Twenty years ago, when I was in the sixth grade, I attended my first weekend house party. I was both excited and terrified, because I went to an all-boys school and I had heard there would be girls at this particular party.

I made sure I had my outfit picked out many days in advance: navy blue blazer with brass buttons, white t-shirt, acid-washed jeans, white sport socks, black Doc Martens. Yes, I thought, this would be the perfect ensemble — classy, but not too showy.

At this point, feel free to take a few seconds to close your eyes and imagine me, 1 foot shorter, 90 lbs lighter, with a voice three octaves higher, dressed like a 1980’s New York City stand-up comedian – or more accurately, how someone from Saskatchewan would have envisioned a 1980’s New York City stand-up comedian.

I made sure I knew the address of the house ahead of time. And I made darned sure I did not arrive late, because that would be very uncool, I thought. It’s cool to be on time, I had figured, and probably even cooler, by that logic, to arrive waaay early.

So I arrived at the house two hours before the party was scheduled to begin. The hostesses (they were twins) ushered me downstairs to their basement and then returned upstairs, where I overheard them complaining to their mom that there was “a weird kid downstairs who arrived super early,” and what should they do with me? Suffice it to say, I was embarrassed. I was actually devastated. I was not “cool” at all, it seemed, and I don’t think the twins had even noticed the brass buttons on my blazer.

I was so traumatized that I honestly cannot remember what I ended up doing in that basement, as I waited those two hours for the other party-goers to show up. I blocked out that memory completely — so painful, it must have been.

I probably sat in the basement and ate  the snacks that had been laid out for the thirty other awaited guests. I probably put down at least a few lbs. worth of Cheetos. I remember really enjoying Cheetos back then. Alternatively, I may have just passed out for 2 hours. I do not remember.

Since then, as a result of that mortifying faux-pas, I have often erred on the side of tardiness for many important events.

Which brings us to Movember 2011. It’s already the 22nd of the month, and I am very late to this party. Do you like how I tied this story to Movember? I hope you did.

I have been growing my moustache, or ‘Mo”, since November 1st, as the Movember rules stipulate. So in a way I haven’t missed the party at all.

Attached is a picture of how I look today, Movember 22nd. Not very pretty. I’ve been getting a lot of strange looks from people. It’s not easy having this thing on my face — ask my girlfriend, who hasn’t even cast me a sideways glance since November 15th.

Worse yet, my moustache is only getting longer, bushier, and more unruly. If I can borrow a quote from the U.S. Navy SEALs, whenever they are asked to describe their brutally intensive training course, they famously state “the only easy day was yesterday.” Having a moustache, I can totally identify with that sentiment.

But at the end of the day, my Mo’ is for a great cause, as you can read about here, http://ca.movember.com/about/, so I press on, all the way to November 30th.

Thanks for taking the time to read this and I really hope you’ll consider donating.

All the best,

Dan

http://www.movember.com/m/160429

22 days into Movember

I hope this note finds you well. As we are all very busy, I will get right to the point: I have recently undertaken the growing of a moustache, in observance of “Movember”, the campaign to support the fight against male-specific cancers. I have created my own page within the “Movember” website, and I am writing to ask you to consider donating money to it.  You can view my site here:

http://ca.movember.com/mospace/160429

For those of you with a bit more time on your hands, here are some FAQ’s:

What Is Movember? Great question: “Movember” is the annual month-long campaign, always in November, to raise awareness and, more importantly, money towards the fight against cancers that specifically affect men. Movember has an official website, www.movember.com, where you can learn more about the cause and donate money to it. The name “Movember” is a combination of “Moustache” and “November.” That’s right, moustaches are involved.

That’s weird – why moustaches? Another really good question. Moustaches are (thankfully) a uniquely male facial accessory, as uniquely male as the cancers that the Movember campaign was created to help combat. These days, moustaches are also conversation-starters, especially when sported by youthful types who would otherwise shy away from wearing a hairy broom under their noses. The moustaches get people talking about the cause of Movember, and they hopefully get people donating, too. The idea is for people to support your growth of a moustache – in this case, my moustache – by donating money.

Fine, but it’s still weird – and are you really earning these donations? You aren’t exactly running a marathon or climbing a mountain; it’s a bit lazy, no? Look, I didn’t invent the campaign, but it’s a cause that we should all get behind. For what it’s worth, I am trying to eat more iron in my diet, as I read once that iron promotes hair growth (yes, I know, my baldness would beg to differ). So you could say I am doing SOMETHING. That said, I realize that in order to be taken seriously as a fundraiser, it wouldn’t hurt to do something in addition to growing a moustache.

Ok, so what else will you be doing? I’m glad you asked. This is what’s known in the retail industry as a “value add.” For those who choose to donate, in addition to viewing daily photographic updates of my moustache – one that will guarantee me no female attention whatsoever for the next 3 weeks – I will also be writing a daily mini-blog about moustaches within the “Comments” section of my Movember page. I’ll be writing about famous people who had moustaches, why I think they’re great, and anything else that might fall into moustache-related subject matter. By the end of the month (that will be 22 separate blog entries), all who donate will effectively have a bachelor’s degree in “Moustache Studies,” thanks to my blog. When you think of the expense of a “traditional” university bachelor’s degree, it’s incredibly cost-effective, plus you won’t have to wear that silly cap and gown.

What is the target $ amount you wish to raise? In all sincerity, I wouldn’t want to limit your imaginations with a specific number, but however much you would like to donate would obviously be enormously appreciated!

I’m sold. This is such a great idea and you are truly leading by example. How do I donate to this cause? Glad to have you on board! Simply follow this link (http://ca.movember.com/mospace/160429) to my page, and click on the “DONATE TO ME” button – it couldn’t be easier!

So that’s it; that’s my pitch. I would also encourage you to pass this on to anyone else whom you think might be interested in giving money towards the cause.  Thanks for taking the time to read this and I hope you’ll think about supporting Movember, a worthy cause that needs all the support and money we can throw at it.

Sincerely,

Daniel Reitman

On the one hand, I’d figured Minsk, as a former part of communist Russia, would still be a little rough around the edges. Maybe we would see a few relics on display from Minsk’s past history behind the Iron Curtain: perhaps a smattering of brutalist Soviet apartment buildings – those ones that take up  2 or 3 city blocks and don’t look all too different from federal prisons. Maybe I’d see a handful of old statues dotting the city, honouring past Soviet heroes. But I also figured, since it had been a full twenty years since the fall of communism, Minsk, if not all of Belarus, would be positively dripping with post-Soviet capitalistic swagger – and it would feel not unlike other newly-westernized European cities, like Prague or Budapest.

A typical apartment building in Minsk

But I was wrong. At least compared to western Europe, Minsk was still reminiscent of Old Russia, and the little things i noticed  hammered this home: there were the incredibly wide, traffic-free roads (good for inevitable student demonstrations, and no doubt better still for Russian tanks to get around and quash said demonstrations) with narrow sidewalks (to make the populace feel small and insignificant), there was the distinct lack of commercial signage or billboards of any sort, and block after block of those depressing, Soviet-era apartment buildings. I feel like HBO could have easily filmed parts of “The Wire” in Minsk.

The population was very homogenous: everyone was blonde-haired and blue-eyed, and in seriously good shape. Sports and fitness were big tenets of communist life, and they still seemed to be today in Minsk – and it made sense: just think, if you were a Belarusian youth, what better way to vent your frustration at the inadequacies inherent in Soviet daily life (the bread lines, the tedious work, the lack of cultural stimuli), than by going to the gym and pounding out a few reps at the bench press?

Indeed, all the men look and dress like they’re perpetually training  for spots on the 1984 Russian Olympic shotput team. As the men were in shape, so, too were the ladies – slavic amazons as far as the eye could see. This seemed to be at odds with the fact that most of the food these people eat is calorically rich, deep fried, and plentiful (more on that later). That’s genes for you – or perhaps just portion control and self restraint, as in: maybe these people don’t eat 50 shrimp tempura in one sitting – as we were doing regularly, not one week earlier.

Actually, that’s not entirely accurate – the people of Minsk are, by and large, attractive and in shape, but only up until they reach their 40th birthday. At that point, waistlines seem to expand, skin becomes blemished, and what was once supple and perky becomes deflated, shrivelled, and – well, you get the idea. It’s as if there’s a state-sponsored fairy god mother who roams the country, tapping each citizen on the forehead with her magic wand as they turn 40, and their looks go out the window. I’m not saying this can be scientifically proven – it’s just a theory at this point.

We stayed two nights at the Hotel Belarus. In the 1970’s, it was the best hotel Minsk had to offer, and if you were at the top of the communist societal hierarchy (i.e. if you were an olympic athlete or a politburo honcho), the Hotel Belarus was where you stayed. Naturally, nothing had been updated since that swinging decade of polyester leisure wear and gelatin desserts. Therefore if you were going to rate this hotel on the conventional 5-star hotel rating scale, you’d probably end up giving the Hotel Belarus a measly 1- or 2-star rating.

The Hotel Belarus. She is beautiful, yes?

But this misses the point entirely. On the much more important and indicative Soviet Kitsch Factor scale, the hotel scores a whopping 10 out of 10. It’s got everything you really need and nothing you wouldn’t – two examples: pimp-tastic 70’s time-warp decor and a surly hall monitor stationed on every floor of the hotel. This second feature was genuinely weird. Every time I tried to venture out of my hotel room, these hall monitors made me feel like a 15-year-old sneaking out after curfew.

Thank you for making disinfection, Hotel Belarus!

Day trip to Pinsk and Horodna

Most Westerners who choose to vacation in Belarus (I’m guessing there are as many of those as there are Belarusians vacationing in the West) make the mistake of staying only in Minsk. In doing so, they’re really short-changing themselves, because you haven’t experienced Belarus until you’ve visited both Minsk AND Pinsk. Haha – just kidding! Pinsk is not memorable. What’s more, the truth is once you’ve committed to vacationing in Belarus, you’ve already effectively short-changed yourself, so whether or not you decide to visit Pinsk in addition to Minsk is immaterial.

But we drove 3 hours to Pinsk from Minsk as a means, not an end. Our ultimate destination was Horodna, a small village south of Pinsk, and now I will explain to you why that is:

Jokes aside, the reason we undertook this family trip to Eastern Europe was a somber one: to visit the concentration camps of Poland (which we’d do later in the itinerary) and to retrace the roots of Chaim Schmidt, my late, maternal grandfather, in Horodna, the impoverished village into which he was born and raised. We didn’t know much about Chaim’s early life – that is, until my mom had decided last year to translate his memoirs, which he had originally written in Hebrew.

After reading my mom’s translations, we were able to get at least a semblance of what my granddad had endured in his early life. There were certainly elements that stuck out in my mind: the hunger, the back-breaking manual labour, his exhaustion and ensuing stunted growth, due to overwork and malnourishment, the brutally cold winters…it’s difficult not to feel guilty and useless when you read about your grandfather’s childhood, and how starkly it contrasted with your own. I suppose all one can do is be thankful for their lot in life, and try to live as well and richly as possible. Oh, and maybe never again complain about anything.

In Horodna, we met Barbara, a sweet, elderly lady, who appeared to come straight from Central Casting for “Eastern European Grandma”, and whom my cousin Lev, who was with us and spoke fluent Russian, had charmed and bribed with some gifted groceries.

Barbara The Great

Barbara in turn offered to show us around the village,  taking us on a tour of the village’s old Jewish area, where there stood abandoned farm houses in various states of disrepair. She also took us into the woods to view a memorial that was erected in memory of the Jews of the village, many of whom were killed by the occupying Nazis and their sympathizers. Among the victims were members of my grandfather’s family.

Needless to say, there wasn’t a dry eye in attendance at the grave site. That this elderly lady would still be so emotional and grief-stricken some 70 years after the fact tells you everything you need to know about how bad things were during the war. All in all, it was an emotional day.

We spent Day 2 back around Minsk, where we spent the morning visiting the Memorial for the Khatyn Massacre. Check wikipedia for the full rundown of what happened there. It’s horrible, horrible stuff. The memorial is beautifully done and incredibly moving.

Just one part of the extensive Khatyn Memorial

The rest of the day, we enjoyed some more conventional sightseeing – walking around the old town and along the scenic Svislach river. The day’s highlight was lunch at a riverside restaurant, which served traditional Russian cuisine. I’ll go ahead and lay my cards on the table, as it were: I find most Russian food to be less than delicious -  perhaps even gross. But some people really enjoy it. Maybe if you grew up with it, it’s different.

What a Russian salad looks like. Hungry yet?

As far as I can tell, perhaps second only to the BP oil spill and the controversy surrounding the Ground Zero mosque, the biggest recent news out of America has been that KFC managed to render the hamburger bun obsolete, with their innovative and disgusting “double down” sandwich. The sandwich consists of bacon and cheese, group-hugged by two deep-fried chicken patties.

KFC's "Double Down" Sandwich. Impressive, but not the original!

But what America probably failed to realize is that the Double Down was old news: at least in the world of Foods That Will Induce A Coma. You see, the Russians have been perfecting deep-fried slop for quite some time, apparently, as this is what my sister ordered. If i had to take a crack at describing it, I’d probably term it “double-deep-fried dark matter.”

Call this dish the Sputnik of the culinary world, because this was proof that the Russians had beat the West again, but this time they traded early aerospace supremacy for early artery-busting supremacy. I suppose it’s still impressive. But I don’t doubt America will bounce back with something bigger and more disgusting – actually, chances are they probably already have.

Anyhow, these are all the things that stuck out from our visit to Belarus. I’ve made a lot of jokes, but the truth is it was a fascinating place – certainly the closest I’d ever been to Russia -  especially when you consider Belarus in its historical context of world wars, communist dictatorship, and, yes, even fried foods. I don’t know if I’d ever go back, but I’m glad i visited.

Ooh, one more thing: if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: nothing says “outlaw biker” like decorating your “hog” to look like your great aunt’s favourite flower vase. Oh Minsk, just when I thought you maxed out the chintz-factor – you drop this 2-wheeled wonder right smack dab in the hotel parking lot, just as we’re leaving. Message received, Minsk, message received!

My family flew home, and I continued on to my next destination – Istanbul, Turkey. Like many people, I did not know anything about Turkey, let alone Istanbul – only that it had an enormously complicated history, rife with religious wars, imperial conquest, decline, and then conquest again. The only thing I did know was that it was quite fashionable to say “I am dying to visit Istanbul” – certainly more fashionable than saying “I am dying to visit Old Orchard Beach, Maine, because their fried dough is awesome.” So off to Istanbul I went.

A few surprising facts about Istanbul:

It has a population of 17 million

It is 99 percent muslim

It is one of the worlds epicentres of textile production and exportation

These guys work there:

Long way from home

I arrived at my hotel, a little boutique job in Sultan Ahmet, the old city. The place was located a short kebab’s throw from many of the major historical sites, which is what I’d wanted. Unquestionably, the highlight of the hotel was its rooftop terrace, which provided an unimpeded, 360 degree view of the city. Dusk on this rooftop offered an unforgettable picture: a spire-filled Turkish skyline, crescent moon resting in the heavens and with the audible chants of the “Muzin” playing on nearby loudspeakers, corralling the city’s 16 million Muslims for their nighttime prayer. It makes one feel very, very foreign, and very far away from the nearest Jewish deli.

Nighttime in Istanbul

That first night, I hopped in a cab (after a failed attempt to use the allegedly easy-to-navigate streetcar system) and headed across the Bosphorous river, my destination: Istiklal Caddesi. This was the main thoroughfare on the Asian side of Istanbul, and it was insanely busy – it had the frenetic pace and volume of an Oriental Times square, if Times Square were placed in a vice and squeezed and elongated into a sausage – a big, noisy, delicious, raucous party-sausage. Every night of the week, certainly even on the Monday night that I was there, Istaklal Caddisi floods with tourists and locals alike, all looking for a way to unwind in that most festive and booze-filled of ways.

The strip is flanked with clubs and restaurants of all sorts, but the real fun begins when you start to duck into the alleys at every block, and explore the countless little bars and cafes nestled there: swanky wine bars, hip-hop lounges, cafes, rock clubs, even the odd Goth den; there is something to quench all manner of thirsts. I found one place, Hayal Kahvesi, that featured live Turkish blues music. That’s right, Turkish blues. They said it couldn’t be done, and yet, there it was. The lead singer was groaning and moaning his way through a number that sounded suspiciously like Turkish-dubbed Howlin’ Wolf. The fella sounded hard-done, by someone or something. Authentic blues, then. It was an interesting scene, but I wasn’t long for it – I had an early meeting the next day with Arif, a lovelorn tourguide.

Touring the sites

As I was only going to be in Istanbul for 2 full days, I figured I should make the most of my time by joining  an organized tour for a day or two. So the next morning at 9am, I met Arif. He was a pudgy, affable guy in his late 30’s. He had studied English and Hospitality Management at university in Istanbul, and he knew his job well. We breezed through the big sites of the city: the Blue Mosque (a very big, old, ornate mosque), the Hagia Sophia (an old church that became an old mosque, and is now a museum), the Grand Bazaar (an enormous, labyrinthine flea market that used to sell interesting things like skulls and precious stones infused with camel’s blood, but now sold normal looking jewellery and snowglobes), the Obelisk (a 2500 year old ancient Egyptian monument carved out of granite) , Topkapi Palace (former palace of the Sultan), and I’d even convinced Arif to take me to the Basilica Cisterns – an attraction that wasn’t on his prescribed itinerary. They were a true marvel of ancient subterranean engineering.

Perhaps the most memorable part of my day, however, was my heart-to-heart conversation with Arif. During our lunch together, he had decided to go into detail about how he had been jilted by his ex-girlfriend. He had found out, on Facebook, of all places, that she was seeing another man. His anger at “the Facebook”, merely the medium, rather than the message itself, was as clear as it was misguided:

Arif:  “Tell me, Mr. Daniel, do you know who is Mark Zuckerberg, the boss of facebook?”

Me: “Uh, yes.”

Arif: “I kill him!”

And so it went, over kebabs and turkish coffee. Where Arif went into detailed explanation of the construction methods used for the Basilica Cisterns, and how he might like to bury his ex-girlfriend’s new beau in said cisterns, I reciprocated with emotional reinforcement, telling him there were plenty of other fish in the Black Sea, and that he should get back on the horse, etc., etc. I like to think that i left him in good spirits.

I suppose the other highlight of the day was my getting suckered into buying a decorative rug, called a Kilim, from a local vendor that Arif’s company worked with. I know it’s standard operating procedure for certain tours to work with the local crafts vendors to try to milk some extra cash out of the tourists, but I didn’t mind. Fact is, I needed a rug to tie my room together. I was assured that my Kilim was hand-sewn by one woman in rural Central Turkey, who worked out of her simple home and was actually a distant descendant of Ghengis Khan. I made up that last bit, but Ghengis had may offspring, and so, to be fair, it wasn’t entirely unlikely. I feel like a got a fair price after a good bit of haggling, and if they ever knew how well the piece would eventually be tying my room together, they’d realize they should have charged me way more. In the end, it was THEY who got swindled, really.

Day 2

The morning of Day 2 in Istanbul, I was grouped with about 40 other tourists for a boat tour along the Bosphorous. This is the river that separates the Asian and European sides of Istanbul, and connects the Sea of Marmara to the south with the Black Sea to the north. We got a good look at all the seaside historic buildings, government offices, and expensive residential properties, on both the Asian and European sides. One impressive thing about the Bosphorous is the sheer volume of cargo traffic – it’s riddled with giant tankers, and one is reminded of Istanbul’s millenia-old importance as a trading hub.

But the cruise was not the high point – or low point, depending on your outlook – of my tour. That came right before lunch. As mentioned earlier, tours are often in cahoots with local businesses to try to sell you their crap, and often successfully (as in my aforementioned case). No doubt in keeping with this practice, our guide on this day announced that we would be visiting a leather market. I was intrigued, because I hadn’t heard of Turkey’s importance as a leather goods producer. I envisioned a traditional bazaar, with vendors hawking exotic leather products like dagger sheaths, fez tassels, or perhaps a falcon hood or two. Instead, we got something more reminiscent of Dimitri’s Wholesale Leather Outlet:

Authentic Istanbul

Your eyes aren’t deceiving you. After our tour bus pulled up to a business park near the city limits, we were herded into a nondescript building and seated in a smallish room that was set up for a runway fashion show. Please take note, we did this as part of our tour of Istanbul. I kept waiting for a “candid camera” presenter to pop up behind the curtain, which would have explained the lunacy of the unfolding action, but that never happened. So after a couple of incredulity-filled minutes of models strutting around in leather jackets and coats, I quietly escaped the retail hostage scenario, hopped in a cab, and finished the day on my own. I checked out the spice bazaar, a few more mosques and topped off my visit with a deluxe session at the Cemberlitas Turkish bath, which, obviously, deserves a separate paragraph.

The Turkish Bath

Ah yes, the Turkish Bath. Like Liberace and Jazz-hands, the public bathhouse is a favoured butt of Western homophobic jokes. Indeed, there was even a Turkish bath down the street of my old apartment in Montreal, which  my roommates and I used to jokingly accuse each other of secretly frequenting. And to be fair, what’s not totally gay about one sweaty, half naked man vigorously massaging,  lathering, and scrubbing the body of another equally sweaty, half naked man? The answer is, perhaps surprisingly, “nothing, really.”

As far as I’m concerned, thanks to the vicious bathhouse fight scene in David Cronenberg’s excellent “Eastern Promises”, the gay stigma of bathhouses has been lifted, and where they previously may have been viewed as bastions of grab-assery and other such nonsense, I view them as they once were: bastions of manliness.

I arrived at the Cemberlitas Bath where the pretty cashier, no doubt used to dealing with nervous, bumbling Westerners, such as yours truly, reassuringly led me to my changing room, where I was instructed to change into my towel and  head to the main steam room. The room was a large ante room of sorts, featuring a tall, domed ceiling, and was dominated by an enormous circular marble slab, where various other men were laid down, some being scrubbed by attendants and some laying alone, peacefully. I laid down and tried to relax, letting the steam open my pores, and my mind drift towards serenity. I enjoyed this, right up until “George”, a shirtless, Turkish version of Seargant Slaughter appeared over me, ordered me up, and instructed me to lie on my stomach. I did so, at which point he began to pummel the flesh of my back and my legs into a submission that I did not know how to vocalize. So we chatted:

George: “You America?”

Me: “Err, no. Canada.”

George: “Hmmm.”

Good talk, I thought. Then, when George went to work on my calves – perhaps not the beefiest specimens on which he had laid his gorilla-mitts, I finally shrieked in agony. “Yes! Good!”, he said, evidently pleased that he had located and neutralized some tension – no matter the long-term tissue damage. I was pretty embarrassed, as the room, though filled with about 10 other bathers and attendants, had been silent until then. But I did appreciate the physical effort/torture George had employed in tenderizing my muscles.

Next came the lathering and rinsing. Despite my skepticism, it didn’t feel like a homo-erotic sponge bath – instead, I felt more like a newly-processed maximum security prisoner being deloused, or maybe just like a sheep being sheared. Either way, not gay. It was done with hot water and, despite the considerable heat of the sauna and the fairly oppressive heat outside in Istanbul, it was remarkably refreshing.

After rinsing off and getting dressed, I had to admit, I felt good – in fact, I felt amazing. George actually ambushed me as I came out of the changing room, poking a basket of cash at my chest and barking, “Tip!” Clearly, he was as shy as he was fully clothed, but I happily obliged, because he did a good job, and I didn’t feel like finding out what happens when you disappoint a guy who has to spend his days in a dark, 400-year-old bathhouse, rubbing down clueless tourists.

So that was the Turkish bath. It was great. In fact, it was probably the highlight of Istanbul, and I highly recommend you try it – just make sure you keep your tip money handy.

Greek cruise, or: The Odyssey, as re-written by P.Diddy

Aboard "Alexandros"

To celebrate his 65th birthday, my dad chartered a yacht for an 8-day sail around the Cyclades, the Greek islands in the Aegean Sea. The trip wasn’t my idea. I was actually lobbying to celebrate Dad’s 65th with a round of mini golf and an ice cream cake. But maybe this cruise would be good, too.

We would set sail from Athens and head East into the Cyclades, visiting the islands of Mykonos, Delos, Santorini, Pouros, Milos, Porto Heli, Spetzes, Hydra, Porros, and then heading back into Athens.

Our ship, “Alexandros” was 68 feet of mahogany and fiberglass conspicuous consumption: 4 bedrooms, an upper sun deck, a jet ski, zodiac inflatable dinghy and, perhaps most importantly for the high seas: 4 dozen bagels, which we had brought with us from Montreal. Honestly, when i think of all the times I’d been aboard a boat that DIDN’T have an onboard jet ski, it makes me sick to my stomach.

Alexandros’ crew were a terrific bunch. Captain George, a consummate professional and as good natured as they come, kept us on course and out of harms way, and he was expertly supported by Isam, the ship’s engineer. Rosie, the ship’s cook, worked her culinary voodoo in a galley the size of a broom closet. Care for a small mountain of 50 shrimp tempura? Rosie has you covered. Perhaps you would prefer some homemade Tzaziki with your bagel? Done. Or would you prefer fresh sea urchin, batter-fried and breaded in Cocoa Puffs? She makes that for a midnight snack.

When you’re on a cruise, the food is the most critical element of the trip. You plan your days around your meals, and when you aren’t actually eating, you’re talking about what you might like to eat – or drink – for your next meal. This is an actual exchange I had with Jesse, my brother-in-law, while we snorkelled next to the boat:

Jesse: “do you suppose you’ll have white wine or rosé with lunch?”

Me: “that’s a good question, i guess it depends what Rosie will be preparing. I hope she’s making shrimp tempura again – I quite like that.”

Jesse: “Hmm…indeed.”

To be sure, life was good on the high seas.

The scenery was epic: tiny churches and pastel-colored houses perched on hillsides, narrow cobble-stoned roads, donkeys used as everyday transportation, landscapes riddled with olive and cypress trees, and the boats – big sailing vessels, little Greek fishing boats, futuristic mega yachts, the latter no doubt owned by your friendly neighborhood Russian oligarch – every picture was a postcard.

Hydra at night

Speaking of which, there were gorgeous sunsets every evening, especially the one we saw from a cliffside bar on the island of Hydra, where we spotted a pack of six diving dolphins, and captured them diving in and out of the water, right across the line of the setting sun. You almost wanted to yell at them: “Really, dolphins? Don’t you think you’re overdoing it, waiting until sunset and everyone’s watching so you can leap out of the water? I get it, ok? I get that you’re cute and acrobatic and stuff, and that you work well as a team. But maybe dial it back a little, okay?”

As for the cultural fare, Athens, where we spent our first day before boarding Alexandros, was obviously the main draw. Touring the Acropolis, one remarks two things: 1) how well-preserved these 2000-year old monuments have remained, and 2) how, in the name of Zeus, they were able to build these things 2000 years ago.

The Big House

After the Acropolis, we did a quick guided tour of Athens by car, including a stop outside the Greek presidential palace, where we viewed a changing of the guard, pictured below.

Ceremonial dress, jacked up to '11'

I’ve decided that it takes a particularly tough soldier to pull off a ceremonial military dress that includes pom-poms for your shoes. Our tour guide could not tell me what these funny shoes were called, so I dubbed them “souvlakis”.

I can’t tell you about Athens’ nightlife, because i didn’t stray very far from our hotel, as i was pretty exhausted. I did a quick walk around the neighbourhood, and found two strip clubs, but not a single regular bar. Strange. I decided to return to my room and fell asleep watching a Greek soap opera.

The Greek islands, especially Mykonos, were especially known for their vibrant nightlife, but you wouldn’t know it on our ship. With the exception of our first night in Mykonos, where we had a couple of post-dinner cocktails by the port, our nights consisted of watching a movie or playing scrabble. One such night, we happened to be moored about 50 meters away from a busy nightclub. As I watched my dad nod off – as was common – while trying to organize his scrabble letters, I couldn’t help but think how simultaneously cool (being on a fancy boat) and uncool (playing scrabble) we must have seemed to the club goers. Triple nerd score indeed.

On another night, bored of scrabble and my back issues of The Economist, I decided to watch some satellite TV when the rest of my family had gone to bed. As the pickings were slim, I settled on “Truck Turner”, a classic Blaxploitation film. It starred Isaac Hayes as the title character, a bail bondsman who won’t let The [White] Man get him down. Here is the Wikipedia description:

“Truck Turner (portrayed by Isaac Hayes) is a former professional football player who becomes a bounty hunter (along with his partner Jerry) in search of a bail-jumping pimp in Los Angeles, California. After a shootout where Truck has to use deadly force to kill the pimp, Turner becomes a marked man and is targeted by hired assassins.” Not bad, eh?

Here are some realizations i had while on the boat:

1) If you are prone to the pitfalls of one-upmanship, then parking your yacht in a crowded marina can be psychologically crippling: imagine sunbathing on the deck of your perfectly ample 69-foot luxury yacht, thinking life could not possibly be better, when along comes a 72-foot luxury yacht, and parks itself next to yours. Suddenly, those 3 extra feet mean everything. How much more amazing might the other guy’s boat be than yours and, by extension, his life? What does he have in those 3 feet that you don’t? X-box? Extra-fancy backgammon set? A very skinny mistress? Star trek commemorative champagne glasses? You’ll never know, and it will drive you nuts.

2) When you’re a 34-year-old seafaring chap, it is best to marry a 21-year old woman – so says Isam, our boat’s engineer and part-time relationship expert. In his words: “ok yes, she very young, but when I old, she still beautiful!” indeed, Isam, from your words to God’s ears.

3) If you own a yacht – that is, any boat measuring longer than, say, 30 feet – you are a douchebag. It doesn’t matter how nice a person you are, or how much money you give to charity. Fait accompli. Sorry, it’s science.

4) I want to be a douchebag.

5) I really like that all yachts get to be named, however in the interest of good taste and international goodwill, I’d like to institute a pay-as-you-go policy towards the naming process. Owners should pay by the letter. Vowels are extra. The money will go towards the public school system of the country of the yacht’s home port.

6) Even with my aforementioned suggestion, money cannot – and rarely does – buy taste:

Classy

7) A grilled cheese sandwich tastes good. A grilled cheese sandwich made by your on-board personal chef tastes much, much better.

Our chartered yacht, “Alexandros“, is powered by 2 twin-turbo M.A.N. 12-cylinder diesel engines, putting out a combined 2500 horsepower. She will reach a top speed of 60 knots, and will achieve this speed, regardless of whether you’ve remembered to flush the contents of your cabin’s toilet.

9) The Greeks are a proud people. Most will agree ancient Greece was the cradle of modern civilization, with its innumerable contributions to the arts, philosophy, government, sport, etc. Greeks today, however, much like Israelis, will not only remind you of their culture’s past contributions to society, but will also take credit for random things that they did not invent. A typical Athenian: “You have heard of the microwave, yes? It comes from word ‘micros‘, meaning ‘small’ in Greek…so it is obviously a Greek invention…you’re welcome!”

10) Jet skis, whether zipping around the open waters of the Aegean sea, or buzzing around a small lake in the Laurentian mountains of Quebec, are always obnoxious. They should all be incinerated, and their owners forced to pile together into a giant canoe and paddle, together, in circles until the end of time, or until they become courteous people – whichever comes first.

11) The Greeks rarely use butter. They use olive oil instead. Nothing funny about that, I guess.

12) The Aegean, during mid-July, is incredibly warm and clear. It is so warm, in fact, that peeing in the sea will actually make you colder. Is there a worse feeling than feeling simultaneously cold and ashamed? I can tell you, there isn’t.

13) The pigeons in the Greek islands are a dusty, light shade of grey, somewhat brownish. Not unlike their Canadian cousins, they are terrifying.

Lessons I learned:

I am extremely fortunate

1) Isam, the ship’s engineer and a very nice guy, was telling me that he financially supports his 5 younger siblings, as his parents died when he was young, and he was left in charge. He works his ass off on this boat, and then in the off-season, works as a deckhand on a large container ship, sending most of his money back home.

2) Captain George recounted to us that during WWII, the Nazis had closed down a good chunk of Greece’s elementary schools. As such, the nearest school George’s father could attend was on a tiny island, about a 20 minutes swim from where he lived. So every day, he would swim to school and back, 20 minutes each way, with his school books tied to the top of his head. Damn.

Appearances are deceiving

3) You never know who is in charge on the Greek Islands. Case in point: this bearded fella, a friend of captain George, looks like he might be in charge of the backstage passes for ZZ Top. It turns out he’s actually a wealthy Greek-American expat, who owns two nightclubs on the island of Hydra, and helps run the marina, just for fun. Nice guy, too.

Hydra's most famous business owner - no joke

That was Greece, in a nutshell. It was an incredible experience, and I hope I was able to relay to you a small part of the voyage…stay tuned for Turkey!

We ended up at a place called Pete’s Duelling Piano Bar, which, as the name implies, was a bar that featured open mic spoken-word poetry. Just kidding, it was a bar that had two duelling pianists, playing customers’ song requests. The highlight was a bidding war that happened about an hour into the pianists’ set, when a drunken lady requested – wait for it – Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin.” I don’t know why drunken women love this song, but they do. The song is, essentially, the vodka & cranberry juice of jukebox requests: it’s a safe and obvious choice, it goes down easy, and it gets you up and partying pretty quickly. Much like Vodka & Cran, I used to enjoy this song as a saccharine, guilty pleasure, but it’s just been overplayed and overdone, and I want nothing more to do with it.

Luckily, we had a saviour, in the form of a well-fed, sport-coated feller, who was having none of it. The woman had paid $10 for her Journey song to be played, but Grouchy Von Sportcoat, bless his heart, gave the pianist $20 to stop playing the song, immediately. It was a heroically dick-ish move. Our table cheered, as did most other dudes at the bar. But then, of course, the inevitable happened, and another guy swooped in, like a knight in shining armour (his shining armour consisting of a beet-red face, pleated khakis, and a Blackberry holster), and gave the pianist $40 to continue the song. We were pretty bummed, as I’m sure were the world’s millions of starving children, who had better ideas for how to spend 40 dollars.

After Pete’s, we headed back down to South Congress street and hit up the Continental, on the advice of one of the tubists we had met that afternoon, who was a bartender there. The Continental is one of the, if not ‘the’, great live music venues in Austin, which is kind of a big deal. Playing that night was the Dale Watson band, an Alt. Country Bluegrass act, and they were superb. Dale is a gracefully-aging Rockabilly legend, with the requisite wifebeater shirt, greying pompadour, and tons of ‘ink’. He’s one of those elder statesmen of coolness that you hope you, yourself, will be one day, but know you never will. That’s ok, though.

Apologies for the grainy image: Dale Watson Band at work, crankin' out a boot-stompin' good time for the crowd

Halfway through his set, Dale introduced the band’s stand-up bass player as Mike Judge. The name sounded familiar, and then I realized it – Mike Judge, genius comedy writer and creator of “Beavis and Butthead,” “King of The Hill,” and the cult hit film, “Office Space,” was playing bass for Dale Watson. It’s not enough for Mike Judge to be a young and wealthy comedy legend, he now has to play bass – and play it well. That sort of info makes you take stock of your own life accomplishments, or lack thereof. Regardless, I was too excited to be in his presence to really care about such navel gazing, as the picture below indicates.

Me and Mike Judge. Yes, I realize A) how gay i look, grinning like an idiot, and B) how much Mr. Judge does not want to be in this photo with me. Too bad. Let him cry into his 900 thread-count pillow, bought with King Of The Hill residuals. Seriously, though, he was super nice.

The owner of the Continental, a nice guy and another hipster elder statesman, was a hotrod collector as well. Being, as I am, a certifiable car nut, we got to chatting about his collection, which included a gorgeous, rusted-out ‘49 mercury parked outside the club. Seeing my enthusiasm about cars, he recommended we check out the Austin Speed Shop on our way out of the city the next day, and so we did. We woke up the next morning, checked out of the hotel, and made our way to the Speed Shop.

Front office of the Austin Speed Shop. Evan's "Ron Burgundy" moustache is almost as badass as the rusted-out 'Rod behind us. Almost.

It was basically like your typical, local independent garage, if your local garage did ground-up restorations of hot rods, from the 1920’s up to the 1970’s, with paint jobs more intricate than what’s found in the Sistine Chapel, and more metal fabrication than is found in some skyscrapers. The cars were simply incredible, and we were pretty excited that they let us walk around to check them out. I couldn’t get any decent photos of the cars in the shop, but if you check out their site, you can see their work. Pretty incredible stuff. Below is a link to their actual shop and their ongoing project cars, including a car being built for Jesse James. Whatever you think of the man, he has good taste in iron:

http://www.austinspeedshop.com

Anyhow, that was it for Austin, and Texas, pretty much. Following our visit at the Shop, we hopped in our decidedly non-hot rod rental Chevy, and headed back to Houston, and then finally home to Canada. We came, we saw, we ate BBQ, we two-stepped, we fired guns, we floated, we met some great locals, and we departed the Lone Star State with a true appreciation for the surprising cultural variety inherent in the whitest Nation-within-a-Nation we’d ever visited. Yeee-haaawww, indeed.

After shooting up a storm at Red’s, we drove an hour SW of Austin to New Braunfells to indulge in that most leisurely of watersports: river tubing. This is where you lie in an inner tube, and let the natural current of the river carry you to a point downstream – in our case, a point about 5km’s further down the Guadalupe River – all the while taking in both the splendour of your natural surroundings, and inexpensive beer. Note: you can’t really drink expensive imported beer while you tube – the inherent pretentiousness of drinking imported beer totally flies in the face of the purity and simplicity of the sport tubing. And yeah, I would definitely term it a sport, because in between the long periods of relaxed, serene flotation, you occasionally need to dispense with a concentrated burst of frantic paddling in order to be properly positioned to flow through the rapids. It’s not unlike curling in that regard, except you’re actually riding the slidey thing, and you’re not dressed like your 5th grade lesbian gym teacher.

We did it through a proper tube/rafting rental outfit, and they set us up with all the kit we needed, and some stuff didn’t (see below for examples), as well as lifts to and fro the pick-up and drop-off points. Unless you’re going with well-equipped locals, this is definitely the way to go.

Evan and Guy, logging in the hours, so you don't have to

Look closely at the low hanging branch, and you'll see some x-rated reptilian activity. You can't keep a good turtle down.

And what a way it was – especially after, about 30 minutes into our excursion, we floated up to a group of friendly, bikini-clad tubists (tubistas?), who were celebrating a birthday in their group, and had their own, makeshift floating fiesta in full swing, so we joined them for the remainder of the 3-hour float down the Guadalupe. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend one’s birthday than to lazily float down a river with your best mates and a few cold bevvies in tow. Texans really do have the important stuff figured out.

For your future reference, here is a list of what’s required for a successful tubing excursion:

- a river
- an inner tube
- bodyweight
- alcohol

And here’s a list of optional items that we saw fit to include on our trip:

- bathing suit
- waterproof camera
- sunscreen (you can opt out if you want to achieve that “local” look)
- baseball cap (preferably with camouflage pattern, or logo of your preferred, value-priced alcoholic beverage (bonus points if your hat contains both of these elements))
- resealable container of beef jerky
- beer coozy
- cooler & additional inner tube (for sealed beverage transportation and temperature optimization)

Optional items that we did without:

- inner tube insurance (the outfitters actually tried to sell me this)
- self respect (I actually thought we had brought this along, but I realized I was mistaken when all three of us decided to pee in our inner tubes, rather than do the slightly classier move of “abandoning ship” to relieve ourselves in the open water).

I feel like tubing really needed its own entry. It was that awesome. We’ll wrap up Texas properly tomorrow. Yeeee-haaw.

For the best breakfast in Austin, more than one person had heartily recommended “Juan In A Million” – a quaint Mexican restaurant in East Austin. So we motored out there, and were greeted by the jolliest manager/owner I’d ever encountered. The man seemed genuinely delighted that we’d decided to dine at his establishment – as if there weren’t a continuous stream of willing patrons waiting to enter, which there was. Think of the snobbiest maitre d’ at the most exclusive French restaurant, and this Mexican gentleman was the exact opposite. We all went for the “Don Juan” breakfast – a comically huge mishmash of eggs, potatoes, bacon, tortilla flour, and cheese, all for the low price of $4.99. It was unbelievably good. So good, in fact, that we felt compelled to leave nothing on our plates. This was bad, because the heaping plates contained roughly twice as much food as a normal-sized human should ever consume in one sitting. Needless to say, by the end of the breakfast, I felt enormously satisfied, seriously bloated, nauseous, whale-like, and fairly immobile. I did not feel like Don Juan. I felt like a fattened a hog, and I was proud of it. I felt like a Texan.

After Juan’s, we hopped back into White Heat and headed out to Red’s Indoor Range. Yes, we were going to shoot us some guns. As one might expect of a Texan gun store, the walls are lined with the sort of heavy artillery you’d previously seen only in high-budget action movies. Hunting rifles, shotguns, automatic assault rifles with laser-sights…it was pretty intense. It was the visual response to the question “why kill a deer with a clean, single shot from a hunting rifle, when you can send him to his maker with two dozen rounds of rapidly-dispensed exploding tip bullets? That’s progress for you.

After a quick lesson in firearm safety from one of the salesmen, and then laughing uncomfortably at a weird joke he made about killing infidels, we were granted access to the firing range. The three of us shared the first gun we rented – a .22 caliber revolver. Pretty much the Toyota Camry of pistols – simple, reliable, unexciting, but very effective. Guy and Evan both managed to cause decent damage to their targets with the revolver, but I’d failed miserably. Would this be the space shuttle landing simulator all over again? What was wrong with me? I’ll tell you, dear reader, what was wrong: it wasn’t enough firepower, apparently, as when we stepped up to the more-powerful Glock 9mm semi-automatic pistol, I ended up nailing the centre of the target, as if I’d been doing so for years. I am, apparently, a stone-cold mofo; a smooth operator.

Actually, I wasn’t. Handling and firing a Glock was exciting, but also deeply unsettling. I was constantly aware of the amount of firepower – and, indeed, KILLING power – i was harnessing in the palm of my hand. It’s amazing how much noise and how much recoil the little thing is capable of. It’s a strange feeling – perhaps addictive to some, but certainly not to me. If I was sure of anything after firing it, it was that I never wanted to get shot by a Glock. I feel like that would be enormously unpleasant.

After emptying a dozen rounds into the target with the 9mm, it was time to trot out the big stick – the AK. The Kalashnikov AK-47 has been, for decades, the preferred rifle of countless armies, militias, terrorists, child soldiers, and, today, Red’s Indoor Firing Range. This gun’s most impressive trait was not its power – there are surely bigger and badder guns out there – its how mechanically simple it is. Bullets go in here, pull back a spring-loaded lever there, reload here, point there, and fire away. You can even submerge it in water, shake it dry, and it will still work. Brilliant. No wonder everyone uses it. It was fun to shoot – all you had to do was make sure the butt of the rifle was firmly tucked under your arm, otherwise the gun’s kickback would overwhelm you. That said, i did relish the idea of getting a visible bruise from firing a too-powerful machine gun – how awesome a weekend war story would that make

Stranger: “Dude, what’s with your bruised shoulder?”

Me: “Oh, haha, yeah, that was from the recoil of the AK-47 I was firing over the weekend. No big deal really. How was your weekend? Get up to anything?”

The writer getting into character

We left Red’s $120 poorer, but undoubtedly richer in life experience. The main take-aways for us were 1) guns are bad ass, 2) guns are scary, and 3) when at all possible, it’s best to avoid getting shot by a gun. Indeed, words to live by.

Tomorrow…Tubing and Texas Wrap-Up!

Before we could get on the road, we needed to fuel up on gas and burritos at the previously mentioned “Freebirds World Burrito.” Let the record show: I was the only one of the three of us who sacked up for the Monster-size burrito, itself still only the 2nd largest burrito size on the menu. The largest-sized burrito on offer was the aptly named “Super Monster.” where the Monster Burrito was roughly the size of a Nerf football, the Super Monster was closer in size and shape to a small child wrapped in a beach towel. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when the cashier mentioned they sold, on average, at least 2 Super Monsters per day. God bless Texas.

A Tale of Two Austins

Folllowing a pretty drive through the lush, springtime Texan countryside, we rolled into Austin by mid-afternoon. We dropped off our bags and parked White Heat at our hotel, and proceeded to explore Austin on foot. We checked out an outdoor art fair that had some pretty interesting pieces on display. One booth was selling kitschy lawn ornaments, constructed out of discarded metal debris – most of these were selling for around $500, and the sculptor/booth guy admitted to selling quite a few of his creations over the weekend. Clearly, Austinites had money to burn – at least the newcomer Austinites that came along with the tech boom of the 1990’s. Dell Computer is based there, and so Austin’s high-tech industry appears to have grown around them, and it shows in the kind of yuppiedom that exists North Congress Street. You see a lot of fit, outdoorsy, frequently nerdy 30 and 40-somethings, driving Lexus hybrid SUV’s.

It’s a stark contrast to the “Old Austin,” South Congress street area, steeped in Country and Rockabilly music culture. You could call it “Quirky Hipster Austin” vs. “Square Yuppie Austin.” Ultimately, the two tribes do appear tolerate each other well enough – though one can sense the undercurrent of passive resentment with the “Keep Austin Weird” t-shirts that sell so well South of downtown. At the the end of the day, however, the two Austins have plenty in common: they’re both overwhelmingly white, fairly secular, and tend to vote Democrat. Whether they prefer to accessorize with horn-rimmed glasses and neck tattoos or “Live Strong” bracelets and yoga mats seems pretty irrelevant.

Moreover, if there’s one event that seemed to unite both camps in shared awe, it was the daily flight of the Congress Avenue Bats. No, this wasn’t an amateur sidewalk trapeze team, but rather a nightly occurrence in the Spring and Summer months: between 750,000 and and 1 million bats, that reside under the Congress Avenue bridge, fly out from under the bridge at dusk every night, in search of food. Seeing 1 million+ bats fly out all at once from under a bridge to form dark, fast-moving moving clouds is a spectacular sight, regardless of whether or not you’re a software millionaire, an inked-out hipster, or a hard-livin’ country musician.

Sorry for the tease: Guns and Tubing, as part of Vol. IV, will be for the big finish tomorrow – this much, I promise, amigos.

Found in a back shelf at Allen's Boots, an old cowboy boot shop in hipster Austin: a stuffed Jackalope with bonus deer's head lurking in the background; the ultimate Hipster home accessory.

By pure coincidence, the dealership sign floating above the White Heat look-alike, shown in this photo, is exactly what you felt when you slipped into one of White Heat's baby-soft bucket seats.

Down the hatch, Señor! The author, at "Freebirds World Burrito," about to embark on a gastrointestinal journey into the unknown.

Shiny, Yuppie Austin

The Austin Motel. A famous landmark in old, hip Austin. Yeah, I know what it looks like.

This gentleman was "sacked up" and ready for his NASA tour

Incidentally, the guided tour of space shuttle mission control, of which a blurry picture is shown below, was very cool.

NASA Mission Control with one non-astronaut blocking my perfect photo

Just as neat was seeing a decommissioned Saturn V rocket – the rocket that was used for most of the Apollo missions of the 1960’s and 1970’s. The Saturn V is staggeringly huge. Laid on its side, it’s about the size of a 30-story office building, or abouthalf the size of the “Monster” burrito I would be served at Freebird’s restaurant in College Station, Texas.

Saturn Rocket

It was all very impressive. There were, however, two personal disappointments with the Space Center: 1) While Ev and Guy, both trained pilots, had flawless landings at their turns with the space shuttle flight simulator, I crashed badly. Twice.

The frustrated author looks on in envy as Pilot Evan comes in for his 2nd smooth landing. Showoff.

2) The gift shop was selling a disturbing amount of Star Wars merchandise. Why does NASA need to sell this in their gift shop? It’s just like the Museum of Natural History selling Flintstone action figures. If you’re an impressionable 9-year-old (or naive 31-year-old), what’s to prevent you from believing, in seeing all the plastic Light Sabres and Darth Vader figurines, displayed next to factual astronomy books, that Star Wars is actually steeped in reality, and things like R2D2 robots and Light Sabres are actually NASA creations? Sure, one could argue, that’s when parenting and education ought to come into play, but it still seems like a bit of selling out on NASA’s part. Also, on a more serious note, the gift shop was selling astronaut freeze-dried ice-cream for $10.99 per packet, which is a gigantic rip-off.

All that said, it was an excellent first-hand view of the space program, and we felt like we had fulfilled our educational needs for the trip. Now it was time to get “crunk” with Willie Nelson.

About 90 miles north of Houston was our next destination: College Station, Texas: home of Texas A & M (Go Aggies!) and, on that day, a Willie Nelson outdoor concert. We dropped our bags off at the Holiday Inn, and walked* over to the Wolf Penn Amphitheater fairgrounds, where there were 3 events taking place on that day: The main event was the Willie Nelson concert, with special guest opening act “.38 Special,” a 1980’s bar rock band famous for a string of power-ballad hits (or perhaps just one hit, I’m not even sure). The other two events were a BBQ competition and a competition to see whose dog could jump the farthest off a dock and into a pond. Yeah, that‘s a thing. Unfortunately, we’d arrived too late to witness either the BBQ cook-off or any airborne canines, and Guy was inconsolable about missing the dogs (2 of Guy’s favourite things are dogs that can jump real high, and dogs that wear sunglasses).

*A quick note about walking anywhere in College Station, Texas: it’s just not done. The lady at the front desk of the Holiday Inn acted as if we had death wishes in considering walking from the hotel to the fairgrounds, which turned out to be a 15 minute stroll. No joke, she looked at us as if we’d intended to scale Everest in shorts and flip flops. It explains a lot about the epidemic of obesity in Middle America.

When we did get to the amphitheater, we immediately knew we’d be in good hands, because the first thing we saw past the ticket booth was a cart selling homemade beer koozies. A beer koozie (or “schnootzie”, or “beer cozy”) is the soft thermos you slip onto your beverage in order to keep your drink at optimal serving temperature. They are made of various synthetic, insulating materials, and the best versions usually come printed with either a witty saying (my favourite: “But these ARE my dress clothes!!!”), or a depiction of majestic wildlife. Going to an outdoor country music concert without a koozie in tow is akin to showing up for a high-noon showdown at the OK Corral with an empty six-shooter – though at least at the OK Corral, you’d be put out of your misery pretty quickly.

A random photo of the coolest thing I've ever scene attached to a tow hitch. G.I. Joe is apparently alive and well, and he likes to go fan boating after eating some BBQ. Booya.

As for the BBQ, while we did miss the competition, we decided we had to try to find a way to score some leftovers from one of the teams that were still milling around the designated RV/trailer area. It was quite the scene, with RV’s and pickups as far as the eye could see, each with picnic tables, lawn chairs, competition-grade BBQ smokers, the odd swamp boat (shown above), and “washers” games in full swing*, not to mention the sweet, bewitching aroma of homemade BBQ permeating the air.

BBQ Nirvana

Sure enough, we found one BBQ team – and they were definitely a team, sporting matching hunting camouflage uniforms-  who graciously offered us a few plates of their competition-grade smoked BBQ brisket. It was easily the best brisket I’d ever had (sorry Grandma Betty). We also chatted with a nice, middle-aged Texan, who worked as an energy researcher for the state, and offered us a pretty compelling argument against clean burning coal and, quote, “that hybrid automobile bullshit.” Point taken, sir!

*FYI “washers” is a game of skill whereby a player must toss a small round metal ring (a washer) from a set distance into one of 3 assigned holes. It combines the intensity of lawn darts, the skill of bocce, the camaraderie of team sport, and the adrenaline rush of…right, that’s going a bit far, but it appeared to be a fun way to pass the time before intoxication set in and/or one was ready for another heaping plate of BBQ.

After thanking Team Camo for their generous hospitality, we exited the RV area and found for ourselves an agreeable patch of grass for prime Willie Nelson watchin’.

On the road again...

Here are 3 quick facts about Willie Nelson on tour:

1) he has a surprising amount of energy for a man of his advanced age.

2) He does not do encores – the man gets it right the first time around.

3) The side of Willie’s tour bus has the best air-brushed mural I have ever seen, and I consider myself a connoisseur of this art form: it was a depiction of a head-dressed Indian chief atop his steed, and that horse was mounting a mare. Yes, it was awesome. See below for grainy picture.

Best. Airbrushed mural. EVER.

The other genuine surprise of the concert was what we saw between .38 Special and Willie Nelson’s performances, where one might have expected the organizers to have shoe-horned in a local bluegrass act or perhaps a lassoing demonstration. Instead, a DJ piped in Daft Punk’s “Robot Rock” at full blast, while a person appeared on stage, dressed entirely in LED lights, “shooting” lasers at the crowd. Think of a glow-in-the-dark Michelin Man, and you have the idea. Holy hell, it was amazing. Daft Punk robo-hijinks serving as an intro for Willie Nelson seemed about as likely to happen as a ninja fight scene erupting in the middle of a Jane Austen novel. But it happened. And we were there. Was the effect amplified by the countless Budweiser “Tall Boys” we had been downing over the 6 hours we had been there? That’s hard to say. But show me a grown man who isn’t still impressed by a laser-shootin’ robot, and I’ll show you a liar.

OMG LASER ROBOTS!!!!

Anyhow, the night ended well indeed. Some friendly locals took us on a night tour of College Station. There was two-steppin’ at Daisy Duke’s, there was tomfoolery in Bottle Cap Alley outside the Dixie Chicken, there were wild, drunken promises made to ride horses all the way back to Canada. All in all, it was a good day.

Stay tuned for Vol. III – bat swarms, guns, and beer-fueled tubing down the Guadalupe river…