astrideatlantic

.new.travels.afoot.

2008-03-24T17:40:00.004+01:00

As my days at Miami University wind down, I can't help but begin to focus on what lies beyond. Beyond Miami, beyond May, beyond the Atlantic. The planning of new travels has begun again. As I read LonelyPlanet, Gadling and relentlessly search Kayak, I click through additional photography how-tos. The destination? Russia.

I'm chomping at the bit to get out of the country before starting my gainful employment. Freshly back from vacation, it's time to focus on real travel.

Check back for updates and notice that the Astride Atlantic Adventure Time Table at right is beginning to be re-programmed.

Now to find something to cook with this cilantro...

focal.variation.and.shedding

2007-05-28T21:37:00.000+02:00

I have been back in the United States for a bit over 5 months at this point. 5 months. 5 months5months5months! I am absolutely amazed at how quickly I slid back into the skin I save for the United States. My adventures are fettered to the places with which I am familiar. The same commute to work, from work, to school, from school. New experiences have not stopped, they've slowed. Whereas I once visited a new city on an average of 1 or more a week, I have slipped to 1 or so every 5 months. What was the most recent new city? Toledo. Not Toledo, Spain, either unfortunately. Toledo, Ohio.

Though it may sound like I am dissatisfied with this transition, I'm not. Perhaps its the amount of movies I've been watching this summer, but I just see my perspective as it is through the lens. As I twist the focus knob, my focus changes from fore to middle and to background. While abroad, the foreground--my immediate surroundings were vivid and sharp--leaving the middle and backgrounds hazy and unimportant. The Notre Dame cathedral in Paris' outline was unblurred and demanded attention--the local mall in Schaumburg, Illinois now demands none and I focus more on the suits that I bought for my future than I do the commute.

Again, I wouldn't have it any other way. I firmly believe that though I fit in US skin, I stretch it at moments looking for new experiences (Toledo, Ohio counts--though I don't weigh it as heavily...).

I am already back on airfare deal sites. If there's a sale, I won't hesitate to shed my skin once again and build a new one. This time, I have my sights set on Asia.

attack.america

2006-12-14T11:10:00.000+01:00

Tonight I assault the US from the air.

ATTACK!

final.countdown

2006-12-11T08:21:00.000+01:00

Finals this week. Basically that means my semester is coming to a close. This is very unfortunate. I apologize for the lack of updates recently, I will backdate some entries as needed. Sarah's visit this weekend was certainly welcome.

Cheers, back to studying.

praha.thirty-two.hour.marathon

2006-11-27T14:19:00.000+01:00

This past weekend (or at least 32 hours of it) were spent in the Czech Republic's most famous city: Prague. Now, even if you haven't been there, I am sure at some point you have been subjected to someone else's raving about the Gem of Bohemia (copyright(c)Brian Gloede 2006) and its romantic, old-world appeal. If you're curious about my opinion on the city you might not be too surprised to hear that I am not in league with those people that rave, nor am I in league whith those that detest Prague (I am sure they're out there, I'm just not sure where)--I sit affably and comfortably in the middle of the opinions with apathy. It certainly does have some appeal, but the river seems a bit too wide to be romantic, the streets a bit too spread out to have actually have played host to horses, and the economy a bit too reliant on the sale of keychains to have actually ever existed before capitalism. But, my opinions on the city aside, it certianly played host to a fun guy's weekend.

The participants in the adventure were myself, Joe, Heidi, Mags, Cody and Eric (he's new)--with an almost-additional katie whom spent friday afternoon quite miserably sick and a portion of this was spent tearing up on my shoulder at having made the decision not to come to Prague with the rest of us. That decision turned out to be a great one given the absurd amount of time we all spent on a bus that was, at best, climate control retarded. She is better for it, AND I was told that I scored brownie points with her mom for being the owner of such a comfortable, accomodating shoulder.

We spent the afternoon wandering about before the bus left at 10pm from the Luxembourg train station and decided that ChiChi's was our best bet for some satisfying dining after a (dismally) failed visit to the bagel shop. There we enjoyed some margaritas (to make the bus ride a bit more smoothly...and to satisfy a manical craving) and took the "scenic" route to the bus. We boarded quickly and set off for the Czech Republic. The bus ride was long and smattered with jumps and starts as the surrealism of the night faded and the dull reality set in. 9 hours on a coach bus punctuated with customs checks, paranoia, and no personal audio device made for a gruelling ride.

Arrival was around 7am and after a bit of shuffling around attempting to get our bearings, we hopped on the metro to the Chili Hostel (2 stars out of 5) and dropped off our luggage and hit the town. The Saint Charles bridge hadn't changed much since the last time I was in Prague (2003)--in fact, it was the exact same although I may have seen a different artist peddling his wares than I did last time, though I doubt it. Across the rather empty bridge (it was 9am) the MUDEC contingent walked up to the Castle of Prague situated on a hill across the river. The walk was quick and our arrival at the top was welcome as we looked out over Prague from the vantage point of the royalty.

JUMP PIC

Sometimes, I wish there was a pushover that traveled with us that could easily be goaded into taking group pictures excluding him/herself; and other times I lay awake at night thinking there already is one, but unfortunately it's me)

A quick gander in the cathedral and a more interesting walk through the Golden Lane (read: midevial weapon sales and displays) dropped us off at the....you guessed it...the Barbie Museum. Much like Munich hosts the eternal x-hundreth anniversary of the Teddy Bear, Prague seems to be eternally fascianted with the Barbie Doll. Again, yay new-capitalism. Cody had the quick wit to sneak in with a sizeable (not in stature, to be sure) Asian tour group and snap some pictures of the blonde, perilously top-heavy dolls.

Our collective stomaches had already distrubed the peace within the cathedral by abusing the wonderful acoustics to announce to the entire Repulic that we were hungry, so we headed down to the Metro Cafe and chowed down on some (moderately) cheap Czech food.

As we exited the Metro Cafe, we busted out the LGE (that's Let's Go Europe, to the uninitiated) and found that a church that was somewhat near us was also a big tourist attraction for its amazing crystal chandellier. Inside we were greeted with some beautiful Baraque architecture and decor--everything was white and despite the inclement weather, the interior had a glow about it.

CATHEDRAL PIC

Buuut, no chandellier. Just a large faded spot and a few visible anchor-points for the monstrosity. Thanks LGE, but I'm switching to Lonely Planet.

We walked across a bridge adjacent to the Saint Charles after stopping to see the statue of the two men gracing the Czech-shapped copper pond at their feet with their bodily fluids. I don't want to point any fingers, but I vividly remember Mags attempting to redirect streams at various members of our group--I'm just saying that she's apparently not afraid of art.

On the other side we found the famous Jewish Cemetary (one of the oldest and largest in Europe I'm told by the enormously inaccurate LGE) and sighed collectively as it was closed (and, if I remember correctly, this was also the case in 2003) and moved toward the Astronomical Clock. After taking that in in all of its wonder (I still haven't heard any good explanation of why it exists or why it's such a popular attraction) we decided that we needed to see the (in)famous Wenceslas Square (in 1989 a student immolated himself there as a protest against the then-current communist government) and promptly did. We also stumbled across a pizzaria which would later play host to your favorite wary traveler yet again later in the evening. Where we settled in for some Pilsner Urquell and the ladies of the group enjoyed a bit of pasta.

A beer or 3 later and the entire group was ready for a bed. The hostel was ready for us when we came back and we checked in and settled our stuff around the room. Our nap ran a bit long (as expected) but we all felt refreshed and headed back to the pizzaria we had left nary but 4 hours or so before. There we enjoyed some excellent dinner food and plentiful beer which wrapped up in a great game of screw the dealer (someone had cards, I can't explain this). From there it became imperative to find the Darling Cabaret (we had a flyer that promised themed rooms--and we did not fully understand the meaning of cabaret--our minds were hung up on Vaudeville and Moulin Rouge-esque musical forays into contemporary rock, I suppose. We instead found an H&M where we wandered aimlessly looking for a man-scarf for Cody with no luck.

As we walked past a cabaret we were beckoned in and not charged cover, so we wandered in. As it turns out, cabaret in Prague is a bit less savory than we had anticipated. So a bit of alleged absynthe later (it is no longer what it used to be, I am told...in fact the ingredient that made it so famous has been absent for quite some time and I was told its now just comperable to a really, really, really strong liqour). We headed to yet another establishment to round out our evening and after hearing abhorrent cab fare offers, walked the 10 or so blocks back to the hostel.

The next day we awoke early to shower and check out of our hostel. The plan for the day was Kutna Hora ***WIKIPEDIA??*** where the bone church lay. As some of you may know, this was essentially priority number 1 for me in coming to europe. I will give you only the following equation and allow the pictures to fill in the blanks.

(40,000 Plague Victims)/(Half-Blind Monk)_{15th Century} = Bone Church

PICTURES

The town of Kutna Hora was abysmal and depressing, but given the church it hosts, I suppose its understandable. This town made me realize what the underpinnings of the phrase "emerging economy" are. Also, we saw a six-pack of 24oz beer cans for the equivalent of less than 50 cents. Fascinating, to be sure. After accumulating enough depressing feelings to warrant our psychologists' anti-depressant perscriptions, we ran awkwardly with a group of Spaniards to the train and grabbed some dinner near our hostel before boarding the Scenicruiser monstrosity again and heading back to Luxembourg.

Arrival Time: 4:05 AM
Class Time: 8:15 AM
Time of the Train I Thought, in My Bent Logic, I Could Take to Aforementioned Class: 8:20 AM
End Result: A nap, and arriving at school in time for lunch, a class, and then catching a train to Paris.

rollin'.in.on.Dubs

2006-11-20T15:07:00.000+01:00

Well, put down another weekend in the books, and shuffle the end of the semester a bit closer. November is halfway over and it’s hard to believe that I have only a bit longer until I underwhelm those for which I have been searching for gifts for the past 3 months.

This past weekend ended up being a bit of an impromptu trip to Dublin, Ireland based on the availability of cheap airfare from Frankfurt and my Eurail pass having outlived its two month useful life. This last-minute decision was accepted by my body with little initial protest, but by the close of the weekend, it had rather changed its mind and decided to retaliate with mild, albeit equitable punishment despite my incessant briberies with Guiness and Diet (yes, Diet) Coke.

On to the festivities. Our experience with Ryan Air was rather pleasant on the way to its hub in Dublin—I spent my time playing Civilization II on the flight as well as making a more considerable dent in A Confederacy of Dunces than I had anticipated and Kate (the MUDECer sitting next to me on the flight) spent her time dozing off and winning a free flight as well as being complicit in the procurement of a few bootleg M&M’s from Shannon’s seat across the aisle.

The Dublin airport is the largest which I have seen RyanAir fly into and it seemed quite well maintained in comparison to their other “terminals” around Europe (of which I have only seen 4). Due to the short-notice nature of the weekend I did not have a hostel booked in time to avoid the No Vacancy response online, so myself, Joe, Cody, Amy and Ally ended up staying in an inexpensive TravelLodge outside of the city a bit of a ways where the girls had already checked in earlier on Friday morning (they had skipped classes and taken an early flight). We wedged our bags in various places around the second room and flipped on the TV to hear the death knell of leaving the hotel: The World’s Best Television Ads was on. Obviously, this demanded our attention and besides canceling our second room for the next night, we never left the hotel on Friday night.

Saturday morning included our goal of being up and sightseeing after an 8:30am breakfast at the hotel’s attached diner. Running to a bus and hopping off just across the river from the famous Temple Bar area. We walked around, snapping various pictures and recreating assorted public art (as can be seen below) in the Viking area of the old town (just to the west of Temple Bar) where we waltzed by cathedrals and one substantial castle with adjoining gardens. The gardens included a large lawn with some Celtic brickwork design inlayed in the grass just screaming to play host to a game of boys-chase-girls—the superior playground game of everyone’s childhood.

Winded and a bit too cognizant of my rapidly-deteriorating endurance we continued into the Temple Bar area through the cold and herded into one boutique and gallery or another. Our haphazard path brought us to some unique retail establishments peddling their wares to those that were braving the inclement weather and morning drear to spend their hard-earned Euros. The best find was perhaps a self-proclaimed Dublin’s Metal Specialists store which played host to some real treasures, the least of which weren’t the available Metallica iron-ons. Given the amount of albums they carried, I rather demand an organization with governance over metal retailers to be formed in order to award “Metal Specialist” insignia and licensure to those that actually earn the title. In my book, one cannot claim to be a specialist by carrying Cannibal Corpse and not Converge or Shai Hulud. But I suppose death metal was more their persuasion than that of a technical nature. Sorry for the tirade, but something has to be done.

A stop in a convenience store blew our minds shortly after our visit to the substandard specialist store as we were greeted with a sign for Bud Light. If the aforementioned event had actually occurred to the group, it was entirely possible that the incessant Street Cleaning Army of Europe (of which Ireland plays host to the second largest branch outside Spain) would have had a particularily gruesome task at hand with a small collection of American college students with popped noggins laying around the sidewalk before a neon Bud Light sign. Needless to say, a can was bought and consumed immediately after my imagination ceased adding details to the mind-blowing metaphor. It was passed around and the grimace which its taste elicited was quite indicative of the time we had spent in Europe—too long for light beer to satiate our now-sophisticated tastebuds.

After our adventures with the Anheuser-Busch product we searched out some lunch to rid ourselves of the taste and Ally and I returned to an organic market we had found earlier in the day to purchase some Sushi from a little Asian man who was making considerable revenue with his piping hot miso soup (which hit the proverbial spot, by the way). After scarfing down (as gracefully as possible, of course, Mom) we made our way to Trinity College which plays host to the Book of Kells as well as an awesome campus which elicited a longing for Miami’s red brick structures and various other facets of the college experience (the least of which was certainly Bud Light given its recent descent into my digestive system and its subsequent uneasiness). A glimpse of the campus is pictured below.

We attempted to collect gifts for various acquaintances in the book store, but I couldn’t think of anyone in my immediate family who would be very interested in Celtic and Irish things or overpriced, under-designed college sweatshirts and sweaters. I passed, as did the rest of the crowd. We took the opportunity of having a quad before us and sat down to determine our next plan of action. Given that we had some fans of whiskey in our group—of which I was not sure if I was a part or not—we decided that the tour of the Jameson Whiskey distillery was in order.

The tour was interesting—I had not up to that point seen a distillery and I found it to be a more interesting process than that required for brewing beer—and included a sampling of whiskey at its close. This was then the point that I realized I was most certainly not included in the whiskey-lovers’ ranks; though I did imbibe my provided sampling, but simply as armor against the cold and wind outside. Two members of our tour group, Amy and Joe (both of MUDEC origination) were “treated” to sampling multiple brands and varieties of the Jameson brand as well as Scotch whiskeys in order to compare. They received certificates for this.

Our walk home included frolicking in some leaves piled on a bridge.

We then decided that it was time to watch the Ireland v. South Africa rugby match in a bar with some hooligans. We met up with another group all decked out in Ireland gear and watched it in a pub and ate lunch. Ireland crushed South Africa, which apparently was a bit of a surprise. The experience was well worth it and the results were met with cheers from the fans in the four-story pub. This fatigued us (it was probably the Guinness) and a trip home prompted a failed napping attempt for us.

The rest of the evening we spent in the Temple bar area wandering around and being amazed at the natives’ resistance to the cold. Soffees and high riding boots were the norm. Some with tights, some without. Do they think they’re Norwegian or something? I mean, I suppose there is some shared ancestry with the Vikings and all, but c’mon, I was wearing a sweater, jeans and a heavy jacket. Resilient doesn’t even begin to describe their cold-tolerance.

The next day we planned to and followed through on traveling to Howth (rhymes with both), a small village on the coast. We arrived after a short train ride from Dublin and got off with little direction on what we should be doing there, but every confidence that we would find it. We walked into a local camp’s book sale where I nearly bought a stencil book for a friend of mine, but then realized that that perilous decision would have led to the necessity of gifts for far too many people. It’s a slippery slope.

The highlight of Howth was certainly feeding the seals that were in the harbor. There were perhaps five or ten, and they congregated around 3 pm or so waiting for the scraps the fisheries had available. We bought some and threw them into the water where seals would pop up and chomp them. One dominant seal got the preponderance of the fish, but others occasionally benefited as well. I made the comment then and I stand by it even now; there is something about the feeding of animals and perhaps an appreciation of nature that reduces everyone to a seven year old eager to experience the world. People of all ages were gathered watching us feed the seals, smiling and pointing every time a little aquatic mammillian head emerged from the water.

That evening our return prompted dinner at a bar with American Football on which appealed greatly to a portion of our group (one Mike Koebel) and warranted some tasty soup and yet another Guinness.

After it was Mags and I’s mission to find the venue where the Brian Jonestown Massacre was playing—that’s right, the famous failure’s themselves (watch Ondi Timoner’sDiG! for more information if you’re curious—it’s a trip). We never found the correct venue (they had been improperly billed on a few different posters and on their website). So we settled for traditional Irish music and a boisterous, albeit petit New Yorker that did not know the difference between the logos of the Yankees and the Mets. Afterward we made our way to a dance club where we danced the evening away until about 2am. At this point the rest of the group returned to their hostels, but the die-hard contingent (myself included) decided to settle into a Burger King and wait out the rest of the evening until meeting Ashley at a tower in order to get to the airport for our 6:55am flight. Conversation meandered until the fries were gone and 4am had nearly arrived. We then went to the meeting place. No Ashley. We waited for a half hour then left for the airport. The subsequent RyanAir experience was miserable, but we made it home “safely.” Our landing was entirely suspect, but nothing was broken.

Fade to black…literally. I spent my Monday sleeping of the night’s lack of rest.

Thanks to Heidi, Mags, Ally, Amy, Katie, Jon, Cody and Joe for making Dublin fun—without them I believe it would have been quite boring.

valencia.a.weekend.of.release

2006-11-16T15:48:00.000+01:00

My trip to Valencia was my first solo traveling experience—and at this point in the week it was a bit of a relief to have some alone time. I boarded the train and rode across the Spanish countryside into the early twilight. Arriving at my destination, I was greeted with an empty train station (again, no mustachioed man, but there’s still time for that, I suppose) and a light drizzle on my head. At that point Valencia had not impressed me, but then again I wasn’t quite out of the station yet. The tourist information desk had heard of my hostel and gave me some brief directions to the Purple Nest Hostel (which I recommend profusely for anyone planning on going to Valencia). My walk took me down a shopping street with shops which were still open. To my surprise, there were a considerable amount of people on the street, which I attribute to their strict adherence to the siesta policy, and not that many of them seemed to take notice of the bespectacled kid in the blue thrift store Lacoste jacket lurching along the street under is borrowed Kelty backpack.

The walk resulted in speckled spectacles and a wet jacket, but I was in good spirits when I checked into the hostel. I shot a text message to one K-Kat (Kristen) who is studying in Valencia for the fall semester in a program through UVA and she came to meet me at the hostel. This rondevous was perhaps the most exciting I have had while in Europe. Finally I wasn’t borrowing someone’s friends (who, on the whole, have had terrible musical taste—I would know seeing as I am the very definition of excellent musical taste) for the weekend. Our bear hugs (Rion, every time I think about bears you come to mind, just so you’re aware) may have led to a bit of speculation on the part of the hostel staff as to our relationship, but nonetheless, we set out for a night on the (new) town.

“It’s not really Spanish dinner time yet.” This was the first thing Kristen said as we lef the hostel, so we were off to get some coffee and churros (roll the “rr” for authenticity in you inner-monologue) at Valor. There we split an order of chocolate and churros and enjoyed some coffee con leche with ‘em. Needless to say, this place was famous for its melted mugs of chocolate and curros for a very good (and calorie-packed) reason. I have come to the conclusion that the Cask of Amontillado (Edgar Allen Poe) should quickly have its ending rewritten to include a churro in the immurement of Fortunato should tastefully include a Valor churro so he can cleverly rub it on the Masonic handiwork imprisoning him and thus, face his accuser. Yeah, they’re that greasy and I’m that crazy.

After the churros Kristen enticed me to take a rainy walk to the place next door which served some excellent paella (after all, Valencia is the home of paella) and ended up pouring us a few shots of some electric-yellow Spanish liquor. They kept coming because our waitress loved us, I believe. It tasted decent enough that we never actually turned her down, but we did move on to the place near Kristen’s school known as a “Euro Bar.” With this title, I was pretty sure I had been to plenty of these: mullets, designer clothes, terrible denim aberrations, more mullets, man-purses. I was wrong. In this context, it meant that beers and shots were only a euro. All of them. Insane? Perhaps. Thrifty and fun? Certianly.

There we enjoyed some beers as we made nice with some of Kristen’s Spanish friends who spent the evening pretending to be Welsh to other Spanish kids. They pulled this off admirably. Another Spanish kid saw me sitting alone at the table at one point, but didn’t speak English. So we spent the rest of the evening communicating through song lyrics. His knowledge was limited exclusively to about three lines from The Virve’s Bittersweet Symphony, however. He did, however seem to eek out the phrase “I’m so drungh.” Given his speech, his meaning was quite obvious.

After this, Kristen’s friends showed up and I walked one home to her place and made the rest of the way back to my hostel in my little cloth jacket in a torrential downpour. The first evening was certainly a success. The next day I was to meet with the rest of the people and spend my time with them.

I woke up the next day rather early and sent a message to Jess to see where they were. They didn’t respond, so I got restless and began my tourism at about 8:30 am. The rain was still steady. In a place with 300 days of sunshine a year, we sure picked one hell of a weekend to visit Valencia. I wandered around the town, which was time well spent as I entered every church in the city (approximately 8 in the old portion) and took a few photographs in each. I excluded the main 13 century cathedral because I figured someone else would like to do that with me. I also stumbled into a castle, ordered a croissant and café con leche entirely in Spanish, and visited a modern art museum that morning—all before noon.

Everyone was just waking up at the hostel when I returned and we decided that we could issue a moratorium on tourism for the day as it was raining steadily still. However, we were determined to find a Mexican restaurant somewhere in Valencia (the Spanish language must illicit some sort of complex Pavlovian reaction within Americans) so Karl, Colleen and I set out looking for a restaurant. We found it after slogging through mud in construction zones on the upscale end of Valencia, but it was closed so we ended up bashing Dan Brown’s abortion of a book The DaVinci Code and his terrible narrative style while eating some chicken at a little restaurant.

The rest of the day was spent lounging in the hostel, preparing for the night at hand. It was to be the night of La Indiana and a wonderous 10 Euro all-you-can-eat/all-you-can-drink evening. We then met our new friends Katie, Elisa, and Charlie, a student from Ohio teaching in Salzburg, and two lovely and good-humoured British girls studying in Seville, respectively. We all joined forces and made our (roundabout) way to the restaurant around 10 or so and settled in.

The restaurant proved an excellent bargain, and the salami, beer, sausage, sangria, salad, shots, olives and beer formed a wonderful, tasty confluence somewhere between my esophagus and pyloric valve. Full and socially lubricated, we all left the restaurant huddling under the umbrellas until we reached another euro bar. Social lubrication continued without abatement and then it was off to La Indiana. This place had sharks tanks next to the dance floors. It had crazy lighting, balconies and most importantly for the preponderance of our party: insane Spanish men. Communication barriers were dismantled one gyration of the hips at a time—you could almost hear them tumbling down with each “white-man’s clap” or “white man’s snap.” From the stories I heard the next day in the hostel, it sounds as if we set the ambassadorial bar pretty high.

Saturday resulted in late rising for most of us, and karl and I struck out together to conquer the cathedral in the center of town. It was there I set my peepers on the only recognized Holy Grail of the Catholic Church. I didn’t drink out of it (not that it was an option) for fear of meeting an Arc of the Covenant-like end. But it was fascinating nonetheless.

We then met up with the rest of the ladies during a monsoon at the science and museum complex. It was easily the only time I have ever been near such amazing, futuristic architecture. The following picture does it no justice. The grandeur looks as if it should be expected on a movie set. I could not help but think of 2001: A Space Odyssey. It was about this time where I got Alanis Morsette stuck in my head—it’s still there.

The Sea World-equivalent turned out to be mostly outdoor and 22 euros for admission. That didn’t fit in the budget, so Elia, Charlie, Shannon, Becci, Katie and I went to the mall across the street briefly until we decided that was a poor choice and shoved off to the modern art museum. I didn’t go in again, but instead wandered with Shannon and Elisa until we ended up inside of Valor (think churros) again. Delicious.

That night we wandered to a eurobar as I attempted to raise Kristen on the phone. Rumor has it, La Indiana seemed to have gotten the best of her (which certainly beats its clientele doing the same) and only stayed out briefly there. After an argument about going to the beach or not, we wandered to another eurobar where we ran into a girl from Karl’s highschool who was studying in Valencia as well. There I ran into the girl I had walked home on Thursday night, so we decided to go out dancing. They had just finished being at a ball for America’s Cup (one of them had a sort of internship with the foundation of the sailors’ wives) and were very well (read: over) dressed. After a brief stint at a club, Karl and I were abandoned with the two charity function attendees and hit the dance floor. New friends: check.

The next day, Becci, Elisa, Katie and I went to breakfast and then the beach to enjoy the first day without rain. It was a fantastic way to spend the short afternoon we had available before our flight home. Plenty of introspection was involved in that walk.

We then said goodbye to Elisa and Charlie and set off for the airport. Kristen walked us to the shuttle bus. It was fantastic to see that girl.

This was without a doubt one of the best weekends this semester—new friends, old friends…all this and I successfully avoided those that I am only luke-warm about to boot.

Thanks for a great week Spain, and a great weekend Kristen, Elisa, Katie, Charlie and others.

MADrid.was.just.that

2006-11-07T16:01:00.000+01:00

Our train left Barcelona around 4:30 PM and permitted me (along with Karl’s eternal benevolence) the opportunity to begin reading The Confederacy of Dunces which up to its current point is frighteningly entertaining. Luckily it was a relatively long ride—at least a bit longer than I expected and we arrived at about 9:45 in Madrid. Immediately as we left the station we were excited (albeit tired) to be in Madrid and the city looked pretty intriguing. The greeting that we received as we hopped off the train was quite impressive however, it did not involve a regally dressed, mustachioed man standing in uniform with a sign that says “Master Gloede” and smiles broadly when I emerge from around the glass corridor. No, it was just a gigantic jungle in the train station. Apparently what had happened was that the old station and it’s traditionally architecture (and dimensions) was better suited for a concourse than to actually house trains anymore.
We ended up finding our hostel after a brief amount of difficulty concerning the Metro stop where we got off of our train and the directions supplied by the hostel. The group at this point consisted only of Karl, Colleen, and me. I don’t want to say this is an all-star cast, because it isn’t, but we certainly get along well enough to avoid any problems as petty as other groups have fallen victim to (or so I assume). We settled in at the hostel and set out to get our bearings around Madrid.
My first impression of Madrid was that it was rather bizarre. People were waltzing around dressed as witches and other groups were sporting medieval armor and accompanying armaments. It then dawned upon me that it was very late in October, very late indeed. It just so happened that our night of arrival in Madrid coincided with Halloween and the holiday was just picking up commercial steam in Spain. The popular support was obviously following closely behind. As we wandered down street after crowded street (mind you, this is at 11pm or so) we started eyeing restaurants. After shaking our heads at a couple of patrons beckoning from the window of one establishment, we settled on a place with no menu displayed outside and a decidedly local crowd. JACKPOT.
One or two beers, a few tapas selections and good conversation which included myself writing down every city I can remember being in outside of the United States (a lot more than I had ever thought) we were awfully ready for bed just as the nightlife of Spain was itching to begin. We turned down its temptation on the night of bewitching and instead headed to the hostel where we decided to get a decent rest in order to rent bikes the following day.
I awoke to a man who was staying in my room stumbling in from outside our beautiful hostel and disrobing. He had just gotten home from a seven story, world-famous club: La Kapital. Our upcoming night would obviously require a visit. It was quite clear that the eighth through tenth floors were reserved for Junior Senior’s discography to be played on repeat, as we all know.
We made our way lacksidasicly to the bike rental place after stopping in various squares and a Starbucks (sometimes this can be the best 3 Euros spent in a day if it keeps you up and at ‘em) and were greeted with quite the selection of rental equipment. I am happy to say we had the option of renting: ~~Segways~~ (2 varieties), ~~electric scooters~~, ~~electric bikes~~, and some serious mountain bikes. The bikes had pneumatic shocks, some mud flaps and a pretty awesome Shimano gear system. And a few Euros later we were off and on the (very crowded) streets of Madrid with our new kick-ass bikes conquering curbs and doing ill-fated wheelies (sometimes you’ve got to pull out all the stops and reach into your bags of 7th grade mountain biking tricks and go for broke; the one I never got tired of that day was using the front break to stop and subsequently getting your back tire off the ground as you come to a stop balancing on your front tire—totally impressive to those that didn’t spend a large portion of their childhood on a 21-speed).
Our first stop prompted us to lock up our bikes (already) and go into a cathedral where a church service was being held. This church had some of the most impressive stained-glass and ceiling work I have ever seen. A bit of a taste is below to indicate the grandeur of what was constructed there overlooking the hills below.

Our next destination was the Prado by way of side streets. This led to considerable deft maneuvering on the part of Karl and me, but a bit of clumsy walking on Colleen’s part. To each their own, right? So we arrived at the Prado where Colleen insisted on going inside, which Karl and I thought a bit silly considering we had rented the bikes for only 4 hours or so. We lent a lock to Colleen as she desired to stay at the world-famous museum longer than ourselves. Karl and I rode on to find a gigantic park which astounded us both with the amount of real estate it covered. It was simply gargantuan. We spent an hour or so exploring the gravel paths on our bikes, occasionally jumping a curb or attempting to ride up wooden stairs on over roots—you know, to keep things masculine and interesting.

A soccer match taking place behind some bushes on immaculate grass stopped us briefly where I tried out a bit of sports photography. I will let the picture below speak for itself (though if I could say anything about it or it’s photographer it’d likely be disparaging as the picture isn’t very good).

We eventually stopped in front of the Madrid Cultural Center which had no access by way of traditional roads interestingly. There we enjoyed a bocadillo (a Spanish sandwich) and a beer as we had been riding hard and deserved it. We were serenaded by a man playing the accordion and I spent most of his song wishing they had more people on the streets playing keytars as I think it would spice up the traditional “European sound” of a park or public square. That’s just me, I guess. After our lunch it had been an hour since we left Colleen and we decided to ride back to the Prado and see what it had to offer.
Our bikes securely locked, we paid our reduced student admission (so the ISIC is good for something) and for an audio tour and set our about the museum. We breezed through the sculpture section—most of which was either classical or neo-classical and did not catch our fancy—and headed into the Spanish painting section. It was here, in the museum of which I had not really heard about, I found my favorite painting. ********************
The Prado is also home to a lot of works by my favorite painter of all time (Hieronymous Bosch) which includes his masterpiece “The Garden of Earthly Delights.” The Flemmish style is so amazing. So we wandered for about 2 hours through the museum, pausing to listen to interesting commentary on that in which we were interested. We all met up again directly in front of the Prado and headed back to the park.
In the park Colleen and I were subject to two mimes hopping on the back of our bikes, much to our chagrin. This was while we were looking on at a pathetically small lake with over 100 rented row boats populating its foggy waters. It was quite clearly an indication that capitalism seems to be alive and well in Spain, despite its socialist tendencies.

We rode around and explored the park further, noting all of the couples making out all over the park. This behavior was later explained to me and is far more plausible than one might expect and was done so without someone playing the “cultural difference” card. Ms. Kristen (whom I later met up with in Valencia) disseminated the wisdom that the Spanish “youth” live at home until they are about 27 or 28 before moving out on their own—thus issuing in this use of public displays of affection. It’s not appropriate to bring people to their parents’ homes, and they don’t have their own, so the end result is a lot of semi-vagrant people displaying their affection for one another unabashedly in parks and on the street. This has actually been cultural evolution over a long period.

When we were done with the park, we rushed back to the bike rental place and arrived a few grace minutes late and were given nightlife guides which were impossible to decipher. Colleen, Karl and I elected to wander back to the hostel and attempt to assemble a POA for the evening which included La Kapital—which it didn’t.

We drank a bottle of wine in the park and dreamt up lyrics to the new song that will be performed by Dudes With Tudes (or some equally atrociously-named band) about everyone’s favorite topic and hairstyle: the undercut. Being the foremost expert on the cut, I was often consulted for lyrical stilings. After the composition began to take shape and trenchant guitar solos were placed and imitated, we arose and found a jazz bar we had scouted earlier. When Colleen and I were told that a cover charge would be necessary in order to remain for the concert we split as Karl was receiving his first (of many) plates of olives. This is when Colleen and I began our adventure around the streets of Barcelona.

We sat down at a cheap tapas place that was recommended to us by the waiter of another restaurant (what??) and enjoyed some tapas. As our conversation wound down we abruptly left and went on a search for various nightclubs that did not actually exist. Our search ended in a McDonalds where we satiated ourselves after our 30 minutes without having food in front of us to put in our mouths. We then returned home, a wee bit defeated, but certainly full.

The next day I decided to leave and as such, left the hostel early with Colleen in order to reserve my ride to Valencia. The line proved quick for those leaving the same day, but proved rather difficult for Colleen as she waited in a line of 45 minutes. Karl was needed in person to get his ticket, so we met up with him and sent him in the direction of the station as Colleen and I headed into the Modern Art Museum which played host to Picasso’s Guernica. There were also a considerable amount of Dali’s paintings there, leading me to believe that I have now seen the majority of his work, in person and in Europe (Berlin’s MOMA in 2003 had a considerable amount of Dali including The Persistence of Memory and others, and I have seen his experimental film Un chien andalou) with the exception of his sculptures. Fascinating stuff, to be sure.
After this museum it was time to meet up with Karl and shuffle off to the train station a few blocks away from the Prado.

That was Madrid for me. What a wonderful place. The Prado is certainly my favorite non-contemporary art museum. Thanks for a great 2 days, Madrid. I’ll be back someday.

bacelona.gaudis.playground

2006-11-06T17:45:00.000+01:00

Our flight was with RyanAir from Frankfurt Hahn airport. The process of flying with RyanAir when living in Luxembourg is pretty difficult. A bus from the train station to the airport, the matter of checking in at the airport, security, waiting for the plane, walking out on the tarmac and ascending stairs to the waiting jet is a bit of a change for those of you used to flying with traditional airlines. Hahn is an old US Army base in Germany and about a 2 hour bus ride away from Luxembourg. This ride served as a medium of solidifying my disparate stances on Luxembourg. In my mind, it is a country of contradictions--the youth are bizarre and confrontational (note: I left out commentary on their fashion sense, at least non-parenthetical mentions thereof) and happen to inhabit a beautiful, wooded and hilled country. The fall colors were out in their muted tones as we drove across the border on a coach bus into Germany.

The airport was scarcely more than a hangar with dividing walls and old televisions displaying the 12-15 flight times (arrivals and departures) pending. We waited briefly within until our plane was boarded--a process at Hahn which means walking down the tarmac and turning where a wooden sign with "Girona" subtly displayed with small (iron-on?) black letters. Can I complain? Certainly not. For 14 Euros, you get what you pay for. I was told not to expect frills, so I didn't. My inclusion of the description should just serve as a warning for those that whom have heard "no-frills" but couldn't place a definite meaning on it.

Arrival in Girona was startling as we tested the rigidity of AirBus's suspension systems. Deboarding meant putting my feet on Spanish soil for the first time that I can recall presently in Gloede history. This thought only occurred to me later. Now, before I go on, I will address the group with which I am traveling. Alphabetically (so as to avoid the inevitable debate about why who was listed first on my blog--this never actually happens): Becci, Colleen, Erika, Jess, Karl, Shannon.

Everyone was very pumped upon our arrival in Girona. We found out that Girona is not too near Barcelona and as such had to find a bus which took us within the city. The ride was about 1:30 or so--not too sure on that one because Karl and I spent most of the time using adjectives to describe Barcelona (engorged, tumultuous, to name a few). We were then dropped off at a bus station from which we had no directions to our hostel. We decide then to take cabs in order to get from their to the hostel. Now, I say OUR hostel, but only later did it become OUR hostel. Karl and I were without accommodations--this ultimately turned out to be a small problem. We hopped out of the cab at the hostel and decided that we would wander in an attempt to find a hostel. After about 45 minutes of walking into booked hostels including one visit into some (shady) hostel in the old town area of Barcelona (the one that prompts everyone to mention "pickpocketing" and "Barcelona" repeatedly in the same breath) where we were told there was vacancy enough for 2 guys and then were shown a room that was quite clearly occupied. In the end, Hotel Commercio, a well-priced hotel in a terrible neighborhood was the final resting place for Karl and I. We checked in and geared up for power-sightseeing on Saturday.

Day One was a day of power-tourism (something of a science by the close of the semester, I am understanding) brought on by our Pavlovian response to being in a new city and expecting it only to last two days. We walked Las Ramblas, a street of performers of various types and random stores selling mostly birds. This is a large tourist attraction in Barcelona. This is also, consequently, a large disappointment in Barcelona. I haven't figured out why this street is considered to be so desirable considering limbless bums abound and intermix their begging with the performances of what I can only assume are out-of-work actors that couldn't get a waiting job in Hollywood and now perform on the street in the next-warmest place their limited minds could think of beyond San Diego, where they probably have various ex-girl and boyfriends. Perhaps that's harsh. But I'm not about to take it back.

The female contingent was intent on shopping and Karl and I contended there were better things to do than see the boutiques of Barcelona. We separated and set about walking all over the old city--Karl writing in his pocket journal and myself taking pictures. We paid a small sum to get into a cathedral and walk around, which was well worth it given the beautiful courtyard with old moss-covered fountains. There was a certain magic about the place with the swans and dense foliage growing in the center of the church (pictured below).

Outside we found a street performer playing some unique sort of drum that sounded vaguely Caribbean. It wasn't quite a steel drum (although it was made of steel), but looked more like a hollow shield of sorts. The mezmerizing nature of his music was evident as two Earth Children (if this isn't what they go by, it's likely something similar) spazzed out and moved more like sea anenimies than upright apes.

We decided to meet back up with the female contingent later in the day in front of a beautiful market with fresh juices, produce, fish, meats and nearly everything else you can think of of. The imagery isn't quite captured by the picture below, but I gave it a shot.

We continued our wandering down the Ramblas area; passing more (sad) street performers and odd shops. However (and now this is certainly at the risk of sounding hypocritical--rest easy in the fact that I know and acknowledge this) the real artists happened to be performing at the end of the Ramblas as we arrived. The International School of Breakdance was putting on a ridiculously sweet demo of which I took about 40 pictures. I chose one for your viewing pleasure.

Our walk ended at the Barcelona Harbor and we decided to head for the beach as it was quite warm. A few almost-purchases later we arrived at the beach and plopped down to enjoy the view. I haven't quite put my finger on why it is necessary to sit in front of large expanses of water and why this is considered to be so desirable--its a folkway, I suppose. Either way, I was subject to the same sociological pressures as everyone else and found myself drawing in the sand when I wasn't trying hard to look pensive.

After a bit of introspection we realized that we heard other voices speaking American English behind us so we spun around. It just so happened that it was a group of kids that was studying abroad thisplace and that and were headed to a Muse (check them out--I think they're only mediocre, but they have a striking fanbase) show in Barcelona. That's about when we shooed off Erika, Shannon, and Jess with those characters and began meandering back to our various accommodations to prepare for the evening. Preparation included a delicious Tapas dinner at Tapa Tapa, a delicious place across from our hostel.

Baja

I am not sure whether you're aware of this facet of Spanish culture or not, but the nightlife in most Spanish cities begins after dinner (which means midnight) and continues until the wee hours of the night...and then into the early hours of the next working day for good measure. We decided that Saturday was going to be our first foray into Spanish nightlife. Baja was a club which we had read about in guide books, had been recommended to us by the hostel and had heard in passing. A cab-ride later, after Karl and I had given considerable grace time to the ladies in our group, we arrived at the Baja complex: a series of bars leading up the the motherload of a club. We waited anxiously in line and after a stiff cover charge made our way into Baja. This place was insane. It was decorated with speedboats. Not pictures of them. There was a full-fledged outboard boat mounted in the air where the dj was. All bartenders were in required beach attire--which included much less fabric than one conjures up in their mind when hearing "beach attire."

A group of Californian Police patrolled the grounds as the party police. The culmination of our night (which up until what I am about to describe occurred was an evening of dancing around, avoiding the ridiculous prices at the bar, and making fools of ourselves or others around us: i.e. a blast) was when a girl whom was not in any way associated with us decided to get on the bar and dance with a bartender. Apparently, his trousers were not properly fastened or she had some fierce objection to them because before not long he kicked them off the bar and proceeded to dance in the true Chippendale's fashion while simultaneously using the elastic waistband of what I assumed to be Fruit of the Loom briefs (although quite possibly the 85 Euro ones I tracked down in Paris a few weeks ago) to hold the cocktail shaker into which he was pouring various brands of spirits. This stainless cocktail shaker (I that's the second time I resisted making any uncouth puns about the word cocktail that no doubt have already crossed the crassest readers' minds) was then shaken in a method that seemed at the least inefficient and at the most borderline illegal. He grabbed the girl who had been dancing on the bar with him, hoisted her up to allow her to aide the shaking of the offensive drink. Now, I don't pretend to be familiar with the host countries legal system or even less with the local health codes, but this whole chirade seemed to be in violation of both.

The strangest portion of the evening was that I never really felt that any of the atmosphere was out of place. It seemed perfectly plausible to have bars adorned in full size (it was longer than 18 feet, easy) boats and waverunners. This was quite obviously some trick being played on my by the Spanish culture. In retrospect, I felt a bit complicit in the actions that were happening before me. This maymight have had an impact on the amount of churches I subsequently visited--but in all likelihood, did not.

The next day Karl and I missed our meeting with those staying at the hostel by a paltry 7 minutes only to discover they had already left. We shrugged it off and rented bikes for the rest of the afternoon. We rode all over the entire city of Barcelona for the next 4 and a half hours. What a wonderful city! We eventually rode to the Sagrada Familia--a church designed by Antonio Gaudi and still under construction over 70 years after its conception. This was certainly a breathtaking sight. I cannot say at that point I had ever seen more inventive architecture in its actually physical form. Gaudi is responsible for creating some of the most magnificent structures I have ever seen. Below is just a glimpse of his work, but this church must be seen in person to be believed.

Other places intrigued us and we discovered an Art Nuveau hospital consisting of a series of buildings which looked like prematurely-built gingerbread houses (although Christmas is encroaching...). Some old men playing bocci ball demanded a stop and an attempt at some low-light photographs. We returned the bikes and went to meet the rest of our group at the hostel.
After a brief pow-wow decided to partake in a Spanish tradition called Botella (wrong spelling) which includes sitting in public squares with bottles of wine. I believe there is a maximum age for this activity--this seems to be just what the young people do.

This sitting then lead to meeting a young man from Virginia who was traveling alone and spending his time in Europe in a very interesting pursuit. It was his intention to continue traveling and working at organic farms. A hippie? Certainly some sort. He seemed a bit more directionless in my eyes. You know what they say about different strokes and their possessors. Our wine was, in a hyphenated word: sub-par. So in order to utilize it, we played an impromptu game entitled "Categories." At its conclusion it was clear that it was more glorified nostalgia with categories including but not limited to: Kindergarten Crushes, Best Albums of the 90s, and perhaps the icing on the metaphorical cake--Dance Moves (which of course required their performance in order to be acceptable responses).

We then decided it was time to attempt to track down the uproarious Spanish night life--though there was really none to be found after our unsuccessful attempt to see a live jazz show at the Harlem Jazz Club (in Barcelona?). I ended up tracking down a bathroom in a club called something along the lines of Jamboree or Celebration. Mr. Virginia remained in the club speaking to some Irish people, I believe. Becci and I then returned to the hostel as the street we returned to after going to the bathroom was devoid of our friends. Not a banner night, but we got some much-needed rest.

The next day marked a trek to the Gaudi Park north of the city (Park Guella or something similar-sounding) where we stood around in awe of Gaudi's architectural abstraction.

We finally wandered to a Metro stop after a few hours of walking and headed back to the hostel to scrounge up dinner. Half of our group chose this night to continue on to Sevilla (Seh-vee-uh) so Colleen, Karl and I wandered over to a bar called "Tequila" which they had discovered after they band at the Harlem Jazz Club closed their set minutes after getting inside. Now, this bar sounds pretty unimpressive and traditional. It's not.

The Ends: Drinking and Listening to Metal
The Execution: The bar is long and covered in pens and scattered scraps of paper. You sidle up to the bar, toss on a pair of headphones and are assaulted by metal riffs. If you can still think with the glorious racket in your skull, you're then urged to write a band and a song on a scrap of paper which you want to have slammed by 10ohm speakers into your grey matter and prohibit conversation with those next to you. What did I request, you ask? Well, seeing as they had no Cannibal Corpse (I was hoping for a hot track off of Hammer-Smashed Face) I thoughtfully requested HammerFall for my dear friends with whom I shared the bar. I would say there were about 10 people in their, of which my group accounted for 30%.

The next day included reserving our train ticket and a small amount of Metro confusion, a euro-trash haircut for Karl, and an elongated trip to The Bagel Shop Karl and I had discovered earlier where we ran into Melissa, a girl I had met in Amsterdam. Odd, I know, but I had also run into Ally, another student here at MUDEC who was in Barcelona with her parents. After the Bagel shop we disappeared to the train and were off to Madrid.

My gawd that certainly was verbose. I will truncate Madrid to avoid this in the future. Comments welcome, of course.

amsterDAMN!.what.a.beautiful.place

2006-10-26T10:10:00.000+02:00

Here it comes: the long awaited (by whom, I don't pretend to know) Amsterdam Post. Exciting, no?

We left on friday relatively early and had an uneventful train ride full mostly of enjoying our amazing amount of snacks we purchased right before hopping aboard. These included, but were not exclusively limited to: full-size carrots (couln't find the baby carrots), curry hummus, olive hummus, normal(?) hummus, foccacia pitas, guacamole, greek salad, tortilla chips, and pretzels. A literal train feast. All of this was washed down with a bottle of 2005 Cabernet Sauvignon (best year for cabernet in over a generation, I'm told) I bought as well. In an (albeit truncated) word: delish.

And now, I believe I will do something that I haven't yet done: divuldge who I was with for the weekend. Ready? Ok: Shannon (mom and dad, you met her), Kate (met her in german class), Becky and Parker, Smashley (mentioned before), Mary (also mentioned before). There. We met a pair of twins who know Kate and Becky. They shared a hostel room with us there.

Immediately when arriving, I noticed a certain electricity in the air--a certain smell that seemed uniquely Amsterdam; but this wasn't like the fresh smell of Interlaken or the dirty smell of Suxembourg. No, it was pot. Well, I am not exactly sure what I expected to smell as I got off, but I was thinking more along the lines of train grease and exhaust. The source was some guy sitting on a bench with a joint in his mits, looking a bit disheveled, but short of the creepy I have come to expect at train stations (thanks, Luxembourg).

The walk to the hostel was uneventful and we settled in quickly, ready to begin our exploration of the city. Downstairs the hostel had a bar with a decently-priced happy-hour so we descended and enjoyed some Heineken in its home country. Didn't taste much better. Every pitcher we bought (wasn't that many) we recieved a free hat. So I have those for those that want them (claim in the comments). We met some people from South Africa who had been living in London and decided to follow them for the night. They showed us around and we spent (this will be a recurring theme in this post) the proponderance of our time eating food from pretty much every place we passed. The South Africans totally goaded us into it.

The next day was tourism day. A little walk from our hostel we arrived at a secondhand/craft market that was going on and wandered around. Shannon and I lost the rest of the people as we sifted through magnesium-print glass slides from the 20s. I bought two, I have some project ideas for them. A bit of thrifting later we ended up at Rembrandt Square. There Shannon and I grabbed lunch after some deliberation. While sitting she decided on an impromptu nose-piercing which I dutifully photographed.

Perhaps 12 minutes after her decision she had a new hole in her face. Finally (a few hours had passed by this time) we met up with the group at Smokies "Coffeeshop" in Rembrandt square. It was there we watched the clientele pour over menus of differnet forms of marijuana and enjoyed the oddly-scented atmosphere.

This stop solidified (after much deliberation) our need for pancakes. We then walked through the jungle of the saturday flower market (not to be missed, which we didn't) and sat down for some DELICIOUS pancakes before we headed back to the hostel. Just in time for a nap for some, happy hour for others. I have always been an "other."

Victory for us, we found a cool little bar and sat inside its dark walls. After we determined those that remained at the hostel were done napping, we returned and woke them up at--you guessed it--happy hour. This time we played "Shoulders" at the table with our Heineken hats and pitchers. We left with the chime of the end of happy hour and went out into the streets of Amsterdam.

What a beautiful city, especially at night in the fall! The brown trees that line the canals are lit from below, allowing their leaves to reflect light and shine like deciduous christmas trees. Our wanderings were SUPPOSED to get us to the red light district where we would take in the...erm...sights. Never made it their because a gigantic haunted house carnival (which was, at the time, very appealing due to its shine and glimmering properties from afar) blocked our path. Now, we could have found a way around, but this was not as important as running around a fair in the middle of Amsterdam. So we did that.

We crashed at the hostel following the fair and woke up late the next morning--just in time for the long lines at the Anne Frank house. The museum was very interesting and the fact that I had the chance to walk throughout the living quarters of 8 people for over 2 years was eerie. The rooms were a bit eerie as well...and pretty darn big. Other than the fact that they couldn't move during the day, they had a pretty luxury estate up there in that storehouse. Irreverent? Maybe, but just the same, she wasn't in an oaken cabinet for 2 years, that's for sure.

It was off to lunch then. Omlettes at Barney's. I believe this is a somewhat well known coffehouse/restaurant, though I have no way of knowing for sure. And don't really care either way because those eggs and bacon were DELICIOUS.

That wrapped up our sightseeing on Sunday as we made our way to the area near the train station where we inadvertently stayed for a few extra hours. Everyone was having a bit of trouble separating themselves from the twins--I ran off to a record store with a huge metal section which occupied me for some time. I also saw an unreleased (at that point) Bright Eyes album which shouldn't have been on sale until the following Tuesday. I didn't tell anyone and considered buying it...then considered my bank account and didn't.

Our train ride home was a bit crazy. Ashley and I (the early risers of the group, I guess) hadn't got much sleep and spent the train ride dozing on and off. We then transferred trains so some brightly lit train I could swear was headed directly back to the future. Arrival in Luxembourg was a bit late and 8:15 class the next morning was a bit...ummm...terrible.

So that was Amsterdam! Comment for a hat.

working.on.it

2006-10-24T18:18:00.000+02:00

As of right now I don't have any time to update the blog. However, I promise to have some sort of update about Amsterdam sometime soon as well as the weekend I spent with my parents in Germany and Luxembourg. Right now I am dealing with a bit of pressure from midterm exams.

Midterms

German 321

Music Appreciation

International Accounting

Marketing

So off to studying. And listening to Mastodon's (relatively) new realease Blood Mountain

about.to.jump.off.into.the.netherlands

2006-10-20T12:32:00.000+02:00

Ohh. This has definitely been plagued by a lack of updates. Reason for such delays: midterms. Actually, they're next week, but thinking about them has been a prohibitory action. This afternoon myself and my loner backpack (thanks Rion) are heading up to the Netherlands to visit Ms. Frank's house, go to the Heineken brewery, enjoy myself and look at beautiful canals.

Things to expect:
Fantastic pictures (Switzerland is hard to beat, though)
Mildly entertaining stories

Basically, that's it. Gift ideas? Anyone want anything from this continent? Let me know in the comments.

Zion - I am reading Woot regularily now...uh-oh.

oui.oui.huhhh.huhhhh

2006-10-10T14:42:00.000+02:00

Allow me to preface this entry with the following prose: at the close of my torrid tryst with Paris, France I regarded the city which disappeared behind the TGV with (metaphorically) misty eyes.

Our departure from Luxembourg was timely, despite some doubts voiced by those that had taken the train which we were attempting to catch that the train was routinely late and as such, was often responsible for missing connections in Metz, France. Our connection also went off without a hitch. Our two brief rides demanded the creation of a Plan of Attack (hereinafter referred to as POA) which was barely attainable, let alone manageable—as is the case when traveling with The A Team. Our travel plans and POAs are ambitious to say the least, demanding the utmost in physical and mental condition, traits which come seemingly exclusively to The A Team, leaving the rest in the dust.

The A Team (n.) [thee AYE teah-m] – 1. A group of adventurous travelers hell-bent on accomplishing impossible feats of tourism and altruism for said touring (Colleen, Brian, Gov, and Ashley were the original members. However, in recent weeks, other teams have been spawned—always including a portion of the founders; ex: Brian, Colleen, Jess, and Gov); 2. An 80’s television show following the missions of a mis-matched team of the same name

Our arrival to the Paris train station was absolutely overwhelming. We had to find a way to use the Metro in an effort to get to our hostel in the Latin Quarter and after some initial troubles with tickets and a conversation with a Canadian who seemed a bit too eager to invite Gov and me to come with her to her hostel.
We exited the Metro and RER rides and discovered that at some point through the duration of our public transit, it had started pouring rain. We donned gear and walked what seem to be kilometers (read: miles) to our hostel called the Aloha. We didn’t think this was a great name either, but they had beds and a shower*.

We stowed our stuff and readied ourselves to complete the POA hanging over our rain-soaked heads. At this point, a motif ushered itself into our stay in Paris—one which I have heard many times from those that had already visited there, but needed to experience before leaving. Catching a Parisian cab is nothing like catching an airborne disease in Asia—it’s hard. We spent a decent portion of our entire stay attempting to persuade cabs to stop and pick up our small group of four. Probably near 15%.

The discovery of various taxi stands alleviated this problem only slightly and we finally caught a ride to a restaurant near the Eiffel Tower which had been recommended to me through the tertiary path of a student named Allison, who had read it in a Rick Steves book. Now, normally I do not trust those with mustaches or two first names (Rick Steves sounds like he might have both), but seeing as I had never been to Paris and Allison had absolutely raved about this restaurant I set aside my heuristics and went to the little five-table establishment filled to capacity. Twenty euros later I walked out with my seams holding fast against escargot, filet of pork, mashed potatoes, and a garlic and mustard cream sauce…and a huge smile on my face. What a delicious meal! (This did not mean, however, that I was about to rethink my stance on mustachioed gentleman and those with two first names.)

Following dinner, we made our way to the obscenely-shimmering Eiffel Tower (for those of you unfamiliar, it does a 10 minute shimmer on the hour after dark—it looks like the Chicago Bulls’ stands during the announcing of the starting lineup, circa 1993) and attempted to find the wine that everyone (read: poor college students) says is sold by kids in the gardens of the tower. No dice. The only thing available is kitsch, most notably miniature Eiffel Towers that, likely with the advent of the tri-color RGB LED, have become infinitely more interesting and annoying. We turn down all of the offers.

The Eiffel Tower was not happening that night. Following some desperate wandering we found a cab again and were told that the night life is happening in Plaza de Bastille. “Get there and step on it” we all (probably) simultaneously thought.

The cafes and bars line the streets in this district. We wandered down the street, peering into bars and reading menus looking for single digits. At the end of our street we begin our impromptu bar-hop. The first is a vaguely English-looking bar with decent prices—in an effort to make this night go faster it will now be told in movie-like format.

The shot opens with students standing quizzically in line for the bar, the blonde one is handed a shot—he winces and takes it, gags. That will not happen again this night. Beers are handed over, disappear and the group moves on. Next shot: they’re in a bar and cocktails appear on the table and mouths move, sip by sip they diminish and in a blink they’re full again. Money comes out of wallets and purses, but not enough to cover the bill. Last shot: the students stroll down the street into a bar lit with red neon. The sign above reads Havana Club. A tray of six shots is delivered, four disappear and the other two follow the group’s motions to the bar where they’re received by business men who sip them unknowingly. Fast forward: they’re in the cab now, anxiously watching the meter and silently nodding to the wound-up classical music as they arrive at their hostel. Fade to black.

The second day in Paris had an even more daunting POA than the first. A cab took us to Notre Dame by 9:15 am and we began our tourism in earnest. Notre Dame was a bit smaller than I had anticipated (this was another motif throughout the weekend—the only exception being the Eiffel Tower) but we went in out of a feeling of a sense of duty to our tourism. Gov and I ended up involved in a conversation about the souvenir kiosks sponsored by the Catholic church and attempted to figure out which passage in the Bible details someone knocking over tables in the temple—we didn’t know so we continued touring.

On our walk to the Champs d Elysee we stumbled upon another gothic church and sneaked past some police officers as they give directions to tourists. In so doing we artfully avoid paying for our entrance or having our bags scanned. The church itself charged admission, but that didn’t stop me from taking some pictures of its Gothic architecture.

After this we find the Louvre and attach ourselves to a small English tour and learned a bit about the construction of the place and then being our walk down the Champs d Elysee. This street, I will warn you, is not nearly as impressive as I thought. The designer stores didn’t enthrall me at all, but my pizza at a café on the famous street certainly did. We stood briefly in front of the Arc d Triumphe, but did nothing but take a group picture (what are you going to do? It’s a giant arc).

After the walking the Champs (pronounced as it should be: CHAMPS), we decide to find the Musee D’Orsay, an old train station converted to use as an art museum featuring works by Van Gogh, Degas, Monet, and Picasso. We had difficulty finding it, but were given bus tickets and directions from an older French woman who had been standing next to a woman who either had the biggest, most hilarious secret stuffed away in the falsely-blonde hair, or has something seriously wrong with her face. The argument went around and around whether this person that stood next to our transportation benefactor was a transvestite or a horribly-strange woman. The bus came and we boarded to arrive quickly at the Museum D’Orsay.

It was a beautiful museum—in the end I found that I enjoyed it more than the overwhelming Louvre. Mom: I saw a sculpture there that I think you might buy outright.

After this with a bit of determination, we walked ourselves to Lafayette—the most intense department store in the history of the human department-store-building race. But before entering, we stumbled upon a Starbucks which demanded our attention and a sum from our wallets. We walked inside, ordered our drinks, and the following happened:

Those names are supposed to coincide with "Colleen," "Siegel," and "Brian." Priceless. Off to Lafayette.
Gov and I separated from the Colleen and Jess contingent and discovered the most expensive things we could. My winner: 85 Euro briefs for men made by DSquared. Gov found a 7,500 Euro bottle of wine. I then tried on 270 Euro Burberry Golf pants (they had to unlock them for me to try them on). He then one-upped me by buying a sweet fleece pullover. Drat.

When walking home we noticed a large amount of gendarme around and flashing lights. We attempted to ask a security guard and he either said something about royalty or rolling, we couldn’t tell. Until a few minutes later, it was a mystery. But we were closer to understanding the guard than we thought.

IT WAS A FRICKIN' ROLLERBLADE PARADE. We slapped hands with the passersby and cheered. We then found a cab.

We returned to our hostel after this excursion and began to get ready for our night on the town. This is the point where things begin to take a turn for the out-of-reach. We dress up—not quite to the 9’s, but probably somewhere north of the 8’s. We walked to the nearest taxi stand to get a ride to the Eiffel. That was when we met Antoine.

Antoine is a black cab driver. Antoine drives a black cab, he is not black himself. He pulls over when people look disenfranchised and flustered about finding a cab. He takes people for 5 Euro where they want. He gives out his cell phone number. (He also has a four year old son who doesn’t quite play soccer yet, but will soon; makes u-turns to show people cheap bars—but none of that really has any bearing on the story at hand). He drops us off at the Eiffel convinced we’re students from London. This will not be the last time we lie that night.

At the Eiffel (surprise, surprise) we ran into everyone else that was in Paris from MUDEC. We enjoyed a few bottles of wine with them and invited them to come with us to the most well known bars in Paris. The first has a bar made entirely of glass, dim lighting and 24 Euro cocktails…and a private guest-list only party going on. Through a bit of a process we found out that Colleen’s stepfather Dr. Smith was not in fact staying in room 262. Remember this is Fashion Week.

Undeterred, we trudge on to find the Buddha Bar (another famous bar which requires reservations a few days in advance to enjoy the comfort of a table). Within Gov and I end up chatting with two German women that are buyers for department stores and that have spent a lot of their time in Paris at the big fashion show.

We grew tired pretty quickly so we moved on to talking to some other women whom we later accused of lying to us about their age (we consistently called them 22 when they were, in fact, 32). We must have struck something because they were buying us drink(s)** and offered to drive us wherever we wanted. Through the conversation the following details about Gov and I came out: we were studying in Paris, we were going to be here for 3 and 6 months respectively, we had only been in Paris for 2 days. We asked them to show us where the great nightlife was, but they said they had to go home. We then complained about how they were, in fact, old. These appeals did not work, but they did say that they could show us around on Friday. Perfect. Gov put their number in his cell phone and after we rounded up Colleen and Jess, we were off to the Bastille district.

Long story short, I was a lot of people that night and we got in at 4:30am.

Sunday was a lazy day of walking the streets of Paris and going to the Louvre. Mona Lisa – smaller than I thought. Winged Victory – much cooler than anticipated. Madonna on the Rocks – smaller and darker than previously imagined. Venus di Milo – I had no preconceived notions.

The rest of the afternoon was spent lounging around Paris and walking to those parts which we hadn’t yet seen much of...like the plaza surrounding the Ritz.

These keep getting longer, I have to work on that….

the.city.of.love

2006-10-06T09:43:00.001+02:00

Well, it's off to Paris with me this weekend. This weekend, I feel, will be an interesting test of tolerance and stereotypes. I have heard some wonderful things about Paris, but thanks to a bit of selective perception, I have more clear memories of the disparaging things that people say about Paris and France.

But Cody and I had the conversation on the day of travel to Luxembourg before the best semester ever had really begun that if we had to get into a fight with any European person, we'd like it to be someone from France. I think that would be manageable. Hopefully, it won't come to that, though.

My fight record doesn't need any bolstering, nor does it need to be divulged to the likes of the people that might read this blog.

Well, City of Love here I come!

interlaken.for.a.whirl

2006-10-03T12:59:00.000+02:00

Hope you made it through the last one. That was a doosey. I left off with being dropped off at the train station on Friday afternoon. This then means I have to cover the entirety of Interlaken, which is an awful lot and is accompanied by just as many pictures.
The train ride began on a sour note as we stopped at NordSee (North Sea) a fast-food seafood place where I remember getting delicious fish’n’chips in Berlin a few years back. I swung by there and got some fish’n’chips. Switzerland beat me again—12 CHF (9 USD) for fish’n’chips and a drink. Blast. Smashley (with whom I was traveling) got a salmon wrap not realizing it was smoked salmon, and thus raw. I ended up eating a portion of it then throwing it out before it made me from the smell. The train itself was nice enough. By nice I simply mean it got us to the destination in a timely fashion. We arrived at 3:30 pm and were ready to get moving.
The hostel check-in process was effortless and we went upstairs to meet two of the five people with whom we were sharing the room. The first was in the shower when we walked in. She popped out a minute later with wet brown hair and what looked like pajamas on. She never really formally introduce herself, but she did ask a few polite questions and then proceed to tell me about the hostel I should stay at while in Spain—Pensione something-or-other and it was a left off of this street and a right off of that one; and I should eat here or there; even though it looks sketchy, it’s really great! I quizzically stared back and attempted to ask with my eyes, “How the hell do you think I am going to remember all of this information?” Vapid stare and then back to packing her backpack.
Despite the wonderful company we “geared” up (geared: not in a traditional sense in that we really didn’t have any gear…but “make-shifted” doesn’t roll off the typist’s hands nor the tongue—assuming you’re responsible for dictating this blog to someone) and headed for the trail named Harder Kulm, said to be the most popular in Interlaken. It was about 4:30 by the time we reached the trail head. If you’re a seasoned outdoors(wo)man, or a logical human-being and not an overzealous, adrenaline-fueled college junior, you will like see the problem with this immediately. We didn’t, because we were a group of three of the latter.
The hike, in an over-used word, was intense. It was slated to take 2:20. It was an 800 meter vertical climb from approximately 500 meters in elevation to 1322 m. We thought we were going to die. It was the most grueling hike I have ever taken—I would venture that, hyperbole aside, it was about a 35 degree slope all the way up on uneven, switch-backing terrain. At one point, the trail continued directly through an upper-altitude cow pasture. The gate was closed and the cows were staring at us with their Swiss bells ringing. We found a makeshift path strewn with “mines” (read: cow patties) and continued upward. That was not even a third of the way up. In the end, the juice was worth the squeeze. See for yourself.

Now the seasoned outdoorsperson might be intrigued by the picture of the sunset shown above. I was content taking it, but the realized what I meant: a descent in the dark. Shit. We could have planned this better, certainly—but in our defense, we did remember to bring water and trail mix. Ah-HA! Our descent was a perilous balance of ridiculous speed (there were some galloping stretches in their, accompanied by a proportional amount of spills) in order to beat the darkness and caution for our ankles. We, as college students, decided to err on the side of; recklessness isn’t the right word, but it will suffice. We made the descent (which was slated to take 1:30) in 45 minutes. At one point, my camera’s focus light was used as a flashlight to read a sign. We made it though, phew.
We wandered then to the (unfortunately) cheapest place in town, Hooters, to get some food and then headed home. Then Robby came in. Someone that reminded me of someone—someone I couldn’t put my finger on until just now: my sister’s ex-boyfriend of a few years—because of his height and build, but also his curly brown hair and prominent Adam’s apple. I guess you had to see him to understand. Colleen and Becky would agree if this journal could accept more authors and establish an internal-rapport—which it can’t. Robby proceeded to make nice small talk and mention that he was leaving for Rome in the morning so we were welcome to help ourselves to the beer that he wasn’t taking with him that was on the balcony.
The next morning we tossed on some clothes and headed over to the outfitter at 8:00 am in an effort to get the spot of a no-show on the full-day canyoning excursion. We didn’t. Colleen, Becky and I did a half-day canyoning trip with some guys from NYU who ended up being a kid who transferred from Miami’s roommates whom Becky knew. Strange, I know. Small world? Of course.
I can’t really convey what canyoning is all about. I have explained it as whitewater rafting sans raft. You’re decked out in a wetsuit and a helmet and you follow some guides who periodically tell you to jump off of this, dive off of that, slide down whatever—and sometimes push you off ten foot waterfalls backwards while you’re not quite paying attention. In a word: HOLYCRAPSWEETESTEXPERIENCEEVER.
When that wrapped up we housed some mountain cheese, mayo and mustard sandwiches with our guides and peaced. We then decided, since it was only 11:30, to head up to the ski-village of Wengen a thousand meters above us (but lower than where our hike took us). Here we just absorbed the view and I killed some x-mas gifts off. Lunch here was a two bags of salad between the three of us, a huge bottle of French dressing (despite its size, it was cheapest) and some cheese samples we snagged while the clerk was in the back. We took this to a rose garden and munched salad out of the bag and enjoyed the view.

We then returned to the hostel for a good night’s sleep because we were planning on doing a mini-hike to another town in the Alps before catching our 2pm train to Luxembourg. Gimmelwald was the destination. A short train ride got us to our hiking path—more a walk than a hike, really. And in an hour or so, we had arrived at a cable-car which could then take us to Gimmelwald. We (at this point Colleen, Ashley and I) were not prepared for the view we saw. It was absolutely breathtaking. We ¬¬sauntered through the 30 person town of chalets and goats and found a bench where we sat in silence in excess of a half hour absorbing the view. I filled my nalgene in a nearby fountain with water from the Alps and continued to marvel at the view. Astounding. The pictures cannot convey the beauty of this scene. It’s impossible without a trip to Gimmelwald.

After we caught a bit of our breath, at least enough to converse, we decided on checking out a little shop there. We were told by signage that we were to ring the bell to see the “Smallest Shop in the World with the Best Gifts” and did so. A minute later, a woman could be heard bounding down the stairs. She opened the door in her bare feet. “Want to see the shop?” She opened it up for us. A small booth of a room—we bought roasted almonds.
The next shop was also a bed and breakfast as well as we could tell. There we bought some Alp cheese and feasted on some of the best cheese I have ever had. I never claim to be a connoisseur, but I am quickly approaching that status with both beer and cheese.
Overall:

Hope that read wasn’t too taxing. Let me know what you think and leave a comment.

study.in.the.field

2006-10-02T11:25:00.000+02:00

Switzerland. What can I say? A lot. So this one is liable to be longer than not. Grab a coffee and maybe a sandwich (I hear its cold over there) and settle in for a read.

The week began early on Saturday morning with a large group of tired students met at the Luxembourg train station to board their bus destined for Geneva, Switzerland. The drive went quickly, with a stop at a truckstop-like restaurant. It was there I realized that Switzerland would not be nearly as cold as I had expected. It was downright hot at that stop. We boarded the bus again and headed off to arrive at our hostel in Geneva, which met expectations. Following that we got ready to go out to a traditional fondue dinner (paid for by Dr. T, my business professor). Dinner was excellent, aside from it being my first exposure to just how expensive Switzerland is. A beer set me back 10 CHF (approx. $8 or so). Back to the drawing board on expenditures. The traditional dinner included a crazy man playing an Alphorn (think didgeridoo and Ricola commercials circa 1998) and a sawblade with a bow. Odd, surely. Did it remind me of Wisconsin a whole lot? Definitely.
Day two prompted a trip to Charmonix (Shar-Mo-Nee) at the foot of Mont Blanc, Europe's highest mountain. The weather was inclement, and prompted the actual use of my new jacket--which left me really pumped. The small skiing village of Charmonix (pictured below) was quaint and obviously in off-season.

Shops were open, but ill-attended. I escaped the ususal French scorn in the small town, which was a welcome change from any other experience in France. Other than having the largest phallic symbol in the world, I have yet to see why the french believe themselves to be so superior to other cultures--that's a rant not fit for the internet; that is, you'd want to see my hand gestures on that one.
Mont Blanc proved to be a no-show when we arrived on top of the mountain via cable car. It was windy and snowing hard up there--the highlight was being able to walk right inside a glacier. Absolutely phenomenal. The temperature at that height was below 32 degrees given the fact that the ice that covered most of the surfaces wasn't going anywhere.

That picture was taken of myself, Kristen, Becky and Colleen within the glacier on top of Mont Blanc. We couldn't see anything from the top of the mountain. The conditions were completely white-out. It was amazing to see such powerful weather on top of the mountain when it was so calm down on the ground.
The following days were spent touring Geneva, which sits on the real Lake Geneva and is largely boring. The night life is minimal--and as such, we often found ourselves at a hookah bar off the beaten path chatting and eating (free) mediterranean cuisine and drinking tea. The searches for cheap food are perhaps the most memorable. There was one big slip-up where we got smacked with a 9 CHF bottle of water. Rediculous.
Whether you knew it or not, Switzerland happens to harbor the hqs of many international organizations such as: The Red Cross, Amnesty International, WTO, UN, Red Cross Foundation (different from the Red Cross...one has to do with war, the other with disaster relief), UNICEF and the International Labor Organization. Now, since we were on a field study for my International Business couse, which one did we tour? The Red Cross. I have no idea what the logic of our tours was, but I suppose that's for Dr. T to know and for me to question only briefly and then move on to planning my next weekend of travel.
When we were finished with Geneva, we left again in a busload of people to see the Olympic Museum in Lausanne--tired and a bit ragged from an awesome night at Le Francois--an upscale club gilded and mirrored much to our delight. The Olympic Museum was absolutely awe-inspiring. Now, I don't pretend to be the biggest fan of the Olympics, but I'd like to think I am up there...at least for the Winter games. Within the museum they had artifacts from ancient Greece depicting the tradition of the games, as well as Michael Phelps' swimming cap, and various other olympic flair. It was moving to see all of the important moments in Olympic history and the objects which helped them become so important. "So sick!" is the phrase Smashley used to refer to it numerous times. It was, in fact, sick.
I told you this would be long...bear with me
The next stop was out in the country and Gouyer (Goh-yay) cheese was the objective. Although the cheese factory was "interesting" (it wasn't), the scenery was the most beautiful I had seen (so far) that week. Here's a bit of a glimpse.

Following the superfluous cheese tour, we smashed some sandwiches and moved on to Zurich. The first day, like in Geneva, was dedicated to a walking tour which proved pretty informative and allowed us to get our bearings in the city. We had a bit of time to abuse our bank accounts before our next activity so I killed an xmas gift or two. The second half was touring the national museum, which was a bit much for the day and our entire tour group found themselves sleeping in some room full of cushions at the end of the museum--not exactly apprciative of Switzerland's long history of neutrality, but it had been a long few days of little sleep and lots of walking. While we slept, the security guard watching over us wandered over to the windows and closed the blinds. That should suffice in explianing how the behavior of the Swiss can be neatly alligned to those that engage in "Minnesota Nice."
No one was prepared for what the night would bring, however. We got dressed up and ready to head out to a bar which Madonna frequented on her stays in Zurich. Complete with red velvet couches, a slotcar track, and expensively-clad clientele, we settled in and unwittingly waited for our evening's sugar-daddy. A business man named Sabastian struck up a rapport with myself and Goveneur and we began talking hedge funds when he moseyed up to the bar and ordered a bottle of champaign. He filled our glasses non-chalantly and handed out more. We spoke about business and slowly racked up his tab until it reached 514 CHF by the end of the night--roughly 395 USD. Intensity. He instantly became a legend. And due to the fact that he would not let any pictures be taken of him, we now have the hunch that he may be enjoying Switzerland for its neutral stance. Never saw him again, though--so we'll never actually know.
The next day, other than enjoying the previous night's champaigne, was a visit to the convention center where the head technical coordinator proceeded to herd 40 of us into a service elevator fit for 20. It was right then, after the doors closed, that the elevator got stuck. The walls immediately got damp with condensation from the heat. We stood in there for 10 minutes or so, 40 of us, all smashed so close that we couldn't move our arms. We had to get rescued by some workers and then climbed out because we were between floors. Some fainted upon exiting. Others used the stairs.
Then we got a breif chance to shop and wander around. That night, i don't remember it very well, but i remember hearing the word "tired" a lot and some sleeping went down.
We also toured an area of gentrification which had a warehouse that had been turned into something roughly equivalent to the Foot hangout in TMNT. Insanely sweet skate park with a wraparound bowl, and a sweet hip transfer. That's in Winterthurm.
Friday we toured the airport and were dropped off at the train station and left to our own devices therein. Our plan was to head to Interlaken, the extreme sports capital of Europe.

I will wrap up this post in another more picture-laden one tomorrow detailing Interlaken.

laundry.is.redic

2006-09-22T16:24:00.000+02:00

I am sitting at a pretty busted laundromat in Luxembourg city right now. If I had a camera, I would definitely take a picture of this little place. Bumble-bee yellow walls and turqouise bleach-stained washers form two lines like the walls to an irridescent alleyway. In the middle of writing this post (rather, in the beginning) I had to get up and attempt to use the restroom. I found out that the light within didn't work...nor did they have toilet paper--or anything that a rugged traveller like myself might substitute for toilet paper. I wish I had thought of bringing Chamin To Go like Katie. Durn.

And now I have to shut down because all of their power outlets are broken. Laaame.

new.feature

2006-09-20T12:13:00.000+02:00

To the right, you will notice that there are "Other Links" listed; one of which is a link to my google calendar, which will show you what I am planning on doing each weekend, and what i have going on during the week. You can only check this out, however, if you have an account with Google (Gmail, Spreadsheet, etc.).

Also, I have Skype up and running, so just let me know if you want to Skype me.

While I am at it: Rebecca Petrulis, I miss you so much!

this.fateful.party

2006-09-18T11:28:00.000+02:00

Oktoberfest. The biggest and best party I have ever attended (in my own honor). We arrived without much fanfare on Friday night after 7 hours of train-riding. It was great to hop off the ICE train into the Muenchen Hauptbahnhof, which was comfortingly familiar. Accomodations were handled by one Erika Von Borcke--we stayed with her cousin who lives with his wife in Munich at the end of the UBahn line. A surprisingly legit UBahn ride later, we hopped off and all met her cousin for the first time...even her.
They opened up their home and for their trouble got a pretty awesome thank-you note from yours truly. I slept soundly and woke up early ready to take on the 'Fest. We trained it to the Therisenwiese and hopped in line where the opening of the first keg was to take place. Met some girls from Switzerland and shared a bootleg Loewenbraeu out of their backpack at 9am. Beer was the theme.
We didn't rank a spot in that opening tent, they closed it before we could get in, but we had prime spots for the parade. YoMags made friends with the head of security for the mayor (who was standing next to us before he went in to drop the "O'saft ist!" bomb on the Oktoberfest-going population, so we were allowed to run across the middle of the parade in front of some gigantic clydesdales (pictured below).
We arrived at the Hacker-Pschorr tent where Heidi was reserving us a table and heard the cannon fire commemorrating the opening of the first keg. Game time. Masse came out in huge stacks carried by women in dirndls and men in lederhosen. At 7.60 Euros a pop, they weren't cheap, but they certainly made us befriend our table neighbors. A few masse later and everyone behaved like friends from third grade that had stories about playing in one anothers' sandboxes and getting their hands cut by broken glass therein--despite the fact that they probably grew up without lawns and we were all separated by a bit of h2o called "The Atlantic."
A lot of singing and dancing on tables later, we found ourselves in various other magnificant tents. I briefly got lost and wandered off, found Noelle and made up some story about getting into a fight with a security guard. This got me a free pass over to Hofbrauhaus with them, and i finally got inside. I wasn't really prepared for what I saw inside. INSANITY. But totally in a safe way. Don't worry Mom.

At the end of the day, I fell asleep on some tax documents in our host's house and woke up primed and ready for Sunday. Sightseeing. Didn't take any pictures, I had seen it all before on the last trip to Munich. I basically played tour guide for Jess and Erika. A great time, nonetheless.
Munich, the birthday, the people, the beer: All excellent. This weekend took the cake...it must have, because I never got one on my birthday. Good interception, Munich, good interception.

Overall:

this.is.the.birthday

2006-09-15T11:32:00.000+02:00

As I gear up this weekend to head off to Munich (for my 21st bday, which also coincides with the first day of Octoberfest this saturday--cheeky, i know), I am hoping for some puzzle pieces to fall into place. I haven't heard back from Karen as of Thursday night and I was planning on crashing at her place as she is spending the year in Munich--the highlight of which will be a tired and beer-filled Brian sprawled out across her (presumably) tight quarters.
In other news, Max has officially made it abroad. This then means that I have a place to visit in France besides the southern coast and Paris. Not only that, but I have a wonderful asian kid waiting for me there. Agatha (one of Pat's good friends from U of I) is also studying abroad in London. A visit there would be too expensive to be plausable. However, if she would be interested in meeting in some European city (read: Amsterdam in early October) I would certianly be all for it.
I am anticipating this weekend to be a bit overwhelming. Not only in a caloric and carbohydrate sense, but also in a stress/fun sense. The stories that people have collected already in one weekend of travel would astound anyone. I have heard of people staying above bars on islands in Holland, almost getting pickpocketed on the Parisian subway, watching the British Royal Guard take on a bar full of Belgians and who knows what else. That was one weekend--so let's just say the excitement stakes are frighteningly high.
I realize that those that read this probably aren't familiar with those with whom I am traversing this continent with so I will attempt to provide a bit of a directory.

Cody - met him at Leadershape this summer, we hit it off because of his quick wit

Joe - met him in Greece; a fraternity brother of Cody's and also a loud American

Mike - met him in Greece; a fraternity brother of Cody's

Sarah - we knew each other in a tertiary manner, we also took the same sociology class freshman year

Noelle - a brother of mine in DeltaSig and prone to hopping when excited

Mary - met her in Greece and took to her like Slimer to Ecto cooler, wit and sarcasm to the end

Smashley - a good friend of Mary's and an "overgrown eight year-old" (Mary's words)

That is the whole boat from Greece, I realized. I will include other breif dossiers on others as they become more important. I fully expect the following names to creep up more often: Shannon, Colleen, Patrick, Ally, Becci, Nick, Erin and a few others. Stay posted.

Off to Munich in the same shoes I wore there a bit over 3 years ago.

moving.right.along

2006-09-12T10:24:00.000+02:00

This weekend was Brussels and Brugge. The following is a brief list of the highlights punctuated with anecdotes and pictures:

Hostel in a predominantly Islamic neighborhood

Wandering through the art district

Sitting in the "most beautiful square in Europe" in Brussels at night waiting for a light show

returned to the square

saw the Belgian Brewers Museum--which was terrible except for the complimentary beer at the end

thrifting in a foreign country

After a bit more wandering in the art district, we headed over to the train station and got yelled at by some guy in French (typical) and caught our train to Brugge. A short train ride later, the group of travelers (whom haven't been mentioned yet--there were quite a few) split up to find their individual hostels. Mine was way outside the center of Brugge, but proved satisfactory. We shared a room with 3 Portuguese guys. We never talked.
Brugge is a very tourist-y city; not my style. Canals and romantic cathedrals aren't exactly what my doctor ordered. Lots of souvenir shops if you're not into wandering in and out of couples' portraits in front of whatever landmark.
That night was one for the books. We listened to a "Let's Go Europe!" book suggestion and found some place called Rica Rokk in Brugge. Insanity. A contingent of the British Royal Guard was there and they made their presence known. I saw a headbutt, lots of broken glass, and some hilarious antics.
We (Joe, Cody and I) rented bikes on Sunday and got out of town to a little place called Damme a few kilometers outside of Brugge--a nice little town with a book fair in the town center.

We ate some lunch and went back to the train station where we had stored our bags and went home. The train ride home was quite uneventful with the exception of a rough translation of some announcement in French which mentioned something about the train "breaking." This, we later found out, meant the train was splitting up--some cars to Luxembourg and others to France. So we had to run from one car to the other. I lost track of some possessions in the process, but avoided ending up being stranded.

Overall:

mind.the.tide

2006-09-07T10:55:00.000+02:00

Today is my most crowded day of classes--four throughout the day.

Last night I could feel myself becoming a bit fatigued and harried about my sleep patterns and workload from school. That resulted in disaffected lounging at the chateau as a wine and cookies reception went on directly above my head. It felt good to catch up with some correspondence and make sure that everything was running smoothly with DeltaSig back home--which it wasn't. The website is down, likely as a result of the guy that has unwittingly been paying for it for the last few years with his credit card finding out that he had, in fact, been paying some monthly fee for us to maintain our website. That's not exactly public knowledge, so I wouldn't be upset if that didn't get back to some people...

I mentioned before being a bit worried about my workload. This stems primarily from the fact that I am the only student in my International Accounting class. That's it. It's me and Professor Campbell: one on one. Awkward? Yes. Opportunity? Hopefully.

Tomorrow I will be posting a portion of my novella that I wrote concerning my time spent in Greece. For now, here's a picture to tide you over:That was taken in Ermioni, Greece - a small mainland port town straddling the spine of a rocky isthmus.

back soon.

step.back.and.forward

2006-09-06T15:44:00.000+02:00

Again I am sitting the Chateau, only this time I am stocked with anticipation for the coming weeks. This weekend I am planning on going to Brussels and Brugge--hostels are officially booked and everything. I am just hoping and crossing fingers for easy trasportation from here to there...that gets us there before 6pm.

As far as the state of Luxembourg, I have a few observations which follow.

A guy I met on the trip (Joe) and I were sitting down the street from the Chateau at dinner, enjoying our 1L Bofferdings and talking about the appearance of the Luxembourgish youth. Joe put it as follows: "They make this place look like a battered America. Like someone beat the crap out of America, dropped it on the floor, then just brushed it off and presented it as if nothing had happened." Granted, this doesn't really jive with my international perspectives on culture and such, but I couldn't help but agree. Graffiti (and other vandalism), which originated in the US as far as I know, is still all the rage here, and it's terrible. Everything bears a tag; be it desks, walls or garbage cans, everything has been sprayed with pressurized paint.
And the fashion--what triggered Joe and I's conversation--is horrendous. I suppose globalization is to blame for the fact that the kids walk around in mismatched outfits with American baseball emblems emblazoned on them, or basketball warmups and blade sunglasses. The you just seem disaffected and idle. I have some thinking to do on globalization--I used to be a big proponent of it, but now--now that I see a bit too much American in everything--I think I need to evaluate my position further.

I promise photos in the next post. Keep your eyes peeled everyone.

this.is.the.first.post

2006-09-05T14:07:00.000+02:00

So here is the blog I promised to write from Luxembourg. It will soon be punctuated with pictures and experiences that a lot of others on the trip have also had/taken (as the case may be).

So, more to come.

Get excited.