So we play. Well. And it's over.

And I'm sitting down on these theater seats they have waiting for our host, another one whose name I'm lamely forgetting, to take us back to his house.

COULD THIS BE THE NAME, AND THE DARK SECRET, OF THE RICHEST ANARCHIST IN INNSBRUCK?

And I'm sitting. Drinking. Watching. Waiting. And then I hear "let's go" and I start to "go" but the message has not gotten to the legs yet on account of stopping for all of that vodka and so I do an Abbott and Costello ass on the floor dump and there is no way to outcool THIS moment and I don't care that much about cool anyway because now I'm just waiting for that guy in the club who thinks: THIS IS MY CHANCE.

And you know he's out there. I KNOW he's out there because I can hear him laugh when I fall but he doesn't step up and so we're off to our host house and when we get there I am much pleased because he is clearly THE WEALTHIEST ANARCHIST I KNOW. And this is more than good and as I crawl into the bed he's made for me I know that this is more than good because it's clean and smells nice and I'm thanking heaven that I get back to sleep again. And I do. And I am.

And the next day when we're leaving I see our host casting an eye to my book on Stalin and Hitler.

"Yes. Good reading."

SMILE! THE STUPID AMERICANS ARE LEAVING YOU SADDER BUT A BIT WISER NOW.

He sort of shakes his head as though I'm making some sort of stab at post-modern irony.

"Yeahhh�two great humanitarians" I say smiling.

He turns away. Ah well. Another opportunity for healthy debate stifled in the face of my assholishness.

We have like a 390 hour drive in front of us so I medicate and sleep until we get to Brussels.