"Exhume Our Idols..."

Reasons I’m bringing back the blog:

Part IV: Carrie Brownstein

So far we’ve discussed a rare beer brewed by monks in an abbey, the greatest race circuit in the world, and the glory that is ze autobahn. But, I’ve driven on the autobahn before and if I really wanted to, I could track down the monk beer somewhere here in Edmonton. It might cost me $50+ a bottle, but it can be done. And yes, while the Nürburgring was definitely an item high up on the old bucket list, chances are I would have been through Germany at some point again in my life to check it off. So, while all of these were things that I wanted to do at some point in my life, and were most definitely very fun and very much worth having done, they were not the reason for this trip. I could have done them at any time, really. Perhaps during Oktoberfest one year? Perhaps in the summer when the temperatures would have allowed me to lower the top on the Porsche and feel what the autobahn was like with a cool wind blowing through my hair? In fact, you could argue that everything I’ve done so far on this trip would have been better had I done them at a different time of the year. And you’d probably be right.

So then, why on Earth did I choose March?

Well, to answer that, we’ll need to take a little trip down memory lane. The year was 2002. Maybe 2003. My sister, because she was dating a local musician at the time, was going through an unprecedented stretch of having impeccable taste in music. I was fortunate enough to be in the enviable position of having much of that great music trickle down to me, whether through CD’s playing in her car when I would catch a ride somewhere, or even mix tapes that she would make for me out of the kindness of her heart. This was probably the greatest period of musical discovery in my life. In fact, this is when I was first exposed to many of my all-time favourite bands and songs. This is when I first heard The Distillers. Tegan and Sara. The Sounds. I mean, that’s three out of my top 10 (maybe even top 5) right there. It was a glorious time to own a Discman.

And, even though I didn’t realize it at the time, there was another band that was first exposed to me during this period, even if I wouldn’t come to realize it until many years down the road.

You see, one of the tracks that my sister placed on a mix tape (and keep in mind, by mix tape, I really mean mix CD) was "Combat Rock" by a band I had never heard of, called Sleater-Kinney. It was buried towards the end of the disc (at this point, technologically, these were MP3 CD’s, which meant they could hold 140-160 songs), and seeing that I loved so many of the other tracks on this CD, although this song was definitely one of the top 15 or 20 that I liked, it just didn’t resonate quite enough with me to make me bother checking out the band any further, certainly not digging into their back catalogue or anything of that nature, like I was doing with a lot of the other artists on the CD. Then Spin Magazine released their Best Albums of the Year list. And, like always, I was keen to give it a read. As I thumbed through the pages, I was surprised to see that this band, Sleater-Kinney, and the album from which "Combat Rock" had been lifted, One Beat, sat high on the list at number 12. Number 12 was no joke. It was higher than a lot of very good albums that I was already a very big fan of. So, because I liked "Combat Rock" well enough, and because I was curious to see if the rest of album could possibly merit it’s high placement on this list, I had to listen to the whole thing.

And I loved it. Loved it. Loved it.

Well… maybe not. I liked it just fine, but still not enough to coax me into going into their back catalogue or even to get their next album when it came out in 2005. Not exactly a ringing endorsement, by any stretch of the imagination. Anyways, it wasn’t until that 2005 album had been out for a few months, when I popped that old mix CD that my sister had made, into the stereo during a gathering of friends at my apartment - you know, just as background music - that my friend, Dennis, suddenly got a little excited and asked, “Is this Sleater-Kinney?” as "Combat Rock" came up in the playlist towards the end of the night. “Ya,” I replied, kind of surprised that he had even heard of them, and slightly proud to have my taste in music validated by one of my peers. Not having played this CD is a few years at this point, I was reminded of this band Sleater-Kinney for the first time in a while, and again, my curiosity was piqued. So, off I went to get my copy of 2005’s The Woods. Which, again, Spin had ranked in their list of Top Albums of the Year.

Now, most people love The Woods. So, you would think that this would be it for me as well. A few years longer than it should have taken, but love at last, right? Well, actually… I’m lukewarm on it. It has it’s moments, but if I'm being honest, I probably have it ranked as Sleater-Kinney’s 4th or 5th best album. And that’s as of today (spoiler alert: I eventually fall in love with the band and obsessively go through their entire catalogue). If I’m lukewarm on it today, imagine how I felt about it on first listen. Needless to say, not enough to get me tracking down all their old albums yet. Once again, I shrugged and moved on.

Then something magical happened. Around 2010, I stumbled randomly onto the song "One More Hour." And it absolutely devastated me. While that might not exactly be the textbook definition of ‘something magical happening’ to most people, it is to me. I love getting devastated by a song. Or, more accurately, I love having that strong of an emotional reaction to a song. Joy, devastation or otherwise. And, when I read the background story behind the song, that devastation only grew with each subsequent listening. Now it was unavoidable, I was 100% in on Sleater-Kinney, and I would soon know every square inch of their back catalogue. Every second of Dig Me Out. Every note of The Hot Rock. Even The Woods - when I say that I’m lukewarm on it, that is only in comparison to the rest of their albums (and I still ranked it 4th or 5th out of 8). One Beat, which hadn’t been enough to hold my attention back in 2002, was suddenly on an endless loop in my car. I gobbled up every verse. Every chorus. It had taken me far longer than it should have. In fact, I’m almost embarrassed to admit to the time lime of this written history. But hey, better late than never.

Or is it better to be late than never? What if you're too late?

You see, after the release and subsequent tour for The Woods, the band decided to call it quits. No more new albums. No more tours. No more anything. Had I fallen in love at first listen like I was supposed to back in 2002, I could have seen them then, or one last time in 2006, before they hung it up for good. Or any of a thousand shows in between. Instead, I was left with a bucket list concert to see, and no chance of ever seeing it. Better late than never, sure. But too late, none-the-less.

And then, as if to kick me while I was down, I discovered that one of the main stars of Portlandia (the one that wasn’t the guy from Saturday Night Live) had in a previous life been the guitarist and co-singer in Sleater-Kinney. The girl that wrote "One More Hour" was now writing and starring in one of my favourite TV Shows (yes, I know that it’s a Corin song, no need to correct me). Ugh. How awesome would it have been to see a live show now that I knew Carrie was the creative force behind two of my favourite things? Things that I had discovered and loved completely independent of each other, with no prior knowledge of their glorious common bond. It just wasn’t fair, dammit!

And then...

On October 21, 2014, they released a box set of their entire back catalogue on vinyl. Mine arrived in the mail on the 22nd. Sure, maybe I would never see them live, but the warmth that only a vinyl recording can provide was a fine silver medal for me that day. I opened it with great anticipation, an anticipation that, for perhaps the first time ever, was actually lower than it should have been, unbeknownst to me at the time. For you see, a funny thing happened when I opened that box set. Packed in neatly beside the poster and the book and all seven of their studio albums on glorious vinyl, there was a single 7” white 45 rpm record, with nothing but a couple of numbers scratched on it’s label.

1/20/15

I was confused. Those numbers meant nothing to me, and that 7” had not been listed as part of the box set when I had pre-ordered it several month’s prior. So, I took the dust cover off my turn table and set this mystery record down on the platter. In today’s day and age where everything gets leaked and all news is broken long before it is intended to be, what happened next when I lowered the needle down onto the wax came as a huge shock to me. A song started playing that I had never heard before. It was obviously a Sleater-Kinney track - their style was unmistakable - but what could it be? An old B-Side? Some rarity that I had never heard before, dug up and included in the box set in order to make it ‘definitive’? And then it clicked. 1/20/15. January 20, 2015. This was new Sleater-Kinney. They were coming back.

As you can imagine, the joy I felt that day was intense. Not just because I had new Sleater-Kinney to look forward to, but because of the way the news was delivered. It was like finding the ultimate prize inside a cereal box. And it had been a complete surprise. Not just to me, but to everyone. Which, again, is not easy to do in today’s day and age. So, you’d better believe, if there was going to be a tour announced as well, I sure as hell was going to be in the audience for at least one of the shows. There was no way I was going to risk this being a one-off album or a one-off tour. When the dates were announced, I looked up the closest show to me - Spokane - and set about pricing out the trip. When it was all said and done, I was looking at about $450, all-in. And that was if I did everything on the cheap.

Whatever. Any price was worth it to me at this point. And then I got this crazy idea: If I was going to pay at least $450 anyways, why not put that $450 towards a flight to Europe and go see them at a couple of their shows over there instead? So, I went online, starting entering dates and cities into Expedia and praying that something might match up. Berlin was out. London was out. Ireland was out. Paris was out. The flights were either too expensive, or the cities I could fly into for cheap were just too far away. Hope was dwindling.

Just as things were looking their bleakest, I struck gold. I could fly into Frankfurt on the 18th, back out on the 24th, and have plenty of time to drive to both the Amsterdam and Antwerp shows in between. And on top of it all, the flight was dirt cheap. I asked Jen if she wanted to join me, she said yes, and that was it. I couldn’t have booked it any faster, unless I had been able to harness the fingers of one of those bad actors that types so fast that it’s painfully obvious that they aren’t actually typing, and it becomes unintentional comedy gold. Especially if two actors do it on the same keyboard at the same time. Do writers even know how computers work?

And that my friends is the only reason that you’re reading this blog today. Because of Carrie. Because of Corin. Because of Janet. (photo credit for those three links to Abel Cruz at qromag.com, because my close ups all came out blurry.) Monk beer could wait. I could drive the Nürburgring whenever. But, if I wanted to follow Sleater-Kinney around Europe, it had to be now, or I risked missing my chance forever.

I’m not much for reviewing concerts in depth. Just know that they played pretty much every song* that I could have hoped for, and every second of it was glorious.

*Actually, they missed a couple of key ones for me. "You're No Rock n' Roll Fun" and “Sympathy” (I know, Dennis, I know) are the two that stick out the most. I looked up their set lists from the rest of the tour, and it looks like “Sympathy” was in the rotation a few times, so I'm sad to have missed out on one of those performances. That said, “Good Things” barely got played at all, and yet they played it at the Amsterdam show that we were at (the only time they played it on the whole European tour), and I would trade pretty much any song (except for "One More Hour") to have seen that one live, so all things considered, it was still as close to a perfect couple of nights as I could have asked for.

The Black Forest

Reasons I’m bringing back the blog:

Part III: The Autobahn

It surprises me just how many people fear the Autobahn. Don’t get me wrong, there are definitely many people like myself that feel a tingle in their spine and a tightening in their trousers at the mere mention of it’s name, but in general, I find that most people are wary of it. It’s divisive. Tell someone that you’re going to Germany, and they might ask about the food, or the beer, or any number of things you might do while you’re there. But at some point, especially if you’re renting a car and driving, the topic of conversation will inevitably shift towards the autobahn. And the person that you’re talking to will have one of only two distinct reactions:

Reaction #1: A knowing smile, a slight twinkle in their eye, and - perhaps most importantly - a tinge of jealousy in their voice. These are my people. The type of people that understand what the autobahn is. What it represents. And why I am endlessly drawn to her sweet siren song.

Reaction #2: A look of panic, apprehension… fear. The autobahn? The autobahn?! Their reaction alone would suggest that you just told them that you had taken up the hobby of skydiving without a parachute, or were planning to go into a biker bar and shout "Harley’s are for queers." They look at you like you’re stupid, or crazy, and probably both. They beg you not to do it. They think about the family that you might be leaving behind, or the 35th birthday that you’ll never live to see, and they shed a single tear for your soul. Your poor, sad, autobahn-loving soul.

And that is it. Those are the only two reactions. No one has a neutral opinion on the autobahn.

Actually, that’s not entirely true. The people that are the most indifferent about the autobahn are the people that have actually been on the autobahn. The people that have seen and experienced firsthand that it really is not that big of a deal. It’s just a regular system of motorways …that also just so happens to have stretches with no speed limit. Yes, occasionally you might get passed by a Volkswagen station wagon, and, even though you’re doing 170km/h, it still might blow your doors off as if you were standing still. But for the most part, it’s just a highway. Stay in the right hand lane, and you’ll be fine.

More than fine actually. As difficult as it is for some people to believe, the autobahn is actually one of the safest systems of motorways on the entire planet. In Germany, there are on average 4.3 road fatalities for every 100,000 inhabitants per year. That ranks them as the 15th lowest in the world. Lower than Canada (6.0), where we all drive many, many miles per year on the highways without thinking twice. Lower than Belgium (7.2) and barely higher than 14th place Netherlands (3.9) both of which I have also been driving in during this trip, and yet no one raises a single eyebrow when I mention them.

And keep in mind that this is total driving fatalities for the entire country. Urban, rural, autobahn or otherwise. When you factor in that the autobahn is actually only responsible for 13% of Germany’s total traffic fatalities, those numbers start to look even better. Statistically speaking, it’s a lot safer to drive on the autobahn than it is to drive in a lot of places around the world. Certainly much safer than the United States, with it’s 36,166 driving deaths per year (Germany only has 3520). And yet, people still can’t wrap their heads around it. If people are allowed to drive as fast as they want, there just has to be more accidents. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

Our rental car for the majority of the trip. A trusty Audi A3.

Well, maybe not.

Consider this: the speed limit in Canada on most major highways is in the 100 km/h range. And it has been that way for over 50 years. Maybe more. Now, compare the cars that we have today to the ones that were made, oh, say, even just 30 years ago. The very safest car in the world in 1985 probably wouldn’t even pass the minimum safety requirements to be manufactured today. The government safety inspectors would watch the slow motion footage of the dummies going through the windshield, and their stamps would start pounding big red ‘NOPE’s onto their clipboards faster than Mike Tyson’s fists working the heavy bag… or something. I don’t know. My 1985 references might be a little lacking.

If the very safest car in the world in 1985, one that the government would not allow to be sold new today, was deemed able to safely travel at 100km/h back in 1985, how is it that the new cars, with their lane departure warning systems, anti lock brakes, stability control, 10 airbags for the driver alone, and multitude of crumple zones and side impact protection are still only safe enough to travel at 100km/h in 2015?

Well, the obvious elephant in the room is that some people still drive their cars that were made in 1985. And these cars might not even have been the safest on the road made back then, and certainly haven’t increased in safety after the odometer has turned over twice, the hood has been replaced with a sheet of plywood and the rear bumper started being held on with duct tape. Those cars are still on the road, and the 100km/h limit is the sort of ‘lowest common denominator’ law that we use to blanket govern every single person. The sign says maximum 100km/h, and regardless of whether you have a twice-written-off 1973 Ford Pinto or a 2015 Volvo that you probably couldn’t crash even if you tried, that is the law. And when it comes to the law, there is only right and wrong. Only black and white.

But what if laws allowed for some grey area? What if a cop could use this silly little thing called his ‘common sense’ to determine whether your driving was safe or not; whether your car was safe or not? What if you could get pulled over for following too close to the car in front of you, or for staying in the left hand lane longer than was necessary to pass a car on the right, or for having tires that weren’t rated for the speed you were doing? That my friends, is the autobahn. People assume it’s this chaotic mess of anarchy and lawlessness, simply because it has no speed limit. This couldn’t be further from the truth. It is very highly regulated and strictly enforced. Sure, you can drive as fast as you want, but if your car isn’t up to code, or the way you drive isn’t demonstrably safe, you won’t be driving that way for very long before Ze Policía puts a stop to it.

And while that alone certainly helps to increase the safety on the autobahn, consider this philosophical angle as well: How many accidents do you think happen just because people simply aren’t paying enough attention? And I’m not even talking about huge distractions like checking their cell phones or turning around to talk to the people in the back seat. I’m talking about driving tired, or bored, or generally just not paying attention to the road as mile after endless mile passes by and the monotony of the same drive that you’ve done every day for the past 20 years washes over you like slow-sinking quicksand. If you haven’t experienced that in the middle of the three hour drive from Edmonton to Calgary at some point in your life, then I envy you. But I think its safe to say that most of us have.

Now imagine that same situation, but you’re allowed to drive as fast as you want. Consider your mindset as you slowly push the gas peddle towards the floor, and the needle of the speed dial starts climbing close to 200. Are you sitting up a little straighter? Are you more alert, trying to anticipate any cars that might dart out in front of you? Are you glancing more frequently at your mirrors to make sure someone doing 250 isn't flying up behind you? Does your pulse race and do your glands start spraying adrenaline like a sprinkler? Are your hands gripped a little tighter to the wheel? Are they clenched so tight to the wheel that you wouldn't even consider removing them for an instant, let alone for two minutes to play with the dial on the radio? Do you even have the radio on at all? Do you think to take your eyes off the road for even a second to glance over at your phone, let alone pick it up and check it's screen for new messages?

Exactly.

Good drivers, in safe cars, paying extra attention. This is why the autobahn is actually a lot safer than you think. And that’s why I must go to her. For the freedom. For the exhilaration. For pure automotive bliss. For not having to put up with people that ride in the left lane endlessly, staying at 99.9 km/h and never once moving back into the right hand lane to let you or the 30 cars lined up behind them pass until you’re so angry at them that you just want to smash their stupid faces into their stupid windshield over and over again and break every stupid finger in their stupid hands so that they can never use them to hold a stupid steering wheel or operate a motor vehicle ever again…

Ahem [cough]

Like I was saying: Automotive bliss.

Also, while our trusty steed for the trip thus far, an Audi A3, had been a very pleasant and extremely capable vehicle, I figured if we were going to do the autobahn properly, we’d need something with a little more hutzpah. Sure, Audi is a fine German marquee, but is it iconic enough? Is it the one German vehicle that would perfectly encompass what a glorious day on the autobahn is all about? Not really. Which is why this is the car I that I rented for the day:

The Porsche 911 Carrera S

Let’s just say that yesterday on the Nurburgring's short reign as the best 40 minutes of my life only lasted a mere 24 hours before it was surpassed. As the 400 bhp of the 3.8 litre straight six sat at the beck and call of my right foot - on the autobahn, on the winding mountain roads of the Black Forest, on the incomparable Route 500 - I came to discover what automotive bliss truly is.

Also, here's a time lapse of the raw feed of all 200+ km in under 8 minutes. If you struggled to make it through all 5 minutes of the last video, then you should probably skip this one, because it's pretty much just for the die hard readers / car enthusiasts. Also, no teasing me for how little I let Jen drive the car, she wasn't technically allowed to drive it at all, and although I trust her driving completely, it was still just not a risk I could afford to take for very long. These things run $125,000+, and I would be responsible for every dime of it if we somehow got in a crash and they found out that she was behind the wheel at the time.

One Ring to Rule Them All

Reasons I brought back the blog:

Part II: The Nürburgring

Yesterday’s trip to the Abbey was a little disappointing. There’s no way around it. Sure, for the most part it’s more about the journey than the destination. And that’s mostly true here as well. But the fact that I couldn’t buy any beer to bring back with me, and the fact that the beer itself was just not as good as I had spent many months dreaming that it would be… well, as good as the journey was, the destination can’t help but taint the overall experience. That said, don’t feel sorry for me. The Westvleteren XII was only one small reason for this trip, and there were still many other very cool things to see and do along the way. Besides, if there’s anything that can cheer a person up, it’s a giant naked cyclops on the side of the highway.

A. Giant. Naked. Cyclops.

On. The. Side. Of. The. Highway.

Also, the Nürburgring.

In case you’re not familiar, the Nürburgring is a world famous race track in Germany. Built in the 1920’s, it is a spectacular 23 km long track that winds it’s way in and around the small town of Nürburg in the Eifel mountains. Not only is the location spectacular, with lush green forests and a medieval castle overlooking the whole thing, but the track itself is pretty much every car enthusiast’s wet dream. The mountain location means that the track itself has over 1000 feet of elevation changes, with over 150 corners, 80% of which are blind. The weather is famously unpredictable, and it is said that you can go from perfectly dry, to pouring rain, and even to snow(!) all within one lap. Also, because it was built in the 1920’s, when obviously cars were much different than they are today, the safety of this track is much different than that of a modern track. There are no areas for run off in case you come off the track. The only thing to slow you down is about a metre or two of grass and then the wall. And it is said that the slippery grass can actually cause you to speed up more than help you slow down as you come into contact with it. As such, there have been over 70 fatal accidents on the track over the years, and far-too-numerous-to-count non-fatal accidents that have left drivers, race officials and even spectators horribly injured and permanently disfigured. If you recall in the 2013 movie Rush, Niki Lauda’s famous crash took place at the Nürburgring, leaving his face and lungs severely burned. So ya. It’s a dangerous place.

Jackie Stewart once famously dubbed it ‘The Green Hell’ after winning the 1968 German Grand Prix, a name which has stuck with the track ever since. And, after claiming so many lives, and just simply because it was completely irresponsible for the track to continue to be a racing venue when cars had become much too fast for it's ancient design, a new, more modern track had to be added to the south end in the 1980’s in order to create a viable (and safe) racing venue for the future. But the old track - known as the Nordschleife - still remains to this day. In fact, the legendary history of the track has made it an important testing grounds for almost every new car to prove itself upon. Porsche brags about it’s Nürburgring time, and Ferrari responds with theirs. It’s become as synonymous with a vehicle’s performance as horsepower, 0 to 60 time or even Top Speed. If a vehicle has any flaws, no matter how well hidden, the Nordschleife will sniff them out and lay them bare for the entire world to see.

It does the same thing with driver’s too. Any driver not worthy of her glory; any driver that does not show the appropriate respect or revere her mystique; any driver that thinks that they can tame her - they are all immediately and unapologetically chewed up and spit out faster than you can say “Ich entschuldige mich, ich gedemütigt, allmächtiger Nürburgring.” So, of course it makes sense that it’s completely open to the public and anyone can drive on it. And I don’t mean ‘anyone’ as in, once you sign up, get approved, show a clean driving record, a certificate from a recently completed safety course, and then a hand written letter from the Nürburgring Chancellor. No, I mean anyone. It’s legally classified as a ‘one-way public toll road’ which means you can show up in any car, drive up to the starting line, put your money in the toll booth and simply hit the gas once the little yellow arm raises up. That’s it. That’s all it takes. No speed limits, no penalties for aggressive driving, just a pure track experience. So of course, I had to do it.

And it was glorious. Sure, I had done a thousand laps on her in video games, but nothing can prepare you for the real thing. Famous stretches of track, legendary corners… one minute you’re trying to wrap your head around the fact that you just passed through the Fox Hole (Fuchsröhre) and the next you’re dropping into the infamous Carousel (Karussell), all while being passed by Ferrari 458’s and Porsche GT3’s that seem to be doing twice the speed that you are. By the time I had finished the Pflanzgarten and the Schwalbenschwanz, the smile permanently plastered on my face couldn’t have been removed with a hammer. It might very well have been the greatest 40 minutes of my life.

(Yes, I’m aware that 40 minutes is pretty slow. And even though I did two laps, even 20 minutes is still pretty slow. All I have to say to that is… ok, maybe I’m a little slow. In my defense, I was taking it super carefully through corners as I did not want our car to end up like the completely written off one that we saw at the rental place and for me to be like the guys that had put said vehicle - the exact same one as ours - into the wall a few hours earlier.)

Also, kudos to my amazing travel companion Jen (it’s nearly a crime against humanity that it took me this long to mention her in these posts), who not only made the entire trip so much more enjoyable, but also took the videos and pictures while I drove. The Nürburgring does not allow in car cameras, so we had to sneak what little video we could when no one was looking, so don’t judge the shakiness or low framing, she did about as good a job as anyone could in such a situation.

Westvleteren XII

Reasons I brought back the blog:

Part I: Westvleteren XII

I’m not a religious man. Not by any stretch of the imagination. I don’t believe in the afterlife, or reincarnation, or any of that stuff. In fact, the only reason I even bring this up, is because this blog - the resurrection of this blog, as it were - is about to take on a very religious tone. In the coming paragraphs I will be using terms like ‘pilgrimage to mecca’ and ‘spiritual awakening’. Not because I have suddenly found religion, or a new lease of life, but rather because the parallels between religious terminology and the journey I just undertook are simply too easy to pass up. And when you love the glory that is lazy writing as much as I do, ‘too easy to pass up’ is your best friend and saviour.

Glory? Saviour? See, it’s begun already.

So, if this blog is going to take on a religious note, we might as well start off by talking about monks. Now, I’m sure most people are familiar with what a monk is, generally speaking, but let’s go over the Cliff’s Notes, just so that we’re on the same page. The basic idea behind monkhood (monkness?) is to live a life with a complete abstinence from worldly pleasures. Monks eschew the very notion of modern convenience and, to put it in delicate terms, sins of the flesh. And, because the world is full of temptations, monks often live together, spending most of their lives at a monastery in prayer and contemplation, believing that this is the best way to serve God and achieve inner peace.

They also brew beer.

This is where I come in. I may not be a monk, but I sure do enjoy a good, malty libation. Now, having read my brief synopsis of monkdom (monkery?) you might think that it would be strange that monks - having given up all worldly pleasures - would still imbibe the greatest worldly pleasure of them all. And while a bunch of monks brewing and drinking beer does seem a little hypocritical, in the spirit of this new religious themed blog, I’m going to do my best not to judge. All I want is to sample some of the very best beer on the planet: monk beer. That said, the thing about the monks is that they don’t need, or want money. They live a simple lifestyle and turning a profit isn’t exactly high on their parchment. In fact, many monks only brew just enough beer to quench their own thirst, and might sell whatever they have left over to pay the bills and help keep the abbey lights on. And, even though it’s slightly disappointing to think that they even use lights at all, when candles would seem so much more monkly (monkish?), all of this is why, instead of heading down to my local Liquor Barn, I had to come all the way to Belgium.

You see, the monks at an Abbey called Saint Sixtus, in the West-Flanders region of Belgium, brew a beer that many consider to be the very best in the world. And, while many of the best beers in the world can be easily tracked down at your local bottle shop, the only way to get your hands on a bottle of Westvleteren XII - the notorious flagship beer that is produced within the walls of Saint Sixtus - is to go to the monastery and knock on the abbey doors yourself.

Let’s just stop here for a second and consider that last sentence. You go to the monastery and knock on the abbey doors, and they will sell you a case of the greatest beer in the world…

Is that not the most amazing thing in the history of things?! What self-respecting beer enthusiast would not be instantly enamoured with every single word in that scenario? Well, unfortunately for yours truly, a man with dreams of one day knocking on the abbey door himself, many, many people did become instantly enamoured with that scenario, and as word got out and the legend grew, more and more people wanted to see just what all of the fuss was about. I mean, just envision every hipster you’ve even known. Now imagine telling them that there was a rare beer, considered to be the best in the world, but that they couldn’t have any. There is nothing a hipster loves more than to have tried and appreciated something that most ordinary folks have not. Getting their hands on a bottle of Westvleteren would be akin to having been a fan of Nirvana before they were famous. Any beer fan worth their weight in hops had to be able to say that they loved Westvleteren before anyone else. As such, many people started making the trek.

In spite of the increased interest, the monks still had no desire to increase production, or sell their product commercially. But, as the line ups of flannel-clad, bearded men, wearing plastic-rimmed glasses began to grow, they were forced to adapt. A reservation system has since been put in place, where you phone a special hot line, reserve a time and date, and come get your beer from the abbey at the scheduled time. The supply is still very limited, and getting through on the phone line is almost as statistically unlikely as winning the lottery, but no matter how you try to justify it, the new process just isn't nearly as cool as the old way of just showing up at the abbey, knocking twice on the door and walking away with the holy grail of beers. That said, it’s still pretty cool. And I still like beer. So, even though some of the sexiness of the journey is gone, it’s still a journey that I’ve been interested in undertaking ever since the dawn of time. And by ‘dawn of time’ I mean when Randy brought the whole thing to my attention last spring. Sorry, I know, I’m a terrible hipster to even admit that I was blissfully unaware of this beer’s existence a mere 12 months ago… but hey, I didn’t know who Nirvana was until Smells Like Teen Spirit came out either.

Long-story-short, today I made the pilgrimage to the abbey.

Was it as glorious as I ever could have imagined? Well, yes and no. First of all, the drive  to the abbey is very cool. Little side roads that feel like they might actually be a person's driveway. And then suddenly an unassuming monastery, not unlike any of the many others scattered across the land, and certainly not one that you would expect to find a world class beer being brewed in it's basement. So far, the trek was fully living up to the vision in my head. Having been unable to get through on the phone line, the only other chance that I would have to sample this glorious beverage was going to be at the restaurant across the street - the only place in the world outside of the abbey that is officially allowed to sell the beer (although plenty of bottles find their way onto the 'grey market'.)

Then, my first disappointment came. Straight out of the pages of a super cliched movie script, the grey clouds opened up and an ominous and depressing rain began to sheet down across the country side. The good lord had deemed me unworthy of his finest creation, and saw to it that the gift shop had not a single bottle for sale. Which is a shame, as from all accounts, the gift shop was a pretty surefire way to get at least a six pack, with most people claiming that they only ran out of stock on a few rare occasions. But, I guess this was one of them. And now I was not going to have any XII to bring back to share with friends and fellow beer lovers, which is a damn shame, as it would definitely have been a fun way of sharing the trip with those back home.

But, the good news is that the restaurant itself still always has enough in stock to allow people to order a pint on site. So, I hadn't come all this way for nothing after all. I was still able to try all three of the varieties that the abbey brews, all of it about as fresh from the barrel as humanly possible.

Which, I hate to say, brings us to the second disappointment of the day. I didn't love it. In fact, I barely even liked it. Yes, it's complex as hell, full of flavour, and smells magical. But it's just not my cup of tea. If I had tried it randomly at a bar, I would have enjoyed it well enough, sure, but I doubt I would even bothered to make a mental note to order it again the next time that I came back. Obviously, it probably never could have lived up to the hype, regardless, but I'm still a little sad that it wasn't instantly the best beer I had ever tasted. It almost makes me wonder if I have a proper beer palette, or if the beer community just loves to rave about it because it is so rare and difficult to obtain. The thing is, it's not like I don't enjoy the trappist style of beer. But I still think I prefer St. Bernardus 12 or Rochefort 10 to the Westvleteren. Which, seeing that both of those beers are much easier to track down back home, might be a good thing, even if it costs me all of my hipster cred.

Either way, I guess I didn't see the light of God the moment the sweet nectar touched my lips, which means that my life and this blog can return to their secular ways. Can I get an Amen?

But first… Portland

Once upon a time, my good friend Nathan and I donated some money to a Kickstarter campaign for a movie that one of our favourite comedians was making. We sprang for a little extra so that we could attend an exclusive screening in Portland, figuring that it would make for a nice excuse to go on a road trip at some point.

Turns out, 'some point' was about two years later.

Three days before I was scheduled to leave for Europe, to be exact. Which, combined with the weather, didn't exactly scream 'road trip' to me. But I had also just spent a good chunk of my bank account balance on said Europe trip and flights - particularly those of the last minute variety - aren't exactly cheap, so it wasn't exactly screaming 'air trip' to me either.

But, we had already spent money on the campaign, plus Portland is such a cool city and I've always wanted to check it out. Also… on an unrelated note, they may or may not have the most craft beer breweries of any city in the world. So, I put it to Nathan. If he still wanted to go, then I would as well. He did, so we did. I booked some flights, grabbed the cheapest hotel I could find and off we went. Or… that's how it should have gone.

You see, Nathan doesn't do much traveling. And his lack of traveling had lead to his lack of having a passport. Which, as you can imagine, can be a bit of an issue when traveling to Portland. But, we still had 14 days until the scheduled departure, and you can always put a rush on the process for a few extra dollars.  Which would have been fine, only he also had misplaced his birth certificate, which is another key ingredient in the whole 'getting a passport' equation.

I could bore you with the details, but let's just say, he picked up the shiny new passport with more then three hours to spare before our flight was set to take off, and we were on our way. No biggie.

Now, let's go back to the part earlier when I mentioned booking the 'cheapest motel' that I could find. Well, those motels aren't exactly in the nice part of town. A fact that was made abundantly clear to us as we enjoyed a scenic bus ride through the 'interesting' part of Portland, as the man across from us stopped spitting on the floor just long enough to go on a massive racial-laden tirade against the bus driver over a disagreement about the current heating conditions of the bus. It's definitely a little shocking to see one human being screaming N-Bombs at another human being in today's day and age. Especially considering both men were about as white as they come. But hey, when the heat is turned too high, you deal with it in your way, and the crazy drunk/high homeless guy deals with it in his.

The hotel ended up being fine. You know, for the type of place that is located between a strip club and a bowling alley. But the sheets were clean (at least that's what I kept telling myself…) and the shower was hot. Good enough. Plus it was located on a pretty direct bus route to downtown, which was where we would be spending most of our time anyways.

We caught a Blazers game, Nathan showed me a brand new, and very unique method of using chop sticks at a pretty stellar sushi restaurant. Oh, and we may have toured a brewery or two while we there as well (at last count, 44 different beers over the four days). We met up with my friend Dylan (who had moved down to Portland a few years back for school) for a tour of a pretty sweet old school arcade (with classic 90's machines like Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat and a whole floor of pinball machines, all of which were only 25¢ to play) and of course, Voodoo Donuts.

And then there was the movie. The whole reason for the trip in the first place. Don't get me wrong, the movie itself was fine, but as far a 'special screening' exclusively for backers went, it definitely came up a little short. The theatre was opened up to the public, so really, anyone off the street could pay a few bucks to get in (far fewer bucks than we had paid, for sure) and Adam Carolla, the comedian that we had come to support and hopefully get a picture with, only did a very short preamble on stage before the movie and then took off, never to be seen again.

It was pretty disappointing. I mean, it was still a good excuse to come and tour the city and catch an NBA game, but when you consider that we had essentially flown all the way from Edmonton, and that normally for his regular live shows, he always stays and takes a picture with every fan, and that some people (not us, but some) had paid up to $250 for their tickets because of the billed 'exclusive meet and greet', it would be pretty hard to classify the evening anything but disappointing.

But, like I said, this was only a minor disappointment in the grand scheme of things. The trip as a whole was a really good time, and ended up being a great little prologue to this whole Europe endeavor.

Speaking of which… I got in at 2:30am this morning, was back on my way to the airport at 9am… and am now officially Europe bound. Stay tuned.

Bonus Post

Ok, so I had shot this Vlog on the trip, but just didn't have time to post it.  Basically it was a bunch of random things that I had made note of during the trip, but never got around to blogging about.  So I turned on the camera and pounded them all out in a hotel room one night.  When I got back, my intent was to post it, but then as the laze sunk in and the weeks started to pass, I just didn't want to bother.  Then about a week ago, I went to shoot something with my camera and saw it sitting on the memory card, and thought, hey, why not?

So here it is.  The lost vlog.  It's not very good, and it might be hard to understand, because I'm talking pretty quietly and the mic on the camera isn't that great to begin with, but I figure anyone that is still checking the blog this long after the trip (and posts) have ended might still get a kick out of it.

So without further adieu:

And there you have it.  Very likely the last post on this blog (until my next trip, at least).  And if that bums you out, I may or may not have good news for you.  Long story short, Randy convinced me that I should keep blogging, despite the fact that I have nothing of interest to say on a day-to-day basis.  So, I'm not really adversiting this one, but once again, if you're hardcore enough to still be reading this blog after all this time has passed, then maybe you'll enjoy it too. http://travisisboring.blogspot.com/

The Bike Rental Empire Strikes Back

Even though the Blog should be finished (although the internet is abuzz over the possibilities of some long lost VLogs resurfacing...) I couldn't help but share a bit of paranoia with you guys. Or guy, seeing that the rest of you probably stopped reading after the airport post, and only Randy continues to check daily with bated breath. (Shout out #3. What. Up.)

So, I'm out for dinner last night to celebrate the birthday of 2 friends. The food is good, the company even better, and a good time is had by all. The bill comes, and I hand my credit card to the waitress, only to have her come back and inform be that it has been declined - due to an error with the machine, no doubt. Bless her heart. This has never happened to me before, but I don't think much of it, and instead offer up my debit card and go on my merry way.

Then I get home, and spy the blinking light on my phone to indicate that a message awaits me on my voicemail. BMO's security department needs me to phone them back as soon as possible to clear up an urgent matter. Trouble is afoot.

So, this morning I'm downloading some new songs for Rock Band, only to discover that the transactions are being declined. Food might be one thing, but when I'm denied the chance to finally play Don't Stop Believing by Journey, well, that's where I draw the line. So, I phoned.

Turns out someone has been enjoying the good life in Quebec. On my dime. Luckily this registered as suspicious activity and they suspended my account. So, I have to get a new card, blah, blah, blah... More importantly I'm not liable for these charges.

But then they say something that catches my attention:

'We see that you had a bunch of purchases in Europe. It can be somewhat common for people there to record your credit card information and then sell it to people in the same country that the card originates from.'

Now I'm not one to point fingers, but it did make me think to myself: 'hmm, I wonder who would have been motivated to do that?'