Dave Fox's Outbursts!

Whining About Sneezing

Kalmar, Sweden

If I had a normal job, I would have called in sick to work today. But when you're a tour guide, you can't just show up for breakfast and say, "Sorry folks. Sweden is cancelled today due to post-nasal drip."

I learned a long time ago that when I get sick while guiding tours, I must keep it hidden from my tour group. If I don't, I end up with 26 people who, with the nicest of intentions, want constant updates on my condition.

"Are you feeling any better?" they ask.

"Any better than when the last person asked me seven minutes ago? Oh, yes, much better; thank you for asking. ( ::sniffle, cough:: )"

They ask frequently enough that their question becomes the motherly equivalent of "Are we there yet?"

A couple of times, I've had to guide tours with nasty flu bugs. "You look horrible," people say. "You should go home."

"Home? But we're in Scandinavia. Home is 4,900 miles away."

"Yes! You should go there and eat chicken soup!"

"But who will lead this tour then?"

"Oh. Ummm, never mind."

So when people ask, I am blaming my coughing and snorting and wheezing on "allergies." I am on the brink of losing my voice, which is not a good thing when your job is to talk all day. It's days like this when I long for the thrill of lying on my couch in Seattle and watching bad television.

Hunger Strikes Back

I was walking through Oslo, Norway, last week, when I came upon a hunger strike. A group of Afghan refugees was camped outside the Oslo Cathedral, protesting a proposal to repatriate them to Afghanistan. They were on day 25 with no food.

Saddam Hussein went on a hunger strike of his own this week, but he didn't last 25 days. He lasted one meal before he started eating again.

Saddam, dude, just because you don't like the lasagna one evening doesn't mean you get to call it a hunger strike!

Questionable Questions

Bergen, Norway

I am about to confess something for which my fellow tour guides will probably pummel me when I return to Seattle. But this charade has gone on long enough. It is time the truth be told:

Tour guides do not know everything.

As our tour bus rolled out of Oslo this morning, someone in my group asked me, "Dave, why were people out partying in the street until 2 a.m. last night?"

I had no idea, but that seemed like such a boring response. So I thought for a moment, then replied, "Because today is a work day, so they couldn't party till five."

I get asked a lot of questions on the tours I guide in Europe. The following are actual questions people have asked me:

Question: Where is the Leaning Tower of Pisa?

Answer: Pisa.

Question: Are the views from the train better if I travel west to east, or are they better if I travel from east to west?

Answer: Exactly.

Question: Can I catch Mad Cow Disease if I eat French ham?

Answer: Oink.

Then there are the legitimate questions I simply don't know the answer to. I don't get it why some travelers are so into knowing the name of every tree. "What is that tree called?" is a frequent question, and all I can usually tell them is, "Herman. That tree is called Herman."

Trees are my weak spot. I can't tell the difference between a Birch tree and a cactus. Once, someone got really specific and asked me, "What kind of Oak tree is that?"

We were in Denmark. "It's a Danish Oak," I answered.

A Harmonius Protest

Oslo, Norway

Karl Johansgate is Oslo's spinal cord. The street connects the train station at one end of town with the Royal Palace at the other.

The street has long been a favorite spot for musicians and other street performers. On this particular day, something unusual is happening. Dozens -- maybe a hundred -- musicians in black tuxedos or gowns have taken over a four-block stretch of sidewalk. There are French horns and flutes, violins and clarinets, even an electric cello. The musicians are standing only a couple of feet apart from each other, but each one is playing a different tune -- everything from Beethoven to the Beatles.

The Oslo Philharmonic Orchestra is on strike.

They want more money, and that is fine. But their slogan strikes me as ineffective. "Do we really need more street musicians?" it says on signs that hang from every music stand.

In my opinion, yes. These guys are good, and far less annoying than the statue people.

When sanitation workers, or airline pilots, or teachers go on strike, society suffers and we hope for a quick resolution. But free classical music as I stroll through Oslo is hardly a hardship.

Do Nothing, Make Money. But Beware of the Birds

Oslo, Norway

I'm with my tour group, leading a walking tour around Norway's capital city. We are standing in front of Stortinget. Literally translated, Stortinget means "The Big Thing." It's what Norwegians call their parliament.

I am attempting to enlighten my group as to why Norway has opted not to join the European Union. I am explaining the country has some unique economic issues that led a slim majority of Norwegians to vote against EU membership in the last referendum.

Suddenly I realize nobody is listening.

Their gaze is riveted to somebody else. It is one of those statue people who paint their faces silver or ghost-white, and stand perfectly still for hours on end, hoping people will throw money into their hat.

I don't like the statue people. They creep me out. They are all over Europe. I find it extremely difficult to walk down the street without tickling them. I fantasize about arming myself one day with a squirt gun, and seeing how long they stand still for if I attack them.

This one statue person has captured my group's attention. This is because a pigeon has landed on the statue person. The pigeon is just sort of hanging out, pacing to and fro on the statue person's forearm. I am hoping the pigeon will relieve itself, or peck the statue person.

But the statue person isn't budging. After a brief pause, I resume my talk on Norway and the EU.

I regain my group's attention for a moment. Then I lose them again. They are laughing hysterically now. I turn around. A second pigeon has landed on the statue person's head.

Eventually the birds get bored and fly away. I continue my walking tour without further incident... but it wounds my ego as I realize that for a brief moment, my group found a guy standing completely still, doing nothing, more interesting than my tour.

Nevertheless, I have devised a new weapon against the statue people that will be far more effective than a squirt gun. I'm going shopping for some bird seed.

Swenglish

Stockholm, Sweden

Swedes are very proud of their English skills, and deservedly so. I sometimes think they speak better English than I do. But there are times in marketing when it's best to run things by a native speaker first.

A few decades back, Electrolux, a Swedish company, ran an ad campaign in America for vacuum cleaners that was a complete flop. Their failed attempt at a catchy vacuum cleaner slogan: "Nothing sucks like an Electrolux."

That linguistic fiasco happened several decades ago. I spotted a new one yesterday as I was walking down the street in Stockholm. It's become trendy in Scandinavia to give shops English-language names, but I did not feel compelled to go in and browse when I passed a clothing store called "Acne Jeans."

Flying Babies

Babies.

Babies are sweet little angels who hold the keys to our future, blah, blah, freaking blah....

Yeah, whatever.

Forgive me for sounding cynical. I have personally never witnessed the miracle of child birth, in which a wriggling and slimy creature emerges from the stork; therefore I get cranky when I am on a ten-hour flight, trying to sleep, and a baby is throwing a tantrum four rows ahead of me. Truth be told, the reason I get cranky in this situation is I feel jealous. I would like to throw a tantrum too. I would like to express my dissatisfaction for the lack of leg room by shrieking violently for hours on end, but adults can't get away with that the way babies can.

There is a proven psychological reason as to why babies scream so loudly on long airplane rides. They do this because they are experiencing, for the very first time in life, the horrific realization that they too may have to eat airline food one day.

So I don't fault babies for screaming on long airplane rides. I agree with them wholeheartedly.

I also do not fault parents for bringing their babies on airplanes. Babies should travel. They should get out and see the world like the rest of us so they can continue our proud tradition in America of spreading world peace by asking for menus in English. What I do fault parents for is bringing squeaky toys on airplanes to amuse their babies. That should be against international law.

On my flight to Copenhagen Thursday night, I was just beginning to doze when the screaming began. First I cringed. Then I realized there was nothing I could do about it; the baby was doing what all babies naturally do. I closed my eyes and eventually tuned the wailing out.

Then, the squeaking began. The squeaking was much harder to tune out. The baby would cry, and then the parent (of unknown gender from my vanage point several rows back) would attempt to appease the baby with the squeaky toy.

"Waaaahhh!!!" The baby would yell.

SQUEE-kee SQUEE-kee, the parent would squeak, squeezing the rubber duckie or whatever it was.

This had the effect of terrifying the already terrified baby even more, causing the baby to intensify his or her sobbing. The parent responded to this by squeaking louder and faster, which caused the baby to really emphasize that he or she did not like the squeaky toy by wailing at an even higher decibal level. It got so bad, I actually started rooting for the infant to scream as loud as he or she could. The screaming was far less irritating than the squeaky toy, and I hoped the baby's sobbing might eventually drown out the squeaks.

Parents, here is a pop quiz: If you are on an airplane, trying to appease your baby with a squeaky toy, and the squeaky toy is causing your baby to scream even more violently, should you:

A) Stop squeaking the squeaky toy because you are traumatizing your baby?

or

B) Squeeze the squeaky toy harder and faster in the hope that your baby will eventually stop crying because he or she has run out of oxygen?

The parent in row 32 failed the quiz. Squeezing the squeaky toy louder and faster when it is not calming your baby down is as sensible as yelling really loudly is at someone who doesn't speak English to help them understand you.

It used to be, when you flew, you could choose between a smoking section and a non-smoking section. Now, I think it would be appropriate to have an intelligent people section and an idiot section. Parents with screaming infants should be allowed to sit in the intelligent people section, but only after passing through an extra security check. One squeaky toy in their carry-on bag, and they're grounded.

The Long Way to Work: From Yankers to Urinals

My commute to work takes either 16 seconds or 16 hours, depending on which job I'm going to. I work nine months a year as a freelance writer and speaker. My office is five feet away from my bedroom. It's a nice commute, except on Ride Your Bike to Work Day, which messes up the carpet pretty badly.

My other three months each year are spent guiding tours in Scandinavia. I work as a tour guide for Rick Steves, the benevolent Bhagwan of European travel. Today is a long commute day -- roughly 16 hours from my door in Seattle to my hotel in Stockholm, Sweden, via Copenhagen, Denmark.

Flying to Stockholm might sound extremely exciting -– and it is, if you don't mind having your knees lodged in your chin all night while the person behind you turns your seat into an earthquake simulator. It seems that whenever I fly to Europe, I end up sitting in front of one of the Yankers. The Yankers are those people who insist on grabbing the back of your seat with both hands, and yanking it backward every time they stand up.

Why people have not figured out by now that we could all sleep better on long-haul flights if we would all use our armrests to help us to our feet, instead of the seat in front of us, is something that baffles me. I tend to lose patience with the Yankers. On one flight, I had a particularly active Yanker, who insisted on getting up to take a walk every seven minutes. I asked him nicely several times to stop yanking my seat. I was trying to sleep. He would apologize every time. Then, seven minutes later, the Yanker would yank again. Finally, when out of the corner of my eye, I caught his hand reaching toward my seat, about to go in for yank number 423, I couldn't take it anymore. I smacked him on the wrist. I didn't care if I got arrested for air rage. I hoped they would restrain me until landing, and confine me to a seat away from the other passengers, where I could get some sleep.

Another exciting thing about flying internationally these days is the video screen maps that show your flight progress. The screens display interesting statistics such as how fast you are flying (not fast enough), how many more weeks it is before you will reach your destination, and how many feet you will plummet to your death if the engines fail over Greenland.

These video maps are a relatively new invention. Back in the 19th century, when my great grandparents emigrated to America, they could not look at these electronic in-flight video maps because nobody had learned how to make airplanes in which to put the maps. My great grandparents had to cross the ocean by sea. This sea voyage was risky, arduous, and uphill both ways. Finally, in 1903, these two guys named Orville and Wilbur Wright, who, as you can tell by their first names, were total nerds, got sick of the fact that these video maps were totally useless.

"This damn video map just keeps saying, 'Kittyhawk, Kittyhawk, Kittyhawk,'" Wilbur said to Orville. "Let's make it do something! So they built an airplane so the video map would be more exciting. They also invented imitation meat that could be served on airplanes. And that's why it is now possible to fly halfway around the planet in less than a day. Unfortunately, it is still uphill both ways.

Yes, aviation technology has come a long way, and flying into Stockholm's Arlanda Airport is about to get even more enthralling. The following sentence is an actual lead paragraph from a hard-hitting news story the Associated Press broke yesterday, entitled, "Urinals with a view at Stockholm airport":

Travelers hearing nature's call at Stockholm's Arlanda airport may think they have ended up in a summer meadow -- figuratively speaking.

That's right. Back in the Old Country, in a land people once fled because they didn't even have potatoes, their airport is about to install high tech, sweet-smelling toilets.

The AP story went on to say:

The men's lavatories will have glass artwork portraying a flower-filled Swedish meadow around and above the men's urinals, with a view through a glass facade onto the tarmac below.

The ladies' room also comes with glass artworks, in the shape of giant red buttercups.

Urinating in Sweden has never been more exciting!

Sadly, these spiffy new restrooms are not scheduled to be open for a few more weeks, but don't worry. I will pass through that airport five times this summer, and I will do my best to attend the urinal grand opening. I will even take pictures if I can do so without getting arrested.

I'm about to dive into 28 work days in a row – two two-week laps around Sweden, Denmark, and Norway, with 26 people following me. Work days are long, but I will be blogging as time allows.

Next stop: the Sea-Tac Airport security line, where I will be praying that the person who is ticketed in the seat behind me will be detained until after take-off.

Travel Reports have Moved!

I'm off to Stockholm in a few hours. This summer, I'll be posting most of my travel reports on my new blog, hosted by the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. You can get to the blog from a link on my homepage (near the top), the Seattle P-I homepage (near the bottom, in the right-hand column) or by going to davefox.org.

Breakup Babe's Breakout Novel

While you sit around like the rest of the world, pondering how tragic and unfair life is because the release of my first book has been delayed, here is something else for you to read while you wait:

Breakup Babe: A Novel, by Rebecca Agiewich.

If you've been reading my blog for a while, you may recall a day that lives in infamy, a day I call Black Thursday. It was on that day, April 14, 2005, that I was unceremoniously left by my surrogate cat, dumped by the girl I had just started dating, and kicked out of the band I was playing in, all within three hours.

Rebecca Agiewich was innocently linked to one of those events, and if you read her most excellent blog, your first assumption might be that she was the person who dumped me. After all, it seems from her author bio ("Rebecca Agiewich lives in Seattle, where she has dated some of the cities most eligible bachelors and almost all of the ineligible ones....") that she has dated every single man in this city. But actually, I know Rebecca because she plays keyboards in the band that expelled me.

Rebecca, however, knew nothing of my pending musical doom. It was others in the band who decided my travel schedule did not meet their rock star needs, and informed me via e-mail that my presence at rehearsal was no longer welcome. When I happened to bump into Rebecca the next evening at a comedy improv show, her face filled with shock and horror when I informed her that others in the group had sent me away.

It just so happened that Rebecca had recently landed her first book deal, though, so in spite of my musical demise, she and I became writer pals. We get together from time to time to consume adult beverages and marvel at the mysteries of the publishing industry. Her novel has just been released -- based on her blog -- a hilariously honest look into the mind of a single 30-something female in the cyberage.

"Breakup Babe" is the absolute funniest writing to hit the so-called "chick-lit" genre since... since... hell, I have no clue. She is the only "chick-lit" a man like myself who oozes machismo from every pore one or two pores would ever read. Seriously, I don't love her writing because she's my friend. I love her writing because she is a brilliant writer whose snarkalicious chick-lit wit can even make men cackle with delight.

So there! There's another brilliant book for you to amuse yourself with for the next few weeks until my own book finally sees the light of day. Go buy Rebecca's book! Hurry! Then go buy my book! You can pre-order it and receive one of the first autographed copies off the press.