Anlerale

There are many reasons why I live in and love Orange County:
The weather is almost always perfect, there’s a Starbucks on every corner and almost any store you could name that exists west of the Rockies is within a 5 mile radius of my office.

Any those same reasons are why I need to get out of the County every few weeks:
You’ll hear people whine on local radio during one of our 3 rain storms every year, “I moved to Southern California so I wouldn’t have to deal with the rain!” Realty-TV attitude dripping from their mouth; there’s no unfamiliarity in this bloody place and all of those stores mentioned above have created a materialistic culture matched by no county that I’ve ever been to.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the weather, I love my coffee and the stores come in handy – but sometimes, all I really need is friends, family and some “anlerale”.

The idea for the trip had been berthed months earlier as my little sister Ali and her husband Mike decided they were road-tripping to Colorado over spring break to see my other sister Annie and her husband Pete. Pete and Annie live the life that most adventurers dream of: As the directors of the adventure sports ministry at camp Ad-Ra-Ha-Je in Bailey, Colorado, they live in a cabin at 9,000 feet in the Rockies and spend their time ministering to youth and taking them on all sorts of adventure sports adventures in the Rockies. My friend Katie was on spring break as well and the two of us flew out from California and rounded out the group of six.

Our itinerary was simple: pack as many outdoor sports as possible into our 4 day stay in the Rockies and experience some of the much-heralded “anlerale”

We piled into two cars and headed out for a day of climbing at “Bucksnort”. We crossed the freeway and taking the “back way”, we found ourselves on a dirt road following a meandering creek which cut its way through a canyon. Time hadn’t moved in this canyon in 50 years. Old log homes were perched on the hills, some occupied and some looking as though they might tumble down the slope and at a passer-by’s sneeze. Homemade bridges that looked like they wouldn’t support a squirrel running across doubled as driveways over the creek to the creek-side homes. As we rounded one corner, Pete pointed out “There’s the Bucksnort”.

Now, the rock and the saloon are both named the same – I’m not sure which came first. As we drove past the rickety old shack with neon signs in the window, I couldn’t help but salivate in anticipation of whatever the “anlerale” might bring me. We made our way to the rock for a day of 5.7 & 5.8 crack. Crystal-clear skies and 60 degrees made for some fantastic climbing, arm-wrestling and pipe-smoking. Even Ali got on some rock.

After a day of climbing, we drove a couple of miles back up the dirt road, pulled up to the saloon and made our way inside. The old wooden door creaked as we stepped inside. We were greeted by a moose wearing lipstick and a pool table that sat idle waiting for our post dinner game of cut-throat.

We walked in the dining area and were sat by the old German woman that I had heard so much about. We made her repeat every sentence she uttered at least twice. She combined almost every word she said. Sometimes we didn’t know if she was speaking in German with an English accent or the other way around. Trying to decipher what she said reminded me of the time I saw a Japanese guy who spoke no English try to special order something from a Polish speaking vendor in O’Hare airport in Chicago. To this day I (nor the Polish guy) knew what he wanted. At any rate, no one really knows how our German friend got to America or what she is doing at the Bucksnort.

“Wha’llyouguyshave?” she asked.
“What kind of beers do you have?” I asked.
“BudMillerLightHeineken[blah, blah, blah, blah…] Anlerale…”
I interrupted – “You have Anlerale?”
“Suredo” the old German said.
“We’ll have a pitcher of that” I said.

No one really knows of the origins or composition of Anlerale. Our best guess is that what our German friend is trying to say is “Antler Ale”. She informed us that the brew was locally brewed in Golden, Colorado. However, having a pitcher we were unable to confirm this by an address on the bottle. A Google search will reveal a plethora of different breweries with an Antler Ale. Which one our German friend served us will forever remain a mystery. Slightly hoppy and tasting similar to an amber – it was like Sam Adams meets Alaskan Amber: a full-flavored beer that fully satisfied our cravings after a day of hard climbing. We ordered burgers and stuffed our faces until completely sated and waddled our way into the pool room. We took photos, played pool, rubbed our bellies, discussed why the moose was wearing lipstick and thoroughly enjoyed our adventure at the Bucksnort

The Bucksnort Saloon is not a place you’ll find in Orange County. It’s not a place you’ll find on the side on any well marked road. To find places as authentic as this you have wander, or know people who have wandered.

So cheers to wandering and cheers to leaving Orange County and cheers to Anlerale.

Reflections on Joshua Tree

I don’t think there’s a place that I’ve visited that is as unique as Joshua Tree National Park. The adjectives that come to mind are serene, otherworldly, isolated, busy, timeless, calm, violent, intriguing... The Joshua Tree itself is a rare and unique beast. Growing only in the high deserts of Southern California, it looks jacked and perfect all at the same time. The Joshua tree was named by Mormon pioneers who when seeing the tree thought that it resembled what the Biblical Joshua would have looked like brandishing his sword for battle. Other plants in the Park include Yucca and various other angry plants. I pretty much decided that every growing thing in the park is angry. I’m not sure why that is, but let me illustrate.

Take for example the Joshua Tree – a labyrinth of limbs and outgrowths that follow no particular order. Every square inch of the tree is covered in pricks and points will make the toughest bloque scream. I think I’d rather take a bath in hydrochloric acid (HCL – thanks Mr. Bill) than tumble down the side of a Joshua Tree. Now look at the Yucca plan – giant pricklies (that’s the scientific term) on the end of each leaf. Now look at every other bush or tree that I don’t know the name to and they’re all angry. Each, outfitted with its own unique weapon of destruction. Look at the rock – the reason most people visit Joshua Tree National Park. J-Tree rock is the sharpest rock I’ve ever touched. Two hours on that stuff and your fingers will be screaming for a week – calmed only by an Anderson Valley IPA from the Crossroads Café – just outside of the park.

James and I got up on a brisk December morning and headed out for the 2 ½ hour drive to Josh. There are a couple traditions that must be observed: The Water Canyon Coffee Company and the Crossroads Café. The former is the morning caffeination stop which serves both to get the brain working and to induce the morning slide. The latter is the post climbing feast consisting of the Crossroads burger and a number of Anderson Valley IPAs (the number corresponding directly with the dehydration factor and the how bad your fingers hurt).

We bouldered for about 3 hours on Gunsmoke, the Piano Crack, and a few other problems of which we didn’t know the names and then went to find our campsite. The wind was howling so we tried to find a fairly sheltered place. We headed up to the tallest point in Josh and watched the sun set. The wind had to be blowing in excess of 40 miles per hour up there and with the sun setting – geez, it was downright bitter. Ok, now I can see why some plants might be a little upset. We headed back down the mountain, near frozen and built a raging fire to warm our bones. We drank some Anchor Steem
s, shared some Anchor Steems with our neighbors and passed out for a chilly night under the stars.

With sore hands, we got up the next day and built a fire and made some breakfast. We hiked up Ryan mountain which turned out to be a really good mellow hike – about 2 ½ hours round trip. We snapped some pictures, added a few boulders to the shrine on top of Ryan Mountain and headed back down and back to Orange County.

Book Review: The Worst Journey in the World

Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyon the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Tennyson,
Ulysses


I recently finished reading "The Worst Journey in the World" by Apsley Cherry-Garrard. ACG tell an heroic tale of loss and courage in Antarctica.

In March of 1912, Robert Scott, Titus Oates, Bill Wilson, Seaman Evans and Birdie Bowers perished of cold and starvation on their return journey from the South Pole. It had been a race to the Pole between the British and Amundsen and the Norwegians which had ended triumphant for Amundsen and his crew, and fatal for the British party.

On June 15, 1910, the Terra Nova set sail from Cardiff bound for Antarctica. The Terra Nova would return to Cardiff on June 14, 1913 with news of the defeat at the hands of the Norwegians and without their Captain Robert Scott and 4 of his best men.

The story is told by Apsley Cherry-Garrard; a 24 year old man at the time the Terra Nova set sail. ACG draws from his experiences and from others' journals to explain the facts, thoughts, emotions and the science behind 3 years in Antarctica. ACG lived to tell the tale of The Worst Journey in the World, which was not the race to the Pole, but the journey a year prior where ACG and Wilson traveled in the dead of winter, through 4 months of darkness and -78 degree cold, over crevasses, at times cheating death, for the sole purpose of recovering for scientific purposes the very first Emperor Penguin egg. ACG describes how at times during the Winter Journey he wished for nothing more than death.

All was not grief in Antarctica. ACG writes, "Those Hut Point [one of the permanent huts constructed in Antarctica] days would prove some of the happiest of my life. Just enough to eat and keep us warm, no more - no frills nor trimmings: there is many a worse and more elaborate life. The necessaries of civilization were luxuries to us...the luxuries of civilization satisfy only those wants which they themselves create."

ACG writes a gripping tale of life, loss, friendship, determination, adventure and science in Antarctica.

If you are a brave man, you will do nothing: if you are fearful you may do much, for none but cowards have need to prove their bravery. Some will tell you that you are mad, and nearly all will say 'What is the use?' For we are a nation of shopkeepers, and no shopkeeper will look at research which does not promise him a financial return within a year. And so you will sledge nearly alone, but those with whom you sledge will not be shopkeepers: that is worth a good deal. If you march your Winter Journeys you will have your reward, so long as all you want is a penguin's egg. - ACG

Yosemite; The Polar Journey

Factor #1: 5+ hours in vehicle

Factor #2: Friday is becoming Saturday

Factor #3: Euphoria about Yosemite

Result: Impersonations

Bear

Blowfish

Turtle smoking a cigar? (Work with me here. My second guess was a small Chinese woman with a bad joint)

Katie, Jess and I drove to Yosemite Friday night. The plan was to stay in Curry Village with about 17 of Katie’s friends in one tent cabin.

The tentative plan for locating the overstuffed tent cabin (There are probably 800 of these things in Curry Village a

nd opening the door to the wrong tent cabin could present an awkward situation) was for Natalie to leave a not on her car indicating which lucky tent cabin would be hosting 17 college students.

What actually happened was Natalie’s phone worked in the Valley, she texded us the cabin number(s) (thrift had given way to reason and two cabins were reserved) and we found our posse without a hitch.

For anyone who’s never been cross-county skiing, it’s not as easy as you might think. I’ve downhill skied for years and might fall once or twice in a day. On our 6 mile loop to Dewey Point, I face-planted, bruised my shin with my skis, whacked people with my poles and nearly took out a tree…or maybe the other way around, a la Sonny. We climbed up hill, fell down hill, dodged trees and skied through a huge meadow. As we approached the Point, someone commented, “Don’t ski off the point”. “Ok”, I said. I’m not gonna lie, I hadn’t really thought about skiing

off the point. We hugged the middle of the chute heading down to the point. When we arrived I looked back and noted that it really would have been very easy to ski off the point. With mounds and mounts of snow, it was impossible to decipher where the end of sold ground was and where a large overhanging snow drift began.

Our reward for 2 hours of work was a sweeping winter view from Dewey Point. After photos, high-fives, beef jerky, peanut butter, chocolate, carrots, and anything else that passers-by might hand out to us, we headed back. On the way out to Dewey Point, we stopped over

and over to dig our heads out of the snow after face planting. I’d say between 17 people, there where a combi

ned 1,237 falls (if you count the times where will gave out and people scooted, crab walked, or rolled down hills). On the way back, I witnessed 5 total falls. That’s a delta of 1,232 if you’re counting. I’m not sure what the difference was, but we raced back to the lodge.

Top 5 Reasons to visit the Valley during winter:

• Fewer Turons
• Bears are still in hibernation
• Coffee tastes even better when it’s less than 30 degrees
• Driving in ice
• Watching the stars in the meadow on hard-packed snow

Thoughts About Death at 11,000 Feet

"Will I die?"
"Will the trail out of this wilderness be too covered in snow to find?"
"Will I freeze?"
"Will we be on the news?"
"Will I make my flight out of here?"
"What will I do if I have to pee during the night?"

These were some of the thoughts that had gone through my head during the night. It was 3:45 am - I was still awake in our tent as the wind whipped over the top of the mountain and sounded like a freight train coming down into the valley. How did I get myself in this situation?

Less than 24 hours earlier I was in Phoenix in the comfort of 80 degree sunshine and my rental car - in less than 24 hours (if I didn't die), I'd be on my way to the wasteland of a swamp turned one of the top destinations in the country berthed by a man with a penchant for making giant happy mice and cheap imitations of places in the world that really are worthy of travel (Orlando).

I had flown into Denver late Friday night. Annie picked me up at the airport...we crashed for about 6 hours in preparation for our Saturday of outdoor hedonism. In true hedonistic fashion, we made giant pancakes, gorged ourselves on orange juice and set out to conquer some boulders. After a morning of bouldering, we stopped by the Boulder Running Company for some employee discount shopping...then headed up the hill for our trail run through the forest.

After traversing aspens, bombing down singletrack, and waddling on some fire roads, we made it back to the camp, met up with Pete, and began packing for our camping trip. On the way up, Pete divulged that the forecast was for 5-8 inches of snow and driving winds.

"Have you ever camped in anything like that?" I inquired, assuming a simple "Yeah, no problem".
"Uh, nothing quite like that."
Hmmm..."reassuring", I thought.

We drove about 45 minutes from Camp Ad-Ra-Ha-Je which is in Bailey, Colorado up to the trailhead at about 10,000 feet. We parked the truck and unloaded our packs for the 2 mile trek into the wilderness. Pete has a way of underestimating danger...call it confidence, call it leadership, call it whatever - but know that when Pete expresses concern - you should be concerned.

"I hope the bog isn't too bad" Pete said on the drive up. Translated, "Joe will be taking his non gor-tex trail running shoes off and running through the near freezing water in the bog in his bare feet".

After about an hour of trekking, we reached the valley. We had hiked through the bog, over a creek and around a mountain into the valley, which was shaped like half of a big saucer. Breaking through the trees, we had amazing views of the night sky, and the guidance of a full moon.

The next three hours consisted of finding a place to pitch our tent, cooking dinner - chicken burritos, starting a campfire, smoking cigars, drinking wine, and discussing things pertaining to life and Godliness. About mid-way though our cigars, the wind starting picking up, and the snow started flying. We put out our fire and retreated to our tent.

The temperature had dropped to about 10 degrees and the wind was howling in excess of 30 miles per hour. Wind chill? You do the math. We got into our polar pods and attempted to go to sleep...

"Will I die?" I kept thinking to myself.
"What if the wind blows the cover off of the tent?" "What if I have to pee?" It was so bloody cold outside, I think I would have rather pissed in my pants. With 5-8 inche

s of snow forecasted, I was sure we'd end up lost in the morning blizzard, looking for the trail...in a white wilderness - that is if could even shovel ourselves out of the tent in the morning.

At 3:45, I finally drifted into the lala land. Pete's alarm went off at 7. No one wanted to look how much snow was actually outside - the howling wind had pelted our tent all night long with driving snow - I was sure that the snow would be up to the top of our tent.

Pete opened the tent and let the chilling morning wind inside - and to our surprise, only about 3 inches of snow. We were greeted with complete morning stillness and a fresh blanked of snow, which allowed for a glorious hike out and back down the mountain to top it off with round two of the world's biggest pancakes.

As our train rolled out of Italy, our intense sweating finally began to subside. The only thing that could make me happy at this point would be to lie naked on a glacier in the middle of blizzard for 24 to 48 hours.

Only about 3 hours into Switzerland, we had a 20 minute “layover” on a train platform. Exiting the train we were overjoyed at temperatures in the mid-50’s. Literally, a 40 degree drop in no more than 3 hours. It was bliss. I was giddy. Now, the only thing on my mind was Swiss chocolate.

Benny hadn’t shaved in about 2 weeks. Being Romanian, (Side Note: Romanians are actually considered to be more of Latin decent than anything else. Although no one really knows exactly where we (I’m 50% Romanian) came from, most Romanians trace their lineage back to Roman soldiers somewhere between 100-300 AD made their way into Romania and made babies with the “locals”), Benny – unfortunately for him – looks like a terrorist with more than 8 days of facial growth. There’s really no other way to say it. Even though I’m half, I look like I’m straight off of the Viking ship. So when the guards came walking through the train to stamp our passports, I handed mine over, gave a little half-smile-grin-head-nod type of delivery; the guard stamped my passport and moved on.

As I peered two rows up as the two guards stopped to question Benny, the guards said something on their radio in German…translated “Call in Larry for reinforcements, we may have a terrorist on our hands”. A third guard appeared through the door. (Another Side Note: The Swiss take National security very seriously). Here’s the situation: one guard studying Benny’s passport; the second guard intensely questioning Benny about everything except the type of cheese he ate for dinner; the third guard locked and loaded with his hand on the holster.

Yes, they racially profile in Switzerland.

As our train motored through Switzerland towards Interlaken, our faces were glued to the windows. If you’ve ever been to the Yosemite Valley – picture the 5,000 foot sheer granite faces of El Capitan and Half Dome. Now multiply those and place them all over Switzerland. Then add lakes everywhere. Then add massive snow-covered alpine peaks on top of all of the sheer granite walls. Then add traditional Swiss mountain homes separated by vast lush green valleys. Welcome to Switzerland. The pictures will not even come close to doing justice to what we saw.

Our final destination: The Mountain Hostel in Gimmelwald (Gee-mel-vald). The transportation to the Hostel was equally charming – the Swiss are masters at transportation, details and logistics. The route was as follows:

Take the train to Interlaken Ost – change trains to Lauterbrennen

Exit train in Lauterbrennen – take bus to the end of the Valley

Exit bus at the gondola tramway.

Take gondola to the top of the cliff (This part is equivalent to taking a gondola from the Yosemite Valley floor to the top of El Capitan in about 5 minutes)

Exit the gondola – walk about 50 yards to the entrance of the Mountain Hostel, perched on the edge of the cliff, overlooking the valley. This would be our home for the next four days.

Reasons to come to the Mountain Hostel:

• Switzerland is gorgeous and the Mountain Hostel is right in the middle of it.
• 23 Franks per night
• 50 Beds in a small mountain hut = meeting lots of people from all over the world
• Petra & Walter – the owners of the hut are supposedly really cool people – they were on holiday while we were there...so Veronica manned the hut – and fell in love with Benny (more on that later).
• Trails into the Alps begin as you walk out of the hut. 30 minutes to Interlaken – which is second only to New Zealand in adventure sports. Anything you want is right there: Mountaineering, Canyoning, Mountain Biking, Skiing, Hiking, Climbing, Bungee Jumping, Sky Diving…the list goes on…

Here’s how it works in the hostel:

You wake up at about 9 o’clock, either because: 1) The melodic hum of 10-15 dudes snoring has ceased (bring ear plugs), 2) You see the sun, or 3) The air is so thick with the night’s breath that suffocation begins to set in. You then take to your activities for the day – hiking to the top of the Schilthorn (as featured in Bond 007 On Her Majesty’s Secret Service), taking a trip down to Interlaken, or some other mountain activity. After everyone has completely spent themselves from a day in the mountains, everyone reconvenes at the hostel. The night sessions generally begins with a soak in the hot tub. Then the food, drinks and games begin. Some of our best times of the whole trip were our nights in the Mountain Hostel – waiting in line for the internet, talking with people from all over the world, and pounding on the tables at 1 am in the midst of an intense game of BS.

Veronica ran the place while Petra & Walter were on Holiday. Veronica loved Benny. One night (morning) about 2 am Benny, Seth and I had finished a night of table-pounding, card-playing, wine-drinking fun…and we retired to the bar to talk to Veronica. Veronica posed the question to us, “what do you guys really look for in a girl?” We kind of looked at each other. “Well, I guess it’s kind of hard to really sum up”, I said. “I mean, there are a lot of things…” I said. She was looking for a synopsis that we just were able to provide.

“It’s easy”, she said. “You just need to find a girl who you can steal horses with.”

Silence.

We all looked at each other. Then we thought about it for a while. More looks at each other. We were all thinking the same thing. “She’s right.” In order to steal horses, you have to be fun, smart, adventurous, be able to work together as a team…you’ve just gotta click with someone. “Stealing horses.” Who would’ve thought? Thanks to Veronica and her German wisdom, the three of us came back to the States looking for a girl we can steal horses with.

We learned a lot in that little mountain hut and we vowed we’d get back there some day.

Florence, Italy

At about 4 am, I awoke to the smell of cigarettes and Italian men chatting, not the sort of 4 am whispering that one might expect, but rather full intense dialogue…what about I don’t know…but whatever their minds had conjured up on that July morning at 4 am, judging from their gut-busting laughter, it was apparently quite funny . Thankfully, I had brought along a two week supply of ear plugs – Note: If you’re planning a trip to Europe, it’s quite possibly the best $4 you’ll spend. At any rate, lying on my seeping bag on the deck of the ship, I opened one eye and did my best groggy-eyed-one-eye-open glare at the Italian men. They had no idea I was glaring at them, nor did they care; I pushed my ear plugs in a little further, rolled over and want back into la-la land.

At 6:45 am the ferry was right on schedule having left the harbor in Senj, Croatia at 8 pm and eased into Ancona, Italy at 7 am the next morning. Not that it wasn’t hot in Croatia, but the euphoria (there’s that word again) of the place provided the feeling that we were perpetually under one of those misting machines that you see outside restaurants in Phoenix or Vegas. Italy was a little different; being only 6:45 in the am and sweating, I was already longing for Switzerland.

Arriving in Ancona, our plan was to head to Florence for a day…maybe longer if we liked it. Personally, I was hoping for less than a day and I figured with the heat, it wouldn’t be that difficult to convince the boys of the same. We had our passports stamped and exited the ship in Ancona…we wanted breakfast, having not eaten since 5 the previous day…but we figured we should head to the train station first and check the schedule. It turned out that a train was leaving in 30 minutes so we purchased our tickets and waited for the train.

Generally speaking, Italian trains just plain suck…this particular train ride turned out to be our worst. We were smelly (Let’s recap the activities since my last shower – Dinner in Dubrovnik, a night of clubbing in Dubrovnik, 3 hours of sleep, a 5 hour car ride to Senj, public transportation in Senj, walking around 100 degree Senj for an afternoon, seriously contemplating jumping into the disgusting water of the Senj Harbor, Dinner in Senj, an overnight ferry ride to Italy). Now, smelly, dehydrated, exhausted and starving, we boarded an hour and a half Italian train ride from Ancona to Bolonga where temperatures on the train approached 90 degrees. I felt like an animal on this train. My stink level was approaching 8. The average stink level of persons on the train was a 9.2.

We changed trains in Bolonga and headed to Florence. Our connection time was about 15 minutes…enough time to put a Euro in the machine and wait for an espresso to come out. Everywhere we went in Europe, the coffee was amazing – except for the coin operated espresso machine on the train platform in Bolonga…which made me wonder if there was an old Italian man locked inside the machine mixing espresso beans, refined sugar, runoff from the train platform after the last rain, and diesel fuel. My brain told me it was caffeine, and for that, I was grateful.

We rolled into Florence at about 1 pm. (If you’re counting, it’s now been 20 hours since we’ve eaten anything). Anyone who knows me knows that because of my freakish obsession with exhausting myself with a ridiculous number of sporting activities, I’ve trained my body to eat every two hours. After 20 hours, my stomach had not only eaten itself, but it was beginning to feed on some of my internal organs.

Exiting the train station, the last thing I wanted to do was talk to an Italian man trying to rip us off. For whatever reason, we listened. The Franz Family Bed & Breakfast. Ok, how much? “75 Euros” We turn away and discuss among ourselves. “60 Euros” I said. Mr. Franz apparently thought that was funny – because he started laughing at me (we were still a little naive about Italians at this point). “This room is safe, clean, and right downtown” (At least that was Benny’s translation of Mr. Franz). “75 Euros” He said again. We all looked at each other. “Ok, we’ll take a look”.

This room turned out to be one of our best decisions of the whole trip. If you’re counting, I was approaching two days of no shower…now came one of the toughest decisions of the whole trip…shower or go eat? Figuring I’d probably kill someone with my stench, I chose to lather up. At 4 pm – tired, dehydrated, starving, but no longer stinky, we headed down for some grub.

The temperature felt like 120 degrees. The air was thick. The first street-side café we found was a pizza place – we looked at the menu…pizza for 8 Euros…ok. That’s reasonable. Side note: I know my disdain for the international status of the dollar has been well documented in my Europe blogs but think about it this way: imagine taking a trip to New York City, spending a weekend there (lodging, food, transportation, entertainment) and then multiply your total expenditures by 1.4. Welcome to Florence.

Ok, I know we’re in Italy, but the last thing I wanted at this point was more alcohol. “Coke Lite” I said. The waitress brought me a nice refreshing Diet Coke in a can. It was everything I had hoped it would be.

We got the bill. Now, I had learned in our friendly little town of Senj, Croatia to examine the bill very carefully – our server had tried to charge me for 2L of wine when I drank 0.2L. (If I had drunk 2L of wine, he could have charged me his salary and I wouldn’t have noticed).

Back to Italy, I examined the bill: First charge 6 Euros for something we couldn’t identify – I told the server – “We didn’t have this.” “That’s the seating charge”, she said – which is a nice way of saying – “That’s $9 that we’re charging you because you’re American, stupid tourists, and because we can.” I scrolled down the bill a little farther. “Coke Lite – 4 Euros”. Remember our friendly little exchange rate? If you round up – that’s $6 for a can of Coke. We walked out of our little pizza place with a bad taste in our mouths.

From that point on I was angry. Angry at Italians. Angry at Florence. Angry at the street vendors. Angry at the heat. Angry at all of the garbage on the streets. Angry at all of the men in their little white capri pants. Angry about the exchange rate. Angry at the beautiful architecture and the history of Florence. I think I was even angry at the Pope at one point.

We went back to our little bed and breakfast for a nap. What a difference three hours of sleep can make. The sun was setting, we felt refreshed and we headed out for a night in Florence. As the sun set, we walked around and snapped as many pictures as we could. We didn’t really have a plan. We grabbed some gelato, grabbed a sandwich, grabbed a beer and then started walking.

We found a little club that was getting going early…it was about 9 pm. Right next to the river, there was a hotel, and set up in front of the hotel was a DJ. People crowded the street…really having no concern whatsoever that cars might want to drive through. We saw police and they didn’t seem to care. I guess that people control the streets there. Anyway, we grabbed beers and perched ourselves on the wall by the river and talked…watched people…talked about people…and discussed the propriety of men wearing white or salmon capri pants. Little did we know that our little perch on the wall would end up being a smorgasbord of entertainment for the evening.

The first plot began as a man on a motorcycle sped through the crowd of people, nearly killing someone…a policeman was quick on the scene and issued the gentleman a ticket. Just then tall ridiculously gorgeous Italian woman walked out of the hotel in a white dress and high heels. We watched her hike up her dress, hop on a scooter and blast away in her high heels. “That was cool” we thought.

Not to be outdone, an equally gorgeous woman and her semi-attractive friend (which became a hot point of discussion between the three of us as to whether or not this girl was “hot”) began honking her horn. Her little Volkswagen was wedged between a car in front, a car behind, the sidewalk and hotel to her right and another car illegally parked to the left. We examined the situation. “No way out” we said. The girls didn’t really know what to do…so they honked and honked and honked. The honking went on for 30 to 40 minutes.

To our right – hundreds of people; thumping club mixes; dancing on the streets…to our left – the continual sound of a Volkswagen horn.

Just when we thought it couldn’t get any better two girls stumbled up in front of the hotel and took the keys to their car from the valet man. One girl sort of fell into the driver’s seat…and then just fell over. The three of peered at the two girls, interested in what was going to happen with this new sub-plot. Just then, the girl who wasn’t passed out panicked, looked across the street and started to screaming “help!” at all interested parties. We looked at each other, set our beers down and sort of anxiously trotted towards the car. Just as we got there the passed-out chick half opened her eyes and started laughing. The concierge from the hotel rushed her a glass of water so we turned around and walked back. As we moseyed back to our riverside perch, the girl sat up and hurled all over the street.

A few minutes later, the two girls drove away; meanwhile the honking continued to our left. After about the ten minutes the tow truck finally arrived to tow away the illegally parked car. The girls finally got their Volkswagen out and we all cheered as they drove away.

We left our perch on the wall, truly fulfilled with our night’s entertainment. I’m not gonna lie though, none of us shed a tear when we boarded the train the next morning bound for the Alps.