I should preface this essay by saying that I prefer traveling
alone above all other options. I sleep when I want to sleep, walk 20 miles
in one day without anyone calling me a “Travel Nazi” and drink
one too many glasses of, well, lessee what do I have here? Villa Doluca, 2001.
“Produce of Turkey?.” Huh. Since when did Turkey make wine? Well,
I’m gonna drink this whole thing by myself dammit. Anyway, the point
is that I’m in charge and that’s the way I like it. Especially
when I am on a marathon tour of western Europe and I have a sketchy schedule
that gives me from June through about November to get through and write about
Iceland (well, technically that visit was last fall), Norway, Sweden, Denmark,
Germany, Austria, The Czech Republic, The Netherlands, Belgium, Luxembourg,
Ireland, Scotland, Spain, Portugal, France, Switzerland, Italy, Greece and
any other countries that get in my way. Despite any affections I may have
for the places I visit and the hangovers that I inflict upon myself, I need
to stay focused and keep moving. This may sound like a dreamy cake walk to
the rest of you, but traveling and writing at top speed like I’m doing
has it’s own brand of stress, frustration, surprises and life altering
experiences.
Whoops, got on a tangent there, didn’t I? Where was I?
Oh right… Despite my selfish approach to my “job,” as I
sit and have dinner alone for the fifth time this week, I can’t help
but wish I had someone to entertain, or better yet, someone to entertain me.
This probably doesn’t come as a surprise to many of you, but I am a
huge extrovert and I think that I’m fricking hilarious, so having to
sit and crack jokes to myself 80% of the time really bites the big, fat large
one.
Many has been the time on this tour of Europe that I have seen
something very extraordinary and said out loud, “Holy shit! Did you
see that?” and realized belatedly that I was talking to no one. Sometimes
the strangers in earshot that understood English would look at me and grin,
but that’s about the best I got. Let’s face it, I am on a trip
of a lifetime and I am experiencing things on a daily and sometimes hourly
basis that drop my jaw down to my sternum and there is no one there to share
these moments with me. It sucks donkey balls. I take notes, I record MP3s,
take digital pictures and AVIs of live action and despite my goal to eventually
share all of these experiences through my essays, I can’t help but think
how some of these situations would have been enriched with someone there to
loose their shit with me or laugh like brain damaged hyenas together.
As much as I would like to share these events with my countrymen
and (especially) countrywomen, there are the inverse, ugly moments where I
duck down and engage my best Norwegian accent while in earshot of some dipshit
Americans ruining it for the rest of us. While there are hoards of Americans
in Europe who are traveling with the best of intentions, there are an equal
number of us, many of them between the ages of 18 and 20, on their first big
trip apart from mommy and daddy and suddenly find themselves in countries
where it is perfectly legal for them to drink. It’s not pretty. The
drinking age in Europe is 18 and in many places beer and wine are cheaper
than water. No kidding. I’ve often wondered if these people came over
2,000 miles to explore new countries, experience different cultures and expand
their minds or if they came all that way just to party. I’m embarrassed
to say that an alarming number of them lose sight of the former and engage
in the latter.
Nothing wilts the cause of improving the American image than
a drunken 19 year old at 11:30 on a Wednesday night at a camp site, shouting
unpleasantries to his buddies, with at least 75 people in earshot, in the
worst fake British accent imaginable. Sadly, this is what young Americans
tend do when they are cut loose in Europe. As if “President” Bush
(quotes courtesy of Michael Moore. PS – Read “Stupid White Men”
now!) weren’t doing enough to make us look bad, these fuck-ups have
to zoom across the Pond and make us look like even bigger dicks.
So as you can see, I am tortured by my desire for and my loathing
of some good ol’ American companionship. As I walked through Mozart’s
residence it would have been nice to have someone to make bug-eyes at upon
learning that the little fucker was composing symphonies at age seven, but
then I would have also liked to have evaporated into thin air while the drunken,
middle-aged man and his wife were staggering out of the Stiegl’s brewery
in Salzburg, babbling to the staff in the worst possible phrase book German
“Dankeschön! Ich bin ein Berliner!!!” (“Thank you very
much! I am a jelly-doughnut!”*) (*If you don’t already know this
story by now, you should be filleted and marinated like a $5.99 Red Lobster
Special, but while John F. Kennedy was visiting Berlin he made an impassioned
speech that climaxed when he tried to say “I am a Berliner,” but
through a hilarious translation screw-up, he succeeded in saying “I
am a jelly-doughnut!” Ha ha!!) Scenes like this (we weren’t even
in Berlin!) make me break out hives.
The last thing I want to address in regards to my sporadic loneliness
is the inclination that many of you may have that I desperately need to get
laid as fast and furious as possible. If you have been reading my babbling
closely you might have noticed a pattern emerging in my repeated comments
about ogling the women, the nudity and my new pursuit for a completely braless
society. I would like to say without hesitation that everything that you are
thinking is true. I need to get laid. Now. Like this minute. Seriously. Does
anybody know anyone in Vienna? I’m desperate here.