I gotta beat this funk.

Long time no blog. I apologize for the inconsistency, I've been a busy man of late. This past week in particular was littered with three countries, multiple police encounters, two very different concerts, Drews', and birthday parties. I'll do my best to recount the week's events, though this afternoon is the first time in a while I've given my brain the opportunity to commit anything to memory. I hear you need sleep for that to work. Science, who needs it?

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A half dozen weeks ago I was sitting in an IKEA cafeteria eating Swedish meatballs when the people I've become closest to here decided we'd take a trip to Paris together. We took advantage of advance planning and booked with my favorite discount transportation company, Eurolines. The ticket cost 22 euro. 22 euro to Paris. Music to the ears. So Wednesday morning came, and the six of us, Mike, Josefin, Jake, Johanna, Barry and I, gathered in the lobby of Parnassos. Well, that's not entirely true. Five of us gathered and waited for Mike Soha, who has earned the nickname "Grandpa Slow-ha" by being consistently behind schedule and taking at least 45 minutes to tie his shoes and put a hat on. Once all were present and accounted for, we made the trek to the Jaarbeursplein on the west end of Centraal Station. Staying with tradition, the Eurolines bus to Paris via Brussels was 20 minutes late, but the weather was nice so no one seemed to mind. Unfortunately, the bus ride became exponentially more inconvenient. To be fair, everything went smoothly until we reached the French border. At that point, two unmarked police officers boarded, asked for everyone's passports, then promptly left with them, and the bus pulled ahead about 200 meters. I don't know about you, but I don't particularly enjoy handing a document that fetches 30 G's on the black market, and also happens to be the only proof of my citizenship, to an unshaven Frenchman wearing an armband someone could've made in art class that claims he's an authority figure. Maybe that's a little paranoid, but I've seen some weird shit on Eurolines buses. So that passport deal set us back even a little further in time, but I felt better when we got back on the road. About a half hour later we were stopped again at a tollway about 60 km from Paris. This time, an officer stepped on the bus, said something in French, then called up another officer, who held a leash attached to a large black police dog. I of course had nothing to worry about, but I have a feeling a few people were sweating on that bus. The dog moved up and down the gangway, eventually finding something he liked in the third seat from the front. Then the nice officers pulled everyone's luggage out and started rummaging. I'm not sure how long this went on for, because I fell asleep, but I woke up when I was shaken by an officer asking me to step off the bus. I had to open my pack, because hooks and snaps are apparently not covered in the French Police training. When we were back on the road I happened to look at my watch and realized I was supposed to meet Drews at a metro stop in Paris in twenty minutes, which was a problem, because we weren't even close. Unfortunately, I couldn't get through to his phone, and I came to the realization that I had no way of contacting him sans the phone. We arrived at Gallieni bus station an hour late, and took the metro to our hostel in Montmarte. We checked in quickly, and Barry and I hopped back on the metro toward Hotel d' Ville, the chosen spot. I tried to place myself in Drews' earthtone Newbies, but it was too hard, so instead thought of how long I would wait at a busy Metro station for a friend I haven't spoken to for almost a week. Then I cut that number in half. There was no way he would still be at the station. So while I tried to locate his hotel, Barry continued calling the number, and eventually got through. Drews was there to meet us in three minutes, and to his credit, had stayed almost a full hour at the station waiting. His big eyes were filled with relief when he spotted us standing outside the stairs. "Do you want to get food first?" "No, let's head to the show." That man is serious about his music. I don't think a man selling gyros, tacos AND pizza could've wavered his determination. We did eventually get one of the worst slices of pizza I've ever eaten, but that's beside the point.

The concert we were headed to was The National, a band you've probably never heard of, but they're a personal favorite of mine, and the chance to see them at a 500 capacity venue sitting atop one of the seven hills of Paris was too much to pass up. It is a basement venue with a small stage and a floor surrounded by a half-circle of raised standing room. A one-man bar serving overpriced Stella Artois is off a hallway as you walk in. The show was sold-out, and definitely one of the best shows I've seen in the past few years, all said. It had all the best parts of your favorite concerts. Songs you know by heart. A sweaty, cramped room with beer soaked wood floors. And a lead singer just north of tipsy. Also, everyone around was speaking French, so I wasn't forced to listen to multiple random conversations going around me. The band came on an hour late and there was no opener. They ripped through their set with increasing energy, and speedy consumption of a bottle of white wine by the lead singer. The French honestly booed when he drank water. I didn't think he'd make it to the encore. I won't bore you with any more details, but the show was excellent. Post-show consisted of waiting for Drews' cousin for over an hour at two different metro stops, then finding the rest of our group drinking wine on the Seine downhill from Notre Dame. We made it back to our small room in the hostel and caught a few winks.

Thursday morning we woke up and took showers in a bathroom under the stairs. It was just big enough to turn around in, which I did twice, both times smashing my elbow on the broken towel bar. We picked up some baguettes and stinky cheese for breakfast (very French, I know) and headed back to Cite for a free walking tour from Fat Tire. The tour was actually very good, and covered a good part of the Latin Quarter and history from Napoleon to the French Revolution. It was a scorcher, so after three hours everyone was dragging ass, but we pushed on to the Eiffel Tower, which is hands down the biggest cash cow I've ever seen. I can't comprehend how much money that pile of steel makes in a day. It does offer a nice view though.

After this we were all very hungry, and no one really took the lead as we wandered through the Quarter, eyes open for a grocery store. We eventually found one, and loaded up on more baguettes, cheese, and snacks, as well as a half dozen mid-range bottles of wine. But we forgot the corkscrew. So those nice bottles of wine turned into dirt-cheap table wine in a plastic bottle with a screw-off cap. We brought our picnic to the park near Hotel des Invalides, and drank, ate and napped to our heart's desire. All was well again, barring the homeless guy shaving upwind from us. I was a little worried about some stray homeless beard sneaking into the cheese. With a good buzz, we headed back toward Hemingway's favorite fishing spot on the Seine for the sunset, armed with two bottles of champagne. Once the sun was down, we found an Italian place for dinner, and thank god the girls speak some French, because I was not going to end up eating octupus again. The waiter poked fun at our sun-burnt noses, pointing to each and saying "Rouge. Rouge. Rouge..." After dinner we dropped in an Irish Pub where the cheapest thing on the menu was a pint of Amstel for 6.50. Yikes. Fortunately, there was some live music in the form of a blues influenced Doors lover who ripped through the Best of in a hurry. Back at the hostel, we head to move to a bigger room. Technically, the 14 bed room we moved to was actually smaller than the 8 bed room we slept in the first night. They could not have put another bed in the room if they wanted to. Everyone was sleeping directly next to their neighbors, and the only potential moving space in the room was occupied by a broken soda cooler. There was also a stand-alone A/C, which froze 1/4 of the room while leaving the remainder sweltering hot. No windows. But the kicker was the sign on the door. Please keep the door shut at ALL times. Apart from the 1 foot diameter tube hanging off the A/C out the door, I would've been happy to comply.

Day three was a walking marathon. After finding the suburban RER train station and buying tickets from a spastic, chain-smoking Frenchman, we boarded the train to Versailles. Versailles is of course the site of the infamous Palace of Versailles, a stunning tribute to French overindulgence. The estate is massive. Marie Antoinette's plot alone could've housed several post-WWII families comfortably. The gardens, peppered with exquisite fountains, are striking. The palace itself is of course remarkable. The private opera, the Hall of Mirrors, and the kings bedroom are covered in gold and furniture that everyone must've been afraid to sit on. All said, we spent 5 hours exploring Versailles, but the fun was not over yet. Once back in Paris, we took advantage of the free Louvre admission on Friday nights. It had begun to pour on our way there. The kind of rain where you're soaked in two minutes. Fortunately, the metro stop was very close to the museum, so we were inside the pyramid before you could say 'Da Vinci Code'. It was nice to get a second look at some of the museum's masterpieces, and we stuck to the greatest hits edition in the interest of time. Back in Montmarte, we found a nice cous-cous place to eat, and stuffed ourselves on tiny rice, meat and veggies. And of course, wine. I spent the remainder of my last night there chatting with friends.

I woke up early to catch my 9:00 bus back at Gallieni, where I made a series of small mistakes before finding the full bus back to Utrecht. On the ride back, I had the pleasure of viewing both Forrest Gump and The Game, dubbed in French of course. Thanks Eurolines.

I spent the evening in Utrecht out with a few friends, and failed to pack until the next morning, right before I headed out to catch the bus to Brussels. Once in town, I hiked up to the Van Gogh Youth Hostel and dropped my bags and paid for my bed. Then I headed into the city centre via the metro to meet up with the Drews'. After a minor scare involving misplaced DMB tickets, which I can safely say is in Chris' top three least favorite things in the world, I headed back to the hostel to check-in. But not before witnessing a nice Brussels car accident. It was actually rather comical, because this guy was trying to parallel park between a Beamer and a police van, which was filled with policeman, of all things. He must've hit the gas instead of the brake, because he hit the Beamer pretty hard, and an officer hopped out of the van and grabbed my arm as I was walking past. Par le vu francais? No sir. Did you see what just happened? Sure did. So I got to sign a small statement that must've said, "I saw a guy back his vehicle into another vehicle," or at least I hope so, because that's what I said. I eventually made it back to Drews' hotel and Lynda, Chris and I headed out for a beer. I brought them to Delirium Cafe, maybe my favorite pub ever. Sitting around an old wooden barrel, Lynda had De Koninick, while Drews and I went high percentage with the Leffe 9 and Westmalle Tripel, respectively. Afterwards, we grabbed a gyro on kebab street, where Lynda embarrassed Chris by finishing her meal, while Chris complained about the lack of sauce. After dinner, it was time to catch the tram out to the concert venue. Vorst National is a small venue in Vorst, about 25 minutes south of Brussels. The tram was packed with DMB fans, many of whom were Dutch. The venue was interesting, as the floor was standing room with a considerable slant. Drews was taping, so we stood near the back of the standing room, on the edge of where the seats begin. The opener was Tom Morello, who you may remember from such bands as Rage Against the Machine and Audioslave. He put on a show fueled by his distaste for the current administration, which I found is pretty safe ground in western Europe. A clean-cut southern American apparently disagreed with what Tom had to say, because he spent a large part of the 40 minute set standing and screaming "Fuck you!" at the top of his lungs. The whole scene was a good example of constructive political action. The DMB show was highlighted by a Neil Young cover and the American Baby Intro. It was a good show, but I realized I don't get as excited about the band as I used to, and I should probably take some considerable time off before seeing them again. We caught the second to last tram back to Brussels, and it was a comfortable ride, just ask Drews. He was stuck in one of the doorways, sandwiched for the whole ride. I eventually made it back to the hostel, and woke up early enough to catch the continental breakfast and pick up a few things in town, namely chocolate and beer.

I arrived back in Utrecht around 5, which gave me nearly 4 hours to shower, eat and relax before headed out to 't Oude Pothuys for Mike's 22nd. Pothuys has an open mic on Monday nights, and it always draws a big crowd. The music was actually really good, and the closers pushed through some great blues standards before the place became a discotheque. We stayed late, and walking back at 3:30 I noticed something that's been gradually happening for the last few weeks. It doesn't get dark here. It just get dark enough that you know it's night time. The sky stays a shade of blue at all times, and apparently by mid-June, that shade will be royal at the darkest.

Last night was a going-away party for Isabella, one of the Spanish girls, and it ended at Storm, the club I hadn't been to since February. But before that, I got to see The Office for the first time since November, because Comedy Central picked up Season Two over here. Michael grilled his foot. Great episode. So Storm went late, as you can imagine, but there was no sleeping in for this guy, because I have class on Wednesdays, but that didn't stop Barry. Before I left I think he tried to explain why he wasn't going, but all I could make out was "puke...bike...can't see..." So it was probably for the best.

This coming weekend I'll be staying in town and relaxing in anticipation of the big trip out to Czech Republic next week. If all goes well, I'll be sipping 50 cent half litres in Prague on my birthday. It's no party bus, but it'll do...