So, we spent some of this morning hanging out with two smokin’ hot California gals in for the big game (Beth and Verna), traveling together while their “friends” went off to ride some peculiar bicycle-thing and even though that cheesy porn music was playing in the background in our heads, we behaved ourselves and talked instead about THE BIG GAME.

One thing missing this morning was a sea of Aussies, who we had figured would have been drinking since, oh, what — 4 am? — and we had to make do with one entirely-too-sober guy with an Aussie flag. Weak. (Even Univision, mysteriously on-site despite the fact that the Mexicans played last night in Nuremberg, seemed at a loss, and had to make do with corralling eager young 15-year olds who spoke three words of Spanish, only one of them printable.)

What we did see, however, was a flotilla of the ever-practical Japanese fans snaking their way through the train station early this morning in a relentless quest to take as many pictures as possible, of anything at all. It is disappointing when stereotypes are lived up to, but we have to admit: When the gent in front of us in the Japanese version of a conga line stopped to inexplicably take a picture of the backs of people’s heads, we nodded knowingly and reflexively.

The Japanese fans here are quiet but eager; unlike the South Korean fans (who bizarrely believe their team can actually win the World Cup), the Japanese are taking a far more somber, reflective approach. “We just hope the team does not embarrass the country,” said a man named Ken in what was perhaps the most devastating commentary on a team possible. Of course, at the time, we were both watching a group of three drunken teens being hoisted by a crane far up above the roof of the Viktualienmarkt in a faux-airplane like contraption. “You don’t want to stand here,” Ken said, pointing to some su####ious splashes on the ground.

And then, as the Japanese fans snaked off, we figured we might as well have another beer with the girls. Hey, it’s a hot day.