Germany-Spain: I've Heard the Moose's Cry

Vienna, 11:36 a.m.

It has now been 25 days since I stood on Canadian soil. That's enough time to forget a lot. Thankfully, I have the Swiss and Austrian travel agency window displays to remind me.

Gazing into them as I pass by, it's now easy to remember that Canada (which is always partnered in these ads with Alaska, as in, 'Visit Canada and Alaska'. Remember the last time you passed through Alaska on your way to work? Yeah, me, too.). Canada is a land full of moose. Moose as far as the eye can see. Why, you can't mow your lawn without pushing a few of the obstinate buggers away from your hedgerow. Canada - Where You Are Lulled to Sleep at Night by the Screeching of Turning Streetcars and the Lowing of the Abundant Moose.

Actually, as far as I knew, the average interaction most Canadians have with moose is frantically swerving to avoid them on the road in cottage country. Boy, those Swiss and Austrians must be disappointed when they get to Canada.

"Is that a moose?"

"No, that's a raccoon."

"Is that a moose?"

"That's a fire hydrant."

"Where are all the moose?"

"In Alaska."

"Isn't this Alaska?"

"This is Leslieville, pal."

Sigh.

Lots of Spaniards and Germans heading into town now ahead of tomorrow's finale. They're still being outpartied by the Russians, who apparently refuse to go home now that they've all managed to get visas. As I walked down the Karntnerstrasse yesterday, a throbbing pedestrian drag, a platoon of beefy Russians had staked out some prime real estate. They were guzzling vodka and inviting every lithesome young lady who passed to join them. And some of these Viennese women can drink. A few hours later I walked back up the Karntnerstrasse and they were still there, looking a little blurry around the edges. But they still had plenty of vodka left.

After blogging about my hairdressing experiences in Zurich, it's only fair that I subject Vienna to the same scrutiny. Was pointed toward a nice men's barbershop around the corner from my hotel. No open beer bottles. No illegal wagering going on. All good signs.
For the first time I can remember in a long time, my barber was a 20-something woman. Very pleasant and accommodating. After hellos from my poor arsenal of German, I motioned that I wanted my head shaved with the clippers. "Yes, too much work with the scissors," she said, looking at my stubble. It took me a beat to realize that was a joke. I have been humour deprived, people.

She set to her task. Then at one point, she began clipping my sideburns. She started slowly moving down my face and spread the collar of my shirt. And then she began trimming my chest hair. I froze like Sean Connery watching the laser's approach. I suppose this is the level of service you get in Vienna for 16 Euros, but it felt slightly indecent.

"Why didn't you just whip off you shirt and have her do the whole thing?" Renata smarmed after I told her. Is that comment working on two levels? Never mind. I think that would have been extra in any case.

C.K.

Last train out of Zurich

Vienna, 7:51 p.m.

After a long day on the trains, we've finally made it to soggy, muggy Vienna for the Spain-Russia semi. Not much fight left, considering what the train was like.

Apparently every journalist in Christendom (and all other religions, you smart alecks. It's an expression) was looking to get on the 06:50 out of Zurich. But only some of those journalists (wink. wink. nudge ... oh forget it. I mean me) had bothered to book a reservation. Our media credentials allow us to travel first class on the trains here, a huge bonus, but you can't guarantee a seat without a reservation.

So, pretty soon the hundred guys trying to get on a first-class carriage with maybe 75 seats realized that they were going to have to fight, and I mean fight, for a spot. Otherwise it was ten long hours in dreary second class. So it was dukes up, start swinging your Beta camera around time. I got into it with a Russian (turns out he was a fan). Very quickly, it was nose-to-nose time using language you would not want your grandmother overhearing. All that Swiss frustration needed an outlet.

As it turns out, our friend Morris Dalla Costa was sitting in the all-Russian cabin. This meant a sort of rapprochement between my Russian nemesis and I. Still some angry looks in the restaurant car.

This also necessitated Morris taking part in Russian rituals. He was drinking 'aperitifs' - brandy - at ten in the morning. Four Russians polished off a bottle in an hour, with Morris desperately trying to beg off. 'What's for dessert?' he asked. 'Vodka' he was told. Morris began pacing the train looking for a way to disappear without offending anyone.

Later, Morris appeared outside my cabin with a whole fish dangling from his fingers. Pickled herring. A whole pickled herring. Morris said he enjoyed it. A few hours later, he was out in the hallway because the Russians had, understandably, passed out. Only Morris does this happen to.

Then it was hit the platform running (train an hour late due to 'weather in Germany'. Er. Yeah.) and get down to the Ernst Happel Stadion. And now the Russians have just come out onto the field for the warm-up. And the rain has started hammering and tongsing down. This is an absolute replay of the first Russia-Spain game here. Bad news for Russia, who lost that one 4-1. I won't make any predictions, but I will state one certainty. The game won't be that one-sided again.

C.K.

Sweating out the semis

Basel, 7:02 p.m.

Well, there's my Saturday afternoon taken care of. We're not exactly sure what the media schedule will be on the eve of the Euro final, but Brunt points out to me that one can't-miss press opportunity has already been scheduled in: a sitdown with Enrique Iglesias.

What?! THE Enrique Iglesias? The gifted performer who took mere song and the banality of filmmaking and melded them into something as inexplicably beautiful as this:

I'll take a pass, thanks.

Our last night at Basel's St. Jakob-Park. I can't say as I'll miss it considering it's so hot in the press centre here that I'm in danger of shorting out my keyboard with torrents of sweat. Like me, the assembled press look like Turkey manager Fatih Terim on matchday.

As much as I want to believe in Turkey's ability to overcome adversity through national and team feeling, I can't help but feel this game will end 42-0 for the Germans. Or maybe just slightly less.

We were worried about the recently replaced pitch a few days ago. Now the heat is beginning to become a concern. Predictions of 34 C in Vienna on Sunday for the final. But don't worry. My hotel has air conditioning. If you need to reach me, I'll be directly under it.

C.K.

Humour. The Swiss take.

Zurich, 4:03 p.m.

After three and a half weeks here, I believe I had the ur-Swiss experience this morning. Visited the Kunsthaus Museum for the second time since I've been here - the only air conditioned building in town, so well worth the 18 francs admission. Great museum, too, especially for the surplus of Giacomettis.

After purchasing our tickets, the sullen looking woman handing our change back to us said:

"Flight tickets will be one-third more for the remainder of the year."

I looked down at the change, realized it was what I'd expected back, and then up at her.

She said, slightly more irritated now and really enunciating each word, "Flight tickets will be one-third more for the remainder of the year."

"I'm sorry," I said, leaning in, sure I hadn't heard her right. "Flight tickets?"

Now she's really frustrated, blowing out her cheeks. In retrospect, I think she expected me to do the Swiss thing - which would have been to stare blankly, then turn away mutely. But I was confused and getting irritated at the fact that she seemed so irritated.

"Flight tickets. Are. One third. More. For. The remainder. Of. The year."

"Flight tickets. I don't understand what you mean by 'flight tickets'?" I said again.

"This is art," she said, goggling at me as if I'd just taken off my pants and started horse slapping my own ass around the lobby.

(Long, terrible silence. Staring contest. Nobody is going to break until - yes. Yes! - she blinks)

"This is part of the exhibition," she says, in a tone of voice one uses with an uncooperative pet. "It is the news of the day by the artist (blah-blah whatever his name was). It is meant to confuse and disturb you."

And then she laughed, which was even more jarring.

Confuse and disturb? Ding-ding-ding! Actually, it's a cool idea. But it sort of needs the right delivery. Listen-and-don't-ask-questions-you-moron is not the perfect way to deliver confusing and disturbing news, unless the artist's hoped-for outcome is a fistfight.

Somehow, I believe this entire encounter - in both content and tone - is everything you need to know about Switzerland. Forget Frommer's. Try confusion and disturbance.

C.K.

German holiday

Zurich, 5:46 p.m.

Have just returned from Tenero, a hop, skip and commuter train from the Italian border. That's where Germany has their training base, as far as possible from other Deutsch speakers.

ALEXANDER HASSENSTEIN/REUTERS

Good time in Tenero: Jens Lehmann takes a load off.

I was talking a few nights ago to a cat who works on the website of the Swiss football federation. I was asking him what the deal is with the different parts of Switzerland, as in, the stereotypes about the French Swiss being nicer than the German Swiss, etc.

He explained the true essence of Switzerland's harmonious cultural blending to me, and it makes wonderful sense:

"The German Swiss hate the Germans. The French Swiss hate the French. The Italian Swiss hate the Italians. Basically, everybody hates everybody."

A functioning state based on mutual disgust. Sounds like everyone I dated at school. Ba-doom-boom.

The German facilities were suitably lavish. Fridges packed with free Bitberger. My only temptation was to sweep all the damn beer out on to the floor and climb into the fridge. It was 32 C in Tenero and, again, air conditioning has not yet been invented as far as the Swiss are concerned. The porno theatre just around the corner is beginning to seem like a viable evening option as long as they've got A/C. And plastic seat covers.

In actual football news, coach Joachim Loew said that all 23 of his men are available, meaning Torsten Frings has recovered sufficiently from a broken rib to start. Considering that the Turks are in a struggle to field a full 11-man side owing to a raft of injuries and suspensions, there doesn't seem much hope for them. Four incredible comebacks in a row is just too big a hill. Nonetheless, Loew wasn't providing them with any blackboard material, calling the semifinal a '50-50 game'. Er. Yeah. Right.

The real highlight of the day was the train ride down to Tenero. About three hours from Zurich, with some of the most indescibably beautiful views of the Alps, houses cascading up the mountain sides, sluice rivers coming down out of the mountains in a torrent. I had my headphones on and I had one of those perfect moments, where you've got just the right view, just the right song (in this case, Metric's sublime 'Soft Rock Star') and just the right frame of mind. Magical, all in all.

C.K.

Netherlands vs. Russia - Pre-Game Swilling

Basel, 4:34 p.m.

Oh lord, bring back the rain. Smoking hot here in Basel. The Swiss do not believe in air conditioning - not on their public transportation system or in their buildings. This is an assault on progress and I won't stand for it. It brings to mind the episode of Connections where they showed how the invention of the catapult led inexorably to the creation of air conditioning, the moral being that we all enjoy our comforts at the cost of human suffering. The moral that I chose to draw from it was that any person, anywhere, who doesn't use air conditioning is spitting on the grave of every man, woman and child injured by catapult. Switzerland, is that you? I didn't think so. Give me my air conditioning.

On the train in from Zurich, we enjoyed musical interludes provided by a pair of fabulously drunk Dutch guys. I mean crazy drunk. And it was six hours before kickoff.

Then at the train station, we saw the Polizei cold cock a guy who was out of his mind drunk and refusing to leave the train station. They just levelled him, hoisted him up under the arms and dragged him off.

There's a strange relationship with alcohol at these tournaments. Europeans - and I'm not including the U.K. and Ireland here - are very uncomfortable with public drunkenness. It's been my experience that they encourage drinking, but disdain the state it gets you in. However, at a football match, all those constraints come off, with fairly hillarious results. The Dutch have to be the biggest drinkers here, as a general rule. But that rarely translates into violence or ill feeling. The Dutch are loud - and cocky today, which is dangerous - but they don't want to club you. They want to paint you orange, which might be worse. Watching them pound back tall cans six hours before kickoff, I 'm wondering how many of these guys will be conscious to watch the game. The PVR is a valuable tool in the average hard-drinking Dutch household.

Like the average fan, I too need a chance to blow off steam every once in a while. I don't have football, so I use weddings. Also dangerous. At Irene's wedding to Jason (I mentioned Irene here yesterday), I was given the job of toasting the Croatian guests as they entered the banquet hall. So picture me standing behind a table covered with plastic shot glasses and two massive bottles of plum brandy. I initially understood this job to be handing the shots to people as they arrived. No, no, no. That's insulting. You have to drink with me! Drink!

Okay, so I put back a few of these things figuring, how many people want a jolt of pure alcohol (which is what plum brandy tastes like) at 4 in the afternoon? Correct answer: Many. Men, women, the grandmothers were the worst. They'd have two or three. Drink with me!! Okay, okay. Renata's further down the line, collecting the gifts, and I can see her throwing me these worried looks every few seconds.

After about ten minutes, I was feeling pretty good. After twenty, I'd written a love poem for Renata so beautiful it needed to immediately be put to music and I was looking around for an accordion. After thirty minutes, and perhaps 50 shots, I was chewing my own molars down to dust.

Renata steered me to the head table and removed all alcohol from the vicinity. I dozed through the speeches. Later, I tried to kill the DJ because he wouldn't play a song someone wanted. I have one photo of myself taken just before this point. I look like someone out of a Francis Bacon painting, like I've lost all muscle control and my face is actually sliding off my skull. I have crossed out of drunkenness and passed into insanity.

After a few other shocking encounters that I can't bring myself to commit to the page, I was taken by Renata's cousin Frank and locked in a car in the parking lot for my own safety. Suddenly, I was the Phil Spector of Irene's wedding. Of course, you can't actually be 'locked' in a car these days, but at this point I lacked the basic motor skills to flip the 'lock' switch. The following day I endured one of the ten most crushing hangovers in human history and prayed for death to relieve my pain.

The moral here? God created plum brandy to punish me. I'm not sure why.

 

C.K.

Turkey 1-1 Croatia (Turkey wins on penalties)

1:33 a.m.

The beauty of being married to someone from the Balkans is their easy ability to adjust to adverse circumstances. While I'd told you that I was 'sympathetic' to Croatia's chances tonight, I was actually living and dying with each pass. Renata, my wife, was already over it when Croatia excruciatingly coughed it up in the final minutes: "I'm just a little heartbroken." she text messaged me. Which broke my heart just a little bit more to read.

Just a little? I practically vomited on the floor of Oliver Twist's (a visitor to Zurich cannot be picky about these things) when Semih Senturk equalized on the last shot of the game.

I was a basket case by the time the Croats pooched it during the penalty shootout. No emotional favourites for me any more, thank you.

Full credit to Turkey. They've played to win. They've somehow managed to advance while holding the lead for a grand total of two minutes in three matches. That's competitive football. Now they face the Germans. I supsect the Deutsch, unlike the Croatians tonight, will not take this formidable team for granted. Woe betides them if they do.

C.K.

Croatia vs. Turkey

Zurich, 4:55 p.m.

The weather has finally and definitively turned here in central Europe. About 26 C and sunny here in Zurich this afternoon, a welcome change from the 'Sherlock Holmes backlot set' feel that we've enjoyed for over two weeks - rain, foggy rain, followed by rainy fog.

I'm not allowed to have a real rooting position here at the Euro (unlike every other face-painted sap in the press tribune). But let us just say that I'm feeling deeply sympathetic to the supporting concerns of my Croatian wife, Renata, this afternoon. I believe Renata is currently checkerboarding the outside of our home and chanting something in Croatian that would shock my delicate sensibilities if I were around and understood all Croatian curse words (of which, I am reliably informed, there are many, most of a graphic anatomical nature).

She and her best friend Irene will be yobbing about my house this afternoon, tossing objects at my beloved high-def screen and drinking up all our plonk (Irene, hands off the Clos de Jardin - that's my secret 'Canada makes the World Cup' stash).

We've been promised a rousing encounter by the coaches. And even though it seems like every Turkish starter is either injured or suspended, I would not count out a team that put three goals past Petr Cech in fifteen minutes to get this far.

Made the mistake wearing my press credential yesterday as I hit up the nearby late-night (Zurich oxymoron) Turkish falafel place for a wrap. A drunken German, who was doing that full body shimmy that the truly innebriated do to stay upright, spotted it and said, "You look like someone important."

Oh, the stories I could tell you, pal.

Anyway, turns out this chap, Hannes, has been to our beloved home country "many times."

I should say at this point that Hannes reminded me of an out-of-control version of Alan Partridge. And I played Roger Daltrey.

"I love Toronto," Hannes slurred at me. "I looooooove Toronto."

Nobody loooooooves Toronto. I was raised here and I don't looooooove it. I might like it quite a bit. But that's my business.

Hannes also expressed a profound admiration for Montreal, to which I offered, "Yeah, Montreal is better than Toronto."

"You admit it! You admit it!" Hannes cried, so loudly even the imperturable Turks were jolted. I guess these sorts of inter-city rivalries matter more in Germany.

I mean, seriously, who in Toronto thinks Toronto is better than Montreal? David Miller, oh for God's sake, put your hand down.

 

C.K.

Germany 3-2 Portugal

Zurich, 1:43 a.m.

MATT DUNHAM/REUTERS

Germany had a plan to get ahead in this classic vs. Portugal.

After all my moaning, I finally get a classic. Atmosphere at Portugal-Germany best yet. Fabulous fans from both nations. A rollicking game. The Germans simply outmuscled them. So much for a “special plan”. Knocking guys over isnt’ a “special plan”, but it is effective. I suspect in the days ahead we’ll be seeing a slow-mo replay of Michael Ballack shoving Paulo Ferreira out of the way again. And again. And again. But what hope does a side who needs Ferreira to defend Ballack on set pieces really have? Where the hell was Pepe on that play? After a brutal challenge that set up the third German goal and an even more brutal missed header, you’re off my all-star list, pal. Just plain brutal. Pepe, you are the Le Corbusier of football. (You can look it up).

I don’t know how it looked on television, but it was heart in your mouth stuff in the press tribune. Helder Postiga? Are. You. Kidding. Me? When he came on rather than Quaresma, I thought Scolari was nuts. But then he does it again. My only wish was that it could have gone on. A magical night, all in all. Hopefully, it’s one of several to come.

In other nerws, Canada continues its swaggering march through the European championships. As I presented my press credential for examination before the match, the security guard took hold of it and said, “Canada. Wow.” Like I’d come from the Moon. Hello, Earthlings, we from the Frozen Tundra are here to learn your strange ways. What is this fork and knife you speak of? Pfeh.

Another schadenfreude moment in the crush for waiting list tickets (thanks to the Sun’s Mo Dalla Costa, that gem, I’m always at the top of that list). As they started calling out names, one English prat grumbled aloud, “That bugger’s from Colombia. I know that guy. Colombia. Lot of interest there in this tournament.” Someone beside him who I couldn’t see, but who had a strong Latin accent, took the bait: “Oh, and is there any interest in England?” I could’ve kissed the dude. And I wasn’t the only one.

C.K.

Germay vs. Portugal - line-ups

St. Jakob-Park, 8:19 p.m.

Atmo hotting up now. Bayer Leverkusen's Simon Rolfes replaces injured midfield hardman Torsten Frings for the Germans. Frings and his broken rib failed a last minute fitness test. Lay those last minute bets on the Portuguese quickly, folks.

Also, Lukas Podolski has recovered and will partner Miroslav Klose up front. Disappointing Mario Gomez starts on the bench. Thomas Hitzlsperger also gets his first start in place of Podolski on the wing. Bastian Schweingsteiger replaces Clemens Fritz on the wing. Arne Freidrich in place of Marcell Jansen at fullback. In all, four changes from the German side that destroyed Poland - and the one that lost to Croatia.

The Portuguese as before, with Simao, Ronaldo and Deco backing up lone forward Nuno Gomes.

The recently relaid pitch? It looks awful. This will be a storyline tonight and for the remaining three games to be played here in Basel.

C.K.