Get used to hearing about The Londoner. It's where El Dilector and I will spend most of this narrative, being brought to you in eight separate drunken parts. The first night we arrive in Kitzbuhel and head to the infamous bar, commandeering some bar stools and ordering up the Red Bull. (Which was born in Austria, by the way. When we venture to Salzburg, El Dilector claims it's like making a pilgrimage to Mecca. Fuck Mozart's birthplace. Where's the Red Bull Factory?) El Dilector starts chatting with a cute Swedish waitress.

"Aww, yeah, now I'm catching my snap!" I tell her. She cocks her head.

"What do you say?"

This will be the first of many American sayings that no one really understands.

Oh damn. There's a strange German boy trying to catch my eye. Yes, I see you, stupid boy. I can't even look his direction, lest he think I'm trying to pick him up. I'm forced to watch the bartenders instead. A new bartender comes on the scene—much like the Moon Boot he's just weird enough to be cute. He grabs a Smirnoff Ice, puts a straw in it and knocks it back. For real, is that like a magic trick or something? I've seen some people chug some al-kee-hal, but that Smirnoff Ice is gone in about half a second.

"Wow," I say dreamily to Bartender Boy. "I'm going to call you Chugger."

"What's that you say?" he gives me a strange stare. Either my American phrases are confusing him, or the crappy American stuff he just consumed isn't sitting well.

"I'm going to call you Chugger!"

"I've been called a lot of things," he tells me, pondering. "But never Chugger."

Stupid German Boy is trying to catch my eye again, this time holding up one of The Londoner's T-shirts. This one is funny: It's called The Ten Greatest Fucks, and since fuck is one of my favorite words, I want to giggle. But as a pick up line? Stupid German Boy is shaking the T-shirt and grinning at me. Oh yeah. That's the way to pick up the ladies. Show them a T-shirt like that and wait for them to faint. Gross. Shut up Stupid German Boy.

"Hey, El Dilector, check this out. How OLD can that kid actually be?"

We spy a wee young thing making his way through the crowd. Seriously, this kid cannot be a day over fourteen. He's making his bedroom eyes at the crowd. Don't even look this way, Jail Bait. I'll feel dirty if we make eye contact.

"Hallo. Como te llamas?" What is that? Germanish?

It's a tall German man who is leaning down and speaking bad Spanish and bad English into my ear. As near as I can tell, he's from Munich—or wherever it is that they have Octoberfest, and he's traveling alone, but—

Whoa! Someone is grabbing the waist of my super fly super low jeans from behind. I did not give anyone permission to touch that! Guess who? Stupid German Boy! Apparently he and Germanish know each other. I slide off the bar stool to go to the bathroom and wish them away.

Suddenly it's the witching hour and things have definitely pumped up a bit in here. There are people dancing on couches, the bartenders are standing on the bar, there's a group of—you guessed it—rugby players—taking off their shirts, and the music is up so loud no one can hear themselves think. Just when I think there ARE NO RULES…someone gets up and bangs on the drum hanging on the wall. Bouncers swoop in from out of nowhere and drag the guy away.

Meanwhile, Jail Bait is playing tonsil hockey with some Christina Aguilera lookalike. For real, that's much worse than the drum. Can someone stop them? Please?

Until tomorrow night, good night Kitzbuhel.

-Shakira 01.22.04