They say I´m not German

The boys kept calling it soccer for my benefit, but I called it football because screw my benefit – I’m in Germany and their word makes more sense anyway. The stadium was small and plain but it didn’t matter to the Germans because the greatest game in the world was about to be played and every seat in the house is a good one. The home team, St. Pauli, represents a neighborhood in Hamburg whose residents are fiercely devoted to their team and pay upwards of 500 Euro for lifetime passes to all of the games. I knew nothing of the opposing team, Wattenscheid, except that they too, have incredibly loyal fans, some of whom drove hours just to attend tonight’s game.

I wasn’t sure why Philipp and Felix were rushing me. As I walked out of the restroom Philipp yelled, “Hurry up!” turned around and ran through a sea of people all filing through the entrance to the stadium. I chased after him and when I caught up I realized the reason why we were running: there were no seats in our section – one either found a good place to stand or spent the entire game peering over the shoulder of a seven foot tall lumberjack.

We shoved our way into the crowd of excited, buzzing fans and planted ourselves fifty feet behind the home team’s goal. Then the cheering began … and didn’t stop for the next hour and a half. Arms thrown up in the air, key rings shaken like maracas, beer sprayed overhead, whooping and hollering, the entire stadium sang in unison and didn’t stop until every player left the field. Somehow they all knew the words to every song, every cheer and every chant and they sang and screamed like the fate of the game depended on it. And maybe it did because St. Pauli won and we jumped and yelled as if money were raining down from the sky. I learned all the cheers by the end of the night and took great pleasure in pumping my fist in the air, hollering words that meant nothing to me, not caring because I got to feel German for ninety minutes.

I’m having a wonderful time in Hamburg. Felix and Philipp are being perfect hosts and have tons of activities planned for our weekend. I picked a good time to visit Germany because for whatever reason, everyone parties on May 1st. Blog updates will inevitably take a backseat to this partying and I’ll update when I get another chance.

Two hours left in Berlin

It puzzles me, this mysterious lack of homesickness. I'm lying in a room full of eighteen smelly, snoring backpackers, trying to sleep because I have to travel the next day and if I could trade it all for my comfortable bed back home and a night out in good ol' faithful Minneapolis, I'd take the sleeping strangers anyday.

Maybe I'm just not there yet. Maybe I need to live another month away from home. Another month of uncertainty and long train rides and full hostels and bird shit in my hair. Another month of never knowing what day it is or where I'm going to be in the days and weeks to come. Another month of paying through the nose for an hour of Internet access and washing my clothes in a sink that's seen more vomit than it has soap. Maybe another month of that and I'll be ready.

I'll tell you a few things I really do miss though. I miss curling up in my bed on a Saturday morning with my iBook in my lap and last night's pictures on the screen. I miss not having to worry about my shit getting stolen when I sleep at night and walking down familiar roads at 3:00 a.m. feeling safe by myself because it's my city and I know these streets and we're friends. I miss my mom's cooking and my sister's babbling phone calls and long drives to mixed CDs. I miss orange juice in the refrigerator and running into old friends at rock and roll shows.

If I could pluck a select few of you from your houses and your jobs and steal you away my suitcase to forget Minneapolis and all the baggage we've created, I might never leave Europe. I could happily live the rest of my life in this place, nestled away in one of these cities, occasionally traveling back to the U.S. for weddings and holidays.

Something I've learned as a traveler these past five weeks is that I don't need very much to be okay. Right now, here in this hostel far away from my friends and my family and everything that I know, I'm happy. And maybe it's not even Europe that's made me that way, but it's the best theory I have so far.

Update

Okay, I found a hostel. Cheapest one yet, at that. Full of teenagers, which is kind of making me want to punch my face in, but it´s cool. I meet up with Philipp and Felix tomorrow night and I´m super excited.

It´s amazing how, with each new place I visit, I´m continually shocked each time I walk up the subway steps and look out into this crazy foreign world full of words I can´t read and people I don´t understand. You´d think I´d be used to it by now but I´m not.

Off to explore. Later, dudes.

I can´t remember how to say hello in German.

I have arrived in Berlin and I´m going to stay here for a few days before going to Hamburg to meet up with Philipp and Felix. There is a slight problem however: I have nowhere to stay. The Internet tells me that all the hostels are booked for tonight and the soonest vacancies are for tomorrow night. I´m not sure what to do about this. Perhaps I will have to splurge on a hotel? Or maybe it won´t be very cold and I can hang out in a park all night. That might not be very fun what with the 30 pound backpack and all. I really don´t feel like getting robbed. Or uh, murdered. This really blows. A ton. Way to plan ahead, Mary.

Sidenote: a pigeon shit on my head in the park yesterday.

Chronology of Fine Dining in Barcelona

10:40 - arrive at fancy restaurant of choice and carefully study the menu, converting euro prices into dollars, and convince yourself that you can deserve a nice meal because it´s your last night in Barcelona. make a reservation at said restaurant and wander around Las Ramblas, killing time.
11:00 - report back to restaurant and go inside only to wait some more, but inside the actual restaurant this time.
11:15 - get seated at a table
12:00 - get greeted by your server who hands you menus and promptly wanders off.
12:15 - order food and beverages
12:30 - beverages arrive and your $3 coke is less than 10 oz.
12:45 - food arrives. stare at your plate shocked, as it consists of seven noodles and four chunks of tomato. contemplate eating your own arm.
12:46 - finish food. wish there was more. lots more. stare at arm longingly.
01:30 - wait for friends to finish eating their dessert. gaze out the window and dream of sandwiches. Consider not paying for your over-priced, seven-noodle meal, but reconsider when factoring in the possibility of getting arrested in a foreign country.
01:45 - leave restaurant. wonder where the last three hours of your life just went.
01:50 - buy french fries from a street vender and vow never to eat in a fancy restaurant ever again.

Junior

Is it possible to fall in love having known someone for only 48 hours?

His name is Junior and he’s from Brazil but lives in Madrid. He has creamy olive skin, greenish hazel eyes and curly black hair. His native language is Portuguese but he’s learned to speak Spanish through living in Spain. He knows a bunch of English nouns but can’t really form a complete sentence. Needless to say, I’ve spoken more Spanish over the past couple of days than I have in the past ten years combined.

We met when he tried to help me hook my computer up to the Internet at our hostel. I wasn’t having any luck on my own and none of the staff would help me, so he took a look. We sat there for half an hour, hunched over my laptop, clicking on buttons, refreshing web browsers, but didn’t have any luck. He couldn’t read any of the words on the screen, but it didn’t seem to faze him and he kept plugging away, searching for the solution. Eventually I told him, in Spanish, that it was okay; I could go to an Internet café the next morning. He finally conceded defeat and stood up to leave and it was then that I realized damn, this dude is pretty hot.

The next night I saw him again in the hall as a few of us headed outside for a walk. We made eye contact and neither of us looked away for a few seconds. I asked him if he wanted to come along on our walk. He said yes, but that he needed to be back at the hostel by 2:00 a.m. to go out dancing with his friends.

Junior, Aman, and Logan and I wandered down Las Ramblas amongst street venders, drunken tourists, beer peddlers, and club promoters. The sky was black but the cobblestone streets sparkled like rubies, with neon lights reflecting in puddles and smoke snaking through the air. Junior followed close behind me, lightly touching my waist when cars approached. We stopped at a vegetarian deli to buy salty French fries and take blurry pictures then headed to a bar around the corner where we sat around a table speaking broken Spanish and pantomiming patiently when all words failed.

I never knew that I could flirt in a different language, but that night I learned that not only is it easy, but it’s ten times more fun. Junior was lively and playful and not at all shy and I was giddy and buzzing and happy to have all of his attention.

We went to a club later on and Junior and I danced with broken glass crunching beneath our feet and hundreds of sweaty people whirling all around. The music was loud and invigorating, shaking the walls and electrifying my bones. Junior taught me to Samba and pointed out songs from Brazilian artists and acted horrified when I yawned at 4:30 a.m.

He kept his arm around me as we walked back to the hostel, past stoned transvestite prostitutes and drunks in handcuffs escorted by police. The air was warm and smelled of urine and cigarettes and a low hum of engines, voices and clatters could be heard from all around. I wanted to tell Junior how much fun I had with him and that I wanted to see him again, but I was too tired to think of the words and he already knew because it was written all over my face.

The next day we took a bus to a park overlooking the Mediterranean Ocean and he held my hand and took my picture and said, “Guapa.” We shared water and cigarettes and he played with my hair like he’d known me all his life. At first I was worried that we wouldn’t have anything to talk about because my Spanish is shit and his English is nonexistent, but somehow we were able to learn all about each other. He called me his doll, his sweet doll.

That evening we ate dinner at an Arabic deli and bought groceries at a local market down the street. We stood on the sidewalk with giant water jugs at our feet and hundreds of people rushing by. He had his arm around my neck and I munched on a chocolate chip cookie, feeding him bites every so often. It was dark by this time and we were on our way back to the hostel when he stopped suddenly and whispered in my ear, “Mira.” I followed his gaze and saw a street performer entertaining a child with hot dog balloons and blow-up swords. “Me encanta Barcelona,” he declared and pulled me closer.

We fell asleep on the roof of the hostel underneath a sprinkling of stars with the noisy city street fives stories below and a dirty mattress under our backs. He slept like a baby but I lay awake wondering how I could ever go home after seeing a city like this. I wanted to capture the feeling and put it in a bottle to keep forever and use sparingly for the rest of my life.

Junior went back to Madrid this afternoon. We spent the morning lazing around, tangled together, staring at each other, trying to burn every last detail into our memories. We knew that we would probably never see each other again, but couldn’t let that cloud our last few hours. I was quiet as we rode the subway to the bus station and he tried to make me laugh, doing a spot-on impression of Goofy, the Disney dog. After a panicked sprint to the station and some confusion over which bus was his, we hugged one last time and he called me his doll, his sweet doll, then got on the bus and blew me kisses through the window.

He told me he loved me this morning, but I didn’t say it back because how could I love someone I’ve known for 48 hours and can barely even understand? But as I stood in the subway fighting back tears, looking up each time someone walked by just in case it was him, I realized that perhaps I should reevaluate my skeptic ways because if this feeling isn’t love, then it’s something awfully close.

Quick update of random crap

I´m in Barcelona. Sat next to a gassy pregnant chic on the train. My roommates at the hostel are male, Scottish and incredibly sunburnt. I ate Spanish food with a girl from New York who made fun of the way I pronounce non-English words. She was cool though. I had a really weird day. I think I´m really going to like Barcelona. It´s a beautiful city.

Bullfight

The stadium smelled of salty peanuts and old man cigars. There were three flags flying high above the seats with Spain’s in the center position. We walked up steep, narrow steps and sat on hard concrete rows; our seats were in the lower deck near the doors through which they release the bulls. The crowd was excited and anxious for the action to start, with few people up and walking around.

The horns wailed, the doors flew open and a bull came charging out. Immediately the crowd erupted in cheers and applause as the bull tore around the ring, slamming his horns into the wall, kicking up dirt, looking for something to demolish. Three banderilleros appeared with magenta capes and matching socks pulled high up over their tight, white pants. They teased and taunted the bull, stomping their feet and jerking their capes. Freshly stabbed and angry, the bull raged at them with unstoppable energy and deadly, brute strength. His tail flicked back and forth eagerly as he flew through waving capes, head low to the ground, horns white and sharp.

The picador entered carrying a giant lance, riding a blindfolded horse with heavy padding draped over its body. He waited with his lance held high as the banderilleros provoked the bull, causing him to charge the horse. Screams of delight sounded throughout the stadium as the bull thrust his horn into the padded belly of the horse and the picador stuck his lance deep into the bull’s shoulder. Using their capes, the banderilleros diverted the bull away from the horse and continued to run him around the ring as blood ran down his back.

This was only the beginning of the bull’s slow, merciless death. Two of the banderilleros threw aside their capes and picked up sharp, harpoon-like banderillas, while the third banderillero enticed the bull into position. He charged forward angrily and the banderillero stabbed his neck with the banderillas; they stayed stuck in him like thumbtacks on a corkboard, handles swinging on his back, bouncing up and down. Blood poured out his wounds and covered his sides in thick maroon velvet. His tail stopped wagging and he was noticeably slower in his attempts to chase the pink capes.

Finally, it came time for the matador to showcase his talents. A mere twenty-two years old with the body of a ballerina, the matador moved with a confident grace and faced the bull fearlessly. He pranced around the ring with his chest puffed out and threw down his hat, ready for action. The bull was tired, but not defeated. His enormous gut heaved and his head bucked wildly as he twisted in pain. The banderillas beat against his side and two of them came lose and fell to the ground.

The matador called to the bull, stomped his feet, and shook his red cape. Infuriated, the bull charged at the cape and sailed under it as the matador swiveled his hips to the side and let the bull pass. They continued this dance back and forth across the ring with the matador occasionally turning his back and walking away cockily as the bull searched for red satin. The crowd screamed, “¡Ole!” with each charge and exclaimed loudly at every close encounter between the bull and the matador.

The bull grew slower. He had lost a lot of blood. The matador retrieved a long, thin lance from the sidelines and prepared himself for the kill. He held the cape off to the side and raised the lance straight out in front of him, parallel with the bull’s spine. This was the most dangerous part of the bullfight because it required going head-on with the bull, risking being gored.

The bull charged and just as they were about to collide the matador plunged his lance deep into the bull’s neck and let go. The banderilleros rushed into the ring, capes flying wildly, dizzying the dying bull until he collapsed on the ground, blood rushing from his nose and mouth. His body heaved and he died.

Wild cheers erupted from the audience and everyone stood to honor the matador, waving white handkerchiefs high above their heads in victory. The matador strutted around the ring with his banderilleros at his side, holding his hat out in front of him like a medal. In the background, a team of men and horses tied up the dead bull and dragged him out of the ring by his neck. Areneros appeared and raked up the blood that covered the sand where the bull took his last breath.

Ten minutes later, it started all over again with a new bull. And again and again and again until eight bulls were killed and the people’s bloody-thirsty appetites sated. Each time, the bull raced out into the ring with fierce determination, as if he would be the one that finally makes it. The one that finally outsmarts the whirling red capes and swift matador moves. But the bull never wins. They always die in the exact same way, every time, give or take a few liters of blood. They collapse under their own weight and look like fallen tables when they land on their side with their legs stuck straight out. It’s always the matador who gets to have the victory walk and feel the adoration of the crowd and see the white hankies waving. But tradition is tradition for a reason and bullfights are part of Spanish history, so I’m not going to muss that up with fairness and morals. I feel lucky that I was able to experience such a cherished Spanish pastime, especially on Easter afternoon, one of their most cherished holidays. It’s just too bad for the bull. I doubt anybody wished him a Happy Easter before sentencing him to die.

Ode to modern art

ah, modern art.
so esthetically pleasing
with your tall, white walls
and symmetrical geometric figures.
I could get lost in your sleek, metal frames
and convoluted films about water.

but what of the man in braces
who hit on me in the Burri exhibit?
his shiny metal teeth
and Barcelona business card
were a dead giveaway
that he didn’t come to the museum
to look at the paintings.

Highlights from yesterday

The Royal Monastery of San Lorenzo de el Escorial


Ceiling of the basilica


Spying on an artist at the monastery


Procession through the streets of Madrid


The Flamenco


Belly Dancer


2 a.m. in the subway

Hable

Sometimes I think having a language barrier is the most frustrating experience on the planet. This afternoon Laura, who speaks very limited English, discovered that there’s a bullfight in the Plaza del Toro on Sunday, so she asked me if I’d like to go. Obviously, I do. But this meant that I would need to go to the train station and change the day that I leave for Barcelona to Tuesday since I was originally booked to leave on Sunday, and the train is already full for Monday. Clutching a slip of paper that read “Yo quiero cambiar la fecha de mi boleto de viaje,” in case I got nervous when faced with the impatient, surly ticket agent and blanked on all Spanish, which is exactly what happened, I wandered over to the train station, waited in line for forty minutes, and successfully changed my departure to Tuesday.

That was supposed to be the most difficult, frustrating part. Not so. Back at Laura’s apartment I realized that I needed to contact my hostel in Barcelona, cancel my stay for Sunday and Monday nights, and re-book nights for after I arrive on Tuesday. I knew that this would be really hard to do over the phone because I suck at Spanish and will inevitably be asked all sorts of questions and not understand half the information I’m given, so I asked Laura to cancel the bookings and make the re-bookings for me. Speaking slowly, I pointed at the dates that I needed to cancel and said, “Cancel.” Then I pointed at the dates that I needed to book and said, “I need.” She looked at me, smiled sweetly and said, “Yes, yes. I can.” She picked up the phone, called the hostel, spoke a bunch of Spanish, hung up the phone, and then we had the following conversation:

LAURA: I no do can.
MARY: What? You mean you couldn’t do it?
LAURA: No, I no do can.
MARY: Were you able to cancel the days?
LAURA: Yes.
MARY: (pointing at the dates) Canceled?
LAURA: Yes … I no do can.
MARY: I don’t understand. No comprendo.
LAURA: You need … make days.
MARY: I need to cancel it?
LAURA: I no can telephone.
MARY: Wait, so is it canceled or not? (pointing) Days? Canceled?
LAURA: Yes. You need cancel.
MARY: Did you cancel the days?
LAURA: I no can telephone.

It went on like this for about ten minutes. I wanted to peel off my skin and stab at my brain with scissors until I fell into a coma and woke up in a land where no one ever has to speak to anyone because we can all just intrinsically know what everyone needs at all times.

But I’m in Spain and it’s rude to stab at your brain with scissors in someone else’s house, so instead I communicated my frustration in a universal manner by sighing and rubbing the side of my face with my hands. Laura understood this and must’ve realized that I was about three seconds away from flying out the window, so she picked up her laptop and used a translation website to write a message to me in English explaining that I need to cancel my booking and make a new one online because it’s not possible to do so over the phone.

Traveling is really fun and I love all the things I get to see and all the people I get to meet, but man, sometimes there are moments of frustration that you would never experience in your own country and they stretch your patience even further than you ever thought it’d go and make you never want to leave your comfortable little American nest ever again. But then you remember that you’re going to a bullfight on Sunday and tonight you get to watch Spaniards carry a giant crucifixion around town, bathed in a sea of candlelight and music and suddenly communication seems piddly. Who cares about grammar when you’ve got fiestas to attend?

Never have I eaten so much cheese.

The most interesting part of staying with people during my trek across Europe is far and away experiencing little bits of my hosts’ lives for short periods of time. For some reason, they allow me – encourage me – to barge into their home, plop down my giant backpack, and watch as they go about being a student or worker or whatever it is they do on a daily basis. I get to be there, on the sidelines, occasionally cheering, but mostly just watching, as they live their lives in a country that is entirely foreign to me. And somehow I’ve managed to time it so that I’m there right in the midst of chaos each time.

In Birmingham, my hostess, Jo, was frantically searching for a new flat because she’d just started a new job in London and needed to move closer to work. In addition to the stress of relocating all of one’s belongings and dealing with a new lease, her South African boyfriend’s Visa just expired and he was being deported back to Africa, so she was trying to spend some time with him during his few remaining weeks in England. For the few days I was in Birmingham, I watched Jo deal with landlords and rent discrepancies, new roommates and an impatient boyfriend, vacationing employers and bank statements, all while trying to keep her sanity despite not knowing what her life might be like in two week’s time. It was all very hectic and crazy and I got to see what living in England is like for someone who’s actually doing it. I’ve found that it’s not a whole lot different than the U.S. – they just say everything with an accent and drink a whole lot more tea.

And now in Spain my hostess, Laura, just found out that she’s moving back to Mexico in three weeks. She had an accident about a month ago involving a long set of subway stairs and her skull, and now, for reasons she hasn’t been able to explain in English, she has to drop out of school in Madrid and go back home. I stood in the kitchen listening, picking up bits of Spanish here and there, as she chain-smoked menthol cigarettes and talked to her roommate about this sudden life change. She’s not sure what’s to come of her college education, if she wants to go back to her husband in Mexico, and how she’s going to live on three hundred Euros for the next few weeks. All I could say was, “¿Lo ciento?”

I try not to get in the way. I’m a tourist – all I do is watch. I watch Laura talk to her husband on the phone. I watch Jo scribble notes about security deposits on a pad a paper. I watch them sit and stare out into nothing, wondering which decision is the right one to make and how to go about making it. And then I leave. My time is up, my days are over, and I’m off to a new country, a new city, a new language, a new set of people to meet and problems to endure. I leave Laura with her time running short and Jo with her new life starting and all I can do is wonder how things turned out and hope that I get an email every once in a while.

But these snapshots are half the fun of traveling and I like that I get to start out with a clean slate every four or five days. It’s amazing how immersed I can feel after living in someone’s house for a week. I learn their routines, meet their friends, shop at their stores and share their food, all with the knowledge that I’m just writing another chapter in this huge European book of mine and that there are many more to come. So far it’s really fun. But I feel a little sad each time I get back on the train.

Capital-Hopper Extraordinaire

I've been in Madrid for twelve hours and already my Spanish has improved tenfold (i.e. I can now form childlike sentences). It helps that I'm hanging out with a Mexican chica named Laura who speaks minimal English. So far she's shown me all around a couple sections of the city and made me an incredible bowl of guacamole. It's my turn to cook for her tomorrow evening and I'm scared because OH MY GOD I DON'T COOK. I called my mother and left her a message begging for an email on how to cook vegetable pasta. If anybody else wants to instruct my ignorant ass on the ways of imbecile cooking (Jennifer?), feel free.

I took my first overnight train last night. It was kind of exciting in a Polar Express sort of way. I felt like I was away at summer camp, except it was a summer camp that moves really fast and causes your shoulders to slam into the walls when you walk down the hall. I shared a sleeper room with three other girls in second class. It was really awkward when I first got in the room because we all just kind of sat there in this tiny, little box, knees touching, sneaking glances at one another, no one saying a word. Finally I started talking to the girl across from me; her name is Angelina and she's from Russia but is living in Spain with her British boyfriend. She's twenty-eight-years-old and has a four-year-old son and a fifty-year-old boyfriend who won't let her work because she's too pretty. I inquired about this Russian beauty and she told me that she's medium pretty, but that Russian women get much, much prettier. And unfortunately, they out-number Russian men by about five-to-one, so the men get to be very choosy, which is why Angelina dates Europeans instead. Makes sense to me.

After the Wallet Stealing Bonanza of 2006 I met Laura in the Atocha train station and we headed back to her place where I took a much needed shower and squelched my vegetarian urges by eating a ham and mushroom omelet. Then we walked all around Madrid and I fell in love with yet another city. More posts to come as I've hooked my laptop up to Laura's Internet connection. Check out my photos if you're bored. Lots of scenic landscapy crap, but there are some interesting ones in there too.

Spain

And to commemorate my three week anniversary of being in Europe, my wallet was stolen five minutes after I stepped off the train in Madrid. FUN. Luckily, it only contained a few Euros, my student ID, some expired calling cards, and the contact info of people I met in Europe. My credit cards, passport, camera, iPod and all that stuff are still with me. But shit, it doesn't feel good to get ripped off. People suck.

Catacombes

I spent my last few hours in Paris staring at piles of human bones. It was quite unsettling. Against my better judgment, I went alone. Initially, I tried to stay near the other tourists, but I kept pausing to take pictures and there was one point where I found myself completely alone, surrounded by walls of death, listening to Tool on my iPod. It was terrifying. I started to panic. My heart raced. I took deep breaths and headed in the direction where I'd last seen people. The floor was wet, the ceilings were low, and all I could see were skulls in every direction. Finally I ran into a man and his young son and followed them all the way to the exit.

I recommend visiting Catacombes with a friend, should you get the chance. It's an amazing experience, but not your typical light-hearted tourist attraction.

People

Traveling seems to have completely erased my friend filter. I’ll pretty much hang out with anyone. As long as he or she can speak a tiny bit of English, we’re okay. Male, female, young, old … it doesn’t matter. In Minneapolis 90% of my friends fall into the same demographic: 23-28 years old, Caucasian, college-educated, native English speakers. It’s just worked out that way; you attract people who are similar to yourself. But in hostels, the common bond we all share is that we’re away from home, don’t want to get robbed, are preoccupied with things like clean clothing and cheap food, and spend a large chunk of our day with our faces buried in maps. We’re exhausted from long hours spent wandering up and down twisty-turny streets and there’s a thin layer of grime that covers our skin from the exhaust-filled air and dirty metro stations.

The traveler's bond is a surprisingly strong one. After a few hours spent wandering around a foreign city with someone, regardless of how much talking you’ve done, a kind of unspoken pact is formed: keep tabs on the whereabouts of the other person, offer to share whatever it is you’re eating, grab extra maps for one another, point out helpful locations like post offices and metro stops, answer questions about your culture, promise to visit one another’s home countries, discuss hostel experiences, and offer advice for future destinations.


I spent the majority of my day Thursday with a 41-year-old Mexican named Miguel. We toured the Arc de Triomphe, ate dinner in an Italian restaurant, and discovered a common love for Pink Floyd during our walk to the Eiffel Tower. I let him listen to Dark Side of the Moon on my iPod and he got so excited that he spontaneously grabbed my shoulders, kissed my cheek and exclaimed, “I’m so happy!” We both sang along as we walked beside the Seine, though he was the only one who could hear the actual music.


Last night I met an 18-year-old Brit named Duncan in the common area of our hostel. He was eating a giant loaf of bread and asked me when I’m from. A couple hours later we were sitting in a crowded pub in the Bastille area watching two men play craps on top of the bar. I learned that Duncan’s parents are hippies, he loves pigeons, and he’s worried that going to the University of Cambridge will turn him into a snob.


Today I went to Versailles with my roommates, a German couple named Andy and Mellie. They’re incredibly gracious and sweet and modest about their English-speaking capabilities. I'm really lucky to have them as roommates because not only are they clean, but they don't snore. Those qualities in tandem can be hard to find.

I leave for Madrid tomorrow evening. I’m nervous, but I’m sure everything will be fine. It’ll be nice to stay somewhere other than a hostel for a few nights and I’m really looking forward to doing laundry.

Oh and I got groped some random dude yesterday. I knew it had to happen sometime. I was getting on the bus with Duncan, leaving Bastille, and some disgusting old man grabbed my ass. I quickly moved away, stood close to Duncan, and avoided eye contact. Why French men think it’s okay to do that, I don’t know. But I will not hesitate to slam my fist in someone’s eye if it gets to be too much.

How to buy a train ticket in Paris

By Mary

First, figure out where you want to go. Let’s say Madrid. Next, get on the metro and ride for a half hour to the train station. Exit the metro and wander around downtown Paris looking for the Montparnasse train station. Stare blankly at signs that you cannot read. Wonder what they say. Search for pictures of trains and wish that the station was in the shape of a giant train so that it might be more easily identified. Approach random people on the street and mumble, “Gare Montparnasse?” and feel dumb when they can’t understand you because you don’t know how to pronounce French words. Finally get a man on a motorbike to understand your mutilation of his language and head in the direction of his gesture. Find the train station, go inside, and stare blankly at signs that you cannot read. Wonder what they say. Search for areas that look like ticket counters. Find only cafes and escalators leading to the metro. Finally, after wandering around four different floors and consulting a map of the station, come upon a row of ticket windows with roughly fifty people waiting in line. Get in line and wait. When it’s finally your turn, approach the ticket window and say, “Bonjour,” to the man behind the counter. He will then say things in French and you will have to say, “English please?” He will look impatient and respond with a heavily-accented, “Yes, okay.” Tell him that you want to go to Madrid. He will tell you that you are in the wrong ticket area and need to be in the International section. Leave the window and head in the direction of his pointing. Wait in another line for a very long time. When it’s finally your turn, approach the ticket window and say, “Bonjour,” to the man behind the counter. Tell him that you want to go to Madrid. He will once again tell you that you are in the wrong ticket area and that you need to be in the International section. Curse yourself for not taking French in high school. Empathize with Fantasia Barrino and all those other people who don’t know how to read. Leave the window and head in the direction of the man’s pointing. Wait in another line for a very long time. When it’s finally your turn, approach the ticket window and tell the man behind the counter that you want to go to Madrid. He will say, “Okay,” and you will finally know that you’re in the right place. Buy a ticket to Madrid and pay a lot more money than you were expecting to pay. Suck it up because you are an ignorant American who can’t read. Spend the next two hours riding the metro to a different train station that you will need to go to when you depart for Madrid and wander around the station wondering how in the hell you are going to find your train on Sunday evening. Resolve to arrive at the station three hours early and ask lots of questions. Finally, get lost in the oddly high-tech train station bathroom, smoke a cigarette outside, and hop on the metro to resume being a tourist in the lovely city of Paris.

The end.

Direct translation?

I just had a French guy ask me what it means in English to “have crabs.”

Aaahahahahahaaa. Oh shit I died laughing. I tired to explain to him about bugs and hair, but he didn’t understand and thought I was telling him that there were spiders on his head. Finally after a series of gestures and some interesting facial expressions, he understood. He didn’t think it was quite as funny as I did though. Poor guy.

Hand me my beret, yo.

Ah, Paris.

It’s all so cliché and I love it. I walked down the street eating a croissant today. A French woman was rude to me when I asked her a question in English. The men have long, greasy hair and they stare at you until you look away. The metro is crowded and the ashtrays are plentiful and the pigeons will crap on your foot. I found Moulin Rouge surrounded by sex shops and peep shows less than a mile from my hostel. Then I bought a baguette and smoked a cigarette and pretended that I didn’t look like a tourist with my over-stuffed purse and tattered jeans. It was great.

Last night at my hostel I met a Canadian named Soriah and a Mexican named Laura. Together, we make an American sandwich. Haha. Soriah speaks fluent Spanish and Laura doesn’t speak much English, so Soriah had to be Laura’s translator for most of the day. The three of us took the metro to the Eiffel Tower at 10:00 p.m. and I ate a chocolate crepe while we watched the tower glisten and glitter. It was really romantic in a hanging-out-with-two-complete-strangers kind of way.

This morning we work up early and Soriah, Laura and I tried to go to the Musee D’Orsay but it was closed for reasons explained over the loudspeaker in French. Instead we toured Notre Dame, Luxembourg Gardens, and Museo Rodin, home of The Thinker.

I booked a few more nights at the hostel, so now I’ll be here until the 10th. This afternoon Laura left for Madrid, where she’s studying, and said that I’m welcome to come and stay with her when I leave Paris. That’s too good an offer to pass up, so I think my next destination will have to be Spain.

Additional random tidbits:

- I ate a cheeseburger for the first time in years today. It was the only thing that I recognized on the menu and I was hungry. Not knowing how to read French and being somewhat of a vegetarian isn’t an agreeable mix.

- saw a giant cockroach skitter underneath a set of shelves at the grocery store this morning. Didn’t have a heart attack or anything. Mom, you would be so proud.

- my clothing is already starting to fall apart. Two new elbow holes in my favorite black hoodie, burgeoning hole in the toe of my sock. Keep in mind that this seems like a lot when you only have three pairs of socks and two hoodies.

My laptop keeps crapping out and these French keyboards suck beyond belief, so future posts might lessen in frequency after today. Still checking email frequently though. Keep writing. I miss you guys a ton.

Advise thyself

I’ve been trying to think of a time in my life in which I have made so many independent, consultant-free decisions and I can’t. There has always been someone to advise me. Someone who might have more knowledge than me, a second opinion that could help me make my choice. I could always call my parents, my sister or brother, a friend, or even a teacher. Or at the very least, I could get a million anonymous bits of information from the Internet.

But now, here I am, disconnected from the world. My cell phone won’t make local calls and it costs oodles of money to call home. What precious little Internet time I have is filled writing frantic, fragmented emails and searching for youth hostels and train stations. I can’t send text messages, instant messenger is out of the question and every single pay phone I’ve used has swallowed my money and refused to let me dial out.

And of course right now is the time when I MOST need a second opinion. I’m craving advice like I crave chocolate. Every moment of every day since this trip began I’ve had questions. How do I find the train station? How much does will it cost? How do I make a reservation? How long does it take to get there? Do I need cash? What if I get on the wrong train? Which hostel should I stay at? How long should I stay? Where should I go next? What should I do everyday? What should I buy? WHAT WHAT WHAT WHAT HOW HOW HOW HOW? Sometimes my brain can’t take it and I have to sit on a bench and just stare. I have to pretend to be my father and think about what someone who feels comfortable making decisions might do.

The most frustrating part is that so many of my questions would be easily answerable if I just had Internet access. Or a working cell phone. Or a knowledgeable friend. And so I try using strangers. A day has yet to pass in which I don’t stop someone on the street and ask him or her where the nearest tube stop is or how to find so-and-so museum or simply what time it is (the 12-hour version, please). I have long since given up any sense of pride that might prevent me from finding my destination or saving me a few bucks. And I’m okay with the fact that half the time I’ll look like an ass when the very thing I’m asking someone to help me find turns out to be right in front of my face. Yesterday I got to feel like a real champ when some heavily-accented young man asked me for directions to the Waterloo Underground station. It happened to be right behind him, so I pointed and he turned and saw the sign and laughed. Unfortunately, the entrance was boarded up and I couldn’t help him find a different route but still, I had my moment.

Yesterday was frustrating. I had to figure out how to get from London to Paris and find a place to stay in Paris all without a friend to ask, a phone to use and limited Internet access. I sat on the floor of my room in the hostel and stared at my Eurailpass. Have I made this decision? Do I want to go to Paris tomorrow? Is that the right thing to do? Should I stay in London for a while longer? How do I know when I have the right answer? I wished that I could pull an authoritative person out of my pocket, someone who would say, “YES. You are going to Paris. You are going to figure out where the train station is and you are going to get on the train and you are going to go to Paris. And you are going to book a hostel in Paris and you are going to go there. And then you are going to walk around Paris and you are going to make friends. And when you are done, you will pull me out of your pocket and I will tell you what to do next.”

But instead I became that miniature authoritative person, except much less confident and more shaky and nervous. I got out my Underground map and found the correct station. Then I went to the station and asked three different people for help until one of them finally knew what to do with a Eurailpass. Then I bought a train ticket, went to an Internet café, booked three nights in a Parisian hostel, and voila, decision made. Just like that. It took a few hours and more than enough uncomfortable uncertainty, but I now have a plan for the next three days of my life and that’s more than I could say when I woke up this morning.

So this is how people do it, huh? They just decide something and then make it happen. I’m not quite sure I’ve actually done that before. I mean, I’ve made millions of little, inconsequential decisions on my own, but never anything that determined my fate in such an important way. I’ve always had parents and friends and the Internet to help me. It takes a kind of self-faith that I’ve never felt before. I’m holding my own hand and trusting myself in a way that is entirely new. It feels odd. I’ll have no problem blaming myself when things go wrong, but I’m not sure if I’ll give myself the same amount of credit for every thing that goes right. So far there have been little moments of pride; I’ve found myself marveling to people that I can’t believe I’m actually here and that I actually pulled it all off, but with all the new challenges that keep piling on my plate, I get distracted quite easily and haven’t taken the time to reflect on what I’ve accomplished now that I’m here.

So I guess I’m doing that now. All I need to do is look around the room and I can see exactly what I’ve built for myself. It’s so trite and clichéd, but I’ve found that a lot of what I’ve had to tell myself lately is pretty cheesy. The other day I was laying in bed, trying to sleep and wondering where I should travel to next. I actually thought the words “I need to create my own destination.” I immediately rolled my eyes and mocked myself, but it was true. I have to think shit like that all the time just to keep going.

Oh and to answer the question “Are there centipedes in Europe?” The answer is YES. In fact, I just showed one the bottom of my shoe.

I have arrived in Paris. Sat next to a smelly man on the train. That sucked. Off to go wonder the streets now and inevitably get lost.

Things that go chew-your-leg-off in the night

As promised, here is a picture of the cemetary behind my hostel. I took this picture from my bedroom window.


And here is a picture of some sort of wolf-dog digging up a grave in the cemetary.


How lovely. Don't I feel exceptionally safe here. Here's another shot of the grave-digging coyote or whatever the hell that thing is.


Yaaaay for wolf-dogs. Tonight is my last night in London and I'm not sure what I'm going to do. I made friends with a French/Spanish guy named Sebastian last night. We might go dancing.

Tomorrow: Paris

Complaining

This hostel sucks ass. There are no security lockers and a single stall in the corner of the room serves as the shower for eight of us. Also, the backyard of the hostel happens to be a GIANT CEMETARY. If that's not creepy as hell, then I don't know what is. Pictures to follow.

I met an Australian named Dave last night. He's staying at the hostel before sleeping in his friend's empty house, acting as security. I asked him how he's going to protect himself and he showed me a pair of numchucks in his backpack. Uhhhh, okay. He seems like a cool guy though. I told him I'd hackysack with him sometime.

Today I'm going to the British Museum and Westminster if I have time.

I miss all you guys. Keep emailing.