Danmark

First, I'd like to thank those of you who've taken time out of your busy schedule to point out my typographical errors. It warms my heart to know that you care enough to be harshly critical.

Hey, I'm flying by the seat of my pants here. No spell check and a keyboard full of bizarre characters. Here an oomlot, there a ... I don't even know what most of them are called. It ain't easy being an international icon.

Copenhagen is beautiful. Don't get me wrong, it isn't Paris, but it is spectacular. The architecture is amazing. And the men! That viking stock does amazing things. In Amsterdam I was spitting, in Copenhagen I'm drooling.

If you visit Copenhagen, I have a couple of tips for you.

First, bring warm clothes. I don't mean a cozy sweater. I mean gloves, scarves, ear muffs, insulated socks, thermal underwear and goose down parkas. This town is bitterly cold in August.

Second, if you plan to eat, get a second mortgage on your house before you leave. If you'd like a beer with dinner, sell your car. Don't worry, you won't be able to afford gas when you return to the states anyway. Copenhagen is prohibitively expensive.

The breakfast buffet here is similar to the one in Hamburg, but there are no chocolate-hazelnut pates. However, the biggest difference is the attitude of the guests. Each and every single one of us is fully cognicent of the fact that this is the only meal we will be able to afford today. We have knives and forks and we aren't afraid to use them to secure one more breakfast roll. Paramedics are stationed in the lobby.

On the streets I find myself looking down, hoping to find a stray kroner. I saw one yesterday, but some young punk dove into traffic and retrieved it before I had a chance.

Next time it will be mine.

Ich ben ein Hamburger

(With apologies to the people of Hamburg, J.F. Kennedy and the German language.)

Morning came in Hamburg and Richard and I tottled down to our hotel's breakfast buffet. (Take notes all you hoteliers.) It was a quite lovely spread. Wonderful rolls. Mine was rye with nuts and seeds. Richard's looked like a seven-grains type of idea. There were sliced cheeses and meats, totatoes and cucumbers, butters and cream cheese, fruit spreads (strawberry, apple, cherry and some unascertainable variety), yogurt, granola, hard-boiled eggs, orange juice and coffee. And the forbidden pleasure. Pate. I know it is politically incorrect but none of you were close enough to stop me. Well, except Richard, and he had a morally reprehensible dinner last night, so he had no grounds to criticize me. I slipped a touch of the pate on my roll. But this was not your average pate. It was chocolate and hazelnut pate. I was taken aback. What does one do with chocolate and hazelnut pate, considering the other breakfast items? I was perplexed.

"What would Raquel do?" I asked myself. She would rush the buffet, cross-body tackling the poor little old lady in her way, grab the basket of pates and sing the 'Hallelujah Chorus' as she ran out of the building. That would work for Raquel, but she is more athletic than I am. I just sucked the pate out of its packaging and was happy.

Richard and I then explored central Hamburg. The most memorable part of our day was our visit to St. Nikolai Church. St. Nikolai was originally built in the 13th century and reconstructed after a fire in the mid-19th century. In 1943, it was bombed by the Allies during a major offensive that lasted nearly a month. Remarkably, the bell tower (the highest church tower in Hamburg) survived, while the vast majority of the rest of the church was obliterated. After the war, the church was preserved in its ruined state as a tribute to those who died in the bombings as well as those that were persecuted during the war.

They installed an elevator in the remains of the bell tower. Richard and I rode to the top. Sort of a macabre Tour Eiffel. In the crypt of the church was a memorial. Most of it was in German, but the pictures were horrific in any tongue. There were photos of Poland and Coventry, England, but the majority of them were of the rubble that was Hamburg at the end of the war. 35,000 people died in the bombings known as Gommorha in that summer of '43 (I believe that was an Allied term, but I may be mistaken), but only 12,000 were identified. The majority of the fatalities were slave laborers from eastern Europe. It was a very sobering experience.

Tomorrow is Kobnhaven.

Netherlands to Germany

Moments after crossing the border from Netherlands into Germany, I commemorated the event by pouring a bottle of beer into my lap, down the front of my legs and into the front pocket of my backpack, all in one fell swoop.

My talent is limitless.

The pants I was wearing were brand new, purchased expressly for Europe. They were expected to last three days between washing, not four hours.

Fortunately, the pocket of my backpack held nothing important. Well, except my passport. And the strippenkaart for the Amsterdam trams. And our Eurail Pass. Richard now has those three aforementioned documents. As soon as I prove myself to be a mature, responsible adult, he'll give them back to me. Obviously, that ain't happening anytime soon.

So, the ride from Bad Bentheim to Hamburg was, shall we say, damp.

I was sad to leave Amsterdam, but we must move forward. We are now in Hamburg. Not much chance to explore so far, but tomorrow will be a new adventure.

On speaking Dutch

The Dutch, or Nederlander, do difficult things with the letter 'G'. I can't really explain, as I don't understand, but it is something like saying a hard 'G' and a 'K' simultaneously. The Dutch do it quite well. I don't.

Take, for example, a conversation I had this morning while validating our Eurail Pass. The nice woman who was assisting me asked where we were going.

"Den Haag," I responded.

The kind woman reached down for her handkerchief, wiped her face and replied, "How nice. The Hague, and please refer to it as The Hague for the balance of this conversation, is quite beautiful. What do you plan to do while you're there?"

"Well, of course, we want to explore the old part of town. You know, het Binnenhof, the Peace Palace: those kinds of places. Then we're going to Madurodam and on to Scheveningen."

At approximately the 'V' in 'Scheveningen', she dropped down behind the counter.

She slowly came back up to her chair and said, "That should be fun. The Hague is quite historic, Madurodam is a great place to take the children and it is forecast to be a beautiful day at the beach, and please refer to it as 'the beach' for the balance of this conversation."

I didn't have the heart to tell her that our second choice for today's destination was Groningen.

Den Haag (I can type it without spitting) was beautiful, Madurodam was a great place for a big child (Richard has mixed reviews) and the beach was great. I love the Netherlands!!!

Welkom op Amsterdam

The flight from Portland to Amsterdam could have been worse. I think. For 570 minutes we were trapped in an area that would make a domestic house cat claustrophobic. We had turbulent weather. Richard and I had to sit a few rows apart on different side of the plane. (Well, actually it was a two aisle plane. I sat in the middle in row 39 while Richard had a window seat in row 42.) The food was horrible and I couldn't sleep.

But I mustn't be so pessimistic. There must have been some good things about the flight.

I know, the headsets were really good quality. Yes, it was high quality music that was bouncing off my brain while my sorry old ass complained incessantly.

And there's all that neat duty-free shopping you can do during the flight. The flight attendants wheel carts down the aisles offering a wide variety of overpriced items to break the heinous monotony. As a man who is struggling with the old "quit smoking" routine 21 months later, you can imagine my reaction when I was face to face with a carton of Marlboro Light 100s. We're flying over Baffin Bay, four hours from our destination and I would have knocked the flight attendant down, grabbed the carton and smoked every single one of them right then and there, but for the fact that she could have easily kicked my butt.

I know!! I know!! We got to fly over Greenland. I've always wanted to see Greenland, even if only from the air. It was really cool. It would have been even cooler if there'd have been a window I could see out and if it weren't nighttime and if it weren't cloudy. But other than that it was super neat-o-jet.

Ditto Iceland.

Okay, there is only one thing that makes the 9.5 hours of hell worth it. The destination.

We are in Amsterdam.

All is good! (Actually, it is GREAT!)

Let the adventures begin.

In a few short hours, a silver bird will take off from Portland, OR with two middle-aged men from the Upper Hood River Valley on board. One will be staid and collected. He will have the look of an experienced world traveler. He will calm the other passengers with his confident tones.

The other, however will be a basket-case. He will alternate back and forth from giggling with glee to snorting in anticipation. He will have the look of a semi-crazed geezer. He will not have a calming effect on his fellow passengers.

The plane’s destination is Schiphol Airport, between Amsterdam and Den Haag. It will be the beginning of a great holiday.

108˚

Well, it’s official in my book. Hood River hit 108˚ today. That ties the all time record high. But not to worry, it was a dry heat.

Who the hell am I trying to kid? Worry. Worry a lot. 108˚ is hot no matter what the dry heat enthusiasts say. It may not quite be the blast furnace of Phoenix in August, but it is bad enough. Give me some ice!

Toasty

Can you say 105° Fahrenheit? Yesterday was only 104°. Tomorrow is forecasted to be 106°. Hood River’s all time record is 108°. (And today was forecast to be 101°.) Hood River’s all time high is somewhat theoretical, as we don’t have an official weather station. Cascade Locks does. The Dalles does. But Hood River just isn’t quite that important. But they have been recording weather since 1928 at the Experimental Station, so we have something to measure by.

Of course, the upper valley is a little cooler. It appears to have peaked at 97°. (If you can trust the habitual liar I call my thermometer.) Sarah, put the sweater down. It isn’t chilly. We’re breakin’ high temperature records up here faster than you can shake a stick at ‘em.

Yesterday and today’s heat were records in Portland. It was also the first time since 1990 that there were consecutive days above 100°. And of course, the heat is doing nothing for fire control. We have a small fire about 17 miles south of us that has kept us smoked in. Just hoping the high temperatures don’t cause the Gnarl Fire to explode.

But me, I am whining and complaining like there is no tomorrow. The pets have passed out on the floor. Richard is actually being constructive. But he lived in DC. He knows heat. Nasty-humid-heat. And this isn’t DC heat. This is pleasant.

We hate polar bears ?!?!?

Before I get going, let me tell you a bit about my feelings toward government. Government, in the United States and other democratic countries, is the people who live in the jurisdiction, be it local, state or federal (or the equivalent).

The people of the state of Alaska are suing the rest of us in the United States for listing the polar bear as an endangered species.

Let me be the first to announce that I have never seen a polar bear in its natural environment. And at my age, the chances of seeing one there is somewhere between slim and nil. Although I think they are cute as hell, I have no truly personal attachment to any polar bear, real or imagined.

I have seen a polar bear before, but I did check the internet and Como Park Zoo is not listed as the great white bears native homeland, but remind me to check in ten years, that may have changed. The following is from many different sources.

“Gov. Sarah Palin and other state officials fear a listing will cripple offshore oil and gas development in the Chukchi and Beaufort seas in Alaska's northern waters, which provide prime habitat for the only polar bears under U.S. jurisdiction.

‘We believe that the Service's decision to list the polar bear was not based on the best scientific and commercial data available,’ Palin said in announcing the lawsuit.”

Okay, Alaskans, just admit you hate polar bears. Don’t be so sadistic as to slowly eat away at their habitat. You really can’t enjoy pictures of the white bears starving to death, can you? Just do it. Head north with your shotguns and be merciful. Kill quick and be done.

Madurodam

I was a mere childwhen I first heard of Madurodam. I remember sitting in Mrs. Dubinsky’s fourth grade class at Brookside Elementary School when she brought up the miniature city while we were learning about the Low Countries. (Do they still call Belgium, Netherlands and Luxemburg the “Low Countries”?) Anyway, it caught my fancy immediately and has stayed with me for over forty years. If there is anyone reading this who doesn’t know of Madurodam, let me tell you about it. It is a miniature version of a Dutch city (scale of 1:25), located between Den Haag and Scheveningen. Let’s call it a tourist trap for kids of all ages who are into architecture. (Or pretending you're Gulliver visiting Lilliput – or even better, don an ape suit and pretend you’re King Kong on an European vacation– it can truly play into some wonderful juvenile fantasies.)

Last time we were in Netherlands, I couldn’t figure out how to get from Amsterdam to Madurodam, but now I know. And it is remarkably simple. You just waddle your cute little ass from your hotel to Amsterdam-Centraal, catch the train to Den Haag-Centraal, jump off the train and board tram #9, heading to Scheveningen. Before you get to Scheveningen, you disembark at the Madurodam stop. It is so simple and fairly quick. Less than an hour after leaving Amsterdam-Centraal, you can be paying € 13.50 to enter one of my lifelong flights of imagination. At least in theory you can do it in less than an hour.

Richard has yet to show great enthusiasm about Madurodam, but he is game to try. Well, he will be game to try after I whine and beg and kick and scream for long enough.

Politics

I have survived the last eight years while an imbecile occupied the White House. I can’t help but think how much better of a place the world would be, if in 2000 we wouldn’t have elected the village idiot, but instead the man who has since proven to be a leader. But let’s not go there.

It’s time to elect a new president. Although presumptive, we appear to have a choice between John McCain and Barack Obama. McCain is the seasoned veteran (in more than one way), while Obama is the rookie.

Obviously, the status quo isn’t working. I would welcome almost anyone to the presidency after our current faux-pas. Either McCain or Obama would be a welcome change. Both are infinitely more qualified, and would hopefully find less astringent aids. (Who am I kidding, Daffy Duck would be a welcome change, be more qualified and would find less astringent assistants. Finally, there would be some intelligent conversation from the powers-that-be.)

I should state that neither man is my ideal. (Nor is Hillary.) None have taken a staunchly pro-gay stance. None have taken a strong enough position on protecting the environment. None have argued apologizing to France and Germany for our outwardly hostile stance to their opposition to the war in Iraq. Take note folks, the French and Germans were right. Face it, both candidates are right wing from my angle.

One recent event crystallizes the election in my mind. That is McCain’s commercial mentioning Obama in the same paragraph as Paris Hilton and Britney Spears.

First, I have to say that I believe, with no reservations, that Spears and Hilton are symptomatic of what is wrong with America. The fact that we know who they are means we are a lesser people. (Okay, at least Spears has musical talent; Hilton has no discernable talent, other that she is pretty and she comes from money.) That McCain brought them into the election pretty much wipes out any credibility he had with me. Obama in no way resembles those two wastes-of-breath, and McCain's glorifying those two worthless people offends me to no end.

But there is one other reason I will staunchly oppose McCain.

His picture is below.

Remember, you could destroy so much with your vote.