Counter culture

From saunas to Jacuzzis, reindeer steaks to BBQ spare ribs, Schnapps to Budweiser: As an American rider on hiatus in Europe for over two years now I can confidently pin point what makes snowboard culture European, and what makes it American.

It's more than just outerwear, food and slope design. It's a combination of things, the core of a culture dripping in self confidence, individualism and national identity. To better catch my drift, here are the top five differences when it comes to living the snowboard life in North America versus snowboard life in Europe.

1. Saunas
In Europe: You're naked
My first Euro sauna was in Hemsedal, Norway. I had the perfect post-shred plan to pull and never thought twice about a counter culture interrupting. Cockiness took over sensibility and I proudly strutted my ass into a sauna wearing a bikini and holding a case of beer. It wasn't long before a father and his two twenty-something sons joined, who entered with nothing but a moist face towel effortlessly hanging around their waists. To me, this was shocking.

It was a tight space to pack in this much perspiring flesh, and the father parked himself on the bench above me. I sat there with eyes shut, trying to look relaxed as I sipped beer -- knowing uncomfortably well a mere piece of cotton was all that divided a dad's sweaty, hairy sac from my face. The air got hotter, the stench of man odor snaked into my nostrils. I lasted five minutes before exploding out of there with laughter and a pure feeling of terror.

In N. America: You're clothed and drunk
Listen up because this is from personal experience: In America, it's only natural to bust into a sauna with friends, beers and bathing suits on. Maybe even a joint or two. We know the hot air get us 100 percent loaded, that's the whole point. It's great and we love walking out delirious, super dumb and sliding on the floor in our own sweat laughing like a bunch of idiots. There are never, and I repeat never, men with sweaty balls close to your nose and loincloth wrapped around their hipless waists.

2. Apres Ski
In Europe: Bavarian folk and Bon Jovi
Oh Jon Bon Jovi, why didn't your fandom die with the 90s era of neon and Milli Vanilli? While North America pressed on from the world of flannel-shirt rock Bon Jovi skipped the pond and nested himself and his Billboard classics into the bars of every ski town in Europe. And if it’s not Livin On A Prayer it’s Top Bavarian Folk Hits To Slap Your Thigh And Swing Your Beer Mug To. And come on, we all are secretly in love with this stuff. We try to hide it by doing a mocking jig in our saggy shred pants, but really we want to grab a partner and boppingly waltz on tables.

In N. America: Reggae and 80s Hair Bands
It should come as no surprise. North American riders are obsessively trying to be irie because we can be so damn uptight. Ski areas blast reggae from dawn to dusk, and after that it’s Drunk Music Time. And what’s the best drunk music for a ski town filled of men snowboarders in their 20s and 30s? For us, it’s Guns N Roses, AC/DC and Aerosmith, with occasional Johnny Cash guitar to lick out a better “small town” vibration. We are usually too cool to dance and think it’s way better to air guitar, chest slam and break glass.

3. Fashion Faux Pas
In Europe: Euro gaps and spandex
Rule: Spandex is a privilege not a right. This statement applies to every turf fate plants your two feet on, but apparently some people simply don’t get it. We riders are smart enough to let this condition of “rule rebellion” alone, though we still are the ones who suffer the consequences of their ignorance on the slopes. It’s not fair, I know, and we growl, sneer and roll eyes but things just don’t get better. But have pity on the ones with a severe case of Euro Gap, they don’t know any better. And one day they’ll be sorry.

In N. America: Cowboy hats, Starter jackets and jeans
This is quite possibly the most embarrassing sight on a North American ski slope. Think U.S. riders are loud and obnoxious? You ain’t seen nothing until you’ve heard a man in a football jacket, cowboys jeans and a cattle hat from Kansas chat you up on a chair lift as he fumbles with ski poles. Tuning out his blubbering won’t work because he’ll poke you on the shoulder until you unplug and point your finger at some random mark on the ski map which helplessly flaps around his face. It’s ok though, because at the end of the day he’ll be the one with a wet ass mark the size of his lost ranching hat.

4. Waiting For The Lift
In Europe: Confusion
As my English mate Bex would say, “There are two methods of getting on a lift. Push and Kill or Elbows Out.” The struggle to get on a lift in Europe is like being in a white trash heavy metal mosh pit – chaotic and violent – when it really shouldn’t be. It’s an endless cycle of impatient cut offs, avenged shoving and short, fearful breaths as thrusting neighbors play bumper cars with your gear. Pretty soon hairs rise and blood boils until eventually Hulk Hogan syndrome kicks in and you fist your way to the front. Don’t even think about trying to get on the same lift as your friend, it’s every man for himself at this social gathering.

In N. America: Rows
It’s a simple solution to the above-mentioned emotional carnage, if you’re willing to wait about an hour for your turn. In North America we have a maze of lines to linger in for busy lifts, and there are people whose job is to bark out “FIRST ROW” when it’s time to move forwards. It’s a level playing field of slow-motion edging, and it gives you time to scope the base for hotties. Still it takes longer than the Euro way, and some ski areas have maps with blinking lights next to the lifts where lines exceed a one-hour wait. That’s what we get for not building amazing underground trains, like Switzerland.

5. The Drugs
In Europe: Smoking spliffs on lifts
When I first saw someone rolling a joint with tobacco I thought I was getting ripped off. It wasn’t until after living in Amsterdam for eight months when I realized spliffs were the norm in Europe. “Why would you smoke only weed? You’d get too high, it would be impossible to function,” a wise friend on a chair lift once said. Made sense to me, and I nodded in approval as we sat there hot boxing on a lift under a plastic snow shield. It’s a great method for a good time, except that it makes me a smoker and I suck at rolling joints.

In N. America: Packing pipes in slope shacks
Everyone knows about the grass-smoking laws canning people for life in North America, but that’s the South and snowboard life thrives Westward. Mountain towns love the pure, sticky bud, and since riding with a bong in your hand is tricky we opt for glass pipes. I’m talking handmade, swirling eye candy glass, not crack pipes five euros a pop in souvenir shops. And since we’re always paranoid of getting busted we sneak into tiny huts hidden amongst the trees in ski areas like Breckenridge. If someone knows of a shack like this in Europe please enlighten me, my email is Audrey@method.tv.

Audrey, Elbows Out

Hardly a local

After three months of settling in Innsbruck and soaking in life as a local, I still suck at German. It's not that I don't try. I do.
It's not that I haven't taken lessons before. I have.
It's not that I'm not surrounded by German-speakers. I am.

So what is it?

Is it my pronunciation being so horrible no one gets me? It happens.
Is it those five-second pauses I take before pronouncing words like einbauschrankscharnier? It happens.
Is it the laugh I get by Austrians each time I order a verlangerter at a cafe? They always laugh.

I don't know, but I keep trying despite the ongoing realization that I sound like a baby...gah gah.

Anyway -- everyone I'm still in Innsbruck doing what I came here to do -- write a thesis and work at Method Magazine. I'm still bunked at Method camp, though fortunately I've relocated to my editor's room while he's AWOL on a three-month surf trip in France. Life is hard as an editor.

To be a local in Innsbruck you need three things -- a nearby cafe, a nearby bar and a nice view of the Alps. I've managed to integrate all three of these necessities, but it's just like Poison once told us: Every rose has its thorn.

My nearby cafe is Dreiheiligen (Three wise men) Cafe. I first waltzed in there because I thought the whale-sized piece of gold cake teetering over the sign was a sure bet of sweet times. Short lasting, my eyes glazed with icing curdled when I saw the cafe covered like wallpaper with coo coo clocks.

That's right, coo coo clocks. About 50 on each wall, and they worked.

I stood in the doorway thinking, 'My God, I've walked into a time bomb the size of a house because the giant gold cake told me to.'

On closer examination, I noticed each clock was set to a different time. Even now, I don't know what's worse. Fearful yet intrigued I sat down and ordered coffee. My eyes wandered as I slumped into the seat. I waited for the sounds to make my skin crawl like nails on a chalkboard or a knife scratching porcelain plates.

And you know what? It wasn't that bad. Alright, sometimes the clocks with pendulums as big as my head get annoying, but for the most part it's white noise. So I've become a regular and have gotten to know the Dreiheiligen crew. The place is run by a family -- the father bakes, the mother finances, the daughter serves. The daughter rocks, even if she wears a small glitter sticker next to her eye like a fixed body part everyday. The mother is nice, though her dog is more of a menace under my feet than a soft footstool.

The father, however, frightens me. A man his size apparently needs striped pants that end above his ankles, a white apron to cover a beastly belly, and a big baker hat to look even taller than he already is (and it skims the ceiling when he walks, I mean stomps. He stomps). If he wanted to, he could just wait behind the corner each time I enter and jump out at me with his bear-like hands while shouting "HAH!” But no, he likes to prolong the intimidation.

He sits at the same table, the table with an excellent view of the entrance. Hunched over and smoking, he watches each customer walk in and look at the cakes displayed behind the glass counter. And oh man, you better take a long hard look at those cakes because the Frankenstein who made them is right over there. And when the slice is set before you, pause for a moment as he watches you and expects an eye opening, mouth widening expression. And if your body movement takes a break from the "cake-eating" exercise, he’ll notice and wonder why you've stopped. Was his cake not good enough, or are you just not grateful?

All of this makes me nervous. I keep having to remind myself that the big Austrian man that could lift cars for a living, instead, builds fancy cakes. Ok, not so tough anymore.

He must bake after hours because I never see him working. Cake ingredients cover his apron, his hands are stained with vanilla, yet he sits at his eagle’s nest and watches cafe life filter in and out with customers. Naturally he knows them all and talks with them despite how far they (purposely?) sit away from him. Most customers are men working blue-collar jobs. Construction crews, factory workers, old men with thick-lens glasses and canes -- they all love Cake Time. I enjoy my time there because I don't have to speak German to see what's going on. Enjoyable character needs no language.

My bar is an Irish pub called the Galway Pub. Go ahead a furrow your eyebrows at the fact it’s not Austrian, but they pour excellent Guinness and it's a very cozy place. The owner and bar manager are both Irish. I've gotten to know them pretty well after my Kiwi friend Harriet and I stayed there all night once trying to get her a job.

"You want a job here? Then you come tomorrow at 4 o'clock and pour me the best Guinness in the world. Then you'll get a job," he told us.

My reply, "Yeah ok. Hey, why don't you put on some good Irish music?"

"You want to hear good Irish music?!"

"Yeah, play your most favorite Irish band, ever. Impress us all."

He played U2.

Despite the lack of authentic fiddles it's still my Cheers bar, where they know my name, if I know so and so and how work is at the magazine.

And finally, my view of the Alps is wonderful. It’s wonderful... as long as the windows are sealed shut. Innsbruck is a city of 100,000 and sometimes I think all the noise produced here funnels directly through my windows. Cars like to drag race down the narrow street that begins at my windows. Double-long buses turn into space shuttles blasting off outside as they make sharp turns every 20 minutes. The church across the street likes to ring its bells very, very much. And very, very often. Every Saturday at noon there is a doomsday drill that sets off a siren echoing throughout the valley. Trains run nearby, above the streets, bringing the sound of wheels on tracks a bit closer to my second-story window.

Vespas, trucks cleaning roads at 5am, garbage trucks, drunks yelling, off-tune piano playing at 1am -- it's a symphony of city life that makes my ears bleed and my nights long. What really acts as the grand finale is the youth center a few feet next to my flat. Kids come here four nights a week to do whatever juvenile delinquents do in Innsbruck -- get drunk, get routy, flirt, scream, fight, throw things. An encore came just last week when Lane Harlow and Chris Kerrigan came to visit. Some 16-year-old was going off about his driver's license, at six in the morning.

"I HAVE A LICENSE TO DRIVE MY MOTORCYCLE!"

"NO YOU DON'T!"

"SHUT UP, YES I DO, I'LL GO GET IT NOW!"

"HOW? YOU DON'T HAVE ONE!"

"I DO TOO!"

My blood boiled. I had now become completely pissed off.

"It's six and I'm awake, can anyone else in this room hear these fucking kids screaming?"

The entire room answered "YES"

I rolled out of bed and shuffled to the window. The sun was shining, birds sang, the Alps were alive with the sound of music... and that kid was ruining it all by flipping out in the middle of the road like he probably had been all night.

Motor skills slow and sleepy, I began to lift my arm and fully extend it out the window until the end came to my pointed finger. I leaned out and aimed right at a dot of black hair that furiously paced the street. I couldn't connect the required emotion needed for a sincere and full-hearted outburst in German. So I went back to my American roots, 100 percent, and gave it my all.

"HEY, KID!"

Silence. The black speck of heavily-greased hair revealed a teen with a disgruntled look. There was a brief pause as we saw each other's angry faces.

I fixed my stare, burned it into his eyes and belted out with a long American draw the heartiest word I thought to be most universal... and most fitting.

"SHUT UP!"

He walked away. I went to bed… and awoke an hour later to the lovely sound of 16th century Austrian church bells calling the elders to service... for fifteen minutes straight.

Love to all, someone send me some good hot sauce,

Audrey "Yodeling out to you" Sykes

Method Mag Camp

Last time I wrote I was living in Hamburg, describing one of three unique features the city embraces -- the fish market.

I told you my next email would move on to the second attribute, which I'll keep my promise to. It might be more difficult now, though, since I just moved to Innsbruck, Austria. With that in mind, I'll explain the current situation, and finish Hamburg's Top 3 Bests next time. Maybe.

I'm staring at around 30 pairs of skate shoes in the hall. Right now, the second most breath-taking snowfall I've seen in my life is outside (somewhere in Norway is the first). My Dutch roommate Patrick is curled up in a small chair, concentrating very hard on The History Of Boardsports. It's a funny sight, Dutch people are the largest bone-structured white people in the world.

An Italian flatmate keep shuffling back and forth in the hallway, passing our opened door each time and quickly turning his neck to catch a glimpse of us. We must seem boring -- well like I said Patrick might look amusing -- but I'm cross-legged and hunched over on my bed writing this email. Still, Italian flat mate Maurino is compelled to look over and smirk.

Maurino:

When Maurino smirks, he looks like a full-on Italian, and right now super blazed on ganja. Still, the slight peek of his teeth project classic character stains only a 30-someting snowboarder from Turin can display. I haven't talked to him much yet; he's been away filming snowboard comps across the European continent and just returned yesterday. This morning, around 9a.m., Harriet and I were brushing teeth in our cramped bathroom that somehow fits a sink, bathtub, two people and a washer. Maurino, over six-feet tall, was able to stick his upper-half in the room and sway his arms around the floor as he tried to work the washer.

The washer. Not only is the door stuck and motor shot, but the cycle is locked on soak -- if one were to open the door I'm pretty sure water would rush out like a flash food. Maurino puts this together in his head as I brush, and pretty soon he's crouched on the bathtub wall yelling to the thing, "What the fuuuuuck! I need to wash things. Man, come on man." I can't turn around to look at the washer, I can just quarter turn and sit myself next to Maurino. Colgate foam in my mouth, I try to console the bare-backed Maurino as he cries, "I really have nothing clean to wear." In reality, I was really just trying to place my footing in the spaces to get out the bathroom.

I left for work this morning and Maurino was sitting at his desk, still shirtless.

Tonight, I always look up as he shuffles by. It's not because of Maurino per se, but because of what he's wearing -- the loudest, brightest, shocking yellow hoodie I've seen. From the corner of my eye, it looks like a giant yellow chick-a-dee is pacing through my flat.

Ludi:

When I arrived two weeks go, Ludi had no idea I was coming. It's problematic -- she's the one who more or less runs this flat. I stood in front of iron gates, nervously asking into a crackling speaker box, "Hi, um, I think I'm supposed to live here?" We met face-to-face in the doorway, both surprised to see each other. Her eyes gives me the once-over.
"Who sent you here?"
"...Ja..son?"

Ludi nods, points to a door and disappears into the largest area in the flat, her room. I soon find myself standing in a room with three beds, a surfboard, a dresser painted in Rasta colors, the skeleton of a Vespa and two human-size duffel bags I've lugged from Hamburg. Soon after I walked into Ludi's room; I thought it was the living room. By the time I realize what was up, two massive rats with thick pink tails scattered across my feet. I stumbled back and gasped in shock.

These rats scooting around the room were Ludi's pets, Siegfried and Roy. In fact, Siegfried loves daily outings and bike rides. "I'll keep him against my chest and he'll stick his head out because he loves the wind against his face," she once told me. "Wait, against your chest?" I asked.

Ludi studies a sort of bio-chemistry I'll never understand. Paper scraps and backs of envelopes cover the kitchen table -- all covered in doodles of figures impossible to wrap my head around. She's tough, a worldly women with a perfect image of mountain-living Austrians. Minus the yodeling.

Patrick:

Patrick is my roommate. Yes, I share a room with a 24-year-old dude from Utrecht. He reminds me of a flatemate I use to have in Denmark named Potter. For example, he says things matter-of-factly. Like matter-of-fact, he has a girlfriend that was a little nervous about us sharing a room. Matter-of-fact, being able to say "Dui" and "Ein bierje" does not mean I know Dutch. Matter-of-fact, he was very sorry today that his dirty clothes stunk up our room.

Like Pottter, he also stutters a bit on his English. Patrick doesn't say much, and often looks up as he talks.

Patrick and I blend into one giant student who works and writes their thesis on the same company. We rise and sleep at similar times. So far, it's nice to have a pal in the same boat, even in a literal sense.

In respect to his girlfriend, I look away when he strips down to his boxer briefs before bed.

Also in this mix of tenants is Jason, my editor and an Englishman who has been on hiatus ever since I got here. He's in Europe somewhere, asking me how the bunnies are and others about mailing his monkey suit to him. Bunnies, we have two rabbits that live on the balcony. They go by many titles; each person who lives here has their own name for the furry duo. I've decided to call the one with mane-like front hair Keith -- he looks like Keith Richards when the wind wisps his hair a certain direction. The other, well I want to call him Coon because he looks like a raccoon, but I think I'll stick to the nonracist connotation of Rocky.

And there you have it. This is mag camp -- Maurino, Ludi, Patrick, Jason, Siegfried, Roy, Keith, Rocky and I. For at least six months I'm based here, writing my thesis and working for the largest pan-European snowboard print and online publication, Method Magazine.

Location: Innsbruck, Austria, a city surrounded by over a dozen ski areas, a mecca for winter sports, hasn't received one snowfall since December. It's almost April, and a storm expected to drop up to four feet on the slopes is underway. It's the warmest and driest winter the Alps have witnessed for over 1200 years -- and this weekend I'll be shredding pow lines deeper than, the size of me.

Much love,
Audrey "Lights out at 9!" Sykes

The Fischmarkt Loons

Well hey!

When I heard someone tell me, "I thought you dropped off the face of the earth" and "Are you still alive?", I knew it was time for a new post.

The past few months I've been living in Hamburg, the second largest city in Germany (population in the greater area around 1.7 million) and located in the northwest part of the country (a four hour train ride east from Amsterdam). There are three points to make about Hamburg. I'll tell you the first one today.

First off, Hamburg has the second largest port in Europe and is home to about 40,000 university students. Now, the two facts might not seem relevant to each other, but then there's the fischmarkt. The fischmarkt is German for Fish Market, held on every Sunday morning from 5:30a.m. to 10:30a.m and is one of the main tourist attractions of the city. The German's say it's popular because it shows the true essence of the city -- a bustling modern Europe with a taste of the historic past and hectic present. I say it's popular because you see people act like true lunatics -- together, in a historic German way.

I say lunatics in general but there really are three distinct types of loons. The first kind I'll call the Classic Lunatic. These guys are sober, I think, and claim their insanity the classic way -- by shouting out nonsense to passersby and throwing things in their face, like fish. Yes, these crazy fish men point their sausage fingers in the air, brush their big bellies against cutting boards dripping with fish blood, wrap slabs of every sea creature imaginable in waxed newspaper and literally toss them into the hands of an onlooker.

The toss can be a graceful swing or harpoon torpedo, depending on how much fish he has to sell. And his face turns red, and his forehead furrows, and he SHOUTS SOMETHING IN GERMAN!, and you have no clue what he said but for some reason there is a kilo of squid that just slammed your chest and now the man wants your money.

There are dozens of them, their carts lined up and forming tiny allies on the harbor, each competing to see whose voice carries the furthest. If I stand back and watch them they remind me of those animals in small cages that can only pace back and forth, lashing out to those who watch them. Further down the market the men change their aquatic weapons to fruits and vegetables, not as smelly but there's definitely more weight in a giant, thorny pineapple.

So you've got the Classics that echo nutty phrases across the market. In reality, their turrets-like blurts are quite entertaining. "If someone doesn't take this fish I'll SLAP YOU!" "Someone gets this mackerel for five euro because IT'S UGLY! HIDEOUS!" "Three cauliflower for two euro OR ELSE!" Or else what? No one asks.

Then there are the Modern Lunatics, and by that I mean Drunk Sailors. When sailors get in the harbor after being away at sea for ages, they want the two things they've always wanted for centuries -- liquor and whores. Luckily for them, the Reeperbahn is a ten-minute walk from the harbor and meets both demands.

Reeperbahn means Rope Way because it used to be a street run by sailors who, sold, sailing stuff. I guess that included prostitutes. Nowadays it's the central area for Hamburg nightlife, well-equipped with bars, clubs, concert venues and beer halls. Strip clubs, sex cinemas and sex shops are squeezed in between, but the prostitutes are scattered on the streets.

These aren't your ordinary prostitutes. They have missing eyes, legs and heads. No, just kidding. I mean it in a sense where they don't dress scandalous. In fact, there's a dress code each one has to abide by. In the winter weather, it's a puffy pearl pink or powdered blue parka, paint-on jeans, fanny packs (yes, those fanny packs) and platform sneakers by Sketchers.

Unlike Amsterdam, the girls aren't behind windows, they're on the streets. Which means groups of them attack men at once, like a full out feeding frenzy of hyenas clawing at their prey. It's crazy. They come from three directions, one grabs an arm, another grabs another arm, the third struggles and settles for stroking the chest, grabbing a waist or just following closely behind. Most of them have a superpower that can tell quickly if the man speaks German or English. So they walk a few yards with the man, whisper in his ear and hold on tight until the man pries them off with his hands.

Anyway, I don't know how much they charge but they seem to get a lot of business after 3a.m., that's when I see more ugly men with pretty girls with parkas at least. And that's usually the time the Modern Lunatics come in from the port.

So babes and boozing starts late for the Modern Lunatics, and naturally it carries on until morning. When the fischmarkt is up and running I can spot sailors dozing off on the sides of fish carts and on the harbor streets. Others stumble around and stare with red eyes as the tourist snaps a photo of their sailor hats, sailor overalls and sailor tobacco pipes. If they're not mumbling to themselves on the fish-juiced gutters, they're in nearby morning pubs that sell pilsner and schnapps, luring all lunatics in with the sounds of German folk bands and the clanking of beer mugs. This is where the Postmodern Lunatics come in.

The PMLs, as I'll call them, are the youth generation that just can't stop partying their big German asses off. They are college students, 30-something-year-olds with first jobs and even young travelers in search of unforgettable European moments. They started Saturday night drinking at a friend's house. They moved to a pub. They moved to a bar. They wound up on the Reeperbahn and were attacked by prostitutes until they took shelter at a club.

Drinks are cheap, the sun never rises, and five in the morning creeps up before the dance hall can finish Billboard's Top 40. The drunken craving for food kicks in, and wait a second, the fischmarkt has a LOT of food there! Awesome. Let's go.

Thus, PMLs are completely wasted at the fischmarkt. Wait that's an understatement. PMLs look like zombies with humpbacks and glossy eyes. They claw at things like pretty tourists and fried fish sandwiches. They try to speak but their motor abilities already struggle enough from lifting one leg at different times in an attempt to "walk". It doesn't work well. The only thing they do well is eat fried fish sandwiches and scare people. Unless they're in the morning pubs, and that's where the lunatics come together to embrace each other for being so much alike on Sunday mornings.

I've stuck my head into these morning pubs, but when I open the doors there's a fierce wind created from the sounds and smells of inside that always blows me away. Sailors and students with arms over shoulders, swaying their beers in hand and belting off-tune sin-a-longs to music I never wish to learn. Beer, fish drippings, body odor, salt, bad breath and tobacco mix together to form a swirl of nauseating musk that can only be favored by those who emit it. Basically, it reeks. Yet in a way, it's cute to watch a sailor smooch the cheek of a lawyer in a business suit. Maybe. If you look at it outside from a window.

And there you have it. Somewhere within it all I find myself content and pleased with what Hamburg has to offer. Soon I'll move on. But for now I'm here, trying to find my placement in a city that can't speak my language but sure as hell can entertain me.

Much love,

Audrey "Ich sprekken die Deutsche, baby" Sykes

I'm Brewed Best at Oktoberfest

I left for Munich September 24th, because contrary to popular belief, Oktoberfest actually is celebrated the last two weeks of September.

The festival started hundreds of years ago, when a Bavarian king decided to throw a big party for his daughter’s wedding. It needed to be the biggest party imaginable, so the king demanded that everyone MUST party VERY HARD as part of the celebration. No wonder why this tradition has been carrying on for centuries, right?

On weekends, fest fanatics line up at beer tent entrances around eight in the morning. When the tents finally open two hours later there is a giant free-for-all rush to the benches. People leap over chairs like show jumping horses, slide across tables like they were waxed car hoods; it's a complete head to head, neck to neck, elbow to face battle for the perfect spot. It seems ridiculous -- the bier tents can fit up to 10,000 people, and there are 11 tents.

With this vision in mind, Verena and her friend Astrid insisted we be at the tents by 9:30 (Verena is a friend of mine from Austria, more than friends since we had spent the last eight months being roommates in Amsterdam.). Even though it was Tuesday morning with dismal weather and rain, I agreed. Even though I read weekdays at Oktoberfest did NOT mean hoards of people stampeding to and through tents, I agreed. Even though everyone in my hostel room, which was about ten, thought I was nuts and typically "American" for getting up at nine to drink beer, I agreed.

No one was there when we arrived at Oktoberfest, except for the employees. The place was peaceful, like a calm before the storm, and I was thankful for the opportunity to have this festival of chaos all to myself for a moment. Oktoberfest is an actual fair, well-equipped with rollercoaster rides, fun houses, carousels, horse rides, souvenir booths and food stands. Lots of food stands. Food stands with brats, currywursts, whole chickens, fish sandwiches, fish on massive skewers, pomme frites, schnitzel, sugared almonds and nuts, ice cream, big ginger heart-shaped cookies to wear around the neck, human-size pretzels and more.

Verena had a friend who was working one of the tents as a beer server, so we spent some time with her before getting our drink on. Inside, beer tents don't have much of a "tent" feeling. In fact, it takes about 8 weeks to set up and another 12 to tear down these mammoth constructions. There are hundreds of tables and benches lined beside each other, and a balcony in the back reserved for classy friends and families. In the middle of all the tables is a platform on stilts, a floating island that produces oompa music all evening. There are full kitchens that take up an entire side of the tent, and four different corners that pour beer in steins. The floors are wood paneling as well as the walls, the roof has giant colorful sheets that drape down from above. It's much more than a beer tent; it's an elaborate beer hall for the king's daughter's wedding. Right!?

As a beer server you have to be two things: a female, and a female with Wonderwoman biceps. As you probably already know, there is only one stein size to drink from and that's a liter. The women that serve try to lug up to six full liter steins in each hand (After hearing this, I told Verena's friend to flex so I could feel her guns. Impressive!). The shifts are usually 10 to 12 hours -- a nonstop, on your feet fiasco of rushing back and forth to deliver hundreds of beers to thousands of drunk Germans. Not your thing? For 3,000 euros a week, the latter is easy to overlook.

By 11a.m., Verena, Astrid and I sat down for our first round of beers. We had a prime spot -- right below the music stand. The beer tent was still very empty, a sea of vacant beer benches just waiting to be covered in sticky booze and brats. We belted a hearty "Prost!", held our liters of beer with our right hands, looked at each other straight in the eyes and took a drink of our first of many fine Bavarian beers. The southern part of Germany is known for their weissbier, or wheat beer. Yet Oktoberfest doesn't serve liters of weissbier, each brewery involved in the festival serves a special autumn dark and flavorful pilsner. There is no beer menu; it's either a liter of special beer from the brewery or special beer mixed with sparkling lemonade for the weak ones. My friends and I were not weak ones.

The rest of the trip is really blurry for me. Hah, no just kidding. The important thing when drinking beer at Oktoberfest with thousands of Germans is to pace yourself. For every liter you drink, eat a human-size pretzel or mouth-watering bratwurst. The whole time I was there, never did I see people being dragged out, passed out or flipping out at others. Everyone is friends with everyone and happy to be singing lame German oompa songs while dancing on the benches. Every night, that's how it ended -- people dancing on the benches. It was a group thing, too, usually happened around 5p.m. When one person stands, everyone in the entire beer tent will stand. When one person sings a prosting song, everyone in the entire beer tent will sing a prosting song. Those oompa players on the floating island brought the term "crowd control" to a new level.

Apparently, this festival is one of the few times where Bavarians can wear traditional clothes. By this I mean leather trousers that end at the calves and are held by suspenders for men, called leiderhozens; or dresses with lace underneath that puff out at the bottom and give women breast boosts, called dirndls. Both outfits can cost up to thousands of euros, and are worn on rare occasions only. The rest of Germany considers these outfits to be ridiculous and old-fashioned. I, however, though they were great and snagged the cheapest dirndl I could find.

In total, five of us survived three full days at Oktoberfest. At one point, my friend from Denmark turned to me as said, "I may have a SLIGHT drinking problem..." I thre in a "Whatever happens in Munich stays in Munich," and then mumbled something about two weeks of healthy food and no beer might be a good idea.

Towards the end, Rikke would tell me, "Everything stay in Munich except for last night when you turned to me in your dirty dirndl after dancing to that stupid Robbie Williams song with some old grandpa pinching your ass as you yelled 'I LOVE BEEEERRR!', right?"

"No," I groaned as I waited endlessly for my plane back to Amsterdam, "That should probably stay in Munich, too."

The one truly listening was my body -- my stomach gurgled, brain sloshed and eyed bled a unison "Yes it should.....SOS.....SOS....SOS!"

Audrey "Stein Me" Sykes

Aud Left Amsterdam

Well guys, this is it. Time to move on. I've spent the last eight months in Amsterdam running around like an obnoxious American woman, smoking weed in all 320 coffeeshops and drinking to a point where I'm found nightly wretching on all fours in rusted gutters at the Red Light District, surrounded by drug dealers and dirty, dirty prostitutes....

Come on! Don't be so quick to stereotype Amsterdam as the above description. Although, you should take pity on the weekend tourists -- they usually end up as the above description. This city is the heart of Dutch culture, and I was damn lucky to see it. The overall lifestyle here: do what makes you happy, and you'll blend in well.

Amsterdam was my playground:

Remember how I was a tour guide this summer? I was, and I was flippin good at it, too. Most summer days included me guiding young backpackers around the city, an attempt to open eyes and educate others on how the city is more than just smoking pot and indulging in the eye candy of the Red Light District. It was a three hour walking tour around the central area, and I would lead groups of 20 or 30, rambling on and on about Amsterdam's history. It was a free tour, however, so I worked my ass off for good tips. That means a certain level of entertainment was in order... It was more than joke telling, a tour was a three-hour performance.

I jumped on and off railings, steps, houseboats, tree stumps, really anything that made me taller. I shouted at Dam Square, and whispered at the Oude Kerk. At the Tower of Tears I pretended to cry. At the Rembrandt house I played Rembrandt. My hands would flail around for the Miracle of Amsterdam. My eyes would widen and arms would stretch for the story of Anne Frank. I was on an imaginary ship when telling the history of the East Indies Company. Each day I left physically and mentally exhausted.

I got real into it, and the feelings rubbed off on the crowds. Sometimes tourists would buy me beers, sometimes they would hug me. Sometimes they would laugh, sometimes they wouldn't get it. Other times they would applause after random stories, other times they would holler like sports fans. There was always a wide range of emotions on their faces, something I enjoyed to watch.

On average, I made 80 Euros a day -- for telling people how rad Amsterdam really is.

Amsterdam was my music mecca:

Off the top of my head, bands I saw while here: Atmosphere, Black Crowes, Jack Johnson, The Darkness, Death Cab, The Decemberists, Bouncing Souls, Pennywise, The Presidents of USA, The Infadels, The Kooks, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Spoon, Flaming Lips, Gabriel Rios, The Weakerthans, GunsNRoses, Planes Mistaken for Stars, Buena Vista Social Club.... Rolling Stones... El Gran Silencio...

These bands played at venues that were once maybe a Protestant church (the Paradiso) or a milk factory (The Melkweg) during the 1600s and 1700s. And the venues are incredible -- always more than one stage, a cafe somewhere, multiple bars around the club, and amazing acoustics, lights and architecture. Bands are always so ecstatic to be out here, they play only their good songs for the Dutch crowd -- though most are a good blend of locals and foreigners.

Then there is the jazz that makes your ears bleed saxophone. Every night it echoes throughout the city from small brown cafes, large music halls and student buildings. Ex pats that once played with James Brown flutter around these bars, tooting out solos from the crowd when they have a surge of urge.

In Amsterdam, there are punk rock bars, heavy metal bars, blues bars, hip hop bars, reggae bars; all well-equipped with weekend nights of endless gigs. But there's even more on the outside -- amphitheaters in parks, street musicians in Dam Square, and the random households enjoying jam sessions as they sit outside on the front steps, drinking beer and slurping on fresh herring and cheese. I'm telling you, this city sings and has a soundtrack impossible to rival against.

Amsterdam was my middle man:

Upon my arrival back in February I was placed within international student housing through the University van Amsterdam. There were around ten people on each floor studying abroad from countries all over the world.

I shared a floor with students from Russia, Hungary, England, Austria, US... Dave, a punk ass kid from Detroit, who was perma-stoned, ended up with a prostitute in his room at his going away party because his friends wanted to "surprise" him. Luke, an Iranian jazz bassist from Brighton, England, took me off guard many times when I passed by his room as he chanted Buddhist phrases and clanked his chimes... then blasted the White Stripes.

The tourists I met, that's another story of it's own. Gappi, a "citizen of the world" who was really from Germany, and decided to change his pants in front of the entire tour as I was telling the story of Anne Frank. "You're a free spirit, huh Gappi?" I asked after the tour. Gappi smiled at me, began to wave his arms like a bird and "flew" away down the street, yelling "I was born free, lady!"

There was a senior citizen couple from Florida on my tour once. The wife was small, her skin shriveled and body hunched over. The husband, tall and his head was a glossy bald. It began raining, and the wife held a poncho, camo army pattern, pitched like a tent over her head while her husband let the rain bounce off his face. Neither of them had pleasant face expressions. They looked so ridiculous I laughed so hard I was crying, in front of the entire tour group. I would try to keep going, but every time I looked over there they were, and I busted out in giggles again which caused everyone there to laugh with me. Oops.

Three words that means fun: Large Spanish Groups (LSG). These people are STOAKED to be in Amsterdam, and they are even MORE stoaked to be on a free tour! Every place we'd walk to, would receive a round of applause. I would say "Ok, guys our next stop is that bridge over there" and the LSG would clap like lunatic fans."Alright, now were headed down the street, please don't take pictures of the ladies in the windows" LSG roars with laughter, applause, hoots and hollars. I felt like a street performer. In a sense, I was.

I led girl scout groups from Canada through the Red Light District, as well as boy scout groups from Ohio. I guided kids high as a kite, or tripping on mushrooms so hard I held their hand. I led a blind guy who had a giant bloodshot eyeball on the bottom of his walking stick that rotated as he walked. So many people with so many stories and so many different backgrounds. I can't tell it all in one email, and I can only hope I remember it all.

Amsterdam was my muse:

These snippets of examples listed above will be everlasting stories. So many experiences to remember, write, share and reminisce. Enough to last my entire life. It's a satisfying feeling to have, this idea of bottomless material.

So I'll continue to write my experiences as long as you guys promise to remain my audience.

Audrey "A'dam is Awesome to the max, and beyond" Sykes

Danish Tales

Odd Danish Tradition: Birthdays

I was invited to a Danish 25th birthday last year when I lived in Aarhus, Denmark. The tradition is that if you're unmarried you get blasted with cinnamon powder all night long. So, as my friends and I approached the front door, an aroma of cinnamon stung my nostrils. Looking down I notice cement pathways showered with spice. We knock on the door and there he is, the birthday boy named Chris. It's traditional for the birthday boy to greet you at the door, look you in the eye and shake your hand regardless on how much cinnamon is caked on his skin and clothes, or how drunk he is.

Upstairs is the party, or a bunch of tanked Danes singing songs I can't understand at long tables that are covered with leftover food (we missed the dinner, which is usually really hearty sausage and potatoes). It was a great night because I learned how to open a beer bottle with another beer bottle, and believe me THAT'S impressive! Chris, the bday boy, was at war with cinnamon packets all night. He would take a shower, walk out of the bathroom and then BAM! his friends whack the poor sap with cinnamon again.

I got handed a packet as well, and my drunken friend Morton slurred, "We're going to get him outside now, again!" So we go outside and are standing around in a cinnamon cloud when I open my package and give it a whiff.

"Um, Morten this isn't cinnamon, it’s curry powder." His face drops, almost in terror, like he had handed me a gun to blast Chris instead of cinnamon.

"NO, you can't use curry! Oh my GOD! Who gave you that?"

"You did."

"Well you CAN'T use it!" and he snatches it from me. (it's extreme bad luck and I would have probably gotten kicked out of the party.) I sit there baffled and Morton hands me another packet, this time cinnamon, and Chris stumbles outside with a "Please dear God make it stop" look on his face.

Unable to resist, I rip open the package and give him a high-class cinnamon dump on his head and down his back. Happy Birthday, BAM!

--------------------------------------------

GREAT Danish Tradition: Food

When drinking beer it's all about peanuts and pretzels, but the meals here are heavy and everyone knows how to cook. Every month in my dorm (I live with 14 other Danes) there is someone who cooks for us all. This month it was Potter. I don't know his real name, we call him Potter because he looks like Harry Potter (see picture below). Potter puts on the white board: Pork Patties with a Bacon and Pork Sauce, and Potatoes.

Now I'm not the biggest meat fan, but I decide to give him a chance. All day he's in our kitchen making the sauce, cooking bacon, cooking pork patties, and it looks like a meat factory in there. Curious because I keep hearing the occasional "Shit!" being shouted, I cracked open the kitchen door: it's a sauna, the Beatles are playing and Potter is looking very serious with the pans. He’s cooking pork patties and very frustrated with the fact that his glasses keep fogging each time he checks the potatoes in the oven.

"Uh, Potter, do you need help in here?"

"No, it's fine. Everything is just fine. It's fucking hot."

"Yeah, do you want me to keep the door open?"

"No! I need my privacy. I'm almost done."

And with that I close the door as Potter yells "Shit!" again and then something in Danish. A few hours later we eat, and the food, as grotesque as it may sound, was great. It was one of the best tasting meals I've had since I got here. That's the meal picture I have attached.

Besides Potter’s pork patties in bacon sauce, Danes love to make big breakfasts. I awoke one afternoon to two other roommates of mine, Jakob and Torsten making the most elaborate breakfast I'd ever seen (Jakob is a short stubby guy with a long blonde pony tail who wears a lot of black, plays a lot of video games and is really into medieval swords (he's got a collection in his room) and Star Wars. Torsten is a HUGE Hulk Hogan/Santa Claus of a dude with a long brown beard and long brown hair who plays a lot of video games and is really into zombies and Star Wars (his cell phone rings the Dark Side theme)). Crepes with butter, sugar or jam, bacon, sausage, toast, eggs with onion and tomatoes, potatoes, milk, apple juice and oj, three different cheeses. It was incredible. I followed the smell downstairs and saw the buffet. I asked Jakob and Torsten if this all was just for them and they said yet. Out of guilt and same for feasting in front of me, I think, they told me I could help myself. YES!

Danish food rocks.

---------------

Copenhagen:

With a weekend off and time to kill I decided to go to Copenhagen with a
group of students from my class. After lecture we headed to the train
station and arrived in Copenhagen that night. For those of you who don't
know, Copenhagen is Denmark's capital, the largest city in the country on an
island called Zealand. Yep.

We searched for the Sleep In Green Hostel, a place known to be
eviro-friendly... but really offered nothing more than an expensive organic
breakfast consisting of bread and coffee. Still, we hadn't found the hostel
yet and the group of us stood there in an intersection, wondering what to do
next.

"Are you looking for the hostel?" asked a guy from behind. He, his friend
and a dog had crept behind us and stood inches away from my face. Somewhat
startled but relieved I said yes and they offered to lead the way. Putting
all my trust in a few strange Danes was probably a bad idea, but I did itanyway.

"So, I'm Audrey, and..."
"I'm Pick!" shouts one of the Danes, even though we were walking right
beside each other. "Or Dick, Cock, however you say penis in English," says
Pick. Pick dressed in black layers with holes in everything he wore. He had
is eyebrows pierced, his nose, septum, lip, ears, tongue; and a buzzed head
with long green bangs. He was my height, short that is, and never stopped
shouting.

"I'm Michael, and this is Fleek," said the other Dane, pointing to his jack
russell terrier that ran in circles around him. Michael was taller, a softer
voice and wore a tie-dye vest that said in Danish "Take me, use me and abuse
me". Fleek, who is going on 9 in people years, never left Michael's side the
entire time we walked. the dog would always stay within a certain diameter
of Michael, walk in-between us, in front of us, behind us, but never too far
or on roads. 

They're both from Cristiana, a place in Copenhagen famous for many reasons.
It was once set up in the late 1960s as a place without rule, an actual free
market that developed into a village in the heart of Copenhagen that has
seen itself a separate state ever since. Thirty years ago the main street
was filled with hippies selling marijuana, hash and hemp clothes among the
fruit and vegetable stands; now it's not so utopian-like though drugs are
readily available and taken anywhere in the village.

Legal drug use and Amsterdam-style coffee shops aren't the only reason why
Cristiana is popular, there is much more to it. The people that live there
try to preserve the hippie lifestyle to the best of their abilities: murals
on every building, music in every corner, organic and all natural products--
people visit for the atmosphere more than the weed, or at least it's about
equal. 

Pick and Michael are part of the Cristiana circus, Pick a flame thrower and
Michael the world's strongest man's assistant. On our way to check out their
circus that night, Michael tells me that many people live in the circus tent
at night and the perform during the day. Most of the kids are our age and
don't have much talent, so they all become clowns, which Michael admits,
they have too many of. 

"They even are going to have a clown party tomorrow night. It will be lots
of fun, a lot of people, but they will all dress up as clowns and there will
probably be more of them than normal-dressed people."

Michael doesn't really live in a circus tent in Cristiana, he just pretends
to. He actually has a nice bed at his parents place, a cell phone in his
hand and an ATM card in his pocket.

Pick, on the other hand, does live in a circus tent in Cristiana, along with
six others we hung out with that night. When I asked him how much longer
will he be living in a circus tent, he replied, "It took me a long time to
throw fire down my chest without burning myself. Now I can put it in my
mouth, down my pants, anywhere I want without burning myself. Well, mostly."

The shows are always free and open to whoever wants to come, but I told them
I never saw any fliers. "That's because we don't use any. Whenever we want
to tell people about the circus, we just go downtown to the main walking
area and yell 'Hey everyone! There is a circus going on tonight in
Cristiana! Free! Please come and watch it!" says Michael, hand cupped over
his lips.

"Does it work?"
"Yeah, actually, we have a full house every time."

Upon our arrival in Cristiana we passed St Cristiana's church, the place
where Hans Christian Anderson is buried, as well as Michael's mother. Pick
ran ahead of us, and a few meters later he had opened the circus gate and
was holding it back, pressing his fingertips together like Mr. Burns. 

"Welcome to the Cristiana circus, Enter if you DARE!" he shouts, again, this
time louder and with an evil laugh. What a weird guy.

But there it was, a vintage-style circus tent, even with a little flag on
top, stars and red ball patters painted on, old ropes and canvas that
flapped to the Pink Floyd beat was playing from inside. Fleek ran in,
followed by Michael, then the rest of us. Oh, and then Pick and his evil
laugh. 

Instead of elephants, cotton candy, trapeze performers and tigers sat a
group of kids huddled around a heater on a small stage. Bare mattresses
covered the stage, dirty plates, empty beer cans and ashtrays full of
smokes, dead joints and broken pipes. It didn't fit right at all, although
things just aren't supposed to fit right in Cristiana.

We hung around, talked to the locals about their fight to keep Cristiana
free from outside influence, about the circus, about how to roll the perfect
joint, about how someone promised Flick a beer and he hasn't gotten it yet,
about how Fleek is real good at fetching and how Danes are the best at
smoking anything put in front of them.

The next afternoon we went to Cristiana again to look around. The
unfortunate thing about the place is that it can be dangerous taking
pictures there, people will literally grab your camera and destroy it if you
get a shot with a drug dealer in there. So I don't have any pictures of the
place, Michael, Pick or Fleek. But there is a website if you're curious
about the place.

We stayed there that afternoon until the sun began to set and Michael had to
get to his clown party. And as the church bells in Cristiana rang Love Me
Tender by Elvis Presley I watched the sun sink into Copenhagen skyline, wine
in one hand and Fleek in the other.

--------------------------

Danish Beer-Drinking Skills:

In my Xenophobes Guide to Denmark, the chapter about beer starts off with "Danes are Olympic beer drinkers..." ...that's putting it lightly. Danes don't go out to buy six packs, they buy crates of 30 bottled beers -- Touborg, Carlsberg, Royal and Ceres are the popular ones. And yes, all have more alcohol content than U.S. 3.2. Usually it takes three guys to buy the beer, one to load it up on the dolly and wheel it back home, and two to keep him company and get an early start on things.

The beer shop might only be a hundred meters away, still two breaks are ABSOLUTELY necessary on beer runs. One right after the purchase to celebrate getting there before close or something I don't understand, and another midway between the shop and home. This midway stop can be treacherous -- sometimes the three beer amigos easily entertain each other for hours, from just standing on the sidewalk, and forget about the people back home waiting for them and their dolly.

Meeting a Dane that doesn't drink beer is NOT a respectable thing, it's an insult to their culture and he or she will probably never have any friends. Go to a bar and order Jack and Coke? Not unless you want to sit alone and be singled out as the jerk with the liquor drink. Wine? Screw you, what are you trying to be, classy? Beer beer beer, and sometimes suds flow down the streets. Literally.

The first Friday of November is Jule Day, or J Day, Denmark's official holiday for beer. It's the yearly celebration for breweries nationwide (the size of Illinois) to release the Danish Christmas Beer. Bottled in dark glass with holiday decoration, the Christmas Beer is available to all in pubs and on the streets at exactly 8:59p.m. I don't know why. Exactly 150 free Christmas beers are given out -- the rest of the night every town in Denmark, every sensible Dane, goes apeshit.

Beer trucks decked out in Christmas flare fill the streets, spewing clouds of foam in every direction. The song Here Comes Santa Clause sings from the truck speakers. Hottie boom-bottie blondies prance around in Santa Helper skirts and tops, graciously giving holiday beer to all those present and following. It's an actual beer parade.

And you know what? You don't even have to worry about beer bottles littering the streets -- the homeless follow close behind collecting every container because it's worth 3Dkk, or fifty cents.

Now this holiday used to be the first Wednesday of every November. But due to the DRASTIC lack of student and job attendance nationwide the following day, it was decided just to move the holiday to a weekend day. That way Danes of all ages (this includes grade school) can get wasted and not have to worry about school or work, and everyone is happily hungover.

Exactly, this would never happen in the states.

A friend of mine told me that the only way Danes maintain a steady birthrate is from drunken hookups. I thought he was liar until last week when I went to a stoplight party.

It's a stoplight party because, sadly enough, the color you wear indicates your availability. Red means you're taken, green you're single, and yellow is you're in between (whatever the hell that means, cheaters I guess). I wore brown and blue. But the color can be a big deal, some people who wore the wrong color by accident (so they say) and got into fights with their significant other at the party.

But my friend is right. By midnight the place was covered with wasted Danes sucking face with anyone who looked their way. It was impossible to go to the bathroom because too many couples were waiting in line to use it...together. It was impossible to sit or stand, it was impossible to look. Danes would literally make their rounds, and I found the true definition of meat market.

"Hi how's it going"

"Hi, no thanks"

The guy turns to my friend,

"Hi, how's it going"

Another sneaks up from the side, "Hi, how are you"

"Ah! Where the hell did you come from?"

"Oh, you're American, that's hot."

You get the point...I got the hell out of there.

And then there are the Friday bars. Think your university was special because there was ONE bar on campus? HAH! At Denmark universities, there are bars for each department. Yep, not each college, each department. Every Friday beginning around 2p.m. the eating areas turn into cheap beer bars. Fresh off the tap in your hands for 2 bucks a cup, the college streets lead stumbling wasted students to their bus stops by six. The best one I think is the Chemistry bar because it's really great to see Danish nerds get hosed, as well as Danish professors.