Reelin' in the Years

According to Google (statistic provider for the chronically lazy and research impaired), the world has a population of 7.4 billion. Iceland accounts for a measly 350,000 of that number.  And Reykjavik, where we are, accounts for all but 70,000 of that. Assuming I'm doing the math correctly (granted, giant assumption, considering this is being typed from three chardonnays deep in a hotel bar), the people in my immediate surroundings represent about .00004% of the global population. It would seem statistically unlikely that that subgroup, isolated on a chunk of sulfer-smelling basalt at the northernmost fringes of habitable Europe, would ever intersect with anyone I know.

And yet, all the same, we just finished spending an enjoyable day of endless, Nordic summer with my best childhood friend, Jon Croy--a bizarre, Jungian-ly synchronistic, chance encounter if ever there was one. Jon and his son, Cooper, had a 15-hour layover here from Seattle on their way to a summer vacation in Paris and London. When he read my blog re-boot earlier in the week, he texted me and let me know about our impending, coincidental reunion. Unbelievable!

And since we're on the subject of bizarre coincidences, the night we flew out of Toronto, Hall & Oates was playing a concert at the Molson Amphitheater. From there, I just assumed they would be continuing on with some other leg of a North American greatest hits tour.

However, after stumbling across this sign while walking by the seafood shacks near the pier yesterday, I can only assume that their venue shrank dramatically. Either that, or there is a Lobster Hall & Oates dish on the menu that one shouldn't miss. Sadly, I was more in the mood for Steely Dan Cakes, so we continued on without closer investigation.

Iceland, on the Rocks

Patty and I are holed up in an indescribably quaint little hotel on the oceanfront near the airport. Patty's still sleeping. I'm wondering why I'm not. It's 9am according to the unpronounceable, Icelandic cell network that has taken over my iPhone (enough with the k's already). My brain is still telling me it's 5am, however. Of course, that has just as much to do with four time zones as it does the 3000 miles of non-stop, in-flight vodka and champagne that fueled our arrival. Thank God (er, Odin), these people are known for their coffee. I think I'll pour some directly into my eyes.

Speaking of people, it's probably polite to introduce you to ours at this point. 

From right to left (because I have temporary travel dyslexia), that's 1) Abby, my nephew's girlfriend and seemingly most pragmatic of our little sub-posse, 2) Nick, my nephew and unofficial stress tester of airplane bathrooms, and 3) Abby's brother, Hayden, of yet-to-be-determined personality traits or quirks to mock or otherwise deride.

So far, it's been a blur: the construction filled crawl through a vanilla bland stretch of Ontario's heartland, the amazing Italian meal in Downtown Toronto (Dear Detroit, that's how you do a city of over 2 million), the Park 'n Ride shuttle that smelled of poutine and body odor (as if there's really a difference), and the aforementioned, flying bar that dumped us onto this little volcanic nub in the middle of the North Atlantic. 

The sun was setting when we got here after 11pm. It was coming up again when we went to bed at 3am. Stupid sun.

Anyway, Reykjavik, the capital, stands before us today, where we will meet back up with the kids, check into our urban digs, and begin our discovery of Iceland (primarily by way of it's bars and bar-adjacent restaurants). But since I need more coffee now, we can discuss that later.

Pants on Fire

I lied. Sue me.

 
A little over a year ago, my beautiful wife and I went to Paris, and I decided to blog the event in real time. It was a little tedious (the blogging, not the beautiful wife), especially considering the consumption of all the wine and duck parts I was also forced to fit into our busy, vacation schedule. I was pretty adamant about never blogging like that again. I even posted as much, so my promise still hangs out there in the ether, like a garlic burp.

Yet, here I am again. Oh well.

I lied. Sue me.

Maybe I missed the challenge (doubtful, considering I’m a chronic coaster). Maybe I thought that documenting our experiences would be beneficial to other travelers (yeah, as if). Maybe I liked the ego-stroking that the blog’s eventual popularity afforded me (oh, now we’re getting warmer). Regardless, promises be damned, I’m back, baby!

This time we are off to Iceland, land of rotting shark cuisine and oddly revered losers of international soccer tournaments, and I’ll be back on-line to document the entire trip. The blog title has been officially changed.

 An A$$Hole in Paris

 

is now 

 

 An A$$hole Abroad
http://aholeabroad.blogspot.com/

 

This better reflects the more generic nature of my wanderlust (while simultaneously preserving my well-established asshole-ness). I even changed the blog’s background colors to prove that I’m at least 32% invested in the success of this project.

Some other things that have changed:

·        Our travelling companions: We’ve swapped out the aunt and uncle from Paris fame and replaced them with my nephew and his girlfriend. The girlfriend’s brother is also coming, who will act as an emergency back-up nephew in case mine gets eaten by revenge-seeking, Icelandic Puffins or succumbs to rotten shark poisoning. Successful travel is all about being prepared.

·        Facebook: I don’t do it anymore. I got tired of blocking mouth-breathing, pro-Trump supporters from my feed, so my blog posts won’t show up there unless links are added by others. If you want to follow along in real time, you’ll either need to 1) sign-up with your email address on the "Follow by Email" link at the right or 2) continuously visit my blog, 24 hours a day, for the entire week we are gone to see if I’ve posted anything new. Unless you are a shut-in, I’m going to go ahead and recommend that first approach.

·        Language: Whenever we travel, I try to learn (or re-learn) a bit of the language beforehand. I think it’s respectful as a guest. As a result, I can say, “Excuse me, where do I post bail?” in French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese and Alabama. However, try as I might, Icelandic is impenetrable to me. I’ve tried. Too many consonants--specifically, too many K’s. Also, too many little dots, slashes, and unidentifiable, linguistic jism sprayed over top otherwise perfectly good vowels. I’ve tried to be a good world citizen, but this time I’m going full court, ugly American. If someone doesn’t understand me, I’m just going to say it louder, in English. I’ll even wave my AmEx card around if need be.

Things that haven’t changed:

·        Food: Yes, I’ll still be taking pictures of and writing a lot about the food and drink we enjoy on our trip. It’s basically the reason I go on vacation. Actually, it’s the reason I do much of anything.

·        Me: I’m still an A$$hole.

 

Stay tuned. The trip starts July 23^rd.

Last Tango in Paris

As promised (er, threatened), here’s the final entry for my one and only attempt at a real-time, travel blog. I’ve also included a small data storm of pictures that I pulled off my faithful Sony right before it died. (A small memorial was held, and the body was interred in Paris. Please, no flowers.)

I’ve also included some handy travel tidbits below for those of you who might be considering a trip. I learned them the hard way so you don’t have to. I’ve broken them up into the typical, travel related subgroups (Attractions, Lodging, Transportation, and Condiments) for easy reference.

Finally, if my particular brand of stupidity was something that appealed to you, first, seek professional help. Next, visit my website (mkarvinen.com) for links to other free projects, my book (available on Amazon), and my upcoming charity blog benefiting disabled veterans. But seriously, seek the professional help first.

I’d like to close with something French, but it’s been a week, and I don’t remember any.

Adios, amigos.

Hard Earned Parisian Travel Tips...

CONDIMENTS

Mustard:  I fell in love with French mustard. They don’t seem to have any of the day-glo, yellow stuff like we have here (ironically named French’s), as theirs is more of a grayish, yellow affair. Think Poupon (or just say it out loud--it’s fun). Anyway, the variety I particularly enjoyed was called “forte,” which translates to strong in just about every European language that I pretend to know. I suspect the forte equates to about 75% horseradish and 25% yellow. It’s possible there are some Hall’s Menthol-Lyptus lozenges added in for good measure. Regardless, the final combination ends up being a nasal cleansing, olfactory enema of a condiment that goes great with duck livers, salmon, and the little baby pickles that kept showing up on my plate for no apparent reason. I believe you can also smear it on your chest if you are feeling congested.

 

Incidentally, I even like the way the French say mustard. The word is moutard and it’s pronounced Moo-Tard, which sounds to me like the politically incorrect term for a cow with a learning disability. When my dog acts stupid (most of the time), I now call her a Moo-Tard. Thank you, Paris.

Ketchup/Mayo: The French love their potatoes. I love potatoes. It’s possible I am French. The French can’t decide, however, if they are more like the Dutch (who eat their fried taters dipped in mayo) or the Americans (with our well-documented ketchup addiction). The French are like middle children in this regard and tend to serve both, squirted next to each other on a plate with their fries. White condiments and condiments of color joyfully integrated on one plate is a Benetton-like, social experiment I can fully support. However, I did notice that the McChicken sandwich at the Paris McDonalds also came with both ketchup and mayo already on it. Ketchup on chicken? With or without mayo, that just seems gross, and it’s probably why the French aren't a super power.

Sauces: The French are known for their sauces. Every entrée has one. It is liberally applied and it is delicious. Don’t ask what the sauces are made of if you care about your cholesterol or if you are squeamish about less popular animal parts. Just enjoy.

Salad Dressing: Compared to their stance on sauces, the French go all bi-polar when it comes to salad dressing. Apparently they believe it’s important to actually taste the vegetables in a salad (yeah, whatever), and they distribute dressing with an eyedropper. Perhaps they feel that less dressing is healthier too, but in light of their stance on organ meet sauces (see above) and their habit of eating salad while chain-smoking cigarettes, I don’t think that’s really it.

Butter: There's only one pat in the entire city, and it's not where you are.

ATTRACTIONS
The Louvre: My father was an artist. Before the age of eighteen, I had already been to the Detroit Institute of Arts more times than I can honestly count. It’s one of my favorite places in the entire world, and it’s the absolute gem in the otherwise stinking pile of Paris-like, dog excrement that is Detroit. If you live in Michigan and you haven’t been there, you are a moutard.

Needless to say, I was extremely excited to go to the Louvre. Sadly, the reality did not live up to the expectation. Don’t get me wrong. The collection is the best in the western world, and I would have loved to rent a room there. Problem is, I am used to Detroit, where you can pretty much have the entire museum to yourself on any given day for quiet appreciation. I honestly think I’ve even turned out the lights as I’ve exited some rooms there as a courtesy. The Louvre is nothing like that. Even if you get there early, which we did, it’s only a matter of moments before the entire museum is jam-packed with tourists completely ignoring the “no flash photography” signs, and you are being forced to limbo under a sea of selfie-sticks.

Mona's that way.

It opens at 9:00. Be there at 8:30. Stand in the line for people without tickets, unless you tend to act like an adult and plan ahead. You can easily buy tickets when you get in. It’s about 12 Euros. Go right to see the Mona Lisa or the crowds will become unbearable. She’s in Denon Hall. Follow the signs (or the crowds). Run.

The Tower: Yeah, you gotta’ see it. It’s uber-touristy and crowded, but you gotta’ go. Absolutely go there early. The lines to get to the top are ridiculous. Although waiting is not without its reward. It’s entertaining as hell to watch the police chase away unlicensed souvenir vendors and petition clutching Romani only to have them return seconds later.

The Arc de Triomph: It’s a big Arch, bigger than McDonalds. It’s historic. It sits in the middle of an impossibly busy roundabout at the end of the Champs-Élysées (France’s Miracle Mile). You get to it via a tunnel underneath said roundabout. Go see it. If you’re feeling energetic, pay some Euros and climb the 400 steps to the top. Better yet, save your Euros for a visit to Pizza Pinos about a block and a half south east of the arch and order the salmon pizza.

Notre Dame: If you are a Catholic or a student of architecture or cheap, you should probably go see this free, French landmark. If, coincidentally, you are a cheap, Catholic, architecture student, this may very well be what heaven looks like to you.

ACCOMMODATIONS

We stayed at one place, the Hotel Notre Dame St.Michel. It was not cheap, but nothing in Paris is (short of bottled water, American whiskey, and hypothetical Catholic architecture students). Stay there. Ask for Simona. Tell her I said, "Bonjour." Thank me later.

TRANSPORTATION

The best way to see any city is walking. Bring good shoes. Patty and I swear by Keens. They're sandals, so don't wear socks with them unless you are German. They have mega arch support, they are lightweight, and you can hose Parisian dog poop off them relatively easily.

Learn the subway. It’s called the Metro. It’s very efficient, especially for a socialist country. If your American credit card does not have an integrated chip in it (mine didn't), it will not work at the kiosks. Coins always work at the kiosks. The larger stations have staffed booths manned by cranky civil servants. If they are not being complete assholes, they will take paper money and make change. Tickets are cheap. Buy 10 at a time.

Download a Metro map and carry it with you. The individual lines are color coded and either labeled with a letter or a number. Knowing the color and letter/number is not enough, however. You also need to know the name of the two cities where the line terminates at each end. This tells you the direction your Metro is going. Thus, if you determine you need to use the Red A line, you also need to know which platform loads for the one going west (toward Poissy) or east (toward Boissy-St leger). The termination cities are printed in bold on the Metro maps.

I don’t know if the individual tickets are good for a set amount of time or a set distance. Sometimes I could

use them up to three times, sometimes just once. My advice is to just keep sticking them in turnstiles until they stop working. Also, don’t throw them out while you are in the Metro system. You can be fined if you are not carrying it. We were stopped and checked.

A private shuttle from the airport to the city center can take anywhere from a half hour to an hour and a half depending upon time of day. Plan conservatively if you need to catch a flight.

And speaking of flights, if you happen to fly AirFrance, they seem to impose no limit to the number of free little bottles of wine they give you during one flight. They also give you free little bottles of cognac or brandy, but you have to ask. So ask. Ask the living shit out of them.

Oui, Oui, Oui, All the Way Home

We touched down at Detroit Metro yesterday afternoon, officially closing out our great Parisian adventure. Well, my cell phone said it was afternoon anyway. My body clock, on the other hand, is so messed up from chasing the sun westward, I'm pretty sure that if you stare into my eyes you will see a blinking, digital 12:00 am. Air France's liberal, free wine and cognac policy didn't help either. 

Viva La Dehydration!

But it's the morning after now, a CD purchased from a French street guitarist is playing in the background, vacation laundry is making its way through the machinery, pictures have been downloaded, Dog is not letting us out of her sight, and grocery shopping, banking, and a visit to the dry cleaners are on the agenda. By midday, the routine will have already re-consumed us, and the memories of France will begin to blur along with my pathetic attempt at their language. 

Sad? Not really. Melancholy? Perhaps a better word.

Paris really surprised me. Although it was on my bucket list, to be perfectly honest, it was no where near the top. The whole trip came together on little more than a whim, our persistent and generic wanderlust, and, most immediately, the desire to bust Uncle Joe's balls on another continent. (I'm pretty sure that I mentioned that I'm a dick.)

But Paris gets inside of you a little bit (probably via duck). There's something funky, slightly pretentious, oddly carefree, liberal, and yet traditionally respectful about the whole vibe. I'm still processing it, but it is definitely the kind of place that I think stays with you forever. The history, the architecture, the wine, the food, the culture...it's truly like no place I've ever been before. We'll visit other places first, but I wouldn't object to returning if the opportunity presents itself. Not even a little bit.

This is almost my last post on this inaugural attempt at a travel blog before I pull the plug. I'll post some final pictures later in the week along with some useful tips we picked up along the way. The goal was to entertain, but what the hell, I figure I might as well throw a little utility your way as well. You've been kind.

Thanks for following along, the e-mails, comments, and Facebook posts. I was surprised at how many people ended up getting on board. And thanks to Uncle Joe & Aunt Carol for bringing a little American accent into the end of our trip just about the time we were getting homesick for it. And thanks to Gretchen and Alan, our other fourth-quarter, American travel mates who led us to a fabulous and final meal and tried to convince us that vacation pictures should be completely devoid of human and/or plant life.

Au revoir pour le moment.

The Last Picture Show

This is probably the last time I'll get to abuse the hotel wifi...

The US actually gave the French this smaller replica as a Thank You for the big one in New York. Talk about putting no originality into a gift. 

The Salmon Tartare on the river cruise was amazing, but I just hope it wasn't harvested from the Seine. 

Fly four thousand miles, take pictures of food. Yeah, that's about right. 

We have this exact same picture of us in front of the Rodin outside the DIA in Detroit. We're groupies. 

April in Paris. Now we have to go back to snowblowing in Michigan. 

Some other amazing building that my American history education completely fails me on. 

From the Eiffel. 

Proof. 

La femmes

Gettin' our Pope on. 

Parisian speed bump. 

Our last sunrise...

Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves

So I've cracked the Enigma Code that is the young, Romani girls who keep flocking to us with clipboards every time the French police are out of sight. It's always the same drill. With lightning like reflexes and a big, Amway-selling grin, one will split off from the pack, walk up to me (never Patty) and ask, "Do you speak English?" In the beginning, she would seemingly materialize out of nowhere and catch me completely by surprise while I was gaping at yet another amazing French landmark or buzzing from yet another duck-fat high. Reflexively, I would say, "Yes." But even if I politely said "No," the next scene is already scripted.

Petition Girl will stick a grubby clipboard in front of me with a sheet of paper that is printed in French and has a number of signatures on it. She will ask me to sign it without any explanation. I can make out the words "children," "handicap," and "deaf" on the French form, but beyond that I don't know if I'm signing up to support disabled children or to simply buy one on installments. Since I am a graduate of the Groucho Marx school of "I would never join a club that would have someone like me as a member," I decline the enrollment offer, wave her off, and we keep walking. She is not so easily dissuaded, though, and she continues to buzz around us as we walk, tapping her clipboard with her pen and telling me to "please sign." I continue to say no. This continues until the tone and volume of my voice reach a threshold that is threatening, and she disappears before our very eyes. It's annoying and time consuming but otherwise harmless. This happened over and over the first few days of our vacation.

What's the goal here? Obviously they are attempting to prey upon my generosity and my ignorance, but where's the hook? Where's the payday? At first I thought they were trying to slow me down or even stop me, similar to the way hyenas will pick out a gazelle from the herd and use their cunning to disorient it so the pack can surround and dismember it. And although I'm sure that can be one option, this wasn't the case in Paris, as my hindquarters (and wallet) are still very much intact. And as I've had time to watch them work on others, it is obvious they are solo agents in this particular scam.

Here's the deal. If you are green enough to sign the petition, they will then point to the names above yours and specifically to the dollar amounts next to those names that you probably didn't even notice before. And if you thought it was hard to get rid of them before, you ain't seen nothin' yet. Through a series of Oscar-worthy theatrics, broken English, and Jehovah Witness-like persistence, they will try to get you to make a similar donation. They may even imply that since you signed you are obligated to pay by French law. Fake tears may even be shed. It's surprising how many people will eventually cough up Euros out of guilt, fear, or just their desire to make them go away. Oh, and I assure you, no money is being raised for disabled children.

And although I know of no way to keep them from approaching, short of consistently swinging a 3 foot Katana sword in front of you as you walk, I did stumble upon a very effective way to shut them down before they get going. When a young Romani approaches and asks whether I speak English, I look her straight in the eye (very important), pause for effect, and then say, "No, not a single word."

They disappear immediately.

European Vacation

Patty's Aunt and Uncle had been touring Italy since before we got to Paris. When their tour ended yesterday, they flew here and joined us for the last three days of our trip. Aunt Carol's daughter and son-in-law came along for the ride too. And if that all sounds a wee bit Rockefeller, believe me, it's not. We're all just a bunch of blue collar schmucks who just happened to coordinate some very atypical vacation days.

Anyway, when Uncle Joe was eighteen and overflowing with the kind of stupidity, bravado, and bodily fluids that are appropriate for that age, he spent a lot of time in Paris on the U.S. Army's dime. I'm pretty sure this was back when dinosaurs freely roamed the Champs-Élysées and the French still kinda' respected us for clearing up their whole Nazi thing. One of his goals on this trip (aside from spending quality time drinking Manhattans with his favorite nephew-in-law) was to revisit his old stomping grounds and maybe have a drink at the bar of the hotel where he spent a suspicious amount of time for someone on an enlisted private's salary. You know, for old time's sake.

So in spite of the miserable head cold he picked up in Italy, the quest was on. After three Metro transfers, a couple thousand stairs, a half dozen blocks on foot, and the life of most of my iPhone battery, we found ourselves standing at 81 Rue de Boetie in front of the Hotel de Boetie. I don't know about everyone else, but I was kinda' excited. I was about to witness the prodigal son returning to his whore-y roots, and if that's not the kind of event someone like me can get behind, I don't know what is.

One problem, though. The Hotel de Boetie was boarded up and closed for renovation (Sorry folks, the moose out front should have told you). All six of us stood around the only locked door on the entire street and just stared at the sign in disbelief. Perhaps we should have called first. Joe looked like a little kid who just watched two scoops of ice cream tumble from his cone and fall on the sidewalk. Even I felt bad (and I'm a dick).

We found the next bar, and I tried to buy him a shot of Crown Royal as a consolation. As luck would have it, the bar was out of Crown Royal, too. Damn, the dude could just not catch a break!

They say you can never go back. Technically you can. You'll just have to settle for Wild Turkey.

And the Cow Says, "La Moo."

It's official. I am the fattest person in France. It doesn't matter whether you measure it in the made-up, metric units they are so fond of over here or not, and it's not just negative, self-conscious, body-image hyperbole either. It's empirical fact. We've walked all over this city, and if there are people bigger than me here, they must keep them locked away from the public view. I'm guessing it's at the school where they also teach Parisians how to clean up after their dogs because obviously no one goes there.

I'm trying though. I have walked roughly a half marathon every day since we've been here. I've subsisted on little more than high-protein duck parts and lukewarm mineral water. I've lost ten pounds (67 decimeters) in six days (3.2 grams). And yet compared to the Parisians, I am still a grotesque, lumbering Godzilla of sweaty, New World meat stumbling over cobblestone rues and randomly screeching out  "parlez-vous Englais!" like blasts of angry, lizard fire-breath.

But it's not just the people of France that are small in comparison (as I watch them point up at me in abject terror when I pass by and momentarily block out their view of the sun). It seems that everything about Paris is specifically designed to fat shame me. For instance, the interior dimensions of the elevator in our chic little boutique hotel are exactly 1 Mark Karvinen deep x 1.5 Mark Karvinens wide. I have to enter it sideways. If I were carrying something small, like a carryout container with leftover duck, for instance, I'd have to send the duck up first. Alone.

The bathrooms are delicate, 3/4-scale dioramas where the shower is basically a Water-pik dangling over a marble punch bowl, the rolls of bathroom tissue are single-serving, so to speak, and I have to sit on the toilet side-saddle because it's placed 3/16ths of an inch (700 degrees celsius) away from the side wall. The first day here I ripped the flush handle off the dainty, little toilet in the lobby by simply trying to flush it with my massive, American cheeseburger grabbers. I'm basically Lenny from Of Mice and Men unintentionally leaving a trail of crushed bunnies up and down the Seine.

I felt better for a second last night though. We were walking back to our hotel after dark, and I thought I saw the shadow of someone up in the distance that was about my size. As we got closer, however, it turned out to be a false alarm. 

It was the Louvre.

Pix, part deux

I'm getting lucky with the hotel wifi, so here are some pix while I can.

Jardins galore!

Bucket list item: Have picture taken next to giant pink tree.

Nailed it.

McSpresso.

Pepe Le Emu.

Even the French hate Power Point handouts.

If you went through the trouble of having stickers printed, well, sorry, but you kinda' do.

We went to see Jim Morrison's grave site, but when I saw that Margaritas had died, I kinda' lost it and couldn't go on.

Stopped at a cafe and had a pate party with Patty.

Parisian high fashion.

Where Le Superman and La Wonder Woman are headquartered.

Harry's New York Bar, where Hemmingway hung out and got drunk. (But then again, where didn't Hemmingway hang out and get drunk?) 

Zoom in on the patches under the lights if you're from Oakland County.

Just so you know, if these posts start getting real weird...