Plane ticket + Backpack = The next three months of my life

Train Rider

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Fri, 25 Aug 2006 02:06:00 +0000

Welcome to my travel blog.

The following entires were written during the three months I spent backpacking solo across Europe. I visited London, Manchester, Birmingham, Paris, Madrid, Barcelona, Berlin, Amsterdam, Prague, Vienna, Venice, Florence, Rome, Cinque Terre, Naples, Sorrento, Nice, Monaco, Hamburg, and Frankfurt. I stayed in youth hostels and crashed on the couches of friends I made along the way. Clutching my Eurailpass, I took trains from country to country and spent the majority of my days on foot, exploring cities with nothing more than a free map and a couple of travel guides.

My life changed over the course of my three months abroad. I started my trip full of anxiety and fear. I'd never left America before. Never been on a train. Never had to speak a foreign language. Never been alone for three months. It was overwhelming, to say the least. But over time, I grew to love the freedom that comes with traveling. I fell in love with the people, the land, and the culture. I felt like life had been holding out on me; a veil had been lifted and the entire world came into focus, if only for a brief moment.

To read my story from the beginning, click on March 2006 in the Archives and start reading from the bottom of the page. Feel free to leave a comment if anything I've written strikes a chord. I must warn you that some entries contain unnecessary cursing, cheesy romance and crybaby self-pitying. But without all of that it wouldn't have been nearly as fun.

Pleasant insomnia

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Wed, 12 Jul 2006 08:09:00 +0000

Sometimes, late at night when the house is quiet and I can’t sleep, memories of Europe float into my mind. I close my eyes and relax, allowing myself to be carried away by sounds, visions and feelings. Even though it’s 3:00 a.m. and I need to get some rest, I stay awake remembering, because I know that these memories won’t stay fresh forever and I want to make them last. So I live them out in my sleepy mind over and over again, like scenes from a drive-in movie theater playing on the back of my eyelids.

I remember sitting next to Carol, my Brazilian friend, on a ledge bordering a canal that spilled out into the Mediterranean Sea. We were on an island named Burano, just outside of Venice, known for its vibrant, colorful houses. The sun soothed our arms like a warm washcloth as a cool breeze picked up our hair and tangled it in our faces. My iPod lay on the ledge between us with one bud in my right ear and the other in her left. We listened to Sea Jorge, the only Portuguese music I own, as Carol smiled and hummed along. “Yes, more please,” she said as each song came to a close. The island was busy, bustling with tourists and locals, but we’d found an empty part off by the sea, and watched while two men unloaded boats and smoked cigarettes that they flicked into the swirling green water.

I remember climbing up hundreds of steep, stone stairs in La Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. I was all by myself that day as I made my way to the top of the tightly coiled staircase. Dark and bumpy grey like dinosaur skin, the walls surrounded me on all sides. I stared at the graffiti that had accumulated over the years. There were windows every ten steps or so that lit the way as I huffed and puffed and they made the writing on the stone look like one long, sprawling, Sharpie mural. Stopping for a break, I paused to read a bit of the doodles that were undoubtedly the work of travelers like myself, and my eye caught a little illuminated section. Next to garish block letters proclaiming “Pedro was here” and crude drawings of arrow-studded hearts and custom signature tags were four simple, carefully printed words: “I love your skin.”

I remember walking gingerly down uneven stone steps to a pebble beach along the side of a mountain in Cinque Terre. It was 1:00 a.m. and I had to use the light from my cell phone to guide my way. There were no handrails and the path was only a few feet wide so any loss of balance would’ve resulted in a bloody mess on the rocks down below. We arrived at the beach and sat down, picking up smooth pebbles and rubbing them between our fingers before throwing them in the crashing waves, wondering if they skipped along the dark surface of the Mediterranean. Off in the distance a searchlight bounced across the rumpled water. I leaned back on my elbows and stared at the speckled black sky, soothed by the constant rush and hiss of the sea. The air felt cool and clean in my lungs and I ruined it by smoking a cigarette that I’d rolled for myself back at the bar. Suddenly someone spoke: “Hey you guys, look!” We turned around and gazed up at the mountain. Hundreds of fireflies twinkled in the trees, swirling around, glittering like shattered minerals. They flew in frantic circles and mazes, tiny white jumping beans bouncing in the air. It was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen and I haven’t been able to write about it until now, two months later in my bed in Minnesota.

Double-sided Euro coin

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Mon, 26 Jun 2006 02:25:00 +0000

I’m finally starting to experience Europe withdrawal.

It’s been five days of non-stop partying with my Minneapolis friends: loud concerts, late-night parties, meandering car rides, shopping all day, dining out too much, reuniting with everyone I’ve ever known, liked and missed. I haven’t had a spare moment to sit down and really realize what’s happening and to be honest, I haven’t really wanted to.

But then this evening as I lazed around in my pajamas and flipped on my iTunes in an attempt to stifle the silence that filled the house, I got an email from Philipp just as one of the songs that I’d listened to on so many cross-country train rides came on and suddenly my throat tightened up and my eyes crinkled and I started doing that weird thing where you’re laughing and crying all at the same time.

I miss my friends. I miss that feeling that I used to get on the way to visit Junior or Philipp. I miss the flutters deep down in the pit of my stomach as the train rumbled underneath my feet and Europe whirled by outside the window. Excitement, exhilaration, elation. I don’t know how to recreate that here.

I read his email over and over again and I want to go back. What am I doing here? Why am I here?

Junior called from Madrid yesterday. It was really nice to hear his voice. My Spanish has already gotten rusty. I keep going back and forth in my mind as to whether or not I should visit him in Brazil this winter. My friends don’t trust him and think that he’s going to lock me in a box covered in cryptic Portuguese words and sell me to the Sao Paolo mafia. I think that the worst that’ll happen is he’ll try to marry me. Either way, I’ve got a little bit of time left to decide and if there’s one thing I learned in Europe, it’s that time will answer every question. Not sure why or how I learned that, but I did.

This afternoon I spent a half an hour showing my 92-year-old grandma how to use the Internet. We refreshed Google News over and over and she was amazed at how quickly the stories updated. She pointed out a headline that read: Earth's Eye in the Sky Goes Out and said, “What does that mean?” so I clicked on it and a new page opened up, taking us to the full story. She looked at me and laughed, “I asked and it gave me an answer!” I showed her my Flickr photos and she asked me to explain how I get the photos from my camera onto the computer. I showed her the cord and the camera and where I put each plug. She recognized the picture of my friend Sarah and laughed at the picture of Jennifer choking on spicy food. Then I took her to a celebrity blog and showed her some pictures of movie stars and she said, “What’s the benefit of looking at this?” I paused for a second and said, “Well, I suppose for entertainment.”

I have no reason for writing that last paragraph other than wanting to remember it. But memory preservation seems to be all I’ve really done these past three months anyway, so why not write about Grandma.

It’s been an emotional day.

Back home

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Thu, 22 Jun 2006 00:04:00 +0000

Have you ever flown halfway across the world and decided to go out partying afterward? Here are some things that you can expect to occur:

1. Your friends' faces will start to look like smeary blurs.
2. You'll sit at the table and smile at a coaster because it's the only thing that isn't moving.
3. You'll try to talk but your tongue feels like a snail and the only thing your brain can come up with is "Uhhhhuhuhhhh."
4. You'll drive home and swerve your car to avoid hitting imaginary people who appear to be playing in the middle of the street at 1:00 a.m. Fortunately the street is empty and you've driven it so many times that being half-asleep doesn't have too great an effect on your navigation skills.
5. You'll stand in the entrance to your house for several minutes wondering why you're there and who you are and what happened and if you're really awake right now.
6. You'll spend the next ten minutes doing a thorough spider check in your room, killing two daddy-long-legs and being attacked by one, but it's okay because you're too tired to be scared.

Aside from all that, I had a great evening. About a dozen of my favorite people showed up at Grumpy's and it felt wonderful to hug them all again. I got kicked out of the bar within five minutes because I lost my driver's license and didn't bring my passport along and apparently I look like I'm twelve, but I'm happy to be in Minneapolis again, home of the aggressive i.d. checker.

Now I'm lazing around in bed, eating Pringles and enjoying the free Internet. Everything is the same here, just as I'd expected. My room is still cluttered and my clothes are still disappointing and stained but at least I have a room of my own and I'm not rotating the same three outfits anymore. My TV won't turn on and there are way too many spiders occupying the corners, but at least they're not centipedes and I'm used to not watching TV everyday anyway. I'm looking forward to seeing the rest of my friends and eagerly await phone calls from you, the person who is reading this right now. Except if you're a creepy guy from Georgia who's sitting in Superman underwear in his mom's basement and came across this blog entry while doing a google search for the word "Uhhhhuhuhhhh." I don't really want to talk to you. But the rest of you, feel free to give me a call. I'll answer the phone in my best British accent.

Four hours left

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Tue, 20 Jun 2006 08:50:00 +0000

I miss everyone. I miss the people back home and the new friends I’ve made in Europe. My mind is in a constant battle between wishing I was in Illinois with my sister and wishing I was in Madrid with Junior. Minnesota with my mom. Frankfurt with Philipp. Everywhere with everyone, all the time, missing. I want to gather them up and wrap my arms around their necks, mashing our cheeks together, squeezing our waists belly-to-belly, ribs clattering like xylophones.

I’m responsible for remembering all this. I came out here alone and experienced these three months with a camera and my brain as the only way to make it last. The people … they were incredible. Maybe it’s because I’m a solo woman traveler or because I tried to smile a lot at all the strange faces, but everyone was so nice to me. They offered up their beds and bought me dinner and gave me directions. I did nothing to deserve any of it. I’m just a 24-year-old ignorant American girl who quit her job and packed a bag full of clothes, ready to see the world. When I stepped off that plane and bought my first train ride into the city, I had no idea what was about to happen. Who can predict the amount of growth that will occur when you’ve got nothing to lose but everything to gain?

Arash, the hostel worker in Rome, he wrote in my journal as we sat in a crowded, smoky bar:

This is the season for wine, roses and drunken friends. Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life!

Despite all the hash that he smokes, Arash is a wise man. He sees oodles of backpackers every single day and knows exactly what’s going through all of their minds: “Am I really doing this? How can this be my life?”

It helps that I stayed for three months. One month wouldn’t have been enough and six might’ve felt too long. I’ll never forget the feeling I felt only ninety days ago as I laid on my bed in a London hostel, crying as I clutched my cell phone and called my dad. “Hey Dad,” I warbled, hoping my voice wouldn’t break and cause my fears to spill out into the airwaves. “I don’t know what to do right now.”

The fear lasted about three weeks, which was a bit longer than I’d been warned it might take to get into the “travel mode.” I couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t know what I was doing. How does one go about filling an entire day in a foreign country? How do you make friends? What should I eat? How do I get around? Everything was confusing, terrifying, and overwhelming. I’d never felt so alone. My cell phone lay quiet in my purse with no one to come to my rescue and every face I saw was new, strange and scary.

But then one day something changed. It started to become fun. It started to feel like a fantastic, dizzying adventure in which I was the star of my own personal documentary with my iPod as the soundtrack and my journal as the screenplay. I discovered that everyone at the hostels shared my fears and wanted friends just as much as I did. They fretted over train schedules and read tourist books like bibles and laughed at mediocre jokes just because it felt good to be silly. They too wanted a partner for the day and someone to hang with at the bar, but most of all they just wanted someone to talk to. Someone to tell about the job they hope to get in Italy or the boyfriend they’re missing back home. A person who would listen to their worries and plans, ideas and theories.

I stopped missing home and started missing countries. I planned my trip like a kid in a candy store, with spontaneity and novelty my favorite flavors. It became exciting to hop on a train and switch languages and cultures in a matter of hours. I got bored if I stayed in one place too long and developed a routine for taking care of mundane details like washing clothes and making train reservations.

And then miracles happened. I fell in love. Twice. I made friends around the world and discovered a hidden ability to speak Spanish. I saw land and people who were more beautiful than anything I’d ever imagined. I developed a sense of self-confidence that I’ve never known before and smiled when I looked in the mirror because I liked who I’d become. My mind was blown time and time again. It never got old.

And now that I’m in London and the hours are winding down like a time bomb set to warp me back to my old life, I find myself feeling the exact same way I felt days before I got on that plane three months ago: Am I really doing this? Is this really happening? I can’t believe that I’m going back home. No more train rides, no more new faces, no more Italian, French, or German. It’s time to wake up from my long, crazy dream, rub my tired eyes, and head back into reality.

My friend TJ from Minneapolis is also in London at the moment and we’re on the same flight home. Hanging out with him has helped to ease me back into feeling like a Minnesotan again. He made fun of the English lilt I’ve developed and told me stories about First Avenue and meeting girls at restaurants on Hennepin and Franklin. I feel okay about going back. All of my perpetual missing will happen no matter where I am and it’s about time that I took a proper shower and hung my clothes up in a closet.

One, two, three, wake up. Click my heels together and open my eyes. Spin around three time and presto, I’m home. The start of a new era. The post-Europe days. I’m a new person now and it’s time for introductions. Nice to meet you. My name is Mary.

Getting short

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Sun, 18 Jun 2006 12:14:00 +0000

Tuesday 20 June 2006

DEPART: London Heathrow 12:55 p.m.

ARRIVE: Minneapolis/St. Paul 7:33 p.m.

I was thinking copious amounts of tator tots at Grumpy's ... anyone interested?

Homeward bound, I wish I was

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Fri, 16 Jun 2006 13:39:00 +0000

I'm in London with a tube pass in my hand and a handful of pounds in my pocket but I don't really feel like doing anything. I think I'm all toured out. I tried sight-seeing yesterday but all I ended up doing was wandering around the Tate Modern for a few hours then going back to my hostel to eat shitty spaghetti and drink warm water.

I'm tired. I sleep in late but it doesn't feel like enough. When I wake up, I spend ten minutes staring at my bag as a slideshow of Philipp memories play in my mind: walking by the river, cheering at football games, waking up to warm smiles and sleepy hugs.

Junior's been emailing me, wondering if I've bought my plane ticket to Brazil. I really want to visit him this winter, but part of me wonders if it's a very good idea. What if I've got a boyfriend in January or a job that won't give me time off? What if I move somewhere and I'm happy and don't feel like going to Brazil for ten days? I suppose if this Europe trip has taught me anything, it's that I can make decisions like this and just weave them into my life, solidifying a small part of my future.

When I left Minnesota I was worried about feeling lonely as I traveled from country to country. And there were definitely a few moments when I'd wished someone was around, but by and large, I've been surrounded by people the entire three months. Privacy doesn't exist in hostels. Sometimes you wake up in the morning and want to stretch and groan and fart but there's a couple sharing a bed below you and some dude just walked in the room with nothing but a towel around his waist. I'm finally starting to value what everyone else has already known: being alone can be really nice. I want to take a shower on Saturday morning and sit half naked on my bed, surfing the Internet until I dry off and then I want to do laundry as I fix myself a lunch and shuffle through the mail, looking for a magazine to read. After that I'll stand in front of my closet for five minutes and frown at all of my clothes, before putting on a wrinkled t-shirt and the smoky jeans I wore last night. I'll grab my bike and ride for an hour then come home and finish my laundry before heading to a coffeeshop to get some writing done. When evening hits and the Minnesota skies turn purple and deep magenta, I'll find my way home and eat a quick dinner then watch whatever Netflix left in the mail.

None of this is possible over here. There are moments, usually when I'm staring out the window of a train listening to Sigur Ros on my iPod, when everything feels kind of peaceful and I don't mind that I haven't got a home and the bag at my feet contains all of my worldly possessions. I'm glad I've be able to experience that. But nothing beats going home to the same place each night and sleeping in a familiar bed with your stuff all around, unpacked and splayed out on the floor. Nothing beats phone calls from your friends and dinner with your family and holding your grandma's hand as she does the Charleston with her wobbly, 92-year-old legs.

I miss you guys and I know I can't stay here forever. Maybe I'd be singing a different tune if I had more Junior or Philipp time to look forward to, but right now my love affairs have run dry and reality is tugging on my shirtsleeves like an annoying, impatient toddler. Fine I'll come home and fine I'll get a job but dammit you can't have my soul. I'm leaving it here in Europe, buried under the sand in Barcelona, in the ghastly catacombs of Paris, at the bottom of an empty beer cup in Frankfurt, under the seat on a train in Southern Italy. I'll see you again in a bar back home and maybe I'll let you buy me some tator tots. We'll have a lot of things to talk about. I'm excited to hear your stories.

48 hours in London

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Thu, 15 Jun 2006 13:04:00 +0000

ATM Service Charge: $5.00
Bus to Central London: $24.00
Dinner in London: $12.00
Night Bus in London: $3.00
Hostel in London (4 nights, 1 of which I didn’t use because I missed my flight but they wouldn’t let me cancel it): $90.00
Hostel Security Locker (2 days): $2.00
ATM Service Charge: $5.00
Pay Phone in London: $1.00
Lunch in London: $10.00
Pay Phone in London: $7.00
Beverage in London: $6.00
Underground Pass: $44.40
Dinner in London: $18.39
Carnival in London: $7.00 (4 of which was spent on spinning around in a giant teacup for two minutes)
Hostel in London (2 more nights): $57.24

TOTAL: $269.83

Can I just die already please? I feel like withdrawing the rest of my money from an ATM and throwing it in the Thames River, then laying down and letting a semi run over my face. If you didn’t notice, I haven’t made many frivolous purchases over the past two days. Aside from the carnival, my money has been spent on transportation, food, accommodation and phone usage.

This place is sucking me dry, you guys. I’m actually looking forward to coming home just so I can stop resenting my stomach every time it feels hungry. When I first arrived here three months ago I didn’t realize how ridiculously expensive everything is. I ate whatever I wanted and happily paid the atrocious admission fees at museums and galleries. But now that I’m at the end of my budget and I’ve become one of those people who walks with her eyes on the road searching for dropped coins, I’m getting a bit pissed off at this city.

Final destination

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Tue, 13 Jun 2006 11:26:00 +0000

This is a really terrible feeling.

Yesterday morning, before I knew that I'd missed my flight to London, Philipp and I had sat on the bench outside the metro station in the cool twilight air, me with my backpack at my side and him with red, glossy eyes.

"Philipp, your eyes are all watery," I'd said. "Are you crying?"

He looked away and paused before saying, "I don't want you to leave."

An hour later, he got his wish because we went to the wrong airport and I missed my flight and had to spend another day and a half in Frankfurt. Unfortunately, most of this time was spent alone.

And now this morning, just before he walked out the door to go to work, we said goodbye again. I was still in bed, half asleep and groggy, as he kissed my face and stroked my hair, smiling down on me with kind, sparkling eyes.

"Don't go to work," I begged him. "Call in sick and stay here with me."

He hugged me tightly and kissed my cheek, saying softly, "I can't."

Hours later I sit at his desk in his flat, looking at pictures, smelling his cologne, and glancing at the door while waiting to go to the airport. It's torture being here knowing that I'm not going to see him again. Like sitting inside an actual memory. He sent me an email from work with directions on how to get to the correct airport. At the end of the message he wrote, "Don't forget to buy some chocolate for your Mum."

That's so typical of Philipp, always thinking of other people. It was impossible to go anywhere with him without stopping to help tourists find their way and figuring out the train schedule for some random, drunk World Cupper. I noticed as we walked around Frankfurt that's he's constantly on the look-out for any and all signs of distress. Yesterday at the wrong airport as I searched in my purse for an airline phone number, Philipp was halfway across the room helping an airport employee who'd fallen with a giant pile of luggage.

Sometimes I feel unworthy in the face of his kindness. When I hear about some of the things he's done, it makes my own life look shallow and superficial. For example, after living in Ghana for a year, Philipp started up a program called Kid's Club in Damongo. Books, games, toys and a playspace are provided for children who otherwise, don't have any access to such things. It took him multiple years and numerous sponsors, but he finally got the program off the ground and had over a thousand members in just a few weeks.

And then there was the story of his grandma. He moved in with her for a month because no one else was available and spent his days cooking and cleaning, helping her to undress and bathe. For her exercise each day, they walked a short path outside her home. On Easter day, he hid colored eggs all along the way so that she could find them as they walked. He told me that he'd never seen her so happy. Collecting those Easter eggs meant more to her than he'd ever expected.

I hear these stories and I see his behavior and it melts my heart. What kind of 26-year-old man spends a month taking care of his grandma and starts a program to help children in Africa? He's certainly not perfect and I can think of a few key quirks that would prevent us from ever seriously dating, but I feel privileged to have known such a gentle, caring person.

In a few hours, I'll be back in London, ready to live out my last few days in Europe. This whole trip still feels like it's been one long, incredible dream. I wake up each morning and can't imagine being anywhere else than exactly where I am, and yet, it somehow never feels entirely real. Reality will hit me in the face like a taunt rubberband when I return to Minneapolis and I can't say that I'm looking forward to it.

Fly me to the nowhere

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Mon, 12 Jun 2006 11:43:00 +0000

Know what's really awesome? Going to sleep at 2:00 a.m., waking up at 3:30 a.m., heading to the airport at 4:30 a.m., realizing that I'm at the wrong airport at 5:00 a.m., missing my flight to London at 6:30 a.m., and winding up back at Philipp's flat at 7:00 a.m. with no way of getting to London and sixty wasted Euros.

IT'S SO MUCH FUN YOU GUYS, FOR REAL TRY IT.

This would never happen in America

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Sun, 11 Jun 2006 14:12:00 +0000

I’m standing in the Frankfurt Main train station, staring up at the departure board, waiting for Philipp to return from the bathroom. Picking at my nails with my purse pulled securely in front of me, I’m anxious because my friend from America is visiting me in Frankfurt and I don’t know at which gate I need to meet him. Suddenly a young guy in a British soccer jersey walks up to me.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry, but I need to tell you something. I’m not going to say anything more – this is it – but I need to tell you. We think you’re really beautiful. The way you hold yourself – I don’t know how to describe it, but I just wanted to tell you that we think you’re beautiful. I don’t know how to say it in German, but-“

“I’m American,” I say, completely dumbfounded.

“Oh,” he says. “Well okay then. We think you’re beautiful and that’s all I wanted to say.”

Then he turns and walks away, joining his English mates in the line at the information desk as Philipp appears behind me, holding a chocolate ice cream cone from Häagen-Dazs. “This is for you,” he says. “Chocolate’s your favorite, right?”

The World Cup

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Sun, 11 Jun 2006 14:05:00 +0000

Vomit and beer coated the streets and shards of plastic cups scratched at my ankles as my sandals slurped across the sticky, slick ground. Hundreds of loud, drunken Englishmen surrounded me on all sides, this faces glowing red and yellow, lit by dim German streetlamps and bright neon bar signs. The air was thick with smoke and song, carried by the roar of drunken voices. They never stopped singing – not for a moment – and the old men too tired for early morning festivities slept in the gutters outside the bar with bottles on their bellies and flags across their shoulders. The police stood ready with their arms across their chest and batons behind their backs. They watched from the sidewalk a few yards away, scanning the crowd for partiers who couldn’t pick their faces up off the ground and fights that got out of control.

A young woman in her twenties wearing a tight, while dress stood on the top of the entrance to the underground station. She was one of a handful of female fans in the crowd. The men cheered and raised their cups in the air as she pulled down her top and exposed her breasts to their eager, intoxicated eyes. I looked on, disgusted in my gender, and she pulled up her skirt revealing a tattoo of the English flag where pubic hair should have been. This was too much for the men and they reached for her legs, grappling for a feel as the man behind her put his mouth all over her body and groped her like an animal. Drunk and patriotic, she doesn’t seem to mind, dancing with her skirt around her waist like any random stripper in a XXX nightclub.

Once the girl was off the platform and soccer balls cascaded through the air, the focus was back on sports and showing pride for one’s country.

“There are ten German bombers in the aaaaaair / And the RAFs from England shoot them dowwwwwn.”

I learned the words and sang along as a soccer ball collided with the side of my head and Philipp chased after it, eager to punt it back into the crowd. The men stared at me as I walked carefully through the mess. There was so much testosterone floating around, I felt like an alien and stood close to Philipp so that it was clear I wasn’t alone.

Every four years one lucky country turns into a giant beer-filled piñata. People travel from all over the world to meet one another and share in their common love of soccer. Only the wealthy, connected few actually get to the games, but most of the partying occurs in the streets and it’s enough to watch the match on a big screen TV with a thousand rabid fans boozing it up and singing ‘til their voices give way.

I feel lucky that I’m here and have a German friend to take me all around Frankfurt. He said that I chose the best possible weekend to come to Germany and I definitely agree. I’m not even a soccer fan, but it’s impossible not to feel something when you see grown men crying as their team scores the first goal of the game. I’ve learned a few things about the sport and might even take an interest in it when I’m back home, but nothing will compare to the excitement and the energy I’ve felt these past couple days. This country, these people, this culture. I love it.

Did you know that Germans really like soccer?

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Sat, 10 Jun 2006 12:41:00 +0000

Updates are being brought to a low simmer on the backburner as I'm with Philipp in Frankfurt right now and can't be bothered to do anything other than watch soccer games and eat Häagen-Dazs.

Guapa

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Wed, 07 Jun 2006 08:54:00 +0000

The entire weekend, I was beautiful. Looking in the mirror my face radiated with joy and light danced and flickered in my eyes. My skin gleamed clean and smooth and my hair spilled out all around my face, bouncing against my cheeks like flames licking at sheets of paper. I was that girl on the train who can’t stop smiling to herself, peering through her fingers to see if anyone else can tell that her heart is wildly fluttering.

He was there waiting for me, just liked I’d hoped, when I arrived in Barcelona two hours late and bumbled down onto the platform and into the train station lobby. I found his face in the crowd and yelled, “Junior!” before racing into his outstretched arms and burrowing my face in his neck as he hugged me tightly and laughed, the puzzle piece fitting once more.

The entire weekend was beautiful, full of long nights and lazy mornings, tender kisses and long, loving gazes. We picked up right where we left off, flattering one another in broken Spanish with Barcelona as our backdrop and a handful of emails as our past. Staying in the same hostel where we met one month before, I ignored all the other guests and focused only on Junior, drinking in our time together, savoring each moment, memorizing his face and voice.

“Guapa,” he said. I can see the word on his lips now as he slips his hand around my waist and kisses my neck.

We had an entire relationship in the span of three short days. Cooking, grocery shopping, laundry. Our first fight happened on Saturday night as we walked to the train station to buy my departure ticket. I kept trying to skirt the issue, but Junior knew who I was going to see in Germany after leaving Barcelona and it upset him greatly. We had a difficult time quarreling with my limited Spanish, but once the word “jealous” was translated, things cleared up a bit.

He asked me to marry him as we walked along the pier on our way back to the hostel. Laughing, he dropped to one knee and held his arms open wide, loudly proclaiming his proposal in mangled English. I told him that I’m too young and he understood but it didn’t stop him from asking three more times the following day. I responded to his proposals with a sock in the shoulder.

There were moments, however, where it didn’t seem too crazy. As we sat on a mattress on the roof of the hostel he pulled a thin, knotted, sliver bracelet from his bag and slipped it on my wrist without saying a word. “Para mi?” I asked. “Si, si,” he replied, his Portuguese accent creating a swishy overtone.

It felt like a dream. Or maybe a movie. But whatever it was, it couldn’t possibly have been my life. Don’t sleepwalk through this, Mary, I reminded myself. This doesn't happen twice.

Monday evening we arrived at the train station with ten minutes to spare. A marching band played traditional Spanish songs in the distance as I wrapped my arms around his neck and cried into his shoulder, my tears forming tiny dark circles on his red t-shirt. He clutched me tightly and stroked my hair, rocking side to side. I pulled back and stared into his eyes one last time. What if this is it? What if I never see him again? He brushed my hair aside and wiped tears off my cheeks whispering, “Te quiero, my doll. Always, always, always.”

I got on the train and the attendant closed the door and locked it, leaving Junior on the other side staring at me, mouthing, “Guapa,” over and over. He leaned in and kissed the dirty train window and I pressed my hand to the glass, crying quietly. Yo no quiero salir.

As the train pulled away and he blew me kisses from the platform, I took a mental snapshot and burned it into my mind: curly black hair, red t-shirt, tan athletic cargo shorts, green flip flips and a black baseball cap. My Brazilian boy. I can’t forget him. I won’t forget him. He showed me what it is to be loved.

College 101

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Thu, 01 Jun 2006 11:18:00 +0000

I think I’m finally having the college experience that I never had back in college. Sleeping in huge, breezy rooms with dozens of drunken twenty-somethings who are living on summer money and loans from their parents. Taking awkward showers next to silent, grumpy girls who can’t shake their hangovers and forgot to bring flipflops. Waiting in line for breakfast cereal, holding a chipped bowl and a crusty spoon, wiping the sleep from my eyes as I scan the room looking for friends. Sitting around a dirty table at 2 a.m. screaming over one another as a drunken Canadian builds a beer can pyramid and cameras flash from all around.

I never had this experience in college. The dorm rooms were laid out in a very unsocial manner and everyone went home on the weekends. There were a few parties and a few crazy nights, but mostly it was just me and a couple friends sitting around talking and smoking or driving to Minneapolis to see a local band. Hamline was a pretty lame university party-wise. It paled in comparison to the U of M, which didn’t have much to offer beyond frat-house keggers and crowded dorm room gatherings. So I stayed in most nights. I got addicted to CNN during the start of the Iraq war and developed a fondness for all things HBO. Homework was set aside until after the Sopranos and Curb Your Enthusiasm. I saw my friends on the weekends and we went on long drives through faraway suburbs and hacky-sacked under streetlamps in gas station parking lots. It never really felt like I was living some wild and crazy college student life.

But now here I am, twenty-four years old, sleeping in dorm rooms as guys in backwards baseball caps shotgun beers outside my door. I wake up when I feel ready and take a shower in a tiny, wet stall, being careful not to touch the walls. Then I wander downstairs and chat with new arrivals and pre-established friends as we eat breakfast and look at maps. I plan my day according to my mood and if it corresponds with anyone else’s plans, we take off together and explore the city, spending as little money as possible, taking way too many pictures.

It’s a shame that my days of youthful, wild abandon will only be three months long. Everyone else got four or five crazy years. But I suppose my situation is a little nicer what with the lack of actual school. I am very aware that this is my last little taste of freedom. The last time I’ll be jobless with no responsibilities and empty days ahead of me, waiting to be filled. I haven’t had summers like this since I was fourteen years old and the most important tasks in my life were beating the neighborhood boys at basketball and finding enough money to buy candy at PDQ.

Three more weeks and reality sets in. This trip still feels like it’s been one long, incredible dream. The only evidence I have that time actually passed is substantially longer hair and a light tan on my arms. Tomorrow I’m going to Barcelona to see Junior and then I’m going to Germany to see Philipp. After that it’s London and then home. What is it going to feel like as I sit on the plane and leave behind the most fabulous experience of my life? Is it a little like graduating from college? I never went to my graduation, so I’ll make sure to clutch my plane ticket like a diploma as I walk down the runway. Pomp & Circumstances will be ringing in my ears.

No smoking on the train

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Sun, 28 May 2006 18:27:00 +0000

Traveling is not always as easy as getting from point A to point B. Sometimes you get on a train and everything seems normal until suddenly there’s smoke pouring in the windows and you wonder if a local house is on fire. Then you realize that it’s actually your train that’s on fire and the thick, black smoke filling the air is coming from somewhere underneath your car. You sit calmly listening to Sun Kil Moon on your iPod as the train comes to an abrupt halt and engineers pile outside and stare at something very important near the tracks below your car. A pair of aged, wrinkled ladies, one sporting a tiny lapdog in her purse, peer out the window and speak in hushed Italian mumbles, glancing at you occasionally to see if you understand.

Finally the train starts again, but it’s running late so it skips your stop and drops you off in a town called Solerno. This is not where you want to go and you say to the conductor, “What about Naples,” but he is busy and doesn’t care and tells you to take bus number four to Pompeii and figure it out from there.

So you stand outside the train station in Solerno and wonder where in the hell you are and how one goes about getting to Naples.

At the bus station there are seven men in blue uniforms standing outside a small, dingy storefront eating ice cream cones, making loud, crowd-pleasing jokes in Italian. You ask one of them for help and he tells you to take the number fifty bus to Pompeii. “It’s a blue bus and it comes at 4:00,” he says. You look at your cell phone and the clock says 3:35. You were supposed to be in Naples at 1:45 to take the train to Sorrento. Instead you’re in Salerno and you haven’t eaten anything since 10:30 and your water is running low.

“Where does the bus stop?” you ask the man with the ice cream cone.

He points. “Sometimes over there and sometimes over there. I don’t know.”

There are buses everywhere: orange, blue, short, long, parked, moving. They layer each other, stacked side-by-side, making it impossible to read their crucial little numbers. You sit on the ground next to the station and eat a piece of bread from a stash in your purse. How am I in this place? you wonder. Just fourteen hours earlier you were on the roof of a fourteen-story apartment building in Rome watching from a candlelit corner as drunk, Italian Buddhists danced to salsa music and ate pasta from paper plates. Is this really my life?

Eventually bus number fifty pulls up and you ride it for an hour until arriving at the train station in Pompeii. You get on the train, pray that it doesn’t start smoking, and wind up fifty minutes later in Sorrento. Four hours late and much patience lost, you locate your hostel and collapse on the bed, ready to sightsee in a brand new city. Though it requires little more than sitting and staring out a window, traveling is exhausting and often eats up the entire day. But you really can’t complain because in the end of the day it’s fiery trains and meandering buses that will always get you where you need to go.

First sunburn of the year

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Thu, 25 May 2006 17:43:00 +0000

If you’ve ever had a burning desire to get hit by a car, Rome is the place to do it. The traffic is insane in this city, with no lane markers and seemingly optional stoplights. Motorcycles and automobiles whiz by at ridiculous speeds, careening around corners just as you’re stepping off of the curb. It’s us versus them and you’ve got to cross the street with confidence or they’ll take you out like a bowling pin, never looking back as you wobble back and forth.

My first day here, I took on a dark blue sedan. He saw me coming from a block away, walking briskly across the street. I was in the crosswalk, which technically means that he has to stop, but this is Rome and the rules don’t matter, so he stepped on the gas and flew in front of me, blowing a smug kiss out his window as I jumped back, barely saving my toes from being crushed under his tires.

Perhaps it’s the scenery that brings out all of the drivers. It’s impossible to go anywhere in Rome without running into ancient history. Sometimes it feels sort of silly. Oh look, the Colloseum … oh look, Burger King … and there’s the Vatican … surrounded by a hundred little tourists shops … should we go into the Gap after looking at the ruins?

Slowly ancient history is becoming modern, with elaborate information booths built into thousand-year-old monuments and hotels encroaching on tourist hotspots until one day you might be able to rent a room in the Pantheon or have breakfast in the Pope’s royal bed.

I was a good tourist today, eschewing public transportation in favor of walking bravely alongside hurtling automobiles and endless wailing ambulances. I saw most of the important things that people say you need to see and my feet were aching by the time I got back to the hostel. Tomorrow morning I leave for Sorrento and I’m excited to hang out in a smaller town with less tourists and more room to breathe. If I can make it out of Rome without being hit by a bus or crushed by a car, this trip will have been a success.

Eternal closing time

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Wed, 24 May 2006 13:26:00 +0000

Here’s the thing about Italy: everything is closed, all the time. You want to go to the supermarket and get some dinner? CLOSED. Doesn’t seem to matter that it’s 5:00 p.m. and they’re losing tons of money by closing so early. Or maybe you want to go to the clothing store and buy some socks? No can do. CLOSED. Even though it’s only 3:00 p.m. and there are tons of people milling about, willing to buy stuff.

It’s kind of driving me insane. I went to an Internet café in Florence and had to give the receptionist my driver’s license as a deposit to use the computer. Naturally, the café was closing in five minutes, so I quickly checked my email, paid and ran out, leaving my I.D. behind in the process. I figured no big deal, I’ll stop by and pick it up tomorrow. But at 10:30 a.m. the next day, as I as was rushing to get to the train station by 11:00, I stopped by the Internet café and of course, it was closed. Staring at the front door for five minutes, I searched for a non-existent store hours sign and thought about how annoying it’s going be to have to get a new license. I eventually accepted the fact that pressing my forehead against the window was not going to magically open the store and I headed in the direction of the train station. Luckily, as I was huffing and puffing my way across the main bridge in Florence, I ran into my Australian friend, Xanthe, who I’d met at a hostel in Venice. I immediately started bitching about the internet café and my lost I.D. so she offered to stop by the café later on, retrieve my I.D. and mail it to Minnesota. Hopefully this will happen.

Italy is really awesome and I’m having a fantastic time in Rome, but the hours kept in this town are ridiculous. I can confidently say that nothing here is open longer than two or three hours at a time. It’s sort of killing me. I’m not sure how people manage to get things done, but somehow they do.

Key of G

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Mon, 22 May 2006 23:40:00 +0000

I just wandered around Rome at two in the morning playing the harmonica.

It was awesome.

The plan, of sorts

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Sat, 20 May 2006 18:31:00 +0000

Today officially marks my last month in Europe. Less than a month really, if you consider that one of those weeks will be spent in London after my Eurailpass runs out. So I’ve got three weeks left. I’m in Florence right now, heading to Rome for six days tomorrow, and I think I’m going to go to stay in Sorrento for a while and make day trips to Capri and Pompeii. I was considering going to Greece, but it would take over 24 hours just to get there, so I’ve decided to save that trip for another time. Instead I’m going to head north and visit Nice, Salzburg, and Berlin before spending a weekend in Frankfurt with Philipp. Then it’s back to London for a week to unwind, mentally prepare for returning home, and buy some souvenirs with what little money I have leftover.

Junior isn’t going to be happy with me. He’s been sending me emails asking when I’m coming to Madrid because I sort of promised him that I would. But Madrid is so far away and I don’t have time to trek all the way to the middle of Spain just for a few days. I hope he understands.

Famous last words

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Fri, 19 May 2006 15:27:00 +0000

“Dude, I’ll hang out with anybody. I don’t care. As long as they can put up with me, it’s cool.”

I was cocky before I left for Europe. I was convinced that everyone would be wonderful and fun – we’re all just a bunch of reckless travelers with everything in common and a few days to kill, so it’s all love all the time, right?

Hah. Not so.

I’m quickly learning that, in each city I visit, it really does matter with whom I choose to spend my time. Amsterdam and Prague were tons of fun but they can’t even begin to compare to cities like London, Barcelona, Vienna, or Hamburg simply because the friends I made in Amsterdam and Prague were either a) really boring, b) really annoying, or c) the kind of Americans that I hate.

It’s easy to make friends in hostels. Like, really easy. One barely has to put forth any effort and suddenly people are offering to share sandwiches and conversations are sparked in the hallway. Everyone is there to meet everyone else, so it’s never awkward to chat up a random person with a backpack. This is really awesome for obvious reasons, but sometimes the abundance of people and your own desperation for friends can result in a night of wanting to rip out your hair or set people on fire.

I’m not complaining. Rarely does poor company ever ruin my experience of a city. But each time I meet someone with whom I have a great connection, it overshadows all the days spent with not-so-great people.

Take today for example. When I arrived in Cinque Terre, a tiny cluster of villages on the east coast of Italy, I immediately befriended my two roommates, Jack and Brock. Tan, dark-haired, athletic guys from San Diego, they’re definitely not guys with whom I would normally associate. They’re macho and boisterous, make way too many dick jokes, and constantly brag about banging chics. They throw beer bottles over beautiful, scenic cliffs just to hear the glass shatter on the rocks below. To further illustrate my point, here are a few quotes from Jack and Brock that I’ve collected over the past 24 hours:

“Dude, I hope I don’t run into that girl in Florence. She was all pissed off at me because I wouldn’t go back to her room and cuddle, but she wasn’t going to let me fuck her, so I just walked off and said ‘Later.’ She did suck my dick on the rocks though so HA HA HA HA HA.”

“Yes! George Bush! Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about. Nice work, Bush.”

“I wanted to be an inventor, but … I dunno.”

“Fuckin’ faggot.”

“What the hell are ‘Somalians?’”

“You ever been to Oakland, bro? Don’t ever go. It’s all black dudes who’re like, 6’7”.”

”Nah, I don't miss those girls. Time to move on to bigger and better ... actually, make that skinnier and better. HA HA HA HA HA.

Are you starting to understand my dilemma here? I want to be nice to everyone and make lots of friends but sometimes the only people around to meet are ones who SUCK REALLY BADLY.

I could tell within thirty seconds that I wasn’t going to like Jack and Brock, but I decided to give them a chance and enjoy my time in Cinque Terre despite being surrounded by sexism, chauvinism, perversion and ignorance. They weren’t too keen on me either - mainly because my behavior is not in line with that of a Girls Gone Wild video - but I have breasts and I’m their roommate, so they’ve made an attempt to include me in their tourist activities.

It hasn’t been all bad. Jack and Brock arrived in Cinque Terre a day before I got in, so they were able to show me around a bit and point out things like Internet cafes and pay phones, but now that my visit is essentially over, I can’t help but wish I’d done most of my touring alone.

We met a pair of Canadian girls in the street on my first night in the village and I immediately invited them to our hostel for dinner, hoping that some new pheromones would dilute all the machismo in the air and give me a couple of allies. Unfortunately, Camille and Sara turned out to be the type of girls who adore third grade humor and don’t mind being reduced to a pair of tits and ass. I sat on the sidelines as a cast-off fifth wheel and watched as the four of them discussed drinking and how much they can drink and what kind of drinks they like to drink and how long they’ve been drinking and isn’t great to have drinking in common. Topics even resembling intelligent were never broached and I’m pretty sure I was marginally stupider by the end of the evening.

The next morning we woke up early and set off on a ten mile mountainside hike along the Mediterranean Sea. Given that I've never hiked along the Mediterranean Sea before and it was largely uphill in 80 degree weather, I wanted to take my time and snap pictures every so often. Apparently, this is an impossible concept for 22-year-old, strapping young men to grasp. Jack and Brock felt an inexplicable need to RUN up the entire mountain. Forget stopping to enjoy the picaresque, unforgettable view. Forget picnicking on a cliff or sunning on a boulder. They had to be the fastest hikers on the mountain, zooming past gobs of tourists as if Paris Hilton herself was waiting at the end of the trail ready to fulfill all of their smuttiest fantasies.

I lagged behind, slamming water, trying not to faint, and tried not to think about how much more fun I’d be having if Jack and Brock were magically replaced by Philipp and Felix. We finished the hike, took a dip in the sea, and laid on the beach for a few hours. I listened to Belle and Sebastian on my iPod as I got a full-body massage from a perky Chinese lady and tried to ignore the giggles coming from Jack and Brock who were beyond entertained by the sight of a woman rubbing another woman.

We headed back to our hostel and I promised myself that never again will I commit myself to the first person I meet in any given city. Sometimes it works out well and I end up having a great time, but all too often, spending too much time with people who suck can really hurt my impression of a place. My memories of the countries, cities, and hostels I’ve visited have become a smorgasbord of names and faces from all of the people I met while I was there. Usually there are one or two individuals who stick out in my mind and unfortunately, it’s not always in a positive way. But I’m still learning as I go and I’ve got a month more to get things right. Hopefully the suckitude has hit its highest point and will only go down from here.

Sidenote

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Tue, 16 May 2006 22:18:00 +0000

It only been two months, but comment spam has found its way to my blog. I was wondering when it would finally happen and now it has. Just ignore it, I guess. I'll try to delete what I can, but there's quite a bit. If it gets too out of hand I may have to disable anonymous commenting, which would suck, but such is the nature of the Internet.

Brazilian magnet

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Tue, 16 May 2006 18:21:00 +0000

When I was preparing to backpack around Europe everyone who’d done so in the past told me that I would meet tons of people. They claimed that there were oodles of travelers all over the continent doing the exact same thing that I was doing and I would likely find people with whom I could hop from country to country. Things didn’t turn out exactly that way; I’ve met more people than I can count, but so far no one whose schedule matched up enough with mine so that we could cross borders together. Until now.

I honestly don’t remember meeting them, but Marcus and Philippe are two Brazilians who’ve been traveling across Europe in the exact same path as I, staying at the exact same hostels, at the exact same time. They claim that we met in the large, 18-person dorm room that I stayed in when I was in Amsterdam, but I talked to so many people when I was there that our brief conversation doesn’t stand out in my memory. After Amsterdam the three of us traveled to Prague, but stayed at different hostels so we didn’t run into each other. But after Prague, they spotted me walking down the street with Liz outside our hostel in Vienna.

“Don’t we know that girl?” Marcus later recalled saying to Philippe.

“Yeah,” Philippe answered. “We met her at our hostel in Amsterdam.”

“Huh. I wonder if she was in Prague before Vienna like us.”

A few days later as they were riding a train to Venice they discussed the possibility of running into me again.

“What if that girl is at our hostel in Venice?” Philippe said. “That would be too weird.”

“There’s no way,” Marcus said. “Amsterdam, Vienna and Venice ? No way.”

But there I was, sitting in the lobby waiting to use the Internet, when Philippe strolled downstairs and spotted me. I didn’t notice him, but he immediately turned around, marched back up to his dorm room, looked at Marcus and said two words: “She’s here.”

Marcus instantly knew what he was talking about and laughed for fifteen minutes straight. They talked about the possibility of me being a ghost or even a stalker. “I wonder if she’s going to Florence and Rome too. Oh my god,” Philippe said. “I can’t believe that out of all the hostels in Amsterdam, Vienna, and Venice, we’ve ended up at the exact same ones at the exact same time.”

Later in the evening as I was walking down the hall to my room, I saw Philippe walking toward me. He smiled and said, “Hey! Can you believe it? Amsterdam, Vienna and now Venice!”

I looked at him and knew I had met him somewhere, but could not place him for the life of me. “Yeah …” I said, trying to figure out what the hell he was talking about. “Were we at the same place?”

“Yes!” he said. “We met at the hostel in Amsterdam and then again in Vienna and now we’re at the same one in Venice!”

“Ohhh,” I replied, embarrassed that he remembered me and I didn’t remember him. “That’s crazy!”

“Were you in Prague after Amsterdam?”

“Yep,” I said, “Stayed at Atlas Hostel.”

“Oh my god, we were in Prague at the same time too! You’re following us, aren’t you?” he laughed.

“No – you guys are following ME!”

That evening the Philippe, Marcus and I sat around a table on the deck of our hostel and marveled over the fact that we’ve been unknowingly traveling together for the past three weeks. They told me that they’d had several discussions about me and noticed that I make friends really easily because they never see me without people around. I admitted that I don’t remember meeting them at all, but that they certainly look familiar. We exchanged stories and they told me at which hostels they’ll be staying in Florence and Rome, so there’s a possibility of meeting up again in the future.

Stuff like this blows my mind. Not only have I been following the exact same path as two other backpackers in Europe for the past three weeks, but they’ve been completely aware of it the entire time and had discussions about me on numerous occasions. How often do you get a chance to find out that strangers have been contemplating your existence? It’s nice to know that I’m not completely anonymous over here. It may have been in a strange way, but at least I know I’ve made an impact on someone.

Stupid Americans, part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Mon, 15 May 2006 20:36:00 +0000

In which I recall the various moronic things I've heard American tourists say during my trek across Europe.

Girl in Vienna: "I'm like, actually European. I mean, I know I'm from America and everything, but I'm totally European. I just feel it, y'know? I'm so European!"

Guy in Barcelona: "Dude, I was so wasted. Like, you don't even know how wasted I was. You've never seen someone so wasted. Seriously. You don't even know. I was so wasted. Wasted wasted wasted wasted wasted wasted."

Guy in Prague: "You can tell someone's European if they dress like a queer."

This is only the beginning. I hear stuff like this everyday. Stay tuned.

Venice

noreply@blogger.com (Mary) — Sun, 14 May 2006 18:04:00 +0000

It’s the most beautiful city I’ve visited thus far - like walking into a postcard around every corner. The streets are a maze of narrow, cobblestone paths flanked by crumbling, antique buildings with balconies draped in flowers and shutters framing tall, arched windows. The canals are deep and wide with an endless stream of gondolas floating by in every direction, sending ripples down the placid, green water.

The pigeons are the most aggressive and fearless I’ve seen on my trip, enticed by tourists who buy bird seed from vendors and throw it on their children, laughing as they’re engulfed in a flurry of slate grey feathers and pointy beaks.

There are museums to tour and churches to visit but I’ve grown bored with the usual sightseeing charade and prefer to spend my time taking pictures of empty bridges and writing on a bench in the plaza as the old man to my left stares off into space and the birds peck at my feet.

I’ve been trying to imagine what it would be like to have each of you here, seeing this with me for the first time. What would you say as we stroll down dusty alleyways and eat ice cream cones next to the sea? Would you feel overwhelmed by all of the people and want to hide out in a café until the rush dies down? Or would you be flooded with adrenaline and nudge me to walk faster so that we might see a dozen sights before the sun disappears?

I suppose I can only base my new experiences on the ones that I already have and therefore a lot of my thoughts wander to home even when I’m exploring a new city. So even though I’m not homesick and I’m constantly meeting new people, the faces of those I left behind are still very much a part of my day.