I don't like that song. I don't really care for Bon Jovi. However, I still reference the idea of this song once in a while. Anyway, who did say you can't go home? Unless you've committed serious enough crimes and aren't allowed in your home state (I know of someone in that catagory), you can always go home. Sure, it might be awkward. Or boring. You may cross the city line and begin to digress to your younger years, but you can still always go home. Revert to being someone's child instead of the independent island of the world beyond; there's nothing like baking cookies with Mom, as she yells at you to stop eating all the dough.
Recently, I have developed the unfortunate habit of waxing poetic over, oh, everything. For the sake of all others who can't take the sappiness, let's just say, I'm glad to be home. And for all of my loyal readers (all four of you), I think I might keep writing. Who knows about what, but now you have something to look forward to in your lives ;)
I'm off on another adventure in just a few short hours; that just might be the inspiration needed.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Monday, June 11, 2007
I'm Home
I made it.
I slipped into the U.S. just in time to miss the computer melt down that delayed so many others.
I'm so happy!
...and I go to Albany on Thursday :)
I slipped into the U.S. just in time to miss the computer melt down that delayed so many others.
I'm so happy!
...and I go to Albany on Thursday :)
Friday, June 8, 2007
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
This Week is Brought to You by the Letter B, Part II: Belgium
Saturday, June 2: approx. 3 PM
Molly ims me: “Do you wanna go to Bruges for the day like Sully and Torie are doing?”
Me: “Sure, what does Kristen think?”
Molly: “She said yes, now we can plan.”
Me: “Ok, we can discsus before we go out tonight.”
10:36 PM Plans are set, we are meeting at the VVV at 6 AM; we’ll catch the 6:26 train, spend the day, and we just have to be on the last train to Amsterdam, which is shortly before 10 PM. Great, now off to coffeeshops and Durty Nelly’s to play pool.
Sunday, June 3
1 AM I go to bed.
4:30 AM My alarm frightens the life out of me.
4:44 AM I’m eating cheese ravolis, in hopes that having some protein will mean I won’t be hungry in ten minutes.
6:08 AM I’m Centraal, and my stomach is rumbling. I curse inwardly and get on the train.
8 something AM Molly wakes me up in Antwerp to transfer trains.
10:07 AM We are in Bruges, Beligum!
1030 AM – 4 PM We climb the Belfort tower, go to the Chocolate factory, have some waffles, see a bunch of other cool buildings.
4-5 PM Brewery tour with an incredibly sexist tour guide. My favorite:
“Now this would be used for bottling beer. The beer would be poured into this trough, while a bottle would be put on each of these tubes. Now, the worker would have to suck on the tubes to start the flow of beer.
*Pause*
Not a job for men, eh?”
He spent a vast amount of time cracking jokes about importing shitty beer to the UK, hitting on the ladies in the group, and being all about beer happy.
The free beer at the end was good stuff; unfiltered, fresh from the barrel stock. I was tipsy half way through my glass.
6:06 PM We’re sitting in Bruges oldest pub, 1515. I’m drinking raspberry beer now. Every brand of beer have a different cup in Beligum. These people do not dick around about their beer or chocolate. Now I've got a nice buzz on, and I’m informed we have one more bar to frequent.
7ish PM After being thrown off track by closed food establishments, we are in a bar which boasts 235 types of beer. Think of all those glasses. A tosti and a peach beer, and I’m ready for the train back to Amstedam!
7:54 PM The train locks the door and doesn’t sound the whistle, while we helplessly jab the door button and whine.
8:06 PM Kristen: “We don’t even have an hour to wait guys!”
Meanwhile, I accompanied by my beer buzz, am in all out emo mode.
8:50 PM Buzz is gone and I’ve stopped being emo. Sweet. But our train is supposed to leave in 5 minutes and its not here…
8:55 PM We are on the train, thank Christ. We have two transfers, but since I stayed awake to watch for stops this morning, I’m afforded sleep. Thank Christ again.
10:31 PM We transfer in Antwerp
11:42 PM We’re in Rotterdam. I have exactly zero cash on me – oh wait, I have 2 euro cents. I am frantic – I literally run outside to the ATM, withdraw money for the rest of my time in Europe, buy us water and run to the platform…to wait.
12:11 AM We depart Rotterdam.
12:56 AM We are startled by a loud banging sound in the entrance of the train. It keeps happening. Can’t see much from our seats, not that we are going to venture too far toward it. A moment of silence, then a woman sobbing. Kristen and I head to the end of the compartment and can’t see anything tramatic occurring. Oh well…?
1:04 AM I have decided its legally unsafe for me to be out, on public transportation, at this time of night. In retrospect, I don’t know how it would be “legally unsafe,” but shit, I was le tired!
1:18 AM Molly graces us with a passage from her book, The Undutchables, that states the public urinals (i.e. the grey ones near Centraal, Leidseplein, etc) are actually made for use by both genders. A lively debate over the logistics of this ensues. I didn’t want to talk about then, and I don’t want to talk about it now.
1:27 AM We talk about the Dutch failing the Jews in the Holocaust. Mmm, lively conversation, friends.
1:29 AM We analyze the organizational patterns – or lack there of – of Molly’s undergarments. It appears some migration has occured. We should really stop talking.
1:35 AM We arrive in Amsterdam!
Six minutes later: “I can’t see our bikes from here.”
1:50 AM Crisis averted, I arrive at Prinsengracht – on my bike. Now I have to collect, bag, and take all the trash out, boo.
1:54 AM Disrobe…and pass out about an hour later.
Total day expenses: 100 euro
Hours on train: 8
Transfers: 3
Pictures taken: 50
Molly ims me: “Do you wanna go to Bruges for the day like Sully and Torie are doing?”
Me: “Sure, what does Kristen think?”
Molly: “She said yes, now we can plan.”
Me: “Ok, we can discsus before we go out tonight.”
10:36 PM Plans are set, we are meeting at the VVV at 6 AM; we’ll catch the 6:26 train, spend the day, and we just have to be on the last train to Amsterdam, which is shortly before 10 PM. Great, now off to coffeeshops and Durty Nelly’s to play pool.
Sunday, June 3
1 AM I go to bed.
4:30 AM My alarm frightens the life out of me.
4:44 AM I’m eating cheese ravolis, in hopes that having some protein will mean I won’t be hungry in ten minutes.
6:08 AM I’m Centraal, and my stomach is rumbling. I curse inwardly and get on the train.
8 something AM Molly wakes me up in Antwerp to transfer trains.
10:07 AM We are in Bruges, Beligum!
1030 AM – 4 PM We climb the Belfort tower, go to the Chocolate factory, have some waffles, see a bunch of other cool buildings.
4-5 PM Brewery tour with an incredibly sexist tour guide. My favorite:
“Now this would be used for bottling beer. The beer would be poured into this trough, while a bottle would be put on each of these tubes. Now, the worker would have to suck on the tubes to start the flow of beer.
*Pause*
Not a job for men, eh?”
He spent a vast amount of time cracking jokes about importing shitty beer to the UK, hitting on the ladies in the group, and being all about beer happy.
The free beer at the end was good stuff; unfiltered, fresh from the barrel stock. I was tipsy half way through my glass.
6:06 PM We’re sitting in Bruges oldest pub, 1515. I’m drinking raspberry beer now. Every brand of beer have a different cup in Beligum. These people do not dick around about their beer or chocolate. Now I've got a nice buzz on, and I’m informed we have one more bar to frequent.
7ish PM After being thrown off track by closed food establishments, we are in a bar which boasts 235 types of beer. Think of all those glasses. A tosti and a peach beer, and I’m ready for the train back to Amstedam!
7:54 PM The train locks the door and doesn’t sound the whistle, while we helplessly jab the door button and whine.
8:06 PM Kristen: “We don’t even have an hour to wait guys!”
Meanwhile, I accompanied by my beer buzz, am in all out emo mode.
8:50 PM Buzz is gone and I’ve stopped being emo. Sweet. But our train is supposed to leave in 5 minutes and its not here…
8:55 PM We are on the train, thank Christ. We have two transfers, but since I stayed awake to watch for stops this morning, I’m afforded sleep. Thank Christ again.
10:31 PM We transfer in Antwerp
11:42 PM We’re in Rotterdam. I have exactly zero cash on me – oh wait, I have 2 euro cents. I am frantic – I literally run outside to the ATM, withdraw money for the rest of my time in Europe, buy us water and run to the platform…to wait.
12:11 AM We depart Rotterdam.
12:56 AM We are startled by a loud banging sound in the entrance of the train. It keeps happening. Can’t see much from our seats, not that we are going to venture too far toward it. A moment of silence, then a woman sobbing. Kristen and I head to the end of the compartment and can’t see anything tramatic occurring. Oh well…?
1:04 AM I have decided its legally unsafe for me to be out, on public transportation, at this time of night. In retrospect, I don’t know how it would be “legally unsafe,” but shit, I was le tired!
1:18 AM Molly graces us with a passage from her book, The Undutchables, that states the public urinals (i.e. the grey ones near Centraal, Leidseplein, etc) are actually made for use by both genders. A lively debate over the logistics of this ensues. I didn’t want to talk about then, and I don’t want to talk about it now.
1:27 AM We talk about the Dutch failing the Jews in the Holocaust. Mmm, lively conversation, friends.
1:29 AM We analyze the organizational patterns – or lack there of – of Molly’s undergarments. It appears some migration has occured. We should really stop talking.
1:35 AM We arrive in Amsterdam!
Six minutes later: “I can’t see our bikes from here.”
1:50 AM Crisis averted, I arrive at Prinsengracht – on my bike. Now I have to collect, bag, and take all the trash out, boo.
1:54 AM Disrobe…and pass out about an hour later.
Total day expenses: 100 euro
Hours on train: 8
Transfers: 3
Pictures taken: 50
Monday, June 4, 2007
This week is brought to you by the letter B: Barcelona
This week is brought to you by the letter B: Barcelona, Booze, Bruges, Belgium, Breweries, bread, beer, buses, bastard (waiters, that is), Belgian (waffles and chocolate), break dancers, beach, and bad decisions.
Barcelona: a three day trip planned on the basis that I wanted to see Gaudi works in person. The fact that its on the Mediterranean Sea just happens to be a bonus. Also; Spain = Sangria. ...Only the best I've ever had.
We landed around midnight, and managed to get to our hostel without too much trouble. We were located in one of the busiest plazas in the city, with constant partying, drinking, and general all around carousing were always in progress. The Kabul Hostel was arguably the nicest hostel we stayed in throughout our Eurotrip, but it was still a hostel. See, also: drunken guys puking in the doorway of the girls’ bathroom at 1 AM…and management not cleaning it up until 830 the next morning.
Despite the unpleasant environment and the lack of sleep, we arose bright and early on Wednesday to begin the “Maria needs to see all the Gaudi she can get to” adventure. Our main goal was to climb to Parc Guell – an undertaking that several other hostel stayers had warned us was going to be less than gentle. Armed with a map and two very good sports, I led up to the Parc, pausing along the way to see the Casa Batillo and Mila.
Parc Guell was beautiful; organic curves throughout adorned with sparkling mosaics, Gaudi’s style is uniquely breathtaking. The Parc and the view of Barcelona below were both truly worth the walk.
The Gaudi-Maria love fest continued the next day, with a tour of the Sagrada Familia, or the Holy Family Cathedral. Still in construction – now in its 125th year or so – the Cathedral is a monumental Modernist structure, which is supposed to have 18 steeples when complete. Completion date? 30 – 80 years.
Segueing right to the ridiculous adventure-filled part of the trip, we make new friends – again. I am totally honest when I say I don’t like making new friends, especially foreign male “friends.” Let’s just say, I’m pretty sure this Ecuadorian street performer (he was actually quite good at break dancing) was looking for a sugar mama. They always know how to pick me out; I have experience as one, you know.
Molly home sick in bed, Kristen and I sat to watch them perform like the total tourists we can be. By the time they were through, they waved us over. One, told me I was beautiful and proceeded to kiss me. This prompted a mental letter.
Dear American Men,
I forgive you; you aren’t really that bad.
Love,
Maria.
Furthermore:
Dear European/South American/ETC Men,
Please learn what “law suit” means, and act accordingly.
Kind Regards,
Maria – and her lawyer.
“Beautiful” and “I love you” appear to be all the English he knows. Supposedly, they are all brothers, the oldest has been in Barcelona five years; the other two have been here five days.
Since I obviously don’t learn, and I’m amused I can understand some Spanish, I agree to hanging out the next night. Of the three guys, the oldest speaks a little English, so he and Kristen are the main communicators for all of six of us, though I discover I can translate some, and end up doing so for Molly. Molly just responds in French; and I love her for it.
The evening progresses into the regular shit show that is our lives, during which Molly and I used “law suit” in conversation regularly before finally heading home. Not before, my new friend asks me if I’m single, then proclaims me taken (Kristen “Maria doesn’t like being told her relationship status by others.”), promises he’ll know English when I come back in a year or two (who said I was coming back), and asks my parents’ names, which worries and confuses me.
Foregin language overload hits its threshold around 1 AM or so, and Molly and I depart hand in hand, done with this adventure. We’re all in bed by 2 AM, only to be woken by a very loud trio of very drunken Frenchmen at 5. Then by the shattering of glass as the recycling bins are emptied at 7. We drag ourselves out of bed around 9 to go to the beach. Now remember, we are in a 8 man dorm. It’s the three of us, the French alky trio, and two other girls. Beach preparation is in session; Kristen is topless…and in comes the French! And out they go, doubly as fast. After clothing herself, she welcomes them in, and we all continue to get ready, while Molly eavesdrops on their French. The one lucky fellow is currently recounting to his friends the glimpse he caught. Packed and ready to go, Molly passes them in the hallway, wishing them a fun voyage – in French. A weak “merci” follows the stunned silence. Shazam, mofos! And if the adventures and mishaps aren’t numerous enough, the airport provides us with the crowning glory.
We always make jokes about “those assholes” whose names have to be announced throughout the airport because they are delaying the flight. The Schiphol lady is a ruthless voice from the sky, demanding “your immediate boarding, or they will begin to offload your luggage.” With a delayed flight – I know how to pick them – we head upstairs to get food, over 40 minutes before our flight. We walk back into an empty terminal, as I hear “passengers Hodavance, Segala…” Oh shit! We run to the bus (we had to be bussed out to the plane) and realize we have become “those assholes.” My accomplishments this semester are complete.
Barcelona: a three day trip planned on the basis that I wanted to see Gaudi works in person. The fact that its on the Mediterranean Sea just happens to be a bonus. Also; Spain = Sangria. ...Only the best I've ever had.
We landed around midnight, and managed to get to our hostel without too much trouble. We were located in one of the busiest plazas in the city, with constant partying, drinking, and general all around carousing were always in progress. The Kabul Hostel was arguably the nicest hostel we stayed in throughout our Eurotrip, but it was still a hostel. See, also: drunken guys puking in the doorway of the girls’ bathroom at 1 AM…and management not cleaning it up until 830 the next morning.
Despite the unpleasant environment and the lack of sleep, we arose bright and early on Wednesday to begin the “Maria needs to see all the Gaudi she can get to” adventure. Our main goal was to climb to Parc Guell – an undertaking that several other hostel stayers had warned us was going to be less than gentle. Armed with a map and two very good sports, I led up to the Parc, pausing along the way to see the Casa Batillo and Mila.
Parc Guell was beautiful; organic curves throughout adorned with sparkling mosaics, Gaudi’s style is uniquely breathtaking. The Parc and the view of Barcelona below were both truly worth the walk.
The Gaudi-Maria love fest continued the next day, with a tour of the Sagrada Familia, or the Holy Family Cathedral. Still in construction – now in its 125th year or so – the Cathedral is a monumental Modernist structure, which is supposed to have 18 steeples when complete. Completion date? 30 – 80 years.
Segueing right to the ridiculous adventure-filled part of the trip, we make new friends – again. I am totally honest when I say I don’t like making new friends, especially foreign male “friends.” Let’s just say, I’m pretty sure this Ecuadorian street performer (he was actually quite good at break dancing) was looking for a sugar mama. They always know how to pick me out; I have experience as one, you know.
Molly home sick in bed, Kristen and I sat to watch them perform like the total tourists we can be. By the time they were through, they waved us over. One, told me I was beautiful and proceeded to kiss me. This prompted a mental letter.
Dear American Men,
I forgive you; you aren’t really that bad.
Love,
Maria.
Furthermore:
Dear European/South American/ETC Men,
Please learn what “law suit” means, and act accordingly.
Kind Regards,
Maria – and her lawyer.
“Beautiful” and “I love you” appear to be all the English he knows. Supposedly, they are all brothers, the oldest has been in Barcelona five years; the other two have been here five days.
Since I obviously don’t learn, and I’m amused I can understand some Spanish, I agree to hanging out the next night. Of the three guys, the oldest speaks a little English, so he and Kristen are the main communicators for all of six of us, though I discover I can translate some, and end up doing so for Molly. Molly just responds in French; and I love her for it.
The evening progresses into the regular shit show that is our lives, during which Molly and I used “law suit” in conversation regularly before finally heading home. Not before, my new friend asks me if I’m single, then proclaims me taken (Kristen “Maria doesn’t like being told her relationship status by others.”), promises he’ll know English when I come back in a year or two (who said I was coming back), and asks my parents’ names, which worries and confuses me.
Foregin language overload hits its threshold around 1 AM or so, and Molly and I depart hand in hand, done with this adventure. We’re all in bed by 2 AM, only to be woken by a very loud trio of very drunken Frenchmen at 5. Then by the shattering of glass as the recycling bins are emptied at 7. We drag ourselves out of bed around 9 to go to the beach. Now remember, we are in a 8 man dorm. It’s the three of us, the French alky trio, and two other girls. Beach preparation is in session; Kristen is topless…and in comes the French! And out they go, doubly as fast. After clothing herself, she welcomes them in, and we all continue to get ready, while Molly eavesdrops on their French. The one lucky fellow is currently recounting to his friends the glimpse he caught. Packed and ready to go, Molly passes them in the hallway, wishing them a fun voyage – in French. A weak “merci” follows the stunned silence. Shazam, mofos! And if the adventures and mishaps aren’t numerous enough, the airport provides us with the crowning glory.
We always make jokes about “those assholes” whose names have to be announced throughout the airport because they are delaying the flight. The Schiphol lady is a ruthless voice from the sky, demanding “your immediate boarding, or they will begin to offload your luggage.” With a delayed flight – I know how to pick them – we head upstairs to get food, over 40 minutes before our flight. We walk back into an empty terminal, as I hear “passengers Hodavance, Segala…” Oh shit! We run to the bus (we had to be bussed out to the plane) and realize we have become “those assholes.” My accomplishments this semester are complete.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
And, you know its time to go home when…
James Taylor’s reference to the Mass Turnpike unexpectedly brings tears to your eyes.
You use the phrase “law suit” around foreign guys as a tip off to your friends to interfere – with force.
You recognize the homeless/junkies/street performers in the Dam. You know their schedule. That means they probably know the same about you. Above tip may or may not be useful in this case.
There are moments in which you don’t hate all house music with an undying passion. Then you sober up, and want to gouge your own eyes out in punishment.
It physically hurts - totally, undeniably, truly hurts to look at your bank account balance. To even approach it, it requires at least 5 drinks and several friends to console you.
You use the phrase “law suit” around foreign guys as a tip off to your friends to interfere – with force.
You recognize the homeless/junkies/street performers in the Dam. You know their schedule. That means they probably know the same about you. Above tip may or may not be useful in this case.
There are moments in which you don’t hate all house music with an undying passion. Then you sober up, and want to gouge your own eyes out in punishment.
It physically hurts - totally, undeniably, truly hurts to look at your bank account balance. To even approach it, it requires at least 5 drinks and several friends to console you.
You may have been in Europe too long when...
Man purses are not only acceptable, but an integral part of an individual’s outfit.
You haven't been in an auto, much less driven one, in 5 months...and all you're concerned about is securely locking your bike to a friend's when you go out at night.
You go to thank someone and hesitate: Dutch, French, or Spanish? What language is this person expecting? Interestingly enough, your own English tongue never even comes to mind.
Continuing in that strain, you now can't respond to simple exchanges in anything but your host country's language.
You long ago stopped considering the exchange rate. The Euro is King, but shit it sucks the Netherlands doesn’t use the 1 and 2 cent pieces. (On the upside, you will feel rich when you return to the American dollar.)
Low carb diets are but a faint nightmare from a past life; bread at breakfast, lunch, and dinner? Well, duh. It should probably have cheese and/or chocolate with it, too. And it seems totally normal.
You haven't been in an auto, much less driven one, in 5 months...and all you're concerned about is securely locking your bike to a friend's when you go out at night.
You go to thank someone and hesitate: Dutch, French, or Spanish? What language is this person expecting? Interestingly enough, your own English tongue never even comes to mind.
Continuing in that strain, you now can't respond to simple exchanges in anything but your host country's language.
You long ago stopped considering the exchange rate. The Euro is King, but shit it sucks the Netherlands doesn’t use the 1 and 2 cent pieces. (On the upside, you will feel rich when you return to the American dollar.)
Low carb diets are but a faint nightmare from a past life; bread at breakfast, lunch, and dinner? Well, duh. It should probably have cheese and/or chocolate with it, too. And it seems totally normal.
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