One can turn either right or left from my parent’s driveway; it makes no difference they both will take you in a circle – so, I turn right. This is the longest time I’ve spent living with my parents since I was 20 and it’s also the longest time I’ve spent in the UK in ten years. Having nothing particular to do this afternoon, I’ve decided to take a wander around the old neighbo(u)rhood for the opportunity to consider the nature of circles. In actuality, it’s ellipses that interest me more, it’s what happens to a circle when gravity gets involved. Around and around celestial bodies go, sucking up a little gravity to act as a slingshot from the thing they are trying to escape but, just as they look to break free that very same gravity sucks them back ad-infinitum and so the ellipse is formed. We all try hard to break out of the orbit of our upbringing but inextricably find ourselves sucked back in again. I consider this on my amble as I pass shops, schools, pubs, roads & roundabouts that once were so familiar to me I’d forgotten they were there. And, surprisingly, they’re there still, patiently waiting for me to pass by again on my wide orbit. So here, accompanied by a photo or two, are my thoughts on September 12th 2007 of the blink-and-you-miss-it village/town/sprawl called New Haw, the place I was born, formed, was not afraid to leave but to which I am always a little reticent to return.

My house, 55 Lindsay Road has stood since the 1930′s. It was bought new by my maternal grandmother. My mother was born in the front bedroom where she now sleeps and it happily housed our family of four in a lack of space that baffles any American that steps through the door. The house is unremarkable and that’s in keeping with the events that happened within it. There were no spectacular family arguments nor were there glorious Christmas parties where all the extended family sang around the piano. Some of my friends lived in houses that appeared to me to have drama, melodrama and festivities dripping from the walls. Not so at 55 and that’s just fine.

Lindsay Road is a ‘nice’ place too. Everyone keeps their garden manicured and car project free. We once had a huge street party for the Queen’s silver jubilee in 1977, that was just about as much excitement as the street had seen since the previous street party to celebrate the Queen’s coronation 25 years earlier. There was no street party to celebrate her golden jubilee and I suspect that there never will be another one. My friends and I used to play football in the road but now the street is conspicuous for it’s lack of kids. I’m sure they’re there but too many parked cars and the kids’s desire to exercise their gaming digits rather than their sporting legs have left the street devoid of the laughter and tears of childish fun.

‘Up the road’ is what we call the little parade of shops in the village. I think only Lindsay Road residents have this phrase but it’s universal to the whole street. ‘Up the road’ consists of everything you might need: pub, post office, newsagent, butcher, baker, general store, library, pharmacy etc. It’s unfortunate nobody wants to go there. It’s relegated to an emergency supply situation. As with most areas, the large Tesco superstore two miles away takes the trade and New Haw remains a sparsely frequented ideal of 1930′s urban planning. It’s pretty but the CCTV cameras don’t help the aesthetic. I try to smile and wave in each of the cameras I pass, perhaps I can bring a smile to big brother’s face as he watches me walk up to my old primary school.

The Grange looks the same. It once was an old school house and then grew bunions of 1970′s architecture as the student population increased courtesy of the baby-boomers. The large wooden fort from which I made my friend walk the plank to his doom in a shark infested ocean has gone and so has the steam train cast from concrete. Both wise moves I think. My friend almost broke his leg on impact with the hard packed grassy ocean and the train once took off the top layer of my skull requiring a panicked call to my mother, a trip to the ER and a stitch or two. This may explain a few things to my dear readers.

Moving on, via a wide detour past the houses of my old friends is the Victoria public house. I started drinking in the Vic when I was about 16. There was an unwritten rule in my school between the pupils, teachers and bar staff that if you were caught in the pub before you attended 6th form (11th and 12th grade for my dear Americans) you would be in big trouble. But, in the UK you can legally leave school at the end of the 5th form so if you chose to stay on past the legal leaving age you could, so this unwritten logic went, also choose to drink sensibly in the pub during lunchtime or after school even though you were two years below the legal drinking age. Many happy hours were spent in the same pub as the teacher whose class I had just been dismissed from ten minutes earlier. Pursuant to my earlier posts about the death of the British pub (of which, I feel several of my British pals took exception), The Vic is now a mess. It calls itself a ‘dining pub’ and is decorated like a prison cell. The walls are bare white, the lights are searchlight bright and there are no soft furnishings – no curtains, no comfy booths only a couple of armchairs that look like they were nicked from Starbucks. It’s very disappointing. There also are no 6th formers, teachers or, in fact, anybody in there. I stop for a pint anyway – it would be rude not to.

A quick trip down the canal bank leads to Fullbrook Secondary School. Well, again, it isn’t called a secondary school anymore but an ‘academic college of computing and mathematics’. No idea what that means, they had just bought electronic typewriters when I left. I remember happy days there. They say your school days are the best days and I have to agree, I still agree even though the bastards threw me out of school! Well, secretly I enjoyed being ‘asked not return next term’ and not so secretly I still do. The name may have changed but the graffiti stays the same. I’d like to say to I had something to do with it, but I never had the guts to pick up the can, good job I say – I’m a complete disaster when it comes to painting walls let alone messages of social unrest. The school has grown, the playgrounds have been built on and now I wonder where the kids go to run around but at least there are more backs of building from which to sneak a quick smoke.

A short walk leads me back home – the circle is complete. I no longer feel a sense of relief I no longer live in New Haw. I’m glad I did but rather than feel either nostalgia or revoltion, I now feel more objective. I’m glad to be here and glad to be gone – in equal measures. Things change yet they are always the same and that’s fine by me.

Two weeks later, I had that camera stolen as well. For reasons too embarrassing to enter into, suffice to say cheap 5 euro wine was involved, I left my camera at a cafe. Upon my hurried return (we were only in the next room), by a second miracle of evolution, it had grown legs and walked. Two such miracles in a catholic country should be enough to put the pope on his papal jet – destination Portugal.

So, lessons to be learnt. Firstly, I’m stupid. Secondly, Sarah and I had let our guard down induced by a civilized country and the familiarity of eating and drinking with our friends. I write this entry not to convince you, the reader, of anything else but those two newbie traveller mistakes. However, here’s the thing that I really can’t beat from my head and my heart. How can we travel round the poorest nations on earth and have nothing happen to us more serious than a disputed hotel bill? Yet, here we are, in a rich western European country and nobody has the integrity to turn in a camera bag left on a seat in a cafe. How is it that the wealthy people, the people who comparatively have everything they need, find it irresistible to steal something that will give them nothing but a few euros of guilt dyed money? For a country that’s 95% catholic there’s a good chance that the two individuals responsible will either be lying during their next confession or fingering that rosary for a while. Now, I’m not nieve enough to believe that wouldn’t happen in Nepal, India or Vietnam but it never did yet it could easily have and I would have understood because when you don’t earn enough money to afford shoes, every rupee counts. To add insult to injury, and without pointing fingers of accusation, I believe my second camera was lifted by fellow tourists. Now you have the extra whammy of it being stolen by someone who could afford to take a vacation and probably had a camera they would be most upset by should it and their holiday snaps disappear. So, again, I deserved the first one, I was dealt a really bum hand by the travel gods on the second but mainly and upsettingly and frustratingly I think the bad cells are winning. My ethos of treating others how you would like yourself to be treated may just be an acronistic commandment like, for example, coveting thy neighbor’s ox.

Postscript:
Since writing this entry another event occurred to simultaneously reaffirm my distaste for the rich but untrustworthy Europeans and further prove there is honor amongst the less wealthy. We took a cab from the centre of Marrakech to the bus station. It’s about 5km. Here, in Morroco you have to barter for everything and it took us three cab drivers to finally find one who would take us to the bus station for the 15dh ($2) we know it costs. The guy took us there and then, as cab drivers do, he left. Thirty minutes later, just as our bags were being put on the bus, seconds before we were to leave Marrakech for good there’s a tap on my shoulder. There’s the cab driver again, looking rather relieved holding out a black case. The case turns out to be Sarah’s glasses. She had left them on the back seat of the cab and the driver must have got all the way back into town before seeing them and then rushed all the way out again to catch us before the bus left. He looked very happy that he had managed to find us in time but not as happy as Sarah was I can assure you. So, here we are again – another one of those lessons about the human condition with no concrete answers.

I want to say something about Portugal and I think it’s important to be as truthful as possible. However, it will be very difficult for me to seperate the truth from, frankly, one of the only good things that happened to us in Portugal: spending two weeks with our good friends Patti & Leslie. Now how can I keep what I feel I need to document for our diary from reflecting negatively upon how happy we were to see our friends after 6 long months….hmmm, very tricky territory but I must proceed. Wish me luck.

To be absolutely fair and give due attention to the happy things, let’s start there. Davd and I were ecstatic when P&L took us up on our offer to meet them in any world destination of their choosing and we’d been looking forward to seeing them pretty much since the cold and rainy day we said goodbye in early January. PORT-TYU-GAAL (imagine me pronouncing it like that, like I like to do) was the country of choice and July would be the month. None of us had ever been to Portugal so why not? Seemed a fine choice: the country is small enough to easily travel around in two weeks and nothing would be so culturally overwhelming as to distract from what would be our long overdue catching up, yet all four of us would have a new experience and we’d experience it all together.

And experience it we did:

We did the big city thing in Lisbon where Patti introduced me to this really great invention called Vino Verde, a wine so light and refreshing that it almost seems magic and before you know it, six bottles have been downed. I loved Vino Verde for exactly one night but by the next day I disliked it and I think I will maybe dislike it forever.

We stuck out the gale force winds in the beach town of Nazare where I think the highlight was beer and cockles at the locals’ beachside hole-in-the-wall.

There was the day trip to Fatima to see the place of pilgrimage and plenty of Jesus and Mary souvenir shopping (please see David’s full report).

I think we all agreed that Porto was very charming and cute and we all liked it much better than Lisbon, though despite going ahead and getting a little drunk in the afternoon, I discoverd that maybe I also don’t like port as much as I thought. There is definitely a reason one drinks it after a large meal and in small quantities :0

Now Evora – the surprise hit!. And it comes with combined lowlight and highlight. It was in a small local bistro in this charming medieval walled city that Leslie found a fully intact chicken foot on her plate, bloated from wine sauce. This traumatic dining experience was a lowlight until we established the three finger chicken foot sign which was quickly adopted to suit any occasion amongst the group, be it a gesture of endearment, sympathy, empathy or a laughter-enducing effort to cheer up the travel-weary.

And, finally, ahhhh, the Algarve and its beach wonders. P&L introduced us to a very sweet little off-the-beaten-track beach town called Salima where we enjoyed all the sun and warmth that almost everyone we know would kill for right about now. It was from Salima that we explored the Portugese end of the world where, ironically, after discovering the new world Christopher Columbus managed a rather embarassing ship wreck. It’s a bit like driving from Moscow to London and putting a dent in your car while backing into your own garage.

A side note at this juncture: the done way to acquire accomodation in Salima is to show up with none and present yourself to the local geriatric community milling about the town centre who will try to rent you a room in their house. Most of their English is limited to “room sleep”, as was the case with the little man we followed to his backyard self-contained apartment overlooking the beach. After agreeing upon the unbelievable bargain price of 35 euros for a complete, fully furnished apartment and terrace, Joaquim and his wife Silvina set about to show and explain every square inch of our temporary home to us. They didn’t appear to see their complete lack of English and our complete lack of Portugese as a communication problem and, funny enough, it actually wasn’t. As any good grandmother would be, Silvina was quite obsessed with showing us where the tea towels were kept and, apparently dissatisfied with the state of the tattered Santa Claus themed towel, rushed down to their own kitchen to replace it. Somehow, we proceeded to have lengthy conversations with them every day for the next four days that basically involved them kind of rambling on a bit like I’m sure they do with their own grandchildren and us doing a lot of smiling back as I hope their grandchildren do as well.

So, those were the happy parts and I know what you’re thinking, it truly sounds great. So what’s the problem? Well, the fact is, in between all these happy moments, Portugal broke our hearts, broke our bank accounts and almost broke our spirit completely. From the moment we set foot on Portugese soil we encountered a back-logged deluge of bad backpacker karma and didn’t seem to ever be able to catch a break.

First there was the theft of not one but two of David’s cameras. Not only an assult on our bank accounts on a grand scale that we’re not really in a position to absorb under present circumstances, these people stole David’s art form, his mode of expression and his way of producing what are, by far, our most valuable souvenirs. They felt like very personal attacks, forceful and intrusive and when it happened twice in two weeks, it really threw me for a loop.

As if this weren’t enough, there was the issue with our rental car. We agreed that splitting the cost of a rental car would be the best, most convenient and stress-free mode of transport for our grand Portugese exploration. Since cars don’t really drive themselves, though, someone was going to have to be the driver and since David had the most experience driving around Europe, fairly enough, I suppose, he was the chosen one. However, I just didn’t have a very good feeling about the rental car in general, much less David being the driver. The black cloud hanging over us was almost palpabe to me and, though I’ve rented many many cars and nothing bad ever happens, I just had this very strong feeling that given our recent string of terrible luck, something very stressful was going to happen. And then David backed the car into a guy on his scooter. Neither the guy nor his scooter were hurt but the three of is sitting in the car watching the conversation go down across the street could tell by the guy’s “hey man, don’t worry about my scooter…take a look at your car!” slap on David’s back, that there was a mark. It actually wasn’t that bad, as fender-scooter benders go, but the rental car company noticed and let’s just say thank goodness we took out the extra insurance. So hopefully, after the impending back-and-forth paperwork process, David will get his $400 damage charge back.

I believe that this series of events occured to us because we had the nerve to take a temporary hiatus from our status as backpackers. We found it all too easy and familiar with our friends from home, the friends we spend most weekends with, to hop right back into our normal lifestyle and spending style. We forgot our roots, neglected our established routines and rythems, turned our backs on our packs; we may as well have been rolling suitcases. So, there’s been a bit of a painful lesson learned. We’ve learned that you can backpack or you can vacation but you can’t do both at the same time. Without sounding too melodramatic, there are basic survival techniques that David and I have spent the last 6 months putting into place that aren’t really relevant to a two week vacation and us letting our guard down and thinking we were on vacation from our vacation cost us in a big way. One fundamental difference as a vacationer is that, so long as you don’t lose your passport, you’ll be back to the safety and comfort of your home and job before you know it. This puts the backpacker and the vacationer in two completely different emotional and mental frames of mind. So, bringing it full circle to my opening paragraph, we believe that we probably couldn’t have learned this hard traveling lesson while traveling in relative harmony with another couple, with any other couple but them.

Dear Madam:

May we first congratulate you on installing Portugal to the southwest of Spain. Not only does this location insure blue skies, golden sands and aqua clear, albeit chilly, seas but also provides a natural buffer from the bothersome French. I am sure you are very busy, perhaps too busy to have noticed my wife Sarah and I as we have traveled around the world. This is understandable as ministers of tourism should be spending their time concentrating on domestic affairs of their country and not the domestic affairs of their country’s visitors. By the way, are you elected or appointed? We find this makes a difference.

On our travels we have made a point of personally writing to the minister of tourism for all 11 countries visited thus far. We are sure you will receive this letter in the good faith in which it was intended and appreciate that tourist dollars are hard won and easily lost.

Your small towns and villages, beautifully adorned with white-washed houses, stunning beaches and winding lanes and alleyways are quite wonderous to behold. Such beauty has been the subject of many a digital photograph which will be used to torture our friends upon our return to the United States. The city of Porto has the added benefit of virtually drowning in the alcoholic beverage it is so famous for giving us the opportunity to drown with it. The Algarve is an oasis of ocean and beach and we especially applaud your decision to ghetto the bulk of the tourists in Faro. Everyone is much happier when they can vacation with their own kind and not have to worry about interacting with the locals, don’t you agree? I’m sure the locals appreciate this too – oh how pale and lard-like we must look to you exotic Mediterranean types.

In light of the natural beauty and effortless ease (can ease be described as effortless or am I being redundant?) of touring your fine country, Sarah and I have decided you might be sitting in your office twiddling you civil service thumbs waiting for siesta each day. If you are an appointed official you may stop reading at this point, your job is secure. However, should you be elected you may want to read on as our upcoming suggestions for improvements are sure fire vote winners.

Are you a woman who appreciates irony? We do hope so. You see, the irony is that for a nation who directly and indirectly was responsible for discovering trade routes with India, North America, South America and Africa, your national spice appears to be salt. Why not cumin from India or paprika from the Americas? Why must you take the mouthwatering local fish and further its misery and misfortune at being caught by burying it in salt? As a minister of the republic perhaps you could legislate against salt thereby saving Portugal millions of Euros in blood pressure medication. And why no vegetables? (Potatos are a starch, not a vegatable). All this,however, is part of traveling and easily rectified by drinking plenty of water and taking vitamins each day. I think you’ll agree that our final suggestion, although first appearing quite extreme, is a matter of national law and order and, dare we say it, pride. I am sure you are aware of your nation’s charming tradition of bringing starters to the dining table without the customer actually asking for them. Tasty little tid-bits of processed cheese and tinned sardines called the couvert (the cover). Well, that is all well and good – returning them to the kitchen untouched causes no offense to either party. However, all of your restaurants appear to make “honest mistakes” and attempt to charge us for them regardless. We are currently in the ninety percentile of bills that have required amending to remove extraneous charges. Portugal must either have a literacy problem, a numericy problem or worse, a loosely organised crime racket that is determined to bring down your tourist industry one euro at a time. Perhaps an under-couvert branch of the police needs to be formed to crush this insurgency. The tourist tax of any country appears on its restaurant bills and we have let many slip in countries where 50 cents means more than just a hip-hop artiste but here, in a developed country that actually appoints or elects a minister of tourism? Here, where the US dollar is weaker than a 20cl glass of Super Bock beer? Perhaps you could legislate a new tradition. In our home country we have a much more ambiguous way of taxing the restaurant bill. We will give you all the bread you want for free but demand a tip of between 17 – 20%. In light of this, we have retaliated by the only way we know how and are being stingy with the tip. We hope this will balance out and cause no more than a blip on the histogram when you next find cause to recalculate your GDP. So, with that, we move on to country number twelve and, I’m sure, more helpful advice to its minister of tourism. Perhaps you know the the good minister from Spain, would be kind enough to write us a letter of introduction and give them fair warning of our arrival. Nothing special, just a balloon or two at the airport would be fine.

Regards,

David (and Sarah although she probably won’t agree with everything I have written)

The tree (or the one that looks just like it) is no longer surrounded by the scorched hillsides of central Portugal but sits slap bang in the middle of a giant ashphalt parking lot. This is not a lot for cars though, it is a massive parking lot of religion where every year the million or so devotees who make their way to Fatima park themselves and their beliefs on this giant concrete concourse to stare at the tree (or the one that looks just like it). The Catholic church has since built a very Roman looking basilica which, unfortunately, due to its dominating architecture, brand new unweathered white granite and the sheer size needed to compete with the concrete concourse, ends up looking more third reich than vatican two.
Back to Mary and 70,000. So, there she is, up a tree, speaking to these three kids in a very ghost of Christmas to come manner concerning a few important events that were to occur sometime in the future. I’m not sure how quiet and attentive 70,000 people can be when watching a miracle but it appears that something convieniently distracted them at the decisive moment because not one the faithful can attest to actually seeing or hearing the divine lady. However, if proof of this miracle is required (and why should it, it’s a miracle after all) all present will bare witness to the fact it stopped raining and the sun came out – apparently quite a strange occurance in spring in Europe. Apparently, after the climatatic miracles were over, the blind could then see, the lame could then walk and those with mild gastric disorders gave a hearty belch and declared themselves cured. The poor kids were then taken into the protective custody of the Roman Catholic church who, after much “protective” interogation, decided Mary had made three prophecees. The first foretelling WWII, the second warning of the rise of Russia and communism and third predicting the assination of a pope. The church, ever protective of its flock, did not tell the world what these secrets were until after the events had occured; the last one revealed in 2000 claiming the failed assination attempt on John Paul II in 1981 was proof positive, if proof of your faith should be required.

Never let it be said the Catholics don’t understand the value of a dollar. Surrounding Fatima’s basilica is a courtyard of copious Catholic commercialism where trinkets of Christian kitch await the holy annointing of your Euro. Shops and market stalls overflow with effigies of the Virgin Mary ranging in cost, quality and function. Should you need divine intervention whilst driving, a small dashboard likeness of our lady will see you home. Should your technique require a small miracle on the dance floor a glow-in-the-dark Mary or neon-flashing Disco Mary may be just the ticket. But, at the end of day, only a Yoda sized likeness of the most virtuous mother in history will suffice. Prices range from one euro through to thousands and begs the following questions: Should one spend comenserate to one’s income? Is God going to be angry if you’re a cheapskate tightwad when buying your religious pariphynalia and does the Lord look kindly on hagaling over images of his one and only son? However, the best souviners to buy for your loved ones, the gifts that keep on giving, must be the wax body parts. It’s voodoo in reverse. Instead of taking a likeness of the ear, breast, leg, stomach, foot, hand or head and inserting pins to inflict pain you can light the pre-inserted wick and melt the apendage at the basilica to encourage speedy healing. There are enough body parts on sale of varying sizes to construct your very own waxy disproportioned human – perhaps a handy preventative melting for what ever may ail you in the future.
One the three children to witness the start of this religious theme park is still alive. She became a nun and her picture is everywhere along with creepy deathmask like artist renditions of the other two who died whilst still children. If her whole life had not been altered by the consequences of what could have easily been a childhood prank (along the lines of the British children who took pictures of the fairies at the end of their garden) I wonder what she might have thought about all this. Even if she truly believes what she saw, the commercialism and the obscene grandure of the basilica (couldn’t all of that money have been spent on helping the devout) mocks her belief and casts a church sanctioned opportunist shadow over what may have been a pure enlightenment. It appears I don’t have to mock the religious in Fatima, they seem to do a fine job all by themselves.

Randy Roy’s Redlight District Tours is not owned, managed or even employs anyone by the name of Randy Roy. I don’t think there even is a Randy Roy or a Roy who is remotely randy. The company is really just Kimberly, a twenty year veteran of Amsterdam and an American ex-pat who makes her living taking tourists to the redlight district as opposed to taking tourists in the redlight district. A measly €12.50 (even more measly if you’re not abroad and suffering from the economic polices of the US government) buys you all the sleaze you can squeeze and a free drink. Never one to shy away from the words “free” and “drink” especially when advertised in that order and with the implication of sex nipping at their heels, Sarah, Beth and I made a threesome and took a walk on the wild side.

[If you are a mother of one of the aforementioned people (except Kimberly or Roy), afraid of sex, offended by rudeness or lewdness, still think I'm a "nice boy" and wish to maintain that illusion or in anyway agree that the FCC should be arbiter of morality in the American media think twice before tickling your mouse and either don't click the (more...) link or read any further.]

[If you are reading this, you clicked the link or tickled your mouse. Don't say you weren't warned!]

Sarah saw the largest, bright red strap-on dildo she has ever seen in her life. On hearing Sarah’s sharp intake of breath, Beth stopped too and took a good hard (excuse the pun) look. I quickly moved on not entirely sure whether in shame, jealousy or anatomical puzzlement. But, all that happened much later, if you’re still with us after the dildo shock treatment welcome the post of the double entendre and the riské cliché in which I will attempt to set an innuendo record – starting…. now.

We came at exactly the same time, not too early as usual, but as we turned the corner so did Kimberly. She held a sign, Sarah held her breath but then let out a soft sigh of pleasure as she realized it was only going to be the four of us (Kimberly was the addition to our threesome and see below as to the circumstances surrounding the other people booked on the tour). Four was much better than the orgy of tourists who selfishly all want to come at the same time too. We opened our legs quickly because Kimberly was tall and walked at quite a pace so we had to rush to keep up. She told us some boring stuff about a giant hole or a brown tunnel, I can’t quite remember, something about Amsterdam’s new metro line that’s being inserted down below. Apparently the pile-drivers keep on thrusting in and out, in and out but its not as moist as they thought so the project is taking forever to reach a satisfactory climax.

Soon we were deep, deep within the enveloping streets of the redlight district, passed the hotel where Quentin Tarantino wrote Pulp Fiction and staring straight at the gloryhole that is the Cockring (no innuendo required). We caressed the idea of the dark room but decided we needed to be more lubed and would wait until we had a drink or too (deep) inside us. A quiver of excitement rose from the girls as they opened themselves up to shop after shop of the most imaginative use of latex this side of the Amstel. They were positively vibrating with wonderment like Willy and his Wonker in Wonkerworld. It was then that Sarah gasped with a pleasure that could only have come from a night with two other girls and her husband as she spotted the giant red dildo. It was huge (no innuendo required). Kimberly had amused herself and was a block ahead of us. I was afraid the climax of the tour was near and decided to think of something else. Beth’s mouth was wide open and Sarah was having trouble catching her breath. I moved on to Kimberly, after all, no girl should work alone.

After penetrating the warm and wet circle of the inner courtyard in the red light district we noted with satisfaction the oldest church in Amsterdam is right in the middle of the African quarter. Here the African girls offer melons and other voluptuous fruity treats for a mere €35 when the going rate for the other girls is €50. It seems to me you get better value for money in the African quarter, there’s just more girl to go around. More cushin’ for the pushin’ as my African American pals would say. So, hot and heavy (I shouldn’t have worn a coat or brought our daysack) we moved on to the eastern European section. Here the girls charge €50 for a “suck and a fuck” (obviously no innuendo required) and just like a fine glass of wine, it’s all over in ten minutes. Sarah squealed with delight as Kimberly’s finger worked its magic in pointing out the rooms and the different colored lights as well as all the facts and figures of this most special of places. The girls rent the room, red light included, for a little under €200 for an eight hour shift. If the girl is hot (and a lot of them are, readily agreed all concerned in our little menage-a-quatre) then at 10 minutes a pop it wouldn’t take long to pay off the room. The girls operate legally, pay taxes and even have a trade union but let’s not forget this is not what most of these girls would choose to do for a living.

Sarah gripped me harder, I gasped, she almost tripped over – the streets were damp and slippery. Headfirst, heading down, I entered the narrowest of alleys in the redlight district. Here the curtains were mainly drawn indicating business was being performed. Beth was slowly moving her tongue – I think her lips were dry or perhaps she was thirsty. I offered Sarah’s cure for dryness in those parts but before she had time to accept the offer of lip-balm, Kimberly’s pace had quickened and her thrusting in and out of alleyways had become more intense as she showed us the best live sex clubs to visit. For around €40 you can indulge your idea of fantasy by watching a couple have sex right in front of you being careful, of course, to not disturb the fifty other business men sitting in your row also indulging in their business.

It was a marathon session (for me anyway) and at an hour and a half I was beginning to tire. Sarah, as usual, was nowhere near being done (she kept talking about it all the way home) and Beth was ready for a cigarette and a kebab (no innuendo implied). However, promises, promises and Kimberly turned out to be not only all mouth but all trousers too and we headed to a bar for our free drink. And a free drink was what we got – none of this free drink ticket, watered down crap but a genuine paid for by cash drink at a great little cafe.

So, if you’re ever in Amsterdam, feeling a little frustrated, in need of some attention, looking for a way to tie up that loose end, wondering how hard can it be (to have a tour of Amsterdam) then look to Randy Roy (not your Randy Roy) and give Kimberly a call. [Which someone did do, earlier that afternoon to arrange to be on our tour - right when she was having sex with her boyfriend - they never showed up, which is not only rude but a damn shame for them!]

P.S. The accompanying photo is the hotel where Chet Baker died, right on the edge of the redlight district. Not surprisingly they don’t like you taking photos of the girls so that’s the closest I dared get lest my camera have a date with a canal.

I’m in pain. I need to see a doctor. I’m ill. There’s something wrong. You see, the Dutch are such pleasant people and Amsterdam is a such a agreeable city that I’m having trouble thinking of anything vaguely snarky to say. Have I lost the art of pessimism? Did my dyspepsia take a dive in the Amstel and has my cynicism cycled off along one of Amsterdam’s thousands of red bike lanes?

The Dutch are ordinary people just like you and me. There’s nothing so special about them and there’s not one trait that would jump out at you and require a snarl of “Lowlander” in that vitriolic tone you’ve been reserving for that pompous French man, or overbearing German woman. Nope – they’re just so nice (albeit very tall). Gladly they will speak English even if you attempt to speak Dutch; infuriatingly so it would appear, for Beth is having a hard time finding any Dutch to actually speak Dutch with. Could that trait be something I could wax on about? Not really – it’s really refreshing to not have to go through a translation ritual to order dinner only to be served something unexpected. Could I irritate my readers by putting the ‘dis’ in dissension concerning Dutch politics? Well, as can be seen by their liberal attitude towards just about everything in modern life, there’s nothing really to grumble about. Here’s a partial list of sensible ways the Dutch appear to work:

• Marriage ceremonies are performed by the city first. Once you’ve done that you can have whatever religious ceremony floats your boat
• Drug problems are treated first as a health issue and don’t automatically induce jail time
• Prostitution is legal, monitored, taxed and unionized
• They realized the power of alternate energy sources 400 years ago (OK, well, windmills weren’t actually alternate energy sources, more like the only energy source)
• Give people bike lanes and they’ll use them (pedestrians be warned: you are at the bottom of the food chain)
• If you abandon your boat the police will put a sticker on it. If you see a boat with a sticker on it, it’s yours; therefore the city need never clear up abandoned boats
• Don’t prosecute people for riding their bikes whilst drunk or stoned; sure, they’ll fall in the canal every now and then but at least they won’t drive their car
• Of course, pot is decriminalized. Coffeeshops take the grunge and risk out of buying and consuming drugs but still permeate your clothes and hair with the sweet, satisfying smell of danger
• Stop drunk men peeing in the canals on a Saturday night by supplying portable plastic urinals on most street corners over the weekend. However, a number of dead male bodies are still pulled out the canals each year with, how can I delicately say this? Umm, their waterlogged and turgored manhood still protruding from the zippered trouser outlet. It appears as if a number of tourists (probably Brits) can’t grasp how the low barriers bordering the canals make great safety devices for parallel parking cars whilst making lethal tripping devices for those too inebriated to resist peeing in a large body of water

I’m sure there’s a equally long list of Dutch stupidity but my sudden malaise is preventing me from seeing it. Oh – hang on, I have it. The Dutch are really ridiculously tall. They are the tallest nation on earth. This is a hard fought honor they recently wrestled from the Americans. The average Dutchman is one and three quarter inches taller than his American counterpart which is positively pigmy-like when compared to the average Dutchwoman who towers two and one quarter inches above her US counterpart. However, the Americans still hold the girth record because the Dutch are really ridiculously thin too. Which, again, is amazing considering their national dish is just about anything you can deep fat fry. So, here we have a ridiculously tall and thin nation where the women also appear to have perfect breasts.

Now, the Dutch are also known for their thriftiness, their lack of emotional surrogacy when it comes to exercising their Euros. Today I witnessed a perfectly thin, tall and apparently perfectly affluent woman (her breasts were obscured by her raincoat but I’m sure they were in keeping with the above description) total up her receipt at the supermarket checkout. She had purchased about sixty items and, whilst blocking up the entire checkout aisle, was adamant she’d challenge the mathematical skills of the cash register not to mention the obviously adept scanning skills of the poor store employee. [Oooo - you know, I might be feeling a little better!]

Oh, but I digress, I was in the middle of telling you about the new world record secured by the newly crescendoed Dutch vertex. July is sale season in Amsterdam and, if you take a moment to reflect back upon my earlier comments concerning the national thriftiness, you can probably imagine the shops are rather crowded at the moment. So, this sudden and elated news of the Dutch growth spurt must have taken the store stock buyers by surprise for they apparently overcompensated by buying in way too much XXL clothing as is obvious for all to see (all those who are tall enough to reach to top racks at least) for there is nothing on hangers but ridiculously large garments. Not American rotund large but Dutch stalky stringy large – the kind of large that perfectly tall/thin/thrifty/breasted people would love to wear and for cheap too. [Ah, yes, I feel the veil of sickness ascend from my body]

And so, as I gently return to my pompous and somewhat disagreeable old-self, I still struggle to summarize our time here. I will look back on these days in Amsterdam with a fondness reserved for those in life who are able to put aside their deprecations and disconcertment as well as their ability in accessing adjectives (and assonance) and use pleasant and agreeable’s overworked older cousin and say that Amsterdam was really “nice”. [Which, by the way, compares admirably to my wife's last blog entry whose overuse of the adjective "cute" was mildly but none-the-less definately irritating. That, by the way again, is probably going to earn me a smack on the back of the head and the label of "pompous idiot" - ah, as is marriage!]

Amsterdam. David and I have two seperate sets of friends from Seattle who visited Amsterdam and fell so completely head-over-heels in love with this city that one set takes Dutch lessons in Seattle and visits here whenever they can and the other set actually moved here. Well, almost. The wife is here and is currently hosting us. The husband is on his way – he just has to finish law school first.

Recognizing that this was too much of a coincidence and fully appreciating the luck of having a friend and free bed in Europe, we just had to see what all the fuss was/is about. And, of course, we wanted to see our long-time friend, Beth.

So far on this journey we’ve had adventure, we’ve had culture, challenges, beach, heat, sun, all the craziness the world has to offer….but this. Now this is vacation.

Just a little background: our dear friend Beth did fall in love with Amsterdam, that much is very true. So much so that she decided that living in Amsterdam was her dream and, dang it, she made her dream come true. It wasn’t easy – finding a company to sponsor you in Holland ain’t an easy task, but she put her mind to it, went through some tricky interviews and then had to sell her soul to the devil that is Microsoft but, hey, she’s here. She’s living her dream and I don’t think we’ve seen her happier, which makes us very happy.

Beth is temporarily renting this lovely apartment (temporary since she’s just bought an apartment, confirming her Amsterbeth status):

This is where we’ve been living for the past 2 weeks and Beth says this is very typical of a Dutch apartment: very high and ornately decorated ceilings, huge french doors, and apparently every apartment has one of these black faux fireplaces that are art and decor enough to make any room stunning. She is very very upset that her building manager chose to have the outside of the building painted this month so her back balcony is draped in blue tarp which prohibits us from enjoying her canal view.

Our days here have been dreamy. The coffee here is wonderful and the mysterious coffee milk is even better. No one is quite sure what’s in it, Beth says it’s kind of like malted half-and-half and it’s what everyone puts in their coffee. I don’t think I want to know what I’ve allowed my body to become addicted to. All I know is that by the time we wake our lazy bones up at around 9:30am every day, Beth is already at the office (well……she’s at least on her way there. well…..she’s at least on her way out the door but she’s left for us an entire pot of rich yummy coffee and coffee milk. I start my day with creamy coffee and an hour or so of reading my book. How civilized!! In fact, it’s such a beautiful way to start my day that I could just end this entry right here and now – enough said. But, we have actually done more here than drink Beth’s coffee and read.

This city is just so cute. Every day is just such a cute day. There are more cafes and coffee shops than you can throw a stick at and they are all so damn cute that you just really want to spend your money for yet another cup of coffee or another little perfect sandwich or another beautiful pastry or cookie or something. Oh, not to forget the beer. It’s quite strong here – it’ll knock ya. And seeing as it’s bucketed rain every day since we arrived, we’ve ducked into a fair number of pubs so we know from experience. And of course there are the other kinds of coffee shops………

So we’ve eaten, too. A lot. We did feel skinny and now we don’t.

But we’ve also done more than just drink coffee and eat. We have walked I don’t know how many miles around all the famous canals and tippy houses, we’ve almost been hit by Amsterdam’s silent pariahs – trams. And if trams don’t get you, a bicyclist will. But one sunny Sunday on Beth’s bikes allowed us to see the city from the locals’ perspective and now we get it – it’s so freeing to bike around the city and we also get why it’s important for walkers to move their arses out of the way.

So we’ve drank, we’ve eaten and we’ve walked. Perfect vacation. But that’s not all.

The thing is, we’re 15 degrees farther north than Seattle is and it makes so much difference in the length of the days. The sun doesn’t set until almost 11pm. Now that will really mess you up! Beth says it’s so hard to live a normal life in this city and I didn’t really know what she meant until we found ourselves still out just wandering the city at 4am. It’s just so easy to be out so late, the city isn’t aggressive. It still retains its cuteness and charm even in the early morning hours. How many times we’ve been on our way home and have been distracted by “just one more” cute bar. Thus the not waking up till 10am….and the cycle continues.

But, a traveler travels and we are travelers. We’ve loved every second in this, well, very cute city and we see what the fuss is about but our rucksacks are collecting dust so it’s time to go explore our next city.

Having this kind of time with a friend from home is priceless – thank you Beth!!

Our next destination also involves old and very dear friends. Stay tuned to find out where!

Of course not. Though David has taken on the role of lambaster-du-jour toward old England, even he would agree that there was balance and, as his life partner, I will oblige and provide it.

We boarded a 1980′s Air India 747 and flew our tired and weary bones out of the third world and into the first world at the end of May. We went on to spend three solid weeks in the United Kingdom, the longest consecutive stay for David since moving to the States 10 years ago, to refresh, regroup and bask in the luxury of wearing clean underwear every single day (c’mon, you don’t like to admit it, you think it’s only a disgusting boy thing, but a backpacker has to make sacrifices and my own dirt doesn’t disgust me as much as I thought, I guess

The following good things happened in between the sorry state of the British pub and tabloid news:

First and foremost, my Mom came to visit! This was very exciting for so many reasons not the least of which is that we were there to witness her first visit to the UK. Of course, as my Mom, she was pretty upset by the tales we were sending back home about occasional doctor visits, eye trauma and antibiotics so I think she was relieved to see us in person, to touch us and verify that we were OK and carried no scars. Then she probably quickly realized that we were still the same old stubborn, know-it-all kids – nothing really ever changes Here I am with the Mom’s – I’m sure you can tell from the resemblence that my Mom is on the right, David’s Mom, Jackie, on the left and all of us sporting some Indian and Nepalese fashion.

It was a very special 10 days as Mom finally got to see the second home I’ve been visiting since David and I started dating, she finally got to see the house that David’s Mom was actually born in and David grew up in, she got to see and experience London and the tube and Waterloo Station and we got to experience all that along with her. Though she didn’t go home engaged to her dreamboat, Paul McCartney, she IS already planning a next trip which makes me smile almost as much.

Another very exciting happening: we attended the wedding of our very dear friends, Nina & Steve (oops, Stephen. Sorry Steve I apologize to them both that this is the best picture we managed to get on our point & shoot – we were enjoying the free Pims and wine too much, I think. The wedding was a total kick in the pants and we literally wouldn’t have been anywhere else in the world than with you guys.

And here David and I are looking slightly more back to normal and westernized that we’ve looked in a long time. We David’s suit and my dress made for us in Vietnam – remember that blog?? Not too shabby for like $80 total. And I’d like to acknowledge my reunion with and my love for the hairdryer. Oh, my darling, long-lost hair appliance, how I’ve missed you so.

Other good things that I don’t have pictures of:

We got to meet our nephew, Daniel, for the first time since he was born 18 months ago. Our nephew….sounds very cool. Isn’t marriage great? He’s a beautiful boy and loves to be tossed around, which is great since I love to toss little kiddies around. Good exercise for everyone. And we had enough quality time with David’s parents that, for the first time ever, his Mom did NOT cry when dropping us off at the airport. So, that’s the trick! Thanks to a perfectly timed honeymoon, Nina very generously loaned us her car while they were away so David was re-acquainted with the joys of driving on the English curvy-swurvy roads. We also had 3 solid weeks of glorious cereal eating, the BBC and Chocolate Digestives.

So, there. Some home comforts, some good rest, some clean clothes and some normality for just a little while. Just what the doctor ordered. Once again our home away from home came through for us and we’re back on the road now for our next adventure. Where will we go next?! You’ll have to read to find out…..

The pub has always been the focal point of British life. In the old days a pub may or may not have served food and if it did, it may or may not have been of digestible quality. There was always a certain charm to this hit or miss type of dining experience – a good old fashioned stiff upper lip was initially required but a jubilation of the palette or a revulsion of the GI tract was soon to follow. In either case washing down the meal with a couple of pints made everything right. Over the last ten years a revolution has happened in pub life in Britain. The chain pub now rules supreme. Conglomerates now own vast swaths of British tradition and tudor oak beams and have dictated that uniformity should be the plate du jour. The menus are basically the same, uninspired but with fancy names or just plain uninspired. You may be lucky and find a pub that serves Thai food!! Table service has vanished. Find a table and then find the table number, read the laminated menu, go to the bar, give your order and table number and some sixteen year old will throw your food at you in 15 minutes. Repeated drinks mean repeated trips to the bar whilst your half eaten dinner gets cold patiently awaiting your second glass of wine.

This may be a typical phone conversation between two Brits whilst arranging a night out down the pub:

“Let’s grab some dinner at the Royal Oak.”
“Oh – the Royal Oak is a Weatherspoons pub. How about the Four Horseshoes – it’s a Chef and Brewer?”
“OK – great idea, Chef and Brewers do the best Banoffee pie”
Excuse the pun but it appears to be a chicken and egg situation – I’m not sure if the British public demanded this bland uniformity first or if the conglomerates realized bulk buying power and therefore increased profits by telling the Brits to know what they like and like what they know and all for a cheap price. In either case, it appears to be a reciprocal agreement spurred on by the culinary disaster and national obsession that is Banoffe pie (A sickly sweet mess of toffee and banana that has as much subtlety as consuming a pound of sugar followed a 3 second squirt of Coolwhip straight from the can into one’s mouth). To add insult to injury, one is wise to make reservations at these places on a Friday or Saturday night or Sunday lunchtime. I morally object to having to make a reservation for a pub.
Even the fine art of alcohol has had its romance removed in favor of surgical sterility. The pint struggles on but is rapidly being replaced by “extra cold” variants. By making the beer extra cold ones’ taste buds are told to take a coffee break so the alcohol content of the beverage can glide by them without the brain having to register the actual taste. Wine is now served from screwtop bottles, in size large or small with the world’s varietals ranging from red all the way to white (without even stopping for Rosé). What a romantic way to spend your anniversary – “Another large red, my dear?”. Don’t even ask about cocktails. They come premixed in a bottle. However, none of this can stop the Brits drinking. The largest social nuisance is currently swarms of drunk twenty-somethings leaving the pubs on a weekend night absolutely blitzed out of their brains. By Britain holding the record for the largest number of CC cameras per-capita in the world, it gives the rest of population the chance to witness their delirious and mainly illegal acts in glorious night vision green – “Look Ma, I’m on TV”. The government increased the hours pubs can stay open to try and stagger the Friday night exodus but binge drinking is now firmly entrenched in British culture and doesn’t look to be going away.
Now, I know what you are saying. You’re sick of me bad mouthing the Brits. Tired of my tirades against my fellow country people. I’m sure that you’d love to point out the US is no better and maybe even worse or perhaps Germany is the same. And it maybe true but it doesn’t make it right. The pinnacle of human evolution is the time we have on our hands to create the finest of food, the most delectable of wines and subtle sophistication of the mixed drink. This is what separates us from the monkeys – the ability to create and enjoy what we have created – what a shame to throw it away on the cheep and cheerful.