Wanted: Swedish Mafiosos and Armin van Buuren. Crime: Destroying Ushuaia, Going Live in Space

The Grand Finale.

Day three started just like any other – sweating profusely after few hours of sleep, ears ringing, head hurting, stomach empty… and completely stoked.

First things first, let’s get in the ocean.  We gather the troops and assume our position next to the lifeguard stand.  No drinks will be had this morning - we have a pool party to prepare for.  Tyler and I also need to figure out how the hell we are going to get off this magical, flamboyant, tremendous island.  A ferry from Ibiza to Barcelona takes approximately seven hours – what better way to rest than on a slow moving barge.  Balearia (the ferry company – named after the Balearic Islands) only has first class tickets available for tomorrow’s departure.  First class it is.  Tomorrow at 1300 hours we will turn our back on:

• Heat.  Relentless, vigorous heat emanating, in a fashion I have infrequently experienced, from that ruthless ball of gas at the center of our solar system.  Please do not consider this description as an antagonistic, derogatory attitude towards our sun.  I love our sun.  I’ve been known to praise the laws of thermodynamics, motion, electromagnetism, gravitation, astrophysics, and luck – for, so kindly, situating our beloved planet Earth in this exact position relative to the sun.  We are so lucky to live on a planet with water (flashback: SpringBreakOhEight, Cabo) and fire.  Despite my unconditional, perverse appreciation for the laws of nature that spawned the sun, our planet, and the life maintained by both, it was really fucking hot on that spit of land for our entire stay.  The heat will not be missed.
• Beaches.  Yes, there are plenty of beaches to visit over the next two months, including our next stop.  However, a unique atmosphere dominates Ibiza beaches – one cannot escape the conflicting auras of tranquility and excitement, calm and passion.  Never has it felt so natural to go crazy.  Ibiza, for our purposes (sorry historical Ibiza, I will check you out next time), was defined by melding music with people to create joy.  That effort was successful, and it felt so right, no matter the bonkers behavior that complemented such endeavors.  The beaches of Ibiza captured this balance of serenity and irrationality that embodied our experience there.
• Food.  Again, more food will be ingested.  The meal at Pio Lindo will go down as one of the best of the trip, regardless.  Lengua de bistec and half chickens with french fries ALL DAY.
• Blurry Nights.  Let’s be real, probably not the end of these either.
• Friends.  “Turning our back” on these friends is not the proper term.  As I sit here in Aspen, Colorado on November 15, almost three months after leaving Ibiza, I am happy to report that the people we spent time with on the island were ultimately much more than single serving friends.  Not only did we rendezvous with a number of them in other European destinations, but we will be eternally connected through the cyber world and the almighty Facebook (where we share comments, likes, wall-posts, and messages).
• Brain Rattling Beats.  We have a knack for finding loud electronic music basically anywhere we go.  It’s a gift and a curse.  Mostly a gift, because these concerts are awesome.  The shows we saw in Ibiza will, from this day on, quickly be brought up in the frequent discussion of “best live concerts you’ve seen.”  Anticipation of these experiences, coupled with their inability to disappoint launches the illustrious reputation of Ibiza concerts to an even higher magnitude than initially anticipated.

Before we set sail for Barcelona, however, we have TWO more shows to attend.  The Swedish House Mafia plays at Ushuaia, a fancy, new hotel right before Armin van Buuren (“Ze Greatest DJ in Ze Vorld”) takes the stage at Space.  This could be a good day.

5:00 signals game time and the commencement of possibly the greatest live music performance I have ever witnessed.  Though exaggeration for the sake of description is acceptable, I dislike the use of hyperbole.  This must be clarified at this moment because my previous statement – the one about “greatest performance ever” – conveys my legitimate feelings on the situation.

We proceed with the pre-game tradition on the new party balcony outside of the ladies’ room.  Jim Beam and Absolut flow as snails, tidal waves, scuba dives, and other high-five fake-outs incite boisterous laughter.  Tie in a solid buzz and mix some Fanta-vodkas to go.  Clad in bikinis, boardshorts, sandals, and cutoffs, things already look promising.  Six people deep necessitates two cabs so I hop in with the girls and meet Tyler, Reign, and Jonathon at the entrance.  Reunited at the party, we swagger to the security check with Alex Metric spinning wax in the background.  The energy can be felt even outside the white stucco walls and thick wooden doors separating us from the raucous crowd inside.

Minor setback:  Security does not like my Peruvian soccer jersey.  “No deportes,” says the beefhead security guard, “no puedes llevar esta camisa.”  This makes sense – sports gangs are intense in Spain.  The solution was right around the corner.  For 8.95€ I purchase a black shirt with:

I Y

IBIZA

Time to rage.  Two steps inside the Ushuaia gates and I knew this was going to be special.  There are hundreds of people surrounding the gigantic pool, facing a massive stage, dancing their faces off to the undeniable skills of Alex Metric.  Paths of stones dash across the water surface like lily pads; they boast professional dancers don their unmistakable attire and lead the attendants in the art of motion.  Palm trees provide shade and wading pools cool water to all the beautiful bodies dancing wildly.  For some reason, drinks are way cheaper here than other clubs, so guess what, we order a few.  Waiting to order, I hear the familiar sound of jet engines – only it’s louder than usual.  Eyes to the sky to find the source – it is difficult to miss.  A commercial airliner, a big one, comes screaming over the crowd at the tail end of its final descent, clearing the top of the stage by (maybe) 600 feet.  The crowd loves it.  Ushuaia is four kilometers from the Ibiza airport.  I don’t know if this was designed on purpose but a couple dozen jumbo and private jets flying directly above the stage added some serious points to the showmanship and aesthetics of the performance.  It was an incredible sight.

Our group finds a perfect, spacious dance location right next to the pool with a great view of the stage (and planes).  Just as we get settled I hear, once again, a familiar Swedish voice; unlike at Pacha, however, three men grace the stage this evening.

“Ushuaia… (crowd goes crazy) Ibiza… (more people go crazy) Make some fucking NOISE (everyone goes crazy).  My name is Steve Angello, this is Axwell, and Sebastian Ingrosso.  We are the Swedish House Mafia.  Are you ready to party?”

Yes, Steve, yes I am.

The next three hours were indescribable.  The Swedes lived up to their reputation – crisp production, technical precision, crowd control, jaw-dropping pyrotechnics, unparalleled stage presence, and a fundamental love for dance music confirmed these men as the most professional trio in the business.  At one point, they mixed Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” vocals with the classic “Sweet Dreams” beat to an encouraging result; as they dropped the main line in this banger remix, their trademark fireworks flung sparks into the sky just as an easyJet flight came in for landing directly overhead.  The FAA would have thrown a shitfit if these antics were attempted in the United States.  I wondered if the passengers in the planes could see us, I hoped they could.  What a memorable welcome into Ibiza.  I will never forget Ushuaia, the Swedes, the fireworks, the planes, the pool.  An inherent smile plasters my face every time I recount the experience.

At 11:40 pm we catch a cab back to Giramundo – the night has just begun.  We have to see Armin van Buuren.  Live.  At Space.  In Ibiza.  I have to convince myself that this is real life.

The hostel is bumpin when we arrive.  All rooms on both floors apparently took to the halls to party as one – it looked like Braun Hall the first week of college, except way more intense and a little more legal.  People are pouring mix drinks, taking shots of absinthe, slamming beers, and dabbling in other goodies as we walk in the door.  We find familiar friends and meet new ones, and eventually have to stop talking about what just occurred at Ushuaia because everyone was so jealous.  Bite to eat, couple more drinks, new clothes, and we are ready for liftoff to Space.  We arrived at the cabstand with eighteen people from our hostel.  EIGHTEEN!  That’s the majority of the available beds in the hostel.  That’s also how we ran things at Giramundo.

Space is smaller than I imagined.  Once inside, one can go to the lounge/bar/restroom area on the left or the main stage on the right.  Our timing was impeccable; caught the last few tracks of Gareth Emery’s set (should have seen it all, but fear not – the Ministry of Sound in London hosted Mr. Emery on our second to last night in Europe) before the screen on stage read, straight up, “Armin van Buuren.”  Immediately I yell, “ZE BEST DJ IN ZE VORLD” as he took the stage (fans have actually voted van Buuren DJMag’s Number One DJ in the world for the past four years).  Once again, the hype is met with incredible performance.  The dance floor was compact but everyone was wary of other’s personal space.  The lights and music were synced wonderfully.  Savoy lasers were utilized to their full extent; unlike in America, where groups using said lasers do not shoot them on the audience.  In Space, safety comes second to sick light shows, eyesight is at risk – just don’t look straight at them.  With an older crowd, which I assumed consisted of long-time van Buuren followers was hooked and involved without being overly active.  This was perfect for my last showon the island and allowed me to take in the whole experience, with a beautiful girl and close friends, instead of dancing like a madman with minimal regard to those in the vicinity.  Mr. van Buuren has the best job in the world, and he knows it.  He jumped around and fist-pumped more on stage than half the people in the crowd – entertaining antics behind the 1s and 2s.

We left Space completely exhausted but happy.  Back at the hostel we all reconvened in our room and chatted over McDonalds (clutch move, Reign).  Around five in the morning everyone dispersed and I welcomed sleep knowing it would be my last time (hopefully) I would sweat through the night.  A few hours later it was time to check out and catch the boat to Barcelona.  I bid adieu to our new, worthy, amazing friends and ventured on to the next adventure.

A heartfelt thank you to the friends that made Operation: Ibiza the legendary experience I so wished it would be.

I Y IBIZA – more than just a t-shirt. 

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.

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.