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

Train Rider

2006-08-24T19:06:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-12T01:09:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-25T19:25:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-21T17:04:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-20T01:50:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-18T05:14:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-16T06:39:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-15T06:04:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-13T04:26:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-12T04:43:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-11T07:12:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-11T07:05:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-06-10T05:41:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-07T01:54:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-01T04:18:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-28T11:27:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-25T10:43:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-24T06:26:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-22T16:40:00.000-07:00

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

It was awesome.

The plan, of sorts

2006-05-20T11:31:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-19T08:27:00.000-07:00

“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

2006-05-16T15:18:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-16T11:21:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-15T13:36:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-14T11:04:00.000-07:00

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.

Intervention

2006-05-12T07:01:00.000-07:00

Europeans seem to have a serious problem with public urination in that they do it all the time. During the past week alone I have be witness to not one, but two separate instances of broad daylight, out-in-the-open, middle-of-the-street, public displays of male urination.

The first occurrence was in Prague. I was walking down the sidewalk on my way to the Museum of Communism (which would certainly never tolerate public pissing), weaving my way around gobs of tourists, darting around trees, stepping over tiny dogs, when I nearly collided with a stream of yellow urine pouring out of a twelve year old boy. He was just standing there, in the middle of the sidewalk with people all around, peeing against a small tree. There was nothing blocking his nether-regions, nothing providing even an ounce of privacy, nothing preventing the world from seeing that this boy is apparently not Jewish. I glanced at his face as I scurried past the golden stream and he seemed completely unfazed by the fact that not only were his genitals completely exposed to the city of Prague, but he was essentially emptying his bladder for a crowd of fifty people. Stage fright never even entered into the equation.

My second run-in with foreign pee happened within hours of my arrival in Vienna. I was walking from the train station to my hostel and passed a man standing in front of a trash can in the park next to the station. He had his arms in front of him and his head turned down, but somehow these warning signs didn’t register with me because well, who pees against a trash can next to the train station? This guy! Yet again, there was nothing blocking the world from viewing all that god gave him and tons of people were scattered around within feet of his junk, but the guy remained unconcerned. Fortunately, I was ready this time and immediately looked away upon seeing the stream, thereby saving my eyes from what would undoubtedly have been disgusting.

Given that I’ve become something of an expert on the topic, I’ve developed a theory regarding the prevalence of public urination in Europe. You see, no one told me about this prior to my departure, but I’ve quickly learned that public restrooms are often not free on this side of the world. One can be forced to pay anywhere from fifty cents to three dollars simply for the privilege of not wetting one’s pants. And I can assure you that digging around for bathroom change is rather irritating when there’s a thirty pound backpack pulling on your spine and a liter of water sloshing around in your gut.

So, perhaps European men are leading the revolt against water closet fees. Maybe each time a fly is unzipped and an innocent bush gets a shower we’re that much closer to revamping the urination system. I just wish there were a cleaner, more organized way of bringing about change. In the meantime, I’m keeping on the lookout for any and all stray streams of yellow liquid.

Cancer babies break-up marriage

2006-05-08T19:02:00.000-07:00

Perhaps it’s because we’re vulnerable and exposed as travelers or because most of the people I’ve met on my trip are open and eager to talk, but I’ve never learned more about people in such a short amount of time than I have in the past seven weeks of traveling. I’ll meet someone on a train in the seat across the aisle or sitting on a bed in the dormitory of a hostel and two hours later secrets come pouring out. Once the first question is uttered – usually “Where are you from?” – the friendship has been established as temporary. Someone to cling to for a half an hour or three days or however long your journeys overlap. And in that time, as much information as possible must be exchanged: Where have you been? Where are you going? What have you seen? What’s your favorite place? When do you go back home? Are you traveling alone? Flying or taking trains? How do you afford it? The questions go on and on but eventually they lead to something deeper. Something that usually cuts closer to the reason why people are traveling. No one will ever admit that it was anything more than a brilliant idea made reality with a plane ticket and guidebook, but after talking for a while bits of their lives start to seep out and I can piece together what brought them to this hostel, this train, this conversation.

Sometimes it’s not hard to figure out. There’s Angelina from Russia who after two hours of conversation and a shared ham sandwich told me that she had cancer four years ago and recently found a lump in her breast. We met on a train in Spain on her way home from Russia where she was supposed to have seen a doctor but got scared at the last minute and didn’t go to the appointment. “I’d rather not know,” she said as she lay on the bunk across from mine, staring up at the ceiling. “My boyfriend’s going to be so mad.”

And then there’s Nikki and Nathan, an Australian couple I befriended in Amsterdam. We met in a huge, 18-person dormitory at the hostel and wandered around the city together, dodging bikers and peering in coffeeshops. I learned that they were together for three years but broke up three months ago and decided to travel together anyway. Though I only knew them for two days and never even found out exactly why they broke up, I could tell that Nathan was still in love with her and Nikki loved him back, just not in the same way. It was kind of painful to watch.

And of course there’s Logan, the neurotic graffiti artist from Vancouver. I found out within a half hour of meeting him that he has a newborn daughter back home who was adopted by a couple down the street in Vancouver. He can see her anytime he’d like but has chosen to travel around Europe and get her name tattooed on his arm instead. The tattoo always sparked lots of questions and I listened to him awkwardly explain his daughter’s adoption many times.

Then there’s Laura from Mexico. I knew her for less than two weeks and we could barely communicate with one another, but by the time I left Madrid she’d told me that she was thinking about leaving her husband.

Maybe it’s because they know they’ll never see me again. Or maybe they just need some sort of brief, close connection with another person while traveling. But something in these people drives them to spill it all. They confess their secrets over sandwiches on a night train and divulge their innermost fears while sharing cigarettes on the roof of a hostel. They burn their stories into my brain and become more than just bodies with backpacks, but people from real places with real histories and real problems. I can’t forget about them now. Now that I know about her cancer and his baby and their break-up and her marriage. But what they might not realize is that this is all I’ve got. Realistically, I’ll never hear from these people again. We’ve long since traveled on and had new experiences and met new people and the past has started to solidify into one unchanging memory in our minds. Angelina will forever be on the brink of having cancer. Logan will always be a father away from his baby. Nathan will continue to love Nikki and Laura will remain wanting to leave her husband. But oddly enough, that’s exactly how I want things to stay. These are my Europe memories and they’re perfect. I’m not stressed about keeping in contact with everyone after I’m gone because all I ever really needed from them is exactly what they gave me as guest stars in my European adventure. And it’s entirely reciprocal, as I’ve been guest starring in their adventures as well. Hopefully it’s been in some sort of memorable way, though I suspect my stories aren’t nearly as exciting.

Dreams of broccoli

2006-05-06T08:44:00.000-07:00

So, let's say a person eats upwards of two salami and cheese sandwiches every single day for at least three weeks and hasn't even seen a green vegetable for nearly twice as long. Will this result in a slow, painful, stomach-churning death? Or will the youthful energy of said person compensate for such a horrendous diet? I'm banking on the latter.

No blue light specials in the Red Light District

2006-05-04T11:43:00.000-07:00

Everyone is on vacation in this city. It's a constant party all day and all night with naps at odd hours and meals when you should be sleeping. The streets are all full, packed with dreadlocked tourists, mumbling beggars and haggling shopowners. Bikes weave through everyone, never breaking for children or stopping for cars. I rented a bike for a couple hours and it was beautiful. Ignoring my map I rode along the canals, through parks, under tunnels, dodging traffic and street signs everywhere. Hundreds of smells filled my nose: cotton candy, engine exhaust, cigar smoke, salt, grease, and of course, cannabis.

I've made quite a few friends and seen a few sights. We wandered the Red Light District last night and stood in front of the most popular whorehouses, watching eager men come in and out. One guy, young - probably about 23 - stood and stared at a brunette in the window as she mouthed words at him and shifted her hips just so. After a few minutes, he grabbed his buddy and the two raced up the stairs. We watched as the brunette and her blonde friend met the guys at the door, let them inside, and took them into a room in the back. And then we waited. And waited. And waited. Fifteen minutes later the guys staggered out the door, red-faced and gleaming, buttoning their shirts.

"How was it?" I said.

"Fuckin' awesome," he laughed, breathing heavily. "But she kept telling me to hurry up. That kind of killed the mood."

"How much did you pay?" my friend asked.

"Fifty euro."

"Was it worth it?" I said.

"Definitely." He clapped his buddy on the back, they turned and walked away, off to find more.

It's interesting the way they've got the Red Light District set up here. During the day the less attractive women strut their stuff, trying to find a man who wants an afternoon treat. And at night the younger, prettier girls come out, framed by red lights and candles, dancing to American pop music. They smoke cigarettes behind the glass and sit on chairs, trying to look innocent and aloof. Some play out schoolgirl fantasies or threaten passersby with whips and chains. And then there are the ugly girls. The ones who no one looks at and who you pity because she's ugly and there's nothing sadder than a whore who can't get laid.

It's comforting to retreat to the hostel at the end of the night. I'm in a room of eighteen people, but it's fine with me because no one smells and my valuables are locked away in a giant metal trash can next to my bed.

I really like Amsterdam but I wonder if it's like this all year round. That might feel a little too crazy after a while. I'm excited to go to Prague tomorrow night and eat some cheap food and hopefully find an Internet cafe with functioning USB ports. Until then, you'll have to use your imagination and picture me sailing over canals on a bike with no gears and a sunburn on my back.

Amsterdam

2006-05-02T12:26:00.000-07:00

Staying in a hostel two blocks from the red light district. Did you guys know that they smoke a lot of pot here? Yeah, I know. It's amazing. I feel like I just walked into my high school bathroom except that everyone is thirty years old and they don't exhale into the sleeve of their jacket. It's crazy. Internet access is incredibly expensive here, so emails will be less frequent. I miss all you guys.

Philipp

2006-05-01T05:56:00.000-07:00

I sat on the couch and cried quietly into my knees as he stuffed his jeans into his backpack. He looked up at me and smiled kindly, his eyes twinkling but sad. I wiped tears on my sleeve as he removed his favorite button from his jacket and pinned it on my purse without saying a word.

She’d warned me about this. Lynn, the first person I met when I came to Europe had said, “Don’t fall in love,” as we munched on burgers in the restaurant next to the hostel. I’d laughed and shook my head saying, “Oh don’t worry. I’m not planning on it.”

But I never knew that weekends like this were possible back then. I never knew that you could meet someone who feels like a missing puzzle piece that’s been found after years of looking. Someone who kisses your nose and tells you things he’s never told anyone before and stares at you like you’ve just floated down from the sky.

And they always have to leave. Back to their own lives, back to their jobs and classes and families and friends with your perfect weekend now just a memory, dimming a little with each passing moment.

Philipp.

He makes me laugh. We wrestle on the floor and he never lets me win but every fight ends with kisses and my sides hurt from elbows and laughter. It’s just us this weekend. Felix is here but he gives us space and we fill the days lounging around the flat, wandering through the streets of Hamburg, ignoring the clock, eating salami sandwiches and drinking German juice. At night we flock to the Red Light District and play foosball against random couples in a bar and win every game except one. He stands against the wall nursing his drink as I dance next to our table, singing along to the songs that I know in English. When we leave he holds my hand tightly in his pocket and we weave through hundreds of people packed into tiny streets with peep shows all around and neon lights overhead. We go to a party and I’m cornered by flirtatious German men who want to practice their English, but it’s fun and Philipp give me are-you-okay looks from across the room every couple of hours before finally pulling me away at 4:00 a.m. when the party winds down. In the morning we drink Diet Coke and eat salami sandwiches and he strokes my cheek, not noticing the mascara smeared under my eyes and tangled hair framing my face. Then we watch a movie and go to the flea market just in time to watch them pack everything away and it doesn’t matter because nothing does and we don’t have to do anything other then be with each other and waste time talking about things like wet dog noses and how to correctly pronounce the word “exaggerate.” There are no jobs and no alarm clocks and no responsibilities and no consequences and nothing exists besides us and this town. We act casual and pretend that weekends like this aren’t secretly worth more than entire years of our lives but I can see it when he looks at me as I laugh and when he kisses the top of my head I know exactly what went into it.

I get sad too quickly because I know what’s coming. It’s difficult for me to stay in the moment and not worry about how much I’m going to hurt when it all ends. We only had four days together and by the second day I’m already counting down the hours in my head because I know that there’s no avoiding it and I can’t stop him from leaving.

“I’m not ready,” I whisper as we ride the subway home at 5:00 a.m. on our last night in Hamburg. My head is on his shoulder and I’m sleepy and cold. We’d just spent twenty minutes on a bench in the station waiting for the train to arrive, huddled under a sleeping bag that Philipp had brought to return to his friend. I sipped on a milkshake and laughed at how homeless we undoubtedly looked. He kissed my nose and I shivered, cold from the milkshake and freezing morning air.

I haven’t forgotten about Junior and I still care for him a great deal, but these adventures are like chapters in a book and it’s easy to separate them regardless of how many days apart they actually are. I leave one country and go to the next and set down my bag on a new bed and learn words in a new language and it’s as if my whole life has changed over the course of a five hour train ride. I start over in each place, making a tiny home for a few days, and sometimes I fall in love. It’s happened twice now and this last time was by far the deepest. Maybe it’s because we spent almost an entire week together including the two days in London when we met, and because we speak the same language, so by the end of the last day we felt like we really knew each other.

Philipp.

He’s gone now. Left a little over an hour ago. I asked if I could ride to the train station with him but he said no, that it would be better to say goodbye at the flat. And I was grateful for this decision because once he did leave and kissed my nose one last time and stared at me with his gentle, kind eyes, I shut the door and cried through my hands because once again, forever just started.

They say I´m not German

2006-04-29T05:05:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-27T08:30:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-26T10:52:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-04-26T08:51:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-24T19:05:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-22T04:57:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-18T18:27:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-16T15:20:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-15T13:52:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-15T11:22:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-13T09:01:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-04-11T14:18:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-10T14:18:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-10T04:22:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-09T06:07:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-08T13:57:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-07T06:12:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-04-07T06:10:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-04-04T11:17:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-03T09:11:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-04-03T06:50:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-02T08:21:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-01T01:54:00.000-08:00

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.

Does anyone know where Harrow Road is?

2006-03-31T10:34:00.000-08:00

Well, I finally had a royal fuck-up in which I wrote down directions to a hostel that is NOT the hostel that I'm staying at and then traveled clear across London only to stand outside in the cold and wind at a six-way intersection wondering where the fuck I am. Why I wrote down directions to the wrong place, I'm not sure. But right now I'm at an Internet cafe getting new directions to the correct hostel and mentally preparing myself for a journey that will require three train transfers and numerous back-breaking slings of my thirty-pound backpack over my shoulder. I've been on and off trains for three or four hours now and my spine is ready to break and all I've eaten since breakfast is a pack of peanut M&Ms. I'm entering the part of my journey in which I'm not on my way to meet anyone I know and it might be a while before I come face-to-face with someone who can remember my name. I'm tired and thirsty and I have to pee and this backpack is fucking killing me but I haven't broken yet and I'm ready to grab London by the balls and tapdance all over its face.

SO. Wish me luck.

Wednesday in Manchester: A Photo Essay

2006-03-29T16:24:00.000-08:00

Woke up late and took a morning stroll. I ate an apple on that bench.

Then I spent a few hours in the Whitworth art museum.

Afterward, it was hot cocoa in the museum cafe.

And a stroll through the city.

That evening we rode on the Wheel of Manchester.

And went downtown to a dimly lit, smoky jazz club.

It was a good day.

Last night in Birmingham

2006-03-27T15:40:00.000-08:00

There's definitely a feeling that goes along with traveling ... a feeling that always keeps you on your toes, even while asleep or daydreaming. It's kind of similar to daydreaming actually, because you don't really feel like you're in your own reality. It's as if you stepped into someone else's world for a while, a world belonging to some transient globetrotter ... some homeless backpacker who happens to have all of your memories and insecurities and habits.

I'm still trying to decide if I like this whole traveling business. Do I mind crashing on other people's couches, entrusting my fate to buses and trains, and hoarding bottled water like it's some sort of precious, magical serum? Does it bother me that I'm not sure where I will be sleeping in five days or that the three shirts I have in rotation are already becoming my three least favorite articles of clothing?

It's only been one week and already I've met more people than names I can remember and been sicker than I've been in a year. And I'm starting to learn a little bit about myself. For example, it's more important to me that I talk to strangers and make friends than it is for me to visit historical sites or shop for souvenirs. Sure, I'm interested in ancient buildings and exotic knickknacks, but so far the thoughts that keep me awake at night are about conversations with cute foreign boys and how in the hell I'm going to communicate with French people.

This trip seems to have evened itself out so far. For all the things that have gone wrong (laptop malfunctions, phone problems, uncontrollable vomiting, etc.), there are just as many things that have gone right (relaxing with Jo, falling in love with Germans, listening to my favorite music while England blurs past my train window, etc.) Even though I'm already out here and I'm doing exactly what I planned to do, I still have moments where the scariest thing I can think of is continuing on this path for eleven more weeks and I can't remember a time in my life when I've ever longed for my own bed more.

But man ... there is NOTHING like riding around a city that is in an entirely different hemisphere than the only one you've ever known for your entire life, or counting out change for an impatient cashier by flipping over every single coin to read its tiny, metallic inscription while trying to calculate its worth in dollars to make sure you're not being ripped off, or touching the walls of a castle and trying to remember the last time you felt something that was older than the United States of America, or noticing that the streetlamps here have orange bulbs and the cars are all smaller and the people dress better and the bartenders don't expect tips. I've never experienced experience like this before. It may sound hokey, but I've got no better way of putting it. There is no way to sleepwalk through this trip. I don't get to hit pause and I can't retreat to my bedroom for a mind-numbing game of Snood or a couple hours of surfing the Internet. It's beyond uncomfortable, but once it's over, that's what will have made it awesome. I guess I never thought I'd see the day where I force myself to do something largely for the purpose of BUILDING CHARACTER, but alas, here I am and I seem to be doing just that. I suppose it needed to be done somehow. And it doesn't really hurt that I'm enjoying myself in the process.

I hope I run into Ozzy Osbourne and he spits a bat head at me.

2006-03-25T16:53:00.000-08:00

I checked out of my hostel and took a train to Birmingham this morning. It was my first time being on a real cross-country train and I loved it … except for the part where a uniformed man asked me for my ticket and then demanded ten pounds from me within seconds after the train started moving. I had no idea why he was asking me for money until he told me that I was sitting in a first class car with a second class ticket. Luckily he didn’t make me pay to upgrade and instead I was forced to do the walk of shame back five cars to second class.

So now I’m at my friend Jo’s house in Birmingham and it is fucking fantastic. My bedroom is cozy and warm and doesn’t have Australians and Irishmen crawling up the walls. The bathroom is clean and the Internet is free and I’m in heaven. Jo is a perfect hostess. We went grocery shopping today and watched TV this evening and I’m so relaxed. My stomach is still a bit unstable, but I’m not throwing up anymore and I think I’m almost back to full health.

Our plans so far include: going to Stratford to visit the home where Shakespeare was born, castle-touring, and pub-hopping.

Alternative Fashion Week in London

2006-03-24T10:29:00.000-08:00

Went to a fashion show in Spitalfields Traders Market today. It was awesome. Check out my photos to see more.

German boys: 1, Irish boys: 0

2006-03-24T09:17:00.000-08:00

Yesterday began terribly and slowly became worse until finally erupting in a ray of awesomeness.

Of all the people I could meet, I found the single most irritating Irishman on the planet and agreed to spend the afternoon with him walking around central London.

Ed is a small, nervous fellow with a shaved head and one front tooth. He’s annoying in the trying-really-hard-to-be-affable-but-coming-off-incredibly-obnoxious way. The perfect example of this was his insistence every thirty seconds or so that I smile. We’re standing on the train: “Smile!” We’re walking down the street: “Smile!” We’re sitting in a pub: “Smile!” It got really old, really quickly and my patience evaporated in less than an hour. “I DON’T WANT TO SMILE RIGHT NOW.” Also relentless was his insistence that I relax. I could’ve been laying on a beach, getting a massage, drinking a Mai Tai while angels sang sweet songs in my ears and Ed would still find it necessary to yell, “Relax! Don’t worry!” in my ear every five minutes. Needless to say, I couldn’t relax around him at all.

We attempted to see a movie in Leister Square, but it was very over-priced and we had just missed the closest show times. I couldn’t handle being around Ed any longer without a movie or something to drown him out, so I told him that I wanted to go back to the hostel and write. He decided to stay in central London and wander around, so I took the underground back on my own, went up to my room in the hostel and within five minutes met a couple of the coolest guys I’ve ever known.

Enter: Felix and Philipp, the Germans

Felix, 23, and Philipp, 25, met while studying abroad in New Zealand four years ago. It was there that they perfected their English and became good friends. They stopped in London on their way back from Ireland, where they were visiting Philipp’s sister and celebrating St. Patrick’s Day.

After spending an afternoon with Ed, I was losing confidence in my ability to correctly judge others, but I quickly determined that Felix and Philipp were hilarious, easy-going, fun guys. And it was only a matter of hours before I had developed a small crush on Philipp.

It is impossible to describe the kind of fun we had last night. I haven’t had that kind of an immediate connection with two complete strangers in such a long time. We hung around our room and talked to Jared, a sleepy Australian, before heading downstairs to the “Chill-out Room.” There, we played a ping pong tournament, making up new rules and using the one ball we could find until it broke from repeated exposure to surfaces other than the ping pong table. There was never a shortage of conversation, especially with Felix around, and I learned all about my new German friends. Philipp used to work in Ghana, helping children, and is currently paying for the high school education of a boy he grew close to during his year there. Felix wants to teach German to children, has abnormally large hands, and loves to joke about his handsome face. They both like Green Day and find it silly that Americans associate Germany with David Hasselhoff and The Sound of Music.

We stayed in the Chill-out Room for hours and the boys each finished off their eight packs of ½ liter beers, but neither seemed particularly drunk. Felix was not satisfied with having consumed a mere four liters of beer, so we decided to take to the streets in search of a pub. Little did we know, everything in London closes at 11:00 p.m. We wandered down cobblestone courts and I stared at the oddly-shaped taxi cabs and tall, packed-in houses. The boys playfully bickered and Philipp bit Felix’s finger so hard that it needed photographic documentation.

Felix began singing a line from a German song that had been in his head for days. They taught it to me:

“Doch so aufgewuhlt hab ich dich nic gesehen …”

We hollered it at the top of our lungs and didn’t care who we woke up. Soon the line was stuck in my head as well, even though I didn’t know what it was about or how to correctly pronounce the words.

Eventually we came across a pub that was open for ten more minutes. Felix and Philipp ordered cocktails and I got a Coke. We sat around a giant booth and talked, over-staying our welcome by about twenty minutes. I gave Philipp a pin from America that I found in my pocket. It said, “Foreplay is for pussies.” I hoped that he wouldn’t understand what it meant and would walk around with it pinned to his lapel, but he understood right away and laughed, slipping it in his pocket.

After getting kicked out of the pub, we wandered the streets some more, singing our song and searching for food. We came across a bagel shop, so I ordered a falafel and Felix ordered a chicken sandwich. We walked back to the hostel and ate our food in the chill-out room. Eventually Felix went to bed and Philipp and I stayed up until 4:00 a.m., talking about politics and religion and the differences between our countries.

Once we finally went to bed, I couldn’t sleep. The night had been so perfect. It was exactly what I’d been hoping to experience in Europe. I smiled as I lay there, excited for days to come and thought about how incredible it is that I’m actually doing this, staying here, meeting these people, having this adventure all on my own.

When I woke up the next morning, I knew something was wrong. My stomach was gurgling in a way that wasn’t normal. I got up, after only having slept a few hours, and told the boys that I would meet them in the Chill-out Room after showering.

I threw up in the shower. Three times. Clearly I wasn’t going to be able to go anywhere that day. I told Felix and Philipp and they were disappointed, but understood. They asked if there was anything they could do and Philipp gave me his mobile number in case I felt better later on. I gave them both hugs and went back to bed.

Four hours later, I woke up to the sound of someone knocking on my door. I waited, and listened to see if the person would go away. Suddenly I heard a familiar melody:

“Doch so aufgewuhlt hab ich dich nic gesehen …”

I laughed and got up to answer the door. There were Felix and Philipp with an armful of bottled water, Coke, warm, fresh bread, waffles, chewing gum, and gummy rings. “We’ve come to see how you’re feeling,” said Philip. “And we brought you some food.”

I invited them in and they kept me company for an hour and a half before leaving to catch their flight back to Germany. We each put on a gummy ring and Felix declared us the “Ring Connection.” Philip was “The Mouth,” Felix was “The Finger,” and I was “The Stomach.” We stuck our fists together and vowed to keep the rings on forever. Or at least until they became too sticky and gooey to manage, which only took an hour.

I stayed in bed for the rest of the day after the boys left, waking only to sip some water and getting up to vomit.

It’s been a pretty emotional last few days … crying at the airport, frustration over failed technology, irritation with an Irish boy, laughing with German boys, and now vomiting in a communal bathroom every few hours. There are moments when I wish I was home - mainly when my face is hovering over the toilet - but I think that this is good for me. I’m going to tough it out and enjoy this extended vacation. I’ve got a lot left to do on my agenda and I have barely even begun to get to it all. After today, there are a couple more stops to add to my agenda while I’m in Germany. Hopefully additions like these will keep coming.

First day

2006-03-22T06:12:00.000-08:00

- can't figure out how to get the wireless internet on my laptop to work. Posting from an Internet cafe.
- still need to get a new SIM card for my phone so that I can make calls. Got a phone card in the meantime.
- met an Austalian named Ben, an American named Lynn, and a German couple named Oliver and Jessica.
- went out to dinner with Lynn last night. Had a veggie burger with salsa on it and weird chunky, ketchup. It was decent.
- fell asleep at 9pm and slept til 2am; couldn't fall back asleep for hours. finally did and slept til noon. When I woke up, everyone in my room was gone. They get up early here.
- off to wander the streets now. Gonna take pictures, do some writing and hopefully make some friends.
- miss all you guys. Happy birthday yesterday, Mom. Hope it was awesome.

Terminal Five

2006-03-22T05:26:00.000-08:00

“You’re going to miss your flight.”

The man behind the counter frowned at me. He was wearing a navy blue United Airlines uniform and a smug look on his face. “This boarding pass is for British Airways, not United. You need to get to Terminal Five.”

Instantly, my pulse quickened and I began to panic. “Where’s Terminal Five?” I asked. Fuck. This is not happening.

He pointed to his left. “That way. You’re not going to make it.”

A wave of cold prickles washed over my entire body and I started to sweat.

With his index and middle finger he slid the boarding pass across the counter. I snatched it up, spun around, and weighed my options. I could call my parents and cry; admit to them and to myself that I’m incapable of actually doing something huge with my life - that I will inevitably fuck up whatever it is I set out to do. But suddenly I stopped and listened to a tiny voice in the back of my mind - a tiny voice that reminded me of the dozens of movies I’ve seen in which mad dashes across airport terminals result in last-minute confessions and passionate embraces mere seconds before lift-off. The voice got louder.

I can do this.

I can.

Run, Mary.

Fucking RUN.

I scurried back to the seat where I’d thrown my thirty-pound backpack, hoodie, hat, scarf, coat, purse and bottle of water. As a cluster of other travelers looked on, I heaved the backpack over my shoulder and struggled to distribute the weight evenly across my back. I considered securing the waist and chest straps but decided that there was no time for proper fastening and slung my jacket, scarf, hoodie, and hat over my forearm instead. I threw my purse over my neck, grabbed my water bottle and took off running.

Terminal Five, Terminal Five, Terminal Five, Terminal Five. Where the fuck is Terminal Five? I scanned signs and followed the arrows pointing toward Terminals Three through Five.

Run.

Run.

Run.

I pushed my way past gobs of people, weaving through and around them. I can’t breathe. Why is this airport so fucking long? What time is it? Am I running for nothing? The United Airlines guy would know better than me how long it takes to get from terminal to terminal. What if he’s right? What am I going to do? Will I have to buy another ticket? What happens when people miss their flights? Do the gates of hell open up and instantly swallow them whole? Am I going to have to go stay in Chicago? Or worse, am I going to have to go HOME? Oh dear god, no. I can’t go home. I just had a fucking GOING AWAY party. I HAVE to go to Europe. I have to get on this flight. There is no way around it. I HAVE TO GET ON.

Gasping for breath, I reached the end of a long hallway of concourses, terminals, and gates. My lungs were on fire. Sweat poured down my face and onto my chest and back. My hair was drenched and matted against my forehead with big, fat droplets clinging to the ends.

I began to panic and my mind went blank. Which gate was I looking for again? Which terminal? C’mon, brain, don’t fail me now. I stopped in the main entryway that joins the concourses and stared at the sign above my head.

CONCOURSES B, C, D -->
Restrooms <--
Ticketing -->

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Where do I go? I glanced around me and spotted a man wearing what appeared to be an airport uniform, pushing a luggage cart.

“Excuse me sir,” I said, holding up my boarding pass. “Do you know where I can find Terminal Five?”

“Terminal Five?” He looked at my pass. “You need to get on the train. Go up that escalator and you’ll see a red doorway. Go through that doorway and follow the signs to the train. Get on and take it all the way to Terminal Five and your gate is right there.”

“Thank you!” I yelled over my shoulder. I was already halfway to the escalator.

Run.

Run.

Run.

“Excuse me … excuse me … sorry … coming through.” I shoved past everyone in my path. Giant men with huge rolling suitcases, small clueless children, slow-moving shriveled old ladies, all of them. People saw me coming and jumped out of the way. I didn’t care who got hit with my backpack or how crazed I undoubtedly looked – I was going to make this flight if I had to trample through a sea of rabid, ankle-biting kittens.

After running down a series of escalators and startling more than a few unsuspecting travelers, I reached the platform and saw a train with its doors open to my left. There was a group of people filing off and heading up the stairs. The only other person on the platform with me was a uniformed man standing off to the side.

“Terminal Five!?” I wailed, giving him a look of utter desperation.

He pointed to his right and I turned just in time to see the train doors begin to close.

I lunged forward and wedged myself in between the doors, causing them to close on my backpack. Inside the train stood several people. They all stared at me. A girl near the window snickered. I pulled my backpack fully inside the train and leaned against the window, trying too cool off.

My lungs hurt. I started coughing uncontrollably. There was a burning tickle in the back of my throat that wouldn’t go away. I haven’t run like that in years.

Everyone in the train stared at me as I gasped for breath and coughed. Sweat continued to trickle down my temples and I knew that my t-shirt was completely drenched. Within seconds I was crying and had to use my hoodie to mop up the mixture of tears, snot and sweat that covered my face. I made a conscious effort to avoid my reflection in the train window because I knew that my face was beet red and my eyes were puffy and tired.

The train arrived at Terminal Five after a five minute ride across the airport. I burst through the doors and raced toward the nearest elevator. Pushing people out of my way, I tore up the stairs and found myself in a ticketing area. This meant that I would have to go through security again.

Fuck.

I ran to the nearest security entrance and happily, was the only person in line. The security officer working the X-ray machine was unfazed by my sweat-soaked clothing and inability to breathe.

“Do you have a laptop?” she barked.

“Yes.”

“Take it out and put it in a separate bin. Take off your shoes and belt and put them in a bin as well. What’s that?” She pointed at my moneybelt, which was peaking out from underneath my t-shirt.

“Moneybelt,” I said.

“Take it off.”

I fumbled around, threw my coat, hoodie, purse, belt, and backpack onto the moving belt, then bent down and yanked my shoes off my feet without untying them. I crammed it all through the X-ray machine and handed the lady my boarding pass. She took it, glanced at it, and nodded me through. I grabbed my belongings as they came out the other side, but didn’t bother putting everything back on. Instead I threw my thirty-pound backpack over my shoulder, clutched the rest of my belongings to my chest, and took off running again.

This time I didn’t have far to run. Mine was the first gate in Terminal Five. It was empty except for a man wearing a navy blue uniform that looked slightly different than that of a United Airlines attendant. He smiled at me as I stumbled up to the desk, arms full of shoes and clothing.

“Did I make it?” I asked. “Is this flight going to London?”

And then he uttered the magic words.

“Yes, it is,” his soothing British accent validating everything I had run so long and so fast to hear. “And you’re just in time.”

All packed

2006-03-20T03:10:00.000-08:00

Who would've thought I could fit my whole life into three bags?

A small change

2006-03-19T17:55:00.000-08:00

And now, all of the sudden, twenty hours before I leave, I've decided to bring a laptop with me to Europe. My father is generously lending me his three pound PC and I'm letting him use my iBook while I'm gone.

A giant weight has been lifted off my mind and replaced with a smaller, less pressing one. Now instead of worrying about how I'm going to write, store pictures and use the Internet, I need to worry about getting robbed. No big deal, right? Right.

Go Away Party

2006-03-19T12:20:00.000-08:00

I had a going away party at Nye's last night. It was awesome. I never knew that I had so many friends. In attendance were: Adrianne, her date Miguel, Jennifer, Chris, Scott, Abbey, Brett, Tim, Jeanine, Kelly, Dave, Betsy, JD, Dave L., Roxi, Cady, Kass, Matt, Matt's girlfriend, Sarah, Addie, Addie's two friends, TJ, Adam, Kristian, Kristian's wife Megan, Holly, Jon, Jon's friend, and Zara. More than 30 people. Wow.

Pictures of the evening are here, here, here and here. I've also added a link to my photo album on the sidebar of this blog - check it out every so often and you can see what I'm doing in crazy ol' Europe.

P.S. My grandma is in the other room blaring Barry Manilow and I think that's kind of awesome.

What I'm Thinking About as my Departure Looms Two Days Away

2006-03-18T13:09:00.000-08:00

1. Am I going to have to learn how to use a bidet?

2. Military time is never going to work for me. I can't successfully add 12 to anything.

3. What if the plane crashes on the way over the ocean and we land on a deserted island in the middle of nowhere and Matthew Fox is there along with the rest of the unrealistically attractive cast of Lost? Might that be even better than three months in Europe? It might.

4. Do they eat tator tots in Europe? Three months without tator tots might be difficult.

5. I guess I should start packing.

Taking the long way

2006-03-16T12:44:00.000-08:00

I keep driving down highways and streets, trying desperately to memorize everything and frame it in my mind one last time before I leave on Monday. I'm not sure why I can't stop doing this - it's not like three months is forever, but right now it feels like three years and I know that when I get on that plane I'm creating a new era in my life: the post-Europe days. This era won't start until I return home again and the months I spend in Europe will probably seem disconnected from the rest of my life, too short to be considered an era on its own. Once I come back to Minneapolis all of my memories will be thought of in terms of before or after Europe and will remain bookmarked that way for years. This is strange to realize. But it's also kind of neat.

2006-03-13T16:47:00.000-08:00

And the one week countdown officially starts now.

Minneapolis/St. Paul

2006-03-12T15:17:00.000-08:00

Last night was one of those exciting, blurry nights that, upon recollection, seems hazy and lucid, like a smeary oil painting or crayon sketches on waxed paper. There were painfully loud bands playing screeching, slurred chords, pictures taken in golden bathrooms, cigarette burns on arms and shoes removed. An after-bar taco stop was made and I drew a big, angry face on the table and ate chips and salsa until my nose ran and my stomach felt funny.

Afterward, as 4:00 a.m. crept up behind me and I drove my truck down lonely, suburban highways, I thought about how much I'm going to miss this place when I leave. It's a frustrating town full reclusive people who would rather stay inside nestled under piles of blankets than face the biting winter wind and sunless skies, but when they do finally throw on their wool coats and warm up the car, it's always completely worth it. We have magical, electric nights that go on forever and result in emotional hangovers and dizzying crushes and I fall asleep with the afterimage seeping into my dreams, confusing what really happened with the stories my imagination creates. It's going to be hard to leave this all behind for three months, but I know it's something I have to do and something that I won't regret no matter how much it could hurt.

Countdown

2006-03-06T15:00:00.000-08:00

I leave in two weeks. It's kind of hard to believe that in only 14 days I will be on a plane, heading across the ocean, leaving my home, friends, family, and comfort zone, embarking on what will undoubtedly be the biggest adventure of my entire life.

Surreal.

I can't wait.