Putting on the Rhiz

Despite our hotel room being bathed in blood, we awake alive and fairly well rested-some of us. Some of us also don’t feel so good, but that is as usual no ones fault but the god, Bacchus. Bastard. Sustenance, we demand lunch, so we head back to the Jazz Club where, despite having an amazing meal of pork medallions and roasted potatoes the previous night, are still allowed to partake in a fabulous meal of chicken soup, a traditional Czech meal of chicken with spinach and a bready thing that looks suspiciously like bread. My body goes into shock as I ingest this thing called “spinach.” Not alcohol or some other crap? “What gives?” says my liver.
Today is Vienna and it will be a homecoming for the chief-friendly faces and a bit of a relief from all the damn nice people we’ve met. We play at the Rhiz club tonight and stay at the Hotel Furstenberg again, which means we get handled with kid gloves. My delirium at more than 2 nights in a hotel is making me dizzy. It also means I fail miserably as a tourist because the only thing I want to do is sit in the cool cafe next door and drink some coffee. Lazy. Old. Worthless.

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