Amnesia. A Definition.

Sleep did not come easily last night.  Refusing taxi service, claiming, “Cabs are for pussies,” we walked home from Pacha deep in conversation, trying to get a grasp of what had happened.  “I love you, man.  Seriously, we are going to have that experience for the rest of our lives,” I declare, holding my face in my palms, slowly swerving down the avenue.  “That was eight years in the making, and we did it.  We CRUSHED it.  Axwell and Dirty South crushed it.  Canadian girls crushed it.  So real.”  Conversation and wonderment fueled our stroll back to the hostel where we arrived promptly at 6:30 in the morning.  I may have been in bed, my eyes may have been closed, but I only thought about how I would ever describe Masquerade Motel.  Slumber coincided with the first signs of sunrise.

A few short hours later, Candace’s lovely voice offers, “you guys want to go to the beach?”  Yes, please.  That sounds perfect.

This shoreline experience proved far superior to our disgraceful endeavor the day before.  Direct exposure to the sun was welcomed, not feared.  The sand was soft, not sweat’s accomplice in an effort to infuriate me.  Conversation incited laughs and stories, not complaints and disdainful sighs.

Once in the water it was difficult to get out.  Nonexistent swells promoted handstand competitions and relatively intense water treading exercises.  Fellow swimmers overheard English conversation and sought an audience.  It is not difficult to make friends in Ibiza.  Caleb and Jones are from Calgary (and comprised 1/6 of the Canadians staying at our hostel), and Reign, a Californian, was on vacation leave from serving in Iraq.  We quickly deduce they are staying in Giramundo and plan to attend Amnesia tonight.  The party gods are kind and just.  Welcome, new friends.

Forces combine on the beach – the crew gains three new members, two six packs, and a bottle of vodka.  Palms trees line the boardwalk, restaurant and hotel terraces overflow onto the beach, swimsuits are outnumbered only by smiles.  The copious amount of bodies on the beach is evenly spread over the sand, encouraging interaction without confrontation.  This photograph is a fair summation of the situation:

*Entertainment Highlight:  Behind us, a scrawny man wearing a fedora transcended the beach atmosphere, entered his only world, and had the time of his life.  His riotous antics and unintelligible dialect gained the attention of everyone within earshot.  What language he spoke, I will never know.  Whether this behavior was drug induced, I will never know.  All I know is that I wanted to be on whatever level he was during this time. 

At first, he sat quietly on the staircase that separated boardwalk from beach, bobbing his head to distant music, minding his own business.  Gradually, he began to engage passersby in short, one-sided, incoherent conversation and unfounded laughter.  Interaction seemed to enhance his excitement and before long he was pacing around, pointing and talking to no one in particular, laughing boisterously. 

Then the imaginary soccer ball made an appearance.  The ensuing actions went something like this:  imitate sports announcer voice - kick sand back and forth with imaginary teammate - blow imaginary whistle - pick up imaginary ball - place it delicately on sand - back up - strike (with impressive form) - watch flight of imaginary ball - hesitate, hesitate - “GGOOOOOOOLLLL!” - somersault, somersault, bury head in sand – sprint, with arms open, screaming loudly towards the ocean – launch into waves.  This happened multiple times to the amusement of the spectators.  Absolute hilarity.

Energy and liveliness dominate Ibiza, especially when night falls.  There is no denying that a preponderance of the beachgoers went hard the night before and seek to do the same tonight.  Promoters peruse the towels offering wristbands at discount prices for the clubs that evening.  Despite the overarching anticipation for more heavy electronic beats and nonstop dancing, the scene is composed, tranquil, and comfortable.  First photo session of Ibiza ensues with a short walk around the boardwalk, taking in the sun, landscape, and environment.  Peacefulness sets in.  Hours pass, the evening approaches, and our group needs sustenance.

*Nominee for Best Meal:  Pio Lindo.  Whether it was the company, tastes, service, or prices, Pio Lindo deserves some serious praise.  Recommended by a local bartender with one eye, this restaurant was perfect for our cause.  Large portions of exceptional food, prepared by locals, and easy on the wallet.  Oh, and they served beer.  Our group of seven sat outside at the insistence of our server, Rosario.  We ordered a round of Estrellas and devoured three baskets of bread.  The vinegar was superb – clean, fresh, and impossible to resist.  Reign and I ordered for the table, “(In Spanish) Three orders of the half chicken with french fries, one order of the beef tongue, two tortillas, one with spinach and mushroom, the other with potatoes and cheese, and a chicken friend steak.  Oh, and one more round of Estrellas.  And water for the table!”

The food was bomb.  Plates were passed around, multiple toasts were made and we grew closer during the course of the meal.  The lengua de bistec (beef tongue) was my personal favorite.  The tender meat was cooked to perfection and smothered in a sauce that was spicy enough to taste the habañero but not overly fierce.  Amanda was not thrilled to learn it was tongue after I insisted she try it.

Anticipating the need to get cleaned up and commence further pre-game shenanigans, we wrap up the meal with everyone fully satisfied.  The bill?  63€.  For seven twenty-something year old partygoers to gorge until satiated.  We will be back, Pio Lindo, count on it.  Tipping is not customary in European culture, but we hooked Rosario up.

Picked up drinking supplies and party favors en route to Giramundo and took a mini siesta/chill session.  Another absolutely rockin’ shower and I was ready to go.  This is a good time to remind everyone, Ibiza is the hottest place on earth during this time of year (not really, but roll with it).  With no air conditioning in the hostel, sweating all day and night is customary.  Even cold showers, with the cold water on full blast, are still lukewarm.  It is madness.  My best advice is to embrace the heat, celebrate the sweat, and focus on the task at hand: raging face.

With everyone spruced up to the best of their abilities, it was time to get down to business.  Our destination tonight is Amnesia Ibiza.  Who is playing at Amnesia tonight, Andrew?  Oh, Sebastien Leger, Feed Me, Skrillex, and Eric Prydz.  No big deal.  For those of you unfamiliar with Eric Prydz, watch the music video for “Call On Me,” scientifically proven to be the best music video of all time.

Giramundo is small and by this point everyone in residence has crossed paths.  Three rooms on the second floor share a large terrace – a party terrace, if you will.  Standard procedure for pre-gaming ensues: groups converge, bring booze and food, finish getting dressed, share stories from the night before and earlier that day, get stoked for round two – you know the drill.  Tonight, though, we decided to get really drunk, not like the night before.  Mostly in anticipation for Skrillex and the unavoidable womps and wobbles associated with his act.  I am one of few people truly looking forward to some heavy dubstep tonight.  “He’s the worst excuse for a DJ ever,” exclaims Tyler, “he just puts a lot of terrible sounds in his songs and stands there.”

“Drink this,” I hand him the bottle of Jim Beam claiming, “if you drink enough you may or may not have a better attitude.  Temporarily, most likely, but that beats bitching.”  He accepts the invitation and raises Mr. Beam to the sky in honor of the moment.  Wine bottles, shot glasses, handles, and vodka saturated Fanta bottles unite in the air for a toast to friendship, happiness, dancing shoes, and strobe lights.  Laughter and conversation pass the time for a solid two hours before midnight strikes and we stumble to the cab stand.  Everyone is more prepared tonight than we were for Pacha.  The girls are not wearing high heels (brilliant), we have a larger crew, and we know what to expect from this wonderful island.  We depart for Amnesia with our beach group plus Gemma, an Aussie staying across the hall, and Jonathon, visiting from Arizona.  Solid crews recruit, become more solid, and enhance club-crushing experience.

Amnesia Nightclub - another wonder of the discotheque world.  Comprised of two main rooms (at least from what I saw), there is plenty of space to move, observe, drink, and mingle.  The main floor reminds me of the Fillmore Auditorium in Denver – large dance area in front of the stage, flanked by elevated bars, and a high ceiling.  The lighting on the ceiling looks like the Sahara Tent from Coachella 2011 (I wasn’t there, but saw pictures).  Hanging planes of LED lights looked like a three dimensional iTunes visualizer, only in a club, and on the ceiling.  It was sick. 

Despite arriving at the venue well past midnight, we were among the first people there.  With ample time before the noteworthy acts took the stage, we allow ourselves to become acquainted with the area.  Making friends with bartenders, purchasing Whip-its from wandering waitresses, noting bathroom locations, and claiming the best dance spot were of utmost priority.  As previously mentioned, the price for a drink in Ibiza clubs is preposterous.  A brief investigation reveals that the cheapest drinks around are beers (10€) and absinthe shots (9€).  Seriously?  ABSINTHE is the cheapest drink we can get?  We’re going to need fourteen shots.  Thanks, bartender, see you in a bit.  If I was not drunk enough upon arrival, this effort helped the cause.

My one qualm of the evening, of the entire three and half days actually, was music related.  The amateur, warm-up DJ played the same exact beat for, literally, an hour and thirteen minutes.  Of course we were dancing our faces off, but the monotony was incessant.  At one point, I was bored enough to go spend 15€ on a vodka-tonic to spice things up.  While at the bar, there was a glimmer of hope for a musical transition.  The lights and lasers intensified, the beat picked up; signs of a potential drop.  Standing at the bar, waiting my turn, I faced the crowd with one hand in the air, anticipating a new beat.  Wait for it… wait for it… WWWOOOOO!

Massive letdown.  A moment of such promise – squandered and sacrificed to the same track that has rattled my brain for the past hour.  Arm comes down, eyes drop; my disappointment is evident.  I immediately lean over the bar and demand attention.  Time to check out the other room, this is pissing me off and that is not allowed.  V&T in hand, I find the group similarly annoyed and en route to the second stage.  Perfect timing – What up, Feed Me, let us wobble with you.  Those of you unfamiliar with Feed Me, he has a couple EPs under the mau5trap label and crushes live shows.  Ian Nunley first introduced me to him via a Facebook post in January 2011 and I have been a fan ever since.  According to Daniel Goldstein, “Talk To Me” is an appropriate song to play during the birth of one’s firstborn child.

For those of you keeping count of the number of drinks imbibed up to this point, you will understand that I was quite drunk.  Quite drunk, in relation to dubstep concerts = optimum condition, firing on all cylinders.  There is no question I enjoyed Feed Me’s set more than anyone in our group and, arguably, more than anyone in the venue.  With a preeminent idea of what to expect, his tracks Cloudburn and Blood Red did not catch me off-guard.  My fellow spectators, I am pleased to report, seemed pleasantly surprised by the triumph of such tracks.  Looking around, many expressions combined confusion with excitement to devise some of the best “nasty-bass” faces I have seen in a minute.  As Feed Me finished his set, he was not three steps off the stage before Skrillex was two steps on.  A seamless transition into further madness.  After one track, Gemma made an astute observation, “Skrillex is more wasted than I am.”  I shake off the tunnel vision and scope the stage.  Sure enough, Sonny was stumbling around and jabbering incoherently into the microphone.  Perhaps it was just typical Skrillex being Skrillex, but I did not care.  Despite his apparent inebriation, he rocked the socks off Amnesia.  My favorite moment of the night was singing along with his remix of Promises.  “AND YOU KEEP TELLING ME – TELLING ME THAT YOU’D BE SWEET – AND YOU NEVER WANT TO LEAVE MY SIDE – AS LONG AS I DON’T BREAK THESE – PROMISES – AND THEY STILL FEEL OH SO WASTED ON MYSELF”

WAAAAAHHHH.WAWAWAWA.WOMPWOMPWOMP.WIZOMP.BEEPBEEP.OHOHOH.SELFSELFSELFSELF.

Coincidentally, that moment was my last clear memory of the show.  But so it went.  For his entire set.  I wobbled and womped myself into an oblivion.  Loved every second of it.  Our crew seemed to enjoy themselves as well.  Tyler will refuse to admit it, but he loved it too.

While specific details of Eric Prydz’ set escape me, my authoritativeness as a professional rager qualifies me to dub his performance a success.  His stage lighting was domineering; lasers were on point, and the iTunes visualizer ceiling set the mood nicely.  A few times during his set, the whole crowd crouched to the floor together, and jump in unison as the beat hit.  This was brilliant in theory, but not always execution.  I have seen better coordination in mosh-pits at Taking Back Sunday concerts.  Of the five or six times this was attempted, MAYBE two times were executed on cue.  Good effort though, Amnesia.  We did it right.

Hopes of sleep are futile after these experiences, so once back at Giramundo, we sought the beach and potentially the sunrise.  Sober enough by this point, and too tired to make it all the way to the beach, we settled on what would become our “private terrace.”  Which meant we hopped the fence onto some fancy restaurants patio and listened to the waves crash as the moon reflected off the water.  Similar to the moment of introspection in Howth on the “Sit A While” bench, I felt completely content in that moment.  No matter the circumstances one may be facing at any given moment in space and time, one is supposed to be there at that moment, in that place, with the people you are with.  It is the actions and responses to any given situation that determine personal wellbeing.  Never will I forget that moment on the “private terrace” - the inner serenity, the paralyzing gratefulness for the life I lead, the recognition of amazing family and friends.  It was a nice moment.

We were too early for sunrise, so it was off to bed.  Hotter inside our hostel than out, sleep was fitful but embraced.  Nothing could have prepared us for the glory that awaited us on our final day on the White Island.

End.

4:20 pm:  London to Dulles
10:14 pm:  Dulles to Denver International

See you soon, America.

Purpose and Procedure: Temporary Failure

I would be remiss to avoid the fact that the primary purpose for the creation of TAORM has been utterly disregarded since it's institution in August.  Even the simplest details, such as location, companions, travel logistics, and subsequent plans, have failed to appear here.  To the readers who attended this site seeking information on said circumstances, I apologize.  It pleases me, however, to report that the lack of focus towards TAORM was eclipsed by, arguably, the most amazing experiences of my life.  As previously mentioned, I look forward to paying these memories proper attention in this forum.  Upon our return to Denver on October 24, I envision a week of reading, writing, organizing photographs, and reminiscing in general before commencing Season Two in a little place called Aspen.

At this moment, I sit at a free internet cafe on Rhodes Island, Greece - a boot of beer in hand, green and red parrots squawk noisily, numerous stray cats prowl the premises, and tourists overrun the local shops.  We arrived in port at 5:00 this morning after a 20 hour ferry ride from Santorini - a fascinating caldera with endless views that belong on postcards and beaches that rival the best in the world.  Tomorrow morning we leave for Istanbul, our second to last destination.  Might as well call it the last considering the energy and funds required to take advantage of London's sights are lacking.  Whatever, it's just England.

See you soon, America.

Might Not Come Home?

Just kidding.  I'll be home.  But not for another four weeks.  HOLLA!

Update needed.  Let's see where we have been since Operation: Ibiza:

• Ibiza - Yes, yes, there were two more nights in Ibiza.  I've received some messages from concerned readers (Hint:  Starts with an "M" and ends with a "om") about the amount of "partying" going down thus far.  Don't worry, the partying has taken a backseat.  But that doesn't mean that the parties at Amnesia, Ushuaia, and Space will go without being recognized.  They were beyond amazing.  Foreshadowing:  Jumbo jets, fireworks, pool parties, no air conditioning, an entire hostel of party-goers, and Armin van Buuren.
• Barcelona - Beautiful city.  Speaking Spanish gets me more stoked than a lot of things in this current life - even though I still think they need to forget the whole Catalan seceding from Spain thing and get over themselves.  Beaches were incredible, the Barrio Gotic even more magnificent, four Spanish guitar masters took my breath away, Parc Guell (Antoni Gaudi, you're the man) takes the cake - the architecture, art, landscaping, and city views will never be forgotten.  Thank you Candace and Carolyn for the hospitality - my Fantasy Football team would be plagued with autopicks if it weren't for you.  We witnessed FC Barcelona beat Villareal by a score of 5-0.  Live.  At Camp Nou.  Sitting next to lifelong Barcelona fans.  Thiago, Alexis, Fabregas, and Messi (twice) scored.  Seriously?
• Lyon - Spent only one night, less than this city deserves.  First time since our departure that I truly felt like an outsider.  Aside from the hostel attendant and Camille (a charming young lady we met right outside the train station), no one we encountered spoke English.  Love this dynamic.  Another Nominee for Best Meal greeted us here.  The hostel was refreshing in that it wasn't full of maniacal kids trying to party.  The other 13 males in our dorm were students in the area, looking for permanent housing, but mostly preparing for university the next day.  A full night's sleep without people arriving and departing at strange hours was brilliant.
• Chamonix-Mont Blanc - No question, the most enticing location we have seen thus far.  Probably because it's a legendary ski town, with amazing outdoors activities, and the geology gets me more excited than the bro-in-training from the "Stacy's Mom" music video.  Our hikes and climbs took me back to Colorado mentally, pushed me physically, and reinforced my love for outdoor activities.  We had a hotel room to ourselves - a quaint, three bed dorm with a sink and closet.  Provided the first opportunity to completely unpack and spread out our belongings.  Early nights allowed for early rises and optimal hiking conditions.  The Alps are vicious.  Incredible mountains, faces vary from flat trails to sheer cliffs.  Glaciers, diminished from their historical magnitude, carve the mountain ranges faster and clearer than any erosional force on the planet.  Boulders turn to sand as you ascend these slopes.  I reminisced of my final project in Tectonic Geomorphology as I rotated in place, taking in the environment, observing the terrain, and quietly whispering 'glacial till', 'terminal moraine', 'dropstone', 'striations', and other terms retrieved from Occidental Geology classes.  After that hike, I visited the Musee des Cristaux, the Museum of Crystals and Minerals.  Mad, mad geology love during these two days.  Nothing beats a genuine interaction with nature.
• Paris - Fine.  Parisians are Parisians.  We saw the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, and the Rodin Musuem.  Beautiful sights, but nothing more than the things we needed to do while in this famous city.  Save an exceptional meal at a traditional French restaurant close to our hostel, these typical tourist visits were sufficient for our Paris experience.  Stay tuned for my personal favorite handwritten chapter of TAORM:  Comedy at the Expense of Others.  Paris provided the hardest laughs up to this point, which is saying a lot considering I laughed/cried for joy in Ibiza, cracked up in Barcelona, and laughed in amazement in Chamonix.  Do not miss that upcoming entry.
• Bruges - It's in Belgium.  Yes, I've seen the film In Bruges, it's one of my favorite films.  Yes, I watched it while I was there.  Yes, I quoted it an inappropriate amount of times while in Bruges.  Bruges may or may not be a shithole, as Ray (Colin Farrell) suggests in the movie.  Regardless, the place was an absolute KICK.  Could not have asked for more out of our two nights there.  Bike rides, sightseeing, brilliant fellow travelers, friendly locals, swans, canals, cobble streets, Belgian beer, out-of-tune pianos, the blood of Christ, intellectual conversation.  I could go on and ON.  Bruges was the shit.
• Amsterdam - Surprisingly disappointing.  It rained the entire time we were there; we were lost most of the time we were there.  Lost, soaking wet, and reeling from the coffeeshop effect, I was not a happy camper.  The Van Gogh Museum was a highlight and Red Light District was something else. Other than that, it's a good thing there is only one Amsterdam in the world, for the sake of humanity.
• Berlin - Way too sick.  The history is inescapable.  Hands down the most important city of the 20th century, one can't go anywhere without seeing traces of globally significant influences here.  From the Reichstag to the Berlin Wall to the Olympiastadion, I was taken aback by the symbolism associated with every sight.  Hitler's fingerprints still remain and it is easy to tell that the city (and Germany itself) are still developing their identities following the travesties incurred during the 1900's, with Berlin as the political center of it all.  The nightlife was exceptional, Mauer Park on a Sunday is something every youth of our generation should experience, and the Berlin Zoo is among the best in the world.
• Prague - Clean, friendly, and welcoming.  Another city wrought with history unlike any other we've seen.  Our first Pub Crawl of the trip happened here, with the final stop being the Karlovy Lazne, a five story club in the heart of town.  We met a group of Irish travelers in our hostel who proved invaluable club-goers and sightseers.  Thank you, Chelsea, Trevor, and Joey for your companionship during this time.  Best of luck on your future travel endeavors and I look forward to meeting you again.

And then we arrive in Nuremberg.  After a travel morning similar to our venture from Dublin to Liverpool (no this is not a pattern), our first day in Nuremberg/Amberg was magnificent.

9:30 am in Prague was unwelcome at first.  Didn't get back to the hostel until around 4:45 that morning and I was not pleased to hear the amateurs in our room loudly discussing how all of them threw up the night before.  Whatever, we had a bus to catch.  As we gather our belongings and get ready for the day, I get caught up in reminiscing about the night before.  I remind one girl that, once her friends so graciously dropped her stumbling-drunk ass off in the room, I witnessed her fall down the stairs on two instances, one of which included a painful looking head-smash on an opposing staircase.  Once my chivalry was exhausted, the Argentinian couple took over and got her in bed.  That was around 10:30pm.  We went out and had a kicker with Trevor and Chelsea - bar hopping, dancing, drinking, sneaking in and getting free shots with sponsored Pub Crawls.  Killer night.

The morning naturally involved killing the remainder of our bottle from the night before.  This negated my sure hangover and exacerbated Tyler's.  The bus ride to Nuremberg was hilarious.  Tyler was passed out most of the time but I spent my time writing down everything that was going on - interactions with other passengers, my personal endeavors, views out the window, music from the iWomp, etc (for that entire record, please email me or contact me personally).  It was glorious.  My favorite interaction occurred as I found my way down to the main floor of our double decker bus to use the bathroom.  Semi-drunk, iPod on blast, I find the coffee station outside of the water closet.  Picture this image: me, emerging from the restroom, seeing coffee readily available, fist pumping and smiling at the realization, slowly dancing and bobbing my head, responding to the erratic motion of the bus, filling up what I would consider the most perfect cup of coffee in the world.  The proportion of milk to coffee to sugar was immaculate.  As I prepare to top it off and return to my seat, the bus steward literally pushes me aside and flips out.

Steward:  What are you doing?!  I AM STEWARD, NOT YOU!

Me:  (removing one headphone)  Whoa, whoa, whoa, don't spill that coffee, bitte (means 'please' in German).

Steward:  I am steward, not you.

Me:  (removing second headphone) What are you talking about?  I can steward this coffee pot just fine.

Steward:  I am steward, not you.

Me:  Yeah, yeah, I heard that.  Care to top that off for me?

Steward:  Euro and fifty.

Me:  I thought this was free, it looks free to me.

Steward:  EURO FIFTY!

Me:  (glare)

Steward:  (holds out hand)

Me:  Fine.  (Pay Euro, fifty).  Care to top that off?

Steward:  (Ignores me completely)

Me:  (Politely) Would you mind filling that up?

Steward:  (Ignores me completely)

Me:  Please?

Steward:  NO!

Me:  (Replace headphones, dance my way upstairs)

Doesn't sound very funny now, but it was hilarious.  She wouldn't look me in the eyes for the remainder of the ride.

So we get to Nuremberg, and we are stoked.  Thus begins our three day vacation from hostels, eating in common kitchens, and sleeping in the same room as one another.  Massive shout out to Bryan Rodman (B-Rod) for the hospitality.  So good to see you, my friend.  Colorado flags and high school memories sum up this reunion except for the fact that we're in the middle of Germany.  B-Rod picks us up from the train station; the first question he asks: "Do you want to go to a 1. FC Nurnberg match?  They are playing Werder Bremen in ten minutes."

Yes.  Yes, we do.

It begins to drizzle rain right before he got to the station.  Once we get in the car, the sky opens up.  Sitting in the backseat of the only Dodge Durango in probably all of Germany is a nice taste of home.  Shipped over from the states, this green truck is hands down the biggest vehicle on the road and difficult to maneuver in most parking lots.  Regardless, B-Rod has it down and we are on a mission to get to this soccer match.  Once we get to the stadium, it's pouring rain.  Ask us if we care.  A brisk walk turns into a light jog.  Not more than two minutes from the parking lot, I have both flip-flops in my hands, my raincoat is soaked through, my shorts have turned two shades darker, and my bare feet are the cleanest part of my body from stomping through puddles on the street.  We can hear the FC Nurnberg fans chanting and singing from the stadium grounds, enhancing our appetite to see the match.  A short break under a bridge precedes a dead sprint through incessant rain and spurts of hail en route to the football grounds.  Dripping wet and ticketless we approach the box office.  The match is completely sold out but does not deter our intention to get in that stadium.  After another sprint to the opposite side of the field, we understand the only possible way to get in is to scalp some tickets from fans leaving the game.  I find one willing patron to sell me theirs for a meager 10 euro, Tyler and B-Rod find another couple and grab their tickets for a similar price.  Golden.  Let's get in there, second half starts in five minutes.

Neither of their tickets work.  Apparently, their previous owners failed to scan themselves out of the game when they left.  This renders their tickets void.  Mine, however, works like a charm.  One security guard escorts them to the ticket office to get their tickets redeemed as I stand inside the gates trying to negotiate with guards to let my friends in (fail, considering I speak NO German).  The guard helping them returns and notifies me that the name on the ticket does not match that of my friends.  I stand torn - I want to go to this match, but my friends can't.  We are separated by a entry gate and a turnstile.  I look at my friends, then back at the stadium, then at my friends, I don't know what to do.  Right before I accept the loss and remove myself from the grounds, the guard gives them the nod - forget the turnstile, walk around it, and enjoy the match.  We were there.  FC Nurnberg vs. Werder Bremen.  The second we got inside, the rain stopped and the sun came out.  YES.  YES.  YES.  YES.  Let's go.

Our seats are in section 9.  The hooligan section.  It looks more like a college football game than a Bundesliga match.  Flags are waving, die-hard fans are chanting along with the shirtless crowd leaders at the front of the section.  FC Nurnberg jerseys outnumber regular garb 3:1.  There aren't seats, it's standing room only, and you better hold your ground or you'll get pushed out of your line of view.  The atmosphere is electric as the second half kicks off.  Werder Bremen is playing a man down due to the goaltender's red card in the first.  FCN is attacking our end of the stadium - they dominate possession, berate the goalie with shots on net, and ignite the spectators (particularly our section) in song and cheer.  Before this match, I could name zero players on FCN; I speak four words of German; and I can hardly relate to the love a European town maintains for their home football team.  Regardless of these facts that fundamentally differentiate me from this crowd, I feel like one of them.  The songs they sing are decades old - I don't know the words.  The chants have been passed down through generations - I clap along, but don't know the proper form.  Nurnberg scores - I celebrate and exchange high fives with the 60-something year old standing behind me as our section ERUPTS in cheer, beers launch into the sky, flags wave wider, and B-Rod captures every second on an iPhone video (coming soon).  Beautiful, beautiful madness.  This one half of Bundesliga football surpassed our experience at Camp Nou in Barcelona.  Yes, we saw world-class players play and score fantastic goals at Camp Nou.  Yes, 100,000 people in a single stadium is a sight to behold.  That 5-0 victory Barcelona spanked on Villareal demonstrated their utter superiority in the spectrum of international football - I will never forget witnessing that.  However, the equalizing goal we saw at the Frankenstadion this day was superior in spectator appreciation and personal sentiment - from this day forth, my favorite Bundesliga football squad will be 1. FC Nurnberg.  Ask me, I dare you.

The match ends a 1-1 draw.  Overly stoked at what just happened, how we got there, and where we were headed, I would have been pleased to call it a day then and there.  Fortunately, Nuremberg has more to offer than that.  Not a five minute walk from the stadium lie the grounds of the Nuremberg Rallies - large Nazi propaganda events that took place between 1923 and 1939.  The primary purpose of the gatherings held in these fields was to strengthen the image of Adolf Hitler as Germany's savior.  The area itself is larger than twelve football fields combined; Nazi troops flanked Hitler as he addressed the masses and they, in turn, swore their allegiance and marched before him.  After World War II, in their own act of patriotic symbolism, the American troops blew up a gigantic swastika at this sight.  I instantly recognize the stands from historic photographs.  We circumnavigate the fields, peering in between the remaining barriers.  A group of women were running the steps, now converted for recreational use, as we scaled the historic stairs towards the stage.  Surveying the expansive fields, I imagined them full to capacity, organized in strict, deliberate rows of soldiers and civilians all with complete focus on one stage and one man.  I wait for a few other tourists to exit the platform as I try to comprehend the historical significance of this location.  Once they leave, I watch my feet and slowly climb the seven stairs up to the platform, stand in the dead center, and raise my eyes to behold the vast arena in front of me.  Hitler once stood exactly where I am standing right now.  He addressed thousands of people at a time, millions over the years, from this landing.  The most maniacal, and yet influential, leader of the 20th century convinced the population of this country to embark on, arguably, the most horrendous, grievous, unforgivable reign of genocide man has ever seen - from where I stand at this moment.  Difficult to comprehend, but easy to see.  I can't explain how I felt standing on that platform.

From there we walked to the Nazi Congress Hall, another wonder of the Nazi party.  Unfinished in its construction, it still inspires awe from those who see it.  A bride, groom, bridesmaids, and groomsmen were getting professional photos taken in the courtyard.  I wondered if they chose the location for aesthetics or symbolism, hoping it was the former.

The night was still young.  We drove for about ten minutes and grabbed dinner at a world-famous sausage restaurant.  This is funny because it is actually famous, and I never once knew what it was called.  All I know is I was hungry.  We ordered 10 sausages each (they were small), one order with sauerkraut, one with horseradish, one with potatoes, and three steins of beer.  Glory.  Seated right next to the grill, I watched the cooks prepare upwards of 200 sausages for the entire restaurant as we cleaned our plates.  The whole meal took approximately 24 minutes from the time we sat down to the time we stood up.  So good.

What do you know, Charlemagne built a castle right next to this restaurant.  Or was it vice versa?  We walked around the ruins and overlooked Nuremberg before getting back to the car and drove to B-Rod's house in Amberg, about 40 minutes away.  I fell asleep on the drive, but was pleased to see we made it safely.

The next day consisted of a train ride to the town of Regensberg and a good amount of sightseeing there.  An incredible cathedral (second only to Prague Castle, in my book) was the highlight.  We visited the Historical Museum and overlooked objects dating back to the Stone Age.  Only downfall: visitor signs were in German.  I can't read German.  I made up my own stories for each artifact.  Pretty sure they weren't far from the truth.  

Today will go down as the first "Do Nothing Day" of the entire trip.  B-Rod has to work at 6:00 in the morning, but has a 50'' plasma television.  Not only were we able to stream the Denver Broncos game LIVE last night, but we have watched two episodes of Game of Thrones, and played multiple games of FIFA 11 (Tyler is 1-12, by the way).  This morning we reserved a hostel in Salzburg, our destination after Oktoberfest, a ferry from Split, Croatia to Ancona, Italy, and a ferry from Bari, Italy to Patras, Greece.  I'd say we're doing alright.

So here I sit, wearing our newly purchased lederhosen (see Facebook) - which has edged out my newest swimsuit (88% polyester, 12% spandex) as the best garment purchase of 2011.  SportsCenter on the tube, shooting the shit with B-Rod and Bowman (both rocking lederhosen).  This is the life.  Tomorrow we leave for Munich, and Oktoberfest.

Dirndl's are revealing.  Can't wait.

Operation: Ibiza

Operation: Ibiza

DISCLAIMER: Ibiza is often considered the party capital of the world. The following recap involves drinking, dancing, staying up past bedtime, and a general disregard for physical health. If you would not like to hear about the party habits of a 23 year-old boy with dancing shoes trapped on the White Island, please stop reading now. If interested in these antics, feel free to continue. HINT: This place is pretty awesome.

We are here. Our cab driver is a grumpy road rage champion. He refuses to buckle his seatbelt despite the incessant warning beeps and he flashes the brights at other vehicles so he can pass. We are driving down a two lane highway with no streetlights, guardrails or sidewalks, in the middle of nowhere, at least two miles from the airport.

Me: Archie, were you seriously going to walk this?
Archie: I've done it before.

Our first day in Ibiza is best broken down chronologically.

1:20 am: Land in Ibiza. Get through customs and grab a taxi.

2:00 am: I see it in the distance. As we pass bars and clubs teeming with high heels, short dresses, sleeveless t-shirts, and hair gel, we approach that royal insignia I have sought for so long... Space. Across the street? Ushuaia. We are scheduled to attend parties at both these venues on Wednesday.

Archie, like the veteran he is, walks straight into Space to begin his adventure. Unfortunately, this is the last we see of our Oxford friend. 'Tis a shame, he was a good man and would have been a terrific teammate at the parties. Farewell, Arch.

2:25 am: Arrive at our hostel (Barely. That maniacal cab driver instigated confrontation with every other car on the road). Hotel Giramundo's bar/restaurant is still open but the front desk is closed. Surprising, considering the time of day. Once the inkeeper wakes up and meets us at the desk (sorry, Martín) we understand we have made the first significant planning blunder of the trip. Giramundo is at full capacity, check-in begins at 1:00 pm. Eleven hours to kill. We can manage that, right? Martín gives us some suggestions for cheap drinks in the area. We store our bags at the "desk" - some makeshift shelves near the kitchen and off we go. Let it begin.

3:15 am: Ibiza Town is small and easy to get around. My extraordinary map reading skills plus illuminated street signs facilitate our walk to the bars. The recommended location is a street next to the harbor. The bars themselves are small, hole-in-the-wall spots with all the seating on the avenue. Place is bustling with mostly Spanish speakers. I found out early in our stay that my Spanish speaking abilities surpassed expectations. Retrieving verb tenses and certain vocabulary came easier than anticipated. I love speaking and conversing in Spanish - through Ibiza and Barcelona, successful conversation with native speakers enhanced the overall experience significantly. In the midst of this madness we found a "happy hour" special - two drinks and a shot for 12€. A steal considering drinks in the club can cost up to 18€ for a single glass.

4:00 am: This street closes down so we walk north to check the free entry club. En route, some dude overhears our conversation and pounces on the opportunity to speak English. He and his buddy were in town after attending a wedding in Italy and decide to roll with us. These thirty-something year old bros are idiots. The locations and happenings of our time with them:

- Hotel lobby casino - Tyler and I stand back and watch these guys struggle to get the video poker machine to even accept their money. Once it does, they each lose 10€ in a single play.

- Shady, silent building entrance with eight scantily clad women in front -

Bro1: Dude, they're hot.
Me: I think that's a whorehouse, man.
Bro1: Sweet! (instantly approaches).

Both bros allow these ladies of the night to take them sensually by the arm and lead them into the brothel. I stand outside with my arms crossed talking bullshit with one of the "workers" telling her how next door sounds better and I don't pay for sex. Once she realized I was serious, she stopped carressing my arm, sat on a bench and grumpily lit a cigarette.

On cue: both bros exit the establishment, sans prostitutes, and Bro2 exclaims, "20€ for a drink? That's ridiculous!" I retort, "Just think, if you had won that hand of video poker, you two could have shared a drink AND gotten down. Too bad."

- Bar next to brothel - Only Spanish people, only Spanish music. They complain about their inability to pull foreign tail and insist we go chat to four ladies at a table. Italians, I delve into Spanish small-talk with one, the bros and Tyler find the other ones can speak English. Girls were cool enough but NOT feeling the bros' agendas. Time to move along. The bros return to their place after what seems like an unsuccessful night in their eyes. Thanks for the comedy, fellas.

6:50 am: Burger King.

7:30 am: Day glow. Sunrise on the horizon. Our attitudes remain optimistic at this juncture. Sunrises are beautiful, why not welcome the first rise on this island from the beach? Vivid patterns of orange, yellow and red flood the sky and reflect off the ocean calm as we absorb the serenity of the new day. The image of the sun and beach that morning will remain with me forever. What we underestimated, however, was the heat associated with such scenarios.

8:30 am - Noon: Misery. Physically and mentally exhausted, hours become minutes as the island returns to daily form - a natural sauna. With no where to go, we pass the time on benches and chairs overlooking the beach. Sleep wants me more than I want it - which is a lot. Several times I slip into unconsciousness and have to catch myself from falling from my seat to the concrete. The sun is merciless. I'm wearing long pants, a black Tough Mudder athletic shirt, and a Burton snowboards Fidel Castro-esque hat. I begin to sweat. Profusely. I will remain this sweaty for, literally, the next three days. I perspired the fluid equivalent of my body weight on that island.

We transfer to the beach itself to find a shady spot to lie down. Best location? On the sand, NEXT to two chaise lounges, stealing the shade of their umbrella. Why not sleep in the chairs, guys? I'm not paying 5€ to crash on a beach chair for three hours. Spite is a powerful emotion. Hat over my face, I exist. Just exist on the beach for an hour and a half, rotating occasionally to retain the shade as the sun periodically peaks around our umbrella haven. The sand combines forces with the sweat to launch me into a dimension of discomfort and frustration I didn't know was possible. Truly awful.

Noon - 13:00: Sit on the porch of Giramundo's restaurant in silence. This lasts an eternity.

13:00: The finish line. Welcome to your room, "Marruecos" (Morocco, the names are named after countries). There are four bunks, a small shower, a sink, a window, lockers, and a ceiling fan in our room. I take one of the best showers of my life.

13:00 - 21:00: Sleep. Straight up. It's probably 90• in our room. I don't care. I sleep through the heat and the sweat and the noise. It was incredible.

21:00: Wake up. Swedish House Mafia called, they said it's time to go to Pacha. Shave the beard, brush teeth, change clothes; the game face goes on easily. We post up in the common area to determine a plan. Not more than two minutes after we sit down, a troupe of English speaking party-goers enter the room. Apparently the pre-game gods were looking down upon us. This pride of Canadians are ready to rage Pacha, as well. Absolut, orange juice, Jim Beam, and Coca Cola were brought in to advise the situation.

Needless to say, we get along with our new friends. Mitch, Ali, and Colin boast similar concert-going repertoires to mine own. After Ibiza they were off to Creamfields in Manchester - one of the biggest electronic festivals in the world. Diego, originally from Argentina, was a snowboard instructor in Vail last season - we got along. Candace and Amanda hail from Toronto and would quickly become MVS's (Most Valuable Sidekicks) and great friends by the end of Operation: Ibiza.

23:59: Pacha's doors open. You can feel it in the air. My buzz is sufficient and the dancing shoes are laced up. With the fellas in a fervor, they race away to get a taxi. The girls are wearing heels though and it would be unchivalrous to let them navigate the treacherous cobbles alone. The four of us find the taxi stand and Pacha within minutes.

"SWEDISH HOUSE MAFIA: MASQUERADE MOTEL" reads the entrance. A quiet chuckle of disbelief plasters a silly grin on my face - a grin that will not cease for days to come. Architecturally, Pacha is a discotheque marvel. The first room is a small, circular dance floor with an elevated bar/lounge area on the left and a larger, rectangular dance spot on the right. The restrooms are around the corner - upstairs for women, down two small flights for men. We regain composure and enter the main hall together.

Third Party is performing and it's already crowded. Nothing is uniform. Ramps and staircases of varying heights and direction intervene with stripper poles, dancing platforms, and randomly placed VIP sections. The crowd looks like a rolling wave funneling towards the main dance area and, shockingly, the stage. We found a great spot next to a bar overlooking an empty VIP area with plenty of room to dance and observe.

Sometime between 2:00 and 3:00 am: A familiar voice echoes through the speakers, "Pacha (crowd goes wild). My name is Axwell, next to me is Dirty South. We are here to party with you."

It starts in darkness. There is little room to move to the front, back, or side, but the ceilings are high - room to jump. The hi-hats, cymbals, and bass of the basic beat speed up. The lights start to flash - red, blue, yellow, white, green - in every direction. Gradually, hundreds of hands reach for the sky, the bodies of their owners anticipate the drop, their heads bob to the beat until they can't keep up. The music reaches that ominous, almost static tone that precedes so many rhythmic, bass-filled dance beats. Strobe lights are so intense even a non-epileptic may be susceptible to malfunction. The volume of the sound system is rivaled only by the scream of the audience. An instant of darkness, a deep breath... let that beat DROP.

Chaos ensues. Enormous chandeliers erupt in sparks, the iron-cast letters adorning them read, "Swedish House Mafia." The crowd jumps in unison as Axwell and Dirty South conduct from the stage. The ceiling hisses as CO2 tanks flood the room with a translucent fog that intensifies some lights, distorts others. Scantily clad performers emerge from behind curtains and sensually saunter to their designated positions - two to a pole, one keeps to the stage as the other ascends the metal for a more acrobatic approach; intricate costumes couple with stolid looks to express the professionalism and calculated tact of their performance art. Cultural and language barriers are transcended by dance, identity doesn't matter in this moment. Everyone under that roof will have this experience for the rest of their lives. All four of us are screaming for joy, perhaps unintentionally.

And for the rest of the night, "you can try to stop my dancing feet but I just cannot stand still."

Dublin 2 Ibiza

I was by no means sober when we checked out of Gogarty´s.  Packed up the remainder of our items, threw in my contacts, brushed my teeth, splashed some water on my game face and headed out.  Not before snatching the leftover 3/4 bottle of wine from the night before.  Check-out consists of telling the front desk attendant that we are leaving.  So begins our second chapter.  The excursion to the bus/ferry is riotous.  Neither of us are close to top form, the sun is barely up, we each have a backpack in front and one on our back, and plan on finishing a bottle of wine en route.  Our 7:00am jabber went something like this:

A: Do they have open container laws here?
T: I think so, didn't we see some guy getting written up by the Garda the other night?
A: Think they are enforcing it right now? takes strong pull of wine while repeatedly pressing crosswalk button
T: Yeah, the Boondock Saints are coming for you.
A: Hopefully they leave the guns at home, I'm trying to meet the judge because it's obviously a leprechaun.
T: Definitely, I heard you have to pay your fines in pouches of gold too.
A: (In an Irish accent) That will be 12 gold pouches, thrice spanks with the meter stick, and four Hail Mary's
T: Yessir, Master Leprechaun.

Amidst this mindless squabbling two realizations were made.

1. I can count on one hand the number of leprechaun jokes made in Ireland. Seriously? That is dismal. You don't even need a segway for leprechaun jokes in Ireland. You can just tee them up, one after another, and hit them out of the park. It's law.
2. When you are walking to a bus stop to catch a bus, pay attention to buses and bus stops.

We missed our 7:30am bus to the ferryport. In retrospect, I'm fairly certain one of us looked and pointed at the bus we needed and said something snide along the lines of, "Righty-oh chaps! Are we keen on this coach? Fancy that, bugger, bugger, long live the queen."

In our minds there was no feasible reason the bus would be anywhere other than where we expected it to be. End up catching a taxi. Fantastic choice as our driver was absolutely hilarious. Once he found out we were going to Ibiza the gay jokes came spilling through the flood gates. Unfortunately, they are inappropriate for this forum.

The ferry ride consisted of several games of tummy and a ham and cheese panini. Oh, and there was a Time Crisis 3 arcade game. It tempted us for the first hour and every time we stood up to play some child would grab the gun and pretend to shoot things without even putting money in. Eventually we got our turn and the game is a fluke. I lost MAYBE three lives on the first level and it said I lost five. I dodged that throwing ax TC3.

Once in Holyhead we immediately caught the train to Liverpool - multiple people mentioned that Holyhead is not a place you spend time. It was during this train ride that I started to feel the detrimental effects from the night before. I found myself in a cold sweat, slipping in and out of sleep, and suffering from my standard queezy stomach hangover. This mild misery continued in Liverpool as we hoofed around much of the city in search of accommodations for the night. Once the rain began to fall, my patience began to falter. I almost went Hot Rod on one particular inkeep who wouldn't look up from her Vodafone or O2 or whatever the he'll mobile devices the English use these days to inform me they were fully booked that night. When asked if she had any suggestions for us she retorted, "no, not really." Deep breath, tongue bitten, move along.

Our savior was the Madhatter's hostel. After booking a room we scheduled our bus to Gatwick airport for the morning and got a bite to eat. Hangover in full effect, my BBQ chicken sandwich and French fries proved to be a poor choice for some reason. The gutters of Rodney Street (hahaha) felt the wrath. I'll venture to say I'm the first person ever, in the history of Liverpool, to lose their lunch on Rodney Street. That evening was delightful, however. Found a cozy restaurant where we sat in lounge chairs near the entrance and watched the rain fall. A few games of billiards and a soccer match later and we moved on. Grabbed a single pint at a pub near the hostel where we met two lovely locals. This led to the displeasure of meeting Carrie's younger sister an her significant other. She is 18, her boyfriend probably older. They have two children - 3 months and 13 months old. She was an incredible bitch - we were warned by her sister before she sat down - and he wasn't much better. As she sat at our bench and did her makeup, her gem of a boyfriend talked about leaving the kids with the grandparents every weekend and their fundamental dislike of "the blacks." Arrogant isn't strong enough a word for these two. Outspoken racists and parents of TWO - I was shocked by this encounter. My malevolence toward them quickly transformed to pity and concern for their children. It made me hope that ignorance is a recessive gene.

Only one thing was on our mind the next day: Get to Ibiza. I put a massive dent in Storm of Swords during the bus ride to Gatwick and got mentally prepared for what lie ahead. In the Gatwick airport we met an Englishman from Oxford also on our flight. Archie was a tall, lanky, outgoing gentleman wearing a blue Polo, white pants and white shoes. He had no luggage or money with him.

Memorable Archie quotes:
- When referring to a newspaper, "I normally don't read this periodical. It's actually filth, half the stories aren't even true but it's damn entertaining."
- "I told my girlfriend I was going to France for eight days and she told me to make sure I saved some money for Ibiza. Now I'm out of cash and she will have to cover me. It's her birthday weekend, as well."
- "My mates are going to Space tonight, I'm planning on walking to the club from the airport."

1:20am, August 22, 2011. Commence Operation: Ibiza.

Time and Technology = Limitations

As it happens, finding the means to keep TAORM consistently updated has proven difficult.  For one thing, sitting in front of a computer screen is not the way time should be spent over here.  Secondly, finding a monitor worthy of such attention is impossible.  This French keyboard is WHACK and will not suffice as I intend to keep these updates detail intensive and longwinded.  When the opportunity arises, however, I will be translating the sixteen (literally) pages of handwritten verse into this electronic format.  Just a matter of time.

Currently situated in Paris, we are looking forward to some serious sightseeing.  Louvre, Eiffel Tower, Monet museum, and other such attractions today.  Day trip to the historic beaches of Normandy and hopefully Versailles tomorrow.  France, unexpectedly I will confess, could steal the show if things continue to go as smoothly as they have.  Since our arrival in Lyon, the people, food, accommodations, and activities have been superb.  With no hotel reservations in Lyon or Chamonix, we hardly expected things to turn out so well.  Lyon is a beautiful city and deserved more of our time; we only spent one night there en route to Chamonix.

Before even stepping off the train in the Chamonix-Mont Blanc area, it was pinned as a "must-return" destination.  A geological wonder, ski town (frighteningly reminiscent of Aspen), and outdoorsmen's dream, our love affair was a foreshadowed and destined.  Hiking, climbing, cliff jumping, eating, drinking, and sleeping occupied our entire two and a half days there.  My sincere apologies to the Alps - you deserve more attention than that, but I promise, I will be back, oh, I will be back.

Bonjour, Paris.  Let's do this.