What Hell is really like

I've been trying to decide over the last few weeks if writing this story down is even worth it, because no one in their right mind would ever believe anything that happened. So to counter any rebuttal, I'll clarify here. The events you are about to read are entirely factual. We weren't on acid, this shit really did happened.

A week into our first Euroscursion, the Eurodog and myself decided to make a trip to Amsterdam.

One thing I wasn't aware of about Amsterdam is that on certain days of the year, the street temperature can actually reach 200 degrees F. I know this, because the day the Eurodog and myself arrived in Amsterdam, it was one of those days. I hardly remember seeing any of the city during my first few hours due to some form of heat exhaustion I encountered about 3 miles into our 8 mile walk down Prinsengraght boulivard.

When the Eurodog and myself stepped out of the train station, we had one thing on our minds. Get to the room, unpack, and get to a pub. The Eurodog was hungry, and there's nothing that excites the eurodog more than pub food in the morning. I took hold of the map and led us to Prinsengracht, the street where are homestay was located. The Eurodog, with high hopes of course, decided it was best to book us a guesthouse instead of a hostel. We were promised a room, food and a short walk from the train station. We didnt get any of those things.

The house was located at somewhere between 8000-9000 Prinsengracht road--the train station was nearly half a mile to 1 Prinsengracht road. That's 800 blocks to anyone paying attention. Well like I said, we had just arrived from London and the Eurodog wasnt ready for the heatwave. Toting in excess of 60 pounds of luggage a piece, the Dog and I started the trek. Hours later, the Dog looks at me, sweat having soaked completely through his fleece and said, "make this stop." The Dog had been wearing jeans and a heavy fleece, we had been walking in nearlyof 4 miles uphill, and we were still miles away from the guesthouse. I literally cant describe to you how hot and how miserable that walk was. It was like walking through hell indefinitly while dragging the devil over hills of fire on a sled made from razor wire-- all of that slightly better than Prinsengracht.


We finally decided it was best to fork over our remaining euros for a taxi, I coldnt handle it. I saw the life slowly seeping out of Eurodogs body, and knew if we didnt get some pub food soon, our trip would end here. We waived down a taxi which happend to be a Mercedes. Because all taxis in Amsterdam are Mercedes? That makes sense right?

The distinguished taxi service picked us up stumbling down the street to drive us nearly 50 feet, charge us 10 euro, and kindly tell us to leave.

Arriving at the guesthouse, and again i swear this is real, i didn't know what to expect. Before we could ring the buzzer, a voice came over the speaker and said, "Hi" to the Eurodog. The mysterious voice called him by first name. Hello? Hello have we met before you crazy wackjob? What the hell were we getting into. He invited us upstairs to his guesthouse and still delirious from the mornings events, we walked into his loft. What I'm about to describe is the truth in its entirity. This is what we saw

A black man in his late 40s wearing a doo-rag answered the door. He was from Michigan (Flint if I'm correct), upon our first meeting he proceeded to tell us his amazing journey to guesthouse landlordom. He had followed the coke wave of the 80s to Amsterdam, upon further pursuit of his dreams, he unfortunately burnt out. Now he sticks to hash, but he can find us some coke if we'd like. He knew plenty of tips on getting good deals for hookers, and if we'd like, he'd help haggle for one. We were in a common room with a couple couches and a TV playing a semi-popular MTV show about a high school football team (twentyfourseven) all in dutch translation, and there were two futons on the ground near the TV with spaceship cartoon covered sheets.

We said, "Where's our room,"

He said, "This is your room, we'll share it."

We said, "I thought we get a room"

He said, "I'll leave soon, I just really like this show, oh my name is Michael if you need anything"

This is ridiculous. How the hell do we find ourselves in this situation? The dog and I couldn't handle it, we left for a pub. After a few Guinness' and Michael's food recommendation, toast with cheese (that's not a real food Micheal, thats toast with cheese on it), we decided we needed to regroup. We went to a coffee shop to try and understand the silly place we had found ourselves in. We returned to Michael's about three hours later to take a quick nap before heading out on the town. Walking into the room, we saw Michael, there again, watching another TV show about high school students, Friday Night Lights, again in dutch. The dog and I slowly walked to our spaceship covered futons and proceeded to take a nap. Only thing was, the dog never slept, because Michael was staring at us. The Eurodog woke me up and said, "I'm not ready for bed, lets go to the red light district and get hammered"

Unbeknown to me, this was code for, "Lets get the Hell out of here, Michael is going to rape us."

We stood up, Michael remained seated watching MTV, and asked where we were going. I didn't say anything, Dog said we're going out. So we left. Its probably midnight at this point, I'm tired and still a little buzzed, but most of all, still wondering what the dog is up to. As soon as we had left the building, dog looks at me and says, "We have to leave, we cant stay or we will die."

I couldn't argue with that logic. So we started walking through the night. We came across a nice hotel on the outskirts of the city. We asked to use their computer, the concierge asked how much money I had--thanks hospitality. I paid him everything I had in cash (2 euro) and he let me use the internet for 15 minutes. After searching the web, i found a place for us to stay. We called a cab, and asked to be taken to a "Hotel Flipper." Arriving at Hotel Flipper i was skeptical, was it the same flipper i know? Or a dutch version? Or maybe it was just a poor translation--I'll give them the benefit of the doubt. Upon walking under the neon dolphin sign, i realized that I was right--it was Flipper the dolphin. In fact, there were pictures of Flipper everywhere. The walls served as an homage, a shrine if you will, to the famed dolphin. There was even a framed picture of the squeaking creature watching ominously over the shoulder of the register. We didn't care, we took it. We hired the taxi to take us back to PrinsenHell. Walked inside, grabbed our stuff and told Michael we were leaving.

I don't remember what I said, all i know is the Eurodog was not happy with my made up story, he said it was obvious. I asked for our money back, Micheal said he'd think about it. You see, Michael didn't want us to leave, he said, "If you guys want to come back tomorrow and hang out, feel free"

Feel free to hang out with a burnt out rape artist? I think I'll pass on this one Michael.

The dog and I cabbed it back to hotel flipper and finally got some rest. It was about 4am a this point and I had had about enough of Amsterdam.

Crazy Train

Sometimes the best parts about traveling are the traveling parts themselves. It was a cool night in May, post college graduation, when me and the Smaz himself decided we would take a journey across seas. This would be my first time in Europe and the Smaz’s as well. We didn’t know what to expect at all and therefore entered a new world with arms wide open and mouths thirsting for alcohol.
This particular story takes place on a train, specifically a train ride from Paris to Madrid. Now I thought this trip would be a couple hours, as rumor has it, trains are extremely fast in Europe. WRONG, this train was 14 hours long and me and the Smaz had what you would describe as a greyhound seat to enjoy the ride. We show up at the train station after walking around all day carrying 40lb backpacks. This was well before we learned the art of traveling light. We were hung-over, tired of the French, and ready to get a good night’s sleep before the rage fest in Spain. We booked a night train after learning of our 14 hour journey ahead and took whatever seats they had left (greyhound).
Upon boarding the train, we found our seats and sat…. eager for some rest and recovery. One small problem, these seats sucked. We hadn’t showered in days and were about as comfortable as a kid in a lion’s den. The Smaz leans over to me and says, I’m gonna go get a quick bite from the restaurant in the back of the train, I’ll be right back.” “ Whatever,” I say. An hour goes by and I’m thinking to myself, what the hell is wrong with this kid. Where is he? He stumbles back to the seat about an hour and a half later reeking of sweat and alcohol. I ask no questions and say, “I want to go to there.” We proceed to the back of the train and post up at the bar with another American whom we had just met and some crazy ass Brazilians. We proceed to punish Carlsberg beers, pouring out what remaining Euros we have left. Our only communication tool with the Brazilian is the Smaz’s broken Spanish and the snapping of our fingers. The good thing was… we were all hammered. We spoke to each other like 5 year old kids who were just learning how to talk. The Smaz and I were in the zone, we were crushing beers, living up to the hype that is Animal House, where as our American friend, you could say, was being the biggest pussy in the world. Due to his pussy ways, he went back to his seat, through in a tampon, and left myself, the Smaz, the 35 year old Brazilian, and our bartender. Once we are three sheets to the wind, we realize, our Brazilian friend, can’t speak Spanish, he speaks Portuguese. We can hardly speak Spanish, much less Portuguese. We haven’t said one thing to each other for the last 5 hours that any of us understand. We argued, we laughed, and told stories that no one understood…. Doesn’t matter, we all knew how to punish beers and how to act like men. We hit on the bartender, arranged a car ride around Madrid the next day with our new Brazilian friend, closed down the bar at 1am due to no more alcohol, hugged it out, and head back to our seats. More messed up than a nine-eyed midget, we passed out in our seats, which now felt like beds in the Ritz Carlton, woke up in Madrid, where the national language was now Spanish.

Why I love China

If you've never been to China, you should. by the end of this story, I'll have hopefully encouraged you to follow in our footsteps and create one of your own.

This story takes place a few years ago while I was spending time in the center of the empire as a student teacher with a local non-profit. To add some context, I'm a 5 foot 10, short fraternity class shorts wearing, curly headed, less than athletic American college student with no discernible language skills. Not only am I culturally the night from China's day, I also have a knack for drawing attention to myself.

The story begins, as many of our weekends did on a train to the capital city of Changsha in the Hunan Province. We (the student teachers) would leave our rural home stays, and responsible teaching positions for the big city once every few weekends to honor our American college tendencies. Arriving in Changsha felt a lot like like your first night in college, if when your parents leave and you find out that your pot-luck roommate was actually a stacked co-ed hardbody with an affinity for cheap alcohol.

If you can imagine leaving a rural village populated by cows, monks and backgammon boards to find that less than 2 hours away there was a world with unlimited booze, American food, and 24 hour clubs, its kind of like that.

This particular trip was during our second pilgrimage to Changsha. We had reserved a stay at the local hourly rate hotel, complete with an in house brothel on the fourth floor. A fine establishment that I'd reccomend to any traveler. We had traveled with a handful of student teachers, and were there for one obvious reason-to get irrationally drunk in a city where no one knew us. Upon our arrival to the hotel, we decided it would be best to cut to the chase and get hammered. The actual story begins later in the night at a local club, graciously suggested to us by our hotel staff. The only way i can describe this place is by noting its splendid features

- swinging lights made to look like futuristic gears
- karaoke singing Chinese with cowboy hats
- walls with tiny white lights shining through to create a fear and loathing like hallucination




The fun ensues once we entered the club together and Oscar, Mike and I get pulled in opposite directions to different tables by the locals. Each table consisted of about 8 changshanese, and a bottle of the "Changsha Special," a local favorite involving a fifth of Chivas Regal and a bottle of Apple Juice. What needs to be understood is that these people cannot, and do not drink like we drink. Someone told me it had to do with the lack of an alcohol digestive enzyme. I'm not a scientist, but I've seen it in action, trust me, they don't drink like we drink. Before I continue, I don't want this to seem like I'm boasting any sort of heavyweight drinking abilities, but what I am saying is that I was at a significant advantage to my club counterparts at nearly 50 lbs heavier, and 4 inches taller than the largest of clubbers in the building. Steamed rice and fish oil just can't cut it against a bottle of jack daniels--its science.

Once at the table we started to play some sort of a game. I'm not sure of the rules, but to the best of my knowledge it seemed to be a version rock paper scissors in which you drank whether you won or whether you lost--either way it was childish way to catapult my drunkeness into oblivion. We sat around a table collectively taking shots from the communal apple scotch mix. As I continued to play their game, I noticed the scenery around me: 100-200 Chinese rave dancing to techno, playing children's games, and whats that? One of the American girls yakking in the corner of the bar? Yes it was. It was like at that moment bald eagle herself had descended into the club to spread the gospel of American college life.

Despite my best efforts, the game continued to go on. I wasn't really paying too much attention, however I did begin to notice that my drinks ceased to taste like apple juice, and began to taste more like whiskey. In fact, it was whiskey. Upon the sighting of my fallen comrade, my new friends around the table thought it would be a good idea to see how much a real American could drink. With a fresh bottle of jack daniels, I of course, honored by their courtesy continued to play their intriguing game. Some time later, shot after shot, I began to hear cheering. It went something like this

Changshanese - "You are such a man!"

Me - "I know"

Changshanese - "You are so strong"

Me - "That's what I keep telling everyone"

Changshanese - "Your hair is so curly"

Of course I had to drink. In Changsha, I was king. How could I let my fans down?


At this point I'd forgotten about Mike and Oscar. My new friends had bought me drinks, cheered me on, and adopted me as their heroes. Meanwhile, the story was different for my friend Oscar. Somewhere down the line, his own minions had pulled the same trick on him. However instead of cheering, from Oscar's direction I heard screaming. Instead of fist pounding, I heard the sound of a hundred Changshanese diving through tables to escape the projectile vomit erupting from Oscars mouth. Hands perched near his shoulders like that of a lost dinosaur surrounded by screaming Asians. Oscar must have gotten lost in the sea of lights trying to find the bathroom and decided it was time to file a complaint to management.

I've seen some terrible things in my life, but watching Oscar spew orange "Changsha Special" on the back of a screaming Chinaman will alwyas be a gem ingrained in my memory for the rest of my life.

Highway to Budapest

The train left Prague at 10PM, and by train I don't mean modern, clean or in any way Western European, I mean the Stalin express, a train so dirty, and so soviet you couldn't help but imagine it once terminated in a Russian gulag.

Chris, Nate, Josh and I had decided to visit Budapest for the weekend and little did we know how far down the hatch a discounted seat would take us. With the extra money cleverly salvaged by the dive, we decided to purchase bread, pretzels and four liters of Eastern Europe's finest Kentucky bourbon "The Kentucky Highway." Choking down the bottle as we sat cramped in our train cubicle, we began to notice the intense heat waves pouring out of the vents behind our seats from the broken A/C lever that had most likely been stuck on high heat since the early regime. However, despite the hourly conductor call, and the occasional heat/whiskey induced hallucination, we made it to Budapest train station with only one attempt made by a fellow Hungarian passenger to steal our wallets in the middle of the night.

The story begins at about 10AM when we checked into our hostel located somewhere in back alley Budapest. Still choking down a heavy hangover, we proceeded to spend the morning sleeping off the train ride from the night before. As we began to unpack our bags in walked the six foot six Aussie that would graciously make our night the craziest night out in Budapest. The Aussie stumbled into our room around 10:30 AM from his previous night out on the town, and after a slurred happy Australia Day he passed out face first into the bed across the room not to be awoken until 9:30 that night.

Once night rolled around we were fortunate enough to meet Tristan and Robb of SoCal. Donning graphic tees and neatly trimmed five o'clock shadows, Tristan and Robb invited us out a bar located somewhere deep inside the city. Later that night we decided to head in that direction in the hopes of finding the Budapest experience.

Upon reaching Morrisson's Two, Chris, Josh, Nate and I were pleasantly surprised. A bar compiled of a series of cavernous rooms, one traditional bar, one techno cave, one 80's room and to our great relief one karaoke bar in the room furthest into the back. Reaching the pinnacle of the night we stepped to the karaoke bar only to find Tristan, Robb and the giant Aussie awoken and ready to party. With a commanding presence over the microphone, the Aussie bellowed out over the seemingly miniature, and unsuspecting Hungarians who'd been happily singing along to Hungarian folk music, "This is a little song by a band we English like to call AC/DC, and this one is for all you English motheeerrr fuckeerrrs!!"

--A strong Hungarian silence ensued, quickly followed by the craziest night out in Budapest

After the bar closed, we headed outside to call our cab, who showed up minutes later in a full khaki colored suit and tennis shoes to drive us back to the hostel. Immediately after entering the cab, the engine cut off, which we found out through broken English was typical. We then exited the cab, using all 5 of us, pushed the taxi down the street, until the engine caught and we drove home.

The Traveler's Dilemma

The actual name Traveler's Dilemma comes from game theory which states that sometimes the optimal decision involves acting in an irrational way.

This relates to a lot of what I think it means to travel well. To fully experience traveling you often have to act spontaneously and irrationally, otherwise you won't find anything new.

This blog will attempt to document my, and any welcomed authors' wildest travel stories. The goal of this is to provide a forum to accumulate some of the best stories from around the world. When posting, be as specific and detailed as possible, and any and all stories are welcomed.

If you'd like to submit a story, please contact me and I'll add you to the author list.