So Fresh And So Clean

Eindhoven: A great place to dip one's toe in Dutch culture before hitting Amsterdam and losing track of it all.
All buildings in the area are classically slim, with narrow, winding staircases. If you plan to bring heavy luggage, be sure to have a loved-one accompany you for any lifting.

Opting to not camp on our first night of arrival as we'd originally planned, Andie and I found a little spot called Hotel...I don't know what. I'll find a photo and figure it out.
We're gonna be Trip Adviser guerrilla terrorists now that this is all over, whatever that means.
With our stuff dropped off, Andie and I hit the street and started wandering into traffic and bike lanes. 
We dropped by the next-door bar and then decided to search several blocks to find a place to eat before settling on the restaurant next to the next-door bar.
We had one of the most beautiful meals of the trip, and our waitress was a tough-to-place age with a tough-to-place sexuality, and I tried to figure out if she was attractive.
I was more preoccupied with what her sexual habits might be than I should've been as I had the fish:

We dropped into a 'coffee shop' to be told that we couldn't smoke or buy weed because we weren't locals or members.
I put 'coffee shop' in quotes like they don't sell coffee in there, but they do. They also sell the weed. Coffee shops are the weed shops for any folks who are unenlightened as I was.
I didn't realize just how unenlightened until the guy told us this, though.
Moments later, a man pulled by in a car, saying, "Couldn't get weed, huh? I could grab you some for a few Euro."
We later learned that this was a common sort of practice, but we were trying really hard not to be gullible tourists, so we declined. He was probably a cop.
French assholes from France. It's their fault. They, among others, would pick up from places like Eindhoven and then cart it all back to their less cool countries to sell.
It's a new thing, just signed in 2012. Coffee shops respect the law, but no one outside of the business owners seemed to take it too seriously.
So there you go, honkies. There's a travel tip. There will be more.
At first, I wanted to describe the whole trip in a travel style like the first couple of sentences of this post, but I have now decided, sitting in my chair, that a dozen posts of that would be way too exhausting.
I gotta be me, everybody! I've got no one else to turn to!
We awoke to a breakfast of the best goddamn coffee I've ever had and some ham and stuff.
After checking out, we wandered into some bike lanes and explored the area.
I saw a municipal employee picking up litter with a claw thing and noticed he was whistling.
"Of course he's whistling, there's no garbage," I thought. Later, I saw a cigarette wrapper on the sidewalk and decided they were human after all.
The setting was bizarre in its meticulousness, though, and Eindhoven was as neat as a pin.
On the train, as we made our way to Amsterdam, I peered the countryside and wondered who was doing the landscaping. I mean, how do you get a whole region to look like a golf course (there's even windmills!)?
Then, gazing signs at the next stop, I wondered if the letter 'L' often followed 'J' like that over here.
What a cooky place!
How is this? Is this travel writing? If so, then travel writing is easy.

Once again, this post is brought to you by the city of Eindhoven and Schwarkzopf hair products. When you're buying your haircare at the grocery store, it's Schwarkzopf. 

The B'ys of Athenry

The B'ys of Athenry

The b'ys of Athenry get loaded on the train
No matter that the sun's up, they know their share of pain
Of dirt under the nail, of brows that can't be raised
Enough to meet the bar that would see them truly paid
Euros from the Landlord with his sneering, reaching arms
That enclose upon their privilege, enclose upon their farms
The b'ys of Athenry guffaw despite themselves
Sing their songs and crack their beers to drink them by the twelves

Kids in the Holland

How beautiful a society. How quaint and enlightened and kind.
On the third day in The Netherlands I said, "Fuck it," grabbed a bike, and started pedaling.
They really are everywhere, and though I understood that I would be seeing a lot of cyclists, I just couldn't grasp just how many there would be.
Everyone rides a bike, and though you see it and say, "Oh, isn't that environmental. Doesn't that make sense?" it's still bizarre to see a man in a three-piece suit rolling by, ringing his bell. Women in full-length skirts, or ball-gown regalia. It's not just that they use bikes all of the time, they use them for all events.
Another thing I didn't expect (and I loved this) is that they run, if need be, despite their dress.
A couple of times I saw 50-somethings sprint by me, rushing to catch a train or tram, their scarff billowing behind them.
That's where my 'enlightened' comment comes from.
It's important to understand this if you have never been to Holland before: It's simply better there. It's better in every conceivable way.
It is clean (in fact, outside of Amsterdam, I'd go so far as to say it was spotless, and I'm sure the garbage from Amsterdam is a result of the goddamn tourists), it is effecient, and it is tolerant.
Being in an entirely tolerant place means that everyone gets to do their own thing their own way.
Of course, those of you who know me understand that I must find this very appealing, but why wouldn't it be appealing to you as well? Just because I like to stir things up socially doesn't mean you wouldn't enjoy doing what you enjoy without being hasseled.
Let me give you the best example I saw: I witnessed a guy - about my age and status (whatever that means) ride by on a pink bike.
Not just a pink bike, but a pink girls' bike.
No guys on the street were stopping to elbow one another, no dudes were yelling "fag" at him.
How far would a man get in Newfoundland (anywhere in Canada, anywhere in North America) before that would happen to him?
I can tell you how far: as far as it would take to ride past two ignorant men, which would be about a block or so.
Witnessing this didn't make me envy them (well, I guess it did), but it made me embarrassed to be where I'm from, and I hated that.
It's not about riding pink bikes, it's about getting to the point.
It's the bike he had access to for whatever reason, it's the bike he needed to get to where he was going to that day, and it's just a fuckin' bike. Who gives a shit? The entirity of Holland understands this point, whereas I wouldn't be able to explain this to a gaggle of North American 'bros' if I had an hour and charts to aid me.
It's sad.
Running as they did was the exact same concept: They're late, they have to be someplace, they're going to run because it improves their chances, who cares if it looks ridiculous (which, to be fair, it does. I laughed every time I saw it).
If you don't have to spend your time worrying about what society is going to think or say about you, it frees your mind to focus on what's important.
This is without even getting into the marijuana and prostitution laws. Don't even get me started.
It's the same deal, though.
We could never have the laws that they have because idiots would fuck it up within a year and the laws would have to be immediately changed.
Not so over there.
The weed cafés ('coffee shops') are set up 'just so'. You don't have to be a pothead like me to see that, either.
You could walk into any of them despite the time of the day and smoke a joint as large as you please, and then carry on.
Yet, not once did I pass pockets of teens, giggling and fucking around.
I never passed someone staring blankly at a Burger King menu for minutes on end.
It's just how they do things. There's no need to be immature about it. There's no need to be giddy because it's just...normal; accepted.
Same deal for the sex workers.
It could never work in North America (I appreciate prostitution is legal in Nevada and wherever, but it will never be a part of American culture as it is of The Netherlands. Never).
It could never work where we're from because the women would never be respected. As they wouldn't be respected by customers, or their society (Bible-bashing assholes would have to ruin it for everyone, I'm sure), they could never respect themselves.
Not so in Holland.
If I visit The Cotton Club it's usually a good laugh and the women are beautiful and whatever, but the fact is I have to be a bit drunk before I get there because if I don't...I kinda feel bad for the strippers.
Not all of them, but a lot of them.
This is because some of them are ashamed of themselves, I think. Or the guys make them feel that way. I don't know what it is because I have never been a stripper myself and I don't want to put words in their mouths, but you can see it in their eyes. Some of them wish they were elsewhere, and we do that to them.
I thought that upon entering the famed Red Light District, I would experience the same sensation, but I realized within minutes that this wouldn't be the case.
When you look at these beautiful creatures in their glass windows, they look right back, right in your fuckin' eye.
They have nothing to be ashamed of.
Why would they? Their city supports who they are and what they do, there's a statue commemorating their trade, and placards that explain their history. They are protected, they are appropriately compensated, and they are appreciated (they're definitely appreciated).
When their children go to school, no one is teased about what their mom does for a living (or so I've read).
That would never happen where I live.
And so, the streets fill at night as the curtains are drawn, and you can walk hand-in-hand and admire these lovely women, you can smile at them and nod, and they will entice you in the brief moment that they have (and they're good at it).
I was blown away by how real they were, as stupid as that sounds.
You only see them for a moment as you pass, but in that moment you can see just how professional they are. They each have a persona, a style and a clientele that they meet, and it's plain to see that this is something that each individual woman develops on her own over time. It all comes through in the amount of time it takes to walk past them. It's an incredible thing.
And boy oh boy, are they distracting.
Andie and I entered a horseshoe-shaped room (which was weird, most were outside, but these five or six girls were not), and as she got a few paces ahead of me, I glanced at a girl at the end of the row and did a double-take because she was so sexy and she said, "Come inside," and I actually looked around the corner to see how far away Andie was.
Like I could duck in for a minute if there was enough distance between us - she was that mesmerizing.
The way she said it wasn't all gross and sexual, like, "Cum inside and fuck me, blah blah blah." It was pleading and simple, kinda like, "You. You're late for your appointment," and my response was to look at my watch and say, "Jesus, I am late for my appoitnment, right you are."
And so, they weren't hookers, they were sex workers. Not just because that's what you're encouraged to call them, but also because it's what their society has allowed them to be.
It's a beautiful place.
And we got really high there and we sort of almost got kicked out of a very old, very beautiful museum.
We didn't almost get kicked out, really, but the security guys were definitely keeping an eye on us.
However, that's for another day.
For now, I have to logoff before I have to pay another Euro (we're on a budget, here). Then, I'll go upstairs to see if there are any geckos on the walls tonight.
This post wasn't meant to be such a diatribe, but here we are.
I'll conclude by saying this:
Holland is a place where I am constantly in the way.

A Rose By Any Other Name

Written on May 25, 2015 at St. John's Airport, in St. John's Airport:

I am in an international airport.
I don't know if all British guys sound like assholes when they speak to their beautiful Asian girlfriends, or if it's just this guy.
Myself, I'm not speaking to my own girlfriend (fiance. She's on the paperwork now) for the time-being.
It's everyone's entertainment for themselves at the airport, that's what I always say.
I also always say that - oh! I have electrical tape on me. That's been there for hours.
Anyway, I met our Rose of Tralee contestant for Eastern Canada just now.
Her chaperone introduced me after engaging me to mention that she reads my Downhome ramblings. Before I get started, I should really mention that the chaperone was very sweet and a true fan, so if she happens upon this post (Hi Cindy!), I don't want her to think I'm shitting on herself, the contestant, or the Rose of Tralee event.
She is on the same flight as us, which is wild. We got a picture together (on her phone).
She's representing us among a brigade of Irish-background young ladies. The pageant's not about looks, and it's not about talent and it's not a pageant. Since learning this, Andie and I have been trying to deduce what it is about, exactly.
What's important is that Ireland is being honored, and these young women have the opportunity to enjoy their first sexual experiences.
Overseas!
I hope to do the same once we reach Ireland, which should be about six hours from now.
Wow, these chicks are either drunk or really immature (not the Rose or her chaperones; some other women).

I miss when wet floor signs signified something.
Remember when seeing a wet floor sign meant that the floor was wet?
Days gone by. Now, wet floor signs are just placed in a specific spot by a businesses's lawyer and left there. He then drafts a document explaining that the floor will be wet sometimes, as noted by the sign, and they are not liable if you otherwise trip over it.

I Hate Myself and Want To Fly

Written on...yesterday? Two or three days ago in Lisbon, Portugal:

Okay, good. Good. 

So, I'm in Portugal at a hotel I don't know the name of and probably couldn't spell anyway. 

This has been a long time comin', so let's get our pants on and get down to it. 

Internet cafés shared the fate of the Stegasaurus and the Polar Bear - wait, do we still have Polar Bears? Cause we don't have internet cafés any more. 

Consequented (not a typo), this is my first opportunity to update you on the gallivanting of this travelling Gulliver. 

Right off the bat, Portuguese women have nicer bums than those of the Dutch, but nothing beats browsing Holland's prostitutes ("sex workers" if they're within earshot). 

Currently, I'm at a street cafe on some avenue in Lisbon, Portugal. 

Pigeons are essentially the same here, though they were more brazen outside of Sao Jorge Castle, flitting about discarded lunch trays, knocking over the drinking glasses. 

They seemed gray as cigarette ash contrasted against the striking, electric-blue plumage of the peacocks, who are much like pigeons besides being huge and beautiful (and proud, of course). 

I was working on a nice close-up shot for you guys when some pink-skinned fanny pack asshole got between us and scared it away, which I'm sure he does with animals wherever he goes. 

Don't like tourists. I do not like tourists. 

Yes, yes, I'm a tourist. I get that. I also hate myself when I point in a direction and say to the missus, "I think the hotel is that way."

I learned to dislike the wayfarer in Banff, and little has changed, as it turns out. 

Anyway, rather than complain about them for a paragraph, let's break, regroup, and I'll give you some of my first-ever travel tips. 

edit: This keyboard is very Portugeuse, and despite changing language settings, Blogger is telling me that every word I'm typing is spelled incorrectly. We're on the clock here, so you make the corrections in your head as we go, and I'll fix them when I'm back in the land of the frigid. Thank you. 

This Is Only A Test. Do Not Adjust Your Internet

Internet cafés - wait. Signing in was a real pain in the ass, so let's make sure I can publish this before I go any further.