PERU: Inca-redible

Mild headaches, lack of appetite, shortness of breath and heart palpitations. No, these aren't side effects of Cialis for Once Daily Use. We were in Cusco, Peru, 11,000 feet above sea level and I felt the symptoms of “hypobaropathy” or altitude sickness slowly start to rankle my body.

Altitude sickness generally starts affecting people at higher than 8,000 feet. Machu Picchu is at 8,000 feet, so no problem there. But everyone who so desires to visit the ancient ruins passes through the city of Cusco, just as every Nintendo gamer who faced Mike Tyson in Punch-Out passed through Soviet slugger, Soda Popinski. A rite of passage so to speak. Flights land in Cusco. Buses load in Cusco. Trains travel from Cusco.

We arrived at a chic hotel in the middle of city, near the main square. You know it's a fancy hotel when it houses a 17th century courtyard and the towels in the bathroom are laid out to look like baby swans. Within minutes after checking in, we daringly tested our tolerance to the thin air by drinking pisco sour, the national cocktail. This, we both slowly realized, was a big mistake. A few jiggers later, as we prepared to head out to do a bit of sightseeing, we became dizzy and nauseous as we struggled to walk. I remember seeing her drag her body, until she could go no further and finally collapse into the granite floor of the hotel lobby. I was fine though, still conscious and aware of the hotel staff rushing like a professional ER team to give her first aid and oxygen. They revived her, led her to a wheelchair, and covered her doleful face with an oxygen mask, looking like an ailing, female version of the Batman villain, Bane ("When you climb Machu Picchu, you have my permission to die").

I knew Peru was supposed to take my breath away, but not like this.

For the rest of the afternoon, we ended up doing a whole lot of nothing, laying in bed, resting and acclimatizing to the oxygen-deprived air. Drinking ample amounts of cocoa tea numbed the senses and mitigated the effects of this bout of mountain sickness. It was thus a relatively quiet first night, capped by some fairly decent room service and bad telenovelas.

I was a young kid leafing through the World Book Encyclopedia (or is it "encyclopaedia"?) when I first learned about Machu Picchu and the legendary Inca Empire. The images of that city of stone, veiled in clouds and hugged by jagged mountain peaks had always set my imagination reeling. I didn't know when or how, but knew that one day I will see it in person. It’s 4 a.m. in Cusco and darkness still gathered. Today is that day.

There are many ways to get to Machu Picchu as there are many ways to shear a llama. A popular route is the traditional Inca Trail (Camino Inka), a 4-day, 26 mile, scenic hike through mountain passes along the Sacred Valley. But time was limited and I was not interested in smelling like a patch of grass for four days. Not to be "anti-beaten path," but the easiest and most convenient approach seemed to be the luxury train route. Inca Trail? More like Inca Rail.

We took the early morning train. The carriage mildly shook, the engine roared and the beer was gently poured. The sight of Andean rivers and landscapes while enjoying a morning Cuscquena was definitely a good start to the day. Three cervezas later, we reached the not so sleepy town of Aguas Calientes, which lies in a deep gorge below the ruins of Machu Picchu.

Our group, composed of a hired guide, some cheery Scandinavians and a hilarious man-purse carrying bloke from London, trekked a portion of the Inca Trail and hiked towards the famous Sun Gate. I didn't realize the Inca Trail was an actual footpath with stones meticulously laid out. I go one foot at a time, looking down and inspecting every rock and stone I placed my feet on for balance. The ramble took over an hour until we reach the Sun Gate which splendidly looked down into Machu Picchu. We sat down with the stone gate behind us as we soaked in the sight of the Incan fortress from a distance.

We hiked for one more hour to take a closer look at the mysterious citadel. I took a few more pauses to catch my breath and looked around at how high we had climbed, revealing sprawling mountainous landscapes. I gazed at my clothes which little by little grew damp under the rain.  

There in the mist, majestic and silent, stood Machu Picchu. I stood over an overlook, admiring the buildings which seemed like bungalows made of rocks with missing roofs. We took in the scenery surrounding us on four sides. But any sort of fantasy you may have of relishing these remarkable ruins in pensive solitude should be ripped from your head. It wasn't even high season and there were camera-toting sightseers everywhere. No wonder there’s 30% less oxygen here. It’s all these selfie stick-carrying tourists climbing Machu Picchu. But then again, there is a reason why everyone and their favorite aunt come here. It’s just simply one of those incredible places you have to see before you become worm food.

We travel back to Cusco in the evening. We got to the hotel quite late and fell straight into bed. The following morning, we felt a bit more acclimatized to the thin air (thank the Inca Gods) and ventured down to the center of town to grab something to eat. The main square is colorful and full of energy, yet quaint and aging like a European town, a poor man’s Salzburg. The cobblestone streets, decaying buildings and surrounding hillsides set a slow and relaxed pace.

It was early in the day and we decided to check out the city’s popular Inca tourist sites: the famous angle stone in the middle of a wall on a pedestrian street, the ancient temple that was converted by the Spanish conquistadors into a Catholic church and a local museum showcasing assorted ancient artifacts (with the cameo appearance of a couple of well-preserved Peruvian mummies).

As we cross Plaza de Armas on the way to a Yelp-certified sandwich shop, a young Peruvian lad, probably no older than seventeen, offered to sell me some of the wacky tabaccy (i.e. marijuana). "No, gracias," I politely declined. We were already high up in the atmosphere and I had no intention of getting high any further.

We had a lip-smacking lunch of local Peruvian sandwiches (thanks to Yelp). I ordered a beer. My day drinking was then interrupted by my siblings, who at that moment, travelling together in Vietnam, Facetimed me when they fortuitously bumped into a mate from Beantown now based in Ho Chi Minh City. As Yoda would say, “Small, this world is.”

She went off shopping for touristy tats, while I looked for a place where I could relax and soothe my muscles, sore from yesterday’s Machu Picchu hike. I found what seemed like a sketchy little spa across a church. Inside, the massage beds stood close to one another and were separated by thin curtains. I think they were simply blankets flung about. The only light that flickered was from tiny electric candles on each corner of the massage room. I stripped naked, laid down and had a good, long massage with hot stones for a rock-bottom price. I paid the equivalent of 10 US dollars to the breastfeeding cashier and resolved that it was time for an afternoon beer.  

The perimeter of the main square serves as the overpriced happy-hour center for the straight-off-the trail crowd. I decided to grab a drink in one of the bars with a wooden balcony overlooking vibrant Plaza de Armas. There I met an Indonesian grad student based in Sydney who was, as you guessed it, "finding herself" and backpacking across South America. She broke the ice by offering me her plate of papa fritas. We thereafter drowned in beers and pisco sours while we yakked on about our travels, altitude sickness, geopolitics, and our personal beliefs (she was a progressive Muslim and told me her conservative Mom would kill her if she finds out that she was treating alcohol as a food group). 

In Peru, the guinea pig or “cuy” is considered a delicacy. Other than gaining bizarre foods bragging rights, I was certainly curious how these furry rodents tasted like. No, it doesn't matter that these cute creatures are ill-fated servants of science or that my cousin used to keep them as pets. 

For dinner, we went to a suitable restaurant that specialized in local delicacies. I rubbed my palms together with anticipation over eating a small pet. I was expecting a plate with an animal, paws up, claws and head on, ringed with fries and maybe a side of veggies. But to my disappointment, the waiters served the guinea pig sans its appendages, with just its body flattened and fried (it was a classy joint). I got over it and said to myself that the presentation didn’t matter…I was about to chomp on Mickey Mouse’s heavyset cousin. It was stringy and chewy and tasted like chicken wings.

After dinner, we headed to Museo del Pisco, a local bar serving an extensive collection of pisco sours. It’s no doubt a tourist spot, but one of the good ones. The joint’s friendly mixologists were alcohol experts and helped with our liquor selections. I started off with a classic mix and further challenged drinking frontiers with unique infused pisco-based libations (pisco with mint!). It was a long day and the voluptuous effect of alcohol was as comforting as the caress of a wet nurse’s hand. 

It was our last night in Cusco. Hold the ceviche, tomorrow we fly to the capital.

Heavy clouds greeted us in Lima. But there was no chance of rain here. Lima is a large desert city. It’s no Vegas though. This is no Sin City. This is not the place you hit hard half naked in the back of stretch limousine with champagne cascading down your lady friend’s breasts.

Lima oozed with gritty urban chaos. A sheet of thick grey fog hovered over the city for a decent portion of our stay. The streets were clogged with pedestrians and taxis. But once you peel back some of the layers of grime, you’ll find a gem of a city, as vibrant as it is varied.

The district of Miraflores, marked by cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean was home base. We passed by the Parque del Amor lovers’ statues, looked out to sea and observed parasailers before checking in our hotel, a luxurious edifice armed with the necessities: a heated rooftop pool, a luxury spa and on-site gourmet restaurant.

Glass skyscrapers and shopping malls dot Lima, but we came here for the city’s old school charm: pre-Colombian ruins, colorful Spanish mansions and baroque cathedrals. We meandered into Plaza Mayor, the city’s hub of its colonial past, surrounded by striking architecture: the Presidential Palace with its iron gates, the two-towered national cathedral and the Archbishop’s Palace with its elegant wooden balconies. Our guide, Jose, steered us into the city’s oldest bar, Bar Cordano where we grabbed beers to-go and continued the urban expedition, cervezas in hand, blissfully free from open container laws. We concluded at El Convento de San Francisco, which housed catacombs chock-full of skeletons eerily arranged in circles. This was a fascinating tour, make no bones about it.

The Huaca Pucclana ruins were settled sometime around 500 A.D. by Lima Indians as a temple to worship the sea. It’s a massive adobe pyramid and is an active excavation site. I rounded up friends who called Lima their home and grabbed dinner at a restaurant overlooking the incredible ruins. It was difficult to concentrate on the food as the view of the ruins, lit up at night, was captivating. 

As we dined over local delicacies, drank the local spirits, laughed at memories and exchanged stories while surrounded by glowing ruins, I felt a vibe of buena onda, a sense of being sealed into the moment, a feeling I always seek out when I travel and certainly found in Peru. 

NORWAY and FINLAND: Chasing the Aurora

It is difficult to find a clever collection of letters to describe the first time I gazed upon the Northern Lights. Otherworldly. Elusive. Ethereal. I have seen it: the famous shifting dance. Gentle curtains of light bursting with green and purple, playfully straying, vanishing and returning.

After days of prowling over Scandinavia, the plane landed on the snow-covered tarmac of the city of Tromso amid a vicious polar gust. A winter settlement straight out of a Hallmark Christmas card greeted me. Perhaps it was my imagination, it was as if I can hear the sound of sleigh bells.

Spiteful clouds filled the sky on the first night. I was worried. Cloud cover equals zero Northern Lights visibility. There is never a guarantee to witness the aurora happening, especially with the capriciousness of the Arctic weather. You need to be lucky and hire experienced guides (also known as “Aurora Chasers”). Because tomorrow night will be my last in the north, I needed to make it count.

Thanks to some beers and tired nerves, I crashed into the hotel bed and had a well-rested slumber.

Winds swept down from the surrounding whitehead summits the next morning. I was resolute to haul my cold ass out of bed and walk around the sleet-filled city. After all, Tromso is a world-famous location for studying climate change, the Arctic environment, oil resources and of course, the aurora borealis. Also, this is the city where S.H.I.E.L.D. sent Thor’s earthly boo, Jane Foster (played by post-pubescent crush Natalie Portman) for her own protection.  

I walked 10 minutes from my hotel to reach Polaria, a building shaped like ice floes pressed up on land by the rough seas of the Arctic. It had an aquarium, Arctic-related exhibits, a theater, and the obligatory gift shop. Although the complex seemed geared towards kids, I thought the aquarium's bearded seals were a hoot. I give this place a seal of approval. I hope I seal the deal seeing the aurora borealis tonight.

Next stop was the legendary Mack’s brewery, the northernmost brewery and bar in the planet. It’s all here: the inviting pub atmosphere, the extensive variety of pilsners, the stuffed polar bear and the sheer insanity of Norwegians drinking beer at 3 p.m. as the sun disappears and feels like it’s 10 p.m.

I signed up to meet the folks of the Arctic Guide Service, a group of local Aurora chasers led by the cute Norwegian bird, Anja. Before heading out, Aurora Chasers study the weather in their laptops and navigational equipment they borrowed from the set of "Twister". Basically, they use computers to search for cloudless skies. Due to light pollution, the chance of spotting the Northern Lights is better away from city lights. And despite ideal weather conditions, there is still no guarantee. Some galactic feat still has to happen in the night sky…a collision of solar particles with gases in the earth’s atmosphere.

The sun has set. We drove and waited for 3 hours along a scenic route. The light show has yet to unfold. It was like waiting for Madonna to come out during a concert (she took forever, 11 p.m.!, the last time I saw her). I was growing anxious. We decided to drive all the way to the Finnish border to escape clouds and snow. Then suddenly, at one spot, we traced a hint of a green band. We parked the shuttle and set up the cameras.

We were in Nowhereville, Finland and it was absolutely freezing. I was wearing a “non-parka” wool work coat, not the most effective insulating garment in the Arctic Circle.

We stood on the side of the road staring at the starry sky. After a few minutes, our patience was rewarded. Waves of light began to appear and the entire sky presented us with a dazzling brilliance of dancing green and purple shades. I soaked in the site with a feeling of calm and accomplishment, as I said to myself: "F-ck, yeah, it's the aurora, b-itch." 

I took in the magnificent, otherworldly beauty. I was riveted. I stood in awe. I also had to pee. I relieved myself near some foliage and discovered that urine does not freeze mid-stream in the Arctic.

The occasion called for a celebration. Anja whipped out hot chocolate and cookies, perfect in the bitter cold.

We turned back at around 11 p.m. and by 1 a.m., I was back in my hotel room. I looked outside the window and the snow was falling in big flakes veiling Tromso's streets in a swirl of white, as I reflected on the rewards of the amazing chase. 

BRATISLAVA: Mr. Lova Lova

We heard the strident whistle of the train as we found ourselves on a 5-hour stopover en route to Prague from Budapest via the Eurorail. Welcome to the fine city of Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia.

Snuggled between the countries of Austria and Hungary, Bratislava is Slovakia’s compact capital. It is the kind of city that feels like a little town, with quaint shops, medieval streets and town squares minus the cacophony of heavy city noise or maddening traffic.

By the way, it is worth noting that the denizens of Bratislava are not called "Bratinellas."

The train station that greeted us was a humble structure compared to grandiose cathedral-like rail stations of other European cities. It was a grim, dark concrete structure that seemed to let it no daylight. It showed signs of Soviet-era weariness and abandonment. I’ll be honest, the station can pass as a transit hub for the Philippine National Railway.

From the train station, we leisurely wandered into the city hall grounds, then along the Danube River and headed into center of the the nicely renovated Old City. There we found a collection of baroque palaces, Gothic churches, medieval towers and welcoming plazas. For lunch, we decided to stop at a cozy restaurant, sat outside and helped ourselves to a sampling of Slovak cuisine – some smorgasbord of breaded and fried chicken, pork, beef and other game meat, covered in some type of heavy sauce, fries and veggies. I wish I took down the name of such culinary monstrosity.

After downing lunch with some fairly inexpensive Staropramen beer, we continued to stroll along Bratislava’s streets. Other than the imposing Bratislava castle rising from a nearby hill, the major city landmark is a bronze statue of a construction worker peeping up from a manhole.

Speaking of manholes, here’s a Bratislava fun fact: the city is a popular destination for wild, weekend stag parties. Advertisements and posters litter the city surroundings promoting special stag nightlife packages, promising rowdy pub crawls, and access to the city’s finest strip clubs filled with beautiful Eastern European vixens in all their glittered glory. The signage was everywhere. You can't escape it, like the time Color Me Badd was number one with "I Wanna Sex You Up." Predictably, there were sightings of wolf packs of limeys nursing last night’s hangover in the city cafes, who all appear to be satisfied patrons of the aforementioned bachelor night packages.

Do not be misguided by your impression of Bratislava from the modern classic “Eurotrip” movie, where a group of American teenagers ultimately end up in the city, horrified by the dire desolation of Eastern Europe in the aftermath of the Cold War. Bratislava is undeniably a charming little European hamlet with that tiny hint of a wild streak. The train station is a bit of a fixer-upper though.

HUNGARY: Budapest is Budabest

Esther, thin, stalky and gorgeous with bleached blonde hair, wore a pink skirt, and gave off this sexy “I only work in classy soft-core films” air. She was the fetching guide to our walking tour of Budapest. Like a sultry Penthouse version of Gandalf, she was our consort to view the city’s major sights: Castle Hill, the Chain Bridge and Matthais Church, some really remarkable places where selfie snappers will have a ball. Although the views were impressive, my eyes were distracted by Esther’s green eyes and glowing skin. My ears were engrossed with her sexy Eastern European accent, which sounded Russian but without the cold, hardened history of dire despotism. 

Buda, on the West of the Danube River is where most of the touristy sights are at. It looks down at Pest, where business, culture and commerce intersect. After wandering around the city with Esther for 3 hours, we completed our outing by glugging down local overpriced beers on the balcony of a stunning tower in an area known as the Fisherman’s Bastion. We had great views of the Pest side, including the Parliament building, a gothic monster that almost puts London’s to shame.

Esther suggested we come back around the area in the evening. There’s apparently a secret entrance around Castle Hill where interested parties can explore an underground labyrinth with kerosene lanterns. Like Harry Potter and his crew wandering about in the Forbidden Forest. We elected to check this out, Maze Runner-style, the following night.

The jury is still out on the Hungarian night scene. But at least I found a copacetic Hungarian hidey-hole. Szimpla Kert is a quirky ruin bar, a drinking den housed in a derelict building with a scrappy courtyard, decked with couple of trees providing leafy shade from the midday sun. It’s a funky beer garden bursting to the brim with Bohemian layabouts, filled with tables, chairs, odd benches and tatty sofas, with Dreher on tap and charming bartenders serving up your ale with a smile. 

We situated ourselves by the bar. On my fourth beer, I get my chat on with a local damsel, Anna, who in all likelihood had “vivacious go-getter” as the headline on her online dating profile. She was tall, had short auburn hair and was wearing a tight white top. We talked and had a lively discourse on the merits of Budapest and argued the finer foibles of artistic meaning of the relics wedged on the ruin bar’s walls. That accent, murky and mysterious with an inviting Bohemian tone was equal parts carnal desire and ragbag roustabout. She flashed an exuberant yet impish grin as she wiped the traces of beer suds off her lips. I pulled her close and kissed her. We performed roughly 12 minutes of Hungarian tongue wrestling until we whizzed back to my hotel.

Nursing a trifling hangover the following day, my yearning to visit the Hungarian Museum of Fine Arts was half-hearted, like a 50-year-old smoker’s attempt at giving up his 40-a-day habit. Still, I was pleasantly surprised with the display of works from periods ranging from the Old Masters to the Romantic Period. And yes, the Impressionist collection was impressive.

The angry afternoon sun was scorching and I was sweating like a blind lesbian in a sushi bar. Skin-eating amoebiasis be damned! We were off to the renowned refreshing public baths of Budapest. On the way to the famous Szechenyi Baths in the east side of the city, we passed by Heroes’ Square, a large plaza speckled with the statues of the Chieftains of the Magyars and other effigies to Hungary’s heroes from history.

We paid the bargain 12 Euro entry fee and entered the premises. The geothermal baths have a normal indoor bit that smells a tad funny and feels like your average swimming baths. Inside, we were greeted by a small number of old, naked men enjoying the water. The cavernous place had around 15 different pools to lounge around in, ranging from freezing to steaming hot. I stripped naked, knob out, and sat on the ledges of one of the soothing baths. Geothermal bliss.

After a few minutes, I slide my board shorts back on and stepped outside the enclosed area and into something that looks like a vivid postcard. The neo-baroque architecture surrounding the outdoor pools was exquisite. This was the Versailles of spas. We spent a little over two hours lazily floating, drinking draft Sopronis and people watching.

We dried ourselves up and headed back to the hotel a few minutes right before nightfall. After a quick nap, we took a cab to Esther’s so-called underground labyrinth. Unfortunately, the tunnel entrance was closed that evening. Fail. No nocturnal, subterranean adventures tonight.

It was our last day in the city and we proceeded to explore the notable buildings on the Pest side: the grand Phantom-free Opera Populaire, the massive neo-renaissance basilica of St. Stephen and the Great Synagogue of Budapest, the largest in Europe. 

We were hungry in Hungary. After enjoying some of the local goulash in an outdoor cafe, we joined a Communist Walking tour and obtained first-hand insight into life in the city behind the Iron Curtain. Happy hour in yet another ruin bar then followed where Hungarians proved there's no party like a Communist party.

Cruising may refer to one of two things. It’s either a verb that connotes fit backdoor bandits from New York Sports Club looking for someone they can take home to their studio apartment in Hell’s Kitchen and provide bodily warmth from the Polar Vortex, or it refers to the act of taking a cruise. On a boat preferably on some water somewhere. We did the latter, along the Danube. While on the vessel, we admired the sights along the river and looked at people along the banks with their tripods and SLRs set up in specific places searching for the perfect sunset over the city. The photographers looked like early 20th-century painters wielding easels and paint pallets. 

Darkness fell like panties in a Prince concert. From the deck of the tumble-down sightseeing boat, Budapest appeared even more spectacular at night. The orange lighting from the many river-front landmarks gave the city a beautiful, shimmering hue.

Budapest is a city which demands your attention. It’s a heady mixture of Prague’s elegance, Vienna’s cafe culture and Brooklyn’s jagged hipness. I miss you, Budapest, old dame of the Hapsburg Empire.

SPAIN: Catalan-taduhan

Legend has it that the great demigod Hercules (played to perfection by Arnold Schwarzenegger in the 70's classic "Hercules Goes to New York") founded the city of Barcelona. The legend is true. Believe it. I can attest to this. The capital of Spain's Catalonia exudes such strength, beauty and perfection; there is no question that a demigod is its city planner. Let us give eternal gratitude to the son of Zeus for his fondness for mountains, modernist architecture and nude beaches. Barcelona…Vicky loved it. Cristina loved it. I guarantee that you will love it.

In the heart of Barcelona lies the Sagrada Familia, the architectural spawn when you breed the design persuasions of St. Patrick’s Cathedral with Snake Mountain (Skeletor’s eclectic stronghold from the He-Man cartoons). Throw in a little bit of Tolkien’s Isengard into the mix and you churn out Antoni Gaudi’s massive, neo-Gothic, albeit unfinished temple masterpiece.

Antoni Gaudi has long been described as a ground-breaking, audacious, creative genius, but quite absent-minded. One fateful day, while walking his merry way to his favorite local Korean nail salon for his bi-monthly pedi, his mind was distracted:“Did I really turn off the kitchen stove before I left my apartment?” Then BAM! Oblivious Antoni walked into the path of a speeding tram and died shortly thereafter. True story.

While tourists line up for hours to venture inside the Sagrada Familia, the true Barcelona experience is around the corner in a small tapas bar. There was no line to sit al fresco, partake of a pitcher of Sangria Familia and a plate of Sagrada Paella with a priceless view of the majestic citadel of spires. The pitcher of red juice was concocted to perfection; like drinking a whole bottle of wine and two shots of bourbon, giving the lady and I a happy buzz to get us through the rest of the afternoon.

The city offered more surreal buildings from the genius Gaudi. We ventured westward to bask in the majesty of Antoni’s other modernist creations. I was wowed by Gaudi´s tremendous tributes to nature and incredible designs of the apartment buildings Casa Milà and the Casa Batlló.

The Casa Milà and Casa Batlló are surreal, storybook apartments, seemingly settings straight out of the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine album. Dancing chimneys, spiral staircases, curving windows: I’ll have whatever Gaudi was smoking. But you know what would be cool? I surmise that Casas Milà and Batlló will be great backdrops for the next generation of surrealistic, film noir type of HD porn flicks. So this inspired me to conjure up a list of Antoni Gaudi-inspired adult movie titles, as follows:

Sagrada Semilya

Vicky Does Cristina in Barcelona

Barcelogganisa: European Sausagefest

Debbie Does Catalan

A Messi Situation

Casa Butt-low

Sagrada Semilya 2: Unfinished Business

Barcelona won’t be the cool Mediterranean metropolis without the seminal works of Antoni Gaudi. I was enchanted, amazed and delighted at his love of nature, sense of humor and sheer design genius. This is the final word on the matter: “Gaudi ain’t gaudy”. Deal with it.

Laid out sometime in the 18h century, the La Rambla is a tree-lined pedestrian mall that stretches about a mile from Barcelona’s center to the Mediterranean Sea. It is a hub of activity and quite the busy boulevard. You know you’re in a touristy part of the pueblo from the number of human statues and street performers loitering its streets. Guy dressed as a gargoyle in gold accosting Japanese tourists? Check. The only thing missing is the perfunctory Peruvian pan flute band playing "I Left My Heart In Lake Titicaca" and other greatest hits from the Andes.  

The afternoon started to swelter in the sexy Spanish summer heat. Instead of lingering along the strip like ther rest of the out-of-town, camera-totting sheep, we decided to sit at a café, order icy cold San Miguel cervezas, and gawked at other sweaty tourists and locals while happily intoxicating ourselves through the rest of the afternoon. 

We capped the day lounging around the beach at the end of the La Rambla. This was a refreshing retreat that gave me much-needed time to bask in the sun topless like the city's glistening denizens. I took in the warm Mediterranean rays as I looked up at Barcelona’s joyous perma-blue skies.

It is unfortunate that soccer fans beyond the great continent of Europe have no choice but to slum it in front of the television to get their dose of UEFA and other European football. There comes a time when a true lover of the game should prove undying loyalty, trace the footsteps of his soccer heroes and do a pilgrimage to his beloved team’s home stadium. I’m a casual football fan. I played a bit of soccer in my younger years and in the 90’s, occasionally kicked my college buddies’ glutes in PlayStation FIFA. Apparently, she took the whole pilgrimage memo to heart. Being the huge FC Barcelona bandwagon fanatic that she is, a visit to Camp Nou, the temple of red and blue was an indispensable part of the proceedings.

Camp Nou, home of FC Barcelona, is the largest football stadium in Europe. It is the true citadel of soccer, the Catalan Cathedral and the place where Colombian pop sensation Shakira takes her baby to see her daddy work.

We walked a few meters from Les Corts subway station exit and slowly see this imposing edifice rising in the distance. The place is huge but not that impressive from the outside. It’s a far cry from the gold standard of modern coliseum design: the La Salle Greenhills gym in Metro Manila.

The “Camp Nou Experience” tour starts on the first floor museum. This is a modern museum with interactive walls, an inordinate amount of trophy displays and a wide collection of objects that reveal the history of the football club. The exhibits retrace the steps of football juggernauts that have made history, such as Maradona and Ronaldinho. Let us not forget the club’s current poster boy, Lionel Messi. Naturally, we took photos with a digital version of Leo “La Pulga” Messi and coughed up 15 euros each for this kitschy memento - proving that Camp Nou wasn’t just a monument to football but also a colossal money-making apparatus.  

Tourists can feel the true FC Barca passion by visiting noteworthy areas of Camp Nou: including the locker room, which on a regular match day, is filled with the aroma of grass, filth, sweat and testosterone. As I walked through the tunnel onto the carefully manicured pitch, I gazed to the right and find a chapel, which according to my audio guide, has been blessed by no less than the Pope. Apparently, in this town, there is no such thing as separation of church and soccer.

We proceeded to the stadium bleachers, where a panoramic view of the whole stadium can be most appreciated. There’s also the television studio, press room and commentary boxes. The tour ends on the second floor, a multimedia space with even more fancy-pants, touch-screen interactive displays. Of course, you exit through a two-story gift shop where all sorts of FC Barcelona merchandise can be procured: from jerseys to jackets, bags to bobble heads, and posters to potato chips.

JAPAN: Shogunanigans

"For relaxing times, make it Suntory time."
- Bob Harris in Lost in Translation
======================

As far as I can remember, I have always been enamored and inspired by the bowl of crazy nuts that is Japanese culture. No doubt, the impetus for this life-long obsession was a lengthy yet healthy childhood exposure to various Japanese cultural phenomena: Ultraman, Voltes V, Godzilla and Star Rangers, to name a few. All I needed to learn about life, family, love, justice, I learned from the Armstrong brothers and their struggle against the horny Boazanian Imperials.

Given that I was en route back stateside from a hilarious holiday trip to Manila, I figured why not stop over Tokyo, the Asian capital of cool?

On the train to Tokyo from Narita, I was giddy as Little John Armstrong on his first trip to Camp Big Falcon. Looking out to the rugged landscape, I was excited over the high jinks that lie ahead. By high jinks I mean checking out Shinto shrines and trying out the freshest sushi. Yes, that is how I roll.

I made Roppongi, an area known for nightlife and more English signs than any part of the city, my home base. Needing to drain out all that iced green tea from the plane ride in, I checked into my hotel, entered the bathroom and wondered at the greatest invention next to the toilet: the electronic heated toilet. Why aren’t there more heated shitbowls with anus sprinklers and comfy armrests around the world? It's one of modern history’s greatest mysteries.

Naturally, the first night in Nihon involved a nocturnal excursion of the local Roppongi drinking scene. This enclave is infamous for nightlife which caters almost exclusively to foreigners (or the more pejorative term, “Gaijin”). So-called “shot bars” abound like red bumps on a herpes victim. I ventured into the classic ones: Propaganda, Geronimo, Gas Panic and a tiki-themed bar hidden within the streets of Roppongi Hills, the name of which escapes me.

With my trusty iPhone translator app, I struck a conversation with the bartender at Propaganda and asked her what she thought were must-dos in the city. She answered quite politely that there is really nothing much to do around Tokyo but shop (What? What is this, Hong Kong?). But she did tell me to check out the fish market (an indispensable part of the itinerary anyway). I also met a couple of female Australian snowboarders who were naturally spending their Thursday night boozing up. More drinking then followed. In Roppongi, the sake, beer, smoke fumes, and good vibes were intoxicating.

I had the grand intention of waking up at 4 am to catch the famous tuna auctions at the world’s largest seafood market in Tsukiji. Predictably, that did not happen. Who wakes up at this ungodly hour on vacation anyway? I trooped into the market 4 hours later. Fortunately, there was still a bit of action in wholesaler section. I found the area quite dangerous though with “turret truck” fish transporters zipping in dangerous speeds all over the market. If you get hit by one of these babies you will literally be sleeping with the fishes.

Every guidebook recommends a trip to old school Tokyo areas Ueno and Asakusa. Trusting Mr. Fodor, I headed out to Ueno Park, strolled its grounds and marveled at shrines, temples and pagodas where Tokugawa shoguns once roamed. The Asakusa district on the other hand, is famous for its massive Buddhist temple grounds guarded by one freakishly gigantic red lantern. Hot tip: the golden years of the Asakusa district are vividly portrayed in Kawabata's novel The Scarlet Gang of Asakusa.

Elementary, my dear Watson-san, there can be such a thing as “temple overload”, so I decided to see what the fuzz is about in Tokyo’s Akihabara electric town. The billboards. The lights. The place seemed to be the mutant offspring of The Tron Grid and Canal Street. Other than electronic shops and manga stores, this town is famous or infamous for so-called maid cafes. No visit to Tokyo is complete without a trip to one of these hilarious joints.

Boy, these maid cafés did not disappoint. Hands down, a visit to one of these fine establishments was one of the most bizzaro experiences ever. Here, guests are served by barely legal Japanese waitresses dressed as French maids. Other than serving food (the omelet rice was quite decent), these role playing dolls of otaku fetish engage in conversation and games with customers. My personal maid offered me my Sapporo, kneeled down and called it “magic dreenk”. She slowly poured catsup and made a smiley face over my majestic omelet of tastiness. We then both recited a discordant Japanese chant “moe moe kyun… something, something" while both our hands mimmicked the cheesy Taylor Swiftesque heart symbol. Mind-f-cking hilarity.

I bid sayonara to my pig-tailed hostesses and continue to take in Akihabara’s garden of nerdy delights. I visited the uneventful Tokyo Anime Center, a far cry from the uber-cool Gundam café with its savvy space-ship themed lavatory (the place lights up like a rocket ship when you take a dump, quite fascinating). The exhausting day ended with a dinner out at a Roppongi dining institution with old friends - Tokyo locals, toasting with boxes of premium sake over sushi and shrimp balls.

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Ms. Kawasaki: Welcome to Tokyo.
Bob: Thank you very much.
Ms. Kawasaki: My name is Kawasaki. Nice to meet you.
Bob: I've heard of you. Thank you.
=========================

It’s Friday mid-morning. The crossing lights turned green and a wave of humanity converged in the middle of the five-way intersection before steadily dispersing again in all directions. Order among urban chaos. Welcome to Shibuya crossing. Did you hear that? That was the sound of a No.2 pencil ticking off bucket list item No. 27. Achievement unlocked.

Right across the Meiji shrine and sandwiched between the districts of Shinjuku and Shibuya lies Harajuku (gesundheit), where tweens dressed as anime superheroes and gothic laced up lolitas shop and parade around narrow streets. It is said that day-to-day life in Tokyo can be oppressively rigid, and cosplay is a creative reaction against societal pressures. Ahh, to be young in Japan. Who wouldn’t rather be a weekend warrior-princess with cutesy FMBs and outlandish hair?

The tea ceremony is possibly one of the most calming ways to enjoy the elegance of traditional Japan. I witnessed such a ritual at the ritzy Hotel Okura. The very basic act of enjoying a cup of hot tea is transformed into a high art form. The beauty of the ritual, as with much of Japanese art, flows from its simplicity — the tap of a water scoop against a ceramic bowl, the scrape of the whisk that mixes water with the aromatic powder and the silent wiff of the flatulence that fills the tatami room from drinking too much oolong.

The sun was setting over the land of the rising sun. Just south of Roppongi, the faux Eifle Tower with its loud orange color lorded over the city. In the observation deck, I drank my Asahi with quiet reflection, overlooking majestic snow-capped Mt Fuji.

Bring on the final night, and the most proper way to end this little journey was an electrifying evening out in Shinjuku with Mr. K, a friend and fellow goomba. The lights and liquor in this seedy sector were overwhelming. The western hemisphere could learn a few from the unique copluatory themed business propositions implemented within the bars and clubs of these lighted alleys. The Kabukicho district of Shinjuku is what you get when you throw in Times Square, Amsterdam and Quezon Avenue into a blender of urban merriment.

Like Daimos darting through a tunnel before battle, the bullet train raced out of Tokyo to Narita airport the next morning. Sadly, it was time to make like a cherry blossom tree and leave. I listened to Jesus and Mary Chain’s “Just Like Honey”, the somber closing hymn from Lost in Translation and dozed off as I fly back to New York, burned out from the city's energy that can't be denied.

===============

Bob: I don't want to leave.
Charlotte: So don't. Stay here with me. We'll start a jazz band.

THE NETHERLANDS: Who Moved my Space Cake?

Admit it. At some point in time, you’ve wondered about being a drug dealer. Let’s be honest, it seems like a great gig. Dealers work their own hours, make decent coin and are always out mingling. While the illicit dispensing of narcotics run contrary to my ethics as an officer of the court and against something we call the “laws of the land”, we can all submit that a drug dealer gig can’t be beat. Plus dealers are smooth and cool, right? Wrong.

One night in the streets of Amsterdam, a slight misunderstanding with an enterprising individual from this particular trade almost resulted in my friends and I knifed like pigs prepped for a town feast. How did we end up in this sticky situation given that hallucinogens are wonderfully legal in this part of the world?

The series of unfortunate events began one crisp and grey autumn afternoon as Wall Street dude and I merrily disembark out of a choo-choo train from Brussels. To get to our lodgings, we hauled our luggage and boarded one of the trams that run on lines like arteries throughout the city. Amsterdam is much like Coruscant, that busy city from Star Wars. But instead of space ships darting through sky lanes, the city has boats, BMWs and bikes zooming all over, with its riders pedal-pushing around with reckless abandon. It seemed like the Dutch’s favorite hobby was running over hapless tourists with their silver Schwinns.

We checked in to our hotel late but it wasn’t long until I adjusted to the gothic hedonism of the city. Given that consumption of the happy-time biologics is a city-wide obsession, our first stop, quite naturally, was one of the city’s heralded coffee shops. Behold the "Rokerya." Inside, the customers were welcomed by the usual giggling babble and blank stares of fellow patrons. Multi-colored Christmas lights and Tibetan tapestries are flung about. Amidst the dim light, patches of aromatic clouds filled the bohemian sanctuary. We stared at the laminated menu where offerings such as “New York Cheese”, “Hawaiian Haze” and “Afghan” stared us back. We ordered some hash, picked out some complimentary rolling paper and laughed at our pathetic selves as we bumble the sacred act of rolling the magic dust. Fatty preparation was definitely not one of our competitive advantages.

After partaking some of the city’s finest gigglies and a side of a perfectly legal hallucinogenic helping of space cake, an uncanny feeling started to set in. I felt like planet earth was moving in slow motion and that we were descending into a Einstein-Rosen wormhole.

Need. To. Eat. 

It started to drizzle. We were back in Amsterdam's dank alleys, like zombie predators in search of the night’s forage. We were surrounded by the scintillating odor of varied options of grubbery and eventually decided to park our wobbly bodies at the next restaurant that crossed our path. A Mexican diner joint was calling us in: "venir aqui". We floated in, ordered and subsequently wolfed down our burrito combos, paid our bill and made a b-line back to the hotel to rest our spinning weary heads. 

It was 10 pm. The 2 hour nap marginally diffused our general hazy disposition. Suddenly, our hotel room wasn’t spinning as wildly as 120 minutes prior. We staggered into the alley, rode a tram that took us directly to the erotic core of the city: the Red Light District. 

Walking through the streets of the Red Light District, I cannot help but be reminded of that pivotal window washing scene in Deuce Bigalow 2: European Gigolo.  But in this city, you will find less man-whores than, err…whores. This place was interesting to say the least. It’s like stepping into the Barbie aisle in Toys R Us, but instead of 12-inch plastic dolls from Mattel, you are surrounded by a cavalcade of life-size beauties, showing off their shining skin and porn-star quality wares behind glass windows. Blondes, brunettes, black, white, asian…it was a buffet of flesh that would make our biblical friends Sodom and Gomorrah proud. Many girls were dancing in the windows of soft red light, enticing the men for a fairly inexpensive rendezvous. According to some local rumor, there’s an 80-year old granny behind one of these windows, and that there’s a waiting list to avail of said GILF’s services. Hey, whatever floats your boat, cabron.

I know everyone likes to watch themselves in the mirror making boom-boom and also enjoys the occasional hardcore digital offerings of realcamsex.com. So why not recreate the high you feel from these activities and watch a real live sex show? Yes, a live sex show in Amsterdam is a surreal piece of entertainment. The Red Light District has 3 major live sex shows theaters and in the name of market research, trooped into 66.6% of them.

One of the theaters, the popular, tourist-friendly, Casa de Rosso, was a dark theatre that somehow reminded me of the lecture hall we had at my grade school but with plush, velvet-covered, cushioned seating, cupholders for Heinekens, and equally stinky floors. The show lasted around 2 hours. The spectacle of flesh was divided into 5 mini-segments of erotic adventures, which included but was not limited to: a pretty blonde couple doing the do on a revolving stage, a leathered Lolita having her way with a banana, a black dude and his mamba pummeling his lady-friend. I’ve seen “torohan” before in the dingy back-alleys of Cubao in my early years but this was prettier (I think the lack of the stench of jeepney fumes from fellow patrons was a bit refreshing). Also, I was surprised how “mechanical” the whole production was. We actually caught the later show (as they had 3 shows per night), and it was the same sexual thespians performing exactly the same moves, pumps, contortions, licks, lifts, from the earlier episode. Who knew they had standard operating procedures for sex shows? This is Dutch precision at its finest.

By the way, cameras or other forms of photography are not allowed in these lovely live sex establishments. When one hapless tourist douche from California tried to snap a shot using his Nokia, the aforementioned performing Black Mamba called him out in front of the whole audience, shouting “no cameras!”, while ferociously pumping like a Rottweiler in heat.  

Dawn broke over Amsterdam. Wall Street Dude and I resolved to inject some form of culture into the proceedings and do a free walking tour of the inner areas of Amsterdam. We walked pass cobbled streets, the Dam Square, old city houses, churches and museums. The Van Gogh Museum was underwhelming. Trudging further, we stepped inside Anne Frank’s house. If you didn't get even a little choked up emphatic at Anne Frank’s house, then my friend, you have no soul. 

After the perfunctory boat cruise along the canals, the afternoon called for Heinekens. Naturally, some amount of drinking followed. It was happy hour in this glorious city and we kick-started the festivities by drinking at some neighborhood bar with some fair-haired cougars who just got off work. The bar was blasting 80’s music. It was 5 pm and the locals were gyrating, ass-grabbing, and dry-humping like they were in Seaside Heights. And who knew the Dutch appreciated the magical rocking riffs of Journey? 

Thereafter, slightly crunk, Wall Street Dude and I decided to crash a random bar crawl organized by the same folks doing the free walking tours. But we soon realized that almost all the participants of said bar crawl were tweens. Chilling with a horde of Miley Cyrus-listening 17-year olds who were drinking like fishes was not a good hang. To support our growing love for A'dam, we decided to just support one of the local coffee house businesses by partaking more baked goodies and then launched into our final full frontal assault into the Red Light District.   

We met with two other friends who were seemingly as semi-baked. We wandered the streets a while, as we try to lure our brains out of some hazy doldrums. The numbability factor had slowly increased over the past hours rendering us misfits almost unintelligible and immobile. With our eyes half open and heads bobbing around, we tried our best to fight the midnight hour. We wandered around with no direction. Each turn of a dark corner amazes slightly more than the last. And then...there was nothing, no one in sight. It appeared we had taken a wrong turn. The street was completely devoid of people. The fog, which I thought was imaginary, had surfaced everywhere and inspired the iron street lamps to exude a delicate glow, producing a smoky dream-like state. 

Within minutes, a random character in a leather jacket showed up like a figure out of John Carpenter’s “The Fog”. He looked like one of those bearded Armenian cab drivers in NYC. He offered cocaine..(or coke...or Charlie). He was a dealer. And he wasn’t kidding. One of our crew, “Dreadlocks” signaled to this enterprising broker of hallucinogens that he was interested in his merchandise (Dreadlocks was an idiot...he was just pretty much playing and pretty much broke). “Here...try”, our dealer friend offered. Dreadlocks snorted a helping and half-heartedly complimented the flavor of shady Armenian’s magic white powder. 

“Now pay me”, Mr. Dealer whispered.

We staggered slightly back and collectively expressed our thanks and disinterest over his powdery wares. “Pay me now”. He then reached for his pocket and exposed a 12-inch slicer. Shit. Suddenly time stopped. Remember that part of the X-Men movie when Professor Xavier, using his heightened senses, stopped time in a noisy museum so he can teach a couple of kids a lesson? It was almost like the same scene here. Time stopped (my own mutant powers are unleashed when I come close to deathly sticky situations). At that point, I could see everything frozen in space-time: the glowing streetlamp, the vague graffiti, the shine on the dealer's blade and how he was menacingly pointing the knife towards our direction. Then I thought. Fuck. This. Shit. I turn my head to Wall Street Dude and signal “Let’s run”. World turned to fast-forward as we high-tailed out of there. We ran as fast as we can through the streets of Amsterdam. We sought sweet refuge in a bar nine blocks down. 

“Two Heinekens please”.  

Hours of drinking, walking, smoking and partying around Amsterdam, plus that incident that almost cut short our young, virile lives, produced this happy fatigue in both our bodies and minds. I hold up my green bottle of brew to Wall Street dude and just chuckle. 

We lurch back at our bar stools, pull out our digital cameras, and relive the memories of this most awesome of all awesome Eurotrips, with memories that I will never forget, but barely remember.