Of course I was in Girona, not Barcelona. RyanAir often flies in to secondary airports, or smaller towns near bigger cities. In these cases though, they generally offer a bus service to the city to which people actually want to travel. The bus from Girona to Barcelona was 9 Euro, which by comparison was cheaper than the train from downtown London to the airport. The bus rolled over sandy mountains peppered with plain square white houses. I also saw a giant race track on a hill, which I later found out was hosting a F1 Grand Prix that day, which explained the cars parked all the way up and down every street in the neighbourhood.

At the end of the ride was the Barcelona bus station, and after a short discussion with a guy at the information desk, I found the Metro and made my way downtown towards Las Ramblas, the main drag of the city that boasts vendors, artists, performers, and cafés. With my giant pack on my back, and weather pushing 30 degrees, I wandered up and down Las Ramblas looking for a street I couldn't find, only to find that I'd walked by it a few times already by the time I found it.

It was about eight feet wide, enclosed on both sides by buildings that shot up five or six floors. When it appeared that 3 people would have trouble fitting through a particular bottleneck, a motorcycle or delivery fan would fly through and let you know that it was indeed wide enough for them, and perhaps a person or two. The hostel was near the end of one of these narrow alleys, and I would later learn that most streets in Barcelona looked exactly the same.

I found the hostel and checked in. Thankfully, my train tickets for the next two legs of my journey had arrived and were waiting for me. I dumped my pack in my room, which featured a different approach to bunk beds. Each bed really had it's own cubicle, with a curtain for privacy, which was actually the most personal arrangement I had seen at any hostel. The down side was that the walls were made of metal sheeting, which boomed and echoed when somebody rolled into in during the night.

I changed into some shorts and a t-shirt, put on the flip flops and sunglasses and headed out to explore. I think at this point, it wasn't even 3pm so there were still a lot of daylight hours left. I went back to Las Ramblas and walked through the markets towards the harbour, which features a huge pillar and statue tribute to Christopher Columbus. 

There were a million boats in the harbour and a few giant yachts parked in the harbour, tucked in behind a mall that sticks out in to the water. All around the beach are vendors selling knockoff sunglasses and handbags. When the police come by a marathon breaks out as these guys pack up their wares and make a mad dash for it. And eventually I found the actual beach.
It stretched from the mall by the sea, miles to the west to the Olympic Village and then some. I took off my shoes and walked in the sand all the way down to the shiny sculpture at the start of the Olympic Village, and back. Like the day before, I covered a lot of miles and my legs were a bit heavy by the time I returned to the hostel. I found something to eat, which couldn't have been too fancy because I don't remember it, read for a while, checked my email in the hostel lobby and turned in fairly early, even though there were a ton of people making a lot of noise in a courtyard nearby. And of course, the loud roommates and the banging of the sheet-metal walls contributed to a night of little sleep. Of course I slept in the next morning.

After waking up sometime around 11, I set out on my own to wander around the city.  I picked a different narrow alley to walk down and found a nice little bakery/café and picked up some breakfast. I had a croissant and some fresh-squeezed orange juice, both of which tasted great and hit some sort of special food spot because I was amazed at how good it was. I got on the Metro and took it to Placa Sagrada Familia, which is a famous cathedral designed my Gaudi, who is responsible for many of Barcelona's most famous buildings and sculptures.

It has been under construction for more than 100 years, and isn't expected to be finished for another 30. Regardless, it's huge and impressive and the stone work ranges from spires that appear to be melting to chiseled angular sculptures and pillars. This was really the first thing I had seen on the whole trip that made my jaw drop and think, "Holy Cow, this thing is amazing."

I walked around the place for quite a while and took a lot of pictures. I didn't go inside, because I had heard that most of that was still incomplete and not terribly interesting. The outside though, blew me away and I couldn't help but stare in awe.

I got on the Metro and rode it back towards downtown, but hopped off before I got to Las Ramblas. I wanted to see the Picasso Museum that, like everything, was located down a narrow dingy street. Unfortunately, it was Monday, which was the only day that the museum wasn't open. A little upset, I walked south to the beach, and after a brief stroll through the sand and a few steps in the water, not to mention a number of topless women, I had forgotten all about the Pablo guy.

Back at the hostel, I talked to a guy from Denmark named Christian who had been in town for a couple days. We went to the store around the corner and grabbed some food to cook in the hostel kitchen, and some drinks to consume before heading out on the town that night. We sat on the hostel patio with two girls from Winnipeg and had some drinks, then to a bar down a narrow dingy street. The place was fairly deserted except for the six of us, which now included Joe and another guy whose name I forget. Most of this stuff was written down in my notebook, however, that was lost somewhere between Paris and Austria.

After a drink or two there, we went down to the big mall by the harbour. Christian said that there were a number of bars on the top level of the mall, and it turns out he was right. It was still early by Barcelona Party standards, but we drank and danced until about 4am. I slept in my clothes and apparently mumbled something to two girls from Michigan when they were leaving the hostel in the morning. Of course, I don't remember this because I slept until noon.

Christian and I had plans to climb up Montjuic, to see the fort at the top of the mountain which overlooks the city and the harbour. It was a hazy day, so the view wasn't the greatest, but it was still impressive and I was glad we did it. The climb itself was a little tiring considering the heat and the hangover, but the between the view and the castle itself, it was well worthwhile. There was also a famous Gaudi sculpture up there, which we promptly made ourselves a part of.

The afternoon was reserved for the beach. So we went to the beach with some snacks and some beer from the mini-mart. Again, the casual drinking laws took me by surprise, but sometimes you just have to look at yourself and say, "When in Rome..." Eventually, Joe caught up with us and we enjoyed the sand, sun, water, and girls. I sunburned my shins, shoulders, and wrist (but only the part normally covered by my watchband). The prospect of carrying a pack for the next week suddenly became much more painful.

The evening festivities had been the subject of much anticipation for pretty much everyone mentioned since this story arrived in Barcelona. The hostel pub crawl had been advertised and pumped up since we had arrived in the city, and Tuesday night was the night it was supposed to happen. For 15 Euro, there was a free beer hour at the first bar, then a drink or shot at 4 more bars, and then 2 for 1 tickets at the last bar.

I have a feeling most of the bars would have been pretty lame if not for the 50 person party we brought with us. There was drinking, and dancing, and talking, and laughing, and meeting a ton of new people. There were a lot of Canadians, many from Quebec.  The girls from Michigan were there, the girls from Winnipeg were there.  The Spanish guy who organized the whole thing was there. We played some foosball, and I borrowed a guitar from a street performer.

Around 4am the Michigan girls asked me to walk them back to their hostel (they had moved to a different place the day I spoke to them in my sleep), which I was happy to do because I was pretty wiped out. So after brief stop by the Merry-Go-Round, we walked through the narrow sketchy alleys of Barcelona back to their hostels, and then wandered back to mine alone.

I slept in pretty late again, and couldn't find Christian for quite some time. I had to check out of my room, so I sat in the lobby on a couch and read for a couple hours until he showed up. He had stayed at the bar for a couple more hours after I left, and was in rough shape. We decided to take a little walk to St. Joseph's market which featured everything from fruit to meat to candy. We ate baguette sandwiches, wandered back to the hostel to pick up my bags, then walked to the Metro one last time.

I said goodbye to Christian, climbed down the steps to the subway and rode it to the train station. I was really early as usual, so I read my book and waited for the train to be called, while I prayed I could recognize what they were saying when they made the announcement. The train pulled into the appropriate platform and I boarded what appeared to be a commuter train. I was assured that it was the right train, but I couldn't help but wonder how this was going to get me close enough to France to catch another train to Paris.

Sure enough, it plodded along stopping every 15 or 20 minutes for almost three hours in places like Girona and Port Bau, which is actually in France. The last stop was Cerbere, a beautiful town on the Mediterranean where mountains meet water. It was here that I was to board the sleeper train to Paris, and fortunately or otherwise, I only had an hour and a half to kill before that train left. I couldn't really leave the station to look around, although I wanted to, but waiting it out wasn't too bad either.

By the time the train was leaving the station, I was in my sleeper compartment, which included three beds on each wall. All the other beds were empty, so I put my headphones on and tried to doze off, some time around 10pm. Damien Rice and Jack Johnson sound the same in France on a train, as they do in Toronto. Who knew? Over the next few stops, the other beds filled up, and by the time we got to Paris all 6 cots were occupied, but I had managed to sleep through all of it. We got to Paris-Austerlitz around 7:30 am.

PARIS

I really didn't know what I was supposed to do once I got of the train. It wasn't yet 8 am, I had a big fat backpack, and I knew I wouldn't be able to check in for hours. I grabbed a coffee and a croissant and sat in the train station pondering my options. Ordering a coffee in Paris, for the record, will actually espresso and I don't care if I ever have another demi-tasse of the stuff in my life. The croissant was good though.

After paying 50 Euro cents to use a bathroom, I decided I'd try to find my hotel and at least dump my bags. I got a three-day metro pass and switched to three different lines until I found Abbesses, which is in the heart of Montmartre, just around the corner from La Butte De Montmartre and Sacre Coeur Cathedral. It was a short walk from there to the hotel, and for once I didn't walk past it 4 times before going inside.

Had they let me, I would have checked in, taken a shower, and napped for a couple more hours, but I knew that wasn't going to happen. Check-In wasn't until 2pm, and at the moment it was about 8:30. They did let me leave my bag though, so I wandered out to kill six hours on the strangely familiar streets of Paris. It was an odd sensation, but there wasn't anything threatening about the whole city and I felt like I had been there before.

I figured I'd start at Sacre Coeur because it was the closest. I think it took me five minutes to walk there. With no directions, I just kept going up hill until I found it at the top. It's a gorgeous domed cathedral overlooking all of Paris, except most of the landmarks you're looking for are obstructed by trees. I was surprised to find that it was actually open to the public so early on a Thursday, but I wandered through checking out the pillars, the domes, and the stained glass. It's a beautiful building with an amazing view of the city, and about ten minutes later I decided to descend les escaliers de la butte.

At the bottom of les escaliers was a guy weaving little bracelets out of coloured strings. After politely declining several times, somehow I got roped in quite literally while he wrapped some strings around my fingers and made conversation about all the touristy things in Paris (in English) while he braided and wrapped strings into a yellow, red, and purple pattern. The whole time I was irritated with this guy because I didn't want the thing anyway, but was too nice to be rude. And of course, after I say I don't want it about five times, he ties it on my wrist anyway, and says it's a gift.... but could I please give him something for it.
I fished into my pockets and gave him a bit of change, but was so mad for the rest of the day because I didn't want the damn thing in the first place. How rude do you have to be before these people leave you alone? Now I had a stupid bracelet I didn't want, and I somehow ended up paying for it. Talk about being rubbed the wrong way.

All that behind me, I decided the best way to kill a few more hours was to visit the most notorious time-consumer in Paris: The Louvre. Everybody always says you can't see it in less than a few days, so I figured a few hours wouldn't be too hard to pass. Using the metro again, I found my way to the right stop and to the bottom of the underground upside-down glass pyramid (which has been featured heavily in all the Da Vinci Code commotion, for obvious reasons if you've read the book).

For some reason, I had it in my head that the museums were supposed to be free, but apparently that only applies to certain people on certain days. Either way, it cost me 8 or 9 Euro to get inside and before long I was walking along the base of the original castle's walls, which were preserved underground. Moments later, I found myself looking at the Venus de Milo along with a hundred other people. Listening in on a tour group, I learned that her left toe had been stolen at some point.

Around the corner from Venus, there were more Greek and Roman statues which I found to be far more impressive, including a famous one of Diana the Goddess of the Hunt and her little deer. The detail in this one and others like it, the texture, and the fact that they still have their limbs made me enjoy them more than Venus, and made me wonder why it was such a big deal when there were nicer things in the same room.

Next I toured the great hall with the Italian paintings, including the Mona Lisa. Hundreds of people were huddled around it. I guess you could say that I was pretty underwhelmed. I think once you've seen a picture of something a thousand times and had copies of the image pop up in every conceivable place, seeing the original image doesn't blow you away as much as you might imagine. I was far more impressed with The Wedding at Cana by Paulo Veronese, which takes up the whole wall opposite La Joconde. It's far more colourful, has way more going on, and stands about 20 feet high and 30 feet wide.

Around that, there are countless other works by French, Italian, English, and Spanish artists. I recognized some of them, but was generally not too blown away. For some reason, classical paintings just don't excite me much. I much prefer impressionism, surrealism, and modern art. So in the grand scheme of things, I understand the historical significance and the value of these pieces, but the vast majority of them were pretty dull, with a few exceptions like The Raft of Medusa (Gericault) or Liberty Leading the People (Delacroix).

I spent quite a while looking at art, then moved on to the historical wings to look at ancient Egyptian stuff, African stuff, and after a couple hours my feet started to hurt. I decided I'd had enough ancient art and walked out into the square where the upright glass pyramid stands. I took a few pictures, walked over to the Seine for a minute, then got back on the Metro at Louvre-Rivoli which actually looks like an extension of the museum that the subway happens to run through.

At this point, it was probably about noon and I had been at the Louvre for two and a half hours. Sitting down on the Metro was a nice way to get off my feet for a bit, so I picked the farthest destination I could think of.  It really wasn't that far at all, but the Arc de Triomphe was the next stop on my Thursday morning tour, when really all I wanted to see was a shower and a bed.

So I got of the Metro, took some pictures, and walked around it a bit. Ten minutes later, I was back on the Metro heading for the Eiffel Tower. While it sticks out of the landscape so obviously, it occurred to me that I hadn't seen it yet. As the Metro went above ground to cross a bridge over the Seine, I finally got my first glimpse of La Tour Eiffel, and frankly it was far more impressive than I had anticipated. It was a bit of a walk from the Metro stop, but eventually, I turned up a street to see it framed between two buildings.

It's huge. For some reason, who knows why, I didn't think it would be that big. After the disappointment with Big Ben in London, maybe I just didn't want to get my hopes up. Or maybe because I live in Toronto, and we have the biggest tower, I thought every other tower should be tiny. Maybe it just looks big because everything around it is small. I don't know why I didn't think it would be big, I just didn't.

So anyway, it's big and impressive and cool. It's hard to be rigid and curvy at the same time but Mr. Eiffel managed to pull it off. So a similar sensation befell me as when I saw Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. I was pleasantly surprised and borderline giddy because I had seen a brilliant piece of architecture. I walked the length of the Champs de Mars and along the Seine up to Hotel des Invalides, where I caught the Metro back to Abbesses, even though it was only still around 1:00.

I had been in town for less than six hours. I had seen most of the landmarks on my to-do list, seen priceless works of art, and still the only things on my mind were lunch and a shower. My feet were hurting too. With a little less than an hour before I could check in, I walked around looking for a place to eat something. There were a lot of cafés, a lot of bakeries, and a lot of market type places, but as I walked around the streets of Montmartre, I knew instantly where I had to eat when I saw Café Des 2 Moulins, which, if you've seen Amelie, is where the title-character works.

I sat on the patio and had a burger (I know, how French!) and fries (French, of course) and a Le Coke. The burger was a little pink for my tastes, but not so bad I couldn't eat it. By the time I had finished eating and paid the bill, it was exactly 2:00 pm, and I practically ran around the corner back to my hotel and checked in, more excited than you can imagine.

A bit of that excitement died when I found out I was on the 5th floor, and there were no elevators. By the time I dragged my bag to the top and pushed the door open, I was ready for the cliché "I'm so tired, I'm going to collapse on the bed" scene. So I did it.

I don't know how long I was lying there for, but eventually I collected enough energy to have the shower I was craving. I don’t think I actually broke down weeping from happiness, but I'm sure I was close. It was a great shower. With a refreshed body and clean clothes, I called my friend Becky and left her a message to let her know I had arrived in town, and promptly fell asleep. Sheer bliss.

A couple hours later, Becky called me back and we made plans to meet for coffee the next day. Unfortunately, she was busy that night, so I was left to fend for myself. Still somewhat exhausted, but not wanting to waste my time in Paris, I went for another little walk, went by Sacre Coeur again, picked up some snacks at a grocery store and found a place to check my email.

I went back to the hotel, browsed through pamphlets and maps, snacked on my purchases, and watched French game shows... which I loved. After an episode of Millionaire, then Deal or No Deal (which isn't what it's called in French), I watched a horrible Colin Firth/Annette Benning movie called Valmont which was the only thing on in English then went to sleep.

I think I woke up around 11 am the next day, fairly hungry. I was supposed to meet Becky at 1pm, at Saint Michel, which was down by the Seine and Notre Dame and like everything else, right on the Metro line. I left the hotel around noon, wandered by the Moulin Rouge then hopped on the Metro to Le Depart Saint Michel, at which there is a giant fountain with winged lions spewing water. I was early, so I wandered around the block for a few minutes, then waited for another 10 or 15 until I found Becky, who had just finished a class around the corner.

We sat down at a café across the street from the fountain and caught up. Considering she'd been in Paris for almost a year, I'd been back in Toronto for that same year, and I'd been in five countries in the previous two weeks, we had lots to talk about. As we finished our coffee (which was awful tasting coffee #2 for me), it started to rain a bit, so we had to pull our chairs in under the awning. We talked until the rain passed, which was really only a few minutes. Becky had to catch a train back to her "family" (she was working as an au-pere while studying French), but we made plans to meet up that night for dinner.

After parting ways, I wandered up the Seine towards Notre Dame, which was only a short way up the river. Like so much of Paris, it's instantly recognizable and almost familiar because everybody has seen it and can recognize it. Still, it's fun to see it in person, and borderline surreal. Just like the Mona Lisa, The Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, etc. I looked at it and said "I know what that is, I've seen it a thousand times... oh wait, this is actually the ONE. This is the thing that all those other things are just a picture of." It's a weird North American mindset, but if we see a little shoppe on a narrow cobblestone street, we think "This is just like that amazingly artificial recreation of one of these at Canada's Wonderland!" I think we're twisted.

Regardless, Notre Dame was very pretty. I toured around the inside and managed to get some decent pictures of the stained glass, some candles, and a few to show how big the place actually is. My favourite part though, was architecture on the back of the building. There are points, and arches, and gargoyles and it looks fairly scary actually... like somewhere that Dracula might live.

Across the street from that, there's a memorial to Holocaust victims, which was sobering and interesting at the same time. There was a long chamber with tiny lights lining the walls, one for each victim. There were quotes on the walls from famous people, narrow passages designed to make you feel claustrophobic, lots of bars and plain walls to give you a sense of confinement. It's not an obvious stop for tourists, in fact, I'd bet that most people don't know it's there, but I was actually quite glad I saw it.

Shortly after that, I found myself at the Musée D'Orsay. There were a number of sculptures in front of the building, including an elephant, and one representing each continent. The museum was about to close so I didn't actually go in, but at least I know where it is for next time. I hopped back on the Metro towards my hotel, and stopped to get a snack before heading upstairs to my room. I read my book for a bit, watched some more French game shows, and relaxed until it was time to meet up with Becky at the Bastille.

It was fairly late to have dinner by North American standards, but it didn't really bother me to be eating at 10pm. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I generally eat dinner later than most anyway, so I didn't care that much. That, and the fact that I was starving all led me to believe that it was a good time to have dinner. Again, I arrived early and had to wait a few minutes until Becky showed up and led me to Havanita, Spanish/Cuban restaurant down the street from the Bastille Metro Stop.

Dinner was great. I had some sort of chicken and rice thing, and Becky had something vegetarian. After a couple glasses of wine, and an amazing dark chocolate and banana tart for desert, the bill was paid and we wandered across the street to another Spanish place, continuing with the night's theme. We had a couple mojitos each at a pretty smokey place, and chatted some more before Becky had to catch the last train out towards Versailles and the neighbouring town where she was living. We walked back to the Bastille Memorial took a couple of pictures and said goodnight.

The next day, I bummed around for most of the morning then found my way to the Arc de Triomphe and took a little climb. 50 metres straight up, in a spiral staircase puts you in a gallery at the top of the Arc where there are some statues and a giftshop. A few more steps, and you're up to the roof where you can see all of Paris from the middle of the Etoile (which also happens to be the location of the most ridiculous traffic circle you'd never want to navigate). Though the sun was out for my first few minutes on the roof, it quickly turned from sunshine to sideways blowing rain.

After that, the sun came out and I went to see the Opera House, which again was interrupted by a burst of crazy sideways rain. The weather was still kinda crummy so I went to a mall and poked around inside for a while, which looked amazingly like one of those 3rd tier malls where they have stores like Paper-O-Rama. Seriously, I'm sure there's a mall in Fergus that puts that Galleria to shame.  So after being completely underwhelmed by the mall, I picked up a baguette and went back to the hotel to read for a while. I knew I was supposed to meet up with Becky and friends, so I was just taking it easy until I heard from her.

Becky called and I met up with her at The Gare Saint Lazare a little while later.  We met her friends at a café a little further south at Place d'Italie. There was a guy who spoke French and English, and was learning Japanese for his fiancée. There was the fiancée who spoke Japanese and French, but not too much English. Then there were two other Japanese friends who didn't speak any English at all, and one other guy who spoke English and French. So really, French was the only common denominator and I had to bust out some of my rusty language skills.  I was able to hold my own, and I actually think that my French was better than a couple of the Japansese girls who had been studying in Paris for a year or more.

Unfortunately, Becky couldn't stay too long because she had to take care of the kids, but her friends insisted that I hang out with them and go for dinner. We went to a Japanese place, believe it or not, which was really good. As it got darker, we parted ways and I made my way to the Trocadero Metro Stop to heed the advice of the Australians in London. It was nighttime, and I was told to visit the Eiffel Tower at night. At the beginning of every hour, it sparkles. Then, it just sits there looking pretty against the night sky. I took some beautiful pictures; probably some of the best I've ever taken. I hopped on the metro and headed north back to Montmatre, silently thanking the Australians for such brilliant advice, which I vowed to pass on to anyone who might be headed to Paris.

The next morning, Becky called and we followed up on our tentative plans to visit Versailles. Because she already lived out that way, we were going to meet at the palace and tour the giant estate. I took the train out and found her eventually. Because I had told her that I finished my book, she gave me one she was done with, which I put in my bag. The palace was massive. We toured one little wing of it, and then wandered through the gardens and fountains and the surrounding farms. It was a nice opportunity to chat and the farms were far enough from everything that it felt like I had escaped anything touristy.

We left Versailles and drove through her adopted hometown, where we walked a little tour, and eventually ended up at the train station. Eventually the train showed up, we said goodbye, and I hopped on back to the city. I had already checked out of the hotel and left my luggage downstairs, so I was again in time-killing mode until it was time to catch a train to Munich. Again, I decided to hit up a museum. This time I headed for the Centre Pompidou, which is the place for modern art in Paris.

The building itself looks like the plumbing got built on the outside, and there's a giant courtyard next to it where street performers put on some very impressive shows and crowds of hundreds of people sit and watch. The museum itself had some interesting stuff, but in my humble opinion, was not nearly as good as some other modern art things I'd seen. It was, however, a nice way to pass a few hours. I grabbed a toasted baguette sandwich outside and sat in the courtyard and watched a very funny performer use a couple of his spectators and film a "movie." It was actually genuinely funny, and I felt compelled to toss a couple Euro his way after the show.

I picked up my bags at the hotel and went to the train station. I was still a few hours early, but I didn't feel like walking around anymore. My feet were beginning to kill me so I sat down and read the book Becky gave me, cover-to-cover. "Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress" by Dai Sijie was an interesting little story about communist China under the rule of Chairman Mao, and was obviously a fairly quick read.  I snacked on Pringles and a Coke, and eventually got on the train, sometime around 10pm.

There were six seats in the compartment; three on each side facing each other. I got one side, and three seats, to myself, while the other side was shared by a guy and a girl, who didn't seem to know eachother. I managed to sleep across my three seats pretty much all the way to Munich, where we arrived around 7am the next morning. I actually remember very little about Munich, other than the fact that it looked like a pretty standard train station.

I got on another train, this time bound for Italy, although I was to disembark at the Austrian village of Worgl, then switch to yet another train to Kitzbuhel. All that went according to plan except for the fact that I managed to lose my notebook somewhere along the way. I had about an hour to kill in Worgl, so I spent it sitting on the train platform in the sun with my shoes off.

KITZBUHEL

Before long I was rolling through the Austrian countryside which was as green and mountainous as you could imagine. I stared out the window at the beautiful scenery and eventually made my way to Kitzbuhel, Austria where I was supposed to be met by my friend Karina. I got off the train, however, and didn't see her until a few minutes later when she and Alex screeched in to the parking lot then yelled at me for getting off at the wrong stop.

We went back to her house to drop off my stuff, then to the local golf course to have lunch with her brother Andreas, and her dad Deiter. I was told to have the schnitzel, so I did, and it was amazing... and huge. Apparently Karina felt the need to order me the biggest schnitzel you can buy, but I managed to finish it while trying to make conversation and watch golfers on a course I would have loved the chance to play. 

So after a brief tour of downtown Kitz, which resembles something between an amusement park street and a ski hill village (which included stops at the World Famous gift shop, and the World Famous Travel Agency, and of course the World Famous Statue), we sat down for some ice cream. 

That night we went to Highway's, the bar where Karina works, to play pool with Robbie the manager. We got along quite well, and had far too much to drink, as was evident by the bizarre competition that broke out on the floor of the bar involving a pushup and a beer glass.

The next morning, I was moving slowly, but Karina's mom cooked a fantastic lunch, and we did very little all afternoon. We drove to Innsbruck in the afternoon, and hung out there watching TV until some of Karina's friends showed up to prepare for the evening by mixing hefty quantities of vodka with Red Bull. We went to a place, the name of which escapes me, where the special of the night was six drinks for 10 Euro, provided all six drinks were the same.  Believe it or not, many in the party were a little drunk by the end of the evening, including Steffan, a close friend of Karina's who was going back to Kitzbuhel with us the next day.

Back in Kitzbuhel the following afternoon, we still didn't feel much like moving. We took the dog for a walk into town, where we stopped in at the travel agency Deiter runs to try to figure out how I was getting back to London to catch my flight home on Tuesday. I ended up booking the flight online later, which I knew was going to involve a mad dash across London from one airport to the next. After another stellar dinner from Mrs. Toth, we went to Highway's yet again for a tame night before our early morning drive to Germany.

OBERSTDORF

We loaded up the car and picked up Alex, and were on our way to Oberstdorf with the help of the dashboard GPS system. We still managed to get ourselves fairly lost driving AROUND the Alps, because apparently it wasn't a good idea to go through them. I think I had a pretty good sleep on the way, although I really don't recall. I do remember Karina getting a phone call along the way asking us where we were because our game was supposed to be starting. Apparently there had been a scheduling mix-up (apparently Karina's fault) and we were due on the ice two hours sooner than expected. It was sorted out, fortunately, and we were able to play our game on the later draw.

The next three days are really somewhat of a blur. There was some curling. We had a win, a loss, and a tie. The ice was garbage. I made one crazy runback, and missed a lot of other ones. There were people from all over Europe to curl against, drink with, and party with until 4 in the morning everynight. It was highlighted by the borrowing of some blinking construction lights (later named the Modern Bavarian Alarm Clocks) and the banquet at the top of the mountain which involved a crazy long gondola ride. It was amazingly fun and I would go back in a second. I'm working on recruiting a team for next year.

We drove home on Sunday afternoon very slowly and watched Anchorman Sunday night. Monday, we hung out with Robbie and played guitars in the backroom at Highways, then made it a pretty early night.

Karina's mom was kind enough to drive me to Salzburg in the morning to catch my plane to London. On that trip alone, we were in and out of Germany three times. Apparently we were on one of Hitler's roads, one of the positive things he did as a politician before going crazy and doing the whole Nazi thing. During the depression, he commissioned a bunch of public works projects to create work and build infrastructure in that area, which gained him enough popularity to become a psycho dictator.

I did some shopping at the airport shops, and flew to London Stanstead with little fanfare. I caught the train downtown, took the tube across town and caught a different train to London Gatwick, where I was perfectly on time, if not a bit early. My flight to Toronto was less comfortable than the one to London, but I managed to sleep, listen to music, and survive without too much trouble. It was 32 degrees when I got of the plane. It had been 11 in Austria that morning.

Mike picked me up at the airport and drove me home.

Where to start... I started in Toronto. Then, in the next 24 days, I was in seven different countries, I slept on 9 different beds and couches (not to mention a few planes and two overnight trains), and played five different guitars. In three and a half weeks there were a lot of memorable moments, almost all of them positive and the exceptions being nothing too serious. There were moments where I was glad I was alone because it forced me to talk to some interesting people, and there were moments that I was terribly lonesome and wished I had friends nearby. There were times when I was anxious to get home and others when I thought about staying for good. I drank with the English in Ireland, Fins in Latvia, Aussies in England, Danes in Spain, Canadians in France, Austrians in Austria, and the United Nations of Curling in Germany.  After a while waking up and wondering what country you're in stops being fun, and finally landing in your own bed feels like the best thing in the world.

So, like I said, I started in Toronto.  I was at the Jays game in the afternoon, watching them lose 3-0 to the Angels. My bags had been packed for a day or two, and I didn't have to worry about flying out until almost 9pm. I managed to pack enough t-shirts, socks and underwear, to last at least a couple weeks, and laundry facilities permitting, the whole trip. Of course, there were flip flops and curling shoes, cameras and a CD player, stuffed into the rather hefty hiking backpack, which I would later find out weighed in at about 16 kilos all put together. After the game, my roommate Mike and I went home for a bit, made sure I had all my bits and pieces, my tickets, and my stampless passport and headed to the airport in his car.

A short while later, I was climbing out of the car at Pearson's Terminal 3, saying thanks and goodbye to Mike, and checking in more than the recommended two hours before takeoff.  I found the gate, which was amazingly familiar because it was next to the one we had used to fly to Cuba the year before.  I realized I didn't have a book with me so I picked up "The Tipping Point: How Little Things Can Make a Big Difference" by Malcom Gladwell and a pack of gum.  With more than two hours to kill, I sat in the airport bar, had a beer, and watched junior hockey playoffs on Sportsnet until it was time to head back to the gate. 

By the time everyone had boarded the giant trans-Atlantic plane, I realized it was the emptiest flight I had ever seen. The plane sat nine people across in three sets of three, but each set of seats had no more than one person in it, and many of them were left empty. I wasn't complaining, however, because it meant I got to stretch out and try to get some sleep in the hours over the North Atlantic, instead of watching "Fun with Dick and Jane" or "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire." For the record, MyTravel2000 was a completely decent flight. Good movies, good food, good service, on time, etc.  The flight, however, was pretty uneventful but I didn't sleep too much. Shortly after the sun came up, we were landing over the green fields of England into Gatwick Airport, where I collected Passport Stamp #1.

I was tired and hungry after being on the plane all night. Really, all I wanted was a shower, some food, and a nap.  Because I had to wait three hours before my flight to Dublin, the only thing I could do was have breakfast. And because I was interested in experiencing new things, new cultures, and new foods, I went to McDonald's and got something from the menu that you can't get in Canada. Seriously though, I swore that I wouldn't eat at McDonald's again for the rest of the trip (a policy which would later be violated, but not by choice). I sat around for quite a while, wasting time before I could even check in for my next flight, which was still hours away. I sat outside a Starbucks for a while reading, wrote some stuff in my notebook, then watched people go by for a bit until it was finally time to at least check my bag and get my boarding pass.

Gatwick has a fairly large shopping selection in the South Terminal, but I was so tired I didn't even feel like looking around. I was working on keeping my eyes open, and making sure that I didn't fall asleep on an airport bench and miss my plane. It was really a bit of a struggle, but eventually the gate was announced and I was able to hop on a RyanAir plane to Dublin.

DUBLIN

After a short, but completely reasonable, flight, we landed in Ireland around 1:00 pm. I collected my pack, and found an information desk who pointed me in the direction for the right bus and sold me a ticket downtown for 5 Euro. Dublin was sunny and warm as I waited for the right double-decker bus to show up and take me to the bus station near my hostel. Between the airport and downtown, there didn't seem to be much indication that a city was nearby. It was all very small town and somewhat rural. There seemed to be more industrial parks and residential areas than anything that resembled a city of one million people. Even once we reached urban Ireland, it still felt like a small but friendly town that had expanded along the River Liffee, which bisects the city into North and South. I recall one "sky-scraper" which I think had 15 floors, according to the tour I would take the next morning.

Everything was colourful though, and pedestrian friendly. On this Sunday afternoon, the sidewalks were crowded by people shopping and eating, and by at least one Canadian guy who wandered up and down the same street on the north side of the river three or four times before getting directions to a street around the corner. Apparently, Talbot Place is a small alley off of Talbot Street, and of course Talbot Place has no sign. And of course the hostel itself had construction scaffolding up the whole front of the building so any identifying marks were obstructed from view.

Eventually I was able to check in to Jacobs Inn Youth Hostel, and find my bed on the 2nd floor (which was really the third, but apparently not in Europe). At this point, I was confused as to whether I was tired or hungry or awake or thirsty, but there was no doubt in my mind that I wanted to have a shower with every fibre of my being. I entered my hostel room to find a girl lying down on one of the 10 beds. As I put down my pack, she noticed the cliché Canadian flag patch that every Canadian traveler sews on his/her luggage on this sort of trip, and said "Oh, You're Canadian? Me too."

"Oh really?" I reply, "Where are you from?"
"Toronto," she says.
"Really, me too. Whereabouts?" I say.
"Well, not really Toronto... but Cobourg."
"You're kidding."

5249 kilometres from home. Eight and half hours of flights and two new stamps in the passport later. Up and down the same street, then into the doorway around the corner in a shady alley. The first person I talk to is from the town I was born in. Small world? A little too small.

After a brief chat with her and another girl who appeared later, I found the shower down the hallway and decided that my hunger was outweighing my fatigue. I took off down the same familiar street, past countless pubs (none of which serve food), past a Burger King and a McDonald's (both of which were completely out of the question), over the River Liffee (where the menu was a little suspect), and through Temple Bar which struck me as a Disney Land for alcoholics, but not for people seeking food on a budget.

I walked around for an hour or two, amazed at the number of places that served drinks but not food. Any menu I found didn't appeal to either my appetite or my wallet, and I eventually settled on Molloy's Pub, right next door to the hostel. Of course, after I asked for something from the chalkboard of specials, I was informed that they weren't available yet. Instead, it was a ham sandwich on toast. No cheese, no fries. Ham on toast... and a Guinness.

By now, I was tired. I went back to the hostel to find the room abandoned. The girls were gone, and piles of "boy-luggage" graced the floor and the seven other beds. The girls hadn't yet seen these guys either, so nothing was known other than what we could tell from the luggage, towels, and lacrosse stick on the floor. I went to sleep in bed #7, which was on the bottom in a set of bunkbeds.

I think I slept for about two hours before the unknown guys made themselves known. Five of the guys wandered in loudly (which wasn't a problem considering it was only 7:00) and I shook the sleep out of my ears and made conversation as best I could considering they were speaking a language called English English.  As it turned out, the seven lads from Kent were celebrating the upcoming wedding of one in their party, and I was supposed to join them that evening for a pub tour of Temple Bar, which is both a bar and a region of town containing... bars. Kirk and Lawrence were two of the five who came back. Two others didn't and decided to skip the early evening nap and shower to continue drinking somewhere on the south side of the river.

After all the guys had showered and changed, we left the hostel, crossed the river and tried to track down the other two guys. We started at a place called Q-Bar, well aware that they were not there, but we stopped to have a pint just in case they decided to walk in.  They didn't, so we went a little farther down the street into another pub next to the actual Temple Bar. According to repeated cell phone calls and text messages, this was where the missing two were stationed, and eventually we found them, and a few more pints. Then we visited another pub in down the street, and a 4 level bar across from that. And sometime around 4 am, I got an outrageously expensive hotdog while the other guys got sandwiches, and the whole gang wandered across the Half-Penny Bridge and back to the hostel were a brief rugby game broke out before everybody crashed. The girls from Cobourg weren't back from their night out yet.

I forced myself to wake up early, knowing that I was only going to be in Dublin for about 30 hours all-totaled. Around 9am, I left a note for the still-sleeping party and checked out of the hostel, leaving my bags in a locker to collect later. I spent a euro to check my email and let people know I had arrived safely on this side of the pond. Like the day before, I found it hard to find a decent meal, and frankly, I don't recall eating anything until later in the day.

The weather was a bit gloomy, but I couldn't let that stop me if I wanted to see anymore of the city. I had booked a bus tour on expedia.com (I couldn't believe it either, I felt like I was in a commercial), and managed to find the stop and board the double-decker in spitting rain. It was a hop-on hop-off tour, but given the lack of time and the unfortunate weather, I just sat on the upper level and rode the loop all the way around. I saw all the major sites, the Guinness factory (which is a massive lot), the Wellington Monument (the 2nd tallest obelisk in the world), various famous homes (Oscar Wilde, James Joyce), and the two major cathedrals (neither of which are Catholic).  The most interesting thing for me was to see how much philanthropy the Guinness family contributed to the city. Schools, housing, orphanages, church restorations, etc. It seemed like there was very little that they didn't build or support. Also, did you know the MGM Lion was from the Dublin Zoo? I didn't think so.

After the tour, I wandered back towards the hostel amazingly hungry. As I walked past Molloy's pub, I had a hunch that I might find the English guys inside, considering they'd have to be out of the hostel by now. So I poked my head in, and sure enough, there they were eating lasagna and French fries and drinking more beer. I had lunch with them, although they had claimed the last of the lasagna, so I was forced to have the other thing on the menu, a flavourless pork chop... and fries. 

I figured sitting in an pub, eating bland food, and drinking with some new friends was a good way to spend the last couple hours in Ireland, so I grabbed my bags from the hostel next door, and came back to sit with them for a while longer.  Conveniently, they had to fly out that afternoon as well so we all rode the bus to the airport together and had one last drink there before we parted ways. Of course, as soon as they were gone, my flight got delayed for nearly 3 hours.

I had another bite to eat, read my book, and wondered if there was anyway to contact Chris in Latvia to let him know I would be late. There was no internet in the terminal, and I didn't have a phone number for him, so I watched planes take off and land and waited to see how long it would be until I would fly away. As I sat there in the airport, it felt like it was time to go home. I had to shake my head to snap out of that thought. That's when it occurred to me that this trip was not going to be one big adventure, but seven individual ones.

It was supposed to be a 6pm flight, which was supposed to get in to Riga around 11pm, after a two-hour time change. It left around 8:30, which got me to Riga around 1 am.

RIGA

A few months before I left, I ran into a friend of mine at Mickey Fynns in Toronto. We were catching up and I mentioned I was going to Europe, and that I was planning on heading to Riga for the World Hockey Championships, at which point he told me that he was going to be there for Canadian Press. Later on he agreed to let me crash in his swanky Latvian hotel room for the two nights I was going to be in Riga. So after trading some emails, he knew when to expect me to show up at the Albert Hotel.

So there was Chris, sitting in the restaurant with other journalists waiting for me from about 11pm to sometime around 1 am. Probably around the same time that he decided I missed my flight and wasn't coming, I landed at RIX and got another stamp on my passport.  So about the same time that I was knocking on the door of room 905 at the Albert Hotel, he was out having a beer with some of the other media guys.

I checked at the desk and there was no key for me, and they couldn't let me in because I wasn't an official guest. So they called his room, knocked on his door, looked at the bar, the restaurant, and when it was absolutely certain that he wasn't around, they suggested I have a seat and wait for him to get back. For the record, the girl at the desk was extremely helpful and nice, and spoke perfect English and seemed genuinely upset that I was inconvenienced in my effort to crash in a free hotel room.

So around 1:30 am, I wandered down a deserted cobblestone street lined with casinos and eventually found Double Coffee, which was right where the girl at the hotel said it would be. The waitress didn't speak much English, but was able to understand "food" and brought me a menu, which thankfully had pictures on it. A club sandwich and a cup of coffee later, I paid the bill with a few Lats (which I had procured from a bank machine at the airport) and headed back to the hotel. As I walked in the front door, the girl behind the desk greeted me with a huge smile and handed me a key to room 905. Chris had returned.

I took my bags to 905 and let myself in. Chris was on the phone, but had ended his call by the time I put my bags down. We discussed the timing of things, and apologized to each other for not being around when each of us was looking for the other. He told me what he knew about Riga, how the tournament was going, and what his schedule was going to look like for the next two days. I'm not sure what time it was when we finally went to sleep, but it certainly didn't take me long to shut down.

The next morning we were up in time for the breakfast buffet, which included bacon and eggs, fresh fruit, coffee and juice. The eggs were a bit slimy, but the bacon and sausage was good. Right off the bat, it was clear to see that food in Latvia was going to surpass that of Ireland.

Chris and I walked over to the arena, where Canada and the US were both scheduled to practice. Chris had to do some interviews and I wasn't allowed to go in, so we made plans to meet back at the arena a short while later and I walked around the city on a beautiful sunny day. Riga is an interesting blend of old decorative architecture with a few stylish modern buildings mixed it. It was tough to navigate because all the streets look the same, and there are no obvious visible landmarks. I got a bit lost, but I found some neat statues in a nice park, and managed to make it back to the arena right on time.

Chris met me at the expected time, but had to run back in for a few more minutes to talk to one of the American players. We had a beer on the patio of the Barcelona Bar (about which there was nothing distinctly Spanish) and then walked through Old Riga, which was about a 10 minute walk from the hotel. The Freedom Monument just outside the old town is protected by armed guards who ceremoniously change every hour. It was the site of many demonstrations in the 80s and 90s for Latvian independence from the USSR and holds a deep significance for Latvian people. As the name implies, everything in Old Riga is a little more historic and some of it looks downright ancient, except for the girls who look like models.

In the middle of a square in Old Riga, there were two beer tents set up for to accommodate hockey fans. There was an army of Norwegian fans drinking in one, and an army of Danes in another. Denmark was playing Norway at 4:15 that day. I had tickets to that game, and to Canada-USA, which was scheduled after. After taking a few more pictures, we went back to the hotel.

Chris put on his suit and I got geared up in my Canada jersey. We went for lunch on a nice little patio by the hotel and had an amazing club sandwich and a beer. We walked back to the same arena where we had been before, and split up so Chris could go in the media entrance and I could go through the gate for regular people. On the way to my seat, I stopped by the souvenir shop and picked up a Canada scarf with the IIHF logo on it and an event program. I found Chris and we sat together for the Norway-Denmark game, which Norway won 5-2.

The interesting thing about the games in Riga was that beer was not allowed in the seats, only in the concourse and in the outdoor beer gardens. So in between periods, pretty much every single person in the arena goes outside for a beer or two (at 2 Lats, or about $4 CDN, each). It actually made it a much more social event, because everybody was standing or sitting at the picnic tables together and talking. A number of people approached me because of my Canada jersey and complimented me on Sidney Crosby or the general skill of our team. A few people wanted pictures with me.

Eventually, I started to meet more and more Canadians who were all getting excited for the next game. After the 2nd intermission, I was on my way back in when I stopped to get my picture taken with the tournament mascot, while Chris kept walking with some other Canadian guys. I didn't find him after that, and watched the 3rd period alone.

I met the rest of the Canadian fans back at the Barcelona Bar. The two guys who had been with Chris were there, and they said that Chris had gone to do work stuff. Eventually, about 15 people in Canada gear were drinking on the patio in what had now become spitting rain. This continued for an hour or two, or however long it was until the Canada-USA game started. And yes, I might have chugged a beer through a plastic horn before we left.

I sat with the two guys Chris and I had been talking to all day. We sat in the corner, almost even with the goal line that Canada was defending. There were smatterings of red and white all over the arena (most of the people who had been drinking with us moments before) although Canada came out in their black jerseys, which they had never lost while wearing.

The US scored in the first, and Canada trailed 1-0 at the intermission. As became the custom, the arena would empty to the beer garden and fans would mingle and take pictures. I only recall seeing one American jersey, but there were a number of non-Canadians wearing the Maple Leaf. One such person was a cute girl from Denmark who decided to watch the rest of the game with us.

Sidney Crosby scored in the 2nd period for Canada, which made me feel like some sort of sports landmark had been checked of my list. For some reason "Seeing Sidney Crosby Score a Goal" held more sporting significance that "Going to a Hockey Game in Latvia." Either way, the score was tied and all the Canadian fans were thrilled, when we reconvened outside the arena after the 2nd period.

At some point in the 3rd period, a puck flew down the stairway by our seats to the area under the bleachers. I took off as fast as I could and slipped at the top of the steps and slid down the rest of them on my hip. I bounced up and raced for the puck, as an arena security guard picked it up and put it in his pocket. Nobody else was even close. The dude stole my puck... and I had a massive bruise on my hip. A different security guard tried to throw me out because he thought my fall down the stairs was a sign that I was drunk and unruly, however, the same usher who had been forgetting to ask for our tickets all game came to my rescue and told him that I was just chasing a puck.

I joined my friends again in our seats and Brendan Shanahan scored a power play goal to put Canada ahead 2-1. That's how it would finish, and I sang the national anthem proudly, which got my face on the jumbotron for the 20th time that game.  (The next day, I realized this was the same feed that they were using on EuroSport TV, and that my face had probably been seen all over the continent that day. I'm not sure if I made it to Canada).

The party continued out of the arena, down the street to the Barcelona Bar where everyone was in good spirits. After a little while there, the Canadian crew moved out to Old Riga where the official tournament beer tents were. I stopped at the hotel and left a note for Chris saying "We're off to the old town, I'll be the drunk one in the town square," knowing full-well there would be hundreds in the square who might have enjoyed a little too much Aldaris.

Sure enough, when Chris found me I was dancing on a picnic table with about 15 other people from all countries. Swedes, Czechs, Latvians, Danes, Finns, Norwegians, Canadians, and the like... all dancing on picnic tables. So don't judge me.

Sometime around 4am some Finns asked if we wanted to go to a bar. As the excitement in the beer tent was waning, it sounded like a good idea, but Chris declined citing something about wanting to keep a job and having to interview the Latvian president. Of course I joined them, danced, and drank, and wandered back to the hotel well after the sun had been up for quite sometime.

I woke up at 4pm. I read some of Chris's book, watched a bit of tennis on TV, went to the rooftop café for a coffee, then returned to the room to pack my bags. I took a cab to the airport around 7pm, and sat down for the nicest dinner I could find, which turned out to be a steak with roasted vegetables in some sort of cream sauce, and a Coke that probably cost more than the steak. It was really good though, but only after I had to send the first one back because it was bright red in the middle... not pink, RED.

The flight to England was uneventful, except for the beautiful Latvian girl sitting in the same row. I'm quite sure she might have talked to me had her mother not been sitting between us. Mama Latvia could have destroyed me, and I'm sure she wouldn't have had to try too hard. So I got to admire silently and try to sleep as I flew into Stanstead, sometime around midnight.

LONDON

I flew into London for the second time in four days and got another stamp on the passport as I cleared customs at Stanstead. The bags seemed to take a while to arrive, but after the carousel started turning, my pack turned up fairly quickly and I headed through the gate to find my sister Diana, who was supposed to pick me up.  I had been in the terminal for about a minute when we found each other, and before long we were in the car with Jon heading to their friend's house in High Wycombe. I hadn't really looked at any maps so I really had no bearing in relation to where I was or which way I was going. Thank goodness the GPS computer was telling John Cleese to tell Jon where to go, and eventually we pulled into a driveway,which someone identified as Clive's.

After a cup of tea and a little chit chat, I slept on the couch in the living room surrounded by an impressive collection of DVDs and medieval weaponry. Seriously, there were several hundred movies from all genres, and a couple of swords and shields for good measure.

In the morning, Di made breakfast for all the boys and I enjoyed my eggs and sausage and whatnot. After a shower, I said goodbye to High Wycombe and we drove to Windsor Castle for a bit. We walked through the shops and around the edge of the massive ancient building but didn't go in. Impressive nonetheless. Apparently the Queen was there at the time, according to a flag flying in a particular place.

Then I got a bit silly. Having passed numerous signs for the village of Slough, I asked Jon and Di to take me through so I could have a look at it and try to pick out a building that I had seen on The Office, a hysterically funny BBC show that featured a paper company based in that town. After finding the round-about featured in the credit, I was satisfied and they dropped me at the Slough train station and minutes later I was on a train to Paddington Station in London.

I knew the hostel to which I was heading wasn't far from Paddington, and fortunately I guessed right on the direction. What I hadn't anticipated, however, was the fact that it was amazingly hot and ridiculously sunny. So by the time I had walked half a mile with a giant heavy bag, in jeans, and a long sleeved shirt, I was fairly sweaty. It was in this condition that I checked into the Astor Hyde Park Hostel.

Then it happened again. I walked into the hostel room (this one had eight beds) and as I put down my bag, a guy sitting on one of the beds said "So Hip It Hurts! You're from Toronto, eh?" I hadn't spoken, he hadn't seen my Canadian flag patch, but he recognized the logo on my shirt, which was from a store in Toronto, and was by now soaked with sweat. His name was Drew and he was from Milton, near Toronto.

As would become a trend for settling into a new place, all I really wanted to do was have a shower. I did that and felt 110% better. I changed into my shorts and a dry t-shirt and decided with Drew that we'd just go for a walk around Hyde Park. It was getting late in the afternoon and the sun was starting to get low, but it was still bright and warm. As we walked around the park, by joggers, bikers, football games, and baseball games, Drew started talking to a couple of random girls, who ended up walking and chatting with us for more than an hour. The whole time, we didn't come close to leaving the park... It's massive (but, for the record, the park in Dublin is much bigger).

One of the girls was actually a Canadian living in London, and the other was a homegrown English girl. We talked about things to see and do, good bars, life in our respective countries, and anything else that came up over the course of our walk, especially an odd inverted bicycle that was powered by a rowing motion.  Once we had circled around back to the north end of the park, we parted ways with the ladies and went to find a bite to eat. We went for shwarmas, which were amazing, then stopped at the convenience store across the street for snacks and a couple of beers, which Drew told me would be far cheaper than those found in the London bars.

We sat around in our hostel room and had our store-bought beer, and made conversation with two guys who had just arrived from Indiana on their way to Hungary to shoot a documentary on gypsies. We started talking about video production and it became clear to me that I knew more about it than they did. That being said, they found somebody to give them a grant to come shoot this thing, so good for them.

The hostel had it's own bar in the basement, so instead of heading out somewhere, we hung out down there and met people from all over the world. There were several Australians, my favourite being Tim, who loved talking about North American sports.  It was somebody's birthday so somebody bought shots, and we met some girls who I remember nothing about, except for the fact that we talked to them all night. Maybe I'll email Drew and ask him what he remembers...

He'd probably say, "Not much, except for climbing the fence into Hyde Park, chasing ducks, and climbing trees. Oh, and that guy spilled beer on me so my shirt was wet and then I wore your sweatshirt for a while. Oh yeah, and that girl completely wasn't into me."

Other than that, I ended up cutting my hands trying to pull off a "singing in the rain" maneuver with a lamppost, which turned out to be a lot more jagged than originally anticipated. Actually, I hadn't anticipated any jaggedness, because lampposts in Canada aren't stucco. I washed them, dabbed at them with toilet paper, and went to bed.

The next morning, I slept in a little bit. I showered and got dressed and grimaced anytime something brushed up against my hands. I checked my email and confirmed the fact that I was supposed to meet Nicola (my other sister's husband's sister) and Marcus (my other sister's husband's sister's boyfriend) in Leicester Square at 1pm that afternoon.

So, I took my pocket map of London, wandered the length of Hyde Park to the Marble Arch, then cut through the trendy shopping district and Picadilly Circus. I found Leicester Square without too much trouble, and was approached by Nicki and Marcus before I had even started to look for them. They had a day planned for me, which was revealed bit-by-bit, and would rely on a day pass on the Underground. The only thing I knew was that our first stop was going to be Bank, a tube stop near the Thames, Parliament, and across the river from the Millennium Eye.

After the short ride there, we walked across the Thames, past a number of street performers pretending to be statues, and towards the bottom of the Eye. We weren't going up in the giant Ferris Wheel, however, which made me happy. Everyone I had talked to said that it was a waste of time and money. So I was thrilled to see that we were going to be taking a boat tour instead. This was not a normal tour boat though. This was the speedboat tour.

We had to wait a half hour before the boat was loading so we sat in a nearby park until it was time. We got our life jackets, hopped in the orange boat, stuffed out bags under our seats. The boat could really only comfortably seat 8 or 10 people, and I think our boat left with seven and two crew. As we ferried out into the middle of the Thames, the driver/tour guide explained that we couldn't go fast all the time because of speed restrictions and other tour boats, but that we shouldn't worry because we'd still have fun. We made a little loop toward Parliament and Big Ben, before turning around and navigating the Thames all the way up to Greenwich.

Of course, once we made it under the London Bridge (not the Tower Bridge), the driver took the speed up a notch or thirty and bombed it down the river, zig-zagging, doing loops around other boats, then catching air off their wakes. It was like a ride at an amusement park, although I'm sure there was more garbage in the Thames than in all of your average amusement park. It was quite obvious that people in the slow-moving barge-style boats were thinking, "Hey, that looks like way more fun that this."

After we had made it to Greenwich and back, our wise-cracking captain pulled into port and let us out where he had picked us up. We walked up the river to the Tate Modern, which is a gallery for modern art named after a man named Tate. As usual with modern art, there was some interesting stuff and some absolute trash. I did, however, get to see some Picassos and a famous Dali painting which I've always enjoyed.  After enjoying the free exhibits, we went to the café on the roof for a cup of coffee. From there, we were treated to a lovely view of St. Paul's Cathedral on the other side of the Thames.

We walked across the Millennium Bridge to St. Paul's and hopped on the tube somewhere else. Unfortunately I can't remember the name of that area of town, but there were a lot of restaurants and bars, and a load of businessmen standing on the street drinking glasses of beer. It was a bizarre sight, considering Canada's somewhat strict liquor laws, but there were no patios, no chairs, no enclosures... just a bunch of guys with pint glasses in the street.

The three of us did not drink in the street. Instead we found a restaurant and sat down for dinner. It was nice to get off our feet for more than a few minutes, but later on I realized just how much we spent on a couple of average burgers and drinks. 22 GBP for two burgers, two fries, and three pops. Considering the exchange rate is somewhere near 2.1, that's nearly $45 Canadian for something that would have cost $25 or less in Toronto.

After dinner, the three of us hopped back on the tube and rode it north to Chalk Farm, which is near Camden. We were off to a place called Barfly to see some bands play. We stopped at a local pub first because we were early, then walked down the street to the club when the music was scheduled to start. A band called Seeing Scarlet was the opening act, and they were much better than the other guys (some crazy group from Wisconsin). I would have bought a CD from the first group, but they didn't have any for sale. On a tangent... I found that these English people don't seem to dance or "bop" as much to the music, which was quite upbeat and fun. I was grooving a bit, but everybody else in the packed bar was standing still.

As the second group was finishing up, Nicki and Marcus decided they had to leave so they could catch their train home. I was kinda sleepy so I wasn't going to argue, so we caught the subway and said goodbye, but not before I piggybacked Nicky and her sore feet down a 200 step spiral staircase, which prompted a very bizarre inner-monologue. "Wow... You can really tell she rides horses from the way she piggybacks."
 
After they headed off on their own train, I found my way back to the hostel and wandered down to the bar, where we had hung out the night before. Many of the same people were there, including Tim, who had spent the day sneaking into watch cricket at Leeds. It sounded like a good story and he had the time of his life. A few drinks later and I turned in fairly early.

On my last full day in London, I had no real plans other than to find a store that my sister had told me about and do some shopping. Other than that, I walked around a lot with a guy from the hostel named Joel and talked about music mostly. I figure I walked almost 8 miles that day from the hostel, to the Thames, around Whitechapel (unsuccessfully trying to find the Ten Bells, a pub famous from the Jack the Ripper murders), around the Tower of London, and then again around Picadilly Circus after shopping.

With massively tired legs, I picked up a microwave pizza from the mini-mart and ate it at the hostel. I sat down in the common area, borrowed a newspaper from a South African girl, and learned a little bit about how things are in that country. I talked to her for a little bit, but went to bed early because I had to get up at 6am to catch a flight the next morning. I turned my phone on for the first time in a week to use as an alarm clock, and chatted with some Australians. After a chat about The Da Vinci Code and things to do in Paris, I went to bed convinced that I would have to see the Eiffel Tower at night.

Around 5am London time, my phone started to beep at me, which woke me up. I looked at the time and realized that it wasn't time for me to get up yet, but apparently somebody was sending me text messages. It was Chris Roberts, and it was midnight on a Saturday in Toronto. No, I wasn't awake. And no, I wasn't going to call. The alarm went off as planned an hour later.
I had done most of my packing the night before, so I really just had to throw the last couple pieces in. My little backpack was actually a piece of the larger one, so I snapped them back together and threw it on my back, checked out of the hostel, and walked along the north end of Hyde Park to Notting Hill Gate. A short ride on the Tube and I was at Liverpool Street Station. A few minutes and 15 GBP later, I was on the Stanstead Express to the airport.

Stanstead is a major hub for RyanAir, so they have huge number of check-in desks, which are sorted by destination. Of course to complicate things, Girona was checking in next to Genoa, and people going to Barcelona fly to Girona, and not Genoa, which is in Italy. I managed to find the right line, check in with little fanfare, then make my way through airport security in what was becoming a remarkably routine fashion.  I found a cup of coffee and a croissant and waited for the Girona gate to be announced, while browsing in the duty free shops.

Once the gate is announced, a tram comes by the terminal and takes you to your gate. I was on the tram heading to my gate when a couple who didn't speak much English asked an airport worker how to find a certain gate. As the tram pulled away from the gate the guy told them that this didn't go there, and they needed to go back to the terminal and get on a different tram. Of course, they didn't understand him and hilarity ensued. He was unimpressed but did his job and notified his airport buddies that there were a couple people who were going to be late for their flight to Genoa.

Before I knew it, we were landing in Spain. As the plane descended, we wobbled massively left and right, dropped so that my stomach landed in my throat four or five times, then wobbled some more as we headed towards the runway. I love flying, and I don't generally get concerned about these things, but I must have looked a bit worried because the Spanish girl next to me looked at me and said, "What do you want? It's cheap!" She was right, and all that aside, we landed the plane and once again RyanAir had succeeded in moving me around Europe at discount prices.

Where to begin…

I'm currently in the Vancouver airport. An incredibly old Disney cartoon called “Touchdown Mickey” is showing on the plasma TV above me to my right. My jeans are rubbing over the wound on my right knee, which causes me a little jolt of pain every time I move my leg, but I consider it to be a gentle reminder of the best vacation ever. Oh, and my flight to Whitehorse has been delayed.

CHAPTER 1: THURSDAY, GOOD START

13 days ago, I was in the Toronto airport. Hell, six hours ago I was in the Toronto airport, but that's not the point of this story. 13 days ago, I was with Leigh, Josh, and Jen at the Toronto airport. We had taken a cab to Terminal 3 in the afternoon, sat at one of the airport bars for a little while. I shot some video on my little camera, which was getting its first look at a trip away from Toronto. Sadly, it would not return alive.

Jen was sick. Her nose was stuffy, and her head was cloudy. You could tell just by talking to her. She was committed to beating the illness, however, and was chugging the fluids like she'd never see water again. Who knows if it did anything for her cold, but I can say with absolute certainty that she must have peed 94 times before we left the terminal. Even as rows 5-15 were boarding the plane, Josh was waiting outside the ladies room for Jen, while Leigh and I looked on, half laughing, half worried we'd miss our flight.

In the midst of this hysteria, we managed to miss two other young couples make a mad dash towards the gate and board the flight. Who can blame us? With all the distraction of college girls heading to Cancun for a drunken hedonistic humpfest called “Spring Break,” a chubby lady sitting on a chubby fellow's lap and rubbing with a little too much vigour, and of course the mystery of why someone was taking a skateboard to Cuba, our mind and eyes were unfortunately otherwise occupied.

Yes, Cuba. That was where we were headed. Two boys, two girls, and 55 kilos of luggage were going to spend a week drinking, dancing, sunning, swimming, and of course, drinking. Now, I'm sure you're asking yourself, “How can 55 kilos of luggage drink, dance, sun, swim, and of course, drink?” If you even have to ask that question, you've obviously never traveled with Leigh. I've never actually seen them, but I'm quite sure she travels with Oompa Loompas who help her pick out outfits each morning. That's the only possible explanation she'd need a bag of that size. While I'm thinking about it, what colour does an Oompa Loompa turn when he tans, anyway?

But I digress… Jen managed to find her way back to the washroom in time for us to get on the plane, and we gladly took our seats in Row 2, which I believe is Spanish for “all the leg room you could possibly ask for.” I think Leigh was asleep before we left the ground, Josh was face down in a book, and Jen was likely peeing again because the whole trip was fairly uneventful, except that I was fairly unimpressed by the “critically acclaimed” in-flight movie Sideways, and that Jen's head almost exploded as the pressure changed on our decent

The landing in Santiago de Cuba was a little bit rough, but anytime I can climb down the stairs from a plane and walk across the tarmac, I feel like a rock star, so all was forgiven. We cleared customs and grabbed our bags, although Leigh managed to get cut off by a lady in a wheelchair and her entourage, which held her back for several minutes behind us (For the record, that lady in the wheelchair was later seen running on the beach, climbing rock walls, doing keg-stands, and taking part in some sort of unsanctioned Cuban kickboxing match for the elderly).

We found our guide, found our bus, and found our seats. Our bus found the resort, and then we found the bar. We grabbed a drink, and explored a bit trying to find all the wonderful things we had seen in the pictures. Unfortunately it was dark, and we had no idea where anything was, so that didn't really happen. Jen turned in early, and Josh said he'd be back to the room after “one more drink.”

Then something happened that changed us all.

While waiting in line at the Pool Bar, someone started talking to someone they didn't know. I'd share more details, but frankly I don't recall exactly what happened. Minutes later, however, Leigh, Josh, and I were sitting down by the pool with Barrett, Chris, Natalie, and Krista… aka the four passengers running through the airport in Toronto. It was truly bizarre. Within minutes of talking to these four, I knew for sure that I'd get along with all of them. Within an hour of talking to these four, I knew I had found the people who would keep us entertained all week. And the best part was, I had a feeling they found us pretty entertaining too, which was a brilliant turn of events.

I can almost pinpoint the moment at which I knew we were going to have a fun week together. Three guys who were on our flight jumped into the pool and started splashing around excited (or possibly epileptic) children. Then, an exchange took place that made all parties involved chuckle…

BRIAN: It's like they've never seen water before.

CHRIS: ( mocking) She's a not FROZEN!

 BRIAN: (mocking) It is… it is…a fuck!

The fact that he made me laugh out loud and I immediately returned the favour was a good sign. And the fact that the girls jumped in on the making-fun-of-people action by ripping on an old lady on their bus who thought she'd had her wallet stolen, just made me giddy that we'd founded the Bucanero Sarcastic Bastards Club so early in the week.

Well, after about eight more Pina Coladas, or Daiquiris, or Cuba Libras, etc. we had explored the whole resort, this time finding all the things on the website including the lagoon, the Swiss Family Robinson hut, the tennis court, the Pool Bar. Of course, the Pool Bar was one of the first things we saw, but we stayed near it for a while to make sure that it was up to snuff. Apparently it was. We also found the disco bar, which was closed, but protected by a high tech security device called a “roof.” While trying to sneak into it, the roof saw me coming and cracked me on the head.

As we continued exploring, we came across some of the local wildlife. The crabs were everywhere on the sidewalks, and there were just as many dead ones within feet of the sidewalks. With the power of Havana Club pulsing through me, I was sure I could pick up one of these little buggers. And pick one up, I did. And pinch me, he did. So we went back to the Pool Bar and I tried to sterilize the wound with alcohol… from the inside out. I think we finally called it quits around 4 am, although I have no actual record of this.

CHAPTER 2: FRIDAY, WE BOOKED A BOAT

I woke up the next morning with surprisingly little problem. We had a briefing to attend with the tour company representative, Fidel. Yes, a guy from Cuba named Fidel. We weren't sure if it was funny or just a piece of social commentary, and we decided not to ask. We met up with the other four, who were from Peterborough incidentally, and introduced Jen, just to prove that she did, in fact, exist, and that Josh and I didn't actually share Leigh in some sort of bizarre love triangle.

After hearing a bunch of different people tell us about all the wonderful things Cuba had to offer, we headed back to the pool deck, which conveniently just steps from the Pool Bar. And while seated at the Pool Bar, we were offered a private sailboat trip for our group instead of a scheduled trip on a scheduled day. Of course we had to pay for it, but a private boat for eight people sounded pretty friggin' awesome. Our little group was starting to separate itself from the rest by being younger, louder, and way better looking. And now, we had a private boat.

Now, as great as a private boat sounds, it does present a set of problems. For one, upon finding out that you have a private boat, instantly want to be ON your private boat. The second being that as soon as alcohol is introduced into the equation, suddenly everybody and their brother knows about the boat, and a few lucky ones actually get invited. Not to single anyone out, but Barrett and Natalie had some issues with this second problem.

Just like the night before, we decided to go for a walk after a few drinks. Again, we made it down to the beach bar, which overlooked a beautiful lagoon and a sandy (though slightly rocky) beach. The view was incredible. Mountains on one side, palm trees and sand at the bottom of the cliffs, and a wavy blue bay surrounded by jagged black rocks below that. Oh, and the sun was shining, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. I was starting to miss snowy wet Toronto already.

All this sitting around and enjoying the view, got us a little worked up for some physical activity. The stage was set for the first in a series of water polo games between the Toronto faction and the Peterborough folks. We played 3-on-3, with Jen sparing for the P-dot crew. Leigh, Josh, and I took a nice big lead, but ended up blowing most of it, before winning 11-10. Rematches were called for, and accepted, and the stage was again set… for another day. Celebratory drinks were had. And then the losers got a round. And then the winners got a round. And then somebody else did….

And then we were recruited by George (Jorge?) to play volleyball. And for some reason, they suggested that we wear shoes on the sand court. We were all drunk enough that they could have asked us to wear togas, and we would have shown up in bed sheets. Regardless, we grabbed our shoes and made our way to the court. After stumbling around quite a bit, I eventually found my volleyball legs, and was getting the respect I deserved with my El Capitan hat. After Cuba killed Canada in the first game, sides were mixed up, and El Drunken Capitan was playing with mostly Cubans. El Drunken Krista managed to dive for a ball and cut a chunk of her knee off on what was called “razorsand” from that point forward.

Taking my cue from her, I managed to dive for a ball, and cut a bigger chunk of my right knee off and bleed profusely. Not pretty at all, at least I was on the winning team that time. Of course, I now had another injury to go along with the previous night's head wound. This would become a running theme for the week.

After a short nap and a shower, the Elite-8 reconvened for dinner. Actually the Toronto four did, then Chris and Natalie showed up a while later. And then as we were leaving Barrett and Krista walked in. Apparently, they made the switch to Peso Time a little sooner than everyone else. It didn't matter though. All we were going to do was drink until the entertainment started, and then go to the disco. So we waited for them to eat, then headed back to our favourite spot by the pool and took turns grabbing drinks for everyone.

At 9:30, the show started at the stage by the pool. This was our first taste of what the week's entertainment would be like. There was some dancing, some sketches, some singing, and nothing to crazy special. And if I didn't like the people in the show and know that they worked really hard to make every night different and interesting, I'd probably be a lot harsher with my review. But it was a good way to kill an hour, and it finished with the Boomba dance, which is never a bad thing.

So we had a few more drinks, then headed down to the discotheque and beach bar. There was a lot of drinking and dancing and good times, but I don't recall too much specific beyond that. I think Josh and Jen gave up early in the interests of self-preservation. After a bunch of dancing and drinking, we closed the discotheque around 2 am and wandered back to the Pool Bar for a nightcap or two. After enough nightcaps, we decided that the night was done and that we should symbolize that by ringing the big bell that hung in the middle of the resort. I gave it a good crack with my knuckles and managed to get a pretty good gong out of it. Barrett decided to ring it with his forehead and didn't get much in the ways of results. Success, however, comes with a price. Barrett's head is fine. My knuckles however are still scabbed over as I look at them here in the Vancouver airport. For those of you scoring at home, that's a head wound, a bloody knee, and three skinned knuckles… and my plane has been delayed three times already tonight.

CHAPTER 3: SATURDAY, A DATE WHICH WILL LIVE IN INFAMY

I don't recall making it up for breakfast on Saturday morning, which was not a surprise by any means. Again, though, I woke up with no sign of trouble, threw on some shorts, and headed down to the Pool Bar with Leigh. We picked at a hot dog and fries for breakfast, and washed it down with some Bucanero Beer. At least I did, Leigh might have been drinking something fruity.

Bucanero Beer, for the record, is actually really good beer. Good thing too, because it was the only kind they had.

So while, the group started to materialize, Alex (a guy who worked at the resort) grabbed Josh and challenged him to a game of horseshoes. Then, Chris and Barrett played against Josh and me. Then someone played against someone else, and the Bucanero Beer kept being free so we took advantage.

At some point in this impromptu horseshoe tournament, Barrett and I had a nice long chat with Alex about Cuba, the lifestyle, his job, the people, and learned quite a bit about the place. He also offered to hook us up with some cigars, which sounded like a great deal to us. So Josh, Barrett, and I all ordered a box of Monte Cristo #4s, which were to be delivered on Monday. All for the low, low, price of 25 Convertible Pesos. That's about $33 Canadian for a box of cigars that goes for about $450 in Canada.

So after scoring a deal with the cigars, we took the Party Posse down to the beach to snorkel. Someone had the bright idea to take the paddleboat out so we could use it like a raft while people were snorkeling. Made sense, because it was my idea. So we threw the cameras (including my video camera, which was getting used quite a bit) on to the boat and started out to sea. Before we could get 15 feet from shore a big wave washed over the top of the boat, swiping Natalie right off, and soaking my video camera to an irreparable state, and making it impossible to even get the tape out.

It surprised me how little I cared. I think I was so set on having a really fun vacation, and doing so well at it so far, that I wasn't going to let anything like a busted camera or repeated injury bring me down. So I went snorkeling and cut my leg on some corral while chasing a fish. Yes, another injury. I didn't care.

We grabbed a traveler from the bar upstairs and headed back for lunch, seeing crabs, iguanas, and other lizards along the way. Lunch as usual consisted of a variety of meats, a salad bar, fresh bread, but nothing too crazy special, and certainly nothing that was going to make too excited to eat either.

So, after our limited lunch, we head back to the Pool Bar, which pretty much became par for the week. So after a load of drinks, some hanging out by the pool, and a few games of horseshoes, somehow the afternoon was spent and it was time for dinner.

By this point, nicknames and catch phrases were starting to develop. El Capitan, Paris, Junk in the Trunk, and Splotch Adams had already stuck, however more were on the way. The all-purpose-accent (APA) had also made several appearances and we had all been “off the tracks” more than once thus far. The gang was coming together, and a name had begun to stick. I admit, I ripped it off from The Simpsons' boyband episode, but we took it, ran with it, and made it our own. The Party Posse was going strong.

We met for dinner again around 7:00, although again some of the party showed up late. And by some of the party, I mean Leigh and I, which led people to make some pretty improper assumptions. I will neither repeat, confirm, nor deny these accusations, for they are all lies, lies, lies… except for the people who guessed right.

So after dinner, we reconvened around the Pool Bar as per usual, until the entertainment started. There was a show, but I don't recall much entertainment. I do recall several drinks, and an ensuing shout of “Party Posse, OUT!!” as we headed down to the discotheque.

So there was more dancing, more drinking, etc. And then the discotheque closed.

By the end of the night, Chris, Barrett and I found ourselves at the Pool Bar sometime around 5 am. Amazingly, we were being somewhat loud and silly. We were actually officially “off the tracks.” To cap the evening off, Chris managed to get cut-off at a 24-hour all-inclusive resort, to which he replied “Nnooh!” Apparently, the locals are defenseless to the APA because Chris had a new drink seconds later.

CHAPTER 4 : SUNDAY- SO YOU WANNA BE A COWBOY

The crew still managed to meet for breakfast the next morning, and I had what was quite possible the finest omelet of my life. So with the day started on the right foot, we decided to pace ourselves for a bit by drinking by the pool and tanning. We had a big day ahead of us, so sitting and drinking by the pool and tanning seemed to be the only reasonable way to prepare for it.

After lunch, everybody headed back to their rooms to get changed for the day's primary excursion… a three-hour horseback ride through the mountains.

Of course, none of us was trained in the ways of horses. In fact, one of us was deathly afraid of horses. One of us ended up riding a donkey. One of us ended up riding a horse with a major attitude problem. One of us had a horse on cruise control. One of us dressed like a cowboy just for the hell of it. And of course, every horse and donkey had a name.

So with out any instruction, direction, or even a guide that spoke a word of English, we trotted out by the shore, across a beach, through a village, and up into the mountains. Barrett didn't say a word for about an hour, Natalie's horse wasn't a horse, Krista's horse felt like kicking everybody, Chris's horse didn't require any instruction at all, and dressing like a cowboy actually makes you feel more like a cowboy.

For the most part we just walked up and down the trails, but a couple times we broke in to a little trot. Josh, Leigh, and I seemed to be the only ones ambitious enough to do that on purpose and for a few seconds Josh and I were neck and neck coming down the stretch, until our Spanish-speaking-only guide clicked at us enough time that we slowed down.

About half way through the trip, we stopped at a little cantina by a giant pool… which was literally in the middle of nowhere. It was perhaps the most bizarre thing in all of Cuba. Just a giant pool with a bar, in the middle of the mountains, with no signs pointing to it, no signs of civilization near by, only 82 steps down a path from the road. We got a drink of water, trudged back up 82 steps until we got back on our horses/donkey.

Then we went farther up into the mountains, up and down windier, narrower, steeper trails. After one particularly long, steep, treacherous, decline with a very steep cliff on our left side (for the majority of which I was riding directly in front of El Clicky McGee our Spanish guide), he motions to me to stop and get off the horse. I'm sure he's about to tell me that I am an expert rider and that my handling of Rusty down such a steep and dangerous trail was magnificent, and likely due to my borrowed cowboy hat.

Instead, he gets off his horse and approaches Rusty. He reaches down under the saddle and pulls up a strap that has worn right through and has been hanging below my horse for the whole length of the steep decent alongside the steeper ridge. Apparently, this saddle could have fallen off at any point, but he didn't feel the need to say anything until we hit the flat, safe, end of the ride. I could have killed him. I really could have.

After El Clicky McGee roped up my saddle with an extra piece of shoelace, the race was on back to get to the ranch. After another hour, all of us had amazingly sore asses and thighs, as the Party Posse entered the Bucanero Corral. We all agreed that it was a great trip, and we'd do it again, but we'd like it to be about an hour shorter.

After dismounting, disembarking, and distancing ourselves from our equine companions, we split up for a bit and showered the horse stench away, got changed, and ready for dinner. Everybody looked quite lovely, especially the fellas. Dinner was mediocre, as usual, and of course it was followed, as usual, by a trip to the Pool Bar, as usual.

The night's entertainment consisted of a synchronized swimming team, which consisted of a bunch of hot girls with tight buns, and a bunch of muscular guys wearing gold unitards. All their credibility as muscular men was lost as soon as the gold unitards made their first appearance. Of course we felt the need to mock, and this time we were joined by our new Australian friends Peter and Melinda.

The Aussies seemed to have a knack for world travel and a million good stories to tell. For whatever reason, they found us as entertaining as we found them, and they became honourary members of the Party Posse, when they joined us for more drinks and a trip to the discotheque… but not before a few games of Giant Connect-4.

Now, in the words of our urban friends, the discotheque was OFF THE HOOK. And of course, we eventually rode the Havana Club train right OFF THE TRACKS. And as we did so, the hilarity ensued. We played New Rule for a little while, danced for a little while, celebrated the official turn of the clock for Leigh's Birthday, and took a load of pictures.

Half of the Posse stayed up late at the Pool Bar again until sometime around 5am, and after a load of more drinks, everybody who needed help walking home got help, and everybody who didn't fell over along the way.

Not true. I made it back to my room in one piece… with no new injuries to speak of, other than some sore inner thighs. And a new cut on my toe, which, I think was a result trying to climb a mountain in flip-flops.

CHAPTER 5: GO HARD MONDAY / I SURVIVED LEIGH-25!!

I had the good fortune of starting Leigh's Official 25 th Birthday with another wicked omelet. I think I raved about it for a couple hours. By the end of the week, everybody was raving about the omelet. I feel like I set a trend.

We got Leigh started early, heading straight to the Pool Bar for some drinks. Then we sat by the pool and drank… and drank… and did the Boomba dance, which became our new favourite thing for the rest of week.

Jorge rounded a few of us up for a game of volleyball in the pool, so Peter, Barrett, Josh, and I took our beers to the swim-up bar and showed the rest of the countries how you play pool volleyball. Jorge was having a blast giving us the play-by-play while Joel made some very questionable calls from the ref's chair. Either way, we won. So we celebrated by having a few more drinks at the Pool Bar, and making sure that Leigh was having her birthday share.

After delivering Leigh's drink, I ended up standing dripping wet by the pool when MC Hammer's “Can't Touch This” started to play. I couldn't help it. That song makes me dance. So I busted some wicked moves to the point where everybody (including the Cuban entertainers) was laughing pretty hard and a few people congratulated me on a job well done. One guy said I should get an agent. I took that as a compliment, but later in the week realized that the guy who said it was a complete and utter nutbar (the illiterate from Windsor, England). Somehow, we found enough money to buy more drinks.

Lunch was a sad affair. Peter and Melinda were scheduled to ship out in the afternoon so our time with them was running out. To make it as memorable as possible, we did the roller coaster with our lunch table, which involves banging on the table and letting the silverware rattle around. Peter said he was going to use it with his rugby buddies, which made me proud.

We headed back to the Pool Bar (do you sense a pattern developing?). We got Leigh a few more drinks. Of course, we weren't drinking. It's Leigh's birthday we couldn't possibly try to keep up with her… whaaaaaaat? We kept up. We played horseshoes, enjoyed our last few hours with the Aussies, and made sure Leigh was having a good birthday.

Then things got a little shady. Alex (our horseshoe instructor) said that the goods we ordered had arrived, so we trotted off to Josh's room to receive our box of Cuban Cigars at discount prices. Josh, Barrett and I each got our box of Monte Cristo 4s, which excited us dearly. We got it for $25 convertible pesos because Alex's friend apparently smuggles them out of the factory, but we weren't complaining. They are very nice cigars, and opening my own box was a very cool experience.

We shared our new treasures with Peter before he and Melinda caught their taxi. We took some pictures and watched them get in van and drive away. I couldn't help myself and chased after them… to no avail. When I got back to the group, Leigh had “25” written on her back in cigar ash, which was a brilliant sign of things to come.

Monday's theme for dinner was “Dress Up for Leigh's Birthday” and we must have looked good because people thought somebody was getting married. Minstrels came to sing her happy birthday. Did I mention everyone looked hot?

So then there was some Pool Bar time, some lousy entertainment, and then more drinks. We kept Leigh's drinks coming, all the way down to the discotheque, then we played New Rule, and drank, and danced. If I'm not mistaken, at one point there were a bunch of bare asses hanging out the pants of people in the Party Posse, but I can't be sure. Then there were some people who got picked up off the ground. Then somebody grabbed some ass. Then somebody got kissed. Leigh's birthday was a success.

But it wasn't over yet. Well, not for everyone at least. Leigh, however, needed to turn in before some people… who were kind enough to visit her a couple hours later while she was in a groggy sleep. We said, “LEIGH!!” And she said:

I AM!!

…which made us laugh very hard. The rest of the night was drinking and more hijinks.

CHAPTER 6: TAKE IT EASY TUESDAY

Believe it or not, Leigh started slowly. I can't imagine why, but she didn't really move much until I had gotten up a couple times, gone for a long walk, and come back a couple times. By this time, breakfast was over, so it was deep fried hotdogs and fries for me, while Leigh, for whatever reason, didn't feel like eating much.

Chris and Natalie joined us at the Pool Bar, and then the rest of the crew showed up. After a bit of sunning and tanning, Water Polo beckoned. We played 2 on 2, at least until a weirdo French guy invited himself into our game and eventually mounted me from behind and tried to hump me out of scoring a goal. It didn't work. I scored, but my cries of “WHO IS THIS GUY?” were left unanswered.

After lunch, we played some horseshoes, which was a little less exciting than usual, because the alcohol wasn't flowing so freely today. After all, it was Take-it-Easy-Tuesday, and we were taking a break from the mayhem to relax for a day. Everybody was drinking water, or lime-soda, or beer.

Okay, so what if we slipped a few drinks into Take-it-Easy-Tuesday.

We went to the beach. And while half the crew went out to snorkel and take underwater pictures, the other half sat on the beach and enjoyed the sun and drink pina coladas. A euchre game broke out, more pina coladas were consumed, and iguanas invited themselves to our table to drink. Jen and Josh won the first game, but I think Krista and I won the next two.

For the first time all week, we all showed up to dinner sober, which was a different sort of experience. Licky the Dog showed up to greet us as usual.

And then the whole crew called it quits. Even before the entertainment started, we were just done. The whole Party Posse vetoed the show, and went to bed.

CHAPTER 7: WEDNESDAY SUPPOSED TO BE WACKY AND WILD

The whole point behind Take-it-Easy Tuesday was to be of sound mind and body for the Party Posse Private Boat Ride Extravaganza, which was to take place on Wednesday. To start Wet, Wild, and Wacky Wednesday, Krista made some wakeup calls (two for me!) and we all met for breakfast, which for the third time in the week consisted of a wicked omelet.

Everybody wandered down to the beach to meet our boat, which was anchored a little ways off shore. A motorboat picked us up on the beach and taxied us out to the sailboat, which was sweet. The eight of us took our spots on the boat and enjoyed the waves, the sun, and the view of the mountains on the shore.

Actually, seven of us did that, and one of us sat absolutely still, doing her best not to puke her guts out from the seasickness. Jen was not feeling too hot, and she let everybody know it by yakking a stomachful into the Caribbean. The rest of us tried to not get splashed and took a lot of pictures of each other drinking beers from the cooler.

After about an hour of boating, we stopped and anchored for a while. Everybody, including Pukey McYakster, threw on the flippers and the snorkel masks and fluttered around in the water for a while. There wasn't too much to look at in the ways of fish, but the water was very clear and we did see a few colourful little fellas.

Back on the boat, the boys drank a few more Bucanero Beers while the girls sat in the sun and tried not to puke anymore (some more so than others). The view on the way into the bay of Santiago was breathtaking and the giant fortress overlooking it was also pretty impressive.

We had lunch at a little place on the bay, where we had four choices: Fish, fish, beef, or pork. The soundtrack for our meal was a Spanish album of Beatles songs, which I liked quite a bit, but never found out the name of. After our dessert ice cream was done, we fought off all the people trying to sell us shells, and we boarded another boat, and ferried across the bay, where a bus was waiting for us.

The Party Posse was about to hit the streets of Santiago de Cuba, which, by the way, was founded by Germans in 1515. We got dropped in the center of town, by a lovely square in front of a giant old church. We stepped off the bus and were promptly accosted by locals asking for our clothes, our money, or trying to show us around for tips. After shaking the first crowd, we tried to explore some of the side streets where local wares could be purchased.

Every time we stopped, however, another local would try to weasel some money out of us by giving us a tour, offering cigars or rum at discount prices, etc. One fellow in particular followed us around for blocks until we were essentially running away from him. It was extremely stressful. Everybody started to get uptight and snappy, which was the only time all week that anybody was less that cordial. Josh was the only cordial one, and the locals took advantage of that fact by chatting him up as they followed us.

After a short time of wandering the narrow streets and alleys and avoiding hustlers and motorcycle traffic, we finally decided to abandon the exploring, and head to a nice hotel in the center of town. At the rooftop bar, my rum & coke cost the same as a bottle of water, which is a sure sign that Santiago is my kind of town… if you disregard the hustlers and beggars.

After our drinks were finished, we headed back to our bus. After an elderly lady grabbed at our clothes one last time, we pulled away as she practically pressed her face against the window and screamed. A 20-minute nap later, we were pulling up the driveway of Club Bucanero and happy to be back.

We celebrated our safe return by playing a game of water polo, and again switching up the teams. Considering it was our last night, everybody tried hard to make it count. After a series of drinks poolside, we took a quick break to change the clothes, and head back for our last dinner.

Dinner for the 7th night in a row was less than spectacular, but we had gotten used to it. There was a band playing to entertain us during dinner, and because I was unable to find a nice guitar to buy in town, I felt the need to redeem myself by performing for everybody who would listen. I borrowed a guitar from one of the two guitaristas, and played “Hotel California” while the bass player, bongo guy, and the rest joined in. My voice was strained from a week of screaming, cigars, and laughing, but I didn't care all that much. I had fun.

The only thing was, just before I sang my song, my stomach decided that it wasn't very happy. I hadn't had too much to drink, and I hadn't eaten anything different, but my gut was clearly debating something, and I was unsure of what the verdict was going to be. I tried to ignore it, and did for quite a while, until about the time the entertainment started. I thought that I was about to lose my lunch, so I took a little walk back to the room, and Leigh came back to take a nap.

Nothing happened. But I did feel better. So I left Leigh sleeping, and rejoined the group. Of course, about 15 minutes later, I started feeling the same way again. Again, I headed back to the room and managed to empty some of the tainted goods, in the more pleasant of the two most popular methods. I felt better, again.

I rejoined the party. And as the night progressed, my trips to and from the party became more frequent and every time I'd get some more trouble out of me. Eventually, I puked… and again, I felt better. By the time, the party was about ready to move down to the discotheque around midnight, I was stumbling along trying not to upset my stomach any further.

Krista, who had been fairly sedate over the course of the week, had chosen Wednesday as her "night to shine." She was in fabulous spirits and was doing her best to encourage all of the people around her to keep up. And I tried my best.

As we wandered down to the discotheque, my mysterious stomach bug had resurfaced so many times that it was beginning to wear on me. I kept coming back to the party though, which surprised everyone, but finally it was time to shut'er down. Chris told me to go to bed, I didn't debate much, and only Krista seemed truly disappointed that I couldn't answer the bell. The rest of the crew also seized the opportunity to call it a night, except for Krista and Barrett who partied until the wee hours.

I went to bed, but continued to visit the washroom quite frequently. I wasn't feeling so hot. Popular consensus was that I had a nice little case of sunstroke. And my stomach didn't let me forget it until about 8am the following morning.

CHAPTER 8 – THIRSTY THURSDAY

Leigh and I made it up for breakfast, but I passed on my usual omelet and stuck to a piece of bread. I sipped a cup of water, and paced myself until I felt able enough to eat a deep-fried hotdog later in the day. The crew showed up and we got primed to enjoy our last day by the pool. Apparently Krista had gone on shining for quite some time after we left her. Photographic evidence would later show that Barrett picked up a dog (literally) and that Krista's face had been vandilized after returning to her room... but who could have done it? Who had a key?

Sometime around 11:00 I felt well enough to have a beer, and play a game of horseshoes. We played another game of water polo and drank a few more banana daiquiris until it was officially time to eat our last lunch. As we choked down our bread and salad, and drank our drinks, we decided that sitting in the shade and drinking banana daiquiris until the bus showed up to get us was a good plan. Darryl and Katherine joined the party, and by the time we were done, there were more than 50 empty cups on the table. Everybody had tried to drown the sorrow of going home, and some people were quite successful.

As we huddled in the lobby, and grabbed our bags, the manager of the hotel asked Barrett for $5 because apparently he had stolen a towel. There was a bit of a commotion, Barrett threatened that we would never return and threw in a “Nnnoh!” for good measure. He paid the 5 convertible pesos just to make them happy, but after a week of good times, we were left with a sour taste in our mouths.

The bus to the airport felt more like a thrill ride as we zigged and zagged at high speeds. Krista was kinda ill, I had to pee, Barrett was fuming, and everybody else on the bus probably had some other sort of problem too. We made it to the airport in record time though, and proceeded to wait in line for about an hour or two. Side note: Apparently, we are prohibited from bringing catapults on the plane, which was a shame because I bought a very nice one in Santiago that I couldn't bring home.

Leigh and I did buy some local woodwork (at the resort), and everybody hit up the Duty Free shop at the airport. A bottle of rum goes for 5 Convertible Pesos, which is less than $7 Canadian. We snacked on crackers, candy, and pop until the plane took us home.

Of course the plane was late, and uncomfortable, and tiring. Everybody was either asleep, or cranky, or hungry, or dehydrated, and of course… we were leaving our tropical vacation paradise. We were going to split up from our new friends, to whom we had become so close, and with whom we had enjoyed so many good times. Our new friends already felt like old friends and it was sad to see them go.

After clearing customs, we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. The cab made it downtown in no time, Leigh and I hopped out at our place, and Josh and Jen kept going. Toronto was quite a bit colder, and I got a pretty major chill as I crossed the street towards our apartment.

Perhaps I should have put a jacket on when I landed…

Or maybe it was the flip-flops.

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Editors note: This piece was written over the course of a few days and finished in Whitehorse, Yukon. The plane from Vancouver was delayed 3 times, and the author's guitar did not show up until two days later...