Rick Steves’ Hell Through the Back Door
By Richard von Busack
Hell. The capital of woe, a place of torture without end. Hi, I’m Rick Steves. These days, the Hellions provide a warm welcome for the savvy visitor in search of ancient wonders, strange entities, and a good travel bargain. Thanks for joining us!
(Rick Steves theme played in D-Minor on a church organ over a montage of weeping sinners, black castles and flames.)
Legend say Hell was founded by the angels who rose in rejection of God. Archaeologists say that a few thousand years ago, a nomadic tribe called the Midians founded a trading post at the crossroads. There, souls were bartered for roasted animal carcasses and cups of muddy water. Word got out, the population swelled, and now Hell is what it is today.
We’ll show you the thermal baths of Dis National Park. We’ll go black-water rafting on the Styx, and visit the National Museum of Punishment. Then we’ll stop for refreshments by the Acheron River for some scraps of bread tossed by the ever-watchful guards.
(PBS Pledge Break. Hours later…)
Rick, with 9’ tall dayglo-green demon: When travelling through the bowels of Hell, I like to use a local guide. Pazuzu, how do you say ‘hello’ here?
Pazuzu: Well, an ear-splitting shriek of horror is always considered polite, especially in formal situations. Young people just ‘throw a goat,’ as we say here. (Gives the devil sign.)
Rick: What should the traveler know about Hell?
Pazuzu: We are very proud of Hell, there’s no place like it. It has its problems: the heat, the smoke and the crowds. More are arriving every day. But we say (screams like a Freon horn) which means, “There is always room for one more.”
Rick: Do what the locals do and take the Underground to see the sites. It’s a source of grim amusement for Hellions who complains about the slowness, the roasting temperatures, the biting vermin and the howls of the passengers. But as one recent arrival from San Francisco told me, “it sure beats BART.”
Rick, sauntering down a wide promenade lined with burning buildings: Avenue du Inferno was constructed in an Art Nouveau style to honor of the 10,000th anniversary of Abel’s murder. It’s the part of Hell everyone expects from the pictures on hot sauce bottles and Jack Chick pamphlets.
The Cathedral of Tears’ towering Gothic walls were built from black stone quarried in the Tartarus Mountains. At the Plaza of Anguish, street performers dressed as Hitler, Stalin and Roger Ailes pose for pictures and ask for small tips. Strolling accordionists perform.
You can fight crowds watching the dizzying spectacle of Ixion spinning on his wheel, or try to take a picture of Tantalus bobbing for apples — (chuckle) he never quite gets to sink his teeth into one. Or you can do like the locals do and enjoy the suffering of lesser known evildoers.
Just a short distance from the throngs below Sisyphus’s Hill, watch Duke Osrick of Bordeaux being covered with bales of cat hair — the tyrant suffered from asthma in life. Nearby, the 11th century noble Ferenc of Balaton is hit with a broom several times a day. This quaint but not very painful shaming ritual causes this once-proud lord severe embarrassment. [WHAP!] Poor bastard.
Near downtown, dominated by the Hallmark Channel Tower, is the trendy North of Gomorrah Street district — the NoGo zone. Chained, lashed slaves mix craft libations for up and coming hellspawn. On the Rue de la Pain: the statue of Dread Lord Bartholomew, Earl of Gehenna. Bartholomew’s statue is a popular rendezvous: “Meet me under the tentacles,” Hellions say. Centuries of passersby kissing the statue for good luck have worn the patina off its cloven hooves.
On this spot in 11,493 BC, Bartholomew invented regret. And humanity has been tormented by thoughts of the way things might have been ever since.
Standing in the very place that regret was invented is an overpowering experience. Here, I think of her. “Rick Steves,” Gayle told me, “You were born under a wandering star. You’ll never amount to anything. You’re just a wayfarer in a drip-dry shirt, pestering strangers from Lisbon to Ljubljana. Stay here with me in Edmonds, Washington. We’ll live off the fat of the land.” But, no. I couldn’t settle down. The road wouldn’t let me. All Europe trembles at my very name. Yet long ago, I lost my last chance for happiness.
And now for dinner!
At the Abyss Bistro, in Mordor Heights, Pazuzu joins me for a cup of boiling filth.
Pazuzu: Sip it slowly so that you can feel the burning sensation all the way down your throat. Also, the quickest way to seem like a tourist is to ask for ice water. Every seems to want it here.
Rick: Hell certainly is a land of surprises.
Pazuzu: That it is. And here’s another. Rick, for years, you’ve seduced people to go gadding about, when they should be smearing ashes on their faces, and begging on their bellies or God’s forgiveness. You tantalyzed them with paintings of unclothed women. Through pristine 4K images of far away places, you tempted them to the mortal sin of envy. Proverbs 28:10: “Whoever shall cause the righteous to go astray in an evil way, he shall fall himself into his own pit.” We’ve decided to make you a citizen.
Rick: And that’s how it is in Hell: one visit and you’re a local. I’m Rick Steves, now damned for eternity in the place of wailing and darkness. Travel broadens you, and they save the best trip for last. Be seeing you!
