All hail the Bavarian King Ludwig II

Castle anyone?

In Germany they say you have to try a pretzel, bratwurst and castle. What better castle than that of a supposed mentally insane reclusive Bavarian king? This took us to a modestly early 10:30 am train heading for Füssen, a small ski town which sits beside Neuschwanstein Castle.

The Bavarian king Ludwig II was what we, of the Pork Chop Express, call a freaky-super-duper-fan (in German, superpersonduperfanner). A freaky-super-duper-fan has a few requirements, rules, and regulations:

First, you must be irrationally obsessed with something completely tangential to your immediate needs or sustainability. So food, water, shelter, drugs, or trade does not count. Looting, plundering, and pillaging doesn't count either.

Second you must be obsessed to the point where you desire to, with no economical regard, invest in said tangential thing. By investment, of course, we do not mean the random occasional ticket purchase. What we mean to say is, themed pajama set with the bed sheets, pillow case, slippers, apron, soap, cereal box, cereal toy, hair curlers, etc.

From: http://www.popularwealth.com/index.php/neuschwanstein-castle-one-of-the-worlds-most-beautiful

Third you must attempt, successfully or unsuccessfully, to contact or get in touch with this tangential thing. This may require a change of religious beliefs, possibly creating your own religion or changing a well established religion. This could involve trying to summon the dead, summon the devil, or talk to rocks.

Fourth, you must under completely irrational thought processes (plural) allow this thing to sway you from any and all semblance of self-made reason. While this thing may be in your best interests, it doesn't have to be. We at the Pork Chop find it easier to identify a super-freaking-duper-fan if the interest is not best.

Fifth, you must always agree and act according to the tangent. This could be at the detriment of others, ranging from one person o an entire nation of people. The tangent must be at the top of your list at all times. Nothing should stand in its way... nothing.

We can safely say that we the Pork Chop Express are super-freaking-duper-fans of James Woods. This is how we are able to identify this class of person. And while we have an undying love for James Woods, Ludwig II had an even more impressive obsession with Richard Wagner, the well-known opera composer. This leads us full circle to the castle Neuschwanstein.

The entire castle is built in the honor of Richard Wagner. The castle construction, designed by Wagner's stage artist, combines two of Wagner's operas. Each room is a different theme from a different opera. The castle was built at the expense of the wonderful Bavarian taxpayers. But that was not all. Wagner was recruited from hiding to be a resident at his own theme-park castle. All of Wagner's debt, which was substantial, was paid. Wagner was given an unlimited budget to do as he pleased. This in hindsight may have been a bad idea.

In the pursuit of his admiration for Wagner, Ludwig II made plans to actually create several more castles. Oh, we must interject here that at this time, castles were kind of pointless, and these castles were being built in far off secluded regions to boot. Poor Ludwig II was even declared mentally unstable by his own government and condemned to spend the remainder of his days in a sanitarium. But before he was able to full-fill this obligation, he mysteriously drowned in the river.

From: http://picasaweb.google.com/jrisenberg/Germany2008#5214542503926748290

The story of Ludwig's death is the pinnacle of the tour. Unfortunately, this story is about as interesting as the number of steps in Nueschwanstein Castle. Less than two weeks after his death, Neuschwanstein was opened as a museum. A freaky-super-duper-fan was replaced by tour guides.

Still eager for reimbursement and for a stiff price, tour guides walk you through the castle entirely too quickly, speaking only of the number of stairs to climb, and completely manage to avoid the rich history or themes painted on the walls. There is no photography allowed. Once shuffled through, they in non-elegance, bitterly shoo you away to a series of gift shops and expensive snack bars. Nueschwanstein was a magical castle de-magicified.

Munich Day 2: WWJD, or What Would Julien Do?

We had a new lease on life, or at least traveling. We had arrived in Munich, capital of the German state of Bavaria, and completely the opposite of the Italian cities that we had seen thus far. Gone were twisty, narrow streets in favor of wide, well-regulated boulevards with above ground trams (that ran on time and in an orderly fashion—surprise that!). Knowing that one of my favorite childhood movies, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, was partially filmed in Munich, I enjoyed trying to identify places where scenes were shot.

Our style of living in Munich was completely different than our Italian living arrangements. We decided to travel much lighter than we had previously been traveling in the day to day. We left computers and video equipment locked up tight in the hostel lockers in favor of going sans bag. The only tools we took with us were an Ipod to check time and our journals to record thoughts, jot down impressions, and to take down information from other friendly travelers that we may encounter.

While our first night in Munich was without too much event, the second night would be much more hairy. As a result of a football (soccer) game that was happening in town, we could not get a room for the second night at our own hostel. So we went again with (surprise) Plan B. We got another hostel, but made arrangements with this first hostel to house our gear so that we wouldn't have to trudge back and forth across the city. We'd show up at the second hostel, sleep, and then check back into the first hostel for the remainder of our stay. Pretty nifty, don't you think? Some out of the box ingenuity learned from some painful lessons.

So when we checked into the second hostel, we accidentally woke up a person who was sleeping in a bunk near our own beds. Instead of getting mad, this individual, a Frenchman named Julien who hails from the Pyrenees outside of Toulouse, started a nice conversation with us. He was in Munich to visit a special ethnographic art exhibit at one of Munich's museums. He himself is a potter—he makes pottery in a co-op where he lives with other artists. We thoroughly enjoyed this conversation about travel and art even though he didn't speak that much English and we didn't speak anything but French-English mish mash. We packed up and prepared to go out on the town for our customary let's-get-really-really-lost day, and Julien suited up to go to the museum. That's when he told us about some sort of event that his German friend was putting on. He wondered if we would like to hang out with him that night and go. We, of course, said yes, even though we knew no details of what he was talking about. Then we parted ways.

Munich, Germany is one of the most beautiful cities we have ever seen in its architecture, its layout, and its atmosphere. The central square is called Marienplatz, and it features a huge structure with a clock tower that has a special glockenspiel which moves at 11:00 AM and noon.

Marienplatz

Sadly, we didn't get to see the glockenspiel do its thing, but we later learned that youtube has it on demand. Although we attempted to get lost in the city, any sense of bewilderment was short lived. That is because, unlike Rome and Florence, streets didn't change names on a whim. The city center is made of rings of streets that limit any confusion that the streets may give. Each wide open platz had clearly labeled streets signs in locations that more or less made sense. As we learned the lay of the land, we found ourselves falling in love with this city and with the Germans that lived there.

Germans—the Bavarians living in Munich, specifically, in this case—are the nicest people we have ever met. If we looked lost for even a second, a person would stop and ask if we needed directions to a specific place. Once they knew that we were stupid Americans, they switched to speaking English and asked if we needed help again. Quite a change from some of the more rude Italians (although Italians were by and large extremely generous of spirit), and truly a different world from the business people you'd find in downtown Chicago, who'd gut a small child if it meant that they wouldn't miss their train.

We felt it a real treat to see Munich covered in snow. The night we arrived in the city, there was a very heavy snowfall, so when we went out the next day, we were tramping through fresh snowpack. This gave the city a wonderful kind of luminescence that you readily ascribe to German towns and cities. Maybe in the summer it is green and beautiful, but in the throes of winter, Munich is perfect.

So night time comes around, and we arrive back at the hostel for the rendezvous with Julien. Sure enough, he shows up with a bit more information. The event we were to attend was a Carnival celebration. Cool. But, to get in, we needed costumes, which we didn't have. What we did have, though, was tape. Yes, you read that right. We had a roll of packaging tape—the cheapo's best friend. The solution to our predicament was absolutely crystal clear. We would use the tape in concert with a stapler stolen from the front desk to create costumes out of...tourist brochures.

And before we could cogitate enough about this hair-brained scheme to see how insane it was, we set off to work. Quickly, other hostel goers started asking questions about what that crazy Frenchman and those even crazier Americans were doing in the corner. As we explained our rationale, people tended to think that we were the most awesome people on the planet.

Julien, Super Tourist

Wes, Champion of the Gladiatorial Tourist Shoppes

Reinhardt, Lord of the Paper Sword

We gathered a posse that also wanted to attend this party—we think mostly to see what would happen when we got there. So we navigated through the streets and the metro of Munich, getting hoots and hollers all the way from people who either thought that we were incredibly creative or incredibly escaped from a mental institution.

So we finally got to the place—an old, run down hotel that was scheduled for demolition in a couple of weeks. But before tearing it down, students from the nearby universities thought it a wonderful idea to graffiti the hell out of it and cram a thousand or so costumed people into the basement. But alas, when we got there, we found out two things: first, we needed tickets to get in, and second, there were no more tickets left. You mean we came all this way looking this completely silly for no pay off? Not so. Julien had one more trick up his sleeve. He walked around the building, with us following, and managed to find his friend...who happened to have some reserve tickets for people who had pre-paid.

We begged. We pleaded. We were crazy Americans. And after all that, he looked around, grabbed three tickets from his pocket, and told us not to tell anyone where we got them (oops...). So we were in like Flynn. And our costumes were a hit. In fact, they were too good. When people started speaking to us in German, all we could say back was the following: “We don't speak German. We're tourists. From Chicago.” To which they would replay, “No you're not.” And which we answered with “Um, yes we are. We're Americans.” We were, as it turned out, probably the only Americans at this party that was staged in the catacomb like basement of this hotel. We grabbed beers, had English-language conversations with the Germans that actually believed us, and danced the night away.

Where No American Has Gone Before

Truth be told, maybe we had a little too good of a time. So at the end of the night (AKA the morning), we made our way, through a blizzard and through a suddenly indecipherable Munich train system. Let's just say that we paid a price for those tickets—maybe not in Euros, but a price nonetheless.

This was Saturday night, Sunday morning. After a bad night's sleep, we got up, shambled our way outside, grabbed a hot dog, dragged each other to our first hostel, and went to sleep again. Bring on Monday.

This day was without a doubt the most adrenaline-pumping, exciting day we have had. This is the reason that the Pork Chop Express advocates 'no plan.' Because 'no plan' opens the way to 'every plan.' Over and out.

Travel is a Harsh but Fair Teacher

Note: A special thanks to our friends at Eurocheapo.Com, the pioneers of budget traveling in Europe, and a great one-stop shop for all your info and accommodation needs. Tom, Pete, Meredith, and the rest of the Eurocheapo gang are the best in the business at finding tucked away places and ferreting out the best deals for the European traveler. Our little blog that could was featured a little while back on the Eurocheapo site, and for that we are grateful. Cheapos of the world unite!!

Bodies beaten? Check. Spirits dampered? Check. Pockets empty? Definitely check. Florence had come out with guns akimbo and a rowdy sneer on its face. This city had defeated greater foes than the likes of us with its ultra-mercantile ways, and we were as helpless as bunny rabbits facing down a steamroller. So as our bodies gained the rest that they needed, our thoughts turned to one thing: let's get the f— out of here.

This was our original exit strategy: after Florence, we were to catch a ride northward to Bologna, famous for its food (spaghetti Bolognese anyone?) and the uniformly red brick buildings in the city center. Then eastward from there to Venice, city of gondolas and bridges, in order to see the annual Carnival in all its splendor. Sounds fun, right? Well, we thought we had some kick-ass accommodations lined up for both these places. But the night before we were to go, it all went to pot.

The spots we were to crash in both places were suddenly unavailable. This was kind of a problem. But then, we're the Pork Chop Express, kings of 'no plan,' for better or for worse. So on the morning of the day we were to leave Florence, we sat down in the hostel's breakfast room with computers out strategizing alternatives. First we looked at alternate accommodations. No go—Carnival had wiped out any vacancies in Venice. And the alternatives for Bologna were expensive and far away from the city center.

We eventually settled on a new plan (we at the Pork Chop like to refer to this as 'plan B-ing it'). We'd spend the rest of the day exploring more distant parts of Florence before catching a night train through the Alps to eventually get into Munich, Germany. Better to cut our losses and take the hint that perhaps Italy had had enough of our antics. A good plan, right? It made sense. But if you think that, then remember who you're dealing with.

We spent that last day in the far off hills around Florence, walking straight out of the city limits and into a village made up of lavish vineyards and mansions. It was peaceful and relaxing to walk where there were no stores, no American accents, no places where you had to deposit money to get into. Long story short, we got back to our hostel in the early evening, picked up our stuff in storage, and set out for the Santa Maria Novella train station. The only thing left to do was to validate the Eurail pass so that we could hop on the train to freedom. Florence, though, had other ideas.

We queued up for fifteen minutes at the ticket window at around 8:12 pm, which was long before the last train was scheduled to leave the station that night. Right as we got up to the window, however, the attendant on the other side smiled smarmily and slid a sign in front of him that read 'chiuso.' We'll give you three guesses on what that means (hint: it means the opposite of 'open'). We begged. We pleaded. We demanded justice. But none of these things had any effect on the overlords of the biglietti (Italian for 'tickets'). We were stuck in Florence for another night.

So we hoofed it back to the hostel (again), stole internet, and procured accommodations at a questionable hostel across town. It was cheaper, and the experience had to be better than the one we had at this hostel. So we hoofed it over there. This new hostel, the David Inn Hostel, was actually located in a great and central location in the shadow of the Duomo. And it wasn't as shady as the hostel website described it. It actually was nice and homey, if a bit cramped. And the travelers we met there were top rate—they were all adventurers like us, and it was quite refreshing to feel that kinship once more. We had a great time talking into the wee hours of the night about our travels thus far and where we should eventually go in each country. Remember this point. We may refer to some of these travelers in more detail later.

Plan C could be summed up in four words: get to Munich, dammit. We got up early, got to the train station, and queued up again. And again, it could have been a simple affair. But it wasn't. At least this time, the lady at the ticket window was on our side. She explained that our pass was good for travel anywhere in Italy and anywhere in Germany. But there were a couple of problems with our plan: Switzerland and Austria. Our Eurail pass didn't cover travel in these countries. So there we were, biting our nails about what we might do about this, while the ticket lady feverishly tried to find alternatives for us to take. It ended up that we could take the train to Munich, provided that we pay out of pocket for the travel through Austria, which was about 30 Euros each. We took the deal, said 'grazie' way too many times, and made the train. Finally.

We're writing this blog with the benefit of hindsight. What we couldn't tell then, but what we can readily see now, is that that colossal mistake in Florence that night set loose a chain of events that has really defined this whole trip and that has taught us lessons about how the universe seems to work, how timing is all-important, and how resilience is the number one thing that travelers must have.

Let's explain. Had we made that night train, we would have ridden with different people and passed through the countryside at a different time of day. We would have reached Munich many hours earlier, changing out actions and reactions to events. Everything would have been different. And knowing what we know now, we wouldn't change one thing that has happened so far. That's the adventure—the not knowing and the constant learning about the world and ourselves. We feel that this is what travel is all about. After you strip away the sightseeing and the touristy stuff, it is about getting past all the garbage that fills up 'normal living' and seeing that the most important things to be aware of are timing, action, faith in what you do at any moment, and the willingness to accept the consequences of any choice you make.

That long-winded statement now given, the first sign of our luck turning around was meeting another traveler on the train. Her name was Octavia, and she was an American graduate student studying in Florence. We got to talking about the wine industry that she had worked in prior to school, her experiences in Florence, our experiences in Florence, and where she was going. It just so happened (timing!!) that she was getting off at Verona (yes, the town where Romeo and Juliet took place), where we had a two hour layover for a train transfer. She was stopping there to meet a friend and to witness Carnival in Verona. So we invited ourselves along.

We walked through the busy streets of Verona amongst people in costume—mostly wearing faux Renaissance gear to emulate the Montagues and the Capulets of Shakespeare's play. We had our own costumes on: backpackers. Let us say that it was so nice to walk and talk with Octavia, and it was so nice to have this unexpected treat happen to us on this day when we really needed it.

After two hours, we said our goodbyes, raced back to the train station, and made the train for the long trip through the Alps to Munich. Now remember that Plan B had included a night train to Munich in which we were supposed to be sleeping. Plan C's train ride was during the afternoon into early evening. And boy did we luck out again. We would have been very disappointed if we had taken that night train, because the vistas of the Alps were nothing short of mind-numbingly spectacular. Coming from the American Midwest, where 'flat' was invented, we were struck with awe at the tiny villages on the slopes of the Alps, the vast expanses of vineyards and pastures, the snowcapped peaks where people would ski without need for snow machines.

We enjoyed this train ride from our own posh first class couchette. It was nice. Very, very nice, and another sign that our luck was turning around.

We got into Munich at around 8:00 PM, found our hostel, and decided to treat ourselves to the first sit down dinner we had had since the farm. We found a restaurant close to our hostel that was completely non-touristy. In fact, no one spoke English, including the waitstaff. This was kind of funny, because we had been immersed in Italian for about a month, and considered ourselves prepared for very minor interactions such as buying things at stores. But hearing German all around us was both exciting in that we had an opportunity to learn a new language, and jarring in that we weren't hearing the flowing, vowel-intensive Italian any longer. However, we were lucky. The waitstaff seemed to like us enough, or at least like the idea that two American shlubs would wander into their establishment. So without us really saying anything other than 'beer!', they brought out food that they thought we might like. Which were full roasted chickens, dill salads, and French fries. All for a very reasonable price. Hot dog.

Yes, our luck had turned around. Munich had welcomed us with open arms. And as we slept that night with full bellies, we thought about what the next day would bring. And though the previous day's activities taught us that we were resilient, open-minded, and mentally prepared for any challenge, we could never have predicted what would happen to us the next day. Stay tuned.

A Necessary Evil

The entire time in Florence was a necessary evil. Sometimes when you travel, you have to rest even though you want to do and see everything all the time and at once. You feel you are wasting your time if something isn't immediately the most impressive or oldest thing you have ever seen, whether it be a piece of art, building, monument, collage, graffiti, tourist sign, toilette, etc. Once you have been in the catacombs dating back to 100 A.D. 1530 seems like yesterday. But rest is... a necessary evil.

While at the farm we ate the most elaborately wonderful 17 course meals. We also learned a great deal about farm life, Italian history, and culture. Our experiences were now trickling into the cultural nuances of today's society. We were rapidly growing. But in Florence everything came to a seemingly dead halt.

Our hostel was terrible. It can only be compared to a fraternity house of the worst kind. A large assortment of stuck up college students flooded the hallways and squashed anything that even vaguely resembled being in a foreign country. America was plastered to the walls and we were reminded of our roots fairly quickly.

Not only was this not our style, but the hostel was not safe. We trusted all our gear to shoddy lockers, and even though we put everything under lock and key, we still needed some luck. Our hostel mate was robbed the second night we were there, while we were sleeping. The culprit managed to come into our room after we were all asleep, and even though he was not registered with the hostel, he set up in a bed, slept, woke up, robbed our roommate, and then walked out before we got up. He was a big man and slept right above my bunk. I remember being angry at him because our bed was loud and he moved around a lot.

The next morning, we learned another interesting aspect to Florence...everything costs money. It costs money to see a museum. It costs money to go to church. It costs money to go to the park. It costs money to sit down in a restaurant--not for the food, but for the actual seat. It costs money to go to the public bathroom. It costs money to use the free Internet in your hostel. It even costs money to see a single statue; granted that statue is Michelangelo's David.

The pork chop style is to have fun and stay under budget. Maybe going overboard here, but we generally each spend about 25 Euros a day including lodging, food, drink, and activities. Some days we spend a bit more, many days a bit less. But in Florence you have to spend 50 Euros to just about do anything. So being the clumsy budget-minded travelers that we are, we were not impressed by this aspect of Florence.

The Pork Chop Express came face to face with the other side of American tourism in Florence, the Gossip Girls. Littering the streets, these Gossip Girls knew no bounds, had no control over volume or obnoxiousness. If you go to Florence, don't be surprised to hear more American English than any other language.

The Italians of Florence seemed to not want to inform you if you are paying to get into a museum and it is about to close. Or if you are waiting in line for no reason because they will be going on break as soon as you step up to order. And all this is completely arbitrary to time. And this was truly our first trial for the express train. Sick and in the vast melting pot of Gossip Girls and other such tourists, stuck with an unswerving timeless Italian authority demanding retribution in the form of the Euro.

It was hard to not only think of getting to Bologna where we were to stay with a friend or Venice where we were to see Carnival. The idea of just surviving until then crossed our minds several times. This is against the Pork Chop motto. We stick to no plan. We let things be as they are and rock with life. This sometimes requires the occasional slap across the face, but a bruised face saves money on makeup. It took us 3 days to truly get out of the funk.

However, we must note the Florence is very beautiful. The streets are full of life. Where Rome showed inventiveness and the strength of imperial expansion, Florence matched it in art. The Uffizi Gallery was stunning. The hills were scenic and vast. Our turn around happened on day 3 when we decided to head for the hills. We fell upon the most amazing view of the city from the Michelangelo Palazzo, where a replica of David sits. We thought this view was even more breath taking than the view from top the Duomo. This was the first sign of the Pork Chop style's triumphant return, but it didn't really kick in until we wandered a bit more and found a monastery.

As we walked up a series of steps, the monastery or church was just as interesting inside as it was outside. Surrounding the church was an above ground grave yard. Huge and elaborate Mausoleums told stories of devotion to God as the lives of the people buried. Losing track of time, we wondered and wandered through this graveyard.

A voice came on the loud speaker explaining that the church was going to close. We made our way to the exit, but saw some people were still going into the church itself. We decided to follow. What we found inside around dusk was a huge uniquely decorated church hall. The wooden roof was elaborately painted. But this mystical feeling space was not what made our experience so wonderful here.

As we approached the altar, we noticed that there was an above ground sanctuary, and then an underground sanctuary. Monks was walking through the below ground sanctuary. They were preparing for Mass. We had no idea this was going on until we heard them start chanting. The chanting was intimate. The sound carried throughout the church like a distant bell, but each word was clearly understood.

We decided to respectfully make our way down to the sanctuary, where we sat, knelt, and stood, in seemingly random rotation for the remainder of the service. I was captivated by the acoustics of these low vaulted ceilings. Almost the entire service was sung and this type of chanting was new to me. Chanting is not the same as regularly notated music. The pitch, rhythm, and loudness are just represented in approximation or left completely to the discretion of the singer. When many people sing the same line at once, various interpretations are heard overlapping and it gives a swarming effect. A very beautiful sound in an echo-y space. Also to note, the organ was quite unique. The small reed sound was quiet and the music was very energetic, light, and almost whimsical.

Tired as usual, we made our way back to our terrible hostel. It grew late into the night as we dreamed of visions of Bologna and Venice. The trip, while fraught with trials, had been relatively smooth up to this point and it seemed that the Florence danger and attitude was just a minor hiccup. I opened my computer to start this blog. Checking my email, I found all of our plans to stay in Bologna and Venice had fallen through. We had no place to stay the very next day and had to check out the next morning at 10AM. We had learned a lesson, the harsh lesson of attachment.

Noi Siamo Enemici

From day one, Tiziano and I were enemies (in Italian, 'noi siamo enemici'). Every time he saw me, Tiziano would say, 'La cavia!' and point at me with such amusement. We scrambled to translate 'la cavia' with a dictionary and found that it means 'guinea pig.' Each day we greeted each other with a smile and “enemico!” And although I knew nothing of Italian, and he knew nothing of PB&J or baseball, we understood each other.

At lunchtime, Tiziano would plop down onto his chair in anticipation of his well-earned meal. Without hesitation he always made sure his guests were served first and served plenty. 'Prego! Mangare per mio enemico!' Food for my enemy. With smiles we exchanged pasta bowls.

The lunch table was always surrounded by the bombastic arguing of Tiziano's wife, Gemma, and his four daughters—all loud, Italian women with definite opinions on how things are. Tiziano would stay silent as the five female trumpets blared on and on. We rarely spoke with words. More often it was in short glances back and forth. I'd glance over, and he'd have this look on this face that said, 'see what I have to deal with every day?' or 'why me lord?!' On the rare occasions that things got out of hand, Tiziano would only have to say three or four words to silence the symphony of roaring females.

Tiziano is the engine of Tenuta San Carlo. He reigns over the crops and live stock, horses and swampland. All politics are understood. All methodologies rehearsed, practiced, and set to motion. Weather is not a simple nuisance, but a necessity and determining factor to the prosperity of the farm. Because of this, Tiziano spends his life listening.

If there was ever a man to learn from, it would be my enemy Tiziano. He lives by laughter and works till he is contently worn. For Tiziano, generosity is determined by his ability to see the worth in all things. Nothing is wasted. He leaves no careless words cast upon the ground.

With his smile, Tiziano opened our hearts to what we were to learn from the farm. And as the life of the farm, trees, and animals became our teachers, Tiziano loosed the chains that kept us American. And only with the deepest respect can I proudly say, 'noi siamo enemici.'

Tiziano e Wes: Enemici

Andrea is more Awesomer than Chuck Norris

It comes only in rare times that the Pork Chop must catalog and dedicate such attention to one figure happened upon through the rituals of travel, but when this time comes, we must honor this duty to the fullest. This post is dedicated to Andrea, who as you can probably already assume to be true, is more awesomer the Chuck Norris.

Weighing in at 165 lbs, Andrea sports long sandy blond curly hair tied at the back. His face is burned by the Tuscan wind and sun. Reigning 5'5” above the earth, he approaches each day with a strut that can only be more awesomer than Chuck Norris.

Throughout the day, like incense, 28 cigarettes dangle from his mouth, never to be inhaled because Andrea does not need to breathe. From his pre-breakfast-before-putting-on-his-boots cigarette, to his pre-breakfast-while-his-boots-are-on-before-he-takes-them-off-for-breakfast cigarette, Andrea is more awesomer than Chuck Norris.

Any task is not too small or too big for Andrea. Where without motivation, he will see no fault in loitering, once given to task, Andrea becomes an unstoppable machine. Gloves can only slow such a man. Face masks, goggles, ear-plugs can only slow such a man. Safety apparatus in general are for lesser beings. With an industrial blow-torch in his left hand, a dirty blade in his right, and a pre-about-to-do-the-most-ridiculous-thing-ever cigarette in his mouth, Andrea is more awesomer than Chuck Norris.

Languages are boundaries for most mortal men. But not Andrea. His unabashedly Tuscan Italian is less a torrent of incomprehensible syllables and more a forging of a new language, that of Andrean Italian, which takes the language from separate words through song and finally into a single tone which holds all the secrets of the universe, and which is only understandable to those who are equally as awesome as Andrea. Which is nobody, including the decidedly less-awesome former-star of Walker, Texas Ranger. Indubitably, Andrea is more awesomer than Chuck Norris.

Should Andrea be feared? No. Because to be more awesomer than the decidedly awesome Chuck Norris, you must have infinite patience, a gentle demeanor, yet kick major ass. Andrea, we at the Pork Chop Express salute you.

Non capisco, Andrea. Non capisco.

Farm Livin' Is the Life For Me...er, Us

We are writing but a single blog posting about our goings on at Tenuta San Carlo (plus a couple of additional postings about notable people on the farm), a farm and ranch in Tuscany where both members of the Pork Chop Express were lucky enough to be selected for an artist residency.

First things first—we had to get out of Rome. Navigating Termini again proved to be much more hassle than necessary. The big board on which the train schedule was posted was hard to read, the ticket validators hardly labeled, our train put on the farthest track possible from the main entrance, etc. But we did it (by the seat of our pants), and hopped on the train to Grosseto, one of the main towns in Tuscany.

Tenuta San Carlo is owned by Ms. Samantha Lotti, who operates Tenuta San Carlo as a farm, as a horse retreat (for vacationing race horses), and as a choice spot for agriturismo, or agricultural tourism popular in Italy. At the farm, people can rent apartments and enjoy hanging out at the farm, walking through the park land that makes up a good portion of the property, and enjoying the food products that the farm has to offer.

A few years ago, Samantha started an artist residency program which gives scientists, dancers, artists, novelists, composers, and philosophers the chance to experience Italian farm culture and land. This session, there were three artists in the program—your two affectionately magnanimous Pork-Choppy hosts and Ali Fischer, a modern dancer from New York City.

Samantha Lotti, an artist herself, pushes the limits of painting and concept. She splits her time between the farm and New York; already a person who has lived several lives over. Her discipline requires scrupulous presence and an ability to capture without hesitation or contemplation. Trust me... this is hard to do.

Ali Fischer spends her life in motion. She sees and feels the rhythm of all things around her and, charged with the vigor of life, she bends her body. Everything is a meditation for Ali. It is hard to summarize her spirit, but her openness was infectious. It is difficult not to want to jump on her band wagon.

We are proud to announce that Ali and Sam are honorary members of the Pork Chop Express. Oink Oink!

Getting on with the tale, we have to start with the food. We at the Pork Chop Express pride ourselves on our cheapo standards. If needs be, we can live on questionable tuna fish and a piece of hard tack. So we didn't quite know what to expect from the food at the farm. And then we found out. For the entire two weeks, we were treated to the best food on the face of the planet—bar none. And we're not even exaggerating. Here's how a typical day's culinary experience commenced: we get up and prepare our own breakfast, which usually consisted of quality coffee made in a moka or a spot of tea along with a selection of biscotti, or these cream filled croissants that we affectionately called 'Italian Ho-Hos.' This simple breakfast was pleasant and nice, but lunch time was when the party really started.

At around 1:00 every day, we ate with Tiziano, the farm manger, and the rest of his family (Tiziano will have his own blog post, in which we proclaim our undying love for him and his family). Gemma, Tiziano's wife, and their four daughters helped prepare the most amazing meals representative of the region (all kinds of pasta, risotto, meat dishes, salads, freshly grown veggies, and desserts like pannacotta, a cream custard that kinda made our brains explode). Every time we'd bite into some new dish, all we could do was look at each other and shake our heads. Not only was it always the 'best thing we've ever tasted (and most assuredly the best lasagna we've ever had anywhere),' but it was so good that we knew we'd be screwed for the rest of our lives. Could we go back to boxed macaroni and cheese? Nope. No way.

And then came dinner. Every night, we had dinner with Samantha in the farm's main villa. And we were treated to some (more) amazing, incredible food, courtesy of Flavius, the chef extraordinare on premises. Each of these lavish affairs began with a first course which was usually hand made pasta in sauces so unique and tasty that they probably contained crack. Then came fresh veggies and a second course, many times a meat course, like bacon-wrapped chicken, pan-fried fish caught from the Mediterranean Sea, or on one night, roasted wild boar that was soaked in milk for two days to get it tender and tasty. Do we dare even go into dessert? Let's put it this way: one night, Flavius brought out an impossibly light tasting cream filled torte the likes of which we had never tasted. When asked what it was, she simply said that it was a 'simple cake.' We're sure she wasn't lying. Our brains explode again. To top it all off, after dessert, we were especially treated a selection from Flavius's home distilled liquors (which were exceedingly strong, as you could probably guess).

So what were we doing to deserve such delicacies? Well, we came to the farm to work, to be in communion with nature, and to find inspiration in our respective arts. We accomplished the first two together when we could (unprecedented rains had flooded much of Tuscany in the weeks preceding our arrival, and the rains continued into our stay there). One of our big jobs was to help keep up already existing trails on the property that had become overgrown. So we put away the computers and our walking shoes, took up saws, pruners, machetes, and knee-high rubber boots, and delved into the beautiful and lush landscape that Tenuta San Carlo has to offer.

When the rains were too heavy to make going out into the forest practical, we were given over to Andrea (AKA 'he who is more awesomer than Chuck Norris'). When we worked with Andrea in the wood shop, we were sanding down old doors and windows to strip the old paint off them, then re-varnishing and shellacking them. We'll go into more of this in a future post, but rest assured, Andrea deserves the title that we have given to him.

Our main down time came after work and before dinner. We'd have a couple of hours to do with what we saw fit. Often times, that meant a sit down with pen and paper, a walk through the property, quiet meditation, or not so quiet hanging out and carousing over platefuls of Flavius's terribly delicious cookies.

And that was it. By and large, we were cut off from everything and everyone except for the nature around us. Chances to communicate with the outside world were few and limited. Instead of that, we sat and discussed things, mused about our lives and about our lives on the farm, asked questions about Italy which Samantha was glad to answer. There was something to living that simply that exposes long-buried thoughts and ideas. We learned a lot about ourselves and each other. We learned a lot of how to be better people and how to treat others more justly in our daily existences. In many ways, being on the farm made many of the illusions that we construct for ourselves much easier to see and reflect upon.

We at the Pork Chop Express heartily recommend coming to Tenuta San Carlo (go to www.tenutasancarlo.com for more details) if you're looking for a place to chill on your summer or winter break. Definitely a special place.

Dare to Be Stupid

Okay. So Day 3 was colossally dumb, in that we totally blew the two-step plan. So for the next two days, we decided to cut our losses and make things simpler: one-step plans. On Day 4, we visit the Forum and the Colosseum (succeed at the former, fail at the latter). Then on Day 5, we try again to visit the Colosseum—with success!





We at the Pork Chop Express continue to insist on the mantra of 'no plan' mostly because plans continue to bite us in the ass. Stay tuned as we continue to make the mistake of not heeding our own advice.

Have You Ever Felt Like a Hamster in a Maze?

On our third day in Rome, we decided to come up with a real agenda. Francesca went to catch her flight back to Edinburgh, and we were left to our own devices. So, here was our plan:

1)Go to the Colosseum and the Forum. See the sights.
2)Go to the Vatican Museum. Do the same.

Yes. Our plan only had two steps. Keep this in mind while you read.

We made our way to the Colosseum, which we had no trouble finding (most people don't have trouble finding it, but you must understand that this was a definite milestone in our traveling thus far). But when we reached the entrance, we saw that the Forum area, which we very much wanted to see, was closed for a couple of hours. Seeing that, we switched to action mode and resolved that it was just not our day to see the Roman ruins and its ancient arena of death.

Straight to the Vatican...well, at least we tried to do that. After looking at our map, we saw that we had not explored the southwestern part of Rome thoroughly enough. So we adjusted the plan: explore that area, then work our way northward to get to the Vatican. As you can see from the map, it seemed pretty cut and dry. But there is one terrible aspect to the map we were using—it did not show topography.

After getting in a quick workout in the Circo Massimo, satisfying Wes's urge to do ring dips in Windy City Cross Fit fashion, we found ourselves exceedingly hungry, very thirsty, and having no way to satisfy either urge. But we pressed on, trusting on our resourcefulness to get us what we needed when we needed it. We crossed the Fiume Trevere (the river), and passed by the Piazza Triussa and its way cool fountain. At this location, a pair of girls were handing out packs of tissues. We each took one. In retrospect, we should have used them to cry.

But that's getting ahead of things. Northward ho! Going this way afforded us some incredible views, the Fonte Acqua Paola, and the Mausoleo Ossario Giancolense, a memorial to those who died in military defense of Rome.

Fonte Acqua Paola

Finally, we passed through yet another great arch, and went up some stairs, to find ourselves in a park. Now it may have looked like a normal park. But little did we know that it would be like wandering into the Twilight Zone. Thirsty, hungry, but only slightly lost, we pressed on, our confidence budding. Just go straight north and we'll be there in a jiffy. No problem.

Except that there was a problem. The further we pressed into the park the more lost we got. All directions ceased to have meaning past 'that's a cool ruin,' or 'this park kicks ass!'

Kicks ass, or kicks OUR asses?

Our map became useless. Our instincts, honed by thousands of years of human development, would guide our way out of the park, to...a highway. We didn't know if we had somehow stumbled upon an alternate universe Rome, in which the twisty, windy streets were replaced with single lane highways bordered on both sides by high walls. Left without much besides a determination to keep going forward, we did just that.

A Part of Rome You Don't Want to See

Now remember what I had noted about topography. We couldn't tell because the incline was ever so slight, but we had been traveling up the side of a mountain the entire time. And while I'd love to tell you where we actually were, I can't. Because I still don't know. All I know is that the scant traces of English were gone, replaced by sidelong glances when we popped into stores and when we wound about residential high rises. We could see the dome of St. Peter's in the distance. Our goal was within reach...but how do we get down from here, wherever 'here' was?

Here's how you get down. First, you accept that you're screwed, which we did with wild abandon. Then you lose all appetite, which was quite easy. Then you scramble to find any sense of direction, which was impossible because it was around noontime. Finally, you just pick a direction and go, which was the only thing you could do. So we walked. And walked. And walked. All the time knowing telling ourselves that down and toward the dome was where we should go.

After almost three hours of wandering around the outskirts of Rome, we found ourselves back at the Vatican. We were starving, half-crazed, and smelled like your nicer sewers after a flood. A perfect time to see the Sistine Chapel, eh? So we did that after scarfing down overpriced panninis and cappuccinos.

So you may be thinking, those dumbasses nearly got themselves lost in the mountains hugging Rome, but the worst is behind them. Ahem, no. See, we LOVED the Vatican museum. We loved the Egyptian exhibits, the Greek and Roman relics, the tapestries—all of it (except things depicting mountains and/or people lost; those not so much). We loved it so much that we spent the rest of the time there looking and taking pictures and talking about the meanings behind the symbols embedded in the art. And the Sistine Chapel itself! No words can capture it (I'm sure you're sick of hearing this). I didn't know that it was so huge, so magical, so...holy, I guess...before actually seeing it. We sat and stared at every part of the ceiling and walls that we could in order to burn their images into our minds. Then we were promptly ushered out, through a hallway, onto the steps outside St. Peter's. A problem—we had to check our bags at the beginning of the museum, and there they sat, behind a desk, behind a door, behind a nice, pleasant looking sign that said: CLOSED.

Crap. Again. By now, we had accepted that this was not our day, and after consulting five different carabinieri, we were told to talk to the Swiss guards who blocked the way to the residential area where the priests and nuns of the Vatican lived. Once we did that, we were instructed to talk to some police lieutenant who looked at us like we were buffoons, got on the phone, hung up, and told us to come back in one hour.

So we used the hour to nervously wander the streets and find a cheap meal to keep us from going totally over the edge. In the course of this, we encountered two nuns from the States, who provided kind words, glowing smiles, and a nice respite from the madness of the day.

The two coolest chicks in Rome

So after all that, and after coming back, we were led through the residential area with armed escort, to a small office filled with police. There we were promptly handed our bags and allowed to leave. On our way out, we had to once more pass the Swiss guard who helped us get our stuff back. He looked glad that things turned out okay, and for sure we were happy that this entire day of hell was over. So to congratulate ourselves and thank the Swiss guard, we offered to give him a slice of true Americana, a greeting/farewell that all at once captures the indomitable spirit of the United States.

The reception? Let's just put it this way: if you ever wondered if the Swiss guard of the Vatican do fist bumps (AKA 'knucks'), the answer is a sternly stated 'no.'

All Aboard!

Our second day in Rome saw us joined by the first passenger on the Pork Chop Express, the lovely Francesca Robinson, on holiday from her studies in Edinburgh, Scotland.

Francesca ready for action

She had informed us the night before that she had not gone to the Vatican, and we promptly invited her to come with us on our merry adventure. So we started out from the hostel once more, getting out free breakfast (which was getting easier to accomplish), and touring the sights we had missed the previous day.

Fittingly, we began at Santa Maria Maggiore, one of Rome's many, many churches. Francesca showed off her sweet SLR digital camera, which took pictures that the Pork Chop Express was envious of. In short order, we methodically passed the Trevi Fountain (again), the Colonna Traiana (which must translate to 'big honkin' stone column'), and the Spanish steps with Trinita del Monti church at the top. Yes, churches and fountains once again ruled the day.

Eventually, we made it to the Vatican, seat of Pope Benedict and whole bunch of other holy guys and gals. St. Peter's Basilica, the main church with the cuppola overlooking the rest of Rome, is mega-normously gargantuan. Words do it no justice. Pictures make it look small. So look at these images and just imagine something infinitely more imposing on top of your head. That might approximate the feeling a little. That didn't stop us from having a bit too much fun, as you can see.

This is an optical illusion. I was trying to wave hi. Honest. Sorta.

Still, the church was utterly awe-inspiring. There's no way you can walk in and not contemplate the passage of time, the genesis of the universe, and our places within it. It's strange to come to a place like Rome, where the people seem to be comfortable living in and around their history (some great, some really not so), whereas, I feel that American history is often either placed on a high pedestal or buried never to return. There seems to be no in between.

After soaking in the grandeur of the St. Peter's, we went up to the top of the dome, to the cupola which is one of the highest points in Rome. You can indeed see the entire city from this point.

So it was at this point that I (Reinhardt) proclaimed that this was the perfect place to record myself reading a story that was being published in the Paramanu Pentaquark, the online journal of Gothic Funk (thanks, Connor), and that would be premiered at a stupendous party in my absence. People seemed to take this odd occurrence in stride. So after that, and a quick jaunt into the catacombs of dead popes underneath the Basilica, we left to go back to the hostel. At least, we intended to.

As the sun ebbed in the sky, we passed the Piazza Navona, an oval strip of land that reminded me of Union Square Park in New York City, with artists and artisans hawking their paintings and sculptures and crafts. Then we stopped at the Pantheon, a monolithic ancient temple to the Roman gods turned Christian church. The immensity of this monument was stunning. It was almost too much. Maybe it was. Because we then promptly got lost. We don't know how. We had two maps. We hadn't had much trouble earlier. I figured that this was God's sweet revenge by saying, as we were exiting St. Peter's, that “Martin Luther DID bring up a couple of good points.”

And we were off, zig-zagging up and down streets, never able to locate ourselves on the map. We kept coming across the monument to Vittorio Emanuele II (the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier), and orienting ourselves wrongly every time. This way...no that...up?...which way is north...? Eventually, we found ourselves back at the hostel, worn, but not broken. No, that would happen the next day.

Something to Think About, and a Temporary Goodbye

What we believe
Hangs in the stars of the mind
Triggered to shine shivers
We are indicators of time
Time makes us believe
Because we believe in time

Rome is a world stacked
Not like sky scrappers
Not like odds
Rome is stacked like a log cabin

Each layer made man-made
Each layer organic from birth
Each layer carved into conformity

One atop another
Clearly separate,
Clearly as one
Each piece stranded in story, naked mosaic.

Polished and fine the marble rots,
Polished and fine steps to the top of St. Peter's
Worn by curiosity and spectacle
I believe in God, Father almighty,
Creator of heaven, earth, us
I believe

Belief is uncertainty of the sacred and
steadfast in discipline, outcome calculated
Today God is a log cabin
Because we believe in time.

by Wes Alexander

NOTE: Hi all. I know you're eager to read about our further exploits in Rome (and believe me, we're dying to tell you), but we haven't been able to complete any more posts before heading off to the farm, where we will be on a two week black out from Feb 2 to Feb 14. Never fear, though. The rest of the Rome blogs and the farm blogs will be up in short order when we get back on board the Pork Chop Express.

Rome Was Not Built in a Day...But Don't Tell Us That

It is not easy to be in a city for the first time, far away in a place of rich with new possibilities. From the first step of the plane, train, bus, my mind burst into flames; wild sporadic excited chaotic beautiful fleeting flickers of thought. What to see, what to feel, where to go. I am trapped in tomorrow, I am desperate for gratification. And this is why we go. This is why we travel to unknown destinations, past the plausible.

But the mission of the Pork Chop Express is to maintain presence within the discipline of action. And so with our first experiments in action, we awoke to a city filled with monuments and traditions, churches and fountains, with one goal in mind: no plan. At first, we struggled to get out the simple tourist map handed to us the night before, but we decided to venture off a general direction and take off.

We were in a mood to see the whole of Rome in a day (might I add 'in a mischievous mood'). We could have walked 30 miles if that was needed. We found ourselves at the large park on the top of Rome and looked out of the whole city for the first time. It was unsettlingly beautiful. The park was a nice start. The park let out to the Piazza del Popolo, a place filled with statues from the Medici family and vendors from Northern Africa and India.

We made our way to a church atop the hill, Trinita del Monti. It was a small sanctuary, but at the time seemed like the largest church in Rome. We entered in and found no one, so in pork-chop fashion, I told Reinhardt to get the camera ready. I quickly jumped onto my hands and said cheese. Needless to say, we found a quick and quiet exit.

Laughing like school girls, we spent the next part of the day walking through this perilously historical city. The danger of turning the corner and having to stop at another grandiose unfathomable vista turned from exciting to daunting. From the Fontana del Tritone in the Piazza Barbarini, to the Trevi Fountain, we blasted down the cobbled roads and alleyways. We fell upon the Chiesa Catolica de Santi Vincenzo e Anestasio.

My camera felt like a fresh hand gun and was difficult to get the hang of at first. I was unsure where to point and shoot. My trigger finger was hesitant, my eyes overloaded with scene after scene. But the day demanded restitution in the form of visual memories, so I spat on, documenting one scene after the next.

Just after passing through the Piazza del Quirinale, we marveled at the tomb of the unknown soldier (Il Monumento de Vittorio Emanuele II). This is a modern monument to the skillful style of the Italians. Atop this impressive building the whole city can be seen from the center out. From all points, the building serves to combine contemporary relevance and historical respect.

The Basilica S. Maria en Aracoeli was also awe inspiring. We can not describe the massive spaces inside each location. Heavy sits the atmosphere in these churches and cathedrals. Solemn nuns and priests grace and greet amidst dim lighting by sitting in the pews.

Up to this point, we had seen polished Rome, a place where achievement had shown it's hight. We had yet to experience the Vatican, the museums, or S. Maria Maiggiore. But we felt we had a nice taste of the city, until we fell upon the ruins. We realized that Rome can not be conquered in a day. The far reaching ruins stretched across the south end of the city. Large walls were erected to prevent vandalism and preserve the archaeological site. So we left the ruins for more spectacle as the night fell upon in the sky.

We made our way through the Theatro Marcello. Carefully lit, the grand theater house was beautiful in the night. We began to see that Rome is a different city in the dark. The town becomes quiet and coldly lit, the monuments shine like scattered stars in the sky.

As it was our first day, we decided to head back for home. We pulled out the map and said, “where are we?” Finding our location we headed for our hostel. As is typical for the Pork Chop Express, we got amazingly lost in the winding streets of Rome. We passed the Colosseum, and moving in the opposite direction than desired, we wound up back at the tomb of the unknown soldier. It was jarring looking at the map and trying to make sense of things.

A protest was just forming in the Piazza below the tomb of the unknown soldier. Trying to understand this protest was completely out of reach for us. But the passion people displayed for what they believed in was apparent. What is Rome without a protest?

We eventually caught on, eager for bed, when, like struck by lightning, we remembered one vital piece of our traveling puzzle as yet unaddressed. No matter the vistas and culture of Rome, and unispired by the Italian vibrancy and style, our minds were only on one thing... ear plugs.

Prepared to Fight, vol. 2

Aboard the plane to Italy, we slept and slept. Hunger set in, but we had nothing. Jet lag set in, but we had to push on. We got off the plane, drew papers from our crotch and upon approval, ventured into Rome. We figured one of us had printed out the location of the hostel. We figured one of us had read up on where the airport was in relation to Rome. We figured one of us knew if we should take a taxi, train, another plane, or just walk. 

As you probably could guess, we had no clue. We didn't even remember the name of the hostel. It was smothered in the clutter of my email inbox. We found our way to a train, and figured we could always start on the train and then guess from there. The only problem was that in order to buy a ticket, you had to first know the location you were heading to. We also didn't want to waste money by buying several fares. So, in typical pork-chop fashion, we guessed. Termini? Sure. Termini sounds...vaguely familiar. I think... 

Buying our tickets, now and on our way, the police (the ubiquitous caribinieri) came over asking for our passports. We quickly threw our hands down our pants, which planted quite a look on the officers' faces. But we were free to go, and so we did. To Rome Termini, we stumbled through the streets looking for Internet. We wearily and hesitantly sat down at a computer and found the necessary information. A hostel worker disguised as a fellow traveler came over and tried to get us to follow him to his hostel. He was quite insistent, and after we told him that we might check his place out a bit later (a good tip to get pushy hostel recruiters out of your hair), he informed us that he would 'like to take us there personally.' So he told us to find him right outside the door to the Internet cafe.

Fortunately, we found the info we needed to know (we thought), and managed to ditch the hostel recruiter out on the busy streets of Rome.

So we're good, right? We have our hostel location, its name, and a renewed sense of confidence in our McGuyver-like ingenuity. Wrong. We went to the spot and found the address conveniently missing from where it was supposed to be. So we ducked into a nearby hotel and asked the kind concierge where the address might be. 'Okay,' he said in broken English. 'You go out the door and go left...or right.' Great. Back to square negative twelve. 

We wandered up and down the street, left and right, until we realized the numbers go up or down differently depending on the side of the street you are on. This was to be our first lesson on Italian urban planning. We found the address, and a nice man let us in.

 We spent several minutes with a sassy Austrian (worth a completely separate blog post), who introduced us to the hostel rules, the city of Rome, and our room with the other two new roommates. We eagerly made our way for bed only to realize we had not eaten in several hours, we had no bathroom supplies, and it was only 7 PM. We needed to stay up if we wanted to beat the jet lag. So we went back out onto the streets. 

Finding a supermarket in the train station, we bought supplies and food. It was nice to have a meal. And we saved money by 'cooking,' which in our case was salad with focaccia bread and some meat and cheese. One surprise was blood orange-juice, recommended by Reinhardt's cousin, Sheela.

Collapsing on our beds, we fell asleep quickly. Our room was dark. Our bodies sank into the freshly made bed. Every thought of the next day's excitement was gone. All reminiscing had faded away. And just as REM started to sink in after 30 or so hours of no sleep, we were awoken by the most terrible, awful, horrifying, outrageous, impossibly thunderous, and awe inspiring snoring we had ever heard in our lives...

Prepared to Fight, vol. 1

Well, we can't say that the whole thing went off without a hitch—but then again, where's the fun without the difficulty? First off, we need to lay a few pork-chop-ground-rules before we go into the whole thing. 

First, we can afford this trip only because we insist on going cheap. The cheaper the better. If we were birds, we would go 'I'm not gonna pay THAT much for sausages!' To illustrate this point, witness our customary 'Whole Foods Buffet' run, during which we would lead co-workers around the aforementioned haute-cuisine grocery store filling ourselves with free samples, such as chips and guacamole, various cheeses, and curried orzo salad. We are not ashamed to admit that a good helping of free can cure anyone's blues. 

Second, we are not good planners. Yes, you read that correctly. See, there are many different types of planners. Some planners are 'future' planners. These are typically people who have what is known as 'an agenda.' They have the exact number of children they want already thought out, along with their names, time of birth, college (of their choice of course), cars, cloths, parties, you name it. 

Some planners are 'money' planners. They have a closely watched 'investment portfolio.' They have a habit of reading about the market in the morning, at lunch, and then again at dinner. These people also go to church and donate based on a percentage of their yearly income. Should they make more, they give more, should they make less, they give less. 

Some planners are 'nuclear fallout' planners. We at the pork-chop see these planners as kindred spirits, fortune tellers of a future time when the world will go through THE END OF ALL THINGS. This concepts has caused them to tell others the gospels of THE END, build underground homes connected by circuitous tunnels to other underground homes of like-minded folks, and, finally, provide for Bible salesmen everywhere. 

We at the pork-chop are none of these. When we say we can't plan, we mean it. We bought the plane tickets and then didn't look at them until the night before leaving (just barely printing out the information prior to hoping on the bus). This takes an incredible amount of patience and skill to maintain (and most of the time we don't recommend it). It also takes an incredible amount of bone-headedness. That, too, we must recommend against. That being said, we at the pork-chop love a good adventure. Having no plans, while being quite nerve-wracking and probably dangerous, can lead to some of the best adventuring out there.

Third, we are cautious on the side of ridiculous. We have luggage locks, a bike lock, master locks. Everything has a zipper with a flap over it. And for really personal stuff like our passports or insurance information, we have a little sack that we shove into our respective crotches. It is a rather impressive feat to keep personal documents by your personal parts all day long, even in the shower. We are not this way only in foreign places. We did not just decide to beef up security. We have a tendency to always be this way. 'Safety First' is not just a motto, but a theme song based on an 80's montage called 'Prepared to Fight, vol. 2.' 

Let's stop there, for now, and get on with it. I have already discussed the plane info. But we are really quite helpless. We decided to leave 4 hours early for the international flight, because 'we didn't want to chance it.' This translates to 'we were not prepared.'

Dublin and the Magic Dragon

First stop, Dublin. This mythical land filled with myths and mythology seemed a strange place to us. We found ourselves perplexed by the crowds of Irish gents and fems. We could already feel the glances of these passersby with that unmistakable 'there goes the Americans' regards toward us. In order to blend into this savage culture, we were forced to partake in their customs. Estranged to their ways, we did not always understand the appeal of their strange drinks, nor for that matter, their strange foods. But as they say, 'when in Rome.' And since we are not yet in Rome, I am not quite sure what I am trying to say. Anyway, we thought this vague yet eloquent recount might not be enough to persuade you in earnest of the bizarre, brief stint with this foreign land, so in typical pork-chop style, we have pictures.

We drank what the Irish drank.

We ate what the Irish ate.

And we did as the Irish have done since time immemorial.

Disclaimer
Before you go off saying to yourself, 'what is this about?', we would like to inform you we toured Dublin for under six hours and restricted our movement to the confines of the Dublin Airport. Some may say this equates to an under-informed opinion, but we at the pork-chop believe all opinions are under-informed.

Our Cast of Characters

We band of merry men at the Pork Chop Express spare no expense to bring you the most up to date information on all sorts of stuff. But in order to get the most out of this experience, you maybe should know a little bit more about this elite team of intrepid international adventurers.

Reinhardt Suarez is a world-renowned expert on the Chicago Bulls basketball team, circa 1999-2004. He also is a part-time backup singer for the hit Rock Band group, Half-Vampire Baby. He can see things no one else can see, knows things no one else can know--which means that he either has tapped into an other-dimensional font of wisdom, or he suffers from an as-yet undiagnosed mental ailment. He's hoping for the former. In addition to being a co-conspiritor on the maiden voyage of the Pork Chop Express, he is also a writer of young adult literature and a potential alternate in the 2016 Olympic janitorial team.

Wes Alexander's favorite hobby is carving small bars of soap out of bigger bars of soap. When he is not doing that, he is a musician and composer of the lowest order, and, of course, the other half of the newest phenomenon known as the Pork Chop Express. His friends and family have long suspected that he may be a cyborg from the future, judging from the dexterity he has with computers and his strange obsession with the film, 'Total Recall.'

Disclaimer
The views stated by The Pork Chop Express are solely based on the mostly unfounded views of the members making up said organization, and hereby have no bearing on said officiated 'blog' or other such internet-based or non-internet based mediums and communication methods/methodologies.

The Pork Chop Express was organized by a mysterious, shadowy benefactor how has assured us that our powers of insight and fortitude shall be used for good...mostly. In such cases of 'non-good standing' (understood and defined by benefactor in exhibit c) full refunds will be applied to viewers with an official appology non-pertaining to views of said organization. Have a good time!!

For full disclosure rules and regulations, send Form 34465b to the address listed at the bottom of the form (to be uploaded at a future date), along with a self-addressed, stamped envelope and a check for $12.87 (for postage and handling) made out to 'El Senor Wojehowski.'

What the Hell...

Hola! Welcome to the maiden voyage of The Pork Chop Express, a blog that catalogues the various travels of nefarious (but not too nefarious) people doing exciting (and stupid) things that should (and shouldn't) be tried by you, the humble Internet audience if you want to live lives full of awesome.

We at The Pork Chop Express wish to thank you for deciding to join us on our ride through Western Europe. We figure adventure is the rule of the day, but as it often turns out, "jet lag," "the runs," "angry villagers," "deportation," "the Huns," and former NBA "great," Ralph Sampson, may take precedence from time to time.

So sit back, relax, exercise the face muscles you use to make incredulous expressions of bliss and despair, and enjoy.