EJ Takes Europe

Back to Reality

2005-04-02T16:26:00.000-08:00

I suppose I should write something profound about the Pope. I spent a lot of the last month and a half with his buildings and people.

I suppose I should write something profound about Europe. About the wonderful, delicious mess that has been the last two months.

Coming back from Virginia last night on the Metro, surrounded by close friends chattering in our lovely blabbering way, I couldn't help but wonder if it was really all this easy. And that hard. The subway stop, the empty rainy streets, the vague churning of the stomach that comes from cheap beer consumed too quickly... except for the English signs, I could have been back in Vienna, Prague, Madrid. Is "home" really as simple as a few years of inside jokes and familiar glances? Or that difficult?

I hope sincerely that in the not too distant future, when I have a new job and am back to being a responsible, bill-paying, community-contributing American citizen, I will look out a window at a hazy, rainy Washington afternoon and think of the sea undulating under the cracking sheets of ice in Nyhavn. Of the strangers that made my days who I will never see again. Of that canal corner in Amsterdam where I watched the moon rise after a day of whipping rain. Of the fathers and sons kicking footballs in Dublin parks. When I pass the IMF building, that I have a new definition for those initials.

There is more of course. There always is. However, trying to recount it all, record every minute for posterity, cheapens it, makes it a commodity. What would be best is that it stays present, popping up when I least expect it.

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming, aka my semisecret pre-Europe blog. If you ask nicely, maybe I'll give you the URL. Maybe not. It's nice to keep some things to oneself.

Thank you.

Home Sweet Home

2005-04-01T01:07:00.000-08:00

Thank God, made it back to DC unraped, unrobbed, and except for a really disturbing incident in which I was kicked off a train on the Adriatic Coast at 3:3o the morning I had to be in Rome to catch a flight, with a Transylvanian prostitute clinging to me , basically unscathed any further.

That last sentence probably deserves more explanation, or at least a coherent grammar structure, but I haven't slept in 90 hours or showered in 89. Time for both, in my own shower and my own, big girl, non-bunked bed. Tomorrow I will wake up, and my first thought will not be, "Where am I again?"

From all of the postings of the last few days, you probably think I had a miserable trip. Not so! A run of bad luck does not a bad trip make. Once I'm fully conscious, I'll write a lovely summary post in which I brag incessantly and you'll generally get really sick of my ponderous prose.

I HAVE A PASSPORT

2005-03-29T15:08:00.000-08:00

Praise God and all His cherubs, saints, archangels and harp-stringers, I have a passport!

And if you were wondering what I meant when I said "I rode a lion," this is what I was talking about. Yes, that´s Christopher Columbus on a statue in Barcelona. Allow me to be a total jerk and mention that A) he´s Italian, not Spanish, and B) he´s totally pointing to Libya. Silly Spanish architects.

By the way, I was totally drunk last night when I wrote that last entry and I still managed to properly use and spell the word "nomenclature." How could I possibly not get hired for a fantastic job right after I get back to DC??

Now let´s just hope that the train works strike in France does not affect my overnighter from Barcelona to Milan. FYI, I probably will not be blogging again until I get back to DC on Thusday night. Oh who am I kidding... I´ll probably blog before that. But just in case, thank you for your comments and advice. This blog has been a hugely fun part of this trip, and thanks for sharing it with me.

Catch you in the next hemisphere.

Today I Rode a Lion (Statue)

2005-03-28T23:39:00.000-08:00

Maybe it´s a good thing that Blogger is ridiculously erratic. When I was online earlier today, gabbing with Remley and Libby and Jonas, I wrote this ridiculously bitter entry entailing the number of hours in Barcelona I´ve spent sleeping, clutching my purse in fear, and generally behaving like a refugee might upon fleeing her war-torn homeland.

Here´s the thing: Blogger somehow knew enough to have a system error at the moment I was ready to post, and in the process deleted my entire entry. And I´m incredibly glad it did. Because in the interim, I read over my travel journal and was reminded of all the fantastic things, places and people I´ve seen on this trip. In the interim, I walked on the beaches of Barcelona and dipped my feet in the Mediterranian Ocean as the sun set over Spain. I sipped a triple of Bailey´s that was four times the size and one quarter the price as a Baileys in Venice as I watched the sky deepen to a pinky-purple over the sea, as the clatter of steel drums and conversation in Spanish decorated the scenery around me.

And though the Gods of Travel, for some awful reason, found fit to relieve me of every document and tangible memory of this trip beyond my journal and this blog, I have still managed to find bliss in this experience. Yes, for a time I was stranded in a foreign nation without money or documentation. An experience like that will very quickly illustrate who will be there for you in the most difficult of circumstances. For those of you who were there, and you know well who you are, I am incredibly grateful. Whether it be for you financial support, your silly websites, your words of comfort or your offers to take me out for good ol´fashioned greasy American food when I get back to the States, I feel incredibly lucky to have you in my life. Thank you, thank you, a million times over.

For those of you whom have asked, I did try to meet with Edna and Marie (yes I got the name wrong, but in my defense I was highly emotional that day. You try getting your money and documentation stolen in a country where you don´t really speak the language and don´t know a soul, and see how you do with nomenclature). However, when I´d called them for lunch, Marie suggested metting at La Segrada Familia, the big Gaudi cathedral in town. Perhaps planning to meet at a cathedral on Easter Sunday in a Catholic nation was not wise, because I wasn´t able to find them in the hordes, though I´m sure they were there. I wish so much I could have seen them, to thank them properly for the wonderful kindness and comfort they gave me and to tell them I would repay it by showing such kindness to a stranger someday soon, when given the opportunity. They will be very much on my mind, and I hope I can find them somehow, to say thank you properly.

Ten hours until I can meet with the US Consulate and get out of this country. It´s no longer the godforsaken nation I thought it 24 hours ago... no nation with such paella and views could be. Nonetheless, I will be glad to leave it behind, to go home to the land of friends, and potential, and greasy hamburgers and Bud Light.

Don´t it always seem to go...?

48 Hours in Barcelona By Numbers

2005-03-28T17:37:00.000-08:00

29: hours spent sleeping/in bed at Barcelona Dream Hostel, clutching Jenny´s iPod and key to my locker in KungFu Death Grip.

8: hours spent in Internet cafes reading blogs and emailing/IMing with Americans

6: hours spent walking around Barcelona in glorious, burning sunshine glaring suspiciously at everyone passing by me. This foray into Barcelona was solely because of

1: attempts to meet Edna and Marie (yes, I got the name wrong, but understandable as was a little emotional) for lunch at the Sagrada Familia Cathedral

0: successful attempts to meet Edna and Marie. Perhaps meeting at a cathedral on Easter Sunday in a Catholic country was not a good plan. V. sad

1: Non American-meeting/Internet-cafe-related journeys out of hostel to find food

25: minutes it took to eat a doner kebab in a square off Las Ramblas

17: times approached by creepy Spanish me wanting to sell me beer/pot/into white slavery whilst eating said doner kebab

1: incidents in which particularly creepy Spanish would not leave me alone even after I stood up and walked away, forcing me to elbow him in the ribs with the arm that was not clutching my bag with even more terror and anger than usual for my time in Spain.

I think that pretty well sums up my time in Barcelona. Fifteen hours until the US Consulate opens and I can get the necessary papers to leave this godforsaken country. On happier notes:

immense, overlarge amount: gratitude to Matt, Libs and Remley for their various silly websites, concert tickets and offers of greasy American food and cheap American beer when am back in the civilized world. you rock.

You Win

2005-03-26T17:31:00.000-08:00

Someone pickpocketed me today. He got my travel wallet with my passport, driver´s license, ATM card, cash, all the gifts I´d bought and my one remaining credit card. Which is of course the one that links to my parent´s account.

I give up. I´m not leaving the hostel except to visit the US Consulate for my passport. If by some miracle I make it out of Barcelona with a new ID and all parts of my person unassaulted, I am taking the train to Rome and fleeing Europe like a refugee. Because guess what... I live in a city at home, but never once have I felt really unsafe there. Like, the kind of unsafe that interferes with your life and makes you scared to leave your bed. After having $400 worth of merchandise stolen, I was really mad, yes. Now, I am seriously scared to leave the relative safety and comfort of my hostel. The streets of Europe have spoken, and they want me off their continent.

So OK. You´ll get your wish soon enough, Europe. Frankly, if I had any documentation and if the US Consulate didn´t have to be closed until Tuesday to fully celebrate the resurrection of Christ, I´d cheerfully leave right now. At least the other robberies... and I so love that I can refer to "robberies,¨plural... affected only me. With this one, I had to terrify my poor parents as they prepared to leave for New York for their first professional conference together, to say nothing of having to cancel their credit card from Spain. Mom, Dad, I´m so sorry that this happened. The last thing I ever wanted was for you to be affected by this trip. The whole point of it was to do it independently, with my own resources and money. I´m just so sorry. Good luck with your presentations in New York, and be glad I didn´t take the proferred Discover card in Paris as well.

You know what really got me? In the police station, where I was busy freaking out and trying not to assault the officers out of frustration with their disdain (I understand Spanish enough to know "tourista estupida," muchos gracias), two lovely middle-aged American women came up to me. "Oh honey," said the first, whose name (of course) turned out to be Edna, "you shouldn´t have to be alone at a time like this. How horrible. Why don´t we wait for you to finish, and we´ll all go get a drink together?"

I fell apart. I started crying in Edna´s big soft arms and this total stranger hugged me while her friend Maureen sympathetically patted my arm. After such callousness from the streets of Spain, on top of all the other crap that has happened since Amsterdam, I was just overwhelmed by such friendliness. Call it naivete, call it simple if you must, but it is that honest American goodness that just made me weak with gratitude.

I had a mountain of paperwork to fill out and Western Union to visit, so I thanked Edna and Maureen but told them that I probably wouldn´t be able to escape. Maureen asked me if I had any money at all, to which I replied that the thief had taken everything. Edna instantly reached under her shirt into her money belt. ¨Oh no, I can´t-¨ I started. ¨You can and you will,¨she replied, handing me a fifty euro bill. She continued ¨We´re not going out tonight, since out hotel is in a bad neighborhood, but let´s do breakfast or lunch tomorrow. You don´t want to come all the way here and be afraid to leave.¨

So maybe I will venture out onto the streets of Europe again tomorrow. But it will be with Edna and Maureen, and with a big honking bag of wired money and the passport photocopy hung around my neck, under my shirt and ducktaped to my chest even after I bleed from the chafing. Thank you God, for the American angels you sent my way, even if you found fit to screw me and my parents over in order to make the introduction.

And Jenny, your iPod is safe and sound. The present I´d bought you is another story, though.

¨Where you going?¨ ¨Barcelona...¨ ¨Oh.¨

2005-03-25T08:17:00.000-08:00

Mom, to answer your questions, because I think everyone out there cares desperately about my responses: 1) Katie Holmes. God help me, because I love her and have a total girl crush on her, but there is no film more unwatchable yet packed with unintentional comedy than First Daughter (a parasol??? I mean really). 2) I got a doner kebab, ate it on the Ile de la Citte in the shadow of Notre Dame in that little park we passed in the BotuBus, then wandered back to Shakespeare and Co. to write, find and pet their cat and flirt with the cute British clerk who you so ably chatted up on our first visit. Then just wandered around the Latin Quarter and Sorbonne campus, stuffing my face with crepes and people watching, eventually buying a ridiculous amount of food and wine for the train trip to Madrid.

Yes, Madrid, the city I´m actually in now and have fun stories from. I´ve been taking it pretty easy... today is the first day in a week that I haven´t had something stolen from me and/or gotten sick, and you don´t want to press that kind of luck. Madrid is an incredibly appealing city to me because it operates with my body clock. Cafes and art museums are the only things open before noon, people eat ridiculous amounts of food and the streets are still packed late into the night. I mean late... as in, a club is no good before 3 AM. I wasn´t quite up to that kind of schedule last night, plus it was Holy Thursday and the crowds tended to be more of the prostrating-before-the-statue-of-Mary sort than the salsa sort, so insetad of clubbing I watched a church procession. It´s really something to see-- scores of church officials in robes and black hoods, the KKK kind whose name I can´t recall now. It´s actually very forbidding and creepy looking, even if you keep on reminding yourself that the Spanish and the Church don´t apply those kinds of connotations to the attire. Anyways, the officials are hardly the main attraction-- that would be the enormous altar with hundreds of candles surrounding the statue of Mary. The altar is carried down the street by a dozen men, only the tips of their shuffling feet visible beneath the mammoth altar, and is followed by a surprisingly informal band playing this strange clunky music that sounds not unlike the Glockenspiel in Munich.

After that I wandered down to the Palacio Real, which the royal family doesn´t really use but is almost as friendly and accessible as the Amelianborg Palace in Copenhagen. There are stunning sculpture gardens and it´s on a huge hill that overlooks the Western suburbs, so the view all lit up at night is spectacular. I really like this business of letting anyone, even foreign tourists, be able to wander right up to the steps of a palace. I remember a story Dad once told me of a Soviet colleague of a friend who visited the US before the fall of Communism, and upon finding himself able to walk up the steps of the US Capitol wept with emotion, overwhelmed that people could get so close to what was literally the center of the government power. Of course it hasn´t felt anything quite like that, since these palaces are hardly the actual government buildings and growing up in a democracy (to say nothing of working for it) takes the wonder out of the access, but it´s a wonderfully fun and surprising thing to find a similar access in other nations.

I spent today doing more of the same, wandering about Madrid stuffing my face with paella and wine and visiting gardens and art museums. The Prado is stunning, the only museum I´ve seen that out-Louvres the Louvre (and has a hell of a lot fewer visitors). Still, my favorite was the modern art museum Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofia, which is home to Picasso´s Guernica. Seeing it live is overwhelming... nothing prepares you for how immense it it, over ten times are large as any other Picasso work I´ve seen on this trip. It´s also in shades of black and white, to allow the viewer to focus on the suffering depicted rather than the carnage, but that doesn´t mean it´s not shocking. I ws also delighted to see more of the loony Fibonacci Crocodile artist´s works, including a Fibonacci Coffee Cup. I´m so confused. Who is this guy and why do museums keep giving him wall space? Does he have dirty pictures of all the European museum curators??

Madrid has been great, but I´m off to Barcelona on the night train. Adios, chicos y chicas.

Hola

2005-03-24T12:28:00.000-08:00

I know, I know. I haven´t blogged in forever. There are valid reasons for this, though a reason is just an excuse with a cuter outfit.

1) Paris. Paris, the City of Lights, is also the City of 19.5% Value-Added-Tax and Overpriced Everything. Even in Denmark, where you´re charged for breathing Danish oxygen, Internet access is a reasonable price. Not so in Paris, where nary an inch of anything that a tourist could want has been left unmarked by the Gods of Price Gouging.

2) The Mother in Paris. When your Mommy flies all the way to France so that the two of you can see priceless works of art and get drunk at a titty show (more on that later), it seems a touch rude to spend too much time on the computer.

3) The Death. I would get sick as soon as Pam got to Europe, of course. I don´t blame Dublin and her spoils, but by the time I left the UK I was not in good shape. Paris, at least for the first two days, is a pretty blur of priceless works of art and elegant cream-colored buildings made hazy by the combination of French Tylenol and French wine. Between the coughing and the fever, along with the above circumstances, writing didn´t really seem like a dream activity.

Anyways, Paris was wonderful, and a few highlights should be mentioned. Mom wrote that we went to the Centre Pompidou, the modern art museum and cultural center, but she didnçt write just how loony and pretentiously silly it was. I have pretty skeptical feelings on any modern art created after 1970... it´s all so ponderous and yet goofy. Example: one "work" consisted of a crocodile attached to the wall, apparently pooping out the Fibonacci Sequence of numbers behind him in a trail of neon digits that covered the entire wall. I mean really. What is the artist (and I use the term loosely) possibly trying to say with that?

Also unintentionally hilarious was the Moulin Rouge show, which we decided to go to on a whim on our last night. It´s very Vegas, with insane costumes (doesn´t it hurt, being topless but with big chunky beads constantly swishing over your chest?? ow!) and ludicrous lipsynching to French classics with a healthy dose of American disco thrown in. Mom and I especially loved the extended Colonialism number, which contained both really thought-provoking social commentary and an underwater number where the girl danced with snakes. Good times!

Mom left yesterday morning, and I´m so glad she got to come. We had a fantastic time, and I feel incredibly lucky to have shared part of the trip with her.

Took the overnight train to Madrid last night, and am there now. Am trying to make myself be a Good Tourist and get back out to the Prado and cathedrals, but it´s a little hard to get motivated today. It was a rough train ride and I got sick again, plus it´s practically impossible to find a room in Madrid during Holy Week. I found a place for tonight at the fourth hostel I stoppped at, but literally nada for tomorrow. That means overnight train to Barcelona tomorrow, then two days there. Madrid is lovely, at least what I´ve seen of it so far-- winding cobblestone streets with tile streets markers, and a surprising amount of parks for such an urban, mountainous city. I´m just not feeling super touristy... truth be told, all I really want to do is watch a DVD in English and go to sleep. Nonetheless, I will be touring around with the best of them today. After all, will be home in less than a week... plenty of time for that when in DC.

Hero of the Week Award goes to The Sister, who so generously sent her iPod along to Paris for me to borrow. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I will take very good care of it, and I love your loony taste in music. I´m listening to the soundtrack from "Bat Boy: The Musical" as I type this.

The bloggeratti in the blogosphere are ALL getting guestbloggers

2005-03-21T21:28:00.000-08:00

Class, we have a new blogger today! Her name is Pam, and she comes all the way from Okemos! Doesn't that sound like a magical place?!? Be nice to her and give her your full attention, or we won't have the pizza party when I get back!

Yes, this is Pam in Paris en Printemps! Please no one expect me to be as clever as the EJ Blogette! But Paris is beautiful as they say and we have totally lucked out on the weather -- it really is printemps here -- no leaves on trees; but flowers and sunny and no jacket! yay after all that MI snow. Yesterday we did smaller museums -- Rodin and Picasso and today tackled the mighty Louvre and EJ spent hours in a lovely Shakespeare and Co old bookstore whilst Pam toured Notre Dame: Both enjoyed Centre Pompidou -- great building and very modern art with fantastic Stravinsky fountain in front -- one needs to be there; as does one to see the windows of st. Chapelle. Tomorroz Musee D'Orsay!

Em felt sick yesterday and zent to bed very early, so I enjoyed the cafe life and read my book--so beautiful: We also had fabulous pastry this afternoon -- but have not had fantastic dinner yet -- hope to later tonight!

Sorry I am not as witty as Emily and even sorrier about crazy French keyboard where q is where a should be!!!!

Hello to all of Em's friends, my office mates, and my dear, dear Steve who made this trip possible! I neve would have done this without your encouragement:

More tomorrow from Emily!

I don't swear once in this entry

2005-03-18T18:08:00.000-08:00

Dublin may have robbed me of my camera, but not of a great time. I've been doing a lot of thinking about the things that a person needs and the things a person has to have. The Good Tourist needs a camera to document every moment and monument, to Prove She Was There. I've decided that I, Emily, instead just have to have the experience. It would be nice to have the pictures, but in the long run I would be more upset if my journal or this blog was somehow destroyed, or worse, if I've never had the guts to take the trip.

And there's the boa. No one needs a green, white and orange sparkly feather boa. But I had to have it.

What a fantastic investement. That silly boa is not only the best possible souvenir of Dublin, but was the key to everyone I met yesterday during my eight-hour Temple Bar area pub crawl. St. Patty's Day in Dublin is like nothing I've ever seen before. People of every age spilling out into the streets with great broad grins, hugging strangers and dancing in the streets as they teetered from pub to pub in search of the best pint of Guinness in the city. At American celebrations, tacky holiday-themed accessories and clothes always make me ill. We've all seen too many unfortunately fleshy Americans squeezed into red, white and blue sequined and furred things. In Ireland, on St. Patrick's Day, it all seems fantastic and appropriate, since everyone from the Japanese tourists to the giggly Irish toddlers to the mayor looks like a total goober. Puffy foam hats that look like pints, Irish flags worn like capes around the nakes green-painted shoulders of teenage boys, sproingly shamrock headbands that light up when pressed, and yes, feather boas. It's all wonderfully friendly and jovial, and surprisingly family-oriented for a day basically dedicated to beer. Though the Irish dailies this morning were full of violent reports from Galway and Cork, I've seen more street fights in Adams Morgan on a typical Friday night.

Spent all day today just wandering around the city, picnicking in Stephen's Green and checking out several churches and their parks. Also went to both Trinity and UDC. Something I probably should have mentioned earlier is that in every city I go to, I try to visit the university area(s). Not only are they generally home to cheaper food and excellent record shops, but it's the best way to see residents of the city going about their daily lives. It's a nice break from being a tourist to go to a quad, or the German or Dutch or Irish equivalent of a quad, and just be another young person staring up at the sky and looking for dinosaurs in the clouds.

Also, and this is big... today I wore flipflops. You laugh, but the first day of the year where you can wear sandals is a big deal. Weather is fantastic... all the parks are full of young couples draped over each other, workers on lunch breaks enjoying the sunshine, dads playing football with their sons and yelling things like "Tommy, kick it, yeh wee girl!" Everyone is craning their necks to try to catch the intermitent rays of sunshine that break through the chunky Irish clouds, and between that and the carpet of broken glass that still covers Temple Bar I've seen no fewer than three people trip and hurt themselves today. Everyone else, though, is practically cackling, as if they can't believe their good luck.

Flight to Paris tomorrow morning, then meeting The Mother! Am beyond excited to see her, and for the fantastic adventure that we will get to share there. However, since I doubt she will want to spend any of her time in Internet cafes and we won't be staying in a hostel, I probably will not be updating so much. That's okay... at hotels, they have towels. Towels. As in, fresh sheets of cloth that they change every single day. Not the two foot long sheet of sulfur-smelling fabric that REI advertised as being "quick-dry and travel-ready."

Safe flight, Pam! See you in Paris!

An Open Letter to Fate (With Less Profanity than Previous Opening Letter)

2005-03-17T18:34:00.000-08:00

Dear Fate,

You will note that I am adressing you and not the person who stole my camera a few hours ago. I have realized now that it's futile to direct my rage at a single person whose face and heritage I cannot guess, and so have chosen to be really pissed off at you.

You, Fate, knew that I was still reeling from the grevious theft of my iPod not three fucking days ago. So were you bored? Antsy? Did you think to yourself, "Emily is having an entirely good time on her trip; let's shit all over it?"

Well, too bad, Fate. You may have wanted to ruin the best day of my trip, but I won't let you. Yes, I will miss those pictures. The Alps, the Duomo, San Marco, the sunsets in Venice, the Little Mermaid, the Notre Dame kids, the Munich kids, the lone documentation of my black eye, the Englischer Gardens, the broken sign in Belfast that read "Europa Ho," me posing with the world's largest can of Heineken, me posing like Leisel in front of the Sound of Music gazebo, the St. Patrick's Day Parade in Dublin. I congratulate you for having the foresight to sneak in just under the wire, since on Saturday I will be meeting my mother and her USB cable in Paris, and you could have instead absconded with merely the $99 digital camera and not the five weeks worth of pictures.

Oh, I was mad, don't make any mistake. When I reached down in my bag to take a picture of the eight lovely souls from London who I was drinking Guinness with in the Auld Dubliner and found it to be missing, I was so angry I had to walk around the city for two hours just to calm down to the point of not punching strangers. I mean really, Fate, what gives? Did I do something to piss you off, or are you just a vengeful bitch with a raging case of PMS?

Regardless, you will not ruin my St. Patrick's Day in Dublin. Since you so thoughtfully relieved me of my camera, I have been to three pubs, consumed a shocking amount of Guinness, performed two very unfortunate jigs and met people from five continents. And every minute of it was bloody fantastic.

So up yours, Fate. I will staple my passport and remaining credit card to my body and continue to have a rolicking good time. No doubt people would have gotten sick of me showing off my vacation pictures, anyways.

Yours in celebration,
Emily

Top of the mornin to ya

2005-03-16T05:33:00.000-08:00

Ah, that's better. Mozilla is clearly not the Internet browser of the future.

Well! Ireland, you ask. She's green.

"No!" you gasp, "surely you jest! All this time I thought that 'Emerald Isle' business was just wishful thinking! Heavens to Betsy!"

No, she is deliciously, robustly, stoutly green. I feel so silly that I'd rejoiced so much at the few delicate blades of grass I'd seen in Amsterdam. Had I known what was waiting in Ireland I'd have skipped that last days wandering Amsterdam's tiny parks and gone to see more Rembrandts.

I wish I'd had more time in Belfast, since it looks like a fascinating place. I didn't have time to do much more than take a quick walk around the University and lie to all the people I met in The Globe Pub (I'd already decided that it would not be wise to go to Belfast and mention that I worked in American politics, so I gave myself new professions-- actress, botanist, librarian-- as patrons rotated in and out of the pub). Everyone I met told me to go see the political murals on the West Side, but I didn't get in until 3:30 and the only sleep I'd had was a quick nap on the floor of the Amsterdam Airport. Rage, I learned, is an even more powerful stimulant than caffeine. Too bad I couldn't find someone to infuriate me when I was writing my thesis. (Amusing tangent to the whole iPod-theft incident: the hostel staff could see I was pissed and totally incapable of going back to sleep, so the heavily-dreadlocked girl at the front desk asked if I'd mind keeping an eye on these two guys who were on a bad trip. They turned out to go to UM and grew up in Grand Rapids, and if I recall correctly I was so out of it by 7 AM that I agreed to help them open a hostel in Amsterdam made entirely out of hemp).

Anyways... Ireland. The next trip I take will be backpacking through the UK countryside, something I loved from the moment I first saw it seven years ago and love just as powerfully now. I took the bus from Belfast to Dublin today, and spent most of it moonily staring out the window at the rolling fields in varying shades of green, from kelly to dirty to ivy to emerald; at the sheep still in their overgrown winter coats nursing their newborn lambs; at the stone ruins of castles and shepards houses, made equal with the passage of time and the presence of the trees that now grow from their floors.

When in Dublin, found my hostel, dumped my bag and set off about seeing more of the parks. Dublin is a refreshingly compact and easy-to-navigate city, even with the hordes of tourists crowding her streets and yelling things like "Jerry! All they have is Guinness, no Bud Light!" I found the one actual funny street comedian outside St. Stephen's Square, the flat elegant gathering park in the middle of the city that is big enough to hold both a wedding party and a very violent pickup rugby match. Merrion Square, the next park over, borders a lot of the government buildings and museums, and though small than St. Stephens is wilder-- more hilly, with pathways through the underbrush and taller trees to block out the sounds of the traffic passing by Trinity University.

After all the hiking through snow and it's redheaded stepchild slush, it's finally, officially spring. One of those early spring days where some people are wearing t-shirts, some are wearing fur coats and either seems equally correct. In Belfast yesterday, I almost wept when it was warm enough to walk outside without the filthy blue parka I've been wearing all day, every day for the last five weeks. Cherry blossoms and well-tended gardens of daffodils and crocuses line every corner. Big thick sheets of solid, shimmering grass. I want to wrap myself up in it like a blanket, rolling around on the peaks and valleys, the run down the cobblestone streets with my grass cape flying behind me like when Jenny and I used to play Supergirl. Of course, if I tried to lift her up with my feet now, I'd probably break a hip.

Enjoy the poetry now, because the St. Patty's Day bar crawl starts tonight! Mommy, I love you and am very excited to see you in Paris. However, before we go to the Louvre and the Moulin Rouge, I will need a nap. A long one.

And I want an Irish accent. A big thick one. I want to greet people with "love" and instead of "some" use "a wee fair bit." And doesn't "oi!" sound better and nicer than "hey!"?

An Open Letter to the Jackass Who Just Stole My iPod

2005-03-15T04:23:00.000-08:00

Dear Asshat,

Who the hell do you think you are? Do you seriously think it's okay just to walk into someone's room, notice the iPod charging in the corner, and pluck it off the adapter for a little Amsterdam souvenir? My friend, nowhere in The Flying Pig advertisements does it mention a free iPod with one night's stay.

That was a truly shitty thing to do. Maybe you thought to yourself "Oh, another iPod of another spoiled dilettante American. I deserve it more." Guess what, you bastard: You Don't. I worked my ass off at a tough job where I didn't make much money, and that iPod was the first big I'm A Working Adult Supporting Myself Purchase. You, on the other hand, are probably some bratty American traveling through Europe getting stoned on Daddy's dime, though you probably consider yourself to be a real revolutionary because you like to get high and you have a Che Guevara poster back in your dorm room at Asshole State U.

I was willing to overlook it when my cheap bracelet, lotion and the really cute but ultimately impractical for backpacking souvenir beer glass from the Heineken Experience Museum disappeared from my shelf my second night here. I am more than willing to sacrifice a little to the Backpacking Gods, and though I did not appreciate having such items simply lifted for someone else's possession, I can see how this is a cosmic payback for having such a decadent, sinfully splendid time in Amsterdam.

This, however, is way too damn much. I finally managed to drift off to sleep despite the thumping bass beat from the Happy Room under my bed, only to bolt awake an hour later in a total panic. I don't have children of my own, but the iPod is the closest thing I have to a baby here in Europe, and it must have been mother's intuition, because I knew. I just knew it was not there.

I have a sneaking suspicion it was you, Formerly Cute (Until Now) Harvard Guy. Apparently that fancy diploma didn't teach you how to commit the perfect crime. Though I was sorry that your iPod was stolen yesterday, this does not mean that the universe dictates you should own mine. If it is you FC(UN)HG, I guess I have no hope of tracking you down, since you checked out at 1:00 this morning and the train station closed at 1:00. I know, because I went there expecting to find you rawking out to my music on my iPod, and I, in a move worthy of Sarah Michelle Gellar's most ass-kickingness on Buffy, would have pulled one ear bud out of your ear and growled, "You should have taken the charger too, fucker." Then I would have kung fu-ed your wussy Ivy ass and strutted off back home to the hostel to the sound of "Rock DJ." Since this cannot happen, as you have checked out of the Flying Pig and fled to parts unknown, if you are in fact the culprit then I hope you are robbed blind on whatever train, plane or autobahn you next find yourself on and are tossed out to the side of the road, peniless and friendless. Let's throw in a helping of the mouth herpes we here at EJ Takes Europe had previously wished on others-- you seem even more deserving.

Seriously, this is not cool. I know I was getting cocky, bragging about the fun I was having and Thinking of the Deep Thoughts, but this hardly seems fair payback. Give it back. It is not yours. It is mine. Mine mine mine mine mine. And fuck you.

Regards,

Emily

Meandering

2005-03-14T20:10:00.000-08:00

I'm not feeling especially creative after my lazy day of journaling and sipping coffee in various establishments around Amsterdam. Certainly not creative enough to come up with something new for you after the twenty-seven travel journal pages I wrote in a caffeine-fueled frenzy this afternoon. Why, oh why, can I not find a job that allows me to ruminate in a cafe all day? Fie upon Joyce Maynard for single-handedly inventing the cliche of the young memoirist and ruining it for the rest of us. Well, if I can't get paid, I can at least inflict part of an entry on family and friends:

**One of the best things about traveling solo is is the ability to go wherever and do whatever you want. My last 48 hours in Amsterdam have been full of a luxurious, almost feline ease. I meander down cobblestone street and leafy alleyway bowers, twiststepping my feet to the beat of whatever pops up on my iPod. It's an incredible freedom, this decadence of time.

I have long adhered to the credo that one should try everything, except incest and folkdancing, at least once in life. That desire for experience and story potential is in large part what inspired this trip, and is in large part why I spent my first three days in Amsterdam engaging in the sorts of activities I generally avoid in the US. No one can keep up that kind of speed, though, and I'm glad I got it out of my system. It's just really not that big a deal, and to be honest, walking down the street by yourself listening to the ol' iPod and looking at canal houses is pretty much the same regardless of what substances you may or may not have consumed. Still, am glad I had the experience... one of the few times where Story Potential and the essence of the experience manage to meet in the middle.

With some things, the things I deeply care about, I want to revel in every moment and soak myself in the experience. Things like pouring myself into an especially delicious book, watching the sunset in Venice, the first "I love you's..." all occasions whose wonder and passion I doubt I can ever fully convey to another person. I don't trust my writing or storytelling enough to relay those moments without cheapening them, and so I'd rather keep them to myself.

Instead, we have Story Potential, a concept the Horne Family lives and thrives on. We may be the only family I know whose unofficial motto is "Oh hell, we'll laugh about it someday." A girl cannot live on wonder and passion alone. She needs outrageousness, silliness, insanity... the Story Potential of life. The things that are sturdy enough to be shared and enjoyed by her people, where it's okay if time and translation muddy a few details because the core of the story is easily identifiable.**

I'm telling you this because someone wrote me an email expressing surprise that I was doing so much event-based blogging, so many descriptions. Apparently, someone as self-centered and loud as I is also expected to broadcast the more intimate, tiny moments that make a cliched experience unique and priceless. Well, friends, those moments are there. I promise, they are there in spades. I don't see how I can come home from this trip the same person. But if you want me to articulate exactly how and why, too bad. I don't have the skill or the desire to put that in writing, and even if I did, I'm not sure that they need to be said. It's one thing to share your stories and life with the people in it, it's entirely another to be emotionally slutty.

So, put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Belfast tomorrow. Almost as important, laundry tomorrow. Everything I own smells like Thurston.

In which our heroine tells a gross story and uses too many parentheses

2005-03-13T20:53:00.000-08:00

Funny story for you kids. So I was in the movie theater today (I know, but it's been raining for three days and all the movies here are in English), watching The Aviator (irrelevant sidenote: who would have thought they could make Leonardo DiCaprio ugly? I still remember the audible gasp from a theater full of 13 year old girls the first time he appeared in silhouette in Romeo and Juliet). I go to the bathroom at the end of the movie, and notice that finally, my nose is starting to get better (long story, but I scraped it my second day here). In fact, it is so much better that the new skin is now pushing its way out and I have little sunburn-like peels of flesh all over my damn face. And I have probably looked this way since stopping at the Rijkmuseum bathrooms six hours ago.

So I immediately go about trying not not look like a burn victim, picking at myself like a monkey looking for fleas. And out of nowhere, I am suddenly struck with the indelible image from the third Austin Powers movie of Goldmember picking at bits of his scabby flesh, saving the especially large trophies in a compact whilst Beyonce Knowles stares on in disgust... exactly the same expression, I might add, that the other women in the bathroom are giving me. And if you will recall, Goldmember is... wait for it...

DUTCH.

So here I am, in a bathroom in Amsterdam, picking at my face in a poor and unintentional imitation of Mike Myers' Dutch alter ego. And all I can think to myself is "I'm from Holland! Isn't that weird?!?!"

Other than that, Amsterdam continues to be crazy fun. Today I took it easy and meandered from cafe to cafe until the sun finally showed her face and I bolted outside. Amsterdam is a great place to learn all the different kinds of rain... pissy, brittle rain; misty, ethereal rain; rain that turns into hail and rain that is so violent you feel like you're fighting for possession of your umbrella. I've walked through all of them in the last 72 hours.

Oh, and shout out to GW for taking the A-10 and winning the tourney! Wish I had been there, but I was too busy picking my nose in Holland.

Call off the search

2005-03-12T14:01:00.000-08:00

Yes Daddy, I'm alive. But it was sweet of you to alert Interpol to the fact that I hadn't blogged in two days. Shows you care, and my roommates at the Flying Pig totally loved the agents banging down our door early this morning.

What can I say? Most of my activities here have been that which I do not care to report on a website, much less one that is perused by my parents, friends and coworkers. Then again, you all would probably have worse stories of your own. I believe it was fellow Boomer William F. Buckley who, when asked in an interview if he had ever smoked pot, responded "I will say only that I fully participated in my generation."

Things I can and will tell you about:

Have still managed to be a good little tourist and squeeze in a sight a day. Thursday was Heineken Museum-- and yoiu thought I wouldn't experience culture in Amsterdam! Friday was Van Gogh Museum-- Libby, you were so right, that was def. the way to go. Today, Saturday, will be Anne Frank House.

I realize that given my previous pace, one attraction a day sounds pretty lazy. However, it took me 48 hours just to learn how to walk back to my hostel. It's so ironic that Amsterdam has become the drug capital of Europe, because I can't think of a city less well-suited to guiding spaced-out stoners home. First off all, there are no straight streets. Everything is in rings around canals so even when you think you've been heading straight north for the last 45 minutes, you suddenly find yourself back in the square you started, only now it's 4 am, your buzz is decidedly worn off and your feet hurt. A lot. Then you look up to the street signs to try to figure out when you went wrong, and the streets all have names like Neueiuewue Hoogenboomstraaat. Amsterdam is the first city I've seen where a decent afternoon's entertainmant can be had pointing at a street sign and giggling. Even the totally sober tourist can't supress a smile as she struggles to figure out where the hell she needs to go.

Arcade Fire concert last night was great! Matt, thanks again for the tip. They did indeed drum on each other's heads (as well as pretty much every other surface onstage), but they are also multi-instrumental-- of the seven members, four of them played the accordian. How can you NOT rawk out with stats like that? Horrible opening band, but Arcade Fire themselves... totally worth it.

This is so exactly what I needed. In Berlin, I knew that I need a break from being the Culture Vulture I've been so far, and that there was fun to be had in the city. However, the city was so huge and getting anywhere took 45 minutes, so it just wasn't worth it to do solo. Here, it's impossible not to have fun. I've been having so much of it, I didn't even really notice that yesterday was my first day of rain on the entire trip (which in and of itself is pretty amazing).

So, yes. More fun to be had. Onwards and upwards.

I. Love. Amsterdam.

2005-03-10T20:37:00.000-08:00

And in the immortal words of Forrest Gump, that's all I have to say about that.

No longer the jelly donut

2005-03-09T11:42:00.000-08:00

Quick update-- Berlin great city, but like New York, I find myself at odds with what to do with her. You can´t really relax in Berlin, especially when it´s 30 degrees and rainy out. Am also totally museumed out. Four museums in under 48 hours is too damn much, especially on top of the pace I´ve been keeping this whole trip.

There´s a lot more to it than that, but nothing bad, and my train leaves in 40 minutes so you don´t get to hear about it. Neener neener.

Onto Amsterdam. Will be there until flight to Belfast next week, maybe including a day trip to Delft and/or Haarlem. Time to plant some vacation roots for a little bit... am tired of meeting new people every night and having the Exact Same Conversations with every new face. Familiar faces and the beginnings of insider jokes are def. in order.

Plus other stuff too, but again, you don´t get to know about that either.

I am a jelly donut

2005-03-07T23:48:00.000-08:00

So, Berlin. But first, Odense and Hamburg.

I didn´t spend much time in either one. Odense is a small town in Denmark that is mostly (OK, only) visited by tourists because it is Hans Christian Andersen´s birthplace. It is also the only place in Denmark that has trains to Hamburg where you don´t have to reserve a seat and pay a Eurail supplement, so in the interest of saving money, I decided to stop over there. Denmark, by the way, is the most ridiculously expensive nation in the world. I finally realized that´s why they have so many babies... they need to sell their offspring in order to afford groceries for their aging parents. You don´t even want to know what I paid for a Big Mac in Odense, though I´ll tell you that it was more offensive than that last sentence.

So Odense. Denmark, like Germany, is forbidden by the government from opening shops on Sundays (though Copenhagen has like six Sundays a year when they look the other way), and so in seeing the train station and the HC Andersen Museum, I saw pretty much everything Odense had to offer in under two hours. The Museum is hilarious... all dedicated to the life, and not the work of, the man. Nowhere can you read the story of The Ugly Duckling or The Little Match Girl, but you learn more about the author than you ever wanted to know. There´s one especially loony display of short Q&A´s that were presented to him at some point, revealing deep thoughts such as his favorite color (blue) and shoe size (something v. large, esp. for 19th century). It was like one of those 5-question celebrity answer columns in Cosmo: "Turnons: A man with a sense of humor who loves his mother!"

Anyways, made it out of Odense and onto Hamburg, which I don´t really feel equipped to comment on, seeing as how I only saw it in the dark and from Hauptbanhof to the hostel. However, the hostel was fine and in an area full of döner kebab shops, so that was lovely.

(A quick diversion on the topic of döner kebabs. The Germans do many things better than the Americans (public transportation, intentional mass killings of various peoples, etc.), but the best thing they have done is embrace the cheap wonder that is the döner kebab. It´s a flap of grilled bread filled with roasted pork or chicken, veggies, sauce and hot pepper, available in greasy shops that line the streets of hostels and train stations for €3 or less. Fantastic. When is the US going to get on the döner kebab train?)

Going to the train station early this morning, however, I was struck by how much north Hamburg looks like Washington. Seriously, the S-Bahn to Hauptbanhof could have been a drive through Adams-Morgan. Exactly the same apartment buildings, shops, bars, patches of park, bars, everything. V. surreal.

Talk about surreal, though... if Hamburg is Adams-Morgan, then East Berlin is Rosslyn. No joke, I got lost coming back from the Judisches Museum tonight and found myself in the middle of four identical office/apartment buildings with Tex-Mex fern restaurants on the ground floor and masses of cloudy sky surrounding them, as they were by far the tallest buildings in the neighborhood. I guess it´s not surprising for a city area where all of the architecture has been built in the last 15 years, but I never expected to recognize suburban Virginia in the middle of Europe.

So Berlin... I was on a Wall Hunt all afternoon, and to my utter distress, the one section I found was just awful. Painted white and less than a city block long, it lines the street that used to hold Checkpoint Charlie, the main checkpoint for travel between East and West Berlin and the sight of many faceoffs between Soviet and American security, to say nothing of the Germans who have died or been captured there trying to escape. A private German citizen has created a bizzare Checkpoint Charlie Museum, with really odd exhibits in poorly translated English that jump all over time and space-- one second you´re in 1949 East Berlin, then you´re in 1955 Selma Alabama learning about Dr. King, then it´s 1989 in Prague, then 1974 in West Berlin. The one exhibit there that was updated is the list of celebrities who have visited the museum... and it is clearly important that we know of Calista Flockhart has been patronizing the Museum. That is, after all, what defeating Communism is all about.

The outside is even worse... awful tourist shops selling teeny pieces of the Wall and fake East German uniforms, and one especially awful establishment called "Snack Point Charlie´s." I´ve seen some tacky stuff on this trip, and you know I love kitsch, but there´s a time and a place! People died in the last twenty years trying to escape this regime, and now it´s being so crassly marketed. I left feeling sick to my stomach, and pretty ashamed to be a tourist.

Luckily, the Judisches Museum of Berlin proved to live up to the hype. It´s a stunning building, created by a German-American Jew (who also designed the winning World Trade Center tribute), and except for the Garden of the Exile, there are no right angles anywhere in the building. It constantly forces you off kilter and to be aware of your surroundings... not a museum you could drift through, even if you wanted to. Two rooms in particular really hit me hard, though.

The Holocaust Tower is three-story vaccum, a completely empty, windowless concrete tower that is pitch black even in the day. It´s designed to honor the camp residents, who could hear life passing by them on the trains but could never see it. I was in there by myself, and it was horrifying... you never realize how claustrophobic absolute darkness can be until you are sandwiched in it. I don´t believe in ghosts, and of course there would hardly be ghosts of camp victims in downtown Berlin, but I swear I wasn´t alone in there. Even able to hear the cars whoosing on the street outside, I don´t remember the last time I felt so scared. I made myself stay as long as I could, trying to pay my respects, but I couldn´t last more than two minutes before I scurried out, slamming the door shut behind me and heading back to the exhibits.

The second was in what they call Memory Voids, long diagonal corriders completely empty so that the visitors absorb what they have seen and what they will see. In the largest of these, also three stories, an Israeli artist had an art installation that was all abstract faces cut into thick sheets of metal, scattered a few layers thick around what must have been a half-acre of floor. The artist requested that visitors walk on the installation, and so I tried to honor that request. As soon as I put my foot down on the edge of one of these faces, the squeaky crunchy sound of it echoed off the stone walls and ceilings, reverberating back to me tenfold. I looked around to make sure I was still alone, convinced that I´d committed some horribel faux pas and that armed and angry museum curators would surround me at any minute. Apparently, this is exactly what was supposed to happen, because no one showed up and I remained alone in the cavernous room. Wincing, I managed a few steps, fighting the urge to apologize to the inanimate faces I was treading on and telling myself that my discomfort was exactly what was expected. I couldn´t continue though, and left the Memory Void almost as quickly as I had the Tower.

From all this, you might think I hate Berlin. Not at all... she´s an unusual and challenging city, still trying to figure out what she should be. It´s a strange mix of old and new, contrition and progress, of trying to join together concepts that usually don´t mix. And, just in case I didn´t feel at home, Berlin also has a silly animal statue public art program (Buddy Bear Berlin, or BBB if you´re feeling abbrevi-licious).

Wow... didn´t mean this to be so long. But much was needing to be said. Tomorrow am avoiding all things WWII, genocidal and/or Jewish and going to a bunch of art museums and a German- language production of one of my favorites plays, LaBute´s "The Shape of Things." Should be interesting to see something I know well performed in an unfamiliar language. So, hopefully next time I will do a better job of showing you the things I like about this strage, dynamic city.

Friendly old girl that you are

2005-03-06T11:28:00.000-08:00

My last day in Munich was maybe the best one yet. I overslept (as one is wont to do after trying to outdrink a herd of Australian backpackers), woke up just in time to check out of my hostel, and tromped down to the Neue Pinothek, the more modern of Munich´s main art museums. It was the first museum I´ve been to that didn´t´t buy my "Oh, my hostel made me leave my ISIC card as a deposit" excuse for trying to buy a student ticket without ID, and so I had to pay the full fee for both the regular and special exhibits. Totally worth it, though... it´s an amazing collection of Western European art from 1700 on through Klimt, and has one of Van Gogh´s Sunflowers (which I sat staring at in awe for about ten minutes). It also plays home to two rooms of a movement which I can´t remember now, but it´s a German 18th century religious movement in painting designed to simplify technique so as to better glorify God. In comparison to the portraiture that (Reynolds, etc.) that proceeded it and the landscape and Impressionist works that followed, this movement looked like paint-by-numbers. Just goes to show what happens when you use God as a reason to temper artistic expression (ahem, Bush, *cough*). The special exhibit was even better... two Manets, including the Follies Bergere, with X-rays showing their studied and alternative version painted underneath. So cool. OK, I´m an art nerd.

I had a big bowl of bouillabaisse in the Viktualmarkt (don´t you just love the name), where an incredibly nice German father and daughter pair asked me to join them. They spoke very good English, and were absolutely wonderful... we spent the next two hours talking and they insisted that I stay with them during Oktoberfest. We even set a place to meet (Augustineskellar, the second keg at noon on the 24th of September).

After I bought a jar of pesto and a loaf of bread for my overnight train to Copenhagen, I spent the rest of the afternoon tromping around Englischer Gardens again. It was just starting to become spring in Munich when I was there. Everyone I met told me this has been the snowiest winter they could remember (I have such great timing), but in the four days I was there I could feel the rise in temperature and note how the streets were starting to de-ice themselves. It was wonderful. Hard to describe how beautiful the afternoon sunset is as it hits the trees and pushes through to the snowdrifts, then bounces off the friendly dogs romping at every corner.

Overnight train to Copenhagen was great.. totally the way to go. I shared a 6 person compartment with one very quiet but friendly Danish-German woman who was visiting relatives. One loaf of bread, one rocking train and a few bottles of Augustiner and I was gone for the night.

Copenhagen... it´s delightful. I know that´s cliched as all hell, but it´s the best way to describe it. Although, "cold as balls" would also work. Copenhagen, for those of you who area´t up on your Danish geography, is on an island pushing into the freezing cold sea, and walking along her coastline the winds cuts through you. After I checked into my hostel yesterday I spent the whole day walking around, and by the time I teetered back nine hours later my thigh muscles were so stiff I could barely walk.

The cold is worth it, though. You can easily go all over Copenhagen in a day, and she is indeed a friendly old girl. Some notes about the Danes:
1) They all speak English flawlessly, and most also speak Swedish and/or German as well.
2) They are an incredibly friendly and social people. They say the European birthrate is dropping, but I saw babies, babies, babies everywhere yesterday. Little chubby-cheeked Danish babies being pushed about in prams (not strollers-- the better to show off your adorable Danish baby), and chunky Danish toddlers wrapped up in seventeen layers of Goretex merrily running into snowdrifts and bouncing right back.
3) They are all ridiculously good-looking. Seriously, I have never seen so many beautiful people in one place. Even in McDonalds, all the women looked like supermodels. I´ve never felt so short or so brown in my life. While other royals across Europe are looking increasingly horsey and inbred every day, the Danish royal family looks like they stepped out of a toothpaste commercial.

So, in this city full of happy families and beautiful people, I went everywhere yesterday. Saw the Resistance Museum, which chronicles the Danish efforts to help the Jews and sabotage the Nazis under occupation. Saw the Little Mermaid statue (other cities have gods, generals and kings-- the Danes have a mermaid-- isn´t that great?). Saw Amelianborg Palace, where you can easily walk right up to the front door and practically knock on it before the furry-hatted guards so much as bat an eye. Saw a military parade outside Nyhavn, the candy-colored docks that formerly held tattoo and sex shops for the sailors and now host some of the yummiest seafood restaurants know to humankind. Saw Christiana, which is an old fortress taken over by a commune of hippies in the seventies, and now is a kind of sad, burnt-out monument to the former glory of Damning the Man (although it still technically exists as a free state, which means the Danish government pretty much has looked the other way as Danish teenagers buy all sorts of illicit substances there). Saw miles of cobblestone streets lined with expensive shops and UK pubs, including one block that included both a bar called The Dubliner and a Big Slice pizza shop, and I felt wonderfully at home. After removing my stiff, frozen self back to the hostel, I fell asleep watching The Empire Strikes Back in English with Danish subtitles ("stormtrooper" in Danish is "stormtropper").

So, all that seen, I´m going to Hans Christian Andersen´s hometown today, then onto Hamburg for the night. Denmark has been great to me though. For some reason, wandering the streets here I keep thinking "Holy cow, I´m in Denmark." Maybe it´s because it´s not a place a lot of Americans talk about or get to, but it seems an oddly profound realization.

I... am... the Luckiest

2005-03-03T23:57:00.000-08:00

Pam-- you may regret giving out this blog address to your various and assorted colleagues.

Love Munich, esp. the in-hostel bar. Am so lucky to be traveling in off-season, where can land best hostels asily and without pre-bookig, despite snow on grounds of gardens.

Love Nathan the crazy Australian, who insisted on sketching my portrait in the hostel bar. Despite his degree in graphic design, am fairly convinced I did more artistic work at The Discovery Center whilst in preschool.

Lov the lovely bar, which serves up cheap Augustiner (made cheaper by the fact that David, my Swiss friend, is ow the new bartender) and is, at the moment, inexplicably playing Dave Matthews Band " Christmas Song," possibly THE most downer song produced in the last ten years.

Love Munich. One of those wonderful nights where one feels on top of the world, as if she is the most fortunate person ever to walk the Earth, to see the sights and meet the people that make life worth exploring. For all the fears of irresposibility and dropping off the face of the planet (at least as is known to those around me), tonight is a Validating Night. That I did something wnderful in doing this compleely irresponsible, impetuous trip.

Perhaps this is all the effect of tipsy-blogging and Augustiner. More likely, though, is this is all the effect of, for once, taking a big dramatic chance on the unknown, and having it work out spectacularly well.

Defending your life

2005-03-03T19:52:00.000-08:00

Mlah. Munich fantastic. I really need to learn German, so that someday I can get me a work visa, bartend in Vienna and take many, many vacations to Bavaria.

Well, perhaps not quite that far. But believe you me, every day I spend in Europe I kick myself that I didn´t study abroad so that I could be a CF. Clearly, I was on crack in college.

I didn´t really feel much up to going out last night-- two consecutive nights at biergartens plus a day at a concentration camp will do that to a girl. However, that did leave me able to get up early today, use my lovely Venetian blowdryer and feel like a girl for the first time in a week. Most of today was spent at the Residenz, which was the seat of Bavarian power for almost 400 years. It´s an enormous, sprawling complex with an incredible variety of styles, everything from Renaissance to German Rococco to nineteenth-century austerity (at least in comparison to the ridiculous, gilded Rococco). While the rooms are beautiful, the tour itself is saddening... virtually the entire palace was flattened during the war, and though they´ve done a very thorough and painstaking renovation, you can´t help but notice the gleaming white plaster walls and empty wooden ceiling panels where glorious frescoes resided sixty years ago. If possible after Dachau yesterday, it made me hate the Third Reich even more... for a regime that claimed to exist solely to glorify Germany, they have a great burden to bear for the ruin of her history. It was a sobering reminder that people are not the only casualties of war.

A Note on politics (and by the way, that is not a typo, and if you knew that then you are a Tool with a capital T). This is all totally irrelevant to my daily adventures, but it´s something that even 4,000 miles from home I can´t seem to avoid. As soon as people find out that I´m a) American and b) work in politics, they guide the conversation in that direction. I didn´t come to Europe to talk about George W. Bush, but he is as constant a travel companion as my gray wool messenger bag. Luckily I tend to be on the same side of all issues, but I am constantly called on to defend the actions of Americans. When my Dachau tour group was introducing themselves (we had two Australians, one Indian, one of my Canadian friends, our German guide and me), I said my name, that I loved in Washington DC and worked in politics. The expressions on their faces made me wonder if I´d spaced out and said I burnt puppies for a living. "For Democrats!" I hastily added. "John Kerry?"

"Ah, yes, very good!" "Phew!" "You did seem nicer than a politician," (this from the Indian businessman). Anyway, not much of a point to that, but interesting nonethelesss.

What else...? Also wandered around the Englischer Garderns on the east side of Munich. I´ve often wished on this trip that I was traveling in the summer, but I really wished it in the Gardens. I can´t imagine how stunning the must be... think the Arb meets Central Park. Carol, I could totally see you lounging about the field pretending to study and moonily looking up at the clouds instead. Next trip, you best come along!

Matt, thank you so much for the concert listings!! I can´t make Bright Eyes tonight, but am def. going to Arcade Fire in Amsterdam. And I wouldn´t say 10 out of 10... you sneak in there once or twice yourself ;)

Munich

2005-03-02T15:59:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the lack of witty headlines. Today I went to Dachau, and so am not feeling particularly punchy.

What did I think of Dachau, you ask? Well, for one, it is shockingly close to an adorable small town that is itself twenty minutes from a major city. One always imagines that the Nazis secreted the camps in the sparest countryside, far from prying eyes and with a lone train track as a link to civilization. Not so... the townspeople of Dachau clearly had ideas of what was going on. Apparently the American liberators forced the townspeople to tour the camp and see the bodies, then made the local farmers bury those that died in the weeks following liberation.

The camp itself is spare, and somehow smaller than I had imagined. Survivors had come back in 1955 to be horrified by the sight of Czech refugees living inside the barracks, where the Bavarian government had placed them. When the council of survivors managed to get control of the camp five years later, the first thing they did was destroy the barracks so that no one would ever live in the grounds again. One was rebuilt to serve as a reminder, and the rooms were recreated to reflect the different periods of the camp, but most of the grounds are now just a flat, barren wasteland, with only the foundations of the barracks peeking out from the snow.

It was incredibly powerful, particularly the crematoria and the gas chamber. I don´t even much remember touring them, though I have the pictures now. It was just that overwhelming.

I´m sorry that this has to be my first post from Munich, because I love the city. Carol, I keep imagining you as I trouce down the streets, especially yesterday when I walked up Ludwigstraß to the university. Right by the church there´s a great cafe with an outdoor garden where I stopped yesterday-- I saw it and knew that you´d been there somehow. It just felt like a Carol place (actually, it felt like a Bavarian Rondezvous). Am I right? Also did the Deutsch Museum, which is like the Louvre of old mechanical equipment. There´s over fifty rooms and 17 kilometers of exhibits, some of which are so outdated that they have maps still showing East Germany. It was great tho, and should you ever have any questions about coal minin in Bavaria, I can totally hook you up.

The people have been fantastic so far. Last night I had one of those great backpacking nights where you meet a crowd of international strangers at a bar and wind out stumbling out four hours later with a journal full of Australian and Swiss email addresses and a camera full of pictures of you clinking litres with unfamiliar faces. Natch, had to do Hofbrauhas last night, and did Augustineskellar the night before. Tonight will, I´m sure, be more of the delicious same.

Munich seems to be a stopping place for a lot of people doing world tours. Most of the other tourists I´ve met start their stories with "So when I´m in Tanzania..." or "My brother who backpacked through Cambodia..." I´m like "Yeah... I saw... urm, Florence?" A lot of the people who have leisure to travel in the winter are the ones who do it for a living, hopping from place to place, maybe working in a bar or on a farm for a while to make some extra cash. It´s a totally different lifestyle than what we were all expected to live when we grew up, and scarily intoxicating. I don´t know if I coul live this lifestyle for years at a time, but I´m beginning to see how people do and why they´d want to. The world is certainly a hell of a lot bigger than I´d ever realized before this trip, but also seems infinetely more managable.

In the spirit of flying free and going where the wind takes me, I´ve decided to change my itinerary. With leaving the Czech Republic so early, I have an extra five days unplanned. I was in Hauptbanhof looking at the schedule and thinking about where to go, when I saw an overnight train called Hand Christen Andersenban. Immediately, the theme from that movie (you remember? "Oh wonderful, wonderful Coooooh-pen-haaaaagen, friendly old girl that you are!") popped in my head and refused to leave. So what the hell and why not? Two more days in Munich, then Denmark!

This feels like a weird post... maybe it´s just the weird keyboard I´m using. Well, I´m alive and happy and excited, with the travel bug fully restored. No worries!

Here: you want funny from Munich, read Family Guy quotes from imdb.com:

German Tour Guide: You vill find more on Germany's contributions to ze arts in ze pamphlets ve have provided.
Brian Griffin: Yeah, about your pamphlet... uh, I'm not seeing anything about German history between 1939 and 1945. There's just a big gap.
Tour guide: Everyone vas on vacation. On your left is Munich's first city hall, erected in 15... Brian Griffin: Wait, what are you talking about? Germany invaded Poland in 1939 and...
Tour Guide: We were invited. Punch vas served. Check vit Poland.
Brian Griffin: You can't just ignore those years. Thomas Mann fled to America because of Nazism's stranglehold on Germany.
Tour guide: Nope, nope. He left to manage a Dairy Queen.
Brian Griffin: A Dairy Queen? That's preposterous.
Tour guide: I vill hear no more insinuations about the German people. Nothing bad happened. Sie werden sich hinsetzen. Sie werden ruhig sein. Sie werden nicht beleidigen Deutschland. (You will sit down. You will shut up. You will not insult Germany.) [throws his hand up in a Hitler salute]
Brian Griffin: ...uh, is that a beer hall?
Tour guide: Oh yes, Munich is renowned for its historic beer halls.

Better off Red

2005-02-28T20:07:00.000-08:00

Iron Curtain lifted, my ass. It took me ten hours to get from Prague to Munich today. That´s right kids... including one very scary episode where the entire train was ordered to disembark in the middle of the Czech countryside. As this particular corner of the world does not have a good history when ordering en masse train emptying, and my trusty Eurail guide said nothing about it, I was not pleased. However, we were simply ordered onto another train, the second of the four trains I would eventually ride today. Whatever, I made it out.

As for Prague itself... you know, cities are like people. Some you click with, some you don´t, and sometimes the timing is just off. It was so cold, and the people in my hostel turned out to be kind of creepy (all guys, most of whom had just come from Amsterdam and hadn´t gotten the memo that the former Eastern Bloc looks quite more harshly upon marijuana consumption), and reports from other backapckers were that Cesky Krumlv was pretty but that everything was shut down. I think I´d like to give Prague another chance when it´s warm and I´m with someone else... solo, in the dead of winter, was just too much.

Despite those qualms, it was nice. I got caught up on sleep like whoa (a hostel with such fluffy comforters can´t be all bad), and between naps did get out to see the city. Sunday morning I trekked up to the old Jewish quarter of the city, which Hitler ironically preserved with the intent of keeping it as a reminder of an extinct people. Snow had fallen overnight, and it was pretty early , about 8 AM, so the hordes of tourists had yet to descend and the nearby rows of expensive shops yet to open. I basically had the city to myself.

Between naps, and telling my hostelmates that I would not be available to bail them out of a formerly Communist jail, I also made it across the Charles Bridge to the Castle (there, Libby!) which is of course stunning. Prague really is a gorgeous city. I can´t imagine how much it must have changed in the last few years, and how its citizens don´t seem to notice. I walked down the streets past Gucci and Armani, wondering how this could be.

Must go-- time up. Love to all!

Praha, you got some 'splainin' to do

2005-02-28T10:43:00.000-08:00

Prague and I are not getting along so well. I had feared this might be the case when upon arriving at Sudbanhoff in Vienna and trying to purchase a ticket to Prague (the Czech Republic isn't on Eurail), the horrible hag tried to ring me up, found my credit card denied for some reason, and to my absolute horror, cut it up in front of my eyes. She didn't speak English well, refused to find me someone who did, and wouldn't let me use her phone to talk to the Visa people (M&D-- it was my account, not the joint one I have with the family). Now, despite the fact that I have plently of money in that account, I am unable to charge anything, and who knows if I will be able to get a new one, as backpacking does not exactly lend itself to the reception of packages. Awful woman. I hope she gets mouth herpes.

Upon arriving in Prague, I managed to get crowns from the ATM (thank goodness she didn't leap through the barrier and hack that up too), buy a subway ticket and find my train without too much trouble. As soon as I got on, a plainclothes policeman saw my backpack (AKA easy mark) and demanded to see my ticket. "This no good!" said. "This child ticket. You pay fine. Four hundred crowns."

"But sir, my guidebook said if I have a student ID I get the discounted ticket!" I pulled out my passport, GWorld, report from my second-grade teacher, everything I had to prove that I was in no way an evil Westerner trying to cheat a developing nation of three cents.

"No good. You pay." Bastard. Totally unflexible, despite a kind Czech man next to me who attempted to intercede on my behalf. I shoved the 400 at him (about half the money I had just withdrawn) and bitterly muttered a variety of curses under my breath.

It's that I mind having to pay a fine, and it's not like it was expensive (400 kC = about $16). But it's the principle of the thing-- I was the only one on the train whose ticket he asked to see, because I was clearly a tourist. Well, glad to know I did my part to aid the Westernization of Prague. I hope they dedicate a McDonalds to all the ripped-off American backpackers.

Finally found my hostel, still incredibly raw from the events of the day and my sadness at leaving Vienna. The people in my dorm were nice enough, and after a quick trip to the grocery store around the corner we made plans to go out to some club later that night. I headed in for a quick disco nap, but to my horror, woke up five hours later. I jumped out of my top bunk with a bit too much enthusiasm for someone only just awake, slipped on the second rung of the ladder, and broke my fall with my right eye on the next bed.

So let's recap: in the last 24 hours, I have had my credit card destroyed, gotten fined on the subway and given myself a truly sexy black eye. In Eastern Europe, looking like a domestic abuse victim is probably a real turn-on-- I expect to get many proposals of marriage today.

At least my hostel has a nice puppy.

Oh yeah, Prague is pretty, gorgeous architecture, blah blah blah. It's Sunday so everything is closed, and I can only see out of one eye, so you'll forgive me if I'm not raving about it just now.

I got potential

2005-02-26T02:35:00.000-08:00

I have never fancied myself to be a very "cool" person. In fact, I am a pretty big nerd. I had a perm for four years. I have been known to judge the worth of parties on the number of Congressmen present. An overlarge amount of songs on my iPod include the words "Original Cast Recording."

However, tonight I saw The Killers at an abandoned slaughterhouse in industrial Vienna.

There just might be hope for me after all.

And yes, they were amazing. I had given up hope of ever getting a ticket when I went down there yesterday and the incredibly judgmental Goth girl working the ticket booth told me not even to bother, they had been sold out for weeks (thought the point of Goth is that you are freed of the judgments and strictures of contemporary society-- apparently I commited a major faux pas by not packing my leather pants and whip). Today though, as I ate my dinner of street vendor bratwurst in the shadow of Stephensdom, "Mr. Brightside" came on my iPod and I took it as a sign that I had to try. I UBahned down to the burnt out neighborhood, waited outside for five minutes, and after speaking broken German to a few 14-year-olds I was the proud owner of one ticket formerly belonging to their friend who was too sick to go. It was incredible. Just awesome. Go immediately and buy Hot Fuss. They've already been on The OC... time is running out before they're made into the next Maroon 5 against my and their will.

I don't want to leave Vienna! This is the best city I've ever been, and if I spoke decent German, I would seriously consider packing up and living here for a while. All the bad things about Austria that'd I'd heard (people are rude and anti-Semitic, there's no young people, the countryside is boring) have all turned out to be patently the opposite. It's in Austria that friendly strangers have started conversations with me on the street, as opposed to in Italy where they glared at or propositioned me. It's stunningly beautiful, full of art and young people. I could live here forever and never get bored.

A few things I have learned in Austria:

* German for Pre-Cambrian is "Pre-Cambrien"
* It is not wise to headbang in a mosh pit whilst wearing a 20-pound messenger bag.
* But it is damn fun to try.
* The Viennese Actionism school of art is to be avoided right before lunch, as it is essentially grant-funded public defecation and self-mutilation involving sheep, axes and an unfortunate amount of naked middle-aged German flesh.
* As far as the Austrians are concerned, the Hapsburgs are still in power and always will be.
* An afternoon spent with a novel, a journal and a cup of coffee is the best way possible to pass the day.

Okay, I already knew that last one.

Onto Praha! She's got a lot to live up to. Let's hope the Czech Republic is up to the challenge.

feels like a flood in my hair

2005-02-24T00:53:00.000-08:00

Who would have thought that I would wind up vastly preferring Austria to Italy? Maybe it's just that I'm in a routine and used to the lifestyle now, but I can't even tell you what a difference there has been between the two countries so far.

I have a sneaky suspicion that my love for Austria is directly linked to the good people of the Notre Dame London program. Three of the five I met in Salzburg (well, really of the thirty I met in Salzburg) were staying in The Wombat also, and they introduced me to another group of four guys from the program. The eight of us did Vienna in great style yesterday, walking into town (no matter how much I tried to sell them on the wonder that is the UBahn, Vienna's subway, they wouldn't hear of buying tickets) and starting with the Natural History Museum. After all of the art, churches and palaces I've seen so far on this trip, it was unexpectedly and incredibly fun to look at dead marmosets and learn the German word for "Pre-Cambrian." From there, we trekked to the Hofburg (the main palace of the Austrian monarchy) and checked out the Treasures. Oh, to have been a Hapsburg, so start life swaddled in gold-threaded baby blankets, progressing towards an adulthood filled with scepters, crowns and the most stunning robes I've ever seen. The Treasure Palace also had some amazing relics, including the tooth of John the Baptist and a surprising large piece of the cross.

After greasy pizza, two of our party decided to see the State Apartments in the Hofburg. Since I've seen Hapsburg state apartments in two Austrian cities already, I felt like I had a pretty good idea of what was in store. I led the rest of our group to Cafe Central, where Lenin, Trotsky and Freud have all been frequent guests at one point or another. It's the Mecca of coffeehouses... domed red and gold ceilings with live piano, thick padded chairs and incredibly decadent lattes. We spent a good two hours yakking about college (why didn't I go to a school that threw more theme parties?), the Catholic Church and what we thought of Vienna.

*Timeline note-- I don't remember when in the day we saw it, but it bears mentioning. Vienna does have a WWII monument, right by the Opera House in the Museum Quarter. It's a multi-part sculpture representing different elements of WWII, memorializing those killed in the camps, civilians killed in the bombing raids and the reformation of Austria in 1945. The one I found most powerful, though, was the monument to the Viennese Jews after Kristallnacht. Apparently the Nazis made the Jews scrub the streets clean after the destruction, and to remember that humiliation there is an abstract statue that looks like a small boulder covered in barbed wire. As you circle around it, the boulder evens out to show the face of an elderly man bent down towards the street, with a heartbreaking expression of absolute pain on his face. Next to him are the outlines of a bucket and a brush. I'm getting upset just even thinking about it again. Of course, the monument wasn't created until 1988, and nowhere in the info for the monument does it use the words "genocide," "Kristallnacht" or "concentration camp." The Austrians, like Americans, seem to fear damning nouns and have become masters of the referential euphemism.***

After coffee, we got in line for our Opera tickets. We totally scabbed out and got the last eight for the Orchestra level, and so had a basically unobstructed view of the Viennese opera for 3 euro. Mwaaaah. We saw Aida, and it was an interesting production-- very stark and enormous sets and costumes, pretty uninteresting staging (though beautiful ballets)and stunning lead performances. The Aida was a wonderful actress with a gorgeous, rich soprano and she brought incredible emotion to her part. I've never been the world's biggest opera fan (preferring the easier delights of musical theater), but she was so powerful she brought tears to my eyes. Thank God we got to do that. Talk about things on life's To-Do List.

We were all pretty zonked after the Opera... two museums and then standing in a crowded pit for three hours will do that to you. This was also the first whole day I'd spent having constant conversation in almost two weeks, and I was shocked by how much it both energized me and wiped me out. I constantly felt like there were more things to say and talk about, but was too damn tired to find the words. So after a cold walk back down Mariahilferstrauss and a hearty dinner of schnitzel and fries, we all passed out cold without so much as a stop in the hostel bar.

The lovely NDers all left this morning, and let me add Will, Chris, Ryan and John to the list of people to thank for an excellent time. Thanks for letting me tag along and for all the great company. I wish I was stopping by London this trip!

Today... well, it's snowing! A helluva lot. It's almost 11 now and I haven't even left the hostel. Hey, they have heaters and free tea here, don't judge. I think today will be picking up my Killers tickets, the big art museum, and sitting in a cafe writing until my hand cramps up. Maybe some Jane Austen too. Italian and Austrian bookstores generally have small English section with only the classics and bestsellers, so instead of reading Bridget Jones for the 195th time I'm working my way through the 19th century English masters. Finished Vanity Fair on the train to Vienna, now onto Pride and Prejudice (which, yes, I have never actually read in its entirety).

Much love to all of you.

To the Folks in East Lansing

2005-02-22T20:14:00.000-08:00

Not much to add, but found myself with time to get online. Am in Vienna now, and it is, as expected, ridiculously beautiful. Mom, Jenny, I see why you both still think of it so fondly. I'm here for 4 days, and am glad I picked here to settle and nest for a bit.

Got in late this afternoon, so haven't seen much yet. Did have time to get to Stephensdom, but it was slushy and gray and the cathedral was very dim (though still looming and stunning), so I'll be returning on a sunny day to get the full effect. Other than that, have just been wandering around. Downtown Vienna is strange... its as though someone plopped cathedrals and palaces in the middle of Manhattan. It's the first city I've seen in Europe with actual office buildings, with bored-looking people in suits entering and exiting them across the street from massive Gothic spires. The one thing I was kind of disgusted to see was the ads on Stephensdom. There are massive billboards on one of the spires where they're doing construction work, nothing too vulgar thank God (unlike the ridiculous Italian ads for Twix bars that feature a naked dominatrix handcuffed to a bed) , but still! It's an ancient cathedral, not a freeway overpass! I guess it's important income, especially since entry to the church is free (a rarity for the big cathedrals in Europe) but tha doesn't mean we have to like it.

Again, am at the party hostel of the city (The Wombat, in case you were wondering). This off-season traveling is fantastic... I haven't had a problem finding a bed, and always at the best and most popular hostels. This would never happen in July.

I feel badly for not saying this before: thank you for your comments and advice! I always look forward to seeing what you've left me to nibble on in the Comments section. Especially thank you to the good people of the MSU Admissions Office, to whom I dedicate this abbreviated but typo-free entry.

Now if anyone knows where the hell Arena City in Vienna is, that would be excellent. I'm supposed to see The Killers there Friday, and no one in Vienna seems to have heard of it or them.

Love Salzburg

2005-02-22T01:57:00.000-08:00

Love the 17 archbishops of Salburg, who created a stunning fortress that overlooks this beautiful snowdusted city, where I spent three glorious hours roaming this morning after a brutal uphill climb. The torture chamber, armaments and views of the city are not to be believed.

Love the crazy driver Steve for the Sound of Music tour, who, even though he hit a car belonging to someone who was clearly a descendant of an SS officer whilst on the tour, managed to retain a sense of dignity and provide us with fun trivia... although I may be subpoeaned to testify in an Austrian traffic court someday soon. While showing us Nomberg Abbey and the church where Maria and the Captain were married (in the movie) , Steve also showed us his street "where all the brothels in Salzburg are." Rawk on. Also according to Steve, we are experiencing unseasonably snowy weather and should by now be seeing cocuses popping up. Am debating coming back here after Paris instead of doing Pompeii and Capri... can´t imagine how gorgeous the hills will be in spring.

Love the lovely students of the Notre Dame University London program, four of whom were on the SoM tour and took me under their wing. We passed a delicious dinner at a restaurant called To The Faithful Monkey, where we dined on pretzels, goulash and beer-marinated steak until we couldn´t hold anyone. They then took me to an Irish pub on the fortress side of Salzburg, where we met with another 20 people from their program, consumed overlarge amounst of hearty Steigl and I thanked my lucky stars that in the middle of Austria I had met such friendly, fun Americas. Special shout-outs to Amanda, Craig, Margaret, Mike and Molly. You all made Salzburg fantastic, and I´m very grateful for your company.

Even love the Austrians. Bill Bryson once commented on the country, "that´s the trouble with Austria, it´s beautiful but it´s full of fucking Austrians." Though they will not speak German with me, despite all my pathetic Lonely Plant Phrasebook-inspired attempts, I enjoy their friendliness, ability to speak English, and propensity for both bookshops and coffeehouses. They may have provided much of the SS, but I can still respect a nation that reveres coffee and a newspaper as a valid way to pass a weekday afternoon.

Still, the hangover from WWII is more than I had expected. I got a full glimpse of it, in all places, on the Sound of Music Tour today. The Austrian-produced English-language guide to the history of the von Trapp family that we saw in many souviner shops describes their prodigious bookings in the late 1930s, and then skips to 1941, when the family moved to Vermont. No mention of the Aunschlös, or the Nazis or the war, but rather as if they woke up one day and thought, "Hrm, Vermont, perhaps that is the place to be." In reality, of course, their departure from Austria was nowhere near as dramatic as the movie, but they still fled Austria before the sons could be drafted into the army and the family forced to join teh Nazi Party. It´s had to sit in a konditorei here and see an elderly man and not think "So where were you sixty years ago?"

Despite these qualms, minor as they are and major as they probably should be, I adore Salzburg. The travel bug has been restored, thanks in no small part to the people of Austria, Estonia and Indiana. Danke schoen.

Quickie in Austria

2005-02-20T11:40:00.000-08:00

No, not that kind. Minds (mine´s) like sewers, all of you.

On train from Verona to Innsruck, had lovely international car with Estonian woodcutter and German-Italian housewife who both spoke good English. Much cheered! Nice to be Italy-free for a bit.

Innsbruck = spectacular. You can´t wander the streets without humming "Lonely Goatherd" to yourself. Snowcapped mountains looming everwhere, charming and friendly people. Nice change after dusty, unfriendly and tourist laden Italy. Saw the summer palace of the Hapsburgs and ate at the University with a bunch of students. Really must work on German... am buying good phrasebook first thing in AM.

Took evening train to Salzburg, where am staying in the "party hostel" of the city (tho truthfully, no hostel is a ary hostel in February). Tomorrow is Sound of Music tour!! V. exciting.

Mom, congrats on College Board! Am so proud of you, and you heartily deserve it.

Well

2005-02-19T16:09:00.000-08:00

Maybe it's that my back hurts. Maybe it's that my knee hurts (what the hell is that about? I have to be in Innsbruck tomorrow, where there is nothing to do but walk up and down hills). Maybe it's that I had to leave Venice, the most beautiful city I think I've ever seen to come to the small town of Verona, which so far has been pretty unimpressive.

Whatever it is, I'm having a total slump day. I'm lonely and a little bored. Yes, one can get bored in Italy, where there's no TV, no cheap Internet access, one book in English that's not tour-related and no conversation beyond "Mi dispiace, no parlo l'italiano." Comments to perk my spirits are highly welcome and appreciated right now.

In the good news department: my roommates last night at my Venetian hostel turned out to be two American girls I'd stayed with in Florence, which was a great surprise. After eating in the room (learning the hard way that 1.79 euro wine costs 1.79 for a reason), we found the one street in Venice that has an active nightlife. Our guidebook had directed us to a small place that supposedly had live jazz, free internet and pitchers of absinthe. Instead we found a U2-heavy soundtrack and one lonely computer. The absinthe, however, proved to live up to the billing, if not the reputation. They must remove the hallucenogenic part for the tourists, because depsite a fun presentation involving flaming sugar cubes, we did not see any dancing green fairies or get any drunker than a pitcher of strong margaritas split three ways would've warranted. Ah, well, one more thing to check off the list of life! What, yours doesn't involve absinthe, too?

Tonight is laundry at the Verona hostel, tomorrow day is Innsbruck (pray my knee is recovered) and then taking an evening train onto Salzburg. Monday will be the Sound of Music tour ("cliiiiiiimb eeeev'ry mountaaaain!"), so I probably won't blog until after that. Ciao, amici.

Mwaaaaaah

2005-02-17T22:48:00.000-08:00

It's costing me €5 per half hour to write this (how I miss Ostello Archi Rossi and its free Internet acces!), but you need to know that I have fallen deeply, hopelessly, passionately in love. With Venice.

I don't want to leave. If I can figure out a way, I'm skipping Innsbruck and going straight from Venice to Verona to Salzburg so that I can spend one extra day meandering the narrowest streets, gazing at the most ostentatious cathedral and sighing over the most beautiful sunsets known to humankind. This is the first stop on my trip where I haven't felt consistently lacking for company. It's like the city expands to fill the loneliness of its tourists; that there's so much passion and romance in the canals and streets and air that the inhabitants can't help but absorb it.

My guidebook tells me that the Bridge of Sighs is named so because it leads down to the prison in the Doge's Palace and the prisoners would sigh and bemoan their fate as they were escorted down it. I've been sighing on every other bridge in Venice all day, but for the exact opposite reasons. Every new twist brings about a variation on the Involuntary Moony Face (isn't that a more pleasant IMF?). The city is quiet now, and you can see the remnants of Carnavale all over. The Piazza de San Marco even still has confetti embedded in the sidewalks. Everyone still seems to be a little hungover, even though it was over a week ago, and most of the tourist hordes have made their way out.

Florence did not want me to go, I'll tell you. I made it to the station in time for the first train out, which turned out to be Eurostar, which turns out to require an extra pass. Fortunately the conductor IDed me as a Stupid American Tourist very quickly and kicked me off the train, whereupon I attached myself to a very nice threesome of equally clueless American women's lacrosse coaches on holiday from coaching in England, and our group eventually made it out of Florence unscathed.

Whatever. It's all worth it. I don't even know if I'll go to any more museums in Venice besides the Doge's Palace and the Basilica San Marco. Maybe another cathedral if I'm feeling ambitious. The real charm of the city comes from sipping a Bailey's or glass of wine and watching the sunset from the Ponte Rialto, with the sound of the waves lapping at your feet.

Ciao, Firenze

2005-02-16T14:48:00.000-08:00

Florence, for all the romanticism of the Tuscan sun and the rolling hillsides of grapes and linen-frocked peasants, can be fricking cold. I learned this the hard way when my alarm decided to not work and I had to stand in line at the Uffizzi for two and a half hours instead of getting there early enough to beat the hordes. I spent the rest of the day aching from standing for so long in 35 degree weather, but reminded myself to be glad that I'm here now and not in August. I can't even imagine what the hordes of tourists must be like then, all of them wearing inappropriately short shorts with white socks and complaining about the heat.

Was it worth it, you ask? Well, I'm a big wuss (shaming my Michigan heritage) and it was not pleasant to stand, but yes, of course it was worth it! Just the Botticelli room would have been worth it! How can any one place be lucky enough to hold both Primavera and the Birth of Venus? It was overwhelming.

The Uffizzi has an interesting layout-- it's U-shaped with the bottom of the U at the Arno, and the actual galleries hidden back from the main hallway. It's a lot like Santa Croce, in that one room full of genius suddenly gives way to another when you thought you had finished. The main hallways of the U are similar to the Palazzo Vecchio (which makes sense, since they were constructed at the same time and are next door to one another), with elegantly painted ceilings and portraits lining every surface along the molding. Reniassance Florentines really didn't waste a single inch-- if it could be painted, gilded or laden with sculpture, they would likely do all three. It seems like the people have altered their attitudes over the centuries. I see Florentines clipcloping their way along the cobblestone streets, seeming to ignore the Duomo looming overhead. Can you imagine what it must be to live surrounded by such scenery? We joke about our lives in DC, and how the White House is old hat and all, but there is no comparing the two. It's a whole different ballgame.

Since I didn't get out of the Uffizzi until 2 and had done most of the cathedrals already, I decided that Wednesday would be my Eat Like a Medici Day. Good God... it's almost offensive how much I ate at both lunch and dinner. Risotto, pizza, bisteca, vino like it was going out of style, è molto! I figure I can do that about once a city, or 3 times a week, but any more than that would ruin both my budget and waist. How often does one get to eat in Italy, though? Totally justifiable, really.

Tomorrow early I bid ciao to Florence and am off for two days in Venice. It will be hard to leave... there's still so much that I haven't seen or done here, and I haven't gotten out to the countryside at all. Two of my roommates here decided to get an apartment for the next couple of months, and I completely understand. It's amazing to me that this city has been able to retain any sense of its own identity and culture (I read somewhere that the annual ratio of tourists to natives is 12 to 1), but it's utterly charming. I will miss the narrow streets, the decadent food, and the Florentines themselves, who are saturated with the most annoying tourists and the richest art in the world, and somehow seem impervious to the effects of both.

Totally That Girl

2005-02-16T12:44:00.000-08:00

May I just say that I was totally That Girl, chuckling at her friends' and family's comments? And that I am enormously grateful for what you have to say and advise?

Today: I slept in (until 9:00, woo-hoo!) and so, alas, only had time to do Santa Croce, the Academy and the Pallazo Vecchio, all of which were stunning. I'm glad I did them in that order... Santa Croce was overwhelming, the cathedral that keeps on giving. You think you're finished with the Donatello polyptych, and suddenly there are many chapels and courtyards for your consideration. This is to all say nothing of the leather sculptors that reside in the monastery... say what you will, but I see just as much artistry in th application of an alligator skin as in a 14th century triptych. Every time I thought I was done, there was another court to explore, another cloister to examine.

I managed to make my way to the Academy, where I sat and stared at THE David for a good hour. Most of it was in the manner of "Holy Cow, I can't believe I'm seeing the David!" but the Academy has an underrated collection of Byzantine triptychs and frescoes. I also eventually got to the Pallazo Vecchio, where the Medici family used to live, but by this point I was so saturated in beauty it was like "Oh? What else is new? Another gold plated ceiling?" Been there!

Things continue to be lovely in the hostel. I have 4 American and 1 Austrailian roommates, all of whom should bear the burden for any spelling enocounters witnessed here. Alas, the bars are calling us. Arreviderci, amici!

Ciao, Amici!

2005-02-15T12:31:00.000-08:00

Phew! Made it to Europe. Now about that whole backpacking thing...

It's crazy how quickly one can get used to a completely different lifestyle. The biggest change, which I hadn't bargained for (besides these wacky Italian keyboards where one has to hunt for the apostrophe key) is the isolation. I always thought that I liked being alone, but that was when I has 200 channels and roommates to come home to after I was done being introspective and deep. It's been a challenge to go such long periods without conversation beyond "Vorrei molto vino, grazie." Most other people in the hostels so far seem to be traveling in groups, so in order to experience conversations in English I have to literally go up and start talking to strangers. It's a lot like freshman year at college, though the art is much better than GW's laser show.

Speaking of, here's the stuff you really came to read about:

Arrived in Rome yesterday (Sunday) dead tired-- hadn't slept on plane from DC to Heathrow. Found my hostel, but only after much stumbling and map-consulting. My utter lack of a sense of direction will be my downfall on this trip. The hostel was OK-- mostly international travelers, but v. Close to the station once I got myself sorted out and v. clean. After dumping my beast of a bag, I proceeded to get deliciously lost wandering around the Via Nazionale, window shopping and people watching. My hostel was also very close to Piazza Maria Maggiore, and when I stopped in the cathedral to see the art I was pleasantly surprised to see services in progress for Il Domenico. The architecture was stunning, though the paintings were surprisingly flat, nothing like the ones I'd soon see in Florence. Seeing the service in progress was exactly what my cranky, tired soul needed, and after a gluttonous dinner at a nearby trattoria I fell asleep at 9:30. HOT.

*A note on sleeping thus far. I do not fall asleep, like casually slipping into on the sidewalk. I leap headfirst into it, or even more apt would be that sleep rises up from the ground and takes over. Nothing like getting on Tiempo Italiano while walking 4 miles a day to wipe you out.*

Early this morning, I hopped a train to Florence, where I plan to spend a few days. The train dawdled its way through Siena and Tuscany, letting us soak in all the scenery. I had been holding off writing about the Italian scenery, since all I had seen of it was the view from the train to Rome and the Termini (station) area, but at last, here was the Italy we all expect-- rolling gold and green hillsides even in February, cream and yellow houses with their terracotta roofs, and those trees... God, what is their proper name? In Under the Tuscan Sun the Sandra Oh character calls them "creepy Italian trees," but I love them. They are still full in the dead of winter, and somehow both stately and endearing, like a king playing with his grandchildren.

I love my Florence hostel. It's close to the train station and cittaà centrale, and is HUGE and full with English speakers. You can't imagine how the sound of an American accent warms my heart now. At the same time, it's been fun to see how much of my schoolgirl Italian is coming back. When I (Stupid American Tourist) forgot to get my Eurail pass validated before getting on the train, I was at least able to apologize to the conductor in decent Italian. Language aside, I spent today soaking in the city. Since we didn't arrive until 2, the only "sights" I got to were San Lorenzo and the Medici chapels and the Duomo. Ms. Guire from Humanities would hang her head in shame, but I actually preferred San Lorenzo to the Duomo, which, apart from the sheer size and of course the Dome itself, I was a little underwhelmed by. San Lorenzo is glorious. The gray stone gives a generous backdrop to the paintings that line the cathedral, and the Donatello sarcophagi are simply stunning, particularly the one showing the Passion. San Lorenzo is also home to my favorite painting that I've seen thus far, Pietro Annigoni's Saint Joseph and the Christ Child. It's a scene of Joseph with a young Jesus (maybe five or six) at a carpenter's table, and though it's very simple technique and scene, it's powerful-- one of the only works I've ever seen that pictures Jesus between the Holy Infant and the prophet.

I spent the rest of the day wandering around the Ponte Vecchio, which is the oldest bridge in Italy, and meandering back and forth across the Arno taking in the scenery. Tomorrow: Gallerie d'Uffizi and perhaps the Boboli Gardens if I'm feeling ambitious. Who knows? Italy is there for the taking!

Thank you for the music

2005-02-11T01:23:00.000-08:00

"Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you! Ha..."

"Shit!"

In my excited gasping at the not-at-all-surprising birthday cake that arrived at our table, I gasped enough to blow out the candle. Everyone awkwardly stopped singing, unsure of what to do next... Apparently, I am the only person ever in the history of time to blow out her birthday candle mid-song.

"No worries!" Remley cried. He scooped the candle off of my slice, lowering the wick into the candleholder in front of him. As Libby and Anna tried to help him, since re-lighting an embarrassingly extinguished candle is a multi-person process, the other end of the table tentatively began to sing again.

"Happy Birthday, deee..."

"Got it!" They delicately foisted the newly lit candle back onto the enormous slice of chocolate sitting in front of me. I held my breath, willing God not to be so cruel as to make me sneeze at that moment.

"Happy Birthday, dear Emily! Happy Birthday to you!"

All assembled parties finally back on track, they finished the aborted serenade. I stared at the candle for a moment, watching it flicker, and felt incredibly grateful for the group of wonderful people I had assembled there. I had a flashback to Quizzo on Tuesday when we were set a question about All Quiet on the Western Front, where the only thing that I could remember from reading it in 7th grade was the sentence "We were a motley crew." I felt every member of my motley crew, this hilarious combination of old, really old, and brand-spanking new.

And then from Adam, the Master of Subtlety: "Shit, that was, like, the worst birthday song ever."

Well, who said every moment had to be exactly perfect?

Thank you all for a great send-off and for your birthday wishes. I got a feeling twenty-three is gonna be a good year.

Socks... must buy socks...

2005-02-09T13:09:00.000-08:00

Gaaaah! Three days??

Have arrived back in DC after a lovely weekend in MI (thank you to the parents, KF and Brenda, Carol/Emily/Max/Peter and Dan/Suzanne for the conversation, company and in some cases, home movies). It's suddenly hit me that, ah, yes, will be leaving the country for a month and a half in three days. Better get cracking! There are hiking socks and mini-bottles of Woolite to buy!

Reminder: tomorrow, besides being my 23rd birthday, is Bon Voyage at Gordon Beirsch (across from the Spy Museum). Getting started around 6:30 or 7:00. If you can read this, you are invited. Be there or be square, kids-- last chance for Live Emily until April!

Pope update-- Still alive, still in hospital. Hope that we will not get some sort of freaky-ass Angels and Demons scenario going on whilst abroad. Just in case, I'll bring the pages from my Art History text that identify all the major Roman frescoes.

Incredibly Selfish Thoughts from a Selfish Child

2005-02-01T16:42:00.000-08:00

The Pope is so not allowed to be sick on Easter Sunday.

Or, for that matter, dead.

And now I'm going to Hell.

Practice Makes OW

2005-01-30T21:43:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning vaguely hungover from chugging cheap red wine with near-strangers to a UPI shaped like California on my right knee and three inches of fresh snow outside. These are likely the exact circumstances I will awake to every morning in Europe, making today the perfect day to do a simu-backpacking.

I loaded up my my spanking-new turquoise backpack with 4000 cubic inches worth of sweaters and books, strapped on my boots and bounded out my front door with the kind of energy one usually only musters on the first day of school or a new job. Turns out, I needed that energy. Very badly. I have, at periods of where I had lots of free time and gym membership, been in decent shape. However, even the hours I once spent on the HellWell elliptical could not have prepared me for lugging a 55-pound backpack around. Less than six blocks from my house (though in my defense, it was an uphill walk), I found myself gasping for air, shoulders aching from the weight tugging them into a slouch. The small back hump my father always said women in our family had felt particularly prominent, and I mentally consoled myself with the knowledge that by the time I got to Notre Dame, I would fit in perfectly with the lore.

As I trudged by a crew of middle-aged construction workers on East Capitol, grunting a response to their greeting, my pain must have been written on my face. One of them called after me "try fastening the hip!" When construction workers call things after me, my usual reaction is to ignore them, or, if emboldened by a few cocktails, yell back something I would not say in the presence of my mother. I was set to do this, but some instinct drove me to look down. Sure enough, the hip straps on my backpack were not fastened. Rawk on, Em.

Once my load was properly adjusted, I found that navigating the mean streets of DC with my beast of a bag was manageable. I teetered and tottered around various parts of the city for a good four hours practicing not talking, dining alone and finding inconspicuous places to lean whenever my shoulders felt on the verge of collapse. The hip strap may make it easier, but I have a long way to go before I can chase after the last train out with ease.

Did I mention I'm leaving in thirteen days?

Fifteen Days

2005-01-27T23:45:00.000-08:00

Welcome to my adventure! For those of you who are joining from my "feistier" site, an additional welcome and thanks for taking time to read TWO blogs full of yummy Emily goodness.

This blog is to communicate with friends, loved ones and assorted members of the Urban Family (ed. note: some categories may overlap) as I spend six weeks backpacking across Europe. I dig comments, recommendations, stories of your own adventures, but this is an advice-free zone. This girl is fully aware that she is more than a little kooky for up and quitting her job to wander around a foreign continent and live out of a sack, basically penniless and friendless. She is also aware that she is writing in the third person. She does that sometimes. Chances are, since you know her enough to have this link, you already know that.

Back in the Land of the First Person, tomorrow is my last day at my first job. I say "first job" because it is the first profession at which I have earned a living wage (no, Interlochen in no way counts as a living wage). However, I have basically been working nonstop since I was a freshman in college. Some of the time, it was working at a nice cushy campus job where I could wear jeans and browse bananarepublic.com. Most of the time, it was wearing a cheap suit at one internship or another, pretending to be a grownup and hoping no one realized I had no idea what I was doing. Both types of jobs turned out to be excellent prep for my first real professional endeavor, wherein I often wore jeans yet found myself gasping to keep my head above water.

On some level, I'll likely be doing that all the rest of my working life. That's okay. That's the way that it usually winds up for the hardworking and educated souls of America. Really, it's a lucky and privileged position from which to observe and live. I hope to come back to something like that when I finish scratching this travel itch.

However, before I find a cubicle that fits a little better than my first try, there will be cathedrals. There will be broken conversations with strangers in several languages, the fear that comes with missing the last train out and the exhilaration of relying only on my wits to find a roof for the night. There will be rolling hillsides, little gems of foreign bookstores and a bag full of smelly socks. There will be overlarge amounts of very dense beers.

Europe or bust!