gave up looking for my tickets, the line behind me had grown impatient. I don't exactly know how in Italian you say "Hurry the fuck up, mister" or "Get out of the way you stinkin' American fool," but I think there were a few of those throw my way.

The Italian girl said she was sorry and asked me to step out of the way. There would be no tickets for me. No guitar riffs from "Hail Hail." No Pearl Jam. No greatest rock n' roll band that ever existed.

A scalper saw my plight and tried to sell me two tickets for 160 Euros, and I was like, "Whatever, mister," and walked away after some minor haggling. That's over $200 in U.S. dollars.

I walked back to Daren who'd been guarding our bags on a park bench, told him of my continuing karma, then took my Europe guide book and threw it as far as I could in a fit of rage (about 6 feet). It was about 4 p.m. by this time and we huddled to decide what to do next. Daren took the opportunity to remind me that I have bad luck. "Thanks, Mr. Obvious," I thought to myself.

I decided there was absolutely no way I was going to come this far to realize my fantasy of seeing Pearl Jam in Europe and fall short at the gate. I mean, they're the greatest rock n' roll band that ever existed for Pete's sake.

I decided I might just have to pay that scalper another visit. I also knew it was my luck -- I'm that guy -- that had gotten us into this jam, so I'd fork over the cash to get us out. I'd buy tickets Nos. 3 and 4 from the scalper. But first, we needed cash. We had no money between the two of us. We needed an ATM.

Which takes me back to the beginning, and the walk back to Stadio Olimpico with that can of pissed off in my hand.

I returned to Daren and launched into a verbal tirade about everything that's wrong in the world (which was caught on film), then I said, "Fuck this I'm getting our tickets." And my shitty luck ends here, now. I'm not that guy.

And no more Mr. Nice Guy, either.

I marched back up to the ticket window (there was no line anymore) and pulled what I hope is my first and last stunt as a stereotypical arrogant American asshole. I gave the cute little Italian girl my confirmation form again, pointed to our seat numbers and said, "Please give me what I paid for" in English. I didn't bother with my translation phrasebook.

I will give the ticket people a lot of credit. There were at least six or seven of them working behind two windows and each of them stopped what they were doing to figure out how Daren and I could see the show. The studied my confirmation forms some more and began sifting through their ticket stacks.

After a few minutes, the little Italian cutie began screaming, "Mister! Mister! Mister! Mister! Mister! Mister!"

"Mister Trrrrroy Foe-stair"

The crowd of ticket agents moved quickly, gathering around a woman who was now digging frantically through a pile of envelopes near a place card that said "M." There's no "M" anywhere in Troy Johnson Foster, but as it turned out some ass clown had put my tickets in the M pile. Why? Because my name was written as "Mr. Troy Foster" on the envelope.

I blame Wells Fargo for this, by the way.

As the lady slipped my tickets through the window all the ticket agents began to clap. And because all of them had spent 10 minutes of their undivided attention solving this problem, a modest line had formed again behind me. And the Italian curses had begun once more.

I pressed my face up against the ticket window, tried to acknowledged each of the employees by making eye contact them all, then yelled "Gratzie!" three times.

Then I turned, looked at the line of the pissed off concertgoers standing behind me, and said:

"Have a nice day."

It's easy to end this entry with the last word of the previous sentence, but I'd be remiss for not journalizing about my experience seeing Pearl Jam, which, if I've failed to mention before, is the greatest rock n' roll band that ever existed.

You might think that all was well when Daren and I got our tickets around 5 p.m., but we still didn't have a place to stay, let alone a place to stow our bags. We still weren't sure we were even going to see this show.

I guarded our bags at the park bench as Daren went on a brisk walk to see if he could locate a hotel within the vicinity. We had abandoned any hopes of staying at the place where we'd once had a reservation.

"Be back in 20 minutes," Daren said.

Over an hour later Daren returned with no hotel reservation. While he was gone I came closer to the end of "Rose Madder" and enjoyed listening to my favorite band perform a four-song sound check audible through the stadium walls: "Tremor Christ," "Leatherman," "Nothingman" and "Breath." And two young Italian guys came up to me on three separate occasions to feed me "teardrops." Two Euros per shot. I was happy. And buzzed. Somebody at home should try this marketing scheme.

We caught a taxi at 6:25 and headed to a youth hostel listed in Daren's guidebook. They told us they were booked (through the next several days) when we arrived at the front door just before 7 p.m. Daren had had a hell of a time trying to find a place anywhere in Torino when he made his ill-fated reservation a few nights ago, so we really started to think maybe it wasn't in our cards to see this show.

I told Roberto, our cab driver, that we would stay ANYWHERE there was a room, and he told us he had a friend. His name is Antonio he has a hotel, but it's "one star."

"We'll take it."

We sped across town and eventually arrived at the Hotel Lux at 7:15 p.m. (one hour, 45 minutes to go before showtime). It was a mom and pop hotel squeezed into part of the third floor of a building that also served many other purposes.

We paid 50 Euros in cash to "Antonio" -- a Chinese man who didn't know how to speak Italian, let alone English.

We stowed our bags, raced back down to the taxi and headed for the show. We arrived at the Stadio Olimpico at 8 o'clock (one hour to go). The doors to the show were probably open, and the opening band was probably playing, but Daren and I had not eaten anything all day but a Twix bar in the morning.

So we turned away from the stadium and walked until we found a cute restaurant. We gobbled a meal we didn't know how to say in Italian, and were back at the stadium by 8:45 (15 minutes to go). Eddie Vedder was on stage performing what I thought was a Who cover with My Morning Jacket, the openers.

We found our seats. The ones listed under Mr. Troy Foster, and relaxed for probably the first time all day.

The best way to sum up the show is this: They're Pearl Jam. You know, the greatest rock n' roll band that ever existed. Even when they suck they're awesome (they didn't this time). And in a far-away country where people only know a few words of broken English, they still sing along to every word of every song.

Strangely, Pearl Jam played their entire new album in succession after opening with three of their better known hits.

I have a theory on that. My hunch is that this show is going to be a DVD one day. I think that's why they played their entire new album and had several cameramen filming it. If that DVD ever does come out, I might be able to prove that Mr. Eddie Vedder looked up into the corner of the stadium and waved at me.

Daren and I left the seats assigned to Mr. Troy Foster about halfway through the show and marched up to the far corner where we had a different angle and some breathing room. At one point I was alone in the most isolated part of the stadium with rows of empty seats between me and the next fan, who was probably Daren.

Vedder constantly scans the crowd when he plays, and he shot a telegraphed glance in the direction of those in the far-right nosebleeds late in the show. When he looked our way, I was standing higher than anyone else in the stadium, so I instinctively raised my arm in a swooping, wide-angled wave. He immediately returned it, mimicking the wide, swooping motion.

I'm rarely ever star struck by anyone these days, but I about melted thinking that the man who was my hero through my adolescence had just waved at me. I just pray that while he was doing it he wasn't thinking "Have a nice day."

(Here's a two-minute clip of this day's misadventures):

http://s79.photobucket.com/albums/j130/troyfoster/?action=view&current=Sept-6.flv

Sept. 18, 2006

Since I'd spent the first two and a half hours of Sept. 18 on my computer with a mild beer buzz, I woke up a bit later than Daren this morning.

When I finally opened my eyes he was dressed, packed and ready to go. I sat up, scratched my naked chin, then reached for my feet to remove some toejam.

Daren was ready to go probably an hour before me. He'd slept like a baby while I'd pulled another minor celebration to drown my sorrows and try to right a day that was all wrong.

Once again, he elected to skip the shower this morning, but after my experience in Scotland and without a shower the day of our journey from Paris to Chamonix, I said no way.

…

Daren and I planned to fork up the 30 Euros for the gondola ride to Aiguille du Midi -- that tower atop that peak I was talking about -- but once again the sky was overcast. It wasn't raining like yesterday, but we definitely were missing out on the breathtaking sights we'd seen at dusk two days ago during our arrival.

Our long-haired Scottish host downstairs dissuaded Daren from taking the ride to Aiguille du Midi, though I must admit I was still in favor of it. The view from the Eiffel Tower had also been tempered by fog, but that in no way prevented me from doing what needed to be done up there.

We marched through town with our heavy packs and prepared to descend from the French Alps. Because Daren has taken it upon himself to makes all travel decisions, I waited in the lobby while he visited the ticket office. He wanted to consult them on the best way to reach Torino, Italy -- where Pearl Jam is playing tomorrow.

I watched him converse with the French ticket lady from a distance. He returned to me with a distressed look on his face but didn't say anything. A few minutes later -- as the train began heading west -- he declared he'd had his first bad experience with a French person. Was it because she was French and Daren was American? Or was it because a lot of people in this picture-perfect hamlet are snobs? I'd guess the latter.

The train ride out of the mountains was much more crowded than the ride in. Not too far away from us was a group of four Americans. They were loud and obnoxious, though not in the same way as Norman and his insane laugh.

What could I say about the ride in? Nothing more, really. It was boring. When we reached Saint Gervais we switched trains and I took two of the most uncomfortable naps of my life as we traveled toward Lyon and our date with destiny.

Wait a second, destiny you say? Yes. Because I'm that guy, right?

No, because Daren's that guy. Ol' Fearless Leader.

The horrible thing that happened to us on this day is the shit you remember when you get home. But when it happens, it pisses you off. Especially when you're in the position to say, "I told you so!"

I'll explain where I'm going with all this in a minute, but first I must give you this preface:

There are only two places in Europe that Daren and I knew with absolute certainty that we were going to visit before we boarded the plane in Boise 10 days ago.

One was Glasgow, where we arrived and where we'll leave from eventually. The other is Torino, Italy, where I've already purchased two tickets to see Pearl Jam and live out one of my ultimate fantasies. That fantasy is seeing the greatest rock n' roll band that ever existed on their European tour (I've seen them aplenty in the U.S. and Canada).

So the fact that we have previously purchased concert tickets in Torino afforded us to do something else: Book a hotel room ahead of time. That ultimately came back to bite Fearless Leader in the ass, but maybe it was karma.

When we reached Lyon, France, we purchased a direct ticket to Torino on a high-speed train. We had only 20 minutes before it left, so we headed to the correct platform.

We stood there for several minutes -- more than 20, in fact -- and while we were waiting Fearless Leader noticed something funny on a the departures and arrivals screen. The word "RETARD" was blinking repeatedly. I think it was an omen of things to come.

This was followed by several announcements in French over the PA system. Then one of those announcements must have caught everyone's attention, because most of the people at our platform suddenly turned and began scurrying toward another train.

I turned to Dar, "I think our train might be at a different platform because everyone's going over there," and I pointed at the people -- some walking fast, some running.

He just looked at me with an expression like, "Dude, I'm in charge. You couldn't navigate your way out of your own room if I rearranged the furniture." At least that's what I thought that condescending look was saying.

But I decided to check it out, anyway.

I walked over to the train everyone was piling into and whipped out the one line of French I've been practicing the last several days.

"Je ne parle (pas) Francais," I said. "Vous parlez Anglais?"

Wow, he even let me finish the line. He didn't answer verbally, but he wiggled his hand in that gesture that says "barely."

"Is this the train to Torino?" I asked.

"We," he said.

I hurried back to Fearless Leader to deliver the urgent news. Once again, I got the look that said: "Dude, I'm in charge of travel arrangements. You couldn't find your way out of The Louvre when I let you take the wheel for five minutes."

Why I didn't throw a fit just then I still don't know. Was it because I thought another train to Torino would come along shortly, or was it because I was being respectful of Daren and all the work he'd done getting us from place to place with little help from me. I don't know. Probably the first, but I knew I was right.

Sheepishly, I tugged on Daren's pant leg and begged him to at least walk over and check it out. Even though I ABSOLUTELY KNEW it was our train and it was about to leave, I felt the only way I could get us on it would be to get the conductor guy to tell Fearless Leader the same thing he told me.

So he slowly grabbed his bag and began walking. I scurried on ahead of him to see if I could find the French conductor guy again.

I had just about gotten to the train when it began it's five-hour trip to Torino. It was the last train of the day, Fearless Leader and I would soon learn.

"I told you so."

There's something to be said about being right, and being able to say that. It's an irresistible urge, and I think I threw in a few "I told you so's" just because I could. You can't help yourself.

I was mad at Daren for the first time on this trip. My brother had warned me of this before we left. He said something to the effect of: "Troy, no matter how good of friends you are, there will be times where you're sick of each other and maybe even mad as hell." He didn't offer a magic solution, he just told me to know that before this adventure started.

I didn't think it would happen, but it did.

And I told you so, Daren.

I TOLD YOU SO!

I TOLD YOU SO!

I TOLD YOU SO!

I TOLD YOU SO!

If he just would have listened to me.

Dar's error in judgment put the Pearl Jam concert in jeopardy. We could make it if everything went according to plan tomorrow, but it was no longer a certainty. And Daren ended up having to pay for the hotel room in Torino he'd booked ahead of time, even though he never get to sleep in it.

Fortunately, we found an expensive hotel in Lyon right next to the train station that Fearless Leader paid for, too.

As I was stewing, he said this to me:

"Well, it wouldn't be a Europe trip if we didn't miss a train."

"Yeah right, asshole," I thought to myself. I knew I was right about the train and you didn't listen!

Actually, I know Daren will read this journal entry eventually. It's my job to excessively document our trip in words, video and still images. And it's his job to lead us where we're going on this adventure of the mind, body and spirit -- even if he makes a mistake once in a while. (Sorry for the cliché there.)

I was pretty mad at Daren for making us miss our train and putting the Pearl Jam show in question, but I appreciate his wisdom and friendship more than he knows.

I couldn't think of a better person to travel with in foreign lands, and for that, Daren, I say "Thank You."

Thank you for getting me everywhere safely. Thank you for bearing the burden of the research and thank you for staying positive, even in the lowliest moments.

Most of all, thank you for being such a good friend.

And with that, I just have one more thing to add:

I told you so.

(Here's Daren causing us to miss our train):

http://s79.photobucket.com/albums/j130/troyfoster/?action=view&current=Sept-7.flv

Sept. 17, 2006

If I were to rank every day of this trip so far, today would be No. 9. That would be ahead of Sept. 8, which we spent in transit from Boise to Scotland (where they can't speak English).

It rained pretty heavily all day, and the highlight of touring Chamonix was finding a laundromat and getting our clothes partially clean -- maybe.

I stayed up until 4 a.m. last night squeezing more loafs out of the oven, then waiting for the Oregon State football game to come on. I paid $75 online at 2 a.m. for a yearlong subscription that will allow me to watch certain OSU football games over the net. For the first time in days we had a wireless connection in our hostel room, and I realized I could catch the game.

But remember, I'm that guy. So I waited in vein. The game didn't magically appear on my screen at 4 a.m. France time because it wasn't until next Saturday. This is a BYE week. I should have known that. I think that's why we planned our trip for this part of September. I'd miss as few Beaver games as possible and Daren would be back before the Mets started their playoff run.

So we washed our clothes today and got soaked to death. I wore a jacket over my bare skin so that I could wash as many shirts as possible. I was drenched by day's end. The only part of the day Daren and I spent together was our 2 p.m. "breakfast" -- hangover, yes -- and the part where we watched our clothes spin in circles.

We didn't have enough Euros between the two of us to buy detergent, so a nice girl from the UK loaned us the remainder of her "washing powder," which didn't quite do the trick. But everything feels fresher, I think.

Daren walked around and shopped and then maybe slept off his hangover. If you want to know what he thought of today, read his journal. Oh wait, never mind.

I did about the same thing as Daren but I skipped the nap and I shaved off my goatee for the first time in two years. But I was cold, wet and still feeling a bit irregular all day from the huge gap in our LOG book. And some e-mails I'd received from back home were bothering me, too, so I had a very negative day. I even started to think everyone I encountered didn't like me.

Maybe they didn't, because I sort of looked like a bum. If this observation wasn't one completely of the mind, I don't think it's because they're French or because they wait tables for a living.

For the most part, everyone in France has been nice to us and I'd recommend visiting to this country, absolutely! But I sensed some arrogance in the streets and shops of Chamonix today. Especially when a woman in a gift shop rolled her eyes after I successfully completed my line: "Je ne parle (pas) Francais."

If I hadn't mentioned this earlier, Chamonix is an upscale resort town. It's that perfect little mountain hamlet you've pictured in your mind, but I'll bet the amount of money floating around here has something to do with it.

There are gluttonous, gas-guzzling cars here that we haven't been seeing in other parts of Europe. And there's world-class skiing around the peaks of Mont Blanc. This place makes Sun Valley, Idaho, look like Buhl, Idaho.

Along with the rain came the overcast sky, which obscured our view of the incredible peaks we'd seen the night before at dusk.

So it was just one of those days. Too bad it was in Europe.

Sept. 16, 2006

Daren and I were the last two in our room to get up today.

We shared Room 108 in our hostel with three women. We're thinking a mistake might have been made, but we didn't make a fuss when arrived home around 11 p.m. and saw three ladies in their jammies. It was a little awkward, but I can think of worse.

We must have walked 15 or 20 miles yesterday. Our tour of France by foot took more than 12 hours. Following my piss from the top of the Eiffel Tower we saw the Arc de Triomphe, then got some pizza (me) and a calzone (Daren) at an Italian restaurant on the way back. I'm not sure if either of us had been so hungry in our lives, what with all that walking we did. My pizza was the first gluttonous portion of food I've been served up on this trip -- it had goat sausage and an egg on it -- but I devoured it. I think we can expect American-sized meals when we reach Italy in a few days.

So today was another one of those travel days.

As last night wound down, Daren read his travel book while I wrote in my journal. We each had a few Heinekens while we were doing our respective "jobs." Then Fearless Leader decided we should get out of metropolitan Europe and into some town off the beaten path. He thought he'd found the perfect place: Chamonix, France.

So by 11 a.m. we were on our journey east into the French Alps. It took all day, including three train switches.

During one stretch we were on a train with very ethnically diverse passengers who weren't speaking French. I could never authoritatively say so, but my intuition told me these were refugees from some east Asian country that ends in "ekistan."

During another portion of the trip we were sitting next to an American named Norman. I could never authoritatively say so, but my intuition told me Norman was rich, single and in need of some serious affection.

Norman, like most everyone in Europe, picked up on the fact that we were Americans. He approached us during a stopover in St. Gervais, announced himself to us obnoxiously and followed his greeting with an insane, high-pitched cackle.

I don't mean to cut on Norman. He was friendly and it was nice to talk to someone in English. But at first I was a little frightened by him.

It didn't help that I'm almost done with a book called "Rose Madder" where the main villain is a psychopath named Norman. But Daren and I think we're observing that Americans are much louder than people of other nationalities. Or, it might be that we hear people speaking English clearer than anyone else. But Norman was DEFINITELY was the loudest person we encountered on this day, and maybe the trip so far.

He told us he was an electrical engineer from somewhere in California. He tries to visit Chamonix often, this being his sixth time. He was a mountain climber who speaks "not one word" of French, he said, because you don't need to. And that laugh. He reminded me of Joe Pesci from the "Lethal Weapon" series. Or maybe the clown in "Happy Gilmore."

Norman told us that Chamonix was a ritzy resort town, and as we neared our final destination we could see why.

The Alps that towered above us were stunning, even as night took over the sky. I don't think I've ever looked at a ridgeline and been blown away by such an awesome spectacle. It's not just that they were tall, it's that you realized how pathetically small you were standing below these incredibly steep, teethlike ridges. A glacier rolled down between two jagged peaks, with a man-made tower visible atop one of them. Norman told us a cable car would take us to the tower, and we made a mental note to do that tomorrow.

As we exited the train and began walking toward a hostel in our guidebook, I came to a sudden realization: This is exactly how I'd pictured an Alpine mountain town in my mind. It was the cutest little hamlet I've ever seen, with ice cream parlors, barber shops and enticing streetcorner shops.

We arrived at "The Vagabond" around 8 p.m. As we approached the front desk, which was attached to a full-service bar -- score! -- I began the conversation like I do all those I start in France.

"Je ne parle …"

"I speak English," the snowboarder dude with the long hair interjected.

Not only English, but he was English, or rather Scottish -- they say don't mess that one up (like calling a Beaver a Duck). But he was a Scot we understood perfectly. He hadn't lived in Scotland for several years.

The Vagabond had been booked solid the night before, but a mass exodus had taken place because "it's the weekend," he said. I'm still trying to figure that one out, but supposedly it's easier to find vacancy at hostels on the weekends.

We stowed our bags in Room 4 then grabbed a Stella at the hotel bar before heading out to conquer Chamonix.

We had dinner first at a restaurant called La Ferme. I had a dish called tartiflette, which is the best dish I've had on the trip. Want to impress me? Learn to cook this.

Our French waiter wasn't a jerk, but he wasn't overly friendly, either. Is this going to be it? I thought to myself. Is this going to be the French-guy waiter who's a total jerk that I'm going to tell everybody about when I get home? Is he going to spit in my food and scoff something in that nasaly language of his?

He spent most of his time flirting with four girls from the UK and leaving our beer glasses empty. I will say this now about customer service in French restaurants: It's as good as it's going to get when there's no tip involved.

I don't know about you, but I can't stand it when I go to places like the Outback Steakhouse and the waitresses either sit with you or grab your face and begin licking it. However, if there's a pending tip involved it does a lot to win you nice service. You may loathe that you have to tip for about everything now, but at least you're treated respectfully because of it.

That jerky French waiter everyone who visits France talks about -- guess what, he was an asshole and you tipped him anyway. It was included in the price of your meal.

Onward. We hopped around a little bit but spent most of our night at a place called The Pub. It was staffed by two female bartenders from the UK who weren't making tips, but were fantastic anyway.

Daren and I drank the night away. It had been several days since we had a real celebration, and this one was tempered by only one thing.

I hate to do this at a bar, but I was forced to record an entry in our LOG book. I can think of only two other times in my life I've played Scategories in a bar toilet. One was at Berbadi's Pan in downtown Portland, and the other was at the Ironhorse in Missoula, Mont.

Bathrooms in bars are the most despicable bathrooms you can find anywhere, except for those in the Lambda Chi Alpha fraternity house in Corvallis, Ore.

But I had to do it.

"12:25 a.m., The Pub, Chamonix, France, 9/17/06."

Do you want to know why I absolutely had to do it? This always happens when I travel, but before today, and excluding my honorable mention entry from the Eiffel Tower, was this previous entry:

"5 p.m., Loch Lomond hostel, Balloch, Scotland, 9/11/06."

(Here's glorious video from after our night on the town):

http://s79.photobucket.com/albums/j130/troyfoster/?action=view&current=Sept-2.flv

Sept. 15, 2006

You know that famous tower in Paris. The one in all the pictures and postcards. That one image that's synonymous with France.

Well, I've been to the Eiffel Tower now. And I've pissed from the top of it. But I'll get to that in a minute.

Daren and I stowed our bags at the hostel this morning then headed out to see Paris.

Seriously. We're in Paris now. Not Twinkie Flats, Idaho.

Wow.

But a quick word about last night. As we were eating those yakisoba noodles and drinking our humongous beers -- did the lady not see the extra 20 pounds I'm packing around? -- a fight broke out at the door of the restaurant. Then, magically on cue, the heavens opened up and the rain came pouring down.

I mean, this was the most awesome downpour or rain I can remember seeing in a long time. One of the guys in the scuffle had somehow talked his way back into the restaurant by the time we left, and he gave me a random high-five as I exited the restaurant. "Nice guy," I thought. "Probably not part of the wait staff here."

Five seconds after leaving the restaurant, I was soaked. And by the time our sprint back to the hotel was over, it had seeped down to the bone. I wish I could describe how intense this rain was, or have caught an accurate depiction on video. I'd say it was raining like cats and dogs, but we haven't seen a single cat since we arrived in Europe.

So the next morning, we headed out around 10 a.m. to see Paris … on foot.

There's a metro here, but Daren decided he didn't want to chance it. He didn't like the idea of trying to navigate through a subway maze where everything's in French.

We had three destinations we intended to see. The Louvre where they keep the Mona Lisa, the Eiffel Tower and some catacombs Daren had read about in his travel book. They were all spread out pretty far, so we knew going into it that we were in for a long walk.

As we set off, I began scanning the street shops for a new shirt. I got those jeans in Glasgow, remember, but I desperately needed something for my torso. My one whitey undershirt was starting to get gross and disintegrate.

I thought I saw a shirt I liked, so I snagged it and tried it on in the dressing room. I wasn't quite sure it was a good fit for me, but Daren was acting like he was anxious to get going, so I kept it on and paid the 6 Euros.

By the time we'd eaten brunch at the Kebab House a little ways farther, I came to a stark realization about the shirt I was wearing. Then I started thinking about that conversation I'm going to have when I get home:

Friend: "Hey Troy, I see you're wearing a new shirt. Where did you get it?"

Me (arrogantly): "Oh, in this cute little shop in PARIS! Where did you get YOUR shirt?"

Friend: "Wow. I didn't realize people in France dressed like total fucking morons."

I hated my shirt. It was horribly ugly. And it accentuated my love handles and the extra 20 pounds I'm packing.

We stopped in another street shop where I tried on another shirt, size XL. Guess what? Too tight. Way too tight. Europeans are not fatsoes like us. An XL fits nicely back in the states, but not here.

"Don't you have anything bigger," I asked the tailor guy.

"No," he said emphatically. And then I sensed we were no longer welcome in his store.

So we left, and I walked around for another hour with a shirt on that said. "Hello, I'm a fat American tourist with a crappy shirt." It was the worst shirt I have ever slipped over the top of my body. What was I thinking?

I finally corrected that horrible action by purchasing a black, long-sleeved XXL shirt with "Petroleum Forever" written on it. Whatever that means, it's a cool shirt. I find it odd, though, that 99 percent of the shirts here have English words on them. So much for having a cool, foreign shirt from Europe. And so much for that conversation I was going to have when I get home.

We arrived at The Louvre probably around 2 p.m.. We got lost once on the way there, and also were distracted by a place called "Palais Royal" that had stunning ambiance. I've got lots of pictures to prove it.

I won't bore you with mundane details about the inside of the Louvre. It's one of the most famous museums in the world and there's lots of cool art shit and pretty stuff. The big attractions are the Mona Lisa and that statue-thingy of a woman with her arms cut off. La Venus de Milo.

You can take pictures of nearly everything -- and I did -- but you cannot take pictures of the Mona Lisa, so I did. And as I was doing it, a Scottish woman caught me and said this in that cockney accent of hers: "Some people have no respect." And some people are better speakers with a mouth full of marbles. Or maybe even a fist.

Seriously, though, it was more like a 4-second video I took, not a picture, let alone a flash. Not that big of a deal. I'll attach the video.

Before we left The Louvre we encountered one more bump in the road. We couldn't actually find our way out of that place. It was about 3:45 by the time we were ready to leave. We had quite a distance to cover to reach these catacombs Daren wanted to see. So it was time to bail The Louvre, even though we'd probably only seen only a fraction of it.

Well, we ended up seeing probably two-thirds of the place just trying to find our way out. There are exit signs everywhere, and we followed them until they took us to an area that had been cordoned off for remodeling. I think it was the secret place where they keep the holy grail -- you know, that one chick that Jesus really digged.

We actually started to get angry about not being able to get out, but in the process breezed through the entire collection of Egyptian artifacts. At one point we turned a corner and headed down a stairway into an exhibit we'd already been to. It's a creepy feeling when you walk for 15 minutes and realize you've somehow gone in a complete circle. I thought that only happened to characters in horror flicks.

It was about 4:10 when we got out of The Louvre and headed for the catacombs. As Daren and I were walking past an outdoor restaurant in the enormous park that leads to The Louvre, we decided to stop to eat instead. And give up our quest for the catacombs.

As the fancily dressed waiter approached, I began speaking to him in French.

"Je ne parle …"

"I can speak English," he said abruptly.

I had probably the worst meal of the trip so far. It was some kind of tiny sausage baguette. It was like ordering an orange and getting a tangerine (and expensive, too). Daren got some red wine so he could tell his friends he went to Paris and drank red wine. He's a poseur.

We didn't tip the waiter. And it wasn't because he was mean (he was indifferent to us, actually).

If you think about it, every American who's ever been to France has some kind of horrible story to share about some asshole waiter. "Oh yeah, we were eating at this restaurant in Paris and this Pierre guy was such a jerk!" I think I've heard 10 versions of that story.

Actually, this Peirre guy wasn't a jerk. We didn't tip because we learned something very, very interesting from our friend Julian on the train yesterday. Under most circumstances, YOU DON'T TIP in Europe. It's supposedly already included in the price of your meals. Interesting.

So we ventured onward, and for the first time could see the top of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Because my tangerine-sized baguette didn't satisfy me, I stopped at a snack shack and ordered a "crepe" along the way. Big mistake, and I should have already known this from seeing that ridiculous movie "Talladega Nights." A crepe is a French way of saying "pancake." I am too prone to wandering off on tangents, so I won't indulge here. Just let me tell you that I like bin Laden more than I do pancakes.

It took us probably another two hours or so to get to the Eiffel Tower. Once again, Daren and I got a little distracted as we wandered our way there. We stopped at a French military history museum but weren't able to stay long. There were as many exhibits as there have been French military victories.

I don't know too many people who've been to the Eiffel Tower and gone up it. Most people say they didn't feel like paying for the ride to the top (even though they spent thousands getting to Paris). So Daren and I forked over 8 Euros apiece and purchased the damn elevator ride. Let me recommend this to anyone intending to visit Paris.

It is a bit frightening heading up the elevator to the top of this thing. It literally scared the piss out of me.

Oh yeah, didn't I mention at the beginning of this long ramble that I pissed from the top of the Eiffel Tower? Well, yeah, that's true. But if I implied that I pissed over the side then maybe I was vague to embellish a little bit.

So we get to the top of the Eiffel Tower, right. It takes two separate elevator rides past two platforms to get there. It's been drizzling rain all day and it's overcast, but you can still see for miles, or kilometers if that's your preferred standard of measurement. What fascinates me the most, though, is that there's a bathroom at the top of the Eiffel Tower.

There's not much room to wiggle at the top of the most famous tower in the world, but they managed to squeeze toilets up there. Fascinating. Of course my mind immediately wanders to our LOG book and the potential bragging rights I could have every time the Eiffel Tower comes up in conversation.

So I open the door to the restroom at the top of the Eiffel frickin' Tower. There's a men's area to the left, a woman's restroom to the right and a woman sitting at the smallest desk you've ever seen in the middle.

She eyed me with both suspicion and indifference. There were no doors to either restroom and little privacy, I observed. There were two pissers in the men's room and a door to what I assumed was a toilet, but it was locked. Maybe it was occupied, but it ruined any chance of recording the most historic entry ever in our LOG book.

I don't know for sure why there were no doors at the entrance to either bathroom and a woman sitting right there in the middle, but I have my suspicions. I'm sure she's there to guard against any attempts to smoke dope or pull off an Eiffel Tower version of the Mile-High Club.

So I recorded an honorable mention entry into our LOG book, we took our token pictures and then headed back down to the second platform. From there, Daren and I walked down an enormous set of stairs to the first platform, then down the last leg of the elevator to the bottom again.

When we were safely on the ground, I couldn't help but wonder one thing.

Who had reached the bottom first? Me or the piss?

(Photo of Daren at the Eiffel Tower):

http://i79.photobucket.com/albums/j130/troyfoster/100_4183.jpg

(Photo of me at the Arc de Triomphe):

http://i79.photobucket.com/albums/j130/troyfoster/100_4194.jpg

Sept. 14, 2006

I sorta went off there in my last entry, omitting what happened the rest of our day.

Probably for good reason.

After sightseeing we didn't do anything exciting, so I'll tell you all about it. Maybe Daren and I have been inspired to correct our gluttonous American habits, because we didn't go out and make last night a celebration. We both grabbed a modest helping of lasagna at a small street-corner restaurant, then I spent the rest of the evening in the hostel lobby, reading my Stephen King book and working on my journal. Daren took a shower and went to bed.

I retired around 11 p.m. London time but was woken up by lightning and thunder around 1:30 a.m. A huge storm rolled through England during the night, dumping an amount of rain the likes of which you never see in Idaho. But strangely, it was hot. Our sleeping area (which we shared again with two unknown travelers) was terribly humid, and I laid awake for two hours before I could get back to sleep.

We checked out of room 206 at 10 a.m. Daren and I launched what was to be our second big travel day.

We've done it all know. Trains, planes, automobiles, subways and boats. By the end of the day, we'd caught every form of transportation, minus the plane.

Daren led us through the tube to a bus station, where I sampled another indigenous delicacy: A Whopper with cheese (small fries and small drink, though). From there, we caught a 2 ½ hour bus ride to the Port of Dover, where we swam to France.

No, we didn't really swim, but before I go back to that here's another weird foreign observation. I've had the most frustrating experience trying to find garbage cans here in the UK. I packed around a wrapper and an empty Coca-Cola Light bottle for more than an hour this morning looking for a place to throw it away. There are virtually no garbage cans in London, and from what I've observed few of them elsewhere in the UK (that horribly trashed park in Balloch comes to mind).

When you do find a can, though, it's always small and transparent. Even the one in our hostel room was tiny, which makes me think of a small, Scottish-accented voice in the back of my mind. It's trying to say to me, "Don't buy so many disposable items that are destined for the a landfill … oh, and by the way, soder off you bloody bastard."

Fortunately, I can't understand Scottish.

So after I ditched the bottle and candy wrapper on the floor of the London subway system, three hours later we were at the Port of Dover, which is where we left off.

So here we are now, six days into the trip, and finally I'm able to bust out the Eurail Passes. I purchased them two days before we left for $675, plus the cost to overnight them.

The UK doesn't honor Eurail passes, but France does, so we got ourselves a nice discount on the ferry ride over the English Channel. And I started to feel better about having those things overnighted.

We had some time to kill before we were shuttled out to the boat, so I purchased a black coffee (successfully this time, and "Americano" is how you order it) then Daren and I relaxed for a moment and took in the sights.

The White Cliffs of Dover are fascinating. You know why? Because they're white. And they're cliffs. And they're in Dover. I'll show you some pictures when I get back. It's something I'll never forget!

As we were melting from the sheer beauty of Clover's yellow bluffs, Daren and I sort of looked at each other nervously.

This is where it gets interesting, we mutually agreed. We had a sense that our adventure was just now about to start, and we had come to the end of the beginning.

So far we've been safe and comfortable in the confines of an English-speaking country (with the exception of those marble-mouths in Scotland). Now we're headed to France. And people are MEAN in France, especially the waiters. So I've heard.

When the shuttle arrived I was stopped at the door and was told I couldn't bring my coffee on board. "Well, where do I put it then?" I asked the driver. "I don't see any garbage cans around here."

"Just set it on the ground and somebody will pick it up," he replied. "There aren't any rubbish containers anymore because everyone's afraid people will deposit bombs in them."

Ah ha!

Oh, and by the way, I've deposited a few bombs on this trip. Just look in my LOG book.

Including Daren and I, there were only eight foot passengers who boarded this gigantic ferry. When we strolled onto this thing, it seemed like we had it all to ourselves. It was a mazelike structure, with several restaurants and bars. Lots of stores, too, selling liquor and perfume. It took us about 10 minutes to figure out how to get to the top deck, and about 15 minutes after we set up camp on a park bench, a wave of other passengers magically arrived.

I never saw where these other passengers came from, and never saw them leave when they hurried off before us, but I assume they were car passengers who drove their vehicles aboard. When we walked off the ferry it was just us and the other six foot passengers again.

It took probably a little more than an hour to get to Calais. When we walked off the ferry, I was nervous. So was Dar, I think.

We were shuttled to a ferry station, for lack of a better description, and then we tried to figure out how to get outta there. I'd switched some pounds in my pocket into 10 Euros, and thank God I did. There was no ATM here, and getting away from the ferry station cost us a bus ride into town.

At the bus station a man who we'd eventually learn was named Julian asked us for a light in French. I quit smoking a while back, but for just a moment I wish I still did because I didn't want to upset this guy. I mean, French people hate Americans. Especially the waiters. Or so I've heard.

We don't speak French, and we indicated as much with our body language. He automatically switched over to broken English and we were relieved. And guess what? The first French guy we met liked us!

We took that bus ride into town. Out the window we noticed a rough crowd was patrolling the streets of Calais. Lots of homeless people squatting in alleys and all those places where people squat.

That nervous feeling was still with us when we arrived at the train station. Everything was written in French. How are we ever going to find our way around this country? Then there was Julian, standing over there.

He told us he was taking a high-speed train to Paris, and to follow him. So we did. And you know what? He liked us, which was weird. Because French people hate Americans. Especially the waiters. Or so I've heard.

My brother and his wife gave me some good advice before I came over here. No. 1, book the first night of your stay in Europe before you leave and No. 2, learn how to say this in the native tongues: "Excuse me, I don't speak ____. Do you speak English?" They respect that more than if you run up and spit English in their faces, or even Mexican, for that matter.

So given that the first French guy we met liked us, I thought I'd pick his brain for some insider knowledge. My little European phrase book tells me how to say, "Do you speak English," but it doesn't tell me how to say, "I don't speak French."

So Julian wrote down this for me, "Je ne parle (pas) Francais." We practiced for a minute, and I committed myself to prefacing each conversation I start with those words. Especially if I'm going to be ordering food from waiters (they're really mean here, by the way, or so I've heard).

We took a short train ride to a nearby station, then Julian took us to the ticket window to buy our ride to Paris on a high-speed train.

I walked up to the window with the confidence of someone who took two years of Mexican in high school. I mean Spanish.

I began: "Je ne par…"

"I can talk to you in English," the lady interjected abruptly.

So we got those tickets on the high speed train to Paris. Daren and I had first-class seats, but we climbed into the little storage area with the bathrooms that's between each train cab with our new friend Julian. Julian, by the way, is French. And he actually liked us.

It only took about an hour and a half to get to Paris from the coast of France. I mean, this train was booking. Julian at one point told us how fast we were going in kilometers, but I can't remember what he said. I don't speak in kilometers, let alone French or even Mexican, though I took two years of the latter in high school.

We learned a lot about Julian in the hour and a half. I think he found us a novelty, being from the U.S. and all. He was dark-skinned and Turkish-born. He works in London six months then returns to France for six months, then repeats the cycle. Although he could sorta talk to us in English, it wasn't very good. But he chatted away at us nonstop.

We picked up that he works in a factory in London. He might have said peaches. So next time you get peaches, just think: Peaches come from a can. They were put there by a man. In a factory downtown.

That man is Julian.

Julian also wanted to know all about American women. He was 26, divorced and has two kids living in London with his ex. He said he was looking for a new woman, but thought American women had fat asses. He used his hands in that curvy hourglass gesture to underscore this point.

"No, they just have big hips," I corrected him.

Also, when we told him we're from Idaho, he looked at us with a blank stare. I told him he wasn't missing much, except maybe Napoleon Dynamite.

When we arrived in Paris, it was after 9 p.m. Paris time. So much for having time to do something tonight. I took a photo of Julian and Daren as we parted ways. Julian kind of had a sad look on his face, like he was saying goodbye to lifelong friends he wasn't going to see for some time. Julian, if you find me here in the cyber universe, send me an e-mail. You'll always have a place to stay at my house in Twin Falls, Idaho. It's about two hours west of where they filmed Napoleon Dynamite.

We lugged our bags through the streets of Paris for about an hour before Daren found his way to the hostel on his map. When we got there they were full, of course. I'm that guy, remember. And it was about 10 by this point.

We went ahead and put down 50 Euros for a room for tomorrow night and then began our quest to find a place to stay in the interim. We were lucky.

We didn't score at the first hotel, but we did at the second, thanks to the very nice French guy at the desk of the first. I figure he's never waited tables here, because he made a call for us, then drew a map of how to get to hotel No. 2. And I think he liked us.

Hotel No. 2 was called something like "The Avenir." It was 45 Euros for one night. We had our own bathroom and shower in Room 1. Daren and I scratched our heads. Weren't hotels supposed to be more expensive than hostels?

We made our way to a place that served Asian food. We ordered some yakisoba noodles and a beer apiece. Stella for me, in fact. When we tried to order our beers large, though, the lady kind of shook her head and said something to the fact that it was too big. "No, large will do," both Daren and I tried to tell her.

Because she still thought we'd regret that decision, she grabbed a stepstool to get to where they keep the "large" glasses for special occasions. She grabbed an enormous jug that looked more like a pitcher and flashed it toward us. "You sure?" she asked. For the third time.

We both nodded in unison.

After all, we're Americans.

(Here's a little video if you're interested):

http://s79.photobucket.com/albums/j130/troyfoster/?action=view&current=Sept-3.flv

Sept. 13, 2006

"I want to die."

That's what I thought as I came into consciousness this morning. I woke up around 9 a.m. and found myself in my bunk. Daren was in his, too. I had a headache and was dizzy. Lips parched.

How did I get here? I couldn't remember. But as I checked my camera while Daren was showering I was able to fill in some of the blank spots. Maybe a better term would be the grand finale. I've seen people better behaved on walks back from the Steakhouse. If you live Twin Falls, maybe you know what I mean.

Originally, Daren and I were going to leave the UK today, but we're finding that you can't do everything and travel at the same time. Moving between places takes a day's time, and don't forget to tack on a few more hours if you lose your passport. If you try to sightsee and travel on the same day, you'll have to lug your pack around. That's no fun.

So we decided to stay one more night in the London hostel, which was called "WHA St. Pancras International." It's in a downtown building that's several stories tall, though the hostel only occupies a small fraction of it.

…

Daren and I left our hostel and hit the London subway system. I found myself trailing well behind him along the walk and began thinking I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt this hung over. It's been forever. I mean, probably not since last Tuesday.

Anyway, once more I deferred to Daren to get us where we were going. I'd told him that I'd like to see the London's Museum of Natural History -- it's free! -- and probably that big towery clock thing that was blown up in "V for Vendetta." Big Ben, I think. After that, who cares. I'm not too particular about what we do here. I'm in Europe and the smallest things -- like foreign supermarkets and weird road signs -- are fascinating enough for me.

In terms of traveling, Daren has taken charge of where we're going and when we'll get there, even though he usually describes himself as a follower, rather than the leader. He's enjoying figuring out how to get places and I've enjoyed sitting back and scratching my ass. No, actually my job is to capture every bit of this trip in words and on camera (and I haven't missed a moment, mind you). He's the navigator, I'm the print/broadcast journalist. Or even call me the filmmaker, I like that. These roles were defined before this trip even began.

So while Daren was trying to figure out how to get to the museum and I was scratching my ass (and filming it), he realized how terrible he felt, too. It was going to be a long day. But this is Europe, so we slogged on. "I don't know if I can have a night like that again," Daren said. He's probably right. We'd probably end up in jail.

Daren found a route and just minutes after jumping on the subway we came out right under the Museum of Natural History. I'm a big sucker for natural history museums. I went to one last year in Washington D.C., so I figured I'd love this one as well.

After passing through security, we headed straight for the same exhibit as all the other Americans: the café. No, really, we needed it. We got some coffee, bottled water and some shortcake. Hangover food.

This entry in my travel journal is as boring as it gets, so I won't add a bunch of mundane details about the museum. It was a museum, and if you want to know more about what's in it you should go there. Daren can give you directions. But no, really, it was awesome in size and in scope. There's a lot of deep shit to ponder about evolution, the cosmos and the general origin of life.

But because Daren and I weren't up to 100 percent this morning (maybe more like 38 percent), we cut it short -- skipping several exhibits so we could head back to the café.

…

The rest of the day was a mix of subways and monuments. I'd follow Daren into a tube and in what seemed like no time we'd emerge at all the places you conjure in your mind when you think of England. I learned that Big Ben is actually part of England's Parliament Building (I think I knew that once in my pre-Stella days). We also made visits to the London Tower, the London Eye and London Bridge (is falling down, falling down, falling down). And I particularly liked Buckingham Palace, which I wouldn't have visited if I were here alone.

When we arrived at Buckingham, we saw those stiff guys in red with the fury garbage-can hats. They were guarding the palace, and I naively asked Daren, "Are they keeping the queen in there?" (NOTE: I thought Daren came up with it himself when he said "fury garbage-can hats," but he says he picked that up in the Bill Bryson book he's reading on this trip.)

Buckingham Palace was our first stop after the Museum of Natural History, and after we made our way past the guys in red (without getting thrown in the palace with their queen) we moseyed across the street to a park so we could SLEEP.

There was a little food stand on the edge of the park, where we ordered some chow. I picked up a hot dog and a banana, then proceeded to gobble them down quicker than Fat Bastard just off of a hunger strike.

Sleeping in parks is a relatively new thing for me. I used to think it was just for bums, but Daren and I caught at least an hour's nap in this park next to Buckingham Palace. I looked around before we found our spot to see if anyone else was sleeping, but they weren't.

I see bums sleeping in parks all the time. Then I looked down at my toes and panned upward to just below my chin, which is as far as I can go when I look at myself. "I look the part," I thought.

So we slept. In a public park. Like bums.

When we woke up I visited that little food stand again to get myself a Diet Coke.

I will attach a picture of this "large" Diet Coke below. This "large" drink was maybe 12 ounces dripping wet.

And that brings me to the topic of food portions. When I look around, I'm a bit chubby compared to your average Brit. I don't think I'm obscenely overweight, but I'm probably packing 20 pounds more than I should, according what the health experts say. Still, that's not very much. I didn't feel fat when I left the States, but I do now.

Maybe one in 20 people here are overweight, but not by much. If I was in a busy tourism center in the U.S., I'll bet sixty percent of the people I scanned would be fat. And I have not seen one grossly overweight person in Europe since I got here. Not one.

Now back to that Diet Coke. When I walked up to the food stand to place my order, I asked, "Don't you have anything bigger?" The very friendly lady smiled at me and said, "You American? … No, not like in America." (She wasn't British).

Was I offended? Absolutely not. I'll rarely ever be offended by something grounded in the truth, no matter how sobering it is. So I jokingly formed my hands around my waist to accentuate my belly and said, "Yeah, we Americans are gluttonous slobs who like things HUGE," then followed it with a throaty, Fat Bastard laugh. Both ladies laughed.

It really is amazing, though. When you walk into little markets here, they don't sell soda in 44- or 64-ounce buckets. Twelve will do just fine. The biggest drink I've had so far was from the Glasgow Burger King yesterday. It was probably 16 ounces "King Sized" in honor of the royal family.

Same goes for food portions. Most restaurants are serving us modest helpings that are more than filling -- just eat it slowly and enjoy your company.

I was conscious of America's obesity epidemic and our addiction to food before I arrived here. Lots of voices are speaking out about it, including Bill Maher and that guy who did "SuperSize Me."

But now it's really sunk in for me since I'm in Europe, looking around and seeing that I'm the fattest guy in the room.

(Here's a video of some stuff we saw today):

http://s79.photobucket.com/albums/j130/troyfoster/?action=view&current=Sept-1.flv

(And here's what a "large" soda in Europe looks like): 

http://i79.photobucket.com/albums/j130/troyfoster/Largecoke.jpg

Sept. 12, 2006

OK, before I forget: Didn't I already mention something about sexist candy bars?

Yes, they have sexist candy bars in Scotland. Melanie, I'd be curious to know what you think of this.

Nestle here produces a candy bar called "Yorkie." I guess it's just regular chocolate -- it doesn't have any special taste to it or anything -- but on the wrapper it says "IT'S NOT FOR GIRLS." And it has a sketch of a woman with a circle and cross through her.

Daren and I don't really get it. Is it a promotion scheme? Must be, because it inspired me to buy it. I took some pictures to prove I'm not making this up.

I mention it now because I had one this morning. Daren had one last night. They're so good. But they're NOT for girls.

Daren and I were inspired to make like hockey players and get the puck out of Scotland on this day. It was to be our first big travel day. We planned to make London by the early evening and have some time to look around before leaving this island country the next morning.

So I got up by about 8 and hit the showers. I didn't want to be scammed out of a shower again (see Sept. 11).

We really got out of Balloch fast and were poised to be in London in great time. But remember, I'm that guy.

I'm the guy who reaches Europe without a bag. I'm the guy who causes things to break just by looking at them. If a meteor is going to fall from the sky and kill someone, I'm the guy who's going to get hit. Daren says an aura of bad luck surrounds me. I'm that guy.

I'm also the guy who loses his passport in Europe. Yes, it happened.

Shortly after boarding the train back to Glasgow, I realized I might not have my passport anymore. I've been keeping it in the pants pocket against my left butt cheek so far. And when I reached for my wallet to pay the ticket-taker, I realized the passport was no longer there with it.

I decided to drop this bomb on Daren and get it over with before we got to Glasgow, or even London -- God forbid. I guessed there was a 50 percent chance of it being somewhere in my pack, a 25 percent chance of it being back at the hostel and a 25 percent chance of it being lost forever.

We got to Glasgow at 11:10 p.m., emptied my bag and confronted the inevitable. I called the hostel and luckily they'd found it in my bed. I sensed Daren was pissed, so we decided to split up so he wouldn't have to go all the way back to Balloch with me. He would research and discover the best way for us to get to London while I retrieved the passport.

All told, my snafu cost us at least four hours. I had to ride the train one hour each way to get to Balloch and back. I took a taxi to the hostel and was greeted by some snickers at the door. It took only 10 minutes to take a taxi from the station to the hostel and back again. But then I had to wait 45 minutes to catch the next train back to Glasgow.

I arrived in Glasgow -- again -- at 2:30 p.m. I met Daren under a big 7 and he informed me that we'd missed the 2 o'clock train to London, so we had to spin on our thumbs until the 4 o'clock departed. If I hadn't lost the passport, we'd have left London by noon.

We jumped on the train about 20 minutes before it departed. That's when the second dumb-ass thing of the day happened. The signs in the train said, "Wireless Internet is available at your seat." And since I hadn't been online in three days I thought I'd update my MySpace page and let everyone know I'm still alive (and write Melanie, too).

So the stupid T-mobile site comes up and I realize I have to pay 10 pounds, which is more than $20 in U.S. dollars. So what happens? I pay, get online and as the train leaves behind the station, so goes the wireless connection, too. I lost my Internet signal about 60 seconds after entering the last number of my credit card. I didn't even have a chance to check my e-mail. (The wireless system on the train was down. The T-mobile connection was a station-only deal.)

Our train ride to London was more than five hours, but I hardly noticed. I was a bit T'd off about losing my Internet connection right after paying for it, but then I passed out from travel fatigue for about an hour. When I woke up I wrote in my journal (hi!) and read a few pages of "Rose Madder."

Daren and I reached London around 9:30 and were grateful we could understand the English folks a little better than the Scottish lads up north.

We checked into a fine hostel near the station, stowed our bags in a room that was already occupied by two sleeping Sallys, and headed for the pub.

I'm already developing a favorite drink over here: Stella Artois. And by the end of the night, I'd had one too many.

We hit two pubs. The first closed I think around 11, or maybe it was midnight. I know we weren't there any more than an hour. Then we wandered for a bit and found a place that was open until at least 2 a.m.

That's when things got out of control.

Daren and I were befriended, or maybe I should say accosted, by two patrons -- a man and a woman. They began buying us drinks and pouring them (figuratively) down our throats. We think the guy was Scottish because we could NOT UNDERSTAND ONE WORD he said, but his "girlfriend" made perfect sense. I believe they viewed us as a novelty because of our Americanism. They wouldn't leave us alone, though I didn't mind at the time.

After we were done at the bar, I thought we walked home and went to bed. That was my educated guess when I woke up in my bunk the next morning. But I couldn't remember doing it. One too many Stellas, maybe.

Then I checked my video recorder, which had evidence of a more interesting series of events than simply walking home and going to bed.

If you want to know what happened, you'll just have to suffer. I'd have to kill you. Or you can buy me a few Stellas when we get home and I'll show you some fascinating video.

Here's our featured video clip:

http://s79.photobucket.com/albums/j130/troyfoster/?action=view&current=Sept.flv

Here's the sexist candy bar:

http://i79.photobucket.com/albums/j130/troyfoster/9-2.jpg

Here's another angle on the candy bar:

http://i79.photobucket.com/albums/j130/troyfoster/9-3.jpg

Sept. 11, 2001

I woke up on the wrong side of the hostel.

The signs say "make your beds tidy by 9.00 a.m." Check out is at 9.30 a.m.

No problem, I thought. My bed was "tidy," even though in my mind it didn't need to be. Daren and I decided to stay another night in our castle so we could explore Balloch and Loch Lomond. It would be nice to spend a day not worrying about finding a place to stay. And besides, we don't want to be traveling constantly for the next three weeks.

So by that line of thinking I figured we'd just stay in the same room. Around 9:30 or so I went downstairs to pay for another night while Daren hit the showers. I loitered near the reception area for almost half an hour before I found the guy who worked there. And when I did he basically told me to get the fuck out. The fact that I could barely understand his cockney Scottish accent just made things worse.

I was told to get my shit out of the hostel and come back at 2 o'clock if I wanted to stay another night. There was nothing more to discuss. Apparently they don't know how to clean a room if there's still a bag in it.

"But I can take a shower still, right?" No, the asshole Scottish guy said. And that was the icing under the kilt.

After getting the boot from Room 107 they allowed us to stow our bags downstairs. And a tidy, freshly shaven Daren and I left the hostel soon after.

Keep in mind I didn't have my pack the first two mornings of this trip, so I hadn't shaved in three days. Imagine how delighted I felt to be walking into a foreign town looking like a dirty American hippy. And I itched, too. Badly.

Daren spent the first half hour of our walk into town trying to calm me down as I stewed about the wanker with the cockney accent.

We hit a little café in a spiffy shopping area on the outskirts of Balloch. The shops were clustered around the main attraction: an aquarium inside a tall building called the Drumkinnon Tower, which overlooks Loch Lomond.

I ordered a "toasted tuna cheese melt baguette" not really knowing what it was. When the baguette arrived, it reminded me of something from Subway, so I think I told Daren it must be some asshole cockney Scottish way of saying "sandwich" (I was still thinking about that guy at the hostel). I'm completely uncultured, so sue me for not knowing what a baguette was ahead of time.

I'm curious and anxious about the different customs we're encountering. And I think I identified a new one while we were eating. We were attended by at least four different members of the wait staff during our patronage of this little café. And it occurred to me that that had happened the night before, too, with all the different bartenders. We're still trying to figure out how to tip.

The first young lad at the café had a thick accent. I could barely understand him, though I could make out "No worries at all," which he said about six times. He was so friendly that I started liking Scots again. My experience with the bastard "receptionist" at the hostel almost made me prejudice toward Scottish people.

This so-called Drumkinnon Tower was a round, pudgy building probably seven or eight stories tall. Not the first image that comes to mind when you hear the word tower. We paid about seven pounds apiece to get in, and on the first two floors was a pretend-aquarium.

If we'd paid the equivalent of $14 apiece to do the exact same thing in the U.S., Daren and I would have felt ripped off. There wasn't really much to this aquarium other than some fish and three otters. Looking at the fish was about as fun as climbing the stairs to the top of the tower. To break up the monotony of the staircase, though, they put in a landing where you can sign a petition. Something about turtle conservation, or maybe it was frog habitat. Anyway, I put down a U.S. address and signed my name Melanie Cota with a generous promise of future financial donations, "Just call!"

There was an incredible movie theatre contained within this so-called tower. When we got to the seventh floor, you could either go outside on the roof or duck into this theatre, which rivaled IMAX in size. It would be the perfect place to watch "Star Wars" or play "NCAA Football 2007." But they were using it to show a short film on otter rehabilitation and restoration, so Daren and I caught a quick nap.

We did the whole pictures on the roof-with-the-view thing, then headed into Balloch proper. We picked up some postcards and wrote short notes to our girls back home because we were in the doghouse. No, I mean really in The Dog House. That was the name of the bar where we sipped on beers and wrote postcards.

Daren made a profound announcement as we were sitting there drinking Tennants and Stella Artois. This isn't the exact quote, but it went something like this:

"These are the times, man -- the times you remember. My best memories are from times when my buddies and I just went to the bar randomly -- in the middle of the day -- and just drank. You'd think big parties at night would be the memories you hold, but it's getting drunk in the middle of the day that you really remember."

He went on to say several more profound things, and just spill his guts in general, but I can't remember any of it now.

One of the bartenders mistook us for Australians. I think it was around 3 or 4 p.m. by this point, and on the grainy TVs in lounge Dick Cheney came on as he was delivering a speech at a ceremony marking the fifth anniversary of 9/11. But we couldn't hear him. …

… Comments on Dick Cheney and 9/11 removed here …

After the postcards, we picked up some fish and chips -- take-away style -- and went to the park. Here, you say "I'd like that 'take away' " instead of "to go."

We sat on a stone fence in the city park and munched on our fish and chips, which were delicious. While we were sitting there Daren noticed that there was an inordinate amount of litter -- more than you'd ever see in a park in Idaho. So because we didn't think anyone would mind, Daren and I pissed in the park and then began our two-mile hike back to the hostel. Oh, and did I mention we were basically drunk? (These are the times you remember, man!)

The walk back kinda sucked, but when we checked in again at the hostel I was able to shower and shave.

They put us in room 109 this time. We spent some time exploring our castle in further detail then hit the dining room to read and write. There were several other travelers in the dining room with us, and two English guys started a board game and invited everyone in the room to play -- except us. Was it because we were Americans? I'm not sure.

Daren and I felt a little slighted and decided to go back to Duck Bay to end the night with a few drinks again.

I mean, why not. We're in Europe, right? Might as well.

(Here is Daren on top of Drumkinnon Tower):

http://i79.photobucket.com/albums/j130/troyfoster/9.jpg

(Here is me at the base of Drumkinnon Tower at the edge of Loch Lomond):

http://i79.photobucket.com/albums/j130/troyfoster/9-1.jpg

Sept. 10, 2006

Thank God for pants. And thank God for Daren. I'll get to the Daren part in a bit.

When I woke up on the morning of Saturday, Sept. 10, I realized that I had my wits back. It wasn't alcohol that caused me to lose them, it was the delirium of traveling and being awake too long. But my brains were back.

We were served a free breakfast at McLays, then I headed off to find myself a nice pair of pants and maybe even a barber shop that could give me a shave. A normal person would just consult their bag and produce a razor, but remember, I'm not a normal person. I'm the lucky guy who lands in Europe without a bag.

I found a nice pair of jeans at a very American-feeling place called T.K. Maxx. You read that right, t-K-m-a-x-x. Not T.J. Maxx. But somehow I know they're related.

Even if my bag had reached Europe, I came here knowing I was going to buy clothes. I brought three boxers, three pairs of socks, one pair of pants, one pair of shorts, one heavy jacket, one light jacket, one button-up shirt, one undershirt and that's it. It might sound like a lot on paper but what I described is basically one ensemble with two jackets for variety.

I intentionally under packed so I could buy clothes in Europe. There's a few reasons for this. One is to make the pack lighter for at least a fraction of the trip, the other is to blend in a bit and the final is for bragging rights.

I can just imagine this conversation:

Envious friend: "Hey Troy, I like your pants and your shirt. Where did you get them?"

Me (arrogantly): "Oh, in this cute little shop in EUROPE! Where did you get YOUR clothes?"

Envious friend: "Oh, I see" (looks at the ground)

So I got a nice pair of pants at T.K. Maxx, although they're a bit snug around my legs (plenty of breathing room for the acorns, though).

And more good news followed soon after. When I got back to the hostel Daren was sitting outside with my bag at his feet.

…

But the appearance of my bag at Daren's feet has nothing to do with "thank God for Daren."

I praise my almighty master for sending him on this trip with me, because so far I feel as if I've been a tourist and he's been my tour guide.

Daren researched Scotland and booked our first two nights at two different hostels. He knew where we were staying and how to get there. And he also booked our second night at a hostel north of Glasgow, some place he said "looks like a fucking castle."

When we got to Central Station in downtown Glasgow, Daren began reading the departure schedules and we eventually found our train although there was some confusion at first. At one point Daren was studying a chart posted on the wall and I said, "Dude, I defer to you." Because, in all truth, I had no idea where we were going. I didn't even know the name of the town where we were headed.

I was thrilled to ride a train for the first time but I'm most certain that novelty will soon wear off.

After about an hour's ride north we arrived in a town called Balloch, situated along Loch Lomond. I think the word "loch" is the British way of saying "lake," but I'm not certain. All I know is that Loch Lomond is the deepest freshwater loch in the United Kingdom (bigger than Loch Ness).

We had dinner and two beers at a place called The Tullie Inn just next to the train station, then we began a two-mile hike to our hostel. Again, I deferred to Daren to get us there and he delivered. My dinner was "steak pie," by the way.

It was on this two-mile hike -- they do things in miles here, to my surprise -- that I realized it might have been a bad idea to bring this laptop. I packed very light, but this damn device constitutes more than half the weight of my pack. And it's heavy. We'll see if it makes it home with me.

When we finally reached the hostel I realized Daren was right. It was a "fucking castle." And supposedly it's haunted by a fucking ghost, too. We were astounded by the ambiance of our surroundings. The hostel was about four stories of stone wall, a whole lotta creepy, but nice nonetheless. There also was a stone fence surrounding the castle and sheep milling just beyond it in the countryside. As I took in the sight a realization came to me. This is exactly how I had pictured Scotland in my mind.

We were put in room 107 and realized we'd be sharing the place with others, at least two. Their bags were already unpacked and Daren assumed by the look of the clothes that they were "old people." Not to get off on a tangent here, but the term "youth hostel" is basically a misnomer. So far Daren and I have been younger than most of the people we've seen. There are plenty of people in their 40s and 50s. And someone tried to tell me before I came that I might be too old to stay in youth hostels. I'm 28 for crying out loud! (And I love you anyway, Mom.)

The rest of the night was low-key. Daren and I went for a little walk and explored the Loch Lomond "beach" -- it's in quote marks for a good reason. We also explored a bar inside a fancy-pants restaurant called Duck Bay. We got pretty lit up and had trouble tipping the bartenders. We still haven't figured out the proper etiquette for doing that. If you leave a pound -- 90 percent of currency here is coins -- on the table the bartenders don't take it. We asked one nice kid the proper way give him his due, and he said to drop it in the bartender's hand and be clear about your intentions. But when we tried it on the next bartender who came along he seemed completely humiliated that we made such a scene.

At some point on this trip I expect to be shunned for being an American. If anyone asks us where we're from I say "from the U.S." For some reason it sounds less arrogant to me than "I'm American." We haven't been shunned yet, but I have reason to believe that people don't like Americans. When we got back from the bar we were pretty drunk and laughing about a SEXIST CANDY BAR Daren purchased (I'll get to that eventually).

So we made our way to the communal dining area to snack on our munchies and try not to be obvious about being drunk. There were three other travelers in the dinning area at the same time, and one outgoing woman was clearly dominating their conversation. She was speaking English but with a thick accent I couldn't place. We started eavesdropping when she began talking about Minnesota, because that's where my girlfriend's from originally (she's got an accent, too, but that's a story for another day). Then she went off about how Seattle is so cliquey and how everyone there belongs to cliques. (Note to self: Be sure not to go to Seattle again because there are so many cliques there.) I don't know how we ended up joining the conversation but we did. Then we learned something very interesting about this woman.

She was an American. From that place she finds so cliquey.

Since Seattle's only three hours from where I grew up, I questioned her on this supposed "Seattle accent" she'd created. She said she was talking funny because she'd been in Scotland for a while. How long, I asked? Ten days, she answered. Yeah right.

Then she just shrugged her shoulders and admitted she faked the accent so people wouldn't immediately identify her as an American. Oh well.

Daren and I both decided to hit the sack around the same time. When we got to our room one of our bunkmates was up and we saw he had a big Canadian flag stitched to his backpack.

I asked, but I already knew the answer.

His bag wasn't the first I'd seen with a Canadian flag on it. Our friends to the north don't want people to mistake them for Americans. He wasn't too much older than us as Daren had predicted and I could tell he was the partying type. He admitted it freely, and do you know what he said he tells people at the bar if he's had too much to drink?

"I'm an American."

(To see a little video clip of the castle where we stayed, go here):

http://s79.photobucket.com/albums/j130/troyfoster/?action=view&current=9-2.flv