I apologize for my recent absence. Since my last update was in Greece, I’m a few cities behind. So far, I’ve been to Budapest, Prague, and now am sitting at a cafe in the medieval Baltic city of Tallinn.

Despite my run-ins with the Greek Communist Party, I did ultimately successfully make it to Mykonos, to quite a few adventures. Unfortunately, none of them will be chronicled here. Said adventures took a considerable bit out of me and, as such, left me not quite prepared for Budapest. While it was a more subdued destination, I do have at least one anecdote I’d like to share.

Having just enjoyed the famous Eastern European hospitality himself, Mr. Greg Corkran sent me a rather exhaustive list of recommendations for both Budapest and Prague. One of the first things he said was “go to as many bathhouses as you can. They are the most incredible thing ever.” To my detriment, I didn’t follow his advice to the letter, and didn’t (but should’ve) go to as many bathhouses as possible. I did, however, go to one, and it was the most incredible thing ever.

This will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me, but public pools are not something which I frequent. The thought of public baths brings to mind something more akin to a damp and mildewed Y lockerroom, not exactly Canyon Ranch. The public baths in Hungary, however, had no such associations. The buildilng itself was housed in a gorgeous Art Nouveau builiding with colorful ceramic tile and Art Nouveau sculpture everywhere. You are given a wide choice of baths, saunas, and steam rooms, including underground spring-fed mineral baths, hot tubs, cold tubs, a wave pool, and a lap pool. I got a 30-minute massage for 1/4 of the price it would have cost me at the hotel spa. Except for the overweight and hairy elderly Hungarians, you might be forgiven for thinking that this wasn’t public, or even Eastern Europe.

But, fellow-travelers, my three hours or so that I spent in the baths were not entirely blissful and stress free (would this anecdote truly be worth sharing if it were? Come on, fellow-travelers, I know you better than that). The Eastern Europeans don’t fuck around with their heat. While the steam room did make me feel like I was going to choke – I could breathe steam out and it would still feel hot against my skin – the real show was the dry heat rooms. Not quite Finnish style saunas, these rooms were outfitted with ceramic tile and heated to perilous temperatures. There were three rooms, each one through the next. The rooms were, sequentially, 60-70 degrees, 70-80 degrees, and 80-90 degrees – Celcius. That is like almost literally boiling. I decided to give the middle room a try as a nice average. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stay very long; I’ll admit, this was partly because of the heat. Partly, though, I had to flee from embarrassment. See, there was a tiny metal pull hanging from the wall. Not knowing this was a dry heat room  – and thinking that the steam room was rather lacking in steam – I thought perhaps it was a pull to summon said steam. Rather, it was an emergency alarm (these rooms are really hot) that sounded a siren not just in the immediate area, but all throughout the complex. I tried to slink out anonymously, but seeing as I was the only one in that area, it was pretty clear who had pulled it.

All for know. I’ll try to be better about updates. Last night was spent sinking karaok with a bunch of drunk Finnish tourists, so hopefully there will be more to come soon.

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Hey, fellow-travelers. Here I am sitting in the passenger terminal at the Port of Piraeus in Athens. But Rob, you might ask, it’s 7:34AM and your ferry to Mykonos was supposed to leave at 7:15AM? Why aren’t you on your way to your glamorous sun-drenched island destination?

Good question. The reason, inquisitive fellow-traveler, is because today the entire country of Greece is on strike. Bus drivers, metro workers, train conductors, boat crew, doctors, lawyers, basically everyone. And no, I’m not bitter that these demonstrations are ruining my vacation. It’s too long, frankly, for any one union to put a dent in it; really that would take dedicated action from the golden age of the Comintern. It would require better international coordination than was displayed during this Greek crisis in the first place.

It sucks to have your economy in shambles. It sucks to have a lifetime of an unsustainable yet totally entitled social welfare system tangle up around you like so much fishing net. I feel your pain. So keep striking, Greece. I hope you get your retirement age back down to late adolescence. And don’t worry, I hear being owned by the Germans doesn’t suck as bad as they say.

Communists blocking the entrance to my boat.

A couple of nights ago, I met a guy who wanted to have drinks the next night. I thought this sounded fine, as only a couple of nights before, I had had drinks with someone and it turned out great. The first guy was a gallery owner in Istanbul and had been one of the 30 people to march in the first Istanbul Pride March. We talked for hours and had a very lovely evening. The second stranger, not so much.

The day I was supposed to meet the second guy for drinks, a third guy invited me to a party up on the Bosphorus. Obviously, this was the superior option. But, the party wasn’t until later and the drinks were earlier and I felt badly about cancelling so I decided to do both.

I met the guy for drinks in front of the Burger King in Taksim Square. I was running late, but he was nice about it. Rather than drinks, he said, it was his friend’s birthday and she was having a party, so why don’t we go over to her house? OK, I said, but I have to be at this party on the Bosphorus in a couple hours. But you’re not going to that anymore, he asked? No, I’m going (obviously), but not for a couple hours. Party on the Bosphorus – keep my eye on the prize.

When we arrive at his friend’s apartment, she didn’t answer his calls at first. She finally comes out and throws keys down from the balcony. We come upstairs, only to find the apartment empty and Lady Gaga’s “Alejandro” blaring. Empty, except for his friend and her boyfriend having sex. Mind you, she had managed to get up and throw us the keys, and presumably then knew we were coming up the stairs. Things were going from bad to worse.

We all settle in and open a few beers. I start looking around the apartment to find partially finished canvases, mugs of a mixture of stale coffee and cigarette butts, dismembered manaquin parts: oh shit – art school students!

As the “party” “progressed,” we topped out at 8 people. The birthday girl, I guess as part of her creative process, would get up every so often, take a paintbrush and some black paint, and make a single stroke on what appeared to be a painting of a developmentally challenged man in a turban (’cause it’s like Turkey’s past, but stunted – so raw!), then sit back down. Meanwhile, an overweight and obviously gay partygoer with a mullet kept trying to hit on me. He’d ask questions like, what did you study at university? “Echols Interdisciplinary Major” doesn’t really translate, so I just say Politics and Economics. In response to this – and basically every other answer I give – he gives me this weird come hither look.

The final straw (in the sense that it was the chronologically ultimate straw, not in the sense that it was the straw that convinced me I needed to beat a path out of there. We were way past that) was when Art Mullet stands up and starts to belly dance. Then grabs me, and tries to get me to do it with him. Everyone is laughing, and in fairness, for good reason. I’m sure the mortification on my face was comical. But I, fellow-travelers, I was definitely not laughing.

Finally the rest of the partygoes get up to go to a jazz festival in Tunel. I see this as my window of opportunity, but the original invitor suggests we stay. No, why don’t you go with your friends and I’ll go to the Bosphorous. Fuck my friends! Just stay for 10 more minutes, he pleads. Because nothing is attractive like adding desperation to creepiness. I have to literally close the door behind me in his face.

I extricate myself finally from the situation and high-tail it up to the Bosphorous. It was as glamorous as it sounds. No one had mullets, and I’m pretty sure no one had gone to art school, either.

You are lucky, because you believe in your own luck. But you are separated from someone who you wish to be with.

Obviously intrigued (who could it be, fellow-traveler?! Could it be you?), I pressed him for who this person was. He took my other hand, and came up with this:

You are separated from them because you are too self-centered.

Is that insulting? I can’t decide…but that’s all he gave me! What do you think, fellow-travelers? Any web mystics out there with wisdom for me?

I got my first taste of this delightful lifestyle last night, somewhat unexpectedly. My new CSing host (I’ve got 2 in Amsterdam because the first guy left for London yesterday) and a fellow CouchSurfer didn’t want to go out, but I wasn’t about to waste a Friday night in Babylon. Rather than take a taxi to bars, my host offered me his Peugot bicycle. Sure, it was rusty, had no headlight, a tiny, round (?) seat, and offered all the attention to detail French engineers are famous for, but on this baby, I was all but a local. And at least this bike no one would want to steal.

Pedaling along the canals at night, I’m sure my wobbliness belied my foreignness (when was the last time you rode a bike? Fellow-travelers, I’m sure for many of you it was the same time you rode a UTS bus: first-year). And frankly, the expert bike riding Dutch have a different idea of a safe passing distance than I do.

The bar was fun. I got lots of attention anytime an English song would come on because I was the only one who knew words other than the chorus (which, of course, is a relative evaluation. I obviously knew not a word of the Dutch pop songs). But perhaps the most lovely moments were afterward, in the early morning along the canals, searching for the tower of the Westerkerk in order to find my way home. There’s no better way to be lost than on a bike in Amsterdam.

2 hours and about 7 beers later, after discussing the US, the Amsterdam police, why they were pulling for Ghana over Germany in the World Cup match that was on (hint: it has something to do with the Nazis), I finally had to tell Roger and Habib that it was getting dark, I didn’t yet know if I had a place to stay, and I really did need to leave. Over their protests of “one more for the road” – about the 5th one for the road, actually – I headed toward the door. The bartender and Roger then both ask, “How do you like Amsterdam?”

I replied, “Well, I’ve only been here for 2 hours but it’s great so far!”

The bartender then said, “Well welcome to Amsterdam. You are welcome here.”

Welcome, indeed.

A brief aside for an Australian history lesson. Australia originated as a dumping ground for British convicts that was far enough away from Britain that they didn’t really give a shit what happened to them. According to Wikipedia, “One of the primary reasons for the British settlement of Australia was the establishment of a penal colony to alleviate pressure on their overburdened correctional facilities.” Apparently, nowadays it’s quite prestigious to be able to trace your ancestry back to the convict-settlers. I know some WASPy types who take pride in being able to trace their relatives back to the Mayflower or Jamestown or whatever, but having colonial American ancestors seems to be like a claim to a patriotic heritage, like your ancestors were brave and enterprising and sailed across the ocean in search of freedom and opportunity. Having colonial Australian ancestors is like saying I’m descended from the stock of rapists and murders.

But I digress. I’m sure much of my impression of the game comes from sheer ignorance. I’m sure there’s elegance and strategy and finesse in spades. But to the untrained eye, it looks like it’s pretty much a free for all out there. Want to grab a player by the jersey to bring him down? Fine! Deliver a little extra sock as you take him down? No problem! When you ended up on this sandy continent for stabbing someone, a little extra elbow or fist must have seemed like no big deal when they were writing the rules. At one point, I saw two players somewhat removed from the action start to jostle each other. Jostling turned into shoving and yanking, all literally right in front of the ref. He started to make some half-hearted steps towards the players, but why should he take any interest? None of the other spectators seemed to think this was unsporting, or even remarkable.

One of the great things about sports (aside from the gladiatorial sating of modern day bloodlust) is the weird superstitions and traditions that you would never otherwise subscribe to except that you’re a true fan. While these rituals are what gives every great team heart and binds the fans to the franchise, to an outsider, they’re hilarious. This trip, as a constant stranger in an ever strange land, I’ve seen my fair share of this tomfoolery. For the Yakult Swallows, it’s the aforementioned umbrella cheer after home runs (you can see a clip in my Picasa album). For the Doosan Bears in Korea, it’s their simultaneously cute and terrifying robotic bear mascot (which I’ll be damned that I didn’t take a picture of and now can’t find online. Sorry so much of this is links, I suck as a tourist/photojournalist and constantly forget my camera). For the Carlton Navy Blues, the home team last night, it’s their great Victorian-era fight song. Does this really strike fear into the hearts of the opponents, or make you feel like you’ve stumbled into a gay pirate musical?

Speaking of gay pirates, perhaps the real best part of Aussie rules isn’t the total disregard for bodily harm or the 19th century fight song. Aussie rules uniforms are, shall we say, a bit ‘mo. The players are dressed in skin-tight sleeveless shirts, and shorts that are the same length NBA players used to wear back when the Celtics and Lakers were a rivalry the first time. It’s basically a gay slutty Halloween costume version of a real athletic uniform:

I rest my case.

And it turns out, my fellow-travelers, that my intuition was right. After a little bit of reconnaissance last night, it just so happens that there is quite a large gay following of Aussie Rules. My source tells me that Collingwood has an estimated 10,000 gay fans (!). No word on when Aussie Rules is due up for a Vanity Fair cover.

Apparently the guys put me down for the wrong dates, meaning we’re somewhat double booked. My first night with them, it was me and a German

girl. Last night, 4 other people arrived, two French people and two Brazilians who all live in Brisbane. So there were 6 of us sleeping in these guy’s living room. The house only has heating in one room (blessedly the living room). I’m getting a little Lawn nostalgia as well because the toilet, though with running water, is in a shed in the backyard with no light.

I’m struggling, dear fellow-travelers, with whether to stick it out for you and the inevitable antics that will ensue tonight when everyone is drunk, or whether to cut bait. Stay tuned.

1. This is obvious to all 5th grade science students, but it’s winter down here. In addition to presenting a logistical packing challenge when the rest of my trip is in the northern hemisphere, it’s quite jarring to have the high be 55 and the sun set at 5PM.
2. Apparently there’s a Spearmint Rhino here. Who knew that was a chain at all, much less an international one?
3. This one’s mostly for David, but who thinks it’s hilarious that Budweiser is the official beer of the World Cup? The quintessential American beer is the official beer of the one sporting event that everyone BUT America cares about. That’s what getting yourselves bought by the Brazilians will get you.
4. This may sound obvious too, but it’s weird being back in a country where most people speak English. Not for the reasons you would think, though. The weirdest thing is that random conversations on the street, in restaurants, on the subway, etc are understandable again. I find myself tuning in way too intently into people’s conversations because its no longer an incomprehensible din.
5. Though their overstreet tram system is kinda slow and very overpriced – at least compared to the public works marvels of Asia – apparently they take their fare enforcement really f-ing seriously. Both on the way and on the way home, like 6 transit officers came through our car checking tickets. That means each officer is checking like 3 tickets every car tops. Isn’t that a job that maybe 1 or 2 people could do?
6. People can’t tell if my accent is American or Canadian, which I find both charming, and alternatively dismaying and relieving.

All for now. Hopefully in the coming days I’ll have some real observations/exploits.

PS – Did really no one get my Men At Work reference? Same song as for this title, their seminal 80′s one hit wonder, “Land Down Under”? Or have people just stopped caring/commenting?