I'd just like to take a moment and relay my bittersweet feelings concerning this post. Sure it is the last of a very long project I have been working on since returning from my trip. There were times when I would go weeks without posting anything, and you must be wondering why. Well, writing a blog everyday isn't as easy as it sounds. When I was in Europe with my sister, I tried to write a journal entry everyday, this strained my attempted style of the journal as I was trying to maintain the integrity of each post but was finding it hard not to resort to cliches. The result was a hurried and oftentimes bland recount of the events I have recounted here. I chock it up to being young and without a unified vision behind the writing, which I responded to by rewriting some of the things in my journal before posting as I am a perfectionist and the drivel I had written was only the mere mentions of much more fantastic and magnificent memories I still hold. I would also like to mention a new project that will make an appearance here on Notes of a Dirty Young Traveler in the coming weeks and months. Since I am now living in Lyon, France I would love to share with you all a piece of my experiences here as well as my trips abroad. I arrived in France at the end of August 2011, and plan on living here until June 2012, during which I will be studying business, philosophy, history and the French language. I will periodically write posts updating you about my current situation as well as delving into the mindset of a American student abroad. So for now enjoy the final post of the Eurotrip 2009, and expect new posts from France soon.
Bittersweet feelings on this July day. My heart hangs in the balance between wanting to stay here in Europe, where things are beautiful and strange, and returning home, where I will once again be surrounded by my familiar culture. Leaving will put to rest the sense of anxiety one experiences when abroad in new and foreign lands, but I can't help but think how much this trip has changed me, not in the desperate cliched way of an innocent abroad, but in the way a ceramic bowl becomes hardened and solid in the crucible of an oven. That's how Europe has been for me, a series of tests and the resulting moments of bliss when the hard work has paid off and I was allowed to indulge in the secret pleasures allotted to me.
Today was spent seeing the things we had missed the previous days, but mostly we sat in reflection of our time abroad so far. We pondered the minute and immense things that make Europe so enchanting to Americans and we hit upon a single strain that seems to pervade and inspire this feeling, and that is the sense of nostalgia. Many people come to Europe, and they (hopefully) know that it is certainly older than the United States. However, even knowing of the general history surrounding this continent won't prepare you for the reaffirmation of the human existence. Seeing the massive churches and experience the culture of centuries past remind us of our persistent link to history. It is both inspiring and reminiscent of those fleeting days of self-discovery when we become aware of the surroundings in which we inhabit. It is quiet the experience, one I would recommend to anyone.
After a few drinks at Murphy's Pub, (where a group of well-wishers met and talked with us about Amsterdam life, and we in turn divulged secrets about the very different and sometimes disgusting American life), we went to another Italian restaurant where we ate pizza and pasta. We decided to walk a bit further after dinner and came to the place we had eaten the other night. We decided to sit and have a drink. We had almost finished a bottle of Rose when one of the patrons recognized us from the night before. He came over and we talked for a bit. When he left I smiled to myself, my sister and I had become bar-rats in Amsterdam. By this time it was late, so we went looking for a club. Finding one, we pushed our way inside and ordered two beers at the packed bar. We passed the time soaking up the atmosphere and drinking our beer. I danced with a few girls to music that was would have found home on the Billboard 100 from 2003. We were about to leave, so my sister went to the bathroom. She had hardly unbuttoned her pants when a massive barbarian woman kicked in the door yelling, "you can't pee here, this is the men's room, you pay 50 cents and wait your turn!" She grabbed my sisters arm and started dragging her out of the stall. My sister quickly broke her hold and after flipping her off tossed the contents of her beer at her feet. She then tapped my should saying, "Bryan, we've got to go," as she bolted for the door. I finished my beer and ran after her. I got as far as the first step when three bulbous bouncers caught hold of my arms and lifted me in the air saying, "you pay for toilet now!" As my feet kicked helplessly as air I responded, "I didn't use your fucking toilet! Let me go!" Thankfully the barbarian women showed up and said, "it wasn't him, it was her!" She pointed to my sister who had already ran several blocks and was by this time a fading shadow among the neon signs.
They let me go, and I met up with my sister at another Irish pub, where we laughed about the whole thing. Soon though she retired to bed, and I was obliged to go with her. She went to sleep but I stayed up and went out onto the balcony to talk with David and Adrienne who were finishing the last of their weed. I told about the night's events in detail, and they seemed to understand. I was putting off the inevitable by talking to Adrienne after David went to sleep. I was prolonging my stay here in Europe as long as I could as I knew our flight tomorrow would come early and with a vengeance. But when I finally said goodnight I rested on my pillow and sighed a contented sigh that summed up my three week journey in Europe.
Our early morning flight left at 10 am. I say early because I didn't want to get up for it. I felt woozy again as I had so many other days throughout the trip. Fearing I would again throw up I grabbed the extra plastic garbage bag from our room and we went to check out. We took a train to the airport and I was successful in suppressing my urge to puke. Once we arrived at the airport we took an escalader to the second floor and that's when I lost it. I hurled into the plastic garbage bag everything I had eaten since Tuesday. I found my sister looking at the flight schedule, she sneered and asked if I felt better, and I have to say I did. We got to the check-in line which was a quarter of a mile long. It was easily the longest airport line I've ever seen and one that almost made us miss our flight. When we finally made it to the front the attendant told us we actually didn't have seats. She said to take our receipt and go to the gate anyways and see if they had anything available. We did, but were stopped en route by a tall, gangly man who asked us if we were carrying anything illegal in our bags. We said no, but he persisted in asking us specific questions ultimately trying to get us to slip up and admit we were drug traffickers for Tony Ramone. We got past him and approached the United desk. The attendant typed furiously for five minutes and told us cheerfully she had found us two seats on the next plane. My sister and I breathed a collective sigh and soon we were on our way to Portland.
We touched down at 12:30 pm, our dad picked us up and asked hundreds of questions. When we arrived at home our mom asked us hundreds of questions. I went downstairs to my room, which was strange because I realized I was home in Oregon with nothing to show of my endeavor but a bag full of stinky clothes and a handful of souvenirs. "And thus," I thought, "ends my three week escapade in Europe," as I went upstairs and outside to play basketball.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
The Walk (or the second-to-last-day)
Today Erica and I walked all over Amsterdam. To begin with, as is ceremony in all lowland countries, we ate big helpings of Belgian Waffles smothered in hot maple syrup and powdered sugar. Not the healthiest breakfast, but one that was sure to keep us going through the morning. First stop was Vincent Van Gogh's museum. Twelve euros, but worth every cent. His entire life work had been preserved and put on display for the world, and it was absolutely interesting. Everything from his early work, the drab still-lifes painted with all the hues of brown and black, to his colorful and vibrant portraits and flower paintings were there in chronological order. It was a sight to see, and definitely a recommendation to anyone stopping into Amsterdam for a day or two.
We then strolled to Ann Frank's house, which was... how should I say this?... boring. We didn't go in because the line stretched out the door and around the block. I found myself looking at my sister and asking: do you want to see this? And her yawning: no, not particularly. I know that sounds terrible because what she did was incredible and heroic, but we had other things to do and time was running out, so we skipped it, that's all, we skipped it. I don't have any regret, and your judgement is worthless because I don't care what you think. It's a museum for God's sake, not a funeral. Instead we strolled through Old Town and the Red Light District, (which for you innocent readers among us is the area in the city where well-to-do gentlemen can partake in the age old activity of prostitution... Sorry, but it had to come out at some point... (that's what she said.)) This, as you can see, was our more pressing priority and one of the reasons we didn't see the Ann Frank museum, but again your judgement falls on deaf ears. It was during the day, so there weren't any women in the windows, but boy could I imagine them. There also were an unnatural amount of sex toy shops. I caught myself asking, "what sort of city needs all of these sex shops?" Apparently Amsterdam does.
After, we walked to Rembrandts house, which was as disappointing as Ann Franks house. I guess I'm not one for looking at the outside of a building where someone lived who did some really cool thing a hundred years ago. I blame the American in me for that one. We followed our noses to a Coffeeshop and stuck our heads in. The walls were lined with every strand you could imagine, and even I, a non-smoker, could appreciate the selection. We followed our noses again to the infamous Flowermarket where rows and rows of venders lined the streets and sold their precious tulips. They had every color, some I never thought possibile to infuse into a flower. I mean black? How do you make a black flower? Water it with oil?
We then went to a smartshop, which isn't what it sounds like. A smartshop in Amsterdam, don't be fooled, is a place where marijuana growers can buy new seeds for their pots and also equipment to streamline their operation. They also sell mushrooms, pipes, bongs and various smoker culture memorabilia. My sister bought a ring to replace the one I had broken in Berlin, but surprisingly held off on any major illicit purchases. We then left and rested near Rembrandts statue, where a guy got ticketed for public urination, (what! you can't pee in public in this city?!? Gah, how lame!) We then had lunch at a place called Wok to Walk, which was nothing to write home about.
After the rest of our tour, which was too boring to recount here, it was time to wash up at the hostel and grab some dinner. We ate at an Irish Pub, but left before drinking too much. We were both exhausted from the day's marching, and nothing sounded better than our pillows and blankets. So for the second night we konked out before 12am, and I've got to say it was some of the best sleep I've ever gotten.
We then strolled to Ann Frank's house, which was... how should I say this?... boring. We didn't go in because the line stretched out the door and around the block. I found myself looking at my sister and asking: do you want to see this? And her yawning: no, not particularly. I know that sounds terrible because what she did was incredible and heroic, but we had other things to do and time was running out, so we skipped it, that's all, we skipped it. I don't have any regret, and your judgement is worthless because I don't care what you think. It's a museum for God's sake, not a funeral. Instead we strolled through Old Town and the Red Light District, (which for you innocent readers among us is the area in the city where well-to-do gentlemen can partake in the age old activity of prostitution... Sorry, but it had to come out at some point... (that's what she said.)) This, as you can see, was our more pressing priority and one of the reasons we didn't see the Ann Frank museum, but again your judgement falls on deaf ears. It was during the day, so there weren't any women in the windows, but boy could I imagine them. There also were an unnatural amount of sex toy shops. I caught myself asking, "what sort of city needs all of these sex shops?" Apparently Amsterdam does.
After, we walked to Rembrandts house, which was as disappointing as Ann Franks house. I guess I'm not one for looking at the outside of a building where someone lived who did some really cool thing a hundred years ago. I blame the American in me for that one. We followed our noses to a Coffeeshop and stuck our heads in. The walls were lined with every strand you could imagine, and even I, a non-smoker, could appreciate the selection. We followed our noses again to the infamous Flowermarket where rows and rows of venders lined the streets and sold their precious tulips. They had every color, some I never thought possibile to infuse into a flower. I mean black? How do you make a black flower? Water it with oil?
We then went to a smartshop, which isn't what it sounds like. A smartshop in Amsterdam, don't be fooled, is a place where marijuana growers can buy new seeds for their pots and also equipment to streamline their operation. They also sell mushrooms, pipes, bongs and various smoker culture memorabilia. My sister bought a ring to replace the one I had broken in Berlin, but surprisingly held off on any major illicit purchases. We then left and rested near Rembrandts statue, where a guy got ticketed for public urination, (what! you can't pee in public in this city?!? Gah, how lame!) We then had lunch at a place called Wok to Walk, which was nothing to write home about.
After the rest of our tour, which was too boring to recount here, it was time to wash up at the hostel and grab some dinner. We ate at an Irish Pub, but left before drinking too much. We were both exhausted from the day's marching, and nothing sounded better than our pillows and blankets. So for the second night we konked out before 12am, and I've got to say it was some of the best sleep I've ever gotten.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Off to Amsterdam
Our train was leaving for Amsterdam at 12:30pm, so my sister and I had time to take a leisurely lunch and get to the train station with time to spare. We borded the train, and I settled into my seat with a book. We were halfway through the Netherlands when the attendant started her ticket check. When she got to our seats we handed our Eurail passes up, and after checking them she said to us, "that will be 12 euros please." Naturally, my sister and I were confused, we'd already bought a $280 Eurail pass, which meant any trainride we took within a 2 month period was in a sense prepaid. We asked why, and she told us it was because we were sitting in 1st class. We tried to reason with her, but she said that because we were too close to Amsterdam it would not be possible to "just switch cars." Her attitude was hauty and I could tell she enjoyed every minute as we scrounged around for 24 Euros. Before she moved on she told us that differentiating between 1st class and 2nd class was as easy as reading the giant signs on the side of the cars. "There's a big 1 for first class and a 2 for second class written on the side." If this seems condescending that's because it was, and we were left with even less drinking money as before. Damn!
We pulled into the station, and pulled out the address to our hostel. We walked for two hours looking for it, finally giving up and spending money on a taxi. By this time we were simply on our last leg mentally, spiritually and emotionally, we were missing home, but also determined to squeeze every experience out of our time. But even that can be taxing on the mind and body. After the train and taxi debaucle we were please to have a bed to rest on. The attendant gave us our keys and told us she had a surprise in store. Not knowing what this meant, and fearing the worst, we backed away slowly from the desk and mounted the steps to our room. Opening the door revealed a single room with two beds. I thought there had been some mistake as we had booked a communal room for eight people. I rushed downstairs and told the clerk, but she simply smiled and told me that they had run out of beds in the eight person rooms, and that we could have the single room for the same price. I guess all energy does flow according to the whims of the great magnet.
We left promptly and made for the Leidstraat, or the big commercial street with shops and restaurants. We ate at a well-lit restaurant/pub on Italienne street, and after my sister went in a few shops and I checked out a bookstore. We were drained and so finding out hostel again, this time without a taxi, we decided to crash and relax.
My sister took a nap, and I sat on the balcony reading. Suddenly a the window to the room next to us opened and out popped a guy about my age holding two beers. He was my height with brown hair and a French nose and a weak chin. He asked me if I wanted a beer and I said yes. He said his name was Adrien, and we started talking and I learned he and his friend David were on vacation from Belgium. Soon David popped his head out and said hello, and I told them both about our trip so far. After a few more beers and many stories and jokes, they asked if I smoked weed. I said I had in the past. And they asked if I wanted to smoke with them, and I said sure. David pulled out his stash that he had just bought, which included 3-4 new brands he picked up from a coffeeshop and had never tried before. It was nice to talk to them, even though it was difficult at times due to the language barrier. David hardly spoke english and Adrien's accent was so thick that I couldn't understand half of what he said. It became harder when the weed kicked in, and soon I was marginally catatonic. They invited me to a discoteque, and I told them I wanted to go but was too tired. In reality the beer mixed with weed had caught hold of my stomach and spun my head around making me dizzy and sick. They left, and I promply entered into the room and stood holding the bedpost. My sister said something like, "you look pale." I said something like "Damn right I look pale!" Before rushing to the bathroom and throwing up my dinner. I learned the hard way that alcohol and weed do not mix, and that the Belgian stomach is much more impervious to the effects of drink and smoke than Americans are. Well, some at least.
We pulled into the station, and pulled out the address to our hostel. We walked for two hours looking for it, finally giving up and spending money on a taxi. By this time we were simply on our last leg mentally, spiritually and emotionally, we were missing home, but also determined to squeeze every experience out of our time. But even that can be taxing on the mind and body. After the train and taxi debaucle we were please to have a bed to rest on. The attendant gave us our keys and told us she had a surprise in store. Not knowing what this meant, and fearing the worst, we backed away slowly from the desk and mounted the steps to our room. Opening the door revealed a single room with two beds. I thought there had been some mistake as we had booked a communal room for eight people. I rushed downstairs and told the clerk, but she simply smiled and told me that they had run out of beds in the eight person rooms, and that we could have the single room for the same price. I guess all energy does flow according to the whims of the great magnet.
We left promptly and made for the Leidstraat, or the big commercial street with shops and restaurants. We ate at a well-lit restaurant/pub on Italienne street, and after my sister went in a few shops and I checked out a bookstore. We were drained and so finding out hostel again, this time without a taxi, we decided to crash and relax.
My sister took a nap, and I sat on the balcony reading. Suddenly a the window to the room next to us opened and out popped a guy about my age holding two beers. He was my height with brown hair and a French nose and a weak chin. He asked me if I wanted a beer and I said yes. He said his name was Adrien, and we started talking and I learned he and his friend David were on vacation from Belgium. Soon David popped his head out and said hello, and I told them both about our trip so far. After a few more beers and many stories and jokes, they asked if I smoked weed. I said I had in the past. And they asked if I wanted to smoke with them, and I said sure. David pulled out his stash that he had just bought, which included 3-4 new brands he picked up from a coffeeshop and had never tried before. It was nice to talk to them, even though it was difficult at times due to the language barrier. David hardly spoke english and Adrien's accent was so thick that I couldn't understand half of what he said. It became harder when the weed kicked in, and soon I was marginally catatonic. They invited me to a discoteque, and I told them I wanted to go but was too tired. In reality the beer mixed with weed had caught hold of my stomach and spun my head around making me dizzy and sick. They left, and I promply entered into the room and stood holding the bedpost. My sister said something like, "you look pale." I said something like "Damn right I look pale!" Before rushing to the bathroom and throwing up my dinner. I learned the hard way that alcohol and weed do not mix, and that the Belgian stomach is much more impervious to the effects of drink and smoke than Americans are. Well, some at least.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Fascination and Disappointment in Brussels
We awoke again early in the morning, but seeing as there was free coffee I didn't mind. We packed our backpacks with food and water for our all-day trek through Brussels to get the feel of the city that would be our home for the next 3 days. Grandplatz, Royalplatz, the Manneken Pis, and the comic book museum, a long day even for this seasoned traveler.
The comic book museum was by far the most interesting. Comic creators from the beginnings of the craft to now had relics of their masterpieces next to biographies on the walls, and I found out exactly how they put a comic book together. Artists, inkers and scriptwriters all have their special place in creating one of these moralistic and oftentimes archetypical renditions of fantasy lands and talents. The scriptwriter was the most fascinating since he/she writes the story the others simply illustrate. The concept has to be good for the finished product to be good, because no matter how many explosions or creative images of sexy ladies you have there's still an absolute need for a coherent story, and without one the future of the comic will be bleak and uninteresting. This is the charge of the scriptwriter. If he writes a compelling story that is honest and truthful, then the illustrators take it to the next level by depicting the action on paper with help of crayons, colored pencils and markers.
The Mannequin Pis was wholly disappointing, mainly because our expectations had been lifted each time we passed a picture of it on the street. In all honesty we tried to find it last night after one bar visit and before the next, but to no avail. Today we found out why the thing was so hard to find, and that's because of its size. The thing is two feet tall and is hardly anything to get excited about. Sure it's a kid peeing, but really? Why not a twenty-foot kid peeing? Then people'd have a waterfall to videotape instead of just a tiny trickle. We ended up taking a picture of the chocolate rendition across the street because it was more impressive than the real thing.
We went to dinner where I ordered wine pizza and chicken wings in broken French. We talked about the petty arguments people get in and laughed at ourselves for having one earlier when a gum-smacking contest deteriorated to shouting and name-calling and door-slamming. Too long with the same company and it's bound to happen - we were no exception. But the wonderful thing about my relationship with my sister is that we can laugh about it later, both knowing what we said was a result of blood-red anger and a situational causality.
Then we walked and walked and walked some more before finding a suitable bar to drink at. We sat down and not two minutes after we ordered our first drink a man came out from inside the bar. He was dressed as someone of reasonable resource would: silk shirt, fitted jeans, and patent leather shoes. He walked up to me, and without speaking took my hand and shook it. I asked him if I could help him and he held out a piece of paper. The message was written in French, and said something about being hungry and poor, all the while he's motioning to his mouth in the universal sign of hunger. I said I don't speak French in French, and he walked away scowling at me. We decided to leave right then, after finishing our drinks, to find a new place where our luck was better and the atmosphere welcomed us.
The comic book museum was by far the most interesting. Comic creators from the beginnings of the craft to now had relics of their masterpieces next to biographies on the walls, and I found out exactly how they put a comic book together. Artists, inkers and scriptwriters all have their special place in creating one of these moralistic and oftentimes archetypical renditions of fantasy lands and talents. The scriptwriter was the most fascinating since he/she writes the story the others simply illustrate. The concept has to be good for the finished product to be good, because no matter how many explosions or creative images of sexy ladies you have there's still an absolute need for a coherent story, and without one the future of the comic will be bleak and uninteresting. This is the charge of the scriptwriter. If he writes a compelling story that is honest and truthful, then the illustrators take it to the next level by depicting the action on paper with help of crayons, colored pencils and markers.
The Mannequin Pis was wholly disappointing, mainly because our expectations had been lifted each time we passed a picture of it on the street. In all honesty we tried to find it last night after one bar visit and before the next, but to no avail. Today we found out why the thing was so hard to find, and that's because of its size. The thing is two feet tall and is hardly anything to get excited about. Sure it's a kid peeing, but really? Why not a twenty-foot kid peeing? Then people'd have a waterfall to videotape instead of just a tiny trickle. We ended up taking a picture of the chocolate rendition across the street because it was more impressive than the real thing.
We went to dinner where I ordered wine pizza and chicken wings in broken French. We talked about the petty arguments people get in and laughed at ourselves for having one earlier when a gum-smacking contest deteriorated to shouting and name-calling and door-slamming. Too long with the same company and it's bound to happen - we were no exception. But the wonderful thing about my relationship with my sister is that we can laugh about it later, both knowing what we said was a result of blood-red anger and a situational causality.
Then we walked and walked and walked some more before finding a suitable bar to drink at. We sat down and not two minutes after we ordered our first drink a man came out from inside the bar. He was dressed as someone of reasonable resource would: silk shirt, fitted jeans, and patent leather shoes. He walked up to me, and without speaking took my hand and shook it. I asked him if I could help him and he held out a piece of paper. The message was written in French, and said something about being hungry and poor, all the while he's motioning to his mouth in the universal sign of hunger. I said I don't speak French in French, and he walked away scowling at me. We decided to leave right then, after finishing our drinks, to find a new place where our luck was better and the atmosphere welcomed us.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Brussels and the Way of the Waffel
The morning came, and my sister and I had to find breakfast. We stowed the bags after checking out, and caught the "5" into city center. We came to a coffee place called "Bagels and Beans," and while we sat drinking coffee and eating, I read a newspaper and reconnected to reality for a short time.
Afterwards we went to the annual flea market, where my sister looked for dresses. I looked around and saw a book stand so, naturally, I made my way to one of the bins doubting there'd be any books in English. I came to a bin and picked up a book, Milan Kundera's 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being', which was surprisingly in English, and more surprisingly had been recommended to me by Constantine before we parted ways in Berlin. I got goosebumps as I looked in every other bin and found zero books in English. Kundera's book had been the only one in the entire stand in English, and it was the first book I picked up. Throughly weirded out, and thinking it a sign from God, I bought the book and we left.
An hour later we boarded the train to Brussels. On the way we saw pastures and cows, and tulips and corn; and I decided it was a countryside full of rich heritage and hearty people.
About two and a half hours later we pulled into Brussels, and after a short walk had arrived at out "Budget Hotel" which, compared to the hostels we'd been staying in, looked like Buckingham Palace. I took a shower and we left to eat steak and fries at a French restaurant.
Afterwards, we went in search of a good bar. We found many, some better than others. One we found was a smoke joint on a street corner, where there were a few locals and cheap whiskey and beer. The next place was a sports bar, where the men sipped beer and watched the game, and were totally oblivious to me and my sister.
Having come to Brussels for one thing, we went in search of Waffels. We were both pretty sloshed, so the search was not easy. Finally, we came to a stand where women with tired faces served us Waffels with tired strawberries and chocolate sauce. And in no way was that depressing. The Waffels were terrific. We sat eating them on the curb watching the night pass and made fun of each other when we got chocolate on our faces.
After, we stumbled into a bar called Delirium. My sister had read about it and they were playing good music, so we went inside. The place was an absolute zoo of younger people dressed for the night, and sitting in what looked like hollowed out beer kegs. The walls were plastered with old beer signs, and it felt both worn and welcoming while having the commercialism of a CheeseCake Factory. But we bought beer and sat watching the madness around us, and getting slightly more drunk. After a while the signs on the wall lost their color, and the people seemed to turn grey. We were tired, so we paid our bill and slipped out of the organized madness.
Afterwards we went to the annual flea market, where my sister looked for dresses. I looked around and saw a book stand so, naturally, I made my way to one of the bins doubting there'd be any books in English. I came to a bin and picked up a book, Milan Kundera's 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being', which was surprisingly in English, and more surprisingly had been recommended to me by Constantine before we parted ways in Berlin. I got goosebumps as I looked in every other bin and found zero books in English. Kundera's book had been the only one in the entire stand in English, and it was the first book I picked up. Throughly weirded out, and thinking it a sign from God, I bought the book and we left.
An hour later we boarded the train to Brussels. On the way we saw pastures and cows, and tulips and corn; and I decided it was a countryside full of rich heritage and hearty people.
About two and a half hours later we pulled into Brussels, and after a short walk had arrived at out "Budget Hotel" which, compared to the hostels we'd been staying in, looked like Buckingham Palace. I took a shower and we left to eat steak and fries at a French restaurant.
Afterwards, we went in search of a good bar. We found many, some better than others. One we found was a smoke joint on a street corner, where there were a few locals and cheap whiskey and beer. The next place was a sports bar, where the men sipped beer and watched the game, and were totally oblivious to me and my sister.
Having come to Brussels for one thing, we went in search of Waffels. We were both pretty sloshed, so the search was not easy. Finally, we came to a stand where women with tired faces served us Waffels with tired strawberries and chocolate sauce. And in no way was that depressing. The Waffels were terrific. We sat eating them on the curb watching the night pass and made fun of each other when we got chocolate on our faces.
After, we stumbled into a bar called Delirium. My sister had read about it and they were playing good music, so we went inside. The place was an absolute zoo of younger people dressed for the night, and sitting in what looked like hollowed out beer kegs. The walls were plastered with old beer signs, and it felt both worn and welcoming while having the commercialism of a CheeseCake Factory. But we bought beer and sat watching the madness around us, and getting slightly more drunk. After a while the signs on the wall lost their color, and the people seemed to turn grey. We were tired, so we paid our bill and slipped out of the organized madness.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Sick/Amesterdam
In the morning I had never felt so sick, but I knew we had to leave soon for the train that would take us out of this sad-luck country. I was retching in the bathroom when my sister walked up, freshened and fully rested. We walked down stairs -- well my sister walked and I slumped. The attendant gave us directions to the nearest bus station that would take us to the train station, and my stomach did a flip.
Once we had walked to bus station I sat head in hands while my sister told me not to look so sick. When the bus came it was crowded with people and faces and fumes. I stood swaying back and forth while the bus swerved around corners and dodged little cars. Once we finally stopped my stomach couldn't take it anymore, and I elbowed my way out to the street where I let forth a steamy mixture of 'shitzle and beer.
On our way out of Berlin I slept in my seat while my sister ate strawberries and passed incredulous looks at me.
That evening we arrived in Amesterdam, and caught the tram to the street out hostel was on. That hostel wasn't nearly as bad as the last one, and it seemed our luck was turning. We left the bags and went to dinner at a Thai place down the street. We then set out to see the town. Narrow streets and lengthy canals winded our way to the Ben and Jerry's on the main drag, and then to a Irish Pub where we watched a duet play and I sipped whiskey while tapping my foot.
I was surprise that the city hardly smelled like weed, and there was no cloud of smoke rising from the streetside cafes. I knew also that we'd get into that sooner or later, but it'd have to wait. We were going to Brussels tomorrow for a few days, but we'd return, and when we did I expected to indulge in the one custom that set Amsterdam apart from any other country.
We turned in early, and my stomach almost felt normal again.
Once we had walked to bus station I sat head in hands while my sister told me not to look so sick. When the bus came it was crowded with people and faces and fumes. I stood swaying back and forth while the bus swerved around corners and dodged little cars. Once we finally stopped my stomach couldn't take it anymore, and I elbowed my way out to the street where I let forth a steamy mixture of 'shitzle and beer.
On our way out of Berlin I slept in my seat while my sister ate strawberries and passed incredulous looks at me.
That evening we arrived in Amesterdam, and caught the tram to the street out hostel was on. That hostel wasn't nearly as bad as the last one, and it seemed our luck was turning. We left the bags and went to dinner at a Thai place down the street. We then set out to see the town. Narrow streets and lengthy canals winded our way to the Ben and Jerry's on the main drag, and then to a Irish Pub where we watched a duet play and I sipped whiskey while tapping my foot.
I was surprise that the city hardly smelled like weed, and there was no cloud of smoke rising from the streetside cafes. I knew also that we'd get into that sooner or later, but it'd have to wait. We were going to Brussels tomorrow for a few days, but we'd return, and when we did I expected to indulge in the one custom that set Amsterdam apart from any other country.
We turned in early, and my stomach almost felt normal again.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
7-25-09 Berlin
We woke up in the morning and met Constantine for a five star breakfast, or at least it seemed five star compared the the recent breakfasts served at other hostels. Constantine told us about a free tour being given at the Brandenburg Gates at 11am. We left our bags at the hostel and walked to the famous square. When we got there we saw a giant group of people congregated beneath the gates. This turned out to be our group, and after a while a women came around and broke us up into languages, and appointed a guide to each language. Our tour guide was a four foot Scottish belle who was studying history in Berlin.
Yeah, that one
She led us around Brandenburg Gates, and pointed out the famous hotel where Michael Jackson dangled Blanket over the railing of his hotel room in 2004. Our guide led us to the Holocaust Memorial, and to Hitler's Bunker, which had been turned into a parking lot. We saw the Ministry of Finance, which originally housed the air force headquarters for the German army. This was later to be called the Ministry of Ministries (pretentious much?), and was the seat of Nazi power. Our guide informed us that this building could be seen in the blockbuster film Valkyrie.
We were examining the remains of the Berlin Wall when our luck took a turn for the worst. It started raining, but not like Oregon rain, which is 10 months of a steady drizzle - prompting Oregonians to endure perpetual dampness for a few fleeting moments of sunshine; no, this was a quick hard rain that turned the sky black and our shoes to squishy sponges. We waited it out in a coffee shop where I had a most delicious chocolate croissant. The rain left as quickly as it had come, rising to a crashing crescendo only to recede over the skyline, and leaving only a memory of its violent nature. Sound familiar?
A picture of one of my shoes-------->
After the quick storm, we checked out Checkpoint Charlie, Babelplatz (where we saw a troop of speedoed bicyclists), Museum Island, Humbolt University (Einstein's old stomping grounds), a Cathedral that housed a melange of different architecture types - the name of which has escaped me at the moment, impressive but forgettable. After that the tour was over, and we had to find another hostel to stay that night.
Before that we went to the train station to find a ride to Paris, my goal being to visit a French speaking country before leaving Europe, and my sister's goal being to celebrate her birthday on the Seine. However, fate had other plans for us. The attendant didn't speak English, and was thoroughly rude. She blabbered away in German, leaving me and my sister helpless, and fearing we'd be stuck in Berlin forever! Thankfully a young bilingual German man helped us. He translated the woman's blabbering, and said it wasn't good. All trains in and out of France were booked, and the only way we could get out of Berlin was to go to Amsterdam. We took it, and also booked a hostel for the night. It was cheap, but out in the boondocks. We decided to check it out and drop our bags off before dinner.
We showed up to our hostel, which smelled like cigarette smoke, beer, and body oder. They gave us two beds in separate rooms, my sister would be sleeping in a room with two guys from Germany, and I would be in the room with a Serbian family that smelled
like cabbage. We dropped our bags and left to get authentic German cuisine, weinershnitzel.
What I was expecting, but didn't get
The place we went, which seemed authentic enough, served us the equivalent of a battered shoe sole. I was thoroughly unimpressed, and instead of finishing it I sat back and drank beer instead. We decided to go into town after dinner, which was a great because I wanted to at least see the night life of Berlin before we left.
We did our pub crawl, and ended up in a bar that was decorated "Under the Sea" style, complete with a pirate for a bar tender. Now this is what I remember it being, however, at that point I had enough beer to drown a fish, and was having a hard time sitting up in my chair. On the tramride back to our gritty hostel my sister sat next to a gentleman who had fallen asleep. As soon as the tram stopped the man suddenly snapped awake after flinging himself in dramatic fashion across my sisters lap. Bleary eyed he looked around, and then bolted out of the tram and down the street, leaving my sister and me in a fit of laughter. We got back to the hostel, and I had no problem falling asleep.
Yeah, that one
She led us around Brandenburg Gates, and pointed out the famous hotel where Michael Jackson dangled Blanket over the railing of his hotel room in 2004. Our guide led us to the Holocaust Memorial, and to Hitler's Bunker, which had been turned into a parking lot. We saw the Ministry of Finance, which originally housed the air force headquarters for the German army. This was later to be called the Ministry of Ministries (pretentious much?), and was the seat of Nazi power. Our guide informed us that this building could be seen in the blockbuster film Valkyrie.
We were examining the remains of the Berlin Wall when our luck took a turn for the worst. It started raining, but not like Oregon rain, which is 10 months of a steady drizzle - prompting Oregonians to endure perpetual dampness for a few fleeting moments of sunshine; no, this was a quick hard rain that turned the sky black and our shoes to squishy sponges. We waited it out in a coffee shop where I had a most delicious chocolate croissant. The rain left as quickly as it had come, rising to a crashing crescendo only to recede over the skyline, and leaving only a memory of its violent nature. Sound familiar?
A picture of one of my shoes-------->
After the quick storm, we checked out Checkpoint Charlie, Babelplatz (where we saw a troop of speedoed bicyclists), Museum Island, Humbolt University (Einstein's old stomping grounds), a Cathedral that housed a melange of different architecture types - the name of which has escaped me at the moment, impressive but forgettable. After that the tour was over, and we had to find another hostel to stay that night.
Before that we went to the train station to find a ride to Paris, my goal being to visit a French speaking country before leaving Europe, and my sister's goal being to celebrate her birthday on the Seine. However, fate had other plans for us. The attendant didn't speak English, and was thoroughly rude. She blabbered away in German, leaving me and my sister helpless, and fearing we'd be stuck in Berlin forever! Thankfully a young bilingual German man helped us. He translated the woman's blabbering, and said it wasn't good. All trains in and out of France were booked, and the only way we could get out of Berlin was to go to Amsterdam. We took it, and also booked a hostel for the night. It was cheap, but out in the boondocks. We decided to check it out and drop our bags off before dinner.
We showed up to our hostel, which smelled like cigarette smoke, beer, and body oder. They gave us two beds in separate rooms, my sister would be sleeping in a room with two guys from Germany, and I would be in the room with a Serbian family that smelled
like cabbage. We dropped our bags and left to get authentic German cuisine, weinershnitzel.What I was expecting, but didn't get
The place we went, which seemed authentic enough, served us the equivalent of a battered shoe sole. I was thoroughly unimpressed, and instead of finishing it I sat back and drank beer instead. We decided to go into town after dinner, which was a great because I wanted to at least see the night life of Berlin before we left.
We did our pub crawl, and ended up in a bar that was decorated "Under the Sea" style, complete with a pirate for a bar tender. Now this is what I remember it being, however, at that point I had enough beer to drown a fish, and was having a hard time sitting up in my chair. On the tramride back to our gritty hostel my sister sat next to a gentleman who had fallen asleep. As soon as the tram stopped the man suddenly snapped awake after flinging himself in dramatic fashion across my sisters lap. Bleary eyed he looked around, and then bolted out of the tram and down the street, leaving my sister and me in a fit of laughter. We got back to the hostel, and I had no problem falling asleep.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
7-24-09 Berlin Nightmare
We awoke early in the morning in our Prague flat, got ready and went upstairs for breakfast. The breakfast was buffet style, but they weren't serving coffee! "Egads!" I exclaimed to a packed dining hall, "where is the coffee!" "Looks like they don't have any," said my sister, a look of forlorn on her face. We loaded up our plates and took a seat near the window. As we ate, I noticed the French guy I had met the night before sitting with a few friends. Before we left I gave him my contact info, and said that if he's ever in Oregon he should look me up. He never did, sadly.
In order to feed our coffee addiction, we checked out of the hostel, left our bags with the front desk, and ambled up the street to the nearest cafe. As we sat outside to enjoy our coffee, the firespinner I had met last night walked by carrying his staff. I called him over and introduced him to my sister. He said he was going to Charles Bridge to "spin" for an hour, and if we had time we should check out the free tour given at 11 o'clock because the guides took you everywhere in Prague, and told you all the history. "You can't miss it!" he said, so we agreed to check it out. Hell, what else were we going to do?
When we got to the square there was a folk festival going on. Women dressed in traditional garments danced around men
wearing leiderhosin and clogs, while a band played songs that sounded like mixes between polka and Irish folk music. The smell of cinnamon wafted over the scene from a cart selling a Czech version of the "elephant ear."
The tour began with a bang as our guide came bounding into the group of tourists speaking a mile-a-minute. Most of the people didn't realize the tour had begun until she was half way through recounting the 9th century. Those who hadn't done their reading were left scratching their head wondering what the term "Bohemia" meant, among other things.
Our guide took off at a healthy trot stopping only at the major landmarks, talking constantly and waiting impatiently for people to catch up. Prague, she said, is full of mystery and tales of ordinary and extraordinary madness. My favorite being a story about a withered arm found in St. Vitus Cathedral, in short they never found the rest of the body. I decided it must have been the gargoyles behind the whole thing.
After three hours of walking through Prague, our guide left us at the foot of Charles Bridge. She wished us bon voyage as she
disappeared into the crowds moving back to Old Town Square to meet a new group of tourists to do the whole thing over again. We walked across the bridge, touched the statue of St. Luthgard and saw a troop of gypsies.
With our Prague trip complete we returned to the hostel, got our bags and made for the station. The train to Berlin wasn't for an hour, so we killed the time by drinking some beer with a fellow backpacker named Constantine. He turned out to be a medical student from New York who had been doing rotations in Prague for the past three weeks. He said he was heading back to the states, but not before hitting up Berlin for a three-day drunken party with his friends. His shoulder length curly black hair framed his smiling eyes and large mouth, and he was funny in dry, clinical sort of way, so we invited him to sit with us on our way to Berlin. "Great!" he said, offering us another beer.
That was when the bad luck began. Our train to Berlin was delayed two and a half hours, and we were informed that it no longer would be picking us up at the our current station. "Bad luck!" I said to myself, not knowing this bad luck would eventually follow us all the way to Berlin. We finally caught the train at the other station, and weren't all that surprised to see our cabin would again be full, promising another sleepless late night ride. However, instead of a bunch of old, stodgy people, as was the case from Rome to Vienna, we were accompanied by a group of young Spanish ladies. One of which lived in Berlin and spoke very good English. We talked all the way to Berlin while passing around a bottle of red wine one of the Spanish ladies had snuck on the train.
We arrived in Berlin at one o'clock in the morning, tired and hungry and slightly drunk, and in the middle of a train conductor strike. Nobody was going anywhere, and so we were stuck in East Berlin without a hostel reservation and no idea where to go. This sort of thing happens only once every four years, and it just happened to start at the moment of our arrival. "Bad luck" I said to myself as we descended the train. We talked to a couple of Americans who were handing out pamphlets telling people where the nearest hostels were. They told us to check out one hostel called "The White Rabbit" which was only three or four blocks down the road. We said thank you, and entered the cold Berlin night.
This is how I felt at that moment of time
Every hostel we found was either booked solid, or impossible to find, so by 2:30am we all sprung for a cab that would take us to City Center Berlin Hostel where Constantine had reserved a bed. When we arrived we asked if they had two spare beds, which thankfully they did. My sister went upstairs to sleep, but I stayed up and thought about how incredible it was to be stuck in a foreign country with nothing but your mind and perseverance to guide you. Then I ate a Snickers bar and went to sleep.
In order to feed our coffee addiction, we checked out of the hostel, left our bags with the front desk, and ambled up the street to the nearest cafe. As we sat outside to enjoy our coffee, the firespinner I had met last night walked by carrying his staff. I called him over and introduced him to my sister. He said he was going to Charles Bridge to "spin" for an hour, and if we had time we should check out the free tour given at 11 o'clock because the guides took you everywhere in Prague, and told you all the history. "You can't miss it!" he said, so we agreed to check it out. Hell, what else were we going to do?
When we got to the square there was a folk festival going on. Women dressed in traditional garments danced around men wearing leiderhosin and clogs, while a band played songs that sounded like mixes between polka and Irish folk music. The smell of cinnamon wafted over the scene from a cart selling a Czech version of the "elephant ear."
The tour began with a bang as our guide came bounding into the group of tourists speaking a mile-a-minute. Most of the people didn't realize the tour had begun until she was half way through recounting the 9th century. Those who hadn't done their reading were left scratching their head wondering what the term "Bohemia" meant, among other things.
Our guide took off at a healthy trot stopping only at the major landmarks, talking constantly and waiting impatiently for people to catch up. Prague, she said, is full of mystery and tales of ordinary and extraordinary madness. My favorite being a story about a withered arm found in St. Vitus Cathedral, in short they never found the rest of the body. I decided it must have been the gargoyles behind the whole thing.
After three hours of walking through Prague, our guide left us at the foot of Charles Bridge. She wished us bon voyage as she
disappeared into the crowds moving back to Old Town Square to meet a new group of tourists to do the whole thing over again. We walked across the bridge, touched the statue of St. Luthgard and saw a troop of gypsies.
With our Prague trip complete we returned to the hostel, got our bags and made for the station. The train to Berlin wasn't for an hour, so we killed the time by drinking some beer with a fellow backpacker named Constantine. He turned out to be a medical student from New York who had been doing rotations in Prague for the past three weeks. He said he was heading back to the states, but not before hitting up Berlin for a three-day drunken party with his friends. His shoulder length curly black hair framed his smiling eyes and large mouth, and he was funny in dry, clinical sort of way, so we invited him to sit with us on our way to Berlin. "Great!" he said, offering us another beer.
That was when the bad luck began. Our train to Berlin was delayed two and a half hours, and we were informed that it no longer would be picking us up at the our current station. "Bad luck!" I said to myself, not knowing this bad luck would eventually follow us all the way to Berlin. We finally caught the train at the other station, and weren't all that surprised to see our cabin would again be full, promising another sleepless late night ride. However, instead of a bunch of old, stodgy people, as was the case from Rome to Vienna, we were accompanied by a group of young Spanish ladies. One of which lived in Berlin and spoke very good English. We talked all the way to Berlin while passing around a bottle of red wine one of the Spanish ladies had snuck on the train.
We arrived in Berlin at one o'clock in the morning, tired and hungry and slightly drunk, and in the middle of a train conductor strike. Nobody was going anywhere, and so we were stuck in East Berlin without a hostel reservation and no idea where to go. This sort of thing happens only once every four years, and it just happened to start at the moment of our arrival. "Bad luck" I said to myself as we descended the train. We talked to a couple of Americans who were handing out pamphlets telling people where the nearest hostels were. They told us to check out one hostel called "The White Rabbit" which was only three or four blocks down the road. We said thank you, and entered the cold Berlin night.
This is how I felt at that moment of time
Every hostel we found was either booked solid, or impossible to find, so by 2:30am we all sprung for a cab that would take us to City Center Berlin Hostel where Constantine had reserved a bed. When we arrived we asked if they had two spare beds, which thankfully they did. My sister went upstairs to sleep, but I stayed up and thought about how incredible it was to be stuck in a foreign country with nothing but your mind and perseverance to guide you. Then I ate a Snickers bar and went to sleep.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
7-23-09 Prague
Our train left early in the morning, so we grudgingly dragged ourselves out of bed, careful not to disturb our roommates. We shared our room with a couple from Spain, and that meant sharing a bathroom. The shower was poorly designed so that splashing water collected on the floor. My sister and I wore flip-flops in the shower to avoid flesh eating bateria, which we just knew was seething between the discolored tiles. In fact everyone wore shoes to the bathroom because it was the "sanitary" thing 
to do. However, wearing tennis shoes to the bathroom meant that the pools of water would mix with shoe-dirt and you'd be left with muddy footprints and pools of discolored water. Unfortunately, this had happened this morning, and it was brought to my attention by the lovely Spanish woman. She proceeded to explain to me in a half-English half-Spanish transcultural rant that I had muddied up the floor, and that I should clean it up, and that I smell bad. Ok, so she didn't say all of that, but she did yell at me for the shower as me and my sister packed for the train station. All we said was "We're sorry" as we closed the door and headed downstairs to check out.
We arrived in Prague in the hot afternoon, and went to our hostel. We dropped our bags off, and hung out in our four person room. My sister called our mom to tell her we hadn't been abducted yet, and that I had been able to piss off every Spanish person we had met so far. I hung out the window of our room, and watched the sky, which was clouding over. Suddenly there was a crack of lightening, and the boom of thunder as the heat, which had followed us ever since Italy, finally reached its boiling point. It started to rain, and soon it was a torrential downpour. The wind ripped through our narrow side-street, banging the shutters of windows as it passed. We waited while until the rain eased, and made our way to dinner. Welcome to Prague.
It was understood that there was an authentic Czech restaurant just up the street. I was in the mood for beef tongue, so we went to Kovics. Kovics had an underground fight club feel mostly because the bar/restaurant sat in the basement of a building reserved for offices. We ordered a plate of beef tongue for an appetizer, which I can say from experience looks exactly like it should. Ours was sliced lengthwise, however, you could definitely tell what it was. It kept the same shape, and consistency of what you'd think beef tongue would taste like, and I've got to say, it was really good. For dinner I had steak and my sister had chicken. We paid for the meal in Krowns, and everything added up came out to be roughly $30. Prague, I think I'm starting to like you...
We left in search of another bar, and walk around Old Town Square. After awhile we stumbled into a place called Chateau Rouge. We went in partly due to the rain, which had returned, but also because of the beer prices, ($.50 beers are always worth a try in my opinion). Halfway through our second beer, two Belgian women began talking with us. One was a 25 year-old speech therapist, and the other, (much cuter one), was a 26 year-old teacher. We told them that we were brother and sister traveling across Europe for a few weeks.
The Chateau Rouge (sorry for the sizing)
They asked if we were going to Brussels, their hometown. We said we hadn't thought of it, but we might if time permitted. The teacher started flirting with me, and offered to buy me and my sister another beer. We didn't have any more money so I said yes, my sister said no. The teacher's name was Leigh, while we were talking, Leigh kept on playing footsie with me under the table. Though, just when Leigh and I were getting closer, my sister told me she was tired and that she wanted to go back to the hostel. I couldn't have my sister walking around alone in a foreign country, so I escorted her back, but not before I told Leigh I'd be back soon.
When I got back to the bar two guys, who looked like competitors on MetRx's World's Strongest Man, were talking to Leigh. I decided not to die, so I used the bathroom and headed back to the hostel.
On my way up to the room I ran into a three people sitting in the common room. Two had guitars, and the other was sitting at the end of the table listening. One of the guitarist's name was Howlin' Howie. Howie had been playing guitar for 58 years, he was traveling the world playing guitar and singing for anyone who'd listen. The guy at the end of the table was a Frenchman, he was quiet, but I managed to find out that he was going to Vienna next, so I told him about the Belvedere and the crazy drivers.
The last guy was a redhead who went by Brian Policoff. He was from Arizona, but lived in Prague as a street performer. His craft was fire-spinning. He had done it in The Ringley Bros. Circus for years, and before that he had been a singing gondolier at the Venetian in Las Vegas.
Firespinner: Exhibit A
After a few hours of guitar and singing and talking, I said goodnight to them and went upstairs. I was careful not to wake either my sister, or the two girls, who were our new roommates, after all I'd already pissed off that Spanish couple, I was determined not to have a repeat in Prague.
to do. However, wearing tennis shoes to the bathroom meant that the pools of water would mix with shoe-dirt and you'd be left with muddy footprints and pools of discolored water. Unfortunately, this had happened this morning, and it was brought to my attention by the lovely Spanish woman. She proceeded to explain to me in a half-English half-Spanish transcultural rant that I had muddied up the floor, and that I should clean it up, and that I smell bad. Ok, so she didn't say all of that, but she did yell at me for the shower as me and my sister packed for the train station. All we said was "We're sorry" as we closed the door and headed downstairs to check out.We arrived in Prague in the hot afternoon, and went to our hostel. We dropped our bags off, and hung out in our four person room. My sister called our mom to tell her we hadn't been abducted yet, and that I had been able to piss off every Spanish person we had met so far. I hung out the window of our room, and watched the sky, which was clouding over. Suddenly there was a crack of lightening, and the boom of thunder as the heat, which had followed us ever since Italy, finally reached its boiling point. It started to rain, and soon it was a torrential downpour. The wind ripped through our narrow side-street, banging the shutters of windows as it passed. We waited while until the rain eased, and made our way to dinner. Welcome to Prague.
It was understood that there was an authentic Czech restaurant just up the street. I was in the mood for beef tongue, so we went to Kovics. Kovics had an underground fight club feel mostly because the bar/restaurant sat in the basement of a building reserved for offices. We ordered a plate of beef tongue for an appetizer, which I can say from experience looks exactly like it should. Ours was sliced lengthwise, however, you could definitely tell what it was. It kept the same shape, and consistency of what you'd think beef tongue would taste like, and I've got to say, it was really good. For dinner I had steak and my sister had chicken. We paid for the meal in Krowns, and everything added up came out to be roughly $30. Prague, I think I'm starting to like you...
We left in search of another bar, and walk around Old Town Square. After awhile we stumbled into a place called Chateau Rouge. We went in partly due to the rain, which had returned, but also because of the beer prices, ($.50 beers are always worth a try in my opinion). Halfway through our second beer, two Belgian women began talking with us. One was a 25 year-old speech therapist, and the other, (much cuter one), was a 26 year-old teacher. We told them that we were brother and sister traveling across Europe for a few weeks.
The Chateau Rouge (sorry for the sizing)They asked if we were going to Brussels, their hometown. We said we hadn't thought of it, but we might if time permitted. The teacher started flirting with me, and offered to buy me and my sister another beer. We didn't have any more money so I said yes, my sister said no. The teacher's name was Leigh, while we were talking, Leigh kept on playing footsie with me under the table. Though, just when Leigh and I were getting closer, my sister told me she was tired and that she wanted to go back to the hostel. I couldn't have my sister walking around alone in a foreign country, so I escorted her back, but not before I told Leigh I'd be back soon.
When I got back to the bar two guys, who looked like competitors on MetRx's World's Strongest Man, were talking to Leigh. I decided not to die, so I used the bathroom and headed back to the hostel.
On my way up to the room I ran into a three people sitting in the common room. Two had guitars, and the other was sitting at the end of the table listening. One of the guitarist's name was Howlin' Howie. Howie had been playing guitar for 58 years, he was traveling the world playing guitar and singing for anyone who'd listen. The guy at the end of the table was a Frenchman, he was quiet, but I managed to find out that he was going to Vienna next, so I told him about the Belvedere and the crazy drivers.
The last guy was a redhead who went by Brian Policoff. He was from Arizona, but lived in Prague as a street performer. His craft was fire-spinning. He had done it in The Ringley Bros. Circus for years, and before that he had been a singing gondolier at the Venetian in Las Vegas.Firespinner: Exhibit A
After a few hours of guitar and singing and talking, I said goodnight to them and went upstairs. I was careful not to wake either my sister, or the two girls, who were our new roommates, after all I'd already pissed off that Spanish couple, I was determined not to have a repeat in Prague.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Vienna! (7-22-09)
It was 9:30am when we arrived in Vienna, Austria and never in my life had I been happier to get off a train! We had been traveling for 12 hours straight, most of which I spent lodged in the corner of a stuffy compartment with 5 other people, and my sister! You can only imagine the horror. We got off the train stretching our limbs, our joints popped and cracked like a Regal Cinema's popcorn machine. It took us a while to gather our surroundings: 1. We were in Vienna 2. We were on the train platform 3. We didn't know how to get to our hostel. Luckily the maps were written in German, which made it easy to find our way. But, I thought, we're in a new country! Let's ask for directions! Thankfully a nice Austrian couple knew how to get to downtown, and so off we were off to find our first hostel!
At the place they call Westend Hostel we booked two beds, however, they told us the beds wouldn't be ready for about three hours. This we took as a formality. Since we were already sleep deprived, what difference would three hours make, right? We paid the locker fee for our bags, and left the hostel to visit the Belvedere.
Since we were downtown, the streets were very busy. One thing I noticed about Austrians, especially those who walk downtown, is that they NEVER jaywalk. My sister and I found this out the hard way when we tried crossing a street without a walk signal. We had made it halfway across the street when a psychotic woman in one of those tiny European Vespa-turned-automobiles came ripping Looked something like this| down the street. She actually accelerated having seen us jaywalking in an attempt to scare the living shits out of us. Well, it worked, and from that point on we always paid attention to walk signals.
|Wrong Belv, Bro
We made it to the Belvedere, no not the Polish one, (or the Vodka). But the Viennese palace built for Prince Eugene of Savoy. It's a massive dual palace, with Upper and Lower sections, which both house museums. The grounds are organized in baroque style landscape to match that of the architecture of the buildings. Having time, we meandered through the gardens, and one museum in the Lower section. Beautiful as it was, (my sister snapped roughly a million pictures), we left to take showers at the hostel and catch some sleep before heading to dinner.
We were both in the mood for something a bit heavier than Italian food, but we weren't too keen on Schnitzle just yet. So we had dinner at an Australian themed restaurant that reminded me of an Outback. Afterwards we walked around Stephansplatz Square where there were a bevy of street performers and dance crews. Stephansplatz Square is the heart of downtown, and it's where you'll find all the nightlife necessities for locals and tourists alike. At the center of the bustling square is a giant gothic church called Stephen's Chathedral or Stephansdom (appropriate right?). This was our first opportunity to see gothic architechture so far on our trip, as everything south of Venice is mostly baroque or classic architechture.
That's me!| We left Stephansdom to venture farther away from the central square, we visited Mozart's apartment, which looked like any other apartment, but with a hint of historical importance, I could've sworn to have heard the first few notes of Symphony n.40. We then walked to the church where the Vienna Boys' Choir performs, but it was closed. Those poor lads. On our way back we bumped into a few Americans, one was named Atella, (no not after the Hun unfortunately), who was visiting Vienna on his way to Rome. His buddy, Morice, was from Boston, and was working at a law firm in Vienna for six months. Together we walked around the city talking about the things Morice had seen, and about Atella's plans for his trip. Then Morice showed us all a one euro gelato bar a few blocks from Stephansplatz. Afterwards though, both Morice and Atella had to leave. Atella would be leaving for Rome in the morning on a six month trip around the world.
We got back to the hostel, but only stayed about twenty minutes. It was too hot in there, so we found a pub around the corner and ordered a few beers. They had a huge projection screen showing a soccer game between two rival teams. Whenever our team scored a goal, the pub would erupt in a frenzy of cheers and hugs, and the pub across the street would boo and yell at their team in German. After a while we left, and went back to the Westend, and I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow.
At the place they call Westend Hostel we booked two beds, however, they told us the beds wouldn't be ready for about three hours. This we took as a formality. Since we were already sleep deprived, what difference would three hours make, right? We paid the locker fee for our bags, and left the hostel to visit the Belvedere.
Since we were downtown, the streets were very busy. One thing I noticed about Austrians, especially those who walk downtown, is that they NEVER jaywalk. My sister and I found this out the hard way when we tried crossing a street without a walk signal. We had made it halfway across the street when a psychotic woman in one of those tiny European Vespa-turned-automobiles came ripping Looked something like this| down the street. She actually accelerated having seen us jaywalking in an attempt to scare the living shits out of us. Well, it worked, and from that point on we always paid attention to walk signals. 
|Wrong Belv, Bro
We made it to the Belvedere, no not the Polish one, (or the Vodka). But the Viennese palace built for Prince Eugene of Savoy. It's a massive dual palace, with Upper and Lower sections, which both house museums. The grounds are organized in baroque style landscape to match that of the architecture of the buildings. Having time, we meandered through the gardens, and one museum in the Lower section. Beautiful as it was, (my sister snapped roughly a million pictures), we left to take showers at the hostel and catch some sleep before heading to dinner.
We were both in the mood for something a bit heavier than Italian food, but we weren't too keen on Schnitzle just yet. So we had dinner at an Australian themed restaurant that reminded me of an Outback. Afterwards we walked around Stephansplatz Square where there were a bevy of street performers and dance crews. Stephansplatz Square is the heart of downtown, and it's where you'll find all the nightlife necessities for locals and tourists alike. At the center of the bustling square is a giant gothic church called Stephen's Chathedral or Stephansdom (appropriate right?). This was our first opportunity to see gothic architechture so far on our trip, as everything south of Venice is mostly baroque or classic architechture.
That's me!| We left Stephansdom to venture farther away from the central square, we visited Mozart's apartment, which looked like any other apartment, but with a hint of historical importance, I could've sworn to have heard the first few notes of Symphony n.40. We then walked to the church where the Vienna Boys' Choir performs, but it was closed. Those poor lads. On our way back we bumped into a few Americans, one was named Atella, (no not after the Hun unfortunately), who was visiting Vienna on his way to Rome. His buddy, Morice, was from Boston, and was working at a law firm in Vienna for six months. Together we walked around the city talking about the things Morice had seen, and about Atella's plans for his trip. Then Morice showed us all a one euro gelato bar a few blocks from Stephansplatz. Afterwards though, both Morice and Atella had to leave. Atella would be leaving for Rome in the morning on a six month trip around the world. We got back to the hostel, but only stayed about twenty minutes. It was too hot in there, so we found a pub around the corner and ordered a few beers. They had a huge projection screen showing a soccer game between two rival teams. Whenever our team scored a goal, the pub would erupt in a frenzy of cheers and hugs, and the pub across the street would boo and yell at their team in German. After a while we left, and went back to the Westend, and I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
7-21-09
Today is the first day on our own! Our parents had left on a flight at 3am and were long gone by the time we had woken up. This morning went much smoother than the past few mornings, I put shampoo in my hair, and managed not to trip over anything. Our train was at 5pm, so we had time to go back to St. Peter's and look around some more.
Today was HOT, and not like Oregon hot, this was South Carolina in August hot. It was muggy by 9am when we left our hotel and made our way across town to the Vatican. We took a tour of the Pope's Tomb - which is a series of catacombs that sit beneath the Vatican Basilica. Thankfully it was cool underground, and that there weren't too many people on tour at the moment. We perused the Popes of old, stopping at some to read the captions printed on tablets next to their crypts. We stopped briefly at John Paul II's tomb as there was a small gathering people praying and remembering the late JP. Surprisingly they let us take pictures, so my sister snapped a few before we mounted the steps towards the Basilica.
And yes this is really how it looks on the inside-------->
We walked around the Vatican for a while, and slipped into a side chapel hoping to catch a service, but they weren't performing anything at the moment so we left. We took the crosses we bought yesterday and dipped them into the holy water thinking that this would ensure a safe trip across Europe. What's funny is that neither of us are religious, and we felt a little silly dipping a sterling silver pendant into a bowl of dirty tap water, but as they say "When in Rome, do as the Romans do." However, I can't help but think that's not what they meant by the saying.
Enjoy this humorous comic from Cyanide and Happiness
We left the Vatican to pick up our bags from the hotel and walk to the train station. It was even hotter on the walk to the train station, and it didn't help that we were carrying 30+ pounds of clothes on our back. But we made it with time to spare, so we took turns getting dinner at the cafeteria. My sister unfortunately got stuck behind an elderly Italian woman, who took forever to order her food. She must have been barely 5 feet tall, with the pouffy-died hair that so many grandmas tend to sport at a certain age. She wore a pink dress that came down to her ankles. She walked with a shuffling stiffness, as if she was unable to move her upper body each time she took a step. She seemed a sweet lady, one that you'd love to have as a grandma, and as she sat behind us eating her Mozzarella sandwich and drinking her Coke Lite, I couldn't help but think she was waiting for a grandson or daughter to arrive on the train. My sister pointed her out to me saying, "Isn't she the cutest old lady you've ever seen." I agreed. But just then, the lady got up and tried to push in her chair, which got caught on one of the table legs. She became upset, and repeatedly smashed the back of the chair against the side of the table in an attempt push in the chair. When she had left my sister turns to me and says, "that's one violent grandma!"
Don't mess with her!
We caught the train, and sat in one of the six person cabins, which was empty as first. I was excited because the seats reclined in a way to make a bed, and I thought we'd get a lot of sleep during our overnight train ride. This wasn't the case, as more and more people started to get on at various stops. Soon our cabin was full, and there was no way we could reposition ourselves to make sleep possible. For the 12 hour train ride my sister and I sat side-by-side, pining for the moment when we could stretch our legs, and breath fresh air! Vienna here we come!
Today was HOT, and not like Oregon hot, this was South Carolina in August hot. It was muggy by 9am when we left our hotel and made our way across town to the Vatican. We took a tour of the Pope's Tomb - which is a series of catacombs that sit beneath the Vatican Basilica. Thankfully it was cool underground, and that there weren't too many people on tour at the moment. We perused the Popes of old, stopping at some to read the captions printed on tablets next to their crypts. We stopped briefly at John Paul II's tomb as there was a small gathering people praying and remembering the late JP. Surprisingly they let us take pictures, so my sister snapped a few before we mounted the steps towards the Basilica.
And yes this is really how it looks on the inside-------->We walked around the Vatican for a while, and slipped into a side chapel hoping to catch a service, but they weren't performing anything at the moment so we left. We took the crosses we bought yesterday and dipped them into the holy water thinking that this would ensure a safe trip across Europe. What's funny is that neither of us are religious, and we felt a little silly dipping a sterling silver pendant into a bowl of dirty tap water, but as they say "When in Rome, do as the Romans do." However, I can't help but think that's not what they meant by the saying.
We left the Vatican to pick up our bags from the hotel and walk to the train station. It was even hotter on the walk to the train station, and it didn't help that we were carrying 30+ pounds of clothes on our back. But we made it with time to spare, so we took turns getting dinner at the cafeteria. My sister unfortunately got stuck behind an elderly Italian woman, who took forever to order her food. She must have been barely 5 feet tall, with the pouffy-died hair that so many grandmas tend to sport at a certain age. She wore a pink dress that came down to her ankles. She walked with a shuffling stiffness, as if she was unable to move her upper body each time she took a step. She seemed a sweet lady, one that you'd love to have as a grandma, and as she sat behind us eating her Mozzarella sandwich and drinking her Coke Lite, I couldn't help but think she was waiting for a grandson or daughter to arrive on the train. My sister pointed her out to me saying, "Isn't she the cutest old lady you've ever seen." I agreed. But just then, the lady got up and tried to push in her chair, which got caught on one of the table legs. She became upset, and repeatedly smashed the back of the chair against the side of the table in an attempt push in the chair. When she had left my sister turns to me and says, "that's one violent grandma!"
We caught the train, and sat in one of the six person cabins, which was empty as first. I was excited because the seats reclined in a way to make a bed, and I thought we'd get a lot of sleep during our overnight train ride. This wasn't the case, as more and more people started to get on at various stops. Soon our cabin was full, and there was no way we could reposition ourselves to make sleep possible. For the 12 hour train ride my sister and I sat side-by-side, pining for the moment when we could stretch our legs, and breath fresh air! Vienna here we come!
Monday, April 18, 2011
7-20-09
I woke up this morning, and instantly regretted it. Not because we were visiting the Vatican Museums today, but because I have a problem dressing myself before the hours of 9am. After taking a shower, I tried to put on my pants, but the message between my brain and my feet was lost somewhere along my spine, and I ended up tripping over the clothesline. I slammed against the dresser, waking up my sister, who yelled at me to keep it down. Don't you love sisters?
We made it to the tour bus with time to spare. I hardly noticed our tour guide standing the aisle as I made my way to my seat. She was roughly four feet tall, and as browned and wrinkled as a raisin. I apologized for nearly bowling her over, and found my seat next to cam, who was fast asleep, drooling in the window seat.
Walking into the Vatican Museum, our little old tour guide tried to organize us into lines to make the security checks go quicker. Unfortunately, there were a number of other tour groups, and they were all adamant on getting through first. The result was a massive mob of overeager tourists, some of which were hyped up on too much Italian coffee. I however wasn't, and keeping sight of our raisin-like tour guide was like trying to find a pebble among boulders.
After mobbing the poor security guards, we mobbed the poor assistants handing out the museum headsets. We then miraculously found the raisin-lady and circled around her as she began our tour.
The madness was well worth it. The Vatican Museum was incredible. Everything from the tapestries of Jesus to the Sistine Chapel was breathtaking. I learned what a fresco is, and why Michelangelo must have had a hell of a neckache after painting the Creation of Adam.
Our tour guide
After that tour we caught a ride over to the Coliseum, where we paid a giant German man wearing lopsided sunglasses to give us a tour. He turned out to be a history student studying in Rome, who gives tours on the side to pay for beer - we lucked out. He turned out to a kooky fellow with an odd sense of humor. For example, he was telling us about how back in the day women weren't allowed to sit in the Coliseum (because it was a man's arena, ETC.) As he was saying this two of the girls from our tour sat down on one of the big stone blocks just inside the entrance. The German stopped mid-sentence to tell the girls, "No no, you can't sit there." Which he thought was hilarious.
He then took us to Palatine Hill, where the Romulus Ruins and the Roman Forum are. Though to get there was a short walk, down small hill. Our guide had a bike that he
stashed for the specific purpose to get from the Coliseum to the foot of Palatine Hill. This was great, except none of us had a bike. So here's our tour guide sailing down the hill towards Palatine Hill, and us rushing after him to catch him! Sort of like this ---->
The rushing was worth it, as we walked all over Palatine Hill, and bought ice waters so as not to die of heat stroke. After the tour was over, our guide disappeared as quickly as he had come, on his bike peddling back up the road towards the Coliseum.
That evening we met the group at Campo De Fiori, and sat out on the veranda of Leisha's place to drink wine and watch the sunset before going to the restaurant. After dinner my parents left to go back to their hotel. They were leaving at 3 a.m. the next morning so I said goodbye to them, we wouldn't be seeing them for 2 weeks. My sister went with them to catch some sleep, and I tagged along with Charlie and Cam to the new Harry Potter movie being shown at the local theater. Surprisingly it was in English.
I caught a cab, and said goodbye to Charlie and Cam. As I watched them disappear into the Italian night, I thought about tomorrow, my sister and I would be on our own, in a foreign country with nothing to guide us but a map and our minds.
We made it to the tour bus with time to spare. I hardly noticed our tour guide standing the aisle as I made my way to my seat. She was roughly four feet tall, and as browned and wrinkled as a raisin. I apologized for nearly bowling her over, and found my seat next to cam, who was fast asleep, drooling in the window seat.
Walking into the Vatican Museum, our little old tour guide tried to organize us into lines to make the security checks go quicker. Unfortunately, there were a number of other tour groups, and they were all adamant on getting through first. The result was a massive mob of overeager tourists, some of which were hyped up on too much Italian coffee. I however wasn't, and keeping sight of our raisin-like tour guide was like trying to find a pebble among boulders.
After mobbing the poor security guards, we mobbed the poor assistants handing out the museum headsets. We then miraculously found the raisin-lady and circled around her as she began our tour.
The madness was well worth it. The Vatican Museum was incredible. Everything from the tapestries of Jesus to the Sistine Chapel was breathtaking. I learned what a fresco is, and why Michelangelo must have had a hell of a neckache after painting the Creation of Adam.
Our tour guide
After that tour we caught a ride over to the Coliseum, where we paid a giant German man wearing lopsided sunglasses to give us a tour. He turned out to be a history student studying in Rome, who gives tours on the side to pay for beer - we lucked out. He turned out to a kooky fellow with an odd sense of humor. For example, he was telling us about how back in the day women weren't allowed to sit in the Coliseum (because it was a man's arena, ETC.) As he was saying this two of the girls from our tour sat down on one of the big stone blocks just inside the entrance. The German stopped mid-sentence to tell the girls, "No no, you can't sit there." Which he thought was hilarious.
He then took us to Palatine Hill, where the Romulus Ruins and the Roman Forum are. Though to get there was a short walk, down small hill. Our guide had a bike that he
The rushing was worth it, as we walked all over Palatine Hill, and bought ice waters so as not to die of heat stroke. After the tour was over, our guide disappeared as quickly as he had come, on his bike peddling back up the road towards the Coliseum.
That evening we met the group at Campo De Fiori, and sat out on the veranda of Leisha's place to drink wine and watch the sunset before going to the restaurant. After dinner my parents left to go back to their hotel. They were leaving at 3 a.m. the next morning so I said goodbye to them, we wouldn't be seeing them for 2 weeks. My sister went with them to catch some sleep, and I tagged along with Charlie and Cam to the new Harry Potter movie being shown at the local theater. Surprisingly it was in English.
I caught a cab, and said goodbye to Charlie and Cam. As I watched them disappear into the Italian night, I thought about tomorrow, my sister and I would be on our own, in a foreign country with nothing to guide us but a map and our minds.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
7-19-09
Today is the classic Rome Tour, a day filled with camera-touting tourists all complaining about how hot it is while waiting in line for the Vatican. A day filled with much standing, and even more walking.
But before I get into it, I want to want to take you through my morning, which can only be described as a series of unfortunate events. First, I wake up too early. Who knew I'd be effected by a non-existent time change between Tuscany and Rome? Then, being grumpy from pre-dawn awakening, I get irritated with my sister, who seems to have the uncanny ability of pointing out my every flaw before 9am. Getting fed up with her, I 'accidentally' throw my toothpaste violently into my toiletries bag, whereupon she exclaims "CHILL!" And secondly, while taking a shower, I proceed to wash my hair with hand lotion instead of shampoo. I desperately needed coffee.
We met with the parents in the lobby and powerwalk through Rome in time for my dad to weasle us onto the same tourbus as Charlie, Victoria, and the rest of the clowns. We then had 30 minutes to sit idly outside an espresso shop, where I ate a stale croissant, and drank an 'Italian Coffee', which I quickly learned was simply a shot of espresso in a dainty cup, perfectly molded to the manicured hands of Italian men. We finished our espresso, and left for the bus. I said 'hello' to Cam, and then dozed off in the chair while the bus pulled away from the curb, and the tour guide was imparting her 'extremely important instructions.'
We stopped first at the Trevi Fountain, a masterpiece carved into the side of a building somewhere around mid-town. Designed by Salvi, the statues depict Neptune, god of the sea, Health, and Bounty - I assumed these last two were gods of Health and Bounty, but I can't be sure. Before leaving we were instructed to toss a coin over our left shoulder in hopes of one day returning to Rome, and spending more money on these expensive tours. I realize this is a tradition every naive traveler partakes in because upon meeting others on our trip across Europe, we would tell them we'd visited Trevi Fountain, and all of them would brighten in the eyes and ask, "Did you do the coin thing?" We'd say yes, and with a gleam of enlightened surety and a slight smile they'd say, "that means you'll be back."
Next stop was the tomb of the first king of Italy, also known as the Pantheon. Not to be confused with the Parthenon, the Pantheon is in Rome not Greece, and is still a functional building if you don't count the gaping hole in the middle of the ceiling. Originally cast as a Pagan church, they left the hole for their sacrifices to travel up to heaven. But when the Pope went all popeish on Rome's ass, he converted it into a Catholic church. He did this mainly by draping velvet sheets over the various Pagan gods, which still line the foot of the dome. Nothing like a quick fix for Catholicism, am I right?
After the Pantheon, we hit up Navona Square, and its famous Four Rivers Statue. The statue, designed by Bernini, consisted of four women who represented the Danube, Congo, Ganges, and the Rio Del Plato - supposedly the 'biggest rivers at the time.' If Bernini had chosen to represent the four grossest rivers: 1. The Willamette would've definitely made an appearance, and 2. We probably wouldn't be talking about it because it'd be hideous.
Next stop would be the Vatican. To get there though we had to cross the Rome river, which cuts Rome into the Vatican state and Rome. We stopped briefly at a souvenir shop so everyone could go to the bathroom, and buy worthless crap that symbolize peace, but really just symbolize monetary gain, as the clerk takes your $20 bill.
Finally we arrived at St. Peter's Square. For me, being a secular non-believer of religion, I couldn't help but be impressed by the immensity of the Vatican. My awe was quickly doused by the fact that it was hot, like really hot. And not just hot, but muggy too. The shade was just as hot as the sun, and I could feel my boxers dampening from the sweat rolling off my back. Upon making it to the front doors, I praised god for his decision to put air conditioners in the church. How merciful he can be sometimes.
Cam and I went to see the Pieta, the first commissioned work from a 19 year-old Michelangelo. Then we strolled by the various artwork and sculptures, taking pictures of the most beautiful. I learned from our low-talking tour guide that there are in fact three types of baptism. Sacrement is done with water, the most popular, obviously. Desire of Faith is done with a priest, and requires no aqueous solution, unless you are 14 and a boy. And the final is Martyr, or baptism by blood.
When the tour finished, I was in need of my babptism at the Hard Rock Cafe, but instead of water or blood, I wanted milkshake and cheeseburger. I was not alone, and so me and my group of merry tourists gorged ourselves on American cuisine, and headed back to the hotel rooms to wait out our food comas.
Apparently the hotel we were staying at was booked for that night. So my parent moved to a hotel down the street, and did my laundry, which turned the water in the sink brown. Before we knew it, we had worked off our heavy American lunch and it was time for dinner.
We met the group in Campe de Fiore, for our final night together. Margie, Gunner, Julie, and Tom were leaving in the morning, so we had our last supper during the fading light of a Roman sunset, while we listened to street performers playing music in the square. Now that's what I call a religious experience.
But before I get into it, I want to want to take you through my morning, which can only be described as a series of unfortunate events. First, I wake up too early. Who knew I'd be effected by a non-existent time change between Tuscany and Rome? Then, being grumpy from pre-dawn awakening, I get irritated with my sister, who seems to have the uncanny ability of pointing out my every flaw before 9am. Getting fed up with her, I 'accidentally' throw my toothpaste violently into my toiletries bag, whereupon she exclaims "CHILL!" And secondly, while taking a shower, I proceed to wash my hair with hand lotion instead of shampoo. I desperately needed coffee.
We met with the parents in the lobby and powerwalk through Rome in time for my dad to weasle us onto the same tourbus as Charlie, Victoria, and the rest of the clowns. We then had 30 minutes to sit idly outside an espresso shop, where I ate a stale croissant, and drank an 'Italian Coffee', which I quickly learned was simply a shot of espresso in a dainty cup, perfectly molded to the manicured hands of Italian men. We finished our espresso, and left for the bus. I said 'hello' to Cam, and then dozed off in the chair while the bus pulled away from the curb, and the tour guide was imparting her 'extremely important instructions.'
We stopped first at the Trevi Fountain, a masterpiece carved into the side of a building somewhere around mid-town. Designed by Salvi, the statues depict Neptune, god of the sea, Health, and Bounty - I assumed these last two were gods of Health and Bounty, but I can't be sure. Before leaving we were instructed to toss a coin over our left shoulder in hopes of one day returning to Rome, and spending more money on these expensive tours. I realize this is a tradition every naive traveler partakes in because upon meeting others on our trip across Europe, we would tell them we'd visited Trevi Fountain, and all of them would brighten in the eyes and ask, "Did you do the coin thing?" We'd say yes, and with a gleam of enlightened surety and a slight smile they'd say, "that means you'll be back."
Next stop was the tomb of the first king of Italy, also known as the Pantheon. Not to be confused with the Parthenon, the Pantheon is in Rome not Greece, and is still a functional building if you don't count the gaping hole in the middle of the ceiling. Originally cast as a Pagan church, they left the hole for their sacrifices to travel up to heaven. But when the Pope went all popeish on Rome's ass, he converted it into a Catholic church. He did this mainly by draping velvet sheets over the various Pagan gods, which still line the foot of the dome. Nothing like a quick fix for Catholicism, am I right?
After the Pantheon, we hit up Navona Square, and its famous Four Rivers Statue. The statue, designed by Bernini, consisted of four women who represented the Danube, Congo, Ganges, and the Rio Del Plato - supposedly the 'biggest rivers at the time.' If Bernini had chosen to represent the four grossest rivers: 1. The Willamette would've definitely made an appearance, and 2. We probably wouldn't be talking about it because it'd be hideous.
Next stop would be the Vatican. To get there though we had to cross the Rome river, which cuts Rome into the Vatican state and Rome. We stopped briefly at a souvenir shop so everyone could go to the bathroom, and buy worthless crap that symbolize peace, but really just symbolize monetary gain, as the clerk takes your $20 bill.
Finally we arrived at St. Peter's Square. For me, being a secular non-believer of religion, I couldn't help but be impressed by the immensity of the Vatican. My awe was quickly doused by the fact that it was hot, like really hot. And not just hot, but muggy too. The shade was just as hot as the sun, and I could feel my boxers dampening from the sweat rolling off my back. Upon making it to the front doors, I praised god for his decision to put air conditioners in the church. How merciful he can be sometimes.
Cam and I went to see the Pieta, the first commissioned work from a 19 year-old Michelangelo. Then we strolled by the various artwork and sculptures, taking pictures of the most beautiful. I learned from our low-talking tour guide that there are in fact three types of baptism. Sacrement is done with water, the most popular, obviously. Desire of Faith is done with a priest, and requires no aqueous solution, unless you are 14 and a boy. And the final is Martyr, or baptism by blood.
When the tour finished, I was in need of my babptism at the Hard Rock Cafe, but instead of water or blood, I wanted milkshake and cheeseburger. I was not alone, and so me and my group of merry tourists gorged ourselves on American cuisine, and headed back to the hotel rooms to wait out our food comas.
Apparently the hotel we were staying at was booked for that night. So my parent moved to a hotel down the street, and did my laundry, which turned the water in the sink brown. Before we knew it, we had worked off our heavy American lunch and it was time for dinner.
We met the group in Campe de Fiore, for our final night together. Margie, Gunner, Julie, and Tom were leaving in the morning, so we had our last supper during the fading light of a Roman sunset, while we listened to street performers playing music in the square. Now that's what I call a religious experience.
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