I know, this is the third post entitled "the end." But this time, it really is, I'm going home.
I've found this trip to be landmarked by alternating feelings of uncontrollable homesickness and never wanting to go home. They sound like opposite extremes, and they are. Although through every adventure and every country, I found that the more I explored, the less I wanted to leave. No two places were remotely similar, yet they were all equally different from home in their own ways. I know this sounds cheesy and cliche, but it's 100% true. Having been a newcomer to Europe, my eyes have been opened to the fact that, well, there are other places in the world. And while Europe is probably most similar to the States compared to other continents, I've loved every minute of every place. I love being so completely lost, without a language and without a map, I love being stranded in an airport waiting for EasyJet's token 5 hour delays, I love going from 3 feet of snow in Switzerland in February to 75 degree sunshine in Spain the same weekend, I love the comfort of feeling, well, comforted, by a road sign in English (and Gaelic) when I haven't seen English in a month straight, I love crazy, irrational, lunatic home-stay families and home-stay families that get so much joy out of my stupid love for apples and coffee.
I love to travel. And I think if I had to pick one thing to change about these past 6 months, I wouldn't. Sitting in the madness of Heathrow, sure, I'm excited to come back, to see friends and family, but there's something different and something that I'll miss about these people here that I've spent literally all day, every day with for so long. I'm sad, even angry to be leaving. Angry because I've found things here, whether in Bosnia or England, to be so much more logical in so many ways than the US. And angry that now I know this and have to leave it.
But it's ok, because I know that I will be glad to be home, and that one day, not too long from now, I'll be back.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
GLASTO
Soon we were off to King's Cross yet again. But this time, we were taking the train to a little stop called Castle Cary for Glastonbury festival. It had been described to me as a modern-day Woodstock, the biggest music festival in Europe, but I was also told that it was simply impossible to describe or imagine until I had been. 300,000 people, 4 days, hundreds of bands.
We arrived at the station to see hundreds of young people, hustling and bustling towards the train specifically designated for Glastonbury Festival. Many were wearing wellies, and most were carrying huge camping backpacks, stuffed to the brim with food, sleeping bags, tents, and the kitchen sink. We filed on to the train and set off into the country side. The festival was on a huge, privately owned farm, and must be postponed every 5 years for the fields to recover and grow.
Arriving at Pilton Farm, I began what has thus far been the most surreal experience of my life. We waited in line for about an hour at the train station to board buses that would take us to the campgrounds. In the meantime, a bluegrass band started playing, and someone walked around selling popsicles and bottled water. People wear wellies because it inevitably rains every year, and there's no shelter, but this year there was not a drop. On the contrary, it was HOT. Oh, did I mention you don't bathe for 5 days? Eek.
We finally get to the campgrounds what we thought was early, with the intention of catching most of the World Cup game England was playing that day, but apparently everyone else had the same idea, and our campsite ended up being less than ideal. a good 15 minute walk to the bathroom or the tap. Which brings me to a sidenote: since we were quite far from the taps, we would fill up our water bottles each night to have over night and to make coffee with the french-press that we brought. However, this, being England was a place where you were also allowed to bring your own alcohol. Keep in mind that vodka is clear...One morning we were looking around our massive 8-person tent (complete with pods for sleeping) for spare water for coffee, and someone found a full bottle on the ground. A few minutes later, the coffee was brewed and poured into cups. This was only after the kettle to boil the water shot its cap off as if it were about to explode rather than just whistling. One of the friends we were with took a few sips, commenting that it tasted a bit funny, but kept drinking anyway. I held my cup to my mouth, about to take a sip, when I noticed that something sort of burned my throat as I smelled it. Upon first sip, I spat the coffee in to the grass. It was definitely NOT coffee. Turns out that extra bottle of "water" was really someone's bottle of VODKA. We had coffee brewed in boiling vodka.
Aaaaanyway, the whole 4 days were an experience unlike any other and truly were unimaginable. I saw bands that I never dreamt of being able to see live (Muse, Stevie Wonder, Phoenix, the list is much much longer...just go to the webiste), along with comedians, circus performers, and fire-breathing metal spider DJ booths. The food was to die for (they had just about every ethnic cuisine you could ever imagine-the Moroccan Lamb Tagine was among my favorite meals), and the Brothers pear cider was even better. There were vintage clothes shops, tons of different stages (4-5 main ones, and other peripheries, main stage being shaped like a giant pyramid), a "healing field" and people from every walk of life, from A-list celebrities to hobos to lawyers to small children. For the atmosphere that it was, I was shocked and amazed at how family-friendly everything was. Those were certainly some lucky kids. Another thing was the fashion. It's a bit unrealistic to make a fashion statement when you haven't showered in 4 days, but somehow, people succeeded wonderfully. It was hard to keep up...
To save breath, I won't try to describe the rest of the festival, as to repeat myself, you really can't imagine how unbelievable the whole extravaganza was, and I certainly know that my words won't do it justice...I'll just put up a few pictures and leave it at that.
We arrived at the station to see hundreds of young people, hustling and bustling towards the train specifically designated for Glastonbury Festival. Many were wearing wellies, and most were carrying huge camping backpacks, stuffed to the brim with food, sleeping bags, tents, and the kitchen sink. We filed on to the train and set off into the country side. The festival was on a huge, privately owned farm, and must be postponed every 5 years for the fields to recover and grow.
Arriving at Pilton Farm, I began what has thus far been the most surreal experience of my life. We waited in line for about an hour at the train station to board buses that would take us to the campgrounds. In the meantime, a bluegrass band started playing, and someone walked around selling popsicles and bottled water. People wear wellies because it inevitably rains every year, and there's no shelter, but this year there was not a drop. On the contrary, it was HOT. Oh, did I mention you don't bathe for 5 days? Eek.
We finally get to the campgrounds what we thought was early, with the intention of catching most of the World Cup game England was playing that day, but apparently everyone else had the same idea, and our campsite ended up being less than ideal. a good 15 minute walk to the bathroom or the tap. Which brings me to a sidenote: since we were quite far from the taps, we would fill up our water bottles each night to have over night and to make coffee with the french-press that we brought. However, this, being England was a place where you were also allowed to bring your own alcohol. Keep in mind that vodka is clear...One morning we were looking around our massive 8-person tent (complete with pods for sleeping) for spare water for coffee, and someone found a full bottle on the ground. A few minutes later, the coffee was brewed and poured into cups. This was only after the kettle to boil the water shot its cap off as if it were about to explode rather than just whistling. One of the friends we were with took a few sips, commenting that it tasted a bit funny, but kept drinking anyway. I held my cup to my mouth, about to take a sip, when I noticed that something sort of burned my throat as I smelled it. Upon first sip, I spat the coffee in to the grass. It was definitely NOT coffee. Turns out that extra bottle of "water" was really someone's bottle of VODKA. We had coffee brewed in boiling vodka.
Aaaaanyway, the whole 4 days were an experience unlike any other and truly were unimaginable. I saw bands that I never dreamt of being able to see live (Muse, Stevie Wonder, Phoenix, the list is much much longer...just go to the webiste), along with comedians, circus performers, and fire-breathing metal spider DJ booths. The food was to die for (they had just about every ethnic cuisine you could ever imagine-the Moroccan Lamb Tagine was among my favorite meals), and the Brothers pear cider was even better. There were vintage clothes shops, tons of different stages (4-5 main ones, and other peripheries, main stage being shaped like a giant pyramid), a "healing field" and people from every walk of life, from A-list celebrities to hobos to lawyers to small children. For the atmosphere that it was, I was shocked and amazed at how family-friendly everything was. Those were certainly some lucky kids. Another thing was the fashion. It's a bit unrealistic to make a fashion statement when you haven't showered in 4 days, but somehow, people succeeded wonderfully. It was hard to keep up...
To save breath, I won't try to describe the rest of the festival, as to repeat myself, you really can't imagine how unbelievable the whole extravaganza was, and I certainly know that my words won't do it justice...I'll just put up a few pictures and leave it at that.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Not Real Life
The finale of my travels were 2 of possibly the biggest celebrations I have been to.
After exploring London as sufficiently as possible in 4 days, we boarded the train (at King's Cross...where platform 9 3/4 was closed for construction, biggest disappointment ever) for Cambridge. Oli spent 6 years there so knew the ropes and thought May Ball season would be a nice time to see the town. In June (yes, May Ball is in June, you think Cambridge would have it together a bit more than that), every college at Cambridge throws what is essentially a huge black tie, $250 per ticket party. We didn't have tickets or black tie, but after having lunch with some old friends, Oli was convinced we should go. Or, rather, crash.
And so we took a friend's access card, went down to a bike shed in a parking garage, and shoved a heavy concrete block against a door. I was later informed that this door opened to a staircase that led to the outer "court" (Cambridge speak for lawn) of the Ball. When the guards come around to check that the doors are locked, they will push from the other side, and the door, blocked by the cement, will feel locked. Next, we made our way to the town to find proper attire. First stop was the OxFam store, where he bought a really REALLY fly double-breasted black suit for a whopping 12 pounds 50. Next stop was another charity shop where the purchase of a lady's white short sleeve button down shirt totalled one pound. Next door, the joke shop pulled through with an elastic bow-tie. All that was left were the shoes, because clearly navy blue Ked's wouldn't cut it for black tie. We thought that maybe black laces would help, so we went to the grocery store and bought some black socks as well, just for safe measure. However, when simply replacing the laces wasn't sufficient, we had the brilliant idea of just putting the socks OVER the shoes (obviously) and tying the laces around the bottom of the shoe. As you can tell, our slap-dash black tie for under 20 pounds was not too bad.
So after meeting people that had paid for tickets and spent endless time and money on dresses and in front of a mirror, they left for the ball, and we went in to the bathroom of the pub we were in to change in to our formal attire that had spent a few hours shoved into a backpack.
We ventured into the parking garage and bingo, the door into the first court was open. But this was only the first line of security. Our wristbands were checked again, and we were caught. After taking photos of both us and our IDs, we were kicked out...but the door was still unlocked. So mid-fireworks show, back through the door we went. However, this time, the only security past that was a poor little girl working the door alone. Looking very much otherwise occupied on the phone, we walked briskly past her and when she squeaked "wristbands please!" as we ran by, Oli threw up my hand to show the leather bracelet I had recently bought in Croatia that just happened to be relatively similar in width to the wristbands. And we were in.
What a spectacle it was. Stages, bands, lights, food, drinks, people, decor, and everything was free. We stayed until it was light (for the survivor photo) and in typical British fashion, were served biscuits and tea in the Hall (yes, also like Harry Potter). Back on the train it was at 6 am to London. Still in formal wear. The rest of the city was going to work, and we were going to bed.
But, we were going to bed because we had a later train to catch up to Durham, where Oli's family lives. Upon arriving at the cutest house I'd ever seen, we had toothbrushes, soaps and towels laid out for us on the bed like a hotel and a full lunch buffet and tea set up in the perfectly kept garden. Durham is a quaint northern town with all the charm you would expect of a quintessential British city. We rode bikes and walked up and down (and up and down) the hills. I think the best part was definitely feeling at-home again. Plus, the Durham Cathedral is certainly a sight worth seeing (plus, they filmed parts of Harry Potter there, which completely made up for Platform 9 3/4 being closed).
One of the days while in the north, we took another train up to the coastal town of Stathes, where Oli's aunt owns a B&B and beautiful guest house (or, as she calls it, love nest...). Turns out that she used to run an antique store as well, so the entire place was decorated with vintage antiques from all over the world. But before we could enjoy any of this, we hiked 9 miles (literally) in the strongest winds I have ever encountered. The type of wind that you can put all of your body weight in to and stay upright. Utterly. Exhausting. This is not, however, to take away from the breathtaking scenery...I forgot to mention that the entire trail was along the edge of the coast. And the reward for the hike was a huge home-cooked meal of lasagna in the B&B dining room, hot shower, and a cider at the village pub amidst live folk music. Picturesque doesn't even begin to describe this place.
Upon return to Durham, we ventured into Scotland for a day to see the sights of Edinburgh. Oli had been to the Edinburgh Festival (theatre) a few years ago so knew all of the insider spots and streets. And while on my Harry Potter world tour, we saw the pub where JK Rowling began writing her saga. Huge. Edinburgh was a lovely city. Very liveable and lively, while not seeming overwhelming. The day ended with a glimpse of the world cup USA game before heading back to Durham and then to London. (side note-I don't think i mentioned this previously, but that USA-England game that we were supposed to get killed in? We tied. And actually ended up staying in the Cup longer than England.)
After becoming sufficiently relaxed, we left Durham and it was back to London for a day for a final hot shower and night in bed before the extravaganza that was Glastonbury...
After exploring London as sufficiently as possible in 4 days, we boarded the train (at King's Cross...where platform 9 3/4 was closed for construction, biggest disappointment ever) for Cambridge. Oli spent 6 years there so knew the ropes and thought May Ball season would be a nice time to see the town. In June (yes, May Ball is in June, you think Cambridge would have it together a bit more than that), every college at Cambridge throws what is essentially a huge black tie, $250 per ticket party. We didn't have tickets or black tie, but after having lunch with some old friends, Oli was convinced we should go. Or, rather, crash.
And so we took a friend's access card, went down to a bike shed in a parking garage, and shoved a heavy concrete block against a door. I was later informed that this door opened to a staircase that led to the outer "court" (Cambridge speak for lawn) of the Ball. When the guards come around to check that the doors are locked, they will push from the other side, and the door, blocked by the cement, will feel locked. Next, we made our way to the town to find proper attire. First stop was the OxFam store, where he bought a really REALLY fly double-breasted black suit for a whopping 12 pounds 50. Next stop was another charity shop where the purchase of a lady's white short sleeve button down shirt totalled one pound. Next door, the joke shop pulled through with an elastic bow-tie. All that was left were the shoes, because clearly navy blue Ked's wouldn't cut it for black tie. We thought that maybe black laces would help, so we went to the grocery store and bought some black socks as well, just for safe measure. However, when simply replacing the laces wasn't sufficient, we had the brilliant idea of just putting the socks OVER the shoes (obviously) and tying the laces around the bottom of the shoe. As you can tell, our slap-dash black tie for under 20 pounds was not too bad.
So after meeting people that had paid for tickets and spent endless time and money on dresses and in front of a mirror, they left for the ball, and we went in to the bathroom of the pub we were in to change in to our formal attire that had spent a few hours shoved into a backpack.
We ventured into the parking garage and bingo, the door into the first court was open. But this was only the first line of security. Our wristbands were checked again, and we were caught. After taking photos of both us and our IDs, we were kicked out...but the door was still unlocked. So mid-fireworks show, back through the door we went. However, this time, the only security past that was a poor little girl working the door alone. Looking very much otherwise occupied on the phone, we walked briskly past her and when she squeaked "wristbands please!" as we ran by, Oli threw up my hand to show the leather bracelet I had recently bought in Croatia that just happened to be relatively similar in width to the wristbands. And we were in.
What a spectacle it was. Stages, bands, lights, food, drinks, people, decor, and everything was free. We stayed until it was light (for the survivor photo) and in typical British fashion, were served biscuits and tea in the Hall (yes, also like Harry Potter). Back on the train it was at 6 am to London. Still in formal wear. The rest of the city was going to work, and we were going to bed.
But, we were going to bed because we had a later train to catch up to Durham, where Oli's family lives. Upon arriving at the cutest house I'd ever seen, we had toothbrushes, soaps and towels laid out for us on the bed like a hotel and a full lunch buffet and tea set up in the perfectly kept garden. Durham is a quaint northern town with all the charm you would expect of a quintessential British city. We rode bikes and walked up and down (and up and down) the hills. I think the best part was definitely feeling at-home again. Plus, the Durham Cathedral is certainly a sight worth seeing (plus, they filmed parts of Harry Potter there, which completely made up for Platform 9 3/4 being closed).
One of the days while in the north, we took another train up to the coastal town of Stathes, where Oli's aunt owns a B&B and beautiful guest house (or, as she calls it, love nest...). Turns out that she used to run an antique store as well, so the entire place was decorated with vintage antiques from all over the world. But before we could enjoy any of this, we hiked 9 miles (literally) in the strongest winds I have ever encountered. The type of wind that you can put all of your body weight in to and stay upright. Utterly. Exhausting. This is not, however, to take away from the breathtaking scenery...I forgot to mention that the entire trail was along the edge of the coast. And the reward for the hike was a huge home-cooked meal of lasagna in the B&B dining room, hot shower, and a cider at the village pub amidst live folk music. Picturesque doesn't even begin to describe this place.
Upon return to Durham, we ventured into Scotland for a day to see the sights of Edinburgh. Oli had been to the Edinburgh Festival (theatre) a few years ago so knew all of the insider spots and streets. And while on my Harry Potter world tour, we saw the pub where JK Rowling began writing her saga. Huge. Edinburgh was a lovely city. Very liveable and lively, while not seeming overwhelming. The day ended with a glimpse of the world cup USA game before heading back to Durham and then to London. (side note-I don't think i mentioned this previously, but that USA-England game that we were supposed to get killed in? We tied. And actually ended up staying in the Cup longer than England.)
After becoming sufficiently relaxed, we left Durham and it was back to London for a day for a final hot shower and night in bed before the extravaganza that was Glastonbury...
Quite Quaint
London, alone. I've always wanted to travel alone, and I feel like this was the perfect place to do it. I check in to my slightly last-minute-booked hotel across the street from Paddington Station (yes, there's a giant statue of Paddington Bear) to find that there is no internet and 3 TV channels. NO TECHNOLOGY!?! But, much to my relief, there was of course, in typical English fashion, a tea kettle. So I promptly made myself some tea and went to bed.
Day 2, I'm still not quite sure where this "London Fog" that everyone talks about comes from. This was day 1 of a very sunny and pleasant 3 weeks. I began my day with a cold and soggy breakfast in the hotel after being woken up at 7 am by what sounded like the children of the housekeeping staff (is that allowed?) since the supply closet was NEXT DOOR to my room. Which was in the basement. With a cot for a bed. But enough complaining. I set off for Hyde park and arrived to find a brigade of costumed soldiers on horseback toting cannons. Only in London, I thought. Of course all other forms of traffic through the park would be shut to a brigade of horses. In to the park I went down along to the Serpentine lake to find a sign that read "gun salute, noon." There was no way I was going to miss this. Sure enough, at 11:45 I wandered to the middle of the hugely expansive park to find a brass band blowing out Sinatra tunes and at 12:00 on the dot, a cannon salute was continuously fired off for about 20 minutes.
After my pre-20th century war experience, I ambled down the road in search of the Science Museum. London streets make absolutely no sense. If you think that the cross-cutting states of DC confuse the block system, come to London. There IS no system. So, I eventually gave up after an hour and a half of walking to a museum that supposedly should have take 20 minutes. Instead, I went shopping. Enter, Oxford Street-a wonderful zoo of upscale and discount stores combined with boutiques and restaurants all on one glorious thoroughfare. And then there is Primark. The greatest and most horrible department store ever. I would say that nothing I bought was more that 15 pounds, but then, you get 4 tops for 5 pounds each, plus some shoes, dresses, etc...You get the the picture. Plus, don't even bother waiting half an hour for a fitting room, there are people all over the store throwing on (and off) clothes in the middle of aisles.
After a long and tiring day of shopping and walking, I was starving. Per suggestion of someone who's opinion I trusted (...) regarding cheap food in London, I set off to find Gregg's pie shop on Edgeware Road. Needless to say, there is no Gregg's on Edgeware Road. Only ethnic markets, signs that I couldn't read, and old men giving catcalls in languages I couldn't understand. Not that I'm not in to new and cultural experiences, just not by myself in London at sundown. After finding reprieve at Starbucks and some nail polish at the drugstore, I made my way back to the hotel and called it a night.
Day 3, I decided to set out for the Science Museum once again. For those of you who know me, anything that sounds remotely like a whole museum FULL of science things is not to be missed. I finally found it (along with about 3 other museums within 2 blocks) and went right in. Aside from the school children (who somehow seemed a TINY bit more tolerable when wearing British school uniforms, think Harry Potter for 8 year olds-but still, I wanted to hit them all) and tourists (probably worse than the school children), the science museum was brilliant. Exhibits ranged from the invention of the steam engine to space exploration, and they had a kids center that was completely hands-on (unfortunately, I couldn't be bothered to go in because of all the kids that were there...go figure). Having had enough of the crowds, I ventured up a back staircase to the fourth floor where I found the Wellcome Trust (a name I only knew from brain stuff at NIH) museum of the history of medicine. PERFECT. I was dark, quiet, and fascinating. They had some of the earliest medical and surgical tools, history of all sorts of procedures and medications, everything. And no kids or tourists. That occupied the next 2 hours of my time.
Walking home, I passed a quilting museum that also advertised a Grace Kelly exhibit. Why anyone would want to go to a quilt museum while they could instead see an exhibit all about Grace Kelly that was put on by Van Cleef and Arpels is beyond me. But, to each her own. Aaaanyway, walking home, I somehow managed to happen upon the entire city block that is Harrods and promptly entered the food hall-an experience that is like no other and cannot be summarized in words. Just go. After becoming sufficiently starving with $0 to spend, I went to the clothes area and was serenaded by a rousing rendition of Ave Maria on a grand piano as I browsed through collections of designers like Versace and Chanel.
Over the years (part and parcel thanks to Facebook) I have kept in relatively close contact with an old friend from elementary school. Her family moved to the Netherlands 3 years ago, she moved to London...and never moved back. These reunitings can often be quite awkward, especially when so much time has passed (10 years, we worked out) since we'd last seen each other, but I had the good fortune of meeting up with her and could not be happier that I did. She works at a charity shop on Portobello road, and our "meeting plan" was to walk down the street and hopefully just run into each other...and so we did. She hadn't changed a bit and was instantly recognizable. We spent the day wandering about, browsing the charity shop, visiting pubs, and catching up on the past ten years of life. Her words summarized the evening pretty accurately. After a few hours, she said "wow, I'm really glad this wasn't awkward. Cause it could've been."
The next morning after a much more adequate night's sleep (having moved hotels to the Hilton at Paddington Station), I took the Heathrow Express to meet the Brit on his home turf. The instant he arrived, we dropped bags at his friend's house (on Warwick Avenue, Duffy song anyone??) and hit the town. The rest of the day was filled with Museums, Trafalgar Square, cream tea, walking, Tube rides, and World Cup MADNESS. You see, today was the England vs. USA game in round 1. Needless to say, I was a bit outnumbered. The only other people cheering for the State were an odd group of Argentineans in the Pub we went to (and part of me thinks that had nothing to do with their love of the states, but rather their hatred of the Brits). The next night after another day of sightseeing (including a picnic in Regents Park and a failure at buying the wrong tickets to the London Eye-no, we are not over 65 and thus do not qualify for senior tickets), we dined at one of the "top 50 best restaurants of the world", St. John in Spittalfield, where their motto was "head to tail eating"...meaning they used EVERY part of the animal. Among our samplings were pig's face, foie gras, potted pork (still not quite sure where that came from), and offal (yes, intestines, which were surprisingly not that awful, as it were). Following dinner was a pub with an in-house cat which, undoubtedly, was the largest cat i have EVER seen. And it took my seat.
Mixed in to all of this were drinks at the British Film Institute, a visit to the Tate Modern, curry wars on Brick Lane, Pimms, a day at Camden Yard, and so on...London is a simply unbelievable city (and for all you skeptics, it only rained once).
Day 2, I'm still not quite sure where this "London Fog" that everyone talks about comes from. This was day 1 of a very sunny and pleasant 3 weeks. I began my day with a cold and soggy breakfast in the hotel after being woken up at 7 am by what sounded like the children of the housekeeping staff (is that allowed?) since the supply closet was NEXT DOOR to my room. Which was in the basement. With a cot for a bed. But enough complaining. I set off for Hyde park and arrived to find a brigade of costumed soldiers on horseback toting cannons. Only in London, I thought. Of course all other forms of traffic through the park would be shut to a brigade of horses. In to the park I went down along to the Serpentine lake to find a sign that read "gun salute, noon." There was no way I was going to miss this. Sure enough, at 11:45 I wandered to the middle of the hugely expansive park to find a brass band blowing out Sinatra tunes and at 12:00 on the dot, a cannon salute was continuously fired off for about 20 minutes.
After my pre-20th century war experience, I ambled down the road in search of the Science Museum. London streets make absolutely no sense. If you think that the cross-cutting states of DC confuse the block system, come to London. There IS no system. So, I eventually gave up after an hour and a half of walking to a museum that supposedly should have take 20 minutes. Instead, I went shopping. Enter, Oxford Street-a wonderful zoo of upscale and discount stores combined with boutiques and restaurants all on one glorious thoroughfare. And then there is Primark. The greatest and most horrible department store ever. I would say that nothing I bought was more that 15 pounds, but then, you get 4 tops for 5 pounds each, plus some shoes, dresses, etc...You get the the picture. Plus, don't even bother waiting half an hour for a fitting room, there are people all over the store throwing on (and off) clothes in the middle of aisles.
After a long and tiring day of shopping and walking, I was starving. Per suggestion of someone who's opinion I trusted (...) regarding cheap food in London, I set off to find Gregg's pie shop on Edgeware Road. Needless to say, there is no Gregg's on Edgeware Road. Only ethnic markets, signs that I couldn't read, and old men giving catcalls in languages I couldn't understand. Not that I'm not in to new and cultural experiences, just not by myself in London at sundown. After finding reprieve at Starbucks and some nail polish at the drugstore, I made my way back to the hotel and called it a night.
Day 3, I decided to set out for the Science Museum once again. For those of you who know me, anything that sounds remotely like a whole museum FULL of science things is not to be missed. I finally found it (along with about 3 other museums within 2 blocks) and went right in. Aside from the school children (who somehow seemed a TINY bit more tolerable when wearing British school uniforms, think Harry Potter for 8 year olds-but still, I wanted to hit them all) and tourists (probably worse than the school children), the science museum was brilliant. Exhibits ranged from the invention of the steam engine to space exploration, and they had a kids center that was completely hands-on (unfortunately, I couldn't be bothered to go in because of all the kids that were there...go figure). Having had enough of the crowds, I ventured up a back staircase to the fourth floor where I found the Wellcome Trust (a name I only knew from brain stuff at NIH) museum of the history of medicine. PERFECT. I was dark, quiet, and fascinating. They had some of the earliest medical and surgical tools, history of all sorts of procedures and medications, everything. And no kids or tourists. That occupied the next 2 hours of my time.
Walking home, I passed a quilting museum that also advertised a Grace Kelly exhibit. Why anyone would want to go to a quilt museum while they could instead see an exhibit all about Grace Kelly that was put on by Van Cleef and Arpels is beyond me. But, to each her own. Aaaanyway, walking home, I somehow managed to happen upon the entire city block that is Harrods and promptly entered the food hall-an experience that is like no other and cannot be summarized in words. Just go. After becoming sufficiently starving with $0 to spend, I went to the clothes area and was serenaded by a rousing rendition of Ave Maria on a grand piano as I browsed through collections of designers like Versace and Chanel.
Over the years (part and parcel thanks to Facebook) I have kept in relatively close contact with an old friend from elementary school. Her family moved to the Netherlands 3 years ago, she moved to London...and never moved back. These reunitings can often be quite awkward, especially when so much time has passed (10 years, we worked out) since we'd last seen each other, but I had the good fortune of meeting up with her and could not be happier that I did. She works at a charity shop on Portobello road, and our "meeting plan" was to walk down the street and hopefully just run into each other...and so we did. She hadn't changed a bit and was instantly recognizable. We spent the day wandering about, browsing the charity shop, visiting pubs, and catching up on the past ten years of life. Her words summarized the evening pretty accurately. After a few hours, she said "wow, I'm really glad this wasn't awkward. Cause it could've been."
The next morning after a much more adequate night's sleep (having moved hotels to the Hilton at Paddington Station), I took the Heathrow Express to meet the Brit on his home turf. The instant he arrived, we dropped bags at his friend's house (on Warwick Avenue, Duffy song anyone??) and hit the town. The rest of the day was filled with Museums, Trafalgar Square, cream tea, walking, Tube rides, and World Cup MADNESS. You see, today was the England vs. USA game in round 1. Needless to say, I was a bit outnumbered. The only other people cheering for the State were an odd group of Argentineans in the Pub we went to (and part of me thinks that had nothing to do with their love of the states, but rather their hatred of the Brits). The next night after another day of sightseeing (including a picnic in Regents Park and a failure at buying the wrong tickets to the London Eye-no, we are not over 65 and thus do not qualify for senior tickets), we dined at one of the "top 50 best restaurants of the world", St. John in Spittalfield, where their motto was "head to tail eating"...meaning they used EVERY part of the animal. Among our samplings were pig's face, foie gras, potted pork (still not quite sure where that came from), and offal (yes, intestines, which were surprisingly not that awful, as it were). Following dinner was a pub with an in-house cat which, undoubtedly, was the largest cat i have EVER seen. And it took my seat.
Mixed in to all of this were drinks at the British Film Institute, a visit to the Tate Modern, curry wars on Brick Lane, Pimms, a day at Camden Yard, and so on...London is a simply unbelievable city (and for all you skeptics, it only rained once).
Thursday, August 19, 2010
End of the Line
So here I am, back in the States, settled in a new apartment, and wanting to be nowhere else in the world than back in Europe. Since I didn't really manage to write much whilst in the UK and was there for a considerable chunk of time, I'll try to split this up as best I can...here goes
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Back in English land
I’m sitting on the nearly 6 hour train journey from Cornwall to London, and it occurred to me that I haven’t written anything in 2 weeks. Again, my apologies to anyone who actually still reads this (my guess is that’s pretty much dwindled to mom and dad…if even), but luckily for the rest of the world, I wont be making a living off of professional blogging.
Since I last wrote, I’ve left mainland Europe and ventured across the pond to the land of Anglophones. First stop was Ireland. First let me just say that if you ever have to opportunity to fly Turkish Airlines, do it. I once again managed to get away with a bag 6 kilos overweight, and for lunch on the 4.5 hour flight to Dublin, we were served hummus, chicken, polenta, grilled vegetables, chocolate mousse, hazelnuts, and tea. And it was really, really good.
From the second we stepped off the plane in Dublin, a really strange feeling came over me. Then I realized it was just the realization that I understood what people around me were saying, without even having to process or think about it (ok, well, maybe a little…the Irish accent can be a bit strong). We weren’t exactly sure how to get to our hotel, but imagine our surprise when we discovered that if we just ASKED someone, they could tell us! In English! Ireland’s funny though, with an unassuming sense of national pride. Although almost no one actually speaks Gaelic, and those that do almost undoubtedly speak English as well, every public sign, road sign, information sign, everything, is written first in Gaelic first, followed by English. The primary language taught in Irish schools is also Gaelic. I don’t know how Irish kids feel (maybe they find the same almost charming pride in having such an old language so representative of a medieval culture?), but I know that if I were made to learn Gaelic in school, knowing that I could be learning French or Spanish instead…well, I think that speaks for itself.
We took a cab from the airport to our hotel with the friendliest cab driver ever, and arrived on Harcourt Street, just south of St. Stephen’s Green. Running the risk of sounding like a spoiled American tourist, after spending the last countless weekends since January and 3 weeks straight staying in hostels with communal bathrooms and snoring room mates, it was SO nice to be in a hotel room with hot showers, a tv (that played Friends, Scrubs, and the Discovery Channel), and-the best part-a kettle with a selection of teas and coffees FREE. Apparently this is pretty standard in these parts, and it’s definitely something I could get used to. Or already have. Although, before I give the hotel too much credit, I will say that having a bar and night club with lines our the door and down the sidewalk 4 out of 7 nights a week on the bottom floor certainly has its disadvantages (or some might say advantages…we could rage at any hour of the night just by walking down a flight of stairs-or staying in our room and listening to the beats from below…and as most of you know, Tatum and I are quite the club rats).
Dublin was simply splendid. It was foreign enough that you completely feel like you’re in a different country, but familiar enough (ex: we had bagels for breakfast) that you don’t always feel quite so uncomfortable and out of place, which, isn’t really a problem, it’s just exhausting. We even found that Ireland was the first place where we were ashamed and embarrassed to pull out a map because we felt like maybe, just maybe we looked like we could fit in (unless we spoke, then it was a different ballgame. Obvioulsly.) Our days were spent seeing 8723987543 churches (including one really bizarre Polish Catholic church that felt more like a cult or a courthouse than a sanctuary), drinking Guinness (luckily it’s like a meal in and of itself. As our funds are beginning to run low, a few nights were spent sharing a meal of beef pie or lamb stew for dinner…how romantic), taking day trips (I can say from experience that there is literally NO crystal in Waterford. Don’t even try to find it.), and walking miles and miles through the cobble stoned streets of Temple Bar, Grafton Street, St. Stephen’s Green. Everything you hear about the Irish being friendly and cheery (and ginger…seriously), is absolutely true, and passing pubs playing live Irish folk music and hearing jolly banter always seemed to put us in a better mood. AND, it didn’t rain ONCE over a course of 5 days, save for a half-hour period on the second night.
I wish I could say that the journey from Dublin to Newquay, our next destination in Cornwall, was as seamless as the others have been, but I suppose my luck had to run out eventually. We had booked a flight on Air Southwest (?), and from the second we approached the check-in counter, you could tell that the lady working was new, as she picked up her phone to call her supervisor at least twice with every customer. Bad sign # 1. Most NORMAL airlines allow you one checked bag, one carry on, and one personal item. But not Air Southwest. You’re strictly allowed ONE checked bag and ONE carry-on/personal item. Same thing. Oh, and overweight fees are a cool 10 euros per kilo over 20 kg. But here’s the kicker: if you do have to check a second bag (which I did, because I wasn’t allowed a backpack and purse), there’s not flat rate…they charge the ENTIRE second bag as extra weight PER KILO. I had my suitcase at 23 kg, a backpack at 16, and literally no other option. You do the math. And the worst part was, the woman made us stand in line every time after going over to a different counter to deal with the extra fees, and then acted all apologetic, like she really truly felt sorry for our ‘situation.’ I wanted to hit her. She could have easily been awesome like the rest of the airline world for the past month that I’ve been flying has been, but she just would. Not. Let. It. Go. For her own sake and sanity, I hope one day she’ll learn. Or find a different job.
Newquay is charming. We arrived on our Dash-8300 propeller plane and were greeted by Tatum’s friend who’s just finished university in Falmouth. On the drive to Falmouth we passed an abundance of cows, sheep, ocean, and farms with fields perfectly separated by trimmed bushes. I think the word that comes to mind when describing Cornwall is “quaint.” Everything is quaint, from the landscape to the houses to the people. Falmouth is a port, so there are lots of boats and water right by the main town. This past week, as my first week in the UK, has been one of firsts: my first cream tea (pot of tea with 2 scones, homemade jam, and clotted cream), first try at Capoeira (Brazilian tribal fighting/dancing/martial arts all rolled in to one. And a crazy workout-google it), first tea and lemon (you can figure that one out), first Aero bar and Maltesers (aerated mint chocolate, how DO they do it?), first custard crumble, first full English breakfast (also known as a ‘fry-up’), first garden party, and first Pimm’s (traditional and wonderful summertime drink with citrus, cucumber, and lemonade). And my first (and subsequent) experiences with the British people’s fondness for waiting in pointless lines (queues). Honestly, efficiency is key. Not that hard.
The first night, we went down to the nearby beach for a barbeque. The beach was filled with people gathered in little circles around disposable charcoal grills smoking hamburgers, sausages, and in our case, sea bass (and later, thanks to a stroke of brilliance, cookies). Night 2 was the garden party, and the next day, we ventured over to another beach on the north coast, donned wetsuits, and went surfing. I was almost as good at surfing as I was at skiing…
Night 4, we went over to our host’s girlfriend’s house for dinner, and, with 10 of us around the table, I became the target of 20 questions (or, take-the-mickey-out-of-an-American-as they would say…it was east to confuse the two). I’ve felt like a foreigner for about 6 months now, but this was the first time that it was blatantly pointed out to me. The accent, the politics, everything. It was kind of cool, but somehow I think it would have been a LOT cooler had I not had the whole American thing going for me…literally anywhere else.
And yet now, as I sit on this train next to a smelly woman eating a pungent Brie sandwich, I can’t help but feel a bit anxious but thrilled about going to a place where the people apparently aren’t so nice but is at the same time, supposedly one of the most amazing cities in the world. I’ll be alone for the next 2 days before I’m met by a local and, while my sense of being a completely foreigner will be far from gone, my plans are completely in his hands for the rest of the trip. Sigh of relief (maybe…).
Since I last wrote, I’ve left mainland Europe and ventured across the pond to the land of Anglophones. First stop was Ireland. First let me just say that if you ever have to opportunity to fly Turkish Airlines, do it. I once again managed to get away with a bag 6 kilos overweight, and for lunch on the 4.5 hour flight to Dublin, we were served hummus, chicken, polenta, grilled vegetables, chocolate mousse, hazelnuts, and tea. And it was really, really good.
From the second we stepped off the plane in Dublin, a really strange feeling came over me. Then I realized it was just the realization that I understood what people around me were saying, without even having to process or think about it (ok, well, maybe a little…the Irish accent can be a bit strong). We weren’t exactly sure how to get to our hotel, but imagine our surprise when we discovered that if we just ASKED someone, they could tell us! In English! Ireland’s funny though, with an unassuming sense of national pride. Although almost no one actually speaks Gaelic, and those that do almost undoubtedly speak English as well, every public sign, road sign, information sign, everything, is written first in Gaelic first, followed by English. The primary language taught in Irish schools is also Gaelic. I don’t know how Irish kids feel (maybe they find the same almost charming pride in having such an old language so representative of a medieval culture?), but I know that if I were made to learn Gaelic in school, knowing that I could be learning French or Spanish instead…well, I think that speaks for itself.
We took a cab from the airport to our hotel with the friendliest cab driver ever, and arrived on Harcourt Street, just south of St. Stephen’s Green. Running the risk of sounding like a spoiled American tourist, after spending the last countless weekends since January and 3 weeks straight staying in hostels with communal bathrooms and snoring room mates, it was SO nice to be in a hotel room with hot showers, a tv (that played Friends, Scrubs, and the Discovery Channel), and-the best part-a kettle with a selection of teas and coffees FREE. Apparently this is pretty standard in these parts, and it’s definitely something I could get used to. Or already have. Although, before I give the hotel too much credit, I will say that having a bar and night club with lines our the door and down the sidewalk 4 out of 7 nights a week on the bottom floor certainly has its disadvantages (or some might say advantages…we could rage at any hour of the night just by walking down a flight of stairs-or staying in our room and listening to the beats from below…and as most of you know, Tatum and I are quite the club rats).
Dublin was simply splendid. It was foreign enough that you completely feel like you’re in a different country, but familiar enough (ex: we had bagels for breakfast) that you don’t always feel quite so uncomfortable and out of place, which, isn’t really a problem, it’s just exhausting. We even found that Ireland was the first place where we were ashamed and embarrassed to pull out a map because we felt like maybe, just maybe we looked like we could fit in (unless we spoke, then it was a different ballgame. Obvioulsly.) Our days were spent seeing 8723987543 churches (including one really bizarre Polish Catholic church that felt more like a cult or a courthouse than a sanctuary), drinking Guinness (luckily it’s like a meal in and of itself. As our funds are beginning to run low, a few nights were spent sharing a meal of beef pie or lamb stew for dinner…how romantic), taking day trips (I can say from experience that there is literally NO crystal in Waterford. Don’t even try to find it.), and walking miles and miles through the cobble stoned streets of Temple Bar, Grafton Street, St. Stephen’s Green. Everything you hear about the Irish being friendly and cheery (and ginger…seriously), is absolutely true, and passing pubs playing live Irish folk music and hearing jolly banter always seemed to put us in a better mood. AND, it didn’t rain ONCE over a course of 5 days, save for a half-hour period on the second night.
I wish I could say that the journey from Dublin to Newquay, our next destination in Cornwall, was as seamless as the others have been, but I suppose my luck had to run out eventually. We had booked a flight on Air Southwest (?), and from the second we approached the check-in counter, you could tell that the lady working was new, as she picked up her phone to call her supervisor at least twice with every customer. Bad sign # 1. Most NORMAL airlines allow you one checked bag, one carry on, and one personal item. But not Air Southwest. You’re strictly allowed ONE checked bag and ONE carry-on/personal item. Same thing. Oh, and overweight fees are a cool 10 euros per kilo over 20 kg. But here’s the kicker: if you do have to check a second bag (which I did, because I wasn’t allowed a backpack and purse), there’s not flat rate…they charge the ENTIRE second bag as extra weight PER KILO. I had my suitcase at 23 kg, a backpack at 16, and literally no other option. You do the math. And the worst part was, the woman made us stand in line every time after going over to a different counter to deal with the extra fees, and then acted all apologetic, like she really truly felt sorry for our ‘situation.’ I wanted to hit her. She could have easily been awesome like the rest of the airline world for the past month that I’ve been flying has been, but she just would. Not. Let. It. Go. For her own sake and sanity, I hope one day she’ll learn. Or find a different job.
Newquay is charming. We arrived on our Dash-8300 propeller plane and were greeted by Tatum’s friend who’s just finished university in Falmouth. On the drive to Falmouth we passed an abundance of cows, sheep, ocean, and farms with fields perfectly separated by trimmed bushes. I think the word that comes to mind when describing Cornwall is “quaint.” Everything is quaint, from the landscape to the houses to the people. Falmouth is a port, so there are lots of boats and water right by the main town. This past week, as my first week in the UK, has been one of firsts: my first cream tea (pot of tea with 2 scones, homemade jam, and clotted cream), first try at Capoeira (Brazilian tribal fighting/dancing/martial arts all rolled in to one. And a crazy workout-google it), first tea and lemon (you can figure that one out), first Aero bar and Maltesers (aerated mint chocolate, how DO they do it?), first custard crumble, first full English breakfast (also known as a ‘fry-up’), first garden party, and first Pimm’s (traditional and wonderful summertime drink with citrus, cucumber, and lemonade). And my first (and subsequent) experiences with the British people’s fondness for waiting in pointless lines (queues). Honestly, efficiency is key. Not that hard.
The first night, we went down to the nearby beach for a barbeque. The beach was filled with people gathered in little circles around disposable charcoal grills smoking hamburgers, sausages, and in our case, sea bass (and later, thanks to a stroke of brilliance, cookies). Night 2 was the garden party, and the next day, we ventured over to another beach on the north coast, donned wetsuits, and went surfing. I was almost as good at surfing as I was at skiing…
Night 4, we went over to our host’s girlfriend’s house for dinner, and, with 10 of us around the table, I became the target of 20 questions (or, take-the-mickey-out-of-an-American-as they would say…it was east to confuse the two). I’ve felt like a foreigner for about 6 months now, but this was the first time that it was blatantly pointed out to me. The accent, the politics, everything. It was kind of cool, but somehow I think it would have been a LOT cooler had I not had the whole American thing going for me…literally anywhere else.
And yet now, as I sit on this train next to a smelly woman eating a pungent Brie sandwich, I can’t help but feel a bit anxious but thrilled about going to a place where the people apparently aren’t so nice but is at the same time, supposedly one of the most amazing cities in the world. I’ll be alone for the next 2 days before I’m met by a local and, while my sense of being a completely foreigner will be far from gone, my plans are completely in his hands for the rest of the trip. Sigh of relief (maybe…).
Monday, May 31, 2010
full fledged tourism
I've been abroad for about 5 months now, and I've felt like a tourist for about 96% of the time while travelling. I hate tourists, and I hate feeling like one even more. Many of you know my aversion to post cards for that very reason (sorry), and I'm not the biggest fan of maps either. So the following outlines some of my consternation regarding tourists-inspired in Istanbul but a compilation from the whole trip.
First off, tour guides. Where do they get off telling people all about things that frankly, you can learn for free on wikipedia (or, you know, those things...books)? We've gotten by just fine and had many an educational adventure sans tour guide in pretty much every place we've been to. Honestly, I give them credit. Make money reading a high school text book and being charming and friendly to people willing to pay you to herd them around like sheep. Well done. I'll admit, there are some people who are really good at this and could give an excellent tour, but on the whole, I'm not a fan. What's more is that most of the tour guides I've come across have this weird sense of entitlement. Like because they are so learned and wise in the bare minimum of information about whatever, they can take up side walks, yell in museums, cut lines, and be generally obnoxious.
Another thing that will never cease to intrigue me is the Asian contingent of tourists. The really serious ones at least. It's incredible; the parasols, the hats, the gloves, the cameras. They're like a perfectly constructed machine that runs like clockwork. Point A to point B in exactly 28.2 minutes and not a second more. In one spot, take pictures, scurry off to the next, etc. I'm not saying this is a bad thing at all. In fact, I'm all about efficiency, I just don't think it will ever quite make sense to me. The fault I have found with this method is the video taping. Are you really going to go home and watch 2.5 hours of footage from the coliseum or the Hagia Sophia? Really?? If so, you should rethink the excitement in your life. Although, come to think of it, maybe that's part of the method, video taping so you can see absolutely everything really fast and then ACTUALLY seeing it later via video? Again, I'll never get it. Oh, and last thing, please don't take pictures of me when I'm smiling for someone else's picture. Don't. It's just weird.
My last gripe deals with Americans. If people don't actually wear cowboy hats in America, why would you promote the stereotype by wearing one in Turkey? I'm pretty sure people will know you're not REALLY Turkish without the hat. This brings me to an interesting conversation I was having with someone the other day regarding Americans' impressions of somewhere new like Turkey. Personally, I was captivated every time I walked into a mosque, and it took more than a few minutes for the sight of pretty much every woman around me wearing a headscarf to not seem foreign. I loved hearing the call to prayer 5 times everyday over the loudspeakers, and I had a weird urge to take pictures of the prayer service we went to just because I thought it was 'cool'. I'll sadly admit that I am the epitome of a product of my environment. That is to say, I have lived in the same little bubble pretty much my whole life, and pretty much everything outside of that holds a certain splendor, no matter how ordinary. Now, the argument comes in when you relate this to other countries. Someone argued that this 'cool' part I found of the culture of Islam (I won't say religion because Turkey was an incredibly secular place, and I think my awe was more with regards to the everyday aspects, rather than just the religion), was uniquely American, and to an extent, I agree. It's just not something I've been exposed to, and now that I am, it's great. BUT, I could say the same thing about many aspects of life and culture in any of the other countries I've been to, and is it really something so American, or is it just something of foreigners in a new place? I would like to think of myself as an educated, informed individual who knows better than to judge things based on the news I see on tv, but this friend's argument was that a country wielding as much power as America (yes, I run the risk of sounding too chauvinistic) has a uniquely uninformed view on the rest of the world, and it's population is directly affected by that. Maybe part of this is geographical, but I think there's something to be said for seeing a culture so different from what I know. Part of me is almost ashamed to be so fascinated with peoples' everyday lives, but the other part of me thinks that it's normal, no matter what country you come from. I think I'd feel (and have felt) the same way in other countries, but is that the issue, or is there something more political involved? I'm still not really sure I've answered my own question, but those are just my thoughts...
Despite everything, in a city as huge, wonderful, and overwhelming as Istanbul, I've realized that sometimes, the best route is to accept being a tourist. Obviously I'll never fit in, so why not take out the map and camera and embrace it.
First off, tour guides. Where do they get off telling people all about things that frankly, you can learn for free on wikipedia (or, you know, those things...books)? We've gotten by just fine and had many an educational adventure sans tour guide in pretty much every place we've been to. Honestly, I give them credit. Make money reading a high school text book and being charming and friendly to people willing to pay you to herd them around like sheep. Well done. I'll admit, there are some people who are really good at this and could give an excellent tour, but on the whole, I'm not a fan. What's more is that most of the tour guides I've come across have this weird sense of entitlement. Like because they are so learned and wise in the bare minimum of information about whatever, they can take up side walks, yell in museums, cut lines, and be generally obnoxious.
Another thing that will never cease to intrigue me is the Asian contingent of tourists. The really serious ones at least. It's incredible; the parasols, the hats, the gloves, the cameras. They're like a perfectly constructed machine that runs like clockwork. Point A to point B in exactly 28.2 minutes and not a second more. In one spot, take pictures, scurry off to the next, etc. I'm not saying this is a bad thing at all. In fact, I'm all about efficiency, I just don't think it will ever quite make sense to me. The fault I have found with this method is the video taping. Are you really going to go home and watch 2.5 hours of footage from the coliseum or the Hagia Sophia? Really?? If so, you should rethink the excitement in your life. Although, come to think of it, maybe that's part of the method, video taping so you can see absolutely everything really fast and then ACTUALLY seeing it later via video? Again, I'll never get it. Oh, and last thing, please don't take pictures of me when I'm smiling for someone else's picture. Don't. It's just weird.
My last gripe deals with Americans. If people don't actually wear cowboy hats in America, why would you promote the stereotype by wearing one in Turkey? I'm pretty sure people will know you're not REALLY Turkish without the hat. This brings me to an interesting conversation I was having with someone the other day regarding Americans' impressions of somewhere new like Turkey. Personally, I was captivated every time I walked into a mosque, and it took more than a few minutes for the sight of pretty much every woman around me wearing a headscarf to not seem foreign. I loved hearing the call to prayer 5 times everyday over the loudspeakers, and I had a weird urge to take pictures of the prayer service we went to just because I thought it was 'cool'. I'll sadly admit that I am the epitome of a product of my environment. That is to say, I have lived in the same little bubble pretty much my whole life, and pretty much everything outside of that holds a certain splendor, no matter how ordinary. Now, the argument comes in when you relate this to other countries. Someone argued that this 'cool' part I found of the culture of Islam (I won't say religion because Turkey was an incredibly secular place, and I think my awe was more with regards to the everyday aspects, rather than just the religion), was uniquely American, and to an extent, I agree. It's just not something I've been exposed to, and now that I am, it's great. BUT, I could say the same thing about many aspects of life and culture in any of the other countries I've been to, and is it really something so American, or is it just something of foreigners in a new place? I would like to think of myself as an educated, informed individual who knows better than to judge things based on the news I see on tv, but this friend's argument was that a country wielding as much power as America (yes, I run the risk of sounding too chauvinistic) has a uniquely uninformed view on the rest of the world, and it's population is directly affected by that. Maybe part of this is geographical, but I think there's something to be said for seeing a culture so different from what I know. Part of me is almost ashamed to be so fascinated with peoples' everyday lives, but the other part of me thinks that it's normal, no matter what country you come from. I think I'd feel (and have felt) the same way in other countries, but is that the issue, or is there something more political involved? I'm still not really sure I've answered my own question, but those are just my thoughts...
Despite everything, in a city as huge, wonderful, and overwhelming as Istanbul, I've realized that sometimes, the best route is to accept being a tourist. Obviously I'll never fit in, so why not take out the map and camera and embrace it.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Turkish Delight
Let me just preface by saying that Istanbul is the 5th largest city in the world.
The second we landed at Ataturk airport after the day from hell in Sarajevo (although the day was far from over), I knew I was going to like Istanbul. Granted, I had really high expectations which usually fail me in these situations, but I haven't yet been disappointed. The airport was huge and bustling and oddly reminiscent of Hartsfield. It was a strange comfort to be back in crowds...that sounds weird.
We schlepped our bags off the carousel and were met by our ride to the hostel...it was a HUGE van. Grand success. We were offered juice and explained some of the passing surroundings in the car by the driver who spoke no english. So, while I was left to my own devices to figure out where exactly I had just arrived, I couldn't help but confirm my excitement as we passed ocean, sky scrapers, and minarets, all in a miles' distance. I immediately felt comfortable and I still can't figure out why...
However, continuing the epic fail that was May 25, our nice little driver dropped us off at a hostel. Not our hostel, another one. Fail. We get out and have to explain to the poor woman who came to the door that this was not our hostel and work out a chain to communicate back to the driver that we were at the wrong place. Back in the car we went and off to the correct hostel. We arrived to an empty 10 bed room, HOT showers, and our bags being carried FOR us down the stairs. It was so super.
Side note: cats must just be an Eastern European thing. They are quite populous here as well. This particular evening, we even had the fortune to see one fall off the roof behind us, as it crept up on and terrified Tatum, and her scream conversely terrified the cat. Cats really do have 9 lives. And always land on their feet. Always. It's unbelievable.
In the morning, we went up to the hostel's roof top terrace and ate breakfast overlooking the Bosphorous on a glorious morning. After two very large and very needed cups of coffee, we ventured out and saw Turkey. Ayasofya (Hagia Sophia), the Blue Mosque, Topkapi Palace and the public bathrooms. I paid 50 cents to pee in a hole in the ground (the one lacking aspect of this country's westernization...they're everywhere. Mistake #1, but I quickly learned). Turkey is wonderful, mosques never cease to be an artistic and architectural marvel to me, and they have great street food. If you give me a country that serves sesame seed-esque (but better) bagels, roasted corn on the cob, chestnuts and almonds, and orange juice for their street food, I'm pretty sure I could be contented with that alone. Oh, and the call to prayer never EVER gets old.
Turkey is also HOT. Sure, I'm used to it, but problem is, it's not entirely acceptable to run around in shorts here. It's also apparently rude to show the soles of your feet. Not that it's not allowed (it is, after all, an incredibly secular and western country), you just get looks. And cat calls (although, being anything but Turkish-or even being Turkish, I of course wouldn't know-that's sort of inevitable). I'm trying to decide my favorite line, but right now it's a tossup between "are you America's next top model?" and "Hey, black girl" (assumedly referencing the black dress I was wearing.) And then there was the "I have some diet pills for you, ladies." Ouch. Vendors also have a strange obsession with Charlie's Angels...but maybe that's cause there's 3 of us. Anyway...moral of the story, I still have yet to figure out how the women who are fully veiled and covered, down to gloves, don't melt here. Literally. On the note of covering, it's obviously crucial for entering mosques, so I'm constantly with scarf and sweater in my bag, but the day we decided to wear dresses rather than pants and bring leggings to don before going inside certainly warranted some looks. Fail.
The next day we went to the Basilica Cistern, a huge underground pool built in the 6th century by Justinian to provide water to his palace with over 330 massive stone columns and fish swimming in the water. After, we ventured to the spice market, smelled lots of curry, wanted Indian food, and remembered we were in Turkey, land of the kebab (Indian food updates to come when in London). We were supposed to meet a friend of Lauren's in a different district, but plans failed and so we were left to walk around an entirely new district right on the water with views of Asia that we would have never known to exist otherwise.
That night, we returned to our room to find 2 new room mates. As I got in bed and was ready to fall asleep, I realized I couldn't...because there was a FREIGHT TRAIN in our room. That, and a barking pitbull. My dad snores so loudly that he normally sleeps in another room, and he has NOTHING on this girl. And the other evidently has some bronchial infection that sounds like she might actually cough up her lungs. I'd say it took me about 3 hours to fall asleep. And staying that way was hopeless. I would also say that I hate these people a lot and want to stab them in their noisy sleep, but I'm afraid I can't do that. Turns out, they've just returned from 2 weeks in Kazakhstan on their anual visit to the orphanage from which they both adopted their children. They're saints. And I wanted to suffocate them for the sake of my sleep. Fail. Oh, and one of them is a champion knitter-just thought that detail was necessary.
Today, we ventured to the spectacle that is the Grand Bazaar. I went in with wide eyes and terror of being harassed and heckled but was pleasantly surprised when we entered the massive covered, air conditioned market lined with shops all selling pretty much the same things. After the first 5 minutes, you realize that it's not rude to blatantly ignore the shopkeepers, and that you can usually reduce the offered price by at least half. In fact, shopping in Istanbul is more of a social interaction than anything else. It's not unusual for shopkeepers to converse with you about your country, explain their heritage, talk about their families, offer you tea (apple tea is amazing), etc. Dare I say, this whole experience actually became kind of...fun?
Other than that, our trip's been the sight seeing, visiting mosques, and walking to areas of the town that make you feel like you're in a different city entirely, and I couldn't be happier. Anyhow, tomorrow it's off to the Asian side, so more news to come.
The second we landed at Ataturk airport after the day from hell in Sarajevo (although the day was far from over), I knew I was going to like Istanbul. Granted, I had really high expectations which usually fail me in these situations, but I haven't yet been disappointed. The airport was huge and bustling and oddly reminiscent of Hartsfield. It was a strange comfort to be back in crowds...that sounds weird.
We schlepped our bags off the carousel and were met by our ride to the hostel...it was a HUGE van. Grand success. We were offered juice and explained some of the passing surroundings in the car by the driver who spoke no english. So, while I was left to my own devices to figure out where exactly I had just arrived, I couldn't help but confirm my excitement as we passed ocean, sky scrapers, and minarets, all in a miles' distance. I immediately felt comfortable and I still can't figure out why...
However, continuing the epic fail that was May 25, our nice little driver dropped us off at a hostel. Not our hostel, another one. Fail. We get out and have to explain to the poor woman who came to the door that this was not our hostel and work out a chain to communicate back to the driver that we were at the wrong place. Back in the car we went and off to the correct hostel. We arrived to an empty 10 bed room, HOT showers, and our bags being carried FOR us down the stairs. It was so super.
Side note: cats must just be an Eastern European thing. They are quite populous here as well. This particular evening, we even had the fortune to see one fall off the roof behind us, as it crept up on and terrified Tatum, and her scream conversely terrified the cat. Cats really do have 9 lives. And always land on their feet. Always. It's unbelievable.
In the morning, we went up to the hostel's roof top terrace and ate breakfast overlooking the Bosphorous on a glorious morning. After two very large and very needed cups of coffee, we ventured out and saw Turkey. Ayasofya (Hagia Sophia), the Blue Mosque, Topkapi Palace and the public bathrooms. I paid 50 cents to pee in a hole in the ground (the one lacking aspect of this country's westernization...they're everywhere. Mistake #1, but I quickly learned). Turkey is wonderful, mosques never cease to be an artistic and architectural marvel to me, and they have great street food. If you give me a country that serves sesame seed-esque (but better) bagels, roasted corn on the cob, chestnuts and almonds, and orange juice for their street food, I'm pretty sure I could be contented with that alone. Oh, and the call to prayer never EVER gets old.
Turkey is also HOT. Sure, I'm used to it, but problem is, it's not entirely acceptable to run around in shorts here. It's also apparently rude to show the soles of your feet. Not that it's not allowed (it is, after all, an incredibly secular and western country), you just get looks. And cat calls (although, being anything but Turkish-or even being Turkish, I of course wouldn't know-that's sort of inevitable). I'm trying to decide my favorite line, but right now it's a tossup between "are you America's next top model?" and "Hey, black girl" (assumedly referencing the black dress I was wearing.) And then there was the "I have some diet pills for you, ladies." Ouch. Vendors also have a strange obsession with Charlie's Angels...but maybe that's cause there's 3 of us. Anyway...moral of the story, I still have yet to figure out how the women who are fully veiled and covered, down to gloves, don't melt here. Literally. On the note of covering, it's obviously crucial for entering mosques, so I'm constantly with scarf and sweater in my bag, but the day we decided to wear dresses rather than pants and bring leggings to don before going inside certainly warranted some looks. Fail.
The next day we went to the Basilica Cistern, a huge underground pool built in the 6th century by Justinian to provide water to his palace with over 330 massive stone columns and fish swimming in the water. After, we ventured to the spice market, smelled lots of curry, wanted Indian food, and remembered we were in Turkey, land of the kebab (Indian food updates to come when in London). We were supposed to meet a friend of Lauren's in a different district, but plans failed and so we were left to walk around an entirely new district right on the water with views of Asia that we would have never known to exist otherwise.
That night, we returned to our room to find 2 new room mates. As I got in bed and was ready to fall asleep, I realized I couldn't...because there was a FREIGHT TRAIN in our room. That, and a barking pitbull. My dad snores so loudly that he normally sleeps in another room, and he has NOTHING on this girl. And the other evidently has some bronchial infection that sounds like she might actually cough up her lungs. I'd say it took me about 3 hours to fall asleep. And staying that way was hopeless. I would also say that I hate these people a lot and want to stab them in their noisy sleep, but I'm afraid I can't do that. Turns out, they've just returned from 2 weeks in Kazakhstan on their anual visit to the orphanage from which they both adopted their children. They're saints. And I wanted to suffocate them for the sake of my sleep. Fail. Oh, and one of them is a champion knitter-just thought that detail was necessary.
Today, we ventured to the spectacle that is the Grand Bazaar. I went in with wide eyes and terror of being harassed and heckled but was pleasantly surprised when we entered the massive covered, air conditioned market lined with shops all selling pretty much the same things. After the first 5 minutes, you realize that it's not rude to blatantly ignore the shopkeepers, and that you can usually reduce the offered price by at least half. In fact, shopping in Istanbul is more of a social interaction than anything else. It's not unusual for shopkeepers to converse with you about your country, explain their heritage, talk about their families, offer you tea (apple tea is amazing), etc. Dare I say, this whole experience actually became kind of...fun?
Other than that, our trip's been the sight seeing, visiting mosques, and walking to areas of the town that make you feel like you're in a different city entirely, and I couldn't be happier. Anyhow, tomorrow it's off to the Asian side, so more news to come.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Out of the Balkans
I've been slacking lately-much to some family's dismay. Sorry for the delay...this will be the first of a lot of posts catching up.
Sarajevo, what a wonderful little town. And by little town I mean huge city. A very close friend lived there when she was young, so I had seen pictures and heard stories, but beyond that, I was going off very little. Thankfully, Lauren (one of the girls I'm travelling with) had been a few weeks ago and more or less knew the ropes.
Our bus pulled in to the station, and, as per is normally the case with our luck, it started POURING the second we stepped off. Earlier in the trip, Tatum's suitcase broke (that's what you get for 20 euros in Rome...r.i.p. Tardo), as in the seam ripped, the bottom rod on the frame cracked, and a wheel fell off, so walking and dealing with rain was pretty much last on our list of things we needed. Thankfully, we were getting picked up for free by the hostel and driven into town. Sure enough, 20 minutes later, up rolls a tiny 2 door 1982 lord-knows-what black hatch back with pink and green stripes along the side. Keep in mind we are travelling with all of our luggage since January...The poor little Bosnian man got out of the car and laughed. Ultimately we made two trips: one for our bags and the other for us.
We finally made it to the hostel and were served tea and left to converse with the other guests, one of which was in our last hotel in Mostar and another eccentric South-African man with a big agenda (more to come). We set out for the town to find pie. Sarajevo is known for their pies...our picks for the days we were there were burek (meat filled) and zelajsdhjfkh-ok thats not actually how it's spelled but you get the gist, my serbo-croatian never really reached that point-(spinach filled). We ate pie probably an average of every single day, if not twice a day. Mmm...
That night, as we were coming back to the hostel to settle in for the night, we ran into our South African friend who convinced us to go out with him and some of the others. Our rationale? An excuse to avoid returning to our tiny HOT smelly room and old German businessman room mate with a grizzly bear snore. So out we went. First stop was a little cafe-bar that was showing the Bayern Munchen vs. Inter Milan champion's legue final on a projection screen outside with about 50 people crowded into and outside of the place. I really wish the US liked soccer. Post-game, South African friend said that we just HAD to go to this SWEET bar that played wild Russian pop music. Huge fail. Needless to say, we pretty immediately left and ventured to another little bar down the street as our rating for our new friend steadily dropped. Here, we met a few other people who were also staying near us and talked outside for a while. In the mean time, South African friend goes inside and begins to dance. Alone. And not just sway and listen to the music. He was ready to rage. Aaaaanyhow, we all know I'm certainly not one to judge dancing...so to each his own.
The next day, we saw the sights of Sarajevo, mosques, bridges, fountains, churches, markets, tea, coffee, pie, rain, etc. As huge of a city as Sarajevo is, its really very manageable and has a specific character to it. Very Western but at the same time, not at all. One second youre staring at a war-torn house in a small neighborhood, and the next, you're on a busy shopping street packed with stores, banks, and restaurants. By evening, we were just about sick of terribly greasy, heavy food, and to our delight, discovered...SALAD (AND regular filter coffee!!! Espresso's great, but there's nothing like a cuppa joe every now and again) on the menu of the cafe we had stopped at to get out of the rain. That evening, we were not about to attempt round two with any of our fellow guests, so we called it a night and went home. The next day was spent doing much of the same, although this time in the sunshine. We walked all the way to the National Museum to discover it was closed, and so resorted to finishing our day with the purchase of a new suitcase for Tatum and a very large piece of cake.
Then came May 25th, the day of epic failure. We woke up and decided to just take public transportation to the airport. We were in no hurry because our flight wasn't until 6:45 that evening, but our hostel made us checkout at 11 and wouldn't hold our bags. Plan was to leave them at left luggage in the airport and see the Tunnel of Hope from the war that was built under the runways. So, we lug our grossly overweight bags down to the tram stop and wait. And wait. After about an hour and a half, 3 people telling us that they were broken (fail #1), us being stupidly stubborn and not wanting to take the 10 euro cab to the airport, and deciding on it but trying to find a cab big enough for us AND our bags, a tram came. On we hopped (or fell, as it were). We stood all the way in the back as the tram got more and more crowded, when suddenly a man told Tatum to close her purse. She thanked him, looked inside, and realized her wallet was gone. Fail #2. Luckily, she had moved her cards to a different bag that morning and was only short a bit of cash. From the end of the tram line, we had to take a cab to the airport, a ride that was only supposed to be 2 marks...about a euro. The driver charged us 15 euro. Fail #3. At that point, all we wanted to do was go sit. Screw the tunnel, because there wasn't even a place to leave luggage (fail #4). The Sarajevo International Airport was truly unbelievable. Because we were there a good 4 hours before our flight, we couldn't check in yet, and so sat at the one cafe in the entire airport which didn't serve food. fail #5, and had a perfectly adequate cup of tea for lunch it said the cafe was in terminal "B", but I'm pretty positive there was only one terminal and the " " were dubious. The one godsend of the day was the miracle that I didn't get charged for the 6 kilos over the weight limit that my bag was. Sitting at the gate, we saw the flight crew walking around looking for the door...lost. Fail #6, our own flight crew couldn't find the plane. To make things better, we were all pretty sure it would be physically impossible for our plane to actually come to a stop on landing by the sounds of the breaks during taxi. Get me out of this godforsaken place, please.
On our flight, we were served a sandwich and hummus and salad as we made our way to Turkey. I knew things could only go up from here. Or so I thought...
Sarajevo, what a wonderful little town. And by little town I mean huge city. A very close friend lived there when she was young, so I had seen pictures and heard stories, but beyond that, I was going off very little. Thankfully, Lauren (one of the girls I'm travelling with) had been a few weeks ago and more or less knew the ropes.
Our bus pulled in to the station, and, as per is normally the case with our luck, it started POURING the second we stepped off. Earlier in the trip, Tatum's suitcase broke (that's what you get for 20 euros in Rome...r.i.p. Tardo), as in the seam ripped, the bottom rod on the frame cracked, and a wheel fell off, so walking and dealing with rain was pretty much last on our list of things we needed. Thankfully, we were getting picked up for free by the hostel and driven into town. Sure enough, 20 minutes later, up rolls a tiny 2 door 1982 lord-knows-what black hatch back with pink and green stripes along the side. Keep in mind we are travelling with all of our luggage since January...The poor little Bosnian man got out of the car and laughed. Ultimately we made two trips: one for our bags and the other for us.
We finally made it to the hostel and were served tea and left to converse with the other guests, one of which was in our last hotel in Mostar and another eccentric South-African man with a big agenda (more to come). We set out for the town to find pie. Sarajevo is known for their pies...our picks for the days we were there were burek (meat filled) and zelajsdhjfkh-ok thats not actually how it's spelled but you get the gist, my serbo-croatian never really reached that point-(spinach filled). We ate pie probably an average of every single day, if not twice a day. Mmm...
That night, as we were coming back to the hostel to settle in for the night, we ran into our South African friend who convinced us to go out with him and some of the others. Our rationale? An excuse to avoid returning to our tiny HOT smelly room and old German businessman room mate with a grizzly bear snore. So out we went. First stop was a little cafe-bar that was showing the Bayern Munchen vs. Inter Milan champion's legue final on a projection screen outside with about 50 people crowded into and outside of the place. I really wish the US liked soccer. Post-game, South African friend said that we just HAD to go to this SWEET bar that played wild Russian pop music. Huge fail. Needless to say, we pretty immediately left and ventured to another little bar down the street as our rating for our new friend steadily dropped. Here, we met a few other people who were also staying near us and talked outside for a while. In the mean time, South African friend goes inside and begins to dance. Alone. And not just sway and listen to the music. He was ready to rage. Aaaaanyhow, we all know I'm certainly not one to judge dancing...so to each his own.
The next day, we saw the sights of Sarajevo, mosques, bridges, fountains, churches, markets, tea, coffee, pie, rain, etc. As huge of a city as Sarajevo is, its really very manageable and has a specific character to it. Very Western but at the same time, not at all. One second youre staring at a war-torn house in a small neighborhood, and the next, you're on a busy shopping street packed with stores, banks, and restaurants. By evening, we were just about sick of terribly greasy, heavy food, and to our delight, discovered...SALAD (AND regular filter coffee!!! Espresso's great, but there's nothing like a cuppa joe every now and again) on the menu of the cafe we had stopped at to get out of the rain. That evening, we were not about to attempt round two with any of our fellow guests, so we called it a night and went home. The next day was spent doing much of the same, although this time in the sunshine. We walked all the way to the National Museum to discover it was closed, and so resorted to finishing our day with the purchase of a new suitcase for Tatum and a very large piece of cake.
Then came May 25th, the day of epic failure. We woke up and decided to just take public transportation to the airport. We were in no hurry because our flight wasn't until 6:45 that evening, but our hostel made us checkout at 11 and wouldn't hold our bags. Plan was to leave them at left luggage in the airport and see the Tunnel of Hope from the war that was built under the runways. So, we lug our grossly overweight bags down to the tram stop and wait. And wait. After about an hour and a half, 3 people telling us that they were broken (fail #1), us being stupidly stubborn and not wanting to take the 10 euro cab to the airport, and deciding on it but trying to find a cab big enough for us AND our bags, a tram came. On we hopped (or fell, as it were). We stood all the way in the back as the tram got more and more crowded, when suddenly a man told Tatum to close her purse. She thanked him, looked inside, and realized her wallet was gone. Fail #2. Luckily, she had moved her cards to a different bag that morning and was only short a bit of cash. From the end of the tram line, we had to take a cab to the airport, a ride that was only supposed to be 2 marks...about a euro. The driver charged us 15 euro. Fail #3. At that point, all we wanted to do was go sit. Screw the tunnel, because there wasn't even a place to leave luggage (fail #4). The Sarajevo International Airport was truly unbelievable. Because we were there a good 4 hours before our flight, we couldn't check in yet, and so sat at the one cafe in the entire airport which didn't serve food. fail #5, and had a perfectly adequate cup of tea for lunch it said the cafe was in terminal "B", but I'm pretty positive there was only one terminal and the " " were dubious. The one godsend of the day was the miracle that I didn't get charged for the 6 kilos over the weight limit that my bag was. Sitting at the gate, we saw the flight crew walking around looking for the door...lost. Fail #6, our own flight crew couldn't find the plane. To make things better, we were all pretty sure it would be physically impossible for our plane to actually come to a stop on landing by the sounds of the breaks during taxi. Get me out of this godforsaken place, please.
On our flight, we were served a sandwich and hummus and salad as we made our way to Turkey. I knew things could only go up from here. Or so I thought...
Sunday, May 23, 2010
BiH
Trip # 3 of my post-SIT travels down…leaving Mostar and headed to Sarajevo. Perhaps the most exciting prospect of this trip is that it is my last on a bus. As strange as it is (despite the dread that comes along with trying to somehow manage under 20 kilos out of a bag that currently ways what feels like 80), I’m really looking forward to getting on a plane. While buses are indeed easier and cheaper, they are rarely on time (definitely took the Swiss transportation system for granted), usually hot, and likely very smelly (the stereotype that some Europeans aren’t fans of deodorant is all too evident in such close quarters). Also, the bus companies seem to have capitalized on the airlines’ thievery and have now started charging to put a bag underneath. Granted, it’s only around 1 euro but still, principle.
Mostar: The bus ride from Dubrovnik (where we had a 3 hour ‘layover’ after taking a bus that morning from Kotor…much time was spent drawing out two cups of tea and 4 games of sporcle at Pizza Retro across the street from the bus station-we managed to name 137 out of 195 countries of the world in under 15 minutes) to Mostar was by far the most scenic. The mountains in the Balkans, while nothing compared to the Alps (I know, I’m sure I’ve driven the point into the ground that nothing is quite like the Alps, but I’ll continue to say it), are actually quite peculiar. They are green and covered with trees, but when you look at the actual mountain surface, it’s all rock…how DO they do it? Furthermore, it’s as if someone hand-sculpted the hills out of playdoh (I always knew God was a fun-loving kid at heart). They have huge canyons and ridges that are precisely equidistant from one another, and the tops are almost completely uniform in height and surface-even flat in some place. As we barreled along the route from Croatia to Bosnia-Herzegovina, I began to feel as though I was more on a Disney World ride than a bus ride. The tunnels that cut through the mountains were unlit and about 100 meters too long to make enjoying a book on the bus worthwhile, as I found myself putting my book down approximately every 3 minutes while the light disappeared, only to find the world re-illuminated with a view of a river or ocean with water too green and clear to be natural.
If anyone ever ventures to Mostar, STAY WITH MAJDA. Majda, the owner of a guesthouse/hostel in the town, greeted us at the bus station. After piecing together the puzzle of fitting 3 oversized suitcases and 3 camping backpacks (oh, and 4 people) into her tiny VW Golf, I was pretty sure the car wasn’t going to make it, but alas we were please to find ourselves in an adorable apartment with a few other globetrotters where we were immediately ushered onto the sunlit porch and offered tea and cake. We ventured out that evening for Lauren’s birthday dinner (where we gorged ourselves on plates of meat, fish, and house wine all for about 8 euros each) in the Old City and caught our first glimpse of the bridge, the landmark of Mostar.
Out of all the cities in the Balkans, Mostar was hit the hardest during the war. As most of you probably know, I’m not one for sentimental thoughts or reflection, but coming into a city that had been so completely and utterly destroyed a mere 15 years ago and seeing the very evident remains is bone-chilling. I don’t know if it was because we’ve only really read about the experience of war in textbooks (thank god) or because I’m just that naïve, but walking past buildings that had gaping holes from shrapnel, bullets and bombs really left me at a loss for words. The bridge was just recently reconstructed (and to be honest, it wasn’t even that pretty, keeping in mind some of the other bridges I’ve seen in Europe), but it was all but demolished in the war and thought to be one of the most unifying reconstruction projects and crowning achievements of Mostar as it got back on its feet. Of course now, the bridge is mostly populated with tourists who blindly drop coins into a fez to encourage a few locals to jump into the currents below. Frankly, I applaud these men. If I could pull off a Bosnian accent and persuade people to pay me to jump 20 meters into a river? Done. But I digress. We walked around the city for a while, saw the markets, ate some cevapcici (crucial), drank some Bosnian coffee, and saw the outsides of the town’s mosques (frankly, most other buildings in the town are anything but aesthetically pleasing, considering the majority of them were built on a budget in the last 15 years). But before moving on, this coffee deserves special mention. Bosnian coffee is unlike anything I have tasted. The thickest, darkest coffee you’ve ever seen, served in a copper pot and poured directly over a sugar cube-tastes more like chocolate than coffee. Apparently a small pot of this liquid gold costs 1 kyme (.50 euro) in Sarajevo. Can’t wait. Re: the mosques. I’ve once again been reminded how much of a dumb, uncultured, naïve, lived in a bubble my whole life American I am (or would like to think, was). Hearing the call to prayer echo from the minaret towers was one of the most beautiful, foreign, and intriguing things I’ve heard. What’s more, we were actually allowed in one of the mosques, and I was thrilled to be asked to cover my head with my obnoxious yellow scarf and remove my shoes. I should get out more…
That afternoon, we got on a bus to the neighboring town of Blagaj. Here, the river that runs through the city of Mostar originates from deep underneath a cave and is so pure and flows quickly enough that it’s drinkable right from the source. My aspiring doctor germaphobe tendencies went right out the window as I picked up the ornately carved silver bowl that was attached to a long chain by the steps down to the water, dipped it in, and drank. We made it back to the bus stop (i.e. curb) for what we thought was a 5:45 bus, but after waiting until 6 and attempting communication with the man across the street at the café, we learned that the next bus back to Mostar wasn’t until 7. Fail. Cup of tea #3 for the day it was.
Making it back to Mostar, we headed out to dinner and enjoyed another meat-filled meal outside by the river with 4 newfound feline friends who seemed just as hungry as we were. I was flattered yet extremely disappointed in myself when, after greeting the waiter with a “dobar dan” and “hvala,” he cheerfully responded in rapid serbo-croatian and I ashamedly had to say “English?” This morning, we awoke to fresh French toast, tea, and some of the other hostel guests chatting around the patio table about law and politics and were informed that we’d be driven to the bus station…for free. I felt like I was leaving home.
And so it is that we’re off to the second city in this “semi-failed” state (as deemed by the EU-how depressing…congratulations, your infrastructure only kind of sucks…good job, but best of luck on your way to complete failure). More to come, along with pictures…I know you’re probably sick of reading my babble, props to you if you’ve even gotten this far, I know I wouldn’t have.
Mostar: The bus ride from Dubrovnik (where we had a 3 hour ‘layover’ after taking a bus that morning from Kotor…much time was spent drawing out two cups of tea and 4 games of sporcle at Pizza Retro across the street from the bus station-we managed to name 137 out of 195 countries of the world in under 15 minutes) to Mostar was by far the most scenic. The mountains in the Balkans, while nothing compared to the Alps (I know, I’m sure I’ve driven the point into the ground that nothing is quite like the Alps, but I’ll continue to say it), are actually quite peculiar. They are green and covered with trees, but when you look at the actual mountain surface, it’s all rock…how DO they do it? Furthermore, it’s as if someone hand-sculpted the hills out of playdoh (I always knew God was a fun-loving kid at heart). They have huge canyons and ridges that are precisely equidistant from one another, and the tops are almost completely uniform in height and surface-even flat in some place. As we barreled along the route from Croatia to Bosnia-Herzegovina, I began to feel as though I was more on a Disney World ride than a bus ride. The tunnels that cut through the mountains were unlit and about 100 meters too long to make enjoying a book on the bus worthwhile, as I found myself putting my book down approximately every 3 minutes while the light disappeared, only to find the world re-illuminated with a view of a river or ocean with water too green and clear to be natural.
If anyone ever ventures to Mostar, STAY WITH MAJDA. Majda, the owner of a guesthouse/hostel in the town, greeted us at the bus station. After piecing together the puzzle of fitting 3 oversized suitcases and 3 camping backpacks (oh, and 4 people) into her tiny VW Golf, I was pretty sure the car wasn’t going to make it, but alas we were please to find ourselves in an adorable apartment with a few other globetrotters where we were immediately ushered onto the sunlit porch and offered tea and cake. We ventured out that evening for Lauren’s birthday dinner (where we gorged ourselves on plates of meat, fish, and house wine all for about 8 euros each) in the Old City and caught our first glimpse of the bridge, the landmark of Mostar.
Out of all the cities in the Balkans, Mostar was hit the hardest during the war. As most of you probably know, I’m not one for sentimental thoughts or reflection, but coming into a city that had been so completely and utterly destroyed a mere 15 years ago and seeing the very evident remains is bone-chilling. I don’t know if it was because we’ve only really read about the experience of war in textbooks (thank god) or because I’m just that naïve, but walking past buildings that had gaping holes from shrapnel, bullets and bombs really left me at a loss for words. The bridge was just recently reconstructed (and to be honest, it wasn’t even that pretty, keeping in mind some of the other bridges I’ve seen in Europe), but it was all but demolished in the war and thought to be one of the most unifying reconstruction projects and crowning achievements of Mostar as it got back on its feet. Of course now, the bridge is mostly populated with tourists who blindly drop coins into a fez to encourage a few locals to jump into the currents below. Frankly, I applaud these men. If I could pull off a Bosnian accent and persuade people to pay me to jump 20 meters into a river? Done. But I digress. We walked around the city for a while, saw the markets, ate some cevapcici (crucial), drank some Bosnian coffee, and saw the outsides of the town’s mosques (frankly, most other buildings in the town are anything but aesthetically pleasing, considering the majority of them were built on a budget in the last 15 years). But before moving on, this coffee deserves special mention. Bosnian coffee is unlike anything I have tasted. The thickest, darkest coffee you’ve ever seen, served in a copper pot and poured directly over a sugar cube-tastes more like chocolate than coffee. Apparently a small pot of this liquid gold costs 1 kyme (.50 euro) in Sarajevo. Can’t wait. Re: the mosques. I’ve once again been reminded how much of a dumb, uncultured, naïve, lived in a bubble my whole life American I am (or would like to think, was). Hearing the call to prayer echo from the minaret towers was one of the most beautiful, foreign, and intriguing things I’ve heard. What’s more, we were actually allowed in one of the mosques, and I was thrilled to be asked to cover my head with my obnoxious yellow scarf and remove my shoes. I should get out more…
That afternoon, we got on a bus to the neighboring town of Blagaj. Here, the river that runs through the city of Mostar originates from deep underneath a cave and is so pure and flows quickly enough that it’s drinkable right from the source. My aspiring doctor germaphobe tendencies went right out the window as I picked up the ornately carved silver bowl that was attached to a long chain by the steps down to the water, dipped it in, and drank. We made it back to the bus stop (i.e. curb) for what we thought was a 5:45 bus, but after waiting until 6 and attempting communication with the man across the street at the café, we learned that the next bus back to Mostar wasn’t until 7. Fail. Cup of tea #3 for the day it was.
Making it back to Mostar, we headed out to dinner and enjoyed another meat-filled meal outside by the river with 4 newfound feline friends who seemed just as hungry as we were. I was flattered yet extremely disappointed in myself when, after greeting the waiter with a “dobar dan” and “hvala,” he cheerfully responded in rapid serbo-croatian and I ashamedly had to say “English?” This morning, we awoke to fresh French toast, tea, and some of the other hostel guests chatting around the patio table about law and politics and were informed that we’d be driven to the bus station…for free. I felt like I was leaving home.
And so it is that we’re off to the second city in this “semi-failed” state (as deemed by the EU-how depressing…congratulations, your infrastructure only kind of sucks…good job, but best of luck on your way to complete failure). More to come, along with pictures…I know you’re probably sick of reading my babble, props to you if you’ve even gotten this far, I know I wouldn’t have.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
school's out for summer
Junior year is officially over, so I guess that means I'm a senior...but we won't talk about that.
We spent the last week in Dubrovnink, a UNESCO world heritage site, in an adorable little apartment with a jasmine-covered porch, a dog named Bepo/Max/Bow Wow (we weren't really sure) and a very leaky sink problem (the solution to which, per request of the owner, was to layer 6 towels on the floor every morning). Dubrovnik was great. There are cafes, castles, walls, beaches, and, most importantly, great rocks for jumping off of. After venturing down to a beach past the Old Town on day 2, jumping in to the crystal clear Adriatic, swimming to a hotel I'm pretty sure we weren't supposed to end up at, meeting some friendly British tourists who had the same idea, swimming even further, climbing a whole bunch of rocks. and coming back to lay in the sun (and try and rid myself of the horrendous shorts tan I have from Split), we made it a point to take the ferry over to the neighboring island of Lopud the next day for more beach. And then it rained. For 4 days.
I'll be honest, Dubrovnik is great, but there really isn't a ton to do when it rains in a town that gains its reputation for being one of the top ten best beaches in the world. But we made the best, I suppose. After many a quest to find cevapcici (Croatian meat dish-sauce, beef, pita, onion, greatness) to no avail, we found it at the grocery store and Chip, a seasoned cevapi vet, played chef to give the rest of us our first taste. After one too many movies and venturing out to brave the elements to stave off a terrible case of cabin fever, we left Dubrovnik, all 5 of us (one back to the states, one to Paris, and the rest of us to Montenegro), and it was off to Kotor for a grand total of $15. After stopping at border control, having our passports taken, driving for 10 minutes before getting them back, and seeing a sign that said "welcome to the Ukraine," I'll admit we were a little worried, but 2.5 hours later we pulled into the autobuska standnica in Kotor.
Kotor is a little port-side town in Montenegro, surrounded by mountains that runs along the inlet port right outside the city walls. As a friend quite aptly put it, many Balkans cities, or at least the ones we've seen, are a chain of a bunch of towns characterized by adorable little fortresses. I guess "little" is an understatement considering the fortress walls of Kotor stretch more than halfway up a mountain side, and the mote surrounding them at the bottom has waters more raging than a class 5 rapid. But that's not the point. One of the most remarkable things about these city walls is the difference between inside and outside. Here, it's like night and day. One minute you feel like you're in the projects, and the next, you're in 7th century paradise. I'm sure much of this in Dubrovnik was attributable to the tourism that ran rampant in Dubrovnik, but little old Kotor seems somehow more authentic. Just outside the walls is a daily market, mostly run and funded by locals, selling everything from fruits and vegetables to jewelry and cowboy hats (I kid you not). But venture inside and find a multitude of cafes (there is a SERIOUS obsession here with "cafe bars," sprawling establishments along squares and sidewalks that sell nothing but drinks where it's not unusual for people to sit for 3 hours and just stare. I'm not complaining, but we have asked ourselves more than once if people actually work here and if so, how can I get one of their jobs...There's a huge population of cats (and even a few dogs...which pleases me because dogs are obviously superior) that contribute to the nightly soundtrack outside our window of meowing and church bells (on the hour, every hour, all hours), that is heightened in the mornings around 7 am with the walking and talking of tourist groups and, yesterday, the drum and song celebration of the Montenegrin water polo team.
Most of these little cities are best seen by wandering aimlessly among the streets and alleys, stopping for a coffee (yesterday we discovered iced coffee-cold coffee with a scoop of vanilla gelato and a heap of whipped cream, topped with chocolate syrup) or stumbling into an old church. Churches here are certainly plentiful. Most of them are Orthodox, with ornate gold and woodwork (and priests who offer to take your picture in front of the altar?? ...) and we went in one yesterday that was built in 809 and only slightly restored once. The 1 isn't missing from the date.
After checking into our hostel and dragging our 60 pound suitcases (travelling with enough luggage to last me since January, terrible idea. Europe doesn't have elevators. Ever.) back down the flight of stairs and up another at our room down the street, we settled into our surprisingly nice room, glad to get away from the other hostel guests who, as we've discovered, spend their days in the reception area eating pizza, drinking beer, giggling to Arrested Development and playing "never have I ever" (Whilst sitting on the floor in the hallway trying to steal the free wifi, angry that we were put down the street sans wifi because they lost the reservation, we ACTUALLY heard someone ask for a clarification on a question that went something like "well, I've never slept with two GIRLS at the same time, if that's what you mean." I'm being dead serious. It was then that we counted the lost booking as a blessing in disguise, as we now have an 8 person dorm entirely to ourselves.)
Today, it's off to scale the mountain side to climb to the top of the fortress, but that's only after we sit at an outdoor cafe to enjoy a leisurely breakfast of tea, bread, coffee, and omelets (a meal that yesterday totalled 10 euros for 3 of us). And on that note, I'm really hungry. More to come when we get to Mostar tomorrow.
We spent the last week in Dubrovnink, a UNESCO world heritage site, in an adorable little apartment with a jasmine-covered porch, a dog named Bepo/Max/Bow Wow (we weren't really sure) and a very leaky sink problem (the solution to which, per request of the owner, was to layer 6 towels on the floor every morning). Dubrovnik was great. There are cafes, castles, walls, beaches, and, most importantly, great rocks for jumping off of. After venturing down to a beach past the Old Town on day 2, jumping in to the crystal clear Adriatic, swimming to a hotel I'm pretty sure we weren't supposed to end up at, meeting some friendly British tourists who had the same idea, swimming even further, climbing a whole bunch of rocks. and coming back to lay in the sun (and try and rid myself of the horrendous shorts tan I have from Split), we made it a point to take the ferry over to the neighboring island of Lopud the next day for more beach. And then it rained. For 4 days.
I'll be honest, Dubrovnik is great, but there really isn't a ton to do when it rains in a town that gains its reputation for being one of the top ten best beaches in the world. But we made the best, I suppose. After many a quest to find cevapcici (Croatian meat dish-sauce, beef, pita, onion, greatness) to no avail, we found it at the grocery store and Chip, a seasoned cevapi vet, played chef to give the rest of us our first taste. After one too many movies and venturing out to brave the elements to stave off a terrible case of cabin fever, we left Dubrovnik, all 5 of us (one back to the states, one to Paris, and the rest of us to Montenegro), and it was off to Kotor for a grand total of $15. After stopping at border control, having our passports taken, driving for 10 minutes before getting them back, and seeing a sign that said "welcome to the Ukraine," I'll admit we were a little worried, but 2.5 hours later we pulled into the autobuska standnica in Kotor.
Kotor is a little port-side town in Montenegro, surrounded by mountains that runs along the inlet port right outside the city walls. As a friend quite aptly put it, many Balkans cities, or at least the ones we've seen, are a chain of a bunch of towns characterized by adorable little fortresses. I guess "little" is an understatement considering the fortress walls of Kotor stretch more than halfway up a mountain side, and the mote surrounding them at the bottom has waters more raging than a class 5 rapid. But that's not the point. One of the most remarkable things about these city walls is the difference between inside and outside. Here, it's like night and day. One minute you feel like you're in the projects, and the next, you're in 7th century paradise. I'm sure much of this in Dubrovnik was attributable to the tourism that ran rampant in Dubrovnik, but little old Kotor seems somehow more authentic. Just outside the walls is a daily market, mostly run and funded by locals, selling everything from fruits and vegetables to jewelry and cowboy hats (I kid you not). But venture inside and find a multitude of cafes (there is a SERIOUS obsession here with "cafe bars," sprawling establishments along squares and sidewalks that sell nothing but drinks where it's not unusual for people to sit for 3 hours and just stare. I'm not complaining, but we have asked ourselves more than once if people actually work here and if so, how can I get one of their jobs...There's a huge population of cats (and even a few dogs...which pleases me because dogs are obviously superior) that contribute to the nightly soundtrack outside our window of meowing and church bells (on the hour, every hour, all hours), that is heightened in the mornings around 7 am with the walking and talking of tourist groups and, yesterday, the drum and song celebration of the Montenegrin water polo team.
Most of these little cities are best seen by wandering aimlessly among the streets and alleys, stopping for a coffee (yesterday we discovered iced coffee-cold coffee with a scoop of vanilla gelato and a heap of whipped cream, topped with chocolate syrup) or stumbling into an old church. Churches here are certainly plentiful. Most of them are Orthodox, with ornate gold and woodwork (and priests who offer to take your picture in front of the altar?? ...) and we went in one yesterday that was built in 809 and only slightly restored once. The 1 isn't missing from the date.
After checking into our hostel and dragging our 60 pound suitcases (travelling with enough luggage to last me since January, terrible idea. Europe doesn't have elevators. Ever.) back down the flight of stairs and up another at our room down the street, we settled into our surprisingly nice room, glad to get away from the other hostel guests who, as we've discovered, spend their days in the reception area eating pizza, drinking beer, giggling to Arrested Development and playing "never have I ever" (Whilst sitting on the floor in the hallway trying to steal the free wifi, angry that we were put down the street sans wifi because they lost the reservation, we ACTUALLY heard someone ask for a clarification on a question that went something like "well, I've never slept with two GIRLS at the same time, if that's what you mean." I'm being dead serious. It was then that we counted the lost booking as a blessing in disguise, as we now have an 8 person dorm entirely to ourselves.)
Today, it's off to scale the mountain side to climb to the top of the fortress, but that's only after we sit at an outdoor cafe to enjoy a leisurely breakfast of tea, bread, coffee, and omelets (a meal that yesterday totalled 10 euros for 3 of us). And on that note, I'm really hungry. More to come when we get to Mostar tomorrow.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
the end. again.
This time, it's for real. End of my semester, end of school, end of ISP...given that I had an 11 hour bus ride to Dubrovnik from Zagreb, I had quite a bit of time to think. These are my thoughts...
With all the complaining I've done about my program and SIT, I'd like to say that I've come out of the semester realizing that in hindsight, I am a smarter person, I've learned so much, I'm ready to go save the public health world, etc etc. Sadly, this is certainly not the case...at least that's not how I feel. However, thinking back on all the experiences I've had over the past 4 months, the ones that stick out the most are completely unrelated to school. After many a discussion with someone quite close to me, I've come to terms that yes, I feel like I've been ripped off, academics-wise, and yes, I could have probably learned more in my classes at school, but is that really the point of going abroad? Of course I would have learned more at GW, that's why I go there. People always talk about how much they've changed whilst abroad and how different things seem when they return. I can't say that I've outwardly changed (but then again, I'm not one to judge), but I would like to think that everything I've gotten to do while abroad (study in the UN library, go to 11 different countries, go swimming at the beach and skiing in the Alps in the same weekend) has had some impact on me, even if it's not noticeable.
Even dealing with a crazy host family has taught me a lot. For example, no matter how much you disagree with raging conservative ideals (yes, even in Switzerland), sometimes it's easiest to keep you mouth shut. Families have different customs...some that are easier to settle with than others. A comparison: host sister who was self-proclaimed "best kisser in town" at age 11 sleeping over at her boyfriend's house at age 14...versus...host sister who is living at home, age 30. The lifestyles between Croatia and Switzerland are so unbelievably different, but considering how terrified I was to come to another homestay in Croatia, I could NOT have been happier with my family. Dinner was never at a set time. Food was always on the table for me to heat up, no matter the time I came home. In Switzerland, the world was over if I was late (i.e. past 7), but here, I'm encouraged every day to stay out more, see the town (...), come home at 2 am if I so desire. Totally on my own schedule and I love it.
This brings me to the next topic, food (crucial-a topic of the majority of my conversations). If I had to pick one word to describe the food here, it would absolutely be oil. EVERYTHING is in oil-soups have a layer on top, vegetables are soaked in it, even pastries leave it on your hands. But host mama, the angel that she is, picked up on this (perhaps from the rate at which the Special K was disappearing from the cupboard and the corresponding rate the food was not disappearing from the dishes on the table) and, to compensate, SHOVES fruit at me. Every morning, 3 apples, 2 bananas. After dinner, "another jabuka?" For those of you who know me, live with me, or have ever been in a grocery store with me, I could not be happier.
While any hope of learning Croatian was lost on day 1, on a brighter note, I AM getting to use my new German skills with host mama. She speaks hardly any English, but she's decent in German, and I've pulled out the occasional "zug" for transportation questions or thrown out a "bitte" to ask how to say please in Croatian, and even used the numbers to tell her what time I had to leave. I KNEW it would come in handy somewhere...I just never figured out it would be in Croatia. This can be added to my list of reasons that justify wanting to learn German (other than the fact that the words Munchen Flughafen might comprise the greatest phrase ever).
During a final lunch with our group of 22, Earl made a last toast to each one of us. Some were bizarre and some heartfelt, and I couldn't help but put aside my sometimes...strong (there has to be a better word?)...feelings about Earl and think about his role during the whole semester. Despite all of the frustrations, to put it lightly, I can't think of a memorable day of class or lecture that didn't somehow directly involve Earl and end in a story to tell. Looking back on all the memories throughout the past months, the end of everything is really bitter-sweet. Everyone else is ready to pack up and get on the plane tomorrow, headed back to America. I'm here for 6 more weeks. On the one hand, I couldn't be more thrilled, on the other, home is sounding pretty excellent right about now. I keep telling myself it's just because everyone else is leaving, but I guess a few weeks' time will answer that question. So as I sit here thinking about my upcoming travels to the Croatian coast, Montenegro, Bosnia, Turkey, Ireland, and the UK, in many respects, my trip's only just begun. With most of my memories from the past months taken from personal rather than academic experience, I have to ask myself, would I really do it all again? In a heartbeat.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
lost.
I've been in Zagreb for about 2 weeks now, and to be honest, it has most certainly not gotten any easier. Words are still just letters jumbled together, and people are not as helpful when it comes to English as we were told. Example: tried to mail a package from the post office yesterday, took about 45 minutes and took much physical activity from hand motions and re-filling out forms that i screwed up the first time. I'm all about new experiences and languages, but such a drastic difference from the Switzerland I had become so accustomed to for the last 4 months to this part of Europe is pretty jolting, especially when I've got my final research paper and presentation to focus on.
Zagreb is...for lack of a better term...pretty ugly, but I was fortunate enough to go with a friend last weekend to the island of Brac to their family house. To begin, I get a phone call from her host dad on friday night telling (not asking) me that we are going to the coast on Saturday. And that we will leave at 4. AM. I should be ready at 3:45. So 11:30 pm and it's off to bed I go. Sure enough, 3:15 rolls around and at 3:40 my poor host mother calls me downstairs to say my ride is here. She sends me on my way with 2 sandwiches, 2 Bananas, 2 apples, and a bottle of Cedevita ("juice" as they call it, more like Airborne meets Emergen-C) and I get in the car, only to find 2 complete (non-english speaking) strangers in the front seat and Jenn Sloan nowhere in sight. I'm driven to a house and thankfully see Jenn come outside, soon learning that the man in the front seat was both her and my host dads' brother. This was just the beginning of our adventure.
I don't think I've ever been so scared of dying in my entire life. Bronco (Jenn's host dad) decided to take the scenic route through the mountains (us Swiss Alps natives call them more "hills"). The road was beautiful, but I think hairpin turns are an understatement. Aaaand there were no guardrails. Meantime, we heard screeching tires as we took the curves. Lanes were no object to Bronco, and as he told us (direct quote), when the speed limit says 50 km it really means 150. It was hard to sleep from the whiplash we were incurring but we kept our eyes shut for fear of what we'd see if we looked out the window. We finally arrive in Split, the city on the mainland where we catch the ferry to Brac and head straight to the ice cream shop. It was 9 am. After eating the ice cream and walking around for a bit, we walked (and ran) up to the ferry, only to arrive just as the gate was pulling away...leaving us 2 more hours to kill before the next one. Branco had told us not to worry about finishing our final projects because we would have all the free time in the world to work and do as we pleased, but we rather quickly found out this was false. In fact, we didn't see the beach the whole weekend.
After the hour-long ferry ride, we get off the boat and stand where the cars pull off. Bronco had joked about hitchhiking from the ferry to the house earlier. This was not a joke. We stood at the ferry entrance until every car had driven off, and after watching Bronco give pleading looks to every driver, we made our way to the bus station. Upon arrival to the completely unfinished house (sans electricity, sans water), we walked in, put our bags in the sawdust, and saw a twin mattress on the floor in the middle. We said nothing. Across the street, we met Bronco's friend who was a national champion of olive oil and also made his own wine, both of which we tried. Croatian wine is certainly not like Swiss wine, that's for sure. Also, people here have a tradition of putting water in their wine (although I'm not entirely convinced it's just because of the taste...more later). Coming up from the wine cellar into the garden, we saw 3 adorable baby lambs. Then, up from another basement comes a mad scientist man-long blue labcoat, black rubber boots, little round glasses, crazy white hair, AND A KNIFE IN HIS HAND. All we hear is, "he going to kill lamb for dinner, you watch?" Jenn, being a vegetarian and myself, being a sane human being, respectfully declined and ran away to the sound of the bleating lambs. I don't think I've ever been so close to becoming vegetarian in my life (but somehow I just couldn't do it...) Next, we were told to get in a car to go to a "surprise" for us (turns out the surprise was really someone else's birthday). We drive 20 minutes up the mountain, walk 20 minutes through a field (all the while getting NO ideas as to where we were being led-no civilization in sight), and come upon a little stone house with a fire in the garden and 4 old men sitting around the table. There was a whole lamb rosting on the spit and 4 bottles of wine on the table. The rest of the afternoon (and evening, the ordeal lasted about 6.5 hours...so much for free time) consisted of more old men (the total reached 16) telling us we were not drinking enough wine (pretty sure THIS is why they add the water...they'd been going since noon) and eating the salad that was on the table and the vegetables they made especially for us. With Jenn being vegetarian, she might as well have been an alien. These men simply could not wrap their minds around the fact that she didn't eat meat. It was just unheard of. Although we couldn't understand the conversation (which was probably a good thing, since Bronco told us much of it consisted of sex and dirty jokes...), the two words we learned to pick out quite easily were 'vegetarian' and 'american.' At one point, Jenn was even led into the yard, shown the grass, and told to eat.
Finally, at about 8 that night, we left the table, and one of the brothers got the keys. To DRIVE. A CAR. Again, fearing for our lives, we got in and fastened our seat belts. Except for there were none. It really is a miracle that we made it out of this weekend alive. The 3 brothers in the car were singing at the top of their lungs, laughing, cracking jokes, all the way home. We always felt obliged to laugh along even though we didn't understand most of them, even with translation, but we later learned from my host family that no one really gets Bronco's jokes...even in Croatian. We ended up sleeping in the beautifully remodeled house of my host family that was next door, and were on our way home again with a gasoline container full of olive oil in the trunk. What a weekend.
Getting back to Zagreb, the next week was spent entirely at the SIT office finishing papers and presentations. I must say, in each of the 22 hour-long project presentations, I think I learned more about public health than I had learned the whole semester (but that's an issue to be discussed in a strongly worded evaluation for SIT next week...). Being done with such an endeavor feels oddly liberating, and we spent the last weekend, all 22 of us (even Chip and Thomas made it...eventually) at the beach in Split, home of Diocletian's palace and beautiful Adriatic coastline. Our "hostel" really ended up being a 5 bed apartment with a kitchen for a few of us, and we cooked dinner and celebrated the end of the semester with everyone. I really have come to realize how lucky we got...according to directors and host parents alike, there has NEVER been a group that has gotten along as well as we have. Quite a feat for 22.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Putovanje u Hrvatska!
That's "a trip to Croatia" for all you non-croatian speakers. Reason number 1 why I'm unbelievably terrified.
Earl falsity #77-everyone, including homestay parents, in Croatia speak English. False. But maybe I should begin at the beginning.
After waking up at 5 am this morning, going upstairs for one last breakfast feast, only to be hurried along and then guilted because host mama thought I said 5:45 (moins quart) versus 6:15 (et quart) as the departure time (the departure that, to my relief, was from Yens straight to the airport...thanks, Lauren's host mom). After all, what would my last morning chez Andres have been without some misunderstanding or reprimand? Anyways, after having shipped off my brand new suitcase full of chocolate-find me when I'm back-courtesy of host mama and the cobblestoned streets of Venice (the suitcase that is, not the chocolate)...and the Yens post office is another story (that involves shoving a 20 kg suitcase over the counter and cash register and through the glass reception window, only to be told its actually 20.01 kg and that it'd be 40 chf more to ship)...and stepping on and off the scale about 50 times holding my suitcase to endure it was under 20 kg (ridiculous for 6 months of clothes over 2 seasons? Oui.), I was finally off. Host parents gave a sentimental goodbye at the top of the driveway as the kids lay fast asleep in their beds, and I was en route to Geneve Aeroport.
After 2 flights, a stopover in Munchen Flughafen, and 3 very cool passport stamps later, we were in Zagreb. The other SIT Geneva program is currently spending the final days of their program at a beachside resort in the costal town of Pula, but we are going once again to homestays in the very urban capital of Zagreb. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for new experiences, but not twice being plunged into an entirely new culture, language, home, and family. It definitely takes some adjustment to learn how a family functions, and with the added stress of our 30 page ISP presentations looming in the near future (ie. 1 week) does NOT help the acclimation process. I would love to get to explore the city and get to know my new host family, a process which took a good week or so in Switzerland, but that's pretty hard when we have these papers to finish. And what's more, a good 60% of the students here don't have internet in their new homes. Fail.
So as we sat in a restaurant, all awkward and nervous with a strange feeling of deja vu that we did this just over 3 months ago (oh wait, we did.), we awaited the arrival of our new host families to come whisk us away for the next 2 weeks. We were reassured that they would speak english, but quickly discovered that this was not the case for some. I, however, got lucky...for once. I live on the same street as one of the other SIT students (Mel!), my host mother is a psychologist (although she speaks no english, my 30 year old host sister is the sweetest person alive and is an english and italian teacher (perfect english and I get to brush up on italian), and the 24 year old brother speaks very decent english as well (and plays a mean game of pool, as I discovered this afternoon). The mother is a little terrifying, but I think that might just be a combination of her looks and the fact that I haven't the slightest clue what she's saying. That's the thing with Croatian, you can't even BEGIN to deduce what things mean unless you might have some background in Russian or something. Good, now I get to put my Russian to use finally. Example: "parmacy"...french: 'pharmacie,' italian: 'farmacia,' german: 'apotheke,' croatian: 'LJEKARNA'?!?!?!? You can see how coming here not even knowing how to say "hello" has proven challenging (although surprisingly many people do speak english here). Thank god I already knew how to say "I'm cold" and "I love you" (thanks Andrea), that's all I should need to get by, right??
So as I sit here alone in my new little bedroom (aptly called a barn by someone viewing it via skype) eating the last bread and cheese sandwich from Switzerland that I'll have for my dinner (they don't quite have the tradition of eating dinner together here), I can't help but think back on a) how great Switzerland was in so many regards (excluding economically...$0.18 to the Kuna here!), despite crazy families and crazy teachers and b) how...enlightening...these next few weeks are going to be.
Earl falsity #77-everyone, including homestay parents, in Croatia speak English. False. But maybe I should begin at the beginning.
After waking up at 5 am this morning, going upstairs for one last breakfast feast, only to be hurried along and then guilted because host mama thought I said 5:45 (moins quart) versus 6:15 (et quart) as the departure time (the departure that, to my relief, was from Yens straight to the airport...thanks, Lauren's host mom). After all, what would my last morning chez Andres have been without some misunderstanding or reprimand? Anyways, after having shipped off my brand new suitcase full of chocolate-find me when I'm back-courtesy of host mama and the cobblestoned streets of Venice (the suitcase that is, not the chocolate)...and the Yens post office is another story (that involves shoving a 20 kg suitcase over the counter and cash register and through the glass reception window, only to be told its actually 20.01 kg and that it'd be 40 chf more to ship)...and stepping on and off the scale about 50 times holding my suitcase to endure it was under 20 kg (ridiculous for 6 months of clothes over 2 seasons? Oui.), I was finally off. Host parents gave a sentimental goodbye at the top of the driveway as the kids lay fast asleep in their beds, and I was en route to Geneve Aeroport.
After 2 flights, a stopover in Munchen Flughafen, and 3 very cool passport stamps later, we were in Zagreb. The other SIT Geneva program is currently spending the final days of their program at a beachside resort in the costal town of Pula, but we are going once again to homestays in the very urban capital of Zagreb. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for new experiences, but not twice being plunged into an entirely new culture, language, home, and family. It definitely takes some adjustment to learn how a family functions, and with the added stress of our 30 page ISP presentations looming in the near future (ie. 1 week) does NOT help the acclimation process. I would love to get to explore the city and get to know my new host family, a process which took a good week or so in Switzerland, but that's pretty hard when we have these papers to finish. And what's more, a good 60% of the students here don't have internet in their new homes. Fail.
So as we sat in a restaurant, all awkward and nervous with a strange feeling of deja vu that we did this just over 3 months ago (oh wait, we did.), we awaited the arrival of our new host families to come whisk us away for the next 2 weeks. We were reassured that they would speak english, but quickly discovered that this was not the case for some. I, however, got lucky...for once. I live on the same street as one of the other SIT students (Mel!), my host mother is a psychologist (although she speaks no english, my 30 year old host sister is the sweetest person alive and is an english and italian teacher (perfect english and I get to brush up on italian), and the 24 year old brother speaks very decent english as well (and plays a mean game of pool, as I discovered this afternoon). The mother is a little terrifying, but I think that might just be a combination of her looks and the fact that I haven't the slightest clue what she's saying. That's the thing with Croatian, you can't even BEGIN to deduce what things mean unless you might have some background in Russian or something. Good, now I get to put my Russian to use finally. Example: "parmacy"...french: 'pharmacie,' italian: 'farmacia,' german: 'apotheke,' croatian: 'LJEKARNA'?!?!?!? You can see how coming here not even knowing how to say "hello" has proven challenging (although surprisingly many people do speak english here). Thank god I already knew how to say "I'm cold" and "I love you" (thanks Andrea), that's all I should need to get by, right??
So as I sit here alone in my new little bedroom (aptly called a barn by someone viewing it via skype) eating the last bread and cheese sandwich from Switzerland that I'll have for my dinner (they don't quite have the tradition of eating dinner together here), I can't help but think back on a) how great Switzerland was in so many regards (excluding economically...$0.18 to the Kuna here!), despite crazy families and crazy teachers and b) how...enlightening...these next few weeks are going to be.
Monday, April 26, 2010
the end
Ok, so it's not actually the end, considering I am in Europe for another 2 months, but as I sit here on my porch in the sun, staring directly across Lac Leman at Mont Blanc, I can't help but be only a little bit nostalgic for my time here in Switzerland. Even amidst host family drama and, well, I'll just call them experiences, with SIT and Earl, Switzerland's left a pretty great impression. Amongst Volcanopocalyspe 2010 and realizing that I'm completely broke and just over halfway through my stay (Switzerland will do that...), I have spent the past few weeks staying here and exploring different parts of the country.
A couple weeks ago, I tried Interlaken, round 2 with a fellow Yens kid and her host family, but this time, we made the 3.5 hour trek up to Jungfrau. At over 13,000 feet, it boasts the highest train station in Europe and one of the largest alpine glaciers (and yes, I learned that glaciers aren't just in oceans...). While the view was pretty spectacular, I must say, of my Interlaken day trips, I think I much preferred Murren to Junfraujoch mainly, as per usual, because of the tourists. Jungfrau is a funny thing...it just happens to be one of the largest Japanese tourist destinations in Alpine Europe. Even so far as the third language on the train loudspeaker (German and English 1 and 2), is JAPANESE, not French...I'll reserve any further comments, but it was a very interesting experience. Which brings me to a side note about the Swiss-as much as they pride themselves on humanitarianism and neutrality, I've come across some extraordinarily racist tendencies. 30 minute rants about the Turkish populations of Germany, questions on what I felt about the visitor population of Jungfrau, comments on the thievery of x, y, and z people from France-I've certainly found myself at a loss for words more than once.
The next afternoon, as we got word of 3 people stuck in Barcelona, 2 in Rome (one of whom managed to get back by hitch hiking through Italy with a nice Bernese man named Peter), and a cancelled flight to Amsterdam for 8, Lauren from across the street's host mother, with whom I've become quite close, took us to a mountain near Montreux for a hike, and we walked around Montreux that evening, which I, being the jazz nerd that I am, found splendid.
The rest of my past couple of weeks here have been spent trying to deal with the follies of Earl, attempting to figure out his demands for a project on the "pluridisciplinary approach to viewing refugee treatment through the frame and lens of the narrative to the practitioner" (actual words from the man's mouth) and realizing that, while a potentially cool concept, it's just not possible to satisfy his requests in 3 weeks and that refugees from 3rd world countries probably don't want to tell their life stories to American college kids for the sake of a research project. Sorry, Earl.
So, to relieve my stress of "school" for a bit, I decided to channel my inner (our outer...as some would probably argue) nerd and visit CERN, the European Center for Nuclear Research and home of the new Large Hadron Particle Collider, for those of you (an amount at which I was shocked-further affirming my science loserness) who don't know what it is or simply know it from a certain Dan Brown masterpiece (FAIL.). Unfortunately, the tours are no longer permitted to go down into the 'cave' as they call it where the tunnel and collider actually are, BUT the reason for this (too much atomic radiation since the accelerator started running again in October) is so badass, I didn't really care. And we still got to see the control room full of computers and wall projections with images and numbers I could never even begin to dream of understanding. I felt like a kid in a candy store (kind of ashamed...but not really at all) and now I can say I've visited the "most powerful piece of machinery EVER created" (DIRECT QUOTE.)
Host papa Richard has really started to grow on me, of course the last few days I'm here. At first I thought he was mute or something, but I've come to realize that maybe he's just the strong silent type (which, with host mama, is a nice reprieve). Theres something wonderful about coming upstairs for breakfast and seeing him sitting there, magnifying glass in-hand hovered over the dictionary trying to finish his crossword. Not to mention, I think I totally got on his good side yesterday when I ANSWERED one of the clues IN FRENCH. ALL BY MYSELF. And when I come downstairs to my room and pass his office, a simple "salut" and nod of the head is all I need before retreating from the night. No lectures, no stories, no questions. In that house, maybe now I see why the man smokes half a pack a day...I almost feel like we've come to a mutual understanding of one another and just accept it. Needless to say, I think he's the family member I'll miss the most (besides of course, Igor, the noble beast that he is). His witty remarks (seldom as they come) and sly retorts just make my life here a little bit better.
All in all, I'm gonna miss this place.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
MOO.
About the cows- There's a reason that Switzerland is know for its cheese. So. Many. Cows. It all started when I was walking back to my house from the train after being away for the first week of April. You could hear something that sounded like what I thought was a parade of people banging on pots and pans (first I thought, what a ridiculous thing to imagine, but then I remembered where I live...). Upon rounding the corner, I came face to face with about 15 cows. Just eating, in the field, RIGHT in front of my house. Each cow, even the adorable babies (petites vaches, as they've come to be known), wears a big bell around their neck (yes, cowbells ACTUALLY exist, contrary to what I thought) and plays lawn-mower from dawn until dusk. Every day more and more of the fields in my village became populated with cows. Brown cows, black cows, white cows, spotted cows, (anorexic cows), you name it, I've seen them all. Furthermore, I learned that cows can run...FAST. Thank god for the electric fences because there have been some instances where without them, I would have actually feared for my life. It's funny, cows are pretty friendly animals (save for the occasional charging). They come right up close to you and if you try to take a picture, it's almost like they're posing (see picture). Anyway, this was only the beginning.
The next weekend was the Bussy-Chardonney "combat des reignes," or the cow festival, as we Americans called it. What we though was just going to be a bunch of cows and food actually turned out to be a soft-core bull fighting tournament. Welcome to rural Switzerland. There was a big ring in the middle of the field, and cows with numbers painted on them were led into the ring in groups of 6 or so and pitted against each other. They wouldn't charge, exactly. Rather, they would just butt heads and push, back and forth, until one just decided they were tired and would give up. Some of the cows wanted nothing to do with the nonsense and would give up, but some would cross the line and get violent. They were cheered on but removed from the ring shortly thereafter. Oh, and the winner? They received a brand new shiny...cowbell. Aside from the bull fighting, there was food, waffles (oui), and booths selling everything from jewelry to sweaters (most of which looked like it didn't come from Switzerland at all...). I'm still unsure of my thoughts on this whole experience.
Today on our lunchtime outing (slash hike through the wilderness, more to come...), we learned that on average, the cows eat about enough grass to cover a (European) football field and drink 45-50 liters of water per day to produce anywhere between 2,000 and 8,000 liters of milk per year, enough for 200 kg of cheese. The Swiss really do love their cheese.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Flughafen
Ok, so my last week didn't actually involve any airports, but I have, however, decided that that is my favorite German word. And seeing as how I spent a good deal of time learning the necessary things to get by in Bavaria (just ask me what time it is, I'm up to 5 languages now, although it might take me a while to get there...defeating the purpose of telling time?) , voila the title.
Olivier, as he came to be know avec host family, paid a visit back to his homeland to renew his visa over the Easter holiday. Turns out, we live in a very silly country (who knew?), and the US won't let you renew a US visa in the US. But Swizterland, being the carefree country that it is, lets you renew the visa AND pick it up in person (apparently rare?) at their consulate in Bern, about an hour north of Geneva.
Oli arrived early on the morning of the 2nd, to be introduced to the wonderful world of Yens, the BAM, the trek up the hill (with luggage), and finally, host family. That afternoon, amidst jetlag and exhaustion, we trekked through the fields behind my house and met Gabriel, T.Chang's host dad and the jolliest man you'll ever meet, to go for a ride in his horse-drawn cart with the other kids on my program who live in Yens. It was wonderful and finished in the middle of the woods around a fire with cups of hot tea and fresh bread. We also found our future campsite for this next weekend...
The next day, we woke up and, due to a certain someone's acute asthma and allergies to pet hair (Igor), dust (my basement room), and down (duvet and pillows)-my room was a fail, we decided it was time to leave. So, I was introduced to a magical website called lastminute.com. We contemplated Paris but had both already been, and Oli had yet to see Italy. Milan has gotten a bad rap from pretty much everyone I know, but it was reachable by train and the price was right, so Milan it was. Lastminute.com has these deals called "top secret hotels" where they don't tell you the name, phone number, or reviews of the hotel. Just the location and the star rating. Kind of sketchy BUT, search Milan and find a 5 star hotel in the center of the city for 120 pounds for 2 nights. Booked it. Minutes after, we got an email thanking us for our reservation at the Westin Palace. Within an hour we had packed bags with clothes enough for 2 days in Italy (with intentions of coming back to Geneva before going to Bern for the visa appointment) and were off to the train station for tickets and to the Old City for lunch. Such jet(train)setters.
We pulled in to Milano Centrale around 10:30 that night and, having been idiots and not written down the name, number, or address of the hotel, wandered around aimlessly for over an hour looking for the place, only to find out that it was a 5 minute walk from the station...we had just come out the wrong side. We walked in to the marbled lobby, checked in, were upgraded to a deluxe suite for free, and went to our room (palace?). It had a foyer, jacuzzi, bathrobes, a huge window that opened out to a quaint side street, and a bed bigger than my house. I was in heaven. We decided to take advantage of the place and use the concierge, granted with some hesitation because our aim was cheap authentic Italian food. After calling about 5 places to hear that they were closed, the concierge finally got through, said some magic words, and told us where to go. Smoked salmon and goat cheese, 2 plates of pasta, tiramisu, and a carafe of wine later, we were full, satisfied, and not much poorer. Way to go, Westin man, you did us well.
The next day, we woke up to rain and Easter morning church bells. Again taking the advice of concierge-man, we went to Bianco Latte, one of the few cafes open that morning and ate a fantastic breakfast before heading out to see what Milan actually had to offer which, despite the rain, was actually quite a lot. I don't know if it's because I'm a city person, because I love Italy, because I love shopping, whatever...I think Milan is great. We saw La Scala theatre, Il Duomo, a huge old castle, a museum (that was FREE) that we stumbled upon completely by accident, and just wandered through the streets past stores I'm too broke to even walk in to. It's no Rome or Venice, but in many respects, I think that's exactly why I liked it. The other cities obviously have their draw and should be seen, but I wouldn't be so quick to discount Milan. There were very few tourists, and you pretty much had to fend for yourself as far as getting the most out of the day...no hoards of tour groups marking an obvious attraction and no men trying to sell you things on every corner. Finally. On the way back to the hotel before dinner, rain-soaked and sodden, we stopped and bought a huge tub of gelato to take back. Biscotti is officially my favorite flavor. Back in the hotel and out of the rain, we took a break to eat the gelato and relax a bit. The only 2 tv channels in English were MTV (and after watching one-i.e. one too many-episodes of "Rock of Love" the night before, that wasn't an option) and some channel showing a Disney movie about golden retriever puppies being lost in Alaska and racing in the Ididerod as a result of eating ice cream and ...sled dogs it was. Dinner that night was more pasta and greatness.
The next morning on the way to the train, we passed an open-air market and bought pastries, risotto cakes, and coffee and ate a wonderful breakfast en route to Bern (in the German part of Switzerland...begin Oli's lifesaving in speaking German, I've never felt more clueless...or ignorant). Turns out that it was much cheaper to go straight there and would save time rather than passing back through Geneva. Standing on the balcony of the hotel, overlooking the main street and station in Bern, we decided what to do that evening and settled on going to see the bears (they have 2 babies and 2 parents who roll around on the hillside by the river all day because the bear is the symbol of Bern), finding the American embassy, and getting some dinner. We walked for a while and finally came to the embassy, only to discover once again that it was about 5 mintues from the hotel, and that night at dinner, I had my first encounter with spetzel. I'd equate it to Bavarian macaroni and cheese? Mmm. I also tried "white sausage," but wasn't too keen on the rubbery links served in a bowl of hot water...
The next morning, I went to the Starbucks to use the free wifi (although when you have to pay 4.50 swiss francs for a tall tea, I don't know how "free" the internet really is...) with the expectation of being there for hours and hours while Oli was at the embassy for the visa appointment. Au contraire, an hour later he returned with the news that he could pick it up after 4 the next day. Easy as pie. Deciding that we had pretty much seen what there is to see in Bern, we debated another destination in Switzerland that wasn't too far, decided on Interlaken, and again paid a visit to lastminute.com. An hour later, we were on our way. Turns out it was again much cheaper to just do that than go back to Geneva to get more clothes, etc. After all, what was an extra day away, right?
We got to Interlaken, found our hotel (not a hard task since it was the biggest, ugliest building there...not to take anything away from it), and sat on our full balcony with our "imported" Italian wine we had from Milan, surrounded on all sides by Alps. It's a rough life we lead. The next day, we took a train, cable car, and smaller train up to the little ski village of Murren and found a magical cafe with a huge terrace RIGHT in the middle of the Alps with an perfect view of Jungfrau. I don't think the splendor of those mountains will ever get old. There's something so terrifyingly intimidating and imposing about them that is absolutely awe inspiring-not really sure how else to describe it. And while we couldn't go skiing, there was still tons of snow on the ground, but it was hot enough for short sleeves. Perfection.
It was back to the familiar sights of Bern that afternoon, picked up a brand new visa, and were off again to book tickets to Munich. It was once again cheaper/faster to go straight there rather than pass back through Geneva, so we took our bags with clothes enough for 2 days and caught a train to Munich. Sitting across from us was a nice young girl who lived there and told us all the best places to go for currywurst, beergartens, and electronica music (no, we never quite made it to the latter suggestions...). It was nice to have all sorts of connections in Munich (next time, Kristin), including Oli's sister and boyfriend-fluent in German and former inhabitant of the city. The one time lastminute.com failed us was in saying that our hotel here (another "top secret") was close to the city center. After getting to the hauptbahnhof, realizing that our U-bahn was no longer running, taking a different one, and walking 20 minutes through residential Munich from the last stop on our line, we were at our hotel...the Holiday Inn. Granted, it was a very nice Holiday Inn, but nonetheless, not the 4 star super secret deal we were hoping for. We could have said this week had been roughing it but then decided that being disappointed by a Holiday Inn didn't quite meet the requirements.
The next morning, we met Kate in the Marionplatz (main square) and let her take us around for the day (only after stopping at one of the 5 H&Ms on the main street to buy some new pants for Oli that didn't have a hole in the crotch and some new clothes for me that were...clean? Right. Anyhow, we climbed to the top of the cathedral, ate goat cheese and thyme-honey salad, saw the cuckoo clock go off, and stopped at the outdoor market to buy fresh dips, bread and fruit to bring to the beergarten that evening. Beergartens are really something that America needs (or maybe not?). Essentially, you order a liter of beer that comes in mugs too heavy to hold and bring food, sit at picnic tables outside, and just talk and enjoy...no rush, no waiters, no reservations. It was really a wonderful atmosphere.
Day 2, we went to the bahnhof in the morning and bought a group ticket (25 euros for up to 5 people and a return trip...get with the program, Switzerland) to Garmisch, a little Alpine town an hour and a half outside of Munich. We walked up a mountain to a cafe (alm?) probably about halfway up, but given my lack of preparedness for the trip, in general, my pathetic little Tory Burch flats made my feet feel like I had just climbed Mt. Everest. It was completely worth it, though. More spetzel and a view of the entire town below and surrounding Alps. That evening, after literally INHALING two loaves of Turkish bread and what Oli falsely translated from German as "chicken" (fish) for fear of missing the show, we sprinted to the venue where Frightened Rabbit was playing that night and made it, feeling like I was about to vomit, with...20 minutes to spare. False alarm.
Bavarian breakfast at a cafe, nearly being mauled by a very angry St. Bernard, finally buying some Mozart Kugeln (literally, Mozart balls...hazelnut, chocolate, and marzipan), and we were back on a train to Geneva. What was originally supposed to be a 2 day trip turned into a week long adventure, but covering 5 cities felt like quite the accomplishment...
Olivier, as he came to be know avec host family, paid a visit back to his homeland to renew his visa over the Easter holiday. Turns out, we live in a very silly country (who knew?), and the US won't let you renew a US visa in the US. But Swizterland, being the carefree country that it is, lets you renew the visa AND pick it up in person (apparently rare?) at their consulate in Bern, about an hour north of Geneva.
Oli arrived early on the morning of the 2nd, to be introduced to the wonderful world of Yens, the BAM, the trek up the hill (with luggage), and finally, host family. That afternoon, amidst jetlag and exhaustion, we trekked through the fields behind my house and met Gabriel, T.Chang's host dad and the jolliest man you'll ever meet, to go for a ride in his horse-drawn cart with the other kids on my program who live in Yens. It was wonderful and finished in the middle of the woods around a fire with cups of hot tea and fresh bread. We also found our future campsite for this next weekend...
The next day, we woke up and, due to a certain someone's acute asthma and allergies to pet hair (Igor), dust (my basement room), and down (duvet and pillows)-my room was a fail, we decided it was time to leave. So, I was introduced to a magical website called lastminute.com. We contemplated Paris but had both already been, and Oli had yet to see Italy. Milan has gotten a bad rap from pretty much everyone I know, but it was reachable by train and the price was right, so Milan it was. Lastminute.com has these deals called "top secret hotels" where they don't tell you the name, phone number, or reviews of the hotel. Just the location and the star rating. Kind of sketchy BUT, search Milan and find a 5 star hotel in the center of the city for 120 pounds for 2 nights. Booked it. Minutes after, we got an email thanking us for our reservation at the Westin Palace. Within an hour we had packed bags with clothes enough for 2 days in Italy (with intentions of coming back to Geneva before going to Bern for the visa appointment) and were off to the train station for tickets and to the Old City for lunch. Such jet(train)setters.
We pulled in to Milano Centrale around 10:30 that night and, having been idiots and not written down the name, number, or address of the hotel, wandered around aimlessly for over an hour looking for the place, only to find out that it was a 5 minute walk from the station...we had just come out the wrong side. We walked in to the marbled lobby, checked in, were upgraded to a deluxe suite for free, and went to our room (palace?). It had a foyer, jacuzzi, bathrobes, a huge window that opened out to a quaint side street, and a bed bigger than my house. I was in heaven. We decided to take advantage of the place and use the concierge, granted with some hesitation because our aim was cheap authentic Italian food. After calling about 5 places to hear that they were closed, the concierge finally got through, said some magic words, and told us where to go. Smoked salmon and goat cheese, 2 plates of pasta, tiramisu, and a carafe of wine later, we were full, satisfied, and not much poorer. Way to go, Westin man, you did us well.
The next day, we woke up to rain and Easter morning church bells. Again taking the advice of concierge-man, we went to Bianco Latte, one of the few cafes open that morning and ate a fantastic breakfast before heading out to see what Milan actually had to offer which, despite the rain, was actually quite a lot. I don't know if it's because I'm a city person, because I love Italy, because I love shopping, whatever...I think Milan is great. We saw La Scala theatre, Il Duomo, a huge old castle, a museum (that was FREE) that we stumbled upon completely by accident, and just wandered through the streets past stores I'm too broke to even walk in to. It's no Rome or Venice, but in many respects, I think that's exactly why I liked it. The other cities obviously have their draw and should be seen, but I wouldn't be so quick to discount Milan. There were very few tourists, and you pretty much had to fend for yourself as far as getting the most out of the day...no hoards of tour groups marking an obvious attraction and no men trying to sell you things on every corner. Finally. On the way back to the hotel before dinner, rain-soaked and sodden, we stopped and bought a huge tub of gelato to take back. Biscotti is officially my favorite flavor. Back in the hotel and out of the rain, we took a break to eat the gelato and relax a bit. The only 2 tv channels in English were MTV (and after watching one-i.e. one too many-episodes of "Rock of Love" the night before, that wasn't an option) and some channel showing a Disney movie about golden retriever puppies being lost in Alaska and racing in the Ididerod as a result of eating ice cream and ...sled dogs it was. Dinner that night was more pasta and greatness.
The next morning on the way to the train, we passed an open-air market and bought pastries, risotto cakes, and coffee and ate a wonderful breakfast en route to Bern (in the German part of Switzerland...begin Oli's lifesaving in speaking German, I've never felt more clueless...or ignorant). Turns out that it was much cheaper to go straight there and would save time rather than passing back through Geneva. Standing on the balcony of the hotel, overlooking the main street and station in Bern, we decided what to do that evening and settled on going to see the bears (they have 2 babies and 2 parents who roll around on the hillside by the river all day because the bear is the symbol of Bern), finding the American embassy, and getting some dinner. We walked for a while and finally came to the embassy, only to discover once again that it was about 5 mintues from the hotel, and that night at dinner, I had my first encounter with spetzel. I'd equate it to Bavarian macaroni and cheese? Mmm. I also tried "white sausage," but wasn't too keen on the rubbery links served in a bowl of hot water...
The next morning, I went to the Starbucks to use the free wifi (although when you have to pay 4.50 swiss francs for a tall tea, I don't know how "free" the internet really is...) with the expectation of being there for hours and hours while Oli was at the embassy for the visa appointment. Au contraire, an hour later he returned with the news that he could pick it up after 4 the next day. Easy as pie. Deciding that we had pretty much seen what there is to see in Bern, we debated another destination in Switzerland that wasn't too far, decided on Interlaken, and again paid a visit to lastminute.com. An hour later, we were on our way. Turns out it was again much cheaper to just do that than go back to Geneva to get more clothes, etc. After all, what was an extra day away, right?
We got to Interlaken, found our hotel (not a hard task since it was the biggest, ugliest building there...not to take anything away from it), and sat on our full balcony with our "imported" Italian wine we had from Milan, surrounded on all sides by Alps. It's a rough life we lead. The next day, we took a train, cable car, and smaller train up to the little ski village of Murren and found a magical cafe with a huge terrace RIGHT in the middle of the Alps with an perfect view of Jungfrau. I don't think the splendor of those mountains will ever get old. There's something so terrifyingly intimidating and imposing about them that is absolutely awe inspiring-not really sure how else to describe it. And while we couldn't go skiing, there was still tons of snow on the ground, but it was hot enough for short sleeves. Perfection.
It was back to the familiar sights of Bern that afternoon, picked up a brand new visa, and were off again to book tickets to Munich. It was once again cheaper/faster to go straight there rather than pass back through Geneva, so we took our bags with clothes enough for 2 days and caught a train to Munich. Sitting across from us was a nice young girl who lived there and told us all the best places to go for currywurst, beergartens, and electronica music (no, we never quite made it to the latter suggestions...). It was nice to have all sorts of connections in Munich (next time, Kristin), including Oli's sister and boyfriend-fluent in German and former inhabitant of the city. The one time lastminute.com failed us was in saying that our hotel here (another "top secret") was close to the city center. After getting to the hauptbahnhof, realizing that our U-bahn was no longer running, taking a different one, and walking 20 minutes through residential Munich from the last stop on our line, we were at our hotel...the Holiday Inn. Granted, it was a very nice Holiday Inn, but nonetheless, not the 4 star super secret deal we were hoping for. We could have said this week had been roughing it but then decided that being disappointed by a Holiday Inn didn't quite meet the requirements.
The next morning, we met Kate in the Marionplatz (main square) and let her take us around for the day (only after stopping at one of the 5 H&Ms on the main street to buy some new pants for Oli that didn't have a hole in the crotch and some new clothes for me that were...clean? Right. Anyhow, we climbed to the top of the cathedral, ate goat cheese and thyme-honey salad, saw the cuckoo clock go off, and stopped at the outdoor market to buy fresh dips, bread and fruit to bring to the beergarten that evening. Beergartens are really something that America needs (or maybe not?). Essentially, you order a liter of beer that comes in mugs too heavy to hold and bring food, sit at picnic tables outside, and just talk and enjoy...no rush, no waiters, no reservations. It was really a wonderful atmosphere.
Day 2, we went to the bahnhof in the morning and bought a group ticket (25 euros for up to 5 people and a return trip...get with the program, Switzerland) to Garmisch, a little Alpine town an hour and a half outside of Munich. We walked up a mountain to a cafe (alm?) probably about halfway up, but given my lack of preparedness for the trip, in general, my pathetic little Tory Burch flats made my feet feel like I had just climbed Mt. Everest. It was completely worth it, though. More spetzel and a view of the entire town below and surrounding Alps. That evening, after literally INHALING two loaves of Turkish bread and what Oli falsely translated from German as "chicken" (fish) for fear of missing the show, we sprinted to the venue where Frightened Rabbit was playing that night and made it, feeling like I was about to vomit, with...20 minutes to spare. False alarm.
Bavarian breakfast at a cafe, nearly being mauled by a very angry St. Bernard, finally buying some Mozart Kugeln (literally, Mozart balls...hazelnut, chocolate, and marzipan), and we were back on a train to Geneva. What was originally supposed to be a 2 day trip turned into a week long adventure, but covering 5 cities felt like quite the accomplishment...
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