We bought some drum supplies at the defunct Nazi bunker, glanced at boobs, Beatles, and boner kabobs in the sunny Reeperbahn, and prepared for a full, four-country day with Gorm the Old.
I was enlisted to burn a thick CD of music, and the first request was Body Count.
It went on from there.
Germany looms long and green like a stinkier version of Pennsylvania. It seemed like every 26 seconds we’d drive into some cow’s manure nightmare. Also we’ve been inundated with the word “fart.” Signs everywhere have declared: Gut fart, Unfart, Middlefart, Ne’rfart, Fart hinder, and of course Fart Kontrol. Maybe all these goddamn fart signs have just put that smell in our heads.
We crossed into The Netherlands to see how their rest stops combined meat, bread and cheese. No difference.
With 8 hours and no real food under our belts, the Bitter Tears sputtered into Belgium for dinner, specifically beautiful, touristy Bruge. Wonderful Bruge! Historic (?) Bruge! Okay, so lots of Bruge has been refurbished to look old, but have you seen the Chicago condo of today?
Tales were told and bits were performed over Flemish stew, creamy cheese croquets and Belgian beer. It felt great to be a mark. But we had to say goodbye so we could go to the coastal town of Calais, France and stay in a cute hotel room overlooking the English Channel. The town forced us to drink a bottle of red wine on the balcony as the cool autumnal breeze put a lilt in the cadence of the French girls riding bicycles to all their rendezvouses.
Thankfully I still had Body Count in my head.
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