Good Intentions

So let me tell you a story about my trip to Europe.

We–me and my two compatriots and co-conspirators–are in Vienna, a beautiful city with wondrous architecture, a home to Mozart and Freud, a city where coffee is nearly an artform–a city unfortunately inhabitated by Austrians, who are not the most pleasant people on Earth. In fact, they are far from it.

(My apologies to any Austrians in the crowd. You really should work on your hospitality if you want any more of my money.)

Anyway, we’re wandering around at night, because that’s what we do as American tourists, and we see a sign that says “Best Bar in Town.” Well, who are we to argue? We’re in a nice area of town, and we want a drink. So we step up to this ridiculously thick and riveted iron door and step inside.

And instantly we realize we have stepped into a house of ill repute.

Gaudy fountains and statuary line the walls under black lights and crushed velvet drapes. Darkened booths with leather seats line the walls. And a good number of scantily clad women are wandering around, impossible smiles plastered on their faces. Everything Hollywood has told us what a whorehouse should be, this is the ideal, the Platonic blueprint for a whorehouse. Seriously.

Are we upset or scared by this fact? Not particularly. Perhaps a little unnerved, I suppose, but I think generally we were riding a bit of an adrenaline/giddiness high because, well, we were in a whorehouse.

Anyway, so we slide up to the bar and order three of the cheapest beers–think an Amstel–for 11 euro. Yes, 11 euro. Around 15 bucks. Awesome. We drink those fairly quickly, and the female bartender looks at us and says,

“Now I will bring the girls out, yes?”

The three of us look at each other. “Ok!”

So she does. Bring the girls out, that is. Fifteen or so fairly attractive girls line up and shake our hands, waiting silently. For what, you might ask?

For us to choose one, of course. And of course, we all do. So now we are sitting at the bar, chatting with prostitutes for a good half hour, until we begin to perceive that they are getting a bit, how shall I say, antsy.

“So, do you want to go downstairs?”

What happens downstairs?

“Oh, the fucking.”

…Oh.

At that point, we quickly apologize to the girls and hightail it out of there, nervously laughing and joking our entire way back to the hostel.

So there you have it. Now I can say I was in a whorehouse. Who’s surprised? Ha.

Ah, College Station, that bastion of…something, I guess. I went there with a friend for another friend’s graduation party, and it was certainly an experience. Now, mind you, I had not been to College Station since I was in 8th grade, and that was for a school field trip. So it was really a new place for me.

So R and I drive up there, from Houston, and once we turn onto a farm road from Highway 6, the country bumpkin jokes begin. Gravel roads destroy my suspension as we see green fields and cows galore.

After navigating a series of inconceivably and increasingly backroad roads, we finally reach my friend L’s parents’ house. We haul ourselves out of my car–which has been parked halfway on the road and halfway on a stretch of green shoulder–and walk up to the house. Immediately we’re greeted by L’s family and a sea of maroon. My blood runs cold; we were Longhorns in Aggie country.

Alas, there was no throwdown, and no hoedown either. Just fantastically entertaining folks and so much food. 130 pounds of crawfish, actually. Which we all had to peel. The smell haunts my dreams still.

All in all, though, I had a great time. I’ve slowly come to realize that I like to explore new cities, and the act of navigating is a calming and intellectually stimulating endeavour which I thoroughly enjoy.

Next time I’ll wear burnt orange.