The incredible bit was due to the great group of friends I was with and the fact that Stockholm is full of delicious restaurants, beautiful women, and is set on picturesque islands and peninsulas, separated by canals, lakes, and the open sea.

As for expensive, I would guess that a serious cocaine habit would be much cheaper than Stockholm, and we were even staying in youth hostels to keep the price down! Money flowed out of our wallets at an incredible rate, and returning to London made us feel wealthy, as many things in London were about half the price.

I took a few pictures I was really happy with. Click for full size.

I simply stare in wonder and ask my friends what exactly they do with a hairless armpit they don’t do with a hairy one, which promptly shuts them up

But the bigger question is, why the armpit obsession? What is it that makes Americans ignore the European topless beaches, lack of morbid obesity, and lascivious reputations and instead go right to the armpits, as if that’s a deal breaker? And how many of my friends have actually seen a hairy european female armpit, in person? About as many who have been in outer space. Urban legend, through and through.

Or so I thought. I just moved into a house-share with two other guys and one girl, all French. I present photographic proof of said hairy armpits of my new flatmate Magalie, hair so thick it can’t even be contained by clothes.

Exit a London Underground station in a seedier part of town and you’ll here classical music played at a decent volume. If you think its for the pleasure of music connoisseurs, I’m afraid your wrong. It’s to keep away the riff-raff and chavs. Apparently young trouble makers hate it while older tax-payers are pleased by the music and absence of loitering youth.

Well, when I was in the library in Barcelona last week, trying to eek out every last minute of opening hours and the free wifi, I was surprised and amused to hear heavy punk rock blasted fifteen minutes before the library shut. People began leaving in droves as their ears were assaulted, and the librarians presumably had no trouble shooing out the one or two remaining stragglers.

What an odd, odd world we live in.

Why can’t the US get it’s act together? American’s really shouldn’t drive across interstate bridges only to find them collapsing without warning (see Minnesota I-35W, 2007). Why is it the US can send a man to the moon but not build a fast train network?

It was pretty good. And, being Germany, they sold beer to drink during the performance. I had a Pils.

I spent yesterday and this morning at Bailey farm, a lovingly ramshackle collection of functional stone farm buildings and the central modern house, overlooking a pasture-and-woodland valley.

Last night I helped out in the vegetable garden, albeit briefly, and did a very good job of eating the cheese, roast duck, and apple-blackberry crumble that was served for dinner. The farm is owned by Mary and Tom, and Mary is Mary Quicke of Quicke’s Cheddar, and is one of the places foodies might consider a heavenly afterlife.

If you’ve ever gone to Whole Foods in America and purchased Borough Market Cheddar, it was made by either Mary or her employees labour. I was given a tour of the dairy this morning, and it was like being in those TV documentaries about how Cheese is made. Except I was really in it, wearing a blue hair-net and smock and shoe-covers, and smelling the curds and whey and tasting the cheese half-way through the process (when it was at squeaky-cheese stage). I saw the fields her own cattle graze, the pipes the milk flows through, the vats it is whatevered in (still not too sure about the exact mechanics) and then cut, pressed, washed, and cheddared (which is a noun and a verb).

We walked through the storage rooms where it is aged and dried in cheesecloth, which is called cheesecloth for a good reason. And then I bought a few kilos for my relatives who live nearby.

I returned to the farm-house to pick up my stuff and connect to the outside world through the internet, but as I sit here writing I feel once again in awe of the magnificent countryside. I’ve spent a lot of time hiking through France, but think I’ll have to return to the West Country (the South-west of England) for my next hike. It might lack the fearful chasms of the Alps, but it possesses a peaceful, simple splendor that’s hard to ignore.

Hanging out with Diana normally just involves a passing mention of cheese, or even her pulling out a couple parchment-paper wrapped treasures that I’m always happy to eat. But lately she’s gone further, and has been working in various parts of England making cheddar cheese. We met up for a 4 day vacation in the heart of Cheddar-country.

We stayed in Wells, the smallest city (meaning it has to have a Cathedral) in England, drove around the amazing countryside, and even hiked the rim of Cheddar Gorge. The gorge, just above the town of Cheddar, is so steep you forget you’re in England. You only get an idea of the vertical drop when you see the car in this picture, just visible by Diana’s knee.

After hiking Cheddar Gorge, and avoiding the painfully touristy caves and cheese shop (no real Cheddar available) we hit the other attraction Somerset is famous for – the cider.

American readers will be thinking of cloudy apple juice, but in England cider means the alcoholic fermented pressing of cider apples. And it’s often really, really good. I confess, English beer doesn’t do it for me. You drink enough Deschutes Brewery (Oregon) or Dog Fish Head (Maryland) and you don’t want any more bland, tacky English pints. But the cider in the UK blows away most of what we have in the states, and I should know, as a good friend is involved with a traditional cider maker in Oregon, Wandering Aengus Ciderworks.

So we hunted down what turned out to be an amazing, local cider maker. And I do mean local. His guests included some die-hard cider drinkers. Patrons simply show up, takes a glass, fill it up from one of two barrels (dry or sweet) and proceed to get drunk. Payment is at your discretion, and left with farmer Wilkins or somewhere on the table. It doesn’t get better than this.

Here’s farmer Wilkins filling up a barrel of cider. And yes, that’s a giant hose pumping cider.

And what do you do when you pump it? This is a man who, by his own reckoning, used to drink 20 pints a day of his own cider in his younger years, and is proud he ‘never got the shakes in the morning’. Well, you test it. Test it again, even if you just tested it. And then drink the rest.

An impressive man. And while I’m not sure he’s into facebook, it’s certainly into him. His Facebook fan club has over a thousand followers!

The party was one of the typical Euro-style parties I love. 3 languages, a dozen people, half insane, all fun. A good time all around. Their chalk board is worth a mention.

UPDATE, March 9, 2009: Apparently, Konrad is so popular there is a facebook club devoted to him. Apperently, I am not alone in my strange feelings towards this special rabbit.

We stayed at snobby St. Anton in Austria, where our waiter insulted us for drinking ‘rain-water’ at the dinner table, despite the mineral water for sale was bottled only 20-odd miles away. Offended by our awful customer service, we showed our colors and moved to a cheaper and nicer guest house. I showed Jordy and Mark how to make sandwiches in the morning and then hide them in the snow at the bottom of the lift, so you can eat throughout the day.

The snow was decent, though began to melt as temperatures soared, and the risks of global warming became tangible in the form of mushy snow. We went to Ischgl for two days, which quickly became my favorite resort with only one vowel in its name. It was so large we skied from Austria into Switzerland, and back. Photos of the trip.

I loved Berlin, especially the privately-owned, rather odd (and occasionally cheesy) Museum of the Berlin Wall., which displayed the zip-wire system used by one family to flee from a tall building, pictures of tunnels dug 20 feet under the ground, and children’s artwork you might see displayed on a fridge. We also went to the movies in Berlin, and I laughed upon seeing the two ‘courting’ seats in every row, where the dividers were removed so the couples could, presumably, snuggle.

I had my picture taken in front of what is left of the Berlin Wall, and also standing before the Reichstag wearing the warmest hat I’ve ever owned – a Soviet Tank Helmet lined with sheep’s wool and padded to prevent injuries. I bought the hat in a market selling old postcards, random housewares, and all manner of surplus Soviet military garments.

Near Munich (Munchen) we ate at a local beer hall prominently displaying its logo everywhere it could–a fat Bavarian whistling for his dog, who he couldn’t see because the dog was hidden by his monstrous belly.