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.
Showing posts with label beaches. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beaches. Show all posts
Monday, June 4, 2007
Monday, May 28, 2007
"He just sat down in front of the bus"
“I tried to be like Grace Kelly…” the Mika song provided company as I readied for the day. For only a 1.30 euro, you can take the bus from Nice, France, to Monte Carlo, Monaco. That is, for around two American dollars, you can take a day trip to another country. I guess the inhabitants of Montpelier, Vermont can do the same too, all 17 of them.
The traffic from Nice to Monaco is ever present and steady; it’s a great way to get to know your fellow tourists, as you stand within a few sparse centimeters from them. It is unfortunate that some Europeans believe daily deodorant application to be optional.
Thankfully, the promise of the day’s adventure lay at our feet; a true comfort to look forward to while stuck on the bus.
Arriving in Monaco, we practically stepped off the bus and into casino grounds. Famous – or infamous – for its James Bond-esque lifestyle and residents, Monaco is a tax haven and thus attracts the wealthy from all over. Note the constant growl of Ferraris in downtown Monte Carlo; the air smells like money.
We immediately made the climb to the Royal Palace, which is still the ruling family’s residence. The changing of the guard, with all the pomp and circumstance necessary was the soundtrack to our lunch, before we embarked inside.
The palace is stunning, with a wealth of Louis XIII and XIV fabrics, furniture, and design. After the grand tour, the requisite family portraits, and a guided audio history, we emerged, experts on the Monaco Monarchy. This really means, I had a listen of things to google / wikipedia when I returned to A’dam. Continuing with the theme at hand, we visited the Royal Cathedral, where Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier III were wed, and now both lie in tombs behind the altar. I’ve seen around a dozen churches, chapels, cathedrals in my time in Europe, and about a half dozen famous peoples’ tombs. I’m not sure what this says about my level of morbid curiosity, but I’m surely not alone in this interest.
Monaco is a beautiful country, with houses scattered across the rolling hillsides, overlooking the crisp azure Mediterranean. Its one of those locales that every building, regardless of its use, is exquisitely designed and adorned. The Aquarium was no exception. The interior did not disappoint either; sights included a multilevel coral reef exhibition, diagrams of the water system (it pumps water directly in from the nearby sea), and a swirling column of fish. With several dozen carefully steadied, no flash pictures on the memory card (they don’t like flash, I can tell, really!) we reentered the sunshine to make our way leisurely back to the bus stop. After a slight hassle, we found the bus stop that headed back to Nice. We discovered that about 50 other people had also found this bus stop. Seven minutes late (European buses tend to be right on time), the bus had no sooner opened its doors before scores of tired, overheated, and grumpy people began to flood the door. The four of us almost backed out, in exchange for the next bus, but it seemed risky to wait, and we waded into to the mass of humanity This wasn’t the first time I experienced European rudeness and it wouldn’t unfortunately be the last. At this point, my only goal was to get on that bus. We made it, and I ended up uncomfortably close to this guy sitting on one of the wheel wells for a while. When the small children across the way got off, I crawled between the chairs and a pole to sit on the opposite wheel well.
As the proposed 45 minute trip slowly dragged into an hour and beyond, we are still the only chipper group – and the only English speakers, or so we think. At each bus stop, hordes of people rush into the street; at one point, a group of teenagers block the bus’ path, visibly pleading with the driver and even sitting down in the road. All I can see in our future is riots, ala Le Heine. We continue to chat and speculate our own future when a nicely dressed man asks us where were from in the states. Andrew’s a mechanical engineer from Illinois, traveling alone in Nice, before heading off to meet up with some friends in Greece. While he speaks French fluently, he admits to being a little starved for conversation. That, my friend, we can fix –and you may wish you had never asked. We exchange the regular travel stories, getting to know you info, and bets on when we’ll arrive in Nice (that is, if we arrive in Nice).
Miraculously, we do make it back – not too much worse for the wear, with a story to tell, and a new friend tagging along for dinner. Nourishment achieved, we arrange a meeting time and place for later that evening. The night starts at Thor, a Viking themed bar with pints on Andrew, who reassures us that “he has a salary, we’re in college” he remembers how it is, money wise. When the night gets chillier, we head inside to bitch about the 40 minute tracks of House and sing Disney songs. The band finally begins its second set, with none other than “Take on Me.” We rush to the upper floor to celebrate the improvement in music selection. From there out, we dance, we sing, we laugh…until 2:30, when a bar tender hands Molly a plastic cup for her remaining beer and tells us to get out. “Closing Time” is played; it’s just like Lebanon Valley! (Anyone?)
Friday night was Andrew’s last night in Nice before he flew to London for a week. His flight was around 6:30 AM and had no plans of going to bed before that. We went to Wayne’s at 7 to catch the tail end of Happy Hour (noon til nine!) before grabbing some gelato, getting thrown out of the personally dubbed “V.I.P. Room” in another bar so some French kids could take over and then moving to the beach. One thing led to another, and a round of “Truth or Dare” commenced. By the time we left the shore’s edge, I had been in the ocean, clothed, Megan had done her best to find French kids to play “Rock, paper, scissors” with her, and Andrew had done a cartwheel on the extraordinarily unforgiving rocks. Saying good bye to our new friend, Megan, Molly and I headed back to the hostel at 4 AM to catch a few hours of sleep before the next day’s adventure.
The traffic from Nice to Monaco is ever present and steady; it’s a great way to get to know your fellow tourists, as you stand within a few sparse centimeters from them. It is unfortunate that some Europeans believe daily deodorant application to be optional.
Thankfully, the promise of the day’s adventure lay at our feet; a true comfort to look forward to while stuck on the bus.
Arriving in Monaco, we practically stepped off the bus and into casino grounds. Famous – or infamous – for its James Bond-esque lifestyle and residents, Monaco is a tax haven and thus attracts the wealthy from all over. Note the constant growl of Ferraris in downtown Monte Carlo; the air smells like money.
We immediately made the climb to the Royal Palace, which is still the ruling family’s residence. The changing of the guard, with all the pomp and circumstance necessary was the soundtrack to our lunch, before we embarked inside.
The palace is stunning, with a wealth of Louis XIII and XIV fabrics, furniture, and design. After the grand tour, the requisite family portraits, and a guided audio history, we emerged, experts on the Monaco Monarchy. This really means, I had a listen of things to google / wikipedia when I returned to A’dam. Continuing with the theme at hand, we visited the Royal Cathedral, where Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier III were wed, and now both lie in tombs behind the altar. I’ve seen around a dozen churches, chapels, cathedrals in my time in Europe, and about a half dozen famous peoples’ tombs. I’m not sure what this says about my level of morbid curiosity, but I’m surely not alone in this interest.
Monaco is a beautiful country, with houses scattered across the rolling hillsides, overlooking the crisp azure Mediterranean. Its one of those locales that every building, regardless of its use, is exquisitely designed and adorned. The Aquarium was no exception. The interior did not disappoint either; sights included a multilevel coral reef exhibition, diagrams of the water system (it pumps water directly in from the nearby sea), and a swirling column of fish. With several dozen carefully steadied, no flash pictures on the memory card (they don’t like flash, I can tell, really!) we reentered the sunshine to make our way leisurely back to the bus stop. After a slight hassle, we found the bus stop that headed back to Nice. We discovered that about 50 other people had also found this bus stop. Seven minutes late (European buses tend to be right on time), the bus had no sooner opened its doors before scores of tired, overheated, and grumpy people began to flood the door. The four of us almost backed out, in exchange for the next bus, but it seemed risky to wait, and we waded into to the mass of humanity This wasn’t the first time I experienced European rudeness and it wouldn’t unfortunately be the last. At this point, my only goal was to get on that bus. We made it, and I ended up uncomfortably close to this guy sitting on one of the wheel wells for a while. When the small children across the way got off, I crawled between the chairs and a pole to sit on the opposite wheel well.
As the proposed 45 minute trip slowly dragged into an hour and beyond, we are still the only chipper group – and the only English speakers, or so we think. At each bus stop, hordes of people rush into the street; at one point, a group of teenagers block the bus’ path, visibly pleading with the driver and even sitting down in the road. All I can see in our future is riots, ala Le Heine. We continue to chat and speculate our own future when a nicely dressed man asks us where were from in the states. Andrew’s a mechanical engineer from Illinois, traveling alone in Nice, before heading off to meet up with some friends in Greece. While he speaks French fluently, he admits to being a little starved for conversation. That, my friend, we can fix –and you may wish you had never asked. We exchange the regular travel stories, getting to know you info, and bets on when we’ll arrive in Nice (that is, if we arrive in Nice).
Miraculously, we do make it back – not too much worse for the wear, with a story to tell, and a new friend tagging along for dinner. Nourishment achieved, we arrange a meeting time and place for later that evening. The night starts at Thor, a Viking themed bar with pints on Andrew, who reassures us that “he has a salary, we’re in college” he remembers how it is, money wise. When the night gets chillier, we head inside to bitch about the 40 minute tracks of House and sing Disney songs. The band finally begins its second set, with none other than “Take on Me.” We rush to the upper floor to celebrate the improvement in music selection. From there out, we dance, we sing, we laugh…until 2:30, when a bar tender hands Molly a plastic cup for her remaining beer and tells us to get out. “Closing Time” is played; it’s just like Lebanon Valley! (Anyone?)
Friday night was Andrew’s last night in Nice before he flew to London for a week. His flight was around 6:30 AM and had no plans of going to bed before that. We went to Wayne’s at 7 to catch the tail end of Happy Hour (noon til nine!) before grabbing some gelato, getting thrown out of the personally dubbed “V.I.P. Room” in another bar so some French kids could take over and then moving to the beach. One thing led to another, and a round of “Truth or Dare” commenced. By the time we left the shore’s edge, I had been in the ocean, clothed, Megan had done her best to find French kids to play “Rock, paper, scissors” with her, and Andrew had done a cartwheel on the extraordinarily unforgiving rocks. Saying good bye to our new friend, Megan, Molly and I headed back to the hostel at 4 AM to catch a few hours of sleep before the next day’s adventure.
Friday, May 25, 2007
The Hazards of Riviera Life
Friday morning we set out ready to wholly dedicate ourselves to a day at the beach. Megan and I arrived around noon, after the necessary pastry stop and did our best to rearrange the stones into comfortable bedding. Unfortunately, there really is no way to do that, but nevertheless, our spirits never lagged. Armed with books, slathered in sun block, the Mediterranean at our feet, we established our temporary empire. Perfection.
Now the beach is a prime location for people watching and there is, of course the French – or rather, is it European? - tradition of topless sunbathing, which is never as glamorous as American men would like to believe. It is not only the young supple things baring their breasts. Either way, not many sights tend to incite alarm in me, but sitting on the pebbly beach – i.e. perched atop small boulders which were attempting to reroute my spine – I was quite concerned by a vast trend.
Now, in comparison to anyone, I’m pretty white. I walk from the back door to my car, and I have 28 or so new freckles. I leisurely stop to chat with a neighbor for 9 and half minutes, and I’m approaching a lovely shade of rose. As a result, I am a sunscreen Nazi. I wear sunscreen on my face everyday, but when beach time approaches, I only leave shelter after at least three different applications of sunscreen to my face, and then an all over app of at least SPF 30. This is the major leagues.
While we may share some heritage, most French do not share my passion for sun protection. They sail across those rocks, jug of tanning oil in hand, and begin the dousing. After fully shined, they proceed to plant themselves in the correct sunlight and … bake. There is no other way to better describe it, because that’s what is literally occurring. As I gaped in horror at several women the color of Oompa Lumpas prep’ing themselves for the roast, the desire to issue a loud public service announcement arose within me. Despite my best intentions, I managed to restrain myself. So I just kept my mouth shut and applied more lotion.
Now the beach is a prime location for people watching and there is, of course the French – or rather, is it European? - tradition of topless sunbathing, which is never as glamorous as American men would like to believe. It is not only the young supple things baring their breasts. Either way, not many sights tend to incite alarm in me, but sitting on the pebbly beach – i.e. perched atop small boulders which were attempting to reroute my spine – I was quite concerned by a vast trend.
Now, in comparison to anyone, I’m pretty white. I walk from the back door to my car, and I have 28 or so new freckles. I leisurely stop to chat with a neighbor for 9 and half minutes, and I’m approaching a lovely shade of rose. As a result, I am a sunscreen Nazi. I wear sunscreen on my face everyday, but when beach time approaches, I only leave shelter after at least three different applications of sunscreen to my face, and then an all over app of at least SPF 30. This is the major leagues.
While we may share some heritage, most French do not share my passion for sun protection. They sail across those rocks, jug of tanning oil in hand, and begin the dousing. After fully shined, they proceed to plant themselves in the correct sunlight and … bake. There is no other way to better describe it, because that’s what is literally occurring. As I gaped in horror at several women the color of Oompa Lumpas prep’ing themselves for the roast, the desire to issue a loud public service announcement arose within me. Despite my best intentions, I managed to restrain myself. So I just kept my mouth shut and applied more lotion.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
6 Days in 60 Words: The French Riviera
“These are not pebbles,” Our friend Jacque / Frederick, Monegasques, “I’m wasted!” Biking Le Chateau, Elephant Graveyard, Construction Street, Meeting at the Monoprix, Cannes Film Festival, “Take on Me,” Palm trees, Gran Prix, Rich boyfriend search, Crepes “Florida!” Happy Hour: noon to 9 PM, Monte Carlo, Rock, paper, scissors, menage a quatre, “They are sitting in front of the bus”
Lots more to come, of course...and about 200 photos or so. Be excited, be very excited.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
