Why I Miss Jenny...

I’ve been traveling by myself for a bit now but spent the most alone time in Lake Como. All of the girls in my room spoke German so, that left me out a bit. That being said, I had a lot of time to think, and much of what I thought about there was why I miss Jenny. So here’s where I take a minute to tell you just why that is while you look at my pictures of Lake Como…

I miss having someone to stare blankly at at the breakfast table because we are not morning people.

I miss knowing who is sleeping above, and below me.

I miss having someone in my pictures.

I miss having someone to talk through major navigational decisions with.

I miss the sound of her change hitting the ground several times daily.


I miss having someone to talk me out of, or into as it may be, a second gelato for the day.

I miss top bunk picnics.

I miss going for “a” drink.

I miss general banter. My own head talks way too much.

I miss having a dinner companion so waitresses don’t always have to say, “JUST one?”

I miss having a mutual siesta taker.

I miss having someone to “bang out” the sights with. Imagine how quickly I can do this alone.

I miss someone to take jumping pictures of me. That’s not one you can really ask strangers to take the time to do for you.


I miss her because senior pic’ing alone is just, well, lame.

I miss an up-for-anything (except beer) motivator.

I miss getting to verbally witness a sight with someone for the first time.

I miss Turbie Twist time.

I miss knowing who’s next to me on various modes of transportation won’t smell bad.

I miss her company on all accounts.

I miss having someone to laugh with and share frustrations with.


I miss having someone with me who always supports me and is always looking out for me.

I miss being in my own room with someone.

I miss having someone who stays awake on trains so I can sleep and not miss the stop.

I miss my other Parisian Idol judge.

But mostly, I just miss YOU, my cousin, my travel companion, my friend.

And NowEuropeToDate...

Left to My Own Devices

Duomo, check! Sforza Castle, check! Brera neighborhood, check!....cantelope-colored hot orange blazer, check! Turns out when you're left to your own devices in Milan and once you've hit all the tourist traps, you buy things that look like this...
It's a statement. I realize.

And NowEuropeToDate...

No Cannes Do

For Kaya and Merv…

Nice, France. My first solo mission. After Bristol, I spent two more nights in London with my friend Stephen and then headed to the South of France…alone. No one to pick me up at the bus station or greet me upon arrival, just me, myself, and Alex. If I told you that I wasn’t a bit nervous then I’d be seriously lying, and since we’re all friends here, I would never do that to you. I was COMPLETELY nervous about this. If I’m being even more honest, I still am. You see, I do well alone. Always have. I really like “me” time. I’ve often thought it’s because I’m an only child that I do well on entertaining myself but I don’t even know if that’s it. I think you either know how to be with yourself or you don’t. That being said, being home and alone is very different than being on vacation and alone. Ask Kevin MacCallister. I’m sure he can verify. (Why am I always referencing him?!)

My first day in Nice, I headed to a beach called Villefranche Sur Mer. Stunning, though also not too challenging. Because here’s the thing, beach time alone doesn’t really count. Book, iPod, giant snooze in the sun.
Anyone can do that. I wasn’t really tested until that evening when I took myself to dinner in a very busy marketplace in the old town. Great people watching but there’s nothing like a lot of people around who aren’t talking to you to really make you feel alone. I did ok but was also very conscientious of the fact that there was in fact, no plus one facing me. Logically, I bought myself a bracelet after dinner to soothe my tensions a bit.

The next morning I woke up to the grayest of gray clouds, sat downstairs at the hostel breakfast and pondered what in the world I was going to do all day. Then, when I wasn’t even looking for it, a big lesson came my way. Her name was Kaya.

“Is it ok if I sit here?” she asked me. “I should try and be social.”

As we sat there eating our toast, we did your typical small talk. Where are you from? Where were you last? Where are you headed next? She was hungover from the night before. I had no idea what in the world to do in this rain. Blah. Blah. She was off to lie back down and I was going to head to Cannes though the sky was threatening.

“Have a good day,” I told her. And we were off in separate directions.

After waiting in a 45 minute line at the train station to purchase my ticket to Cannes because the ticket machines didn’t have an English option, I was on my way. I spent less time on the train actually getting there. However, the further west we went, the harder the rain started to fall. By the time I got off the train in Cannes, it was absolutely pouring. Not your average pouring, but like tropical weather monsoon pouring. As I watched the lightening streak through the sky approximately 10 feet in front of the train station and listened to thunder so loud it made me jump every time, I determined that even my hot pink duck umbrella wasn’t going to keep me safe from this weather. So it was back on the train I went. Literally, never even stepped out of the station. No Cannes do.

While this may have seemed like a waste of a day, I think it all came together like that on purpose. You see, as I sat on the train I thought about what Kaya said about being social, thought about how at breakfast I was going to ask her if she wanted to join me but then decided not to. Sometimes it’s scary to put yourself out there because you don’t know what the response will be. Sometimes the response is extremely positive leaving you happily uplifted and sometimes the response is shockingly negative with a damaging effect. I know both feelings well. Upon arriving back at the hostel, I got my second chance. There she was sitting at the computers in the common area. I immediately took the opportunity to check my ego and fix my wrongs. I sat down next to her and we got to talking, and computering, simultaneously, for hours. As we chatted I came to find out that Kaya is only 18 years old. She graduated high school in Missoula, Montana and took a year off to travel and work on different farms. She started in Ghana with a group from school and then continued on to Morocco for a month on her own. If I wasn’t already impressed that she was 18 and sitting in a hostel in the south of France alone, now I really was. I spent a weekend in Morocco and couldn’t imagine being there by myself. After Morocco, Kaya was in Paris and then Nice. Alone. Are you kidding me? I was blown away by this girl. I’ve always been a self-aware, confident person but I know for a fact I would have never had the guts or wherewithal to navigate Europe and Africa on my own at 18. When we had sufficiently facebooked and both bemoaned the fact that not enough people email us when they know we’re lacking travel companions (cough, cough), I did what I should have done the first time. I was going to head to Monaco, Cap d’Ail, Antibes, and back to Cannes the next day, and I asked her if she wanted to join. She happily accepted and I was further reminded of the fact that it never hurts to ask.

That night we also met an Aussie named Merv who was on his own as well. And what didKaya do, she asked. So the next day the three of us, total strangers, but all on a similar mission in life, set out together. I have to tell you it was kind of a beautiful thing. I had about 2 and a half days worth of places to see due to the rain limitations and was afraid these two would never hang and would potentially hold me back. How wrong I was. Ego check. They added something to my day that I would have never had had I been too afraid to ask. They added company, they added laughter, they shared stories. I wasn’t just with two people. I learned about two people. I had a life experience with two people. Because of them, I was reminded of what can come to you if you approach people openly, be yourself, ask the question, and put yourself out there. And most importantly, whenever I’m feeling lonely or unsure of myself while I’m on my own, all I have to think is… if Kaya can do it, I can do it.



And NowEuropeToDate...

Blind Boat Date on the River Wye

At 5 minutes after 6:00AM, my alarm rings nearly giving me a heart attack. I get up to get ready for the camping trip extravaganza, look out the window, and it’s raining. Now this of course is what I had come to expect from dear old England, however, on the morning of a trip where you will spend all day rowing a boat and then sleeping in a tent, you can’t help but hope for a little bit of sunshine. Mandy and I got in the car with Huw’s sister, Lucy and her boyfriend, James and we were off like a heard of turtles. If you’ve never heard this expression, I’m sure you’ll understand that we were moving, but not moving fast. After stopping multiple times to gather more group members, there were 18 of us in total, and then stopping at McDonald’s to feed everyone, oh and then getting lost in the Welsh countryside (I blame it on Sue, Lucy’s navigation system), we finally managed to get to our campsite in Whitney-on-Wye. It was tents up quickly and then off to pick up our boats as we were only about 2 and a half hours behind schedule.

The night before, Mandy had told me that I would be sharing a boat with their friend Joe. Had it been a leisurely canoe trip I’m sure Mandy and I could have handled it ourselves but upon discovering that the first day would be 10 miles and the second day, 13, we both thought it best that we had a man on board with bigger arm muscles. Generally, I’m all up for this “I am woman, here me roar” thing but lets not kid ourselves, my arm muscles are fairly non-existent (as I’m sure Joe can now attest to) and I assure you, Mandy and I would have spun that thing in circles for 2 days and gotten absolutely nowhere. Now I have to tell you, I was a bit nervous about this boat sharing thing with a stranger. I mean if we’re being honest it’s basically like a blind date on a boat where you can’t really escape it unless you choose to abandon ship, float in freezing water and bump along the rocks down the river. The idea of that was clearly not appealing so I just had to hope for the best.

I had seen Joe from the car window but it wasn’t until he walked up to me in the rental place, blue plaid shirt topped with a khaki fur lined coat, unseasonable board shorts adorned with Hawaiian flowers, and to really knock it home, dark green rain boots (or wellies as they call them) with yellow socks sticking out the top that I knew this was going to be a match made in ridiculously clothed heaven. As I stood there in my light blue V-neck, green lululemon jacket, gray zip up hoodie, coral-colored anorak, black leggings, orange tube socks, and a white and orange winter hat with ear flaps and an orange ball on top, I couldn’t help but think this was absolutely a man after my own heart and we were about to fashionably attack the River Wye like it had never seen. Best dressed boat in my opinion, no question. Now that the suspense I’m sure has just about killed you, I did not have to abandon ship and float down the river freezing and alone of my own will. However, Joe nearly managed to send me to that water-logged fate a few times while practicing his Venetian gondolier skills and then sitting back down a bit too quickly and rather ungracefully. I tried to warn him about the damp grumpiness that threatened his future but I tell you, that did not deter him. Luckily for my canoe companion, due to my cat like reflexes and superb balance, we stayed afloat. Is that about accurate, Joe?

Sidenote: I’m currently sitting on a bus from Bristol back to London where I will be staying with my friend Stephen for a few days and I am cooking on this thing like I’ve just taken up residence in an Easy Bake Oven, painfully slowly. It is a constant medium heat that has only just now started to make me boil and I have about 30 minutes left. If I pass out and die before I get this posted, will someone please do it for me, as the story of the now legendary best-dressed canoe team MUST make it’s way to internet daylight. Thank you.

2 hours in and it was finally time to take a much needed rest. We docked our canoes at a little town called Hay-On-Wye and wandered into town to find some lunch and get beers….because obviously what goes better with canoes than beers. The two are practically synonymous. As I’m standing in a fish and chips shop in my aforementioned ensemble which by this time also included a stylish red life vest, guess who walks in…no really, you aren’t going to guess….


Rob Lowe.


What in the shit!? Who runs into the older man of their dreams at a fish and chips shop in a tiny town in Wales of all places. Of course I freaked out and stared and of course none of my other canoeing compatriots understood the gravity of this situation. I mean, it’s Rob Lowe. I LOVE him. Jacki and I spent countless Sunday evenings watching him on BROTHERS AND SISTERS and fantasizing about him as our hot Congressman husband. This was a serious situation. Somehow, though I was clearly looking wildly attractive, I’m sorry to report that he did not immediately spot me and then decide to leave his wife of 20 years to marry yours truly. Eh, his loss right? You missed your chance Rob! (He’ll clearly spend the rest of his life in regret.) That definitely goes down as the most random celebrity encounter of my lifetime. Just a shame Rob didn’t get to ride shotgun with Joe and I in our classy aquatic ride. I have no doubts he would have thoroughly enjoyed it.

After my brush with destiny, we boarded our canoes and paddled the rest of the way back to our campsite. Following showers and some moderate drinking, we all sat down to dinner together. I’d like to take this point in the blog to discuss something very politically incorrect that occurred during this meal. It was a menu item. An item I even have a hard time typing… homemade, delicious faggots. I would not make this up. Not only was it an option but one of our group members ordered it and the waitress comes over to the table shouting FAGGOTS! Who had the FAGGOTS?! I suppose I’m sensitized by living in America but I sat there absolutely horrified, mouth agape while no one else seemed to even bat an eyelash at this. I can’t even imagine the to-do that would cause in The States, the land of all things politically correct. I will say that in England they are actually a food item, little sausages or something, but I just couldn’t help thinking how poorly that one would go over elsewhere.

That night as I settled into my tent next to Mandy, all snuggled in my sleeping bag listening to multi-talented Joe play the guitar and sing us to sleep, I noticed that amidst the darkness, I was wearing the biggest smile. No one could see it, but I could feel it. After a day of new friends, amazing landscapes, and some much needed one on one time with the outdoors, my heart was happy. I was at peace.

Except for the occasional shenanigan, Joe turned out to be the perfect blind boat date. He was personable, inquisitive, had spent time in the States for commonality sake, and most importantly he was open to me. Though I’m sure he’d have much rather spent his weekend with friends, actually in a boat with one of his friends, he never showed it. I’m grateful for that. I can safely say though that next time he and I share a canoe together, I will in fact, fall under that category. Joe, if you’re listening, I feel so lucky to have crossed your path, or river as it were, and one last time from the bottom of my joy-filled heart, I thank you.

And NowEuropeToDate...

(You'll notice an absence of pictures in the post because the boys kept flipping their canoes and I was too scared to have my camera in ours. Thus, very little photographic evidence. Lucy has pictures though and once I get them you will get a better visual of this trip.)

Lucky to be With The Loughers

The day Jenny left to go back to the States, I boarded my National Express bus to Bristol, England. It was so strange to be by myself after 3 and a half weeks together. However, the strangeness didn’t last for long as I was greeted at the bus stop by my next round of company, Mandy and Huw. Mandy and I worked together in Sydney and when I told her I’d be in England, she and her now fiance’ (woohoo!) graciously allowed me to stay with them. Mandy and I didn’t know eachother that well so I hardly knew what to expect however, I have to tell you, it was one of the best 5 days I’ve had in a long time.

Upon arriving in Bristol, Mandy’s hostess-with-the-mostest skills kicked in. We went back to their flat, she made me lunch, and then the two of us set out to go to her wedding dress fitting. I was a bit nervous about this because I’ve never been to a wedding dress fitting and I had fears that her taste would be horribly off from mine and I’d have to sit there and try to pretend to like something. This of course was a huge moment for her, I couldn’t let any disapproval read on my face! After about 2 minutes my fears were calmed, she stepped out in her dress and was absolutely stunning. That Huw is one lucky guy, though I’m sure no one needs to tell him that. We spent the rest of the afternoon running errands and preparing for our camping/canoeing trip in Wales that was to begin bright and early the next morning. I’ll get to that, but first and foremost I need to do a big thank you to Mandy and Huw. So here it is…

Mandy and Huw,

I just wanted to take a moment to express how truly grateful I am for the two of you and your hospitality. You took me in, fed me, did my laundry, let me sleep in your room, introduced me to your friends, included me on an amazing weekend in Wales, and most importantly, spent your time with a crazy American. You will never know how much it meant to me to see you and spend time with you. I did some serious laughing with the two of you. Whether it was practicing how to criticize people in British slang (F@*King WANKAS!), seeing the look on Mandy’s face on that canoe, having the weirdest and most amazing car ride home from Wales with Huw, harassing the bridal store sales lady, being introduced to Bruno, or just sitting around your flat, my smile was endless. I thank you for that. I feel so privileged to have worked with you in Sydney, Mandy, even if it turned out to be a nightmare. You see there’s a good end to that story, I got you out of it. You two make such a beautiful couple, something to really aspire to. Your synchronicity with one another is imperfect in the most perfect way. I can only hope to be so lucky one day. I realized upon leaving England that it definitely has a place in my heart and I was sad to have to go. However, it wasn’t the bustling streets of London, the scenic beauty of Wales, or the hominess of Bristol that made it hard to leave. It was the people. It was you. I hope to see you again next spring, as after exerting my pushy American ways with the sales lady at the bridal store, I must see the finished product. Until next time, take care of yourselves and know that you’ve got a friend who thinks the world of you both.

All my love,

Alex

And NowEuropeToDate…

Just Touched Down in Londontown

London. The final leg of our journey together. We were greeted surprisingly by sunshine. You Londoners may not realize but essentially Americans’ view of England is just gray. Ok, I probably shouldn’t speak for an entire country but I’d have to say I’d be correct on many accounts. What I’m trying to say here is that blue sky was a great bonus. Jenny and I did the most Londony thing we could in that sunshine and rode a double decker bus around the city. What I found so interesting about London was that it’s such a bustling city but looks as if it’s stuck in a time warp. The old black taxis, the telephone booths, Parliament, Buckingham Palace….there is just nothing modern or American looking about this city. And for that, I loved it. I believe we crammed more sightseeing in in London than anywhere we had previously traveled and I suppose that’s because London does indeed (how British do I sound!?) have sooo many sights.
One sight I wasn’t expecting was the motorcade of Barack and Michelle Obama. There we are minding our business, walking down Downing Street and all of a sudden no one is allowed to pass because oh wait….here comes Barack. Interesting that I had to go all the way to England to see our President. The closest I had come before was when he graced IU with his presence by drinking a beer at Nick’s in Bloomington. What a guy.

A truly memorable stop for me was Westminster Abbey. I’m sure this is more to do with the fact that the Royal Wedding was just held there and I along with about a billion other people of course tuned into it, than it was about the Abbey itself. Naturally, I did what any normal female would do…I walked down Kate’s aisle to Prince William….in my orange tube socks. So I didn’t feel quite as glamorous as Kate must have felt but at least I was making some sort of statement. (Note to myself on future London visits: People there do not understand tube socks over leggings and they will in fact look at you like you are a whackadoo…..Maybe you are.)

The most meaningful London stop by far though was Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre. This trip was an homage to our grandfather, Pawpaw.A Shakespeare lover like I’ve never seen, my Pawpaw taught me a verse from TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, 22 years ago as a 5 year old. He never thought I’d remember it at the time and little did he know that I will never, ever forget it. This Shakespearean verse known simply to my family as, “Crab, My Dog,” is still rehearsed at nearly every holiday dinner table and I’m sure will be until the end of time. Though our stop to the Globe wasn’t extremely long (we were trying to catch the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace), it’s one place I will absolutely never forget going. My only regret is that he wasn’t there with us. He would have loved that, and so would we. So Pawpaw, because I know you must have the capabilities of reading blogs in heaven, this one is for you…

Crab, my dog be the sourest-natured dog that lived. My mother weeping, my father wailing, my sister crying, our made howling, the cat wringing its hands and all our house in a great perplexity. Yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed one tear. He is a stone, a very pebble stone, and has no more pity in him than a dog.

I think I’ll just leave it at that.

And NowEuropeToDate…

Ahoy Avanti and Hallo Amsterdam!

“How do you feel about staying on a houseboat?”

While planning for this trip I spent many a night up perusing my new favorite site, hostelworld.com. When it was time to book lodging for Amsterdam I began to notice a trend, houseboats. That would be sort of hilarious and a good way to mix up what we’re used to accommodation wise, I thought to myself. So after Jenny gave her consent, I booked it. Stepping off that train at Amsterdam Central, we made the trek to the Oosterdok, where our new home would be well, floating. There she was, looking a bit like the ship out of CAPTAIN RON, before its makeover, The Avanti. We climbed on board and were welcomed by British Jesse who showed us to our room. Now, I absolutely love houseboats and have been going on them for years down on Lake Cumberland in Kentucky. In fact, it is my favorite vacation. I’ve done this a million times. It will be great I thought! What I forgot about those trips was that my friends’ and my bags always slept in our designated rooms, but we did not. We were always sleeping in the middle of the living room or in tents on the roof. I didn’t realize how little space there would be to have all of our belongings and ourselves holed up in one room on The Avanti. To give you a better idea this room was probably 6.5 feet by 4 feet complete with a set of built in bunk beds that were the narrowest beds I’ve ever slumbered in. Seriously, if I’d eaten one more croissant or that crepe baby would have had even a day more development, I would have hung right off that thing. Jenny’s bed on the bottom, not so bad. Mine on the other hand had a sloping roof right above it so really only half of the smallest bed ever was even usable. Needless to say I would try to wedge myself under the roof slant but woke up many a morning by banging my arm on the roof or my head on the porthole window that was conveniently placed right at head height. The comical part about the room was that we couldn’t both get ready at the same time because you just spent all morning bumping into one another and getting frustrated so one person had to sit in their bed until the other was ready. I thought we had a hard time getting out the door before but this just about doubled it. While it sounds as if I’ve done a lot of griping here I actually sort of enjoyed waking up on the water. It was a nice change and once my body stopped rocking on land it was no big deal.

I have to say I had absolutely no idea what to expect from Amsterdam. All I can tell you is that I imagined half naked women in windows in the Red Light District (true story) and the smell of weed permeating from every crevice (also, a true story). What I didn’t realize was just how many canals make up Amsterdam. Our first day Jenny and I took a canal cruise and I was just blown away. All the locals were out on boats eating and drinking and cruising the waterways or people were out on deckchairs on their houseboats that were parked in the canal. It really felt like my kind of lifestyle. Furthermore, people ride their bikes everywhere in Amsterdam.Of course to fit in Jenny and I did the same. Now, I had been used to the cushiness of the seat on my beach cruiser in California…this was not that. I have never had my butt be so uncomfortable in my life, but the important part, as always, is that I couldn’t have felt any cuter if I tried.

The second day Jenny and I set out for the Anne Frank House. Let me tell you, that was an experience. I actually found myself getting kind of emotional when I really let the reality of the whole story and the place sink in. How horrifying that she died but one month before the end of the war. To be in her room and see the decorations she hung up to cheer herself up just felt a bit surreal. A really depressing experience but I’m very glad I went. Of course afterwards to lighten the mood of the day, Jenny and I headed to the Heineken Brewery.
For the small price of 15 Euro you get to tour the brewery, see some 4D show where you “get brewed” and then of course, sample much of the product. Not a bad way to spend the day. Overall, Amsterdam was just so much more than I expected and I sort of can’t wait to go back. Only this time, I’ll bring an inflatable cushion for my ass.

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Paris: Something for Everyone

After the comfort of my Spanglish skills, France seemed a bit well, intimidating. Not that I don’t think pointing and smiling can get you pretty far but if I were to run into someone who didn’t speak an ounce of English, well then I would just be shit out of luck. Case in point, as glamorous as it sounds, Jenny and I spent our first night in Paris at….the laundrymat. You never want to have to give up a night exploring a fantastic foreign city in exchange for practicing your domesticity but that’s precisely what had to happen. After turning my underwear inside out for the third day in a row we figured it was time. Though, I love how we picked the country where I couldn’t decipher one written word of it even if there was a gun to my head to set out for a place where you are forced to read all of the instructions because the entire place is unmanned. Standing around staring at the literal writing on the wall and feeling like complete dumbasses for a good 5 minutes, some American girls finally came to our aid. Thank God for that or it would have been another week of unwashed clothes before we finally got to an English speaking country and I’m afraid I would have arrived smelling exactly like my frizzy-haired, sparkly- purple-clog-wearing friend, and well, that’s just not the kind of impression I like to make.

Sidenote: For some reason I crave Snickers when I’m in foreign countries. When I lived in Australia I wanted them all the time. So much so that my darling roommate, Brad, got me a ton of them for Christmas. It’s just odd because I rarely eat them in the States. Anyhow, during the laundry adventure I set out to find one and ended up buying one from a man who was camped out in his tiny market smoking a hookah. I’m sorry, I thought I had left Morocco. But there he was, smoking away. Sir, do you think you could please put down the hookah and hook a girl up with a Snickers. Merci. He finally smelled what I was stepping in and moved some boxes and other crap around to reveal a box of what I’d been searching for. The lesson here is that whether your Snickers comes from a CVS in the good old US of A, your cute roommate in Australia, or a hookah-wielding and highly disorganized market owner in Paris, a Snickers is a Snickers is a Snickers and wow, are they good!

One day while exploring the city and really making use of a 3 day Metro pass, Jenny and I were apparently and unknowingly cast as the new judges of PARISIAN IDOL: Metro Addition. While sitting on the train minding our own business, suddenly there was a ruckus and this girl started shouting. I assumed she was talking to a friend further down on the train and didn’t think much of it, that was until 50 Cent’s Magic Stick kicked on. One minute I’m riding the Metro, the next minute I’m listening to a girl rap in French to 50 Cent. What the shit? Apparently, she carted around this deafening speaker and assumed everyone wanted to listen to her mad rap skills and then pay her for it. What was a pleasant ride turned into a, “Is this really happening to me? moment” in the blink of an eye. Poor girl didn’t make much cash on our train so she quickly jumped off and was on to annoy the next round of passengers on a different line. I wish them luck. Truth be told, at least she was doing that and not working the corner somewhere, though I’m bound to think it would have been much more profitable for her. As if one wasn’t enough, our next train was accompanied by…wait for it….no really, it’s good….wait….a polka band! Seriously, accordion, trombone, clarinet. These men were having a grand old time and I have to say, so was I! I never knew I liked polka so much until I literally couldn’t stop bouncing to it and finally Jenny said, “Oh My God, stop.” It’s true, everyone was looking at me but that music was just so catchy and after the French female Fitty (dig that alliteration?) this was a Godsend. Now, you’re obviously thinking at this point my run in with Parisian Idol has certainly ended. Well my friends, you would be wrong. Last train of the night, we hop on….La La Bamba! La La Bamba! Oh yes, you visualized correctly, a slicked back-haired Latin man karaokeing to La Bamba, and why not right? Let’s really end this night off with a bang. Every city has street performers, but not every city can hit you with this kind of musical awakening all in one day via the metro no less. Paris, I thank you for it.

Here’s what else happened in France. I became impregnated with a crepe baby. There I am feeling so Parisian, wandering along the Seine between Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre to my right, chowing down (in a very posh way of course, this is Paris after all) on a selection of pastries and it hit me, this crepe baby is expanding at far too rapid of a rate to keep under control. That was my cue. Paris, I loved you but in the hopes of not appearing as a woman in my third trimester I’m afraid it’s time to Hit the Road Jack!, or Jacques I suppose if I’m being regionally correct (which I always try to be.) Au Revior! Me and my new large ass will miss you.


And NowEuropeToDate…

Le Fork Bandit

Tonight, I took on an alter ego. I’m to be known from here on out, but only in the tightest of circles (including the thousands of people I’m sure are reading this blog) as, Le Fork Bandit. The mission was no easy task, but I accepted it. Let me first give you some necessary background information…

Before embarking on this European adventure, I was working hard for my money, so hard for my money at Fleming’s Steakhouse in Indianapolis with a seriously crazy cast of characters. I didn’t work there long but sort of immediately fell in love with these people and the idiosyncrasies of the place itself. If you have ever worked at a restaurant, they all have them, and this was no exception. One particular mystery of the restaurant was known as the Double Fork Bandit. You see, at Fleming’s we remove the appetizer/salad fork off of the table before the salad is served because new chilled forks are actually presented with the salad itself (Fancy schmancy, I know!). This being said, you end up constantly carting around forks. Well, this phantom character they call the Double Fork Bandit is always leaving a fork duo behind…at the soda machine, at the Aloha station, next to the bar. One minute they aren’t there and then the next minute…he strikes!...like a bat out of hell….you never saw it coming…and then you are left, as you can imagine, mystified because as much as you want to and as hard as you try, you can never seem to put a face to the perpetrator. So Double Fork Bandit, whoever you are, because I’m so impressed by your righteous skill set, this one goes out to you…

THE MISSION:

One Saturday at work I was setting up my tables, making them look visually perfect as we are trained to do, and I noticed that the bane of my existence had once again taken up residence on my table. The culprit was a fork, and not any fork, a mismatched salad fork that does not look like any of the other silverware in the restaurant. This bit of proof that Satan does exist kept appearing on my tables. Finally, I’d had it. I had removed this thing far too many times and there it was again, all shiny and looking up at me, just mocking me. I seized that fork from its platform of ridicule and took it straight over to my boss, Hunter. “Hunter!” I said. “This fork does not match any of the forks in this whole place and it keeps ending up on my tables. May I please get rid of it?!” Hunter, clearly empathizing with the sheer frustration pulsing through my veins, told me I could take it home, better yet take it to Europe with me. At the thought of this, I jokingly decided to make some other waiter’s hell and we decided that I should leave it on a table in France. There it was…my mission, all laid out for me. Obviously, there was no turning back now.

THE PLAN:

I needed a restaurant in Paris that had a) a view of the Eiffel Tower as proof that I didn’t just pull a fast one and leave this thing at an airport Chili’s To Go, b) an unsuspecting waiter, and c) a really fantastic disguise so they couldn’t trace it back to me (deportation is not a good look for me).

THE SCENE:

Le Dome Café…excellent view.


THE WAITER:

Garcon (even I couldn’t make that up). Totally unsuspecting, and kind of a dick. Even better, as I was about to make his life a living hell. Revenge is a dish best served cold!...or to a random waiter in Paris who has never harmed you but just happened to cross your European itinerary on the wrong day.



THE SET UP:

Alex, the American tourist. He’ll never suspect a thing.


Alex, incognito. Le Fork Bandit has emerged!


THE FOLLOW THROUGH:

Act clueless and American. Smile a lot. Distract him with my charm as well as the flash of my ever present camera. Stick that flash straight into his eyes if I must. No stone unturned! Order, eat, and leave that tip with a little something extra….BAM!

SUCCESS:

You just got forked you French F*#K!

Le Fork Bandit strikes again!!!...or, for the first time, but hey, who’s counting?

AndNowEuropeToDate…

Random Ramblings from the Ramblas

Barcelona, what an absolutely fantastic city… The blue waters of the Mediterranean lapping at the sand on Barceloneta beach, the hoards of people strolling up and down Las Ramblas, the fancy and far-too-expensive stores of L’Eixample, the twists and turns of the Gothic Quarter, and the whimsical touches by Antoni Gaudi covering the city. With so much space conquered, so many sights seen, I’ll just go ahead and hit you with my random ramblings from the Ramblas…

1. Mini Kazoos. Barcelona, much like every other city, has hundreds of people trying to sell you little trinkets that they think you’re dying to have. Case in point, the mini kazoo. I’m not sure how this type of thing actually says BARCELONA in someone’s mind but apparently these things sell. They are tiny little things that you hide in your mouth but when you blow them they sound like kazoos only much higher pitched and not nearly as pleasant as an actual kazoo. (How good is the word Kazoo!?) The people selling these mind numbing toys were EVERYWHERE on Las Ramblas. What should have been a pleasant stroll was made so anxiety inducing daily because these guys would not leave you alone. I’ve never come so close to punching anyone in my life. If I never hear another one of those things again, I assure you, I’ll die happy.


2. Siestas. From all of this travel so far I’ve discovered one very important lesson (as witnessed in my previous post), you can either be a day tourist or a night tourist, you cannot be both. With all the walking and sight seeing and planning and eating done in a day it is virtually impossible to have the energy to then go out at night. This is why I feel Spain is really on the ball. This whole siesta thing is beyond crucial. I believe there was only one day we didn’t siesta in Spain…never again. I’m a big sleeper as it is. Love to sleep. Love to nap. This culture is made for me. While I’m petitioning Congress for cerveza dispensing vending machines, you can rest assured I’ll be adding in a little something about the value of an implemented siesta program as well.



3. Gawdy or Gaudi? You may have heard of this man they call Gaudi and if not, I’m here to tell you he’s a total whackadoo…in the most awesome way possible. He designed structures like Casa Battlo, Parc Guell, and the world famous, Sagrada Familia. This man is freaking crazy and I love it. I’m sort of shocked that Barcelona was down with him designing what he did for the city considering the time period. I mean you would think this man was tripping on acid. His gingerbread like designs make you feel like you’re walking through Candyland and let’s be honest, I could really get into that. Sagrada Familia was completely awesome. The front looks ancient and like it’s melting while the inside is completely innovative and nothing like any cathedral I’d ever imagine. What’s so interesting is that though Gaudi died years ago, the people of Barcelona are so committed to his vision that people work on this cathedral for years knowing they will never see the final product. It’s meant to take another quarter of a century to complete. Seriously, 250 more years. Sheesh! I guess that means I won’t be seeing it either…unless something scientific and crazy happens here in the next few decades, somehow I doubt it though.



4. Nudity. What’s awesome is laying out on the beach in Barcelona, Spain. What’s not awesome is when you see a guy looking at you from across the way and then you realize he’s naked…on the main beach…naked. THAT is all.


And NowEuropeToDate...

Drinking and Touristing Do Not Mix

Let me paint you a picture…

You pop up in your bed, head from pillow to vertical in one far too quick motion. You’re sure it must be the middle of the afternoon and you’ve missed all your planned activities for the day. Your head is throbbing as if someone has done batting practice on your skull. Your mouth is so dry you’re sure you’ve somehow had a Freaky Friday moment with that Moroccan camel you rode as it wanders parched through the Sahara, no water in sight. Your voice sounds like a dude. And best yet, you remember 24 year-old Anders from Norway wanted to sleep in your bunk bed. Awesome.

Welcome to Barcelona!

Here’s what happened…

Our first night in Barcelona, Jenny and I had a great plan intact. We were going to go to the huge market off of La Rambla, pick up some picnic-y things for dinner and head up to Montjuic to see the Magic Fountains. All ready to go, we head outside and all of a sudden, it’s raining. After the bluest of blue days, it just starts coming down. Unfortunately for us we had no Plan B and an umbrella did not go with my outfit! So there we are, looking cute, yet running through the rain. All of us ladies know, this combination does not mix. Naturally, we did the only thing that made any logical sense….we took solace in a bar…an Irish bar no less…in Spain. (I’ll call it a small tribute to our grandmother.) Just as I was sitting on my bar stool, drinking my beer, feeling a little bit sorry that our plans were ruined, a group of Danes came in…wasted. They were in town for the FC Barcelona game and REALLY enjoying their trip. Needless to say, we spent our evening pounding the most delicious mojitos and hanging out with a large group of Danes….in an Irish bar….in Spain. The evening was a great success, so much fun and quite memorable….ok maybe not sooo memorable. Not quite what we expected for the evening but hey, best laid plans am I right?

To add even more of a bonus to this one, after knocking back multiple Excedrine and looking for food to soak up that alcohol like we were on a mission from God, I looked down into my bag to find it full of coasters. Coasters, everywhere. One bag…full of coasters. Apparently, Anders from Norway wanted to do a little decorating under his glass coffee table and I was willing to help out. What is my life?!

And NowEuropeToDate...

V is for Valencia and Very Awkward Hostel Situations

I hate to say this but Valencia never had a chance with me. As you may have realized after my love letter to Granada combined with my excitement to get to Barcelona, whatever city fell in between was just in a world of hurt when it came to its status in my eyes. I will say, Valencia was warm, sunny, had some gorgeous squares, and some seriously great ice cream. I found that all we did seemed to be sit in said squares and eat and eat…..and eat. It was clearly the refueling leg of this journey. Another nice part about our trip to the Big V was that I got my first chance to get these toes in the Mediterranean. Always nice to take advantage of a new waterway.
As I’ve pretty much already explained all we did in Valencia, I’m going to take this opportunity to give you a glimpse into the often unglamorous world of hostel crashing. So far we’ve been extremely fortunate. We’ve gotten private rooms everywhere except in Sevilla with American Anthony and the 4 Asian grandmothers as you’ll recall. While backpacking Europe screams FLY BY THE SEAT OF YOUR PANTS, I’m here to tell you that I’m a planner like my mother. Gretch, the G, ever heard of her?? Her preparation and organizational abilities are legendary. Well, from time to time I can be a chip off the very beautiful and terribly youthful block. However, on this occasion I diverted from the norm. Jenny and I were a bit up in the air about our Valencia plans so I dare say we pretty much waited until the absolute last minute. We didn’t think it would be so bad as we were able to book a 3 person room and it was only 2 nights. We thought, “Eh what’s one stranger to deal with?” We come to find out upon check-in that that is in fact the scenario…for the first night. Great, we think! Then, the other shoe drops. Because people had booked earlier than us (well done, you people), the next night one of us was going to have to switch rooms. This felt problematic because…

A) We hadn’t ridden any part of this trip solo so a night in different rooms just felt, weird.

AND

B) With the questionable lottery of potential hostel guests, who in the world were we each going to end up with?

The thing we both completely agreed on was that we had our fingers crossed that our new candidates wouldn’t be smelly European boys. (If any of my European guy friends are reading this, no offense, and I certainly don’t feel you perpetuating this stereotype.) Alas, I have to go with it. But come on people, you know that smell I’m talking about. My friend, Elise, once described it as the international…ya know…funk.
So moment of truth, after a day of more ice cream eating in front of fountains, we came back to the hostel to find out the results of our fate. NOT GOOD NEWS. We walk Jenny to her new room, open the door,…boys. Of course her bed is in the middle wedged between them. To make matters worse they were both napping and popped up startled as we entered…AWKWARD. The best I can say for this is at least they didn’t smell bad, body odor bad. They did however come in at an obscene hour doused in a cheap Drakar Noir, or so she tells me. Moving right along, we thought that was bad until we were taking solace in my room and here it comes…What’s behind door #2 folks!?....I’ll tell you what…a STINK BOMB European couple who were likely pushing 40. Weirdest third wheel I’ve EVER been a part of. The oddest thing about this though was that the guy, very nice, wasn’t even the worst offender. His honey removed her sparkly purple clogs with pink flowers and instantly, my world was rocked. I have never smelled a reasonably normal looking person (minus the horrendous shoe choice and unseasonably frizzy hair) smell this bad. I mean, she was a woman. Get with the program sister! Needless to say, Jenny and I wandered the streets of Valencia as late as we could that night to avoid the general awkwardness and damage to my nasal cavities. Eventually though, we gave in, as someone always does. We had an early train to catch to Barcelona. It was time. Unfortunately for me, we didn’t pass any gas mask vendors on the way home so I indeed had to rough it. That was one long night in Valencia, and sadly, one I won’t soon likely forget.

Granada: Lessons Learned

The city of Granada provided me with a few more lessons that are especially important to take note of. Some more pleasant lessons than others…

1. Como se dice, chaser?! For whatever reason, those hailing from Granada make a strong drink. I don’t know if it’s because the town is filled with pot wielding hippies who need more of a kick than your average human to awaken them from their haze, but regardless, I’d find anyone hard pressed to consume a drink that didn’t in some way or another, knock their socks RIGHT OFF! Whether, ordering what seemed like a common mojito one evening at dinner or being gifted shots of god-knows-what from our British waiter (named Juan Jose) on the proceeding eve, a word I would have liked to have had in my limited Spanglish vocabulary was “chaser.” On a mission from hell, “Como se dice, chaser?!” was immediately uttered to Juan Jose, or J as we called him. After a brief explanation, he understood that we meant a liquid follow-up to ya know, take the sting off. We never really did get a clear cut answer to that one. He sort of laughed in all his I-sound-like-a-Brit-but-am-named-like-a-Spaniard glory and as we walked away, I sort of thought to myself, “J, amigo, I meant it!”

2. Do not under any circumstances mail anything home from Spain without a
Spanish return address. This greatly confuses the women who work there. After gifting myself with a few things in Morocco that were far too big to fit in my backpack, and Jenny having the same dilemma, it became clear quickly that a trip to the post office was a necessity. No big deal we thought, we’ll just swing in before lunch, and pop these on over to Los Estados Unidos. Not so easy my friends. For one, navigating the post office was like combing your way through the Amazon jungle without a guide (or so I’d imagine.) With lines everywhere, tickets to be taken, and somehow not a word of English flying around the place, the post office was a nightmare at best. Try explaining to someone that your return address is in the U.S. because that’s where you live and you are merely here traveling, and then have her tell you that you need a return address in Spain all the way talking over eachotherbecause neither of you speaks the other language. After multiple rounds of back and forth in which she pointed at the return address blank on my box and said as loudly as possible, “Spain!,” and I tried to again tell her that I do not live here, my saving grace stepped in. The only person in that joint that spoke English somehow ended up next to me in line. I explained the situation to him which he then repeated to her, and what was her answer…. “Spain!” So the hostel’s address it was. This thing better make its way to the States without a hitch or that hostel is going to get an unexpected surprise from yours truly.

3. The important people DO NOT speak English in Spain. You know how people are always saying, “Everyone speaks English in Europe.” Well, if you haven’t been greeted with this phrase often, try telling your friends and family that you will be embarking on a somewhat solo mission to Europe. Then I assure you, you’ll hear it a lot. These people (or you, reader, you’ve probably told me this as well) are wrong. You know the people who do speak English in Spain, the people who work at restaurants that already have English menus or at least pictures to guide you, the people who try to sell you every souvenir under the sun, or the people that tell you how much that towel or hair dryer rental at your hostel is gonna cost you. The people who DO NOT speak Spanish are the people you really need to pick up what you’re putting down. This includes, the people who work at train stations who can’t inform you how to pick up your pre-ordered tickets or assure you that you are, in fact, on your way to Valencia, bus drivers, and clearly, those mailing your precious goods home. Note to self, start taking sedatives or at least asking your new friends in Granada for a bong hit before entering these places, and at the very least, always give yourself WAY more time than previously anticipated.

Lessons learned. Points noted.

Sidenote to my yogi friends: This means you ET Phone Home, Jack Attack, Gongdaddy, and Miss Leah J. I realize that my form in the picture above is not what it should be. For this I apologize. However, I would like to make clear to you that on the other side of that wall was at least a 20-foot drop onto cars and one seriously rocky road, and well, I was wobbly. Cut me some slack, drop the critique, and just love me because this one’s for you!

And NowEuropeToDate…

I Left My Heart In Granada

Ever heard the expression, “When you meet him, you’ll just know.” (If not, try being a single female in your late 20’s surrounded by people who think “it’s just about that time.”) Well this is the best way I can describe that taxi ride from the train station to our hostel upon arriving in Granada. As I looked out the windows, at the bright blue sky, friendly streets, perfectly European architecture, and the snow capped mountains framing it all, I just knew. This is one of those places that etches its way into your memory and you are never the same. I don’t think its one particular thing that I can put my finger on, but it was more of a feeling. I guess I can finally understand what that expression was saying.

Our hostel was tucked back in the old Moorish quarter known as the Albayzin, a quintessential maze of cobblestone alleyways bordered by the rushing waters of the Darro River where Spanish guitar players and the smell of incense abound. Atop the summit of the steep stairways of the neighborhood was San Nicolas viewpoint. Granada was a city short on “sights” but big on views and San Nicolas Square proved to be the crown jewel of them all. After a walk that leaves you undoubtedly momentarily lost on multiple occasions and winded as can be, you finally find it, round the corner, and have one of those “Holy Shit” moments of a lifetime. There it is on the hill across from you, the treasure of Granada, the Alhambra.The last and greatest of the Moorish palaces, the Alhambra, gives you a glimpse into 13th and 14th century Spain as it sits sun-soaked upon its mountaintop residence. Absolutely breathtaking. For me, that moment was right up there with my first train-door-opening glimpse of the Sydney Opera House and Harbour Bridge. One of those moments when you realize, this world’s a bit too magnificent to spend all of your days in one place. Granada felt like the Europe of my dreams. Quaint yet vivacious, vastly different though not overpoweringly so, a place one could easily call home.

I carry around a book with me full of fun information like train times, directions to
hostels, and to do lists that I started when I got the idea to move to Australia. However, it’s also littered with pictures and quotes about traveling to keep me motivated when I’m hit with more crazy ideas. One such quote I made up for myself. It reads, Live With Wings. For me, it’s a reminder to love my roots but not be afraid to spread these wings of mine. And I’ll tell you, after Granada, I’m flying high. I’m one hundred percent certain as I sit on a train heading away from this place, that I left a piece of my heart there as I have done only a few times before. I’ve happily made peace with this realization though because I’d rather have a heart that’s not whole if it means trading it in for one that’s bursting at the seams full. Full of places, full of people, full of adventures that dreams must certainly be made of…

"I think that the only pleasure greater than seeing Granada is that of seeing her again."

-Alexandre Dumas


And NowEuropeToDate…

Hola, Donkey!

Preface: Some people may not find this story deserving of an entire post but my friend Aubree and I curiously have an ongoing joke about donkeys so for the fact that this occurred, well, it was nothing short of timely and amazing.


Yesterday, while wandering the glorious streets of Granada, Jenny and I decided to walk up to a neighborhood in the northern hills called Sacromonte. This area was meant to be surrounded by old gypsy women and apparently, was a chance to see the way they lived. Well, we didn’t see any gypsies (maybe we had bad information) but I’ll tell you what we did see…a donkey. He was only partially in view as we came up the hill around a corner and I thought surely he must be attached to something, carrying a load of some sort, or at the very least, be accompanied by his burrista (baristas make coffee, burristas drive donkeys, or at least in my mind they do.) As he came into full view, it became clear to me that none of this was true. He was just simply a stray donkey, hanging out in the road, as if someone had let him outside to play. Naturally, after exchanging some words with him to the tune of “Hola, Donkey!,” I asked him if he wouldn’t mind posing for some photos with me. He obliged. Regretfully, after our photo session, we had to go our separate ways. We walked one way, he walked the other. I tried to get him to follow us but didn’t think the hostel would look kindly upon me bringing home a new house pet. Further along our walk, spray painted in black letters on a wall was a sign for burro-taxi.com (no joke.) Personally, I think our new furry friend was a rebel without a cause, a lone sole, and had fled that donk-sicle stand in search of greener pastures, or at least better views. For this reason, I will call him James Dean. I don’t know where you came from James Dean or where you were going, but I’m sure glad I met you upon your way.


Adios Donkey!

And NowEuropeToDate...

Rock the Kasbah

(Interesting how Morocco seems to be inspired by multiple 80's hits.)

Our last day in Tangier started off with a delicious breakfast of every carb under the sun while enjoying the view from Dar Jameel. After breakfast, we were promptly greeted by the one and only, Hassan. The previous day he had told us we would come back and see the Kasbah, the fortress that overlooked the city, at an earlier hour in order to see the snake charmers. Well, we showed but apparently, the snake charmers had other plans. None to be seen. I have to say I wasn’t too heartbroken about that as snakes freak me out more than maybe anything, EVER. I’m sure I’ve inherited this fear from my Grandma who can’t even look at a picture of one without squirming. I feel you Amah. Snakes aside, we toured the Kasbah while not enjoying the explanations on any of the signs because as I previously mentioned, they were written in 3 languages and well, English just didn’t make the cut.

Post Kasbah, we got our bit of typical guidance from Hassan. “What you want to do? You do what ever you want. Any man do whatever he want.” Jenny and I ultimately decided that we would take Hassan and a taxi to the seaside village of Assilah, which we both swear he said was 14 kilometers away. We came to figure out MUCH later and after the brief thought of being abducted and sold into slavery had finally slipped from my mind, that he must have said 40 kilometers away. On the way to Assilah, we stopped to take in some gorgeous cliff side views, saw the point where the Mediterranean meets the Atlantic, and wait for it….rode some camels! Along the drive men stand on the side of the road with their camels looking for takers and well obviously, that was a must. I’ve decided I will be purchasing a camel to bring home with me and her name will be Bara Bara Hutton.


Sidenote: The Story of Bara Bara Hutton.

The first day we were walking past a house near the Kasbah and Hassan turns to us and says…

Hassan: “This house of Bara Bara Hutton.”

Jenny and I: “Who?”

Hassan: “Bara Bara Hutton. You know, Bara Bara Hutton. Very famous American lady.”

Me: “Ohhhh Barbara Hutton. Is that what you mean?”

Hassan: “Yes, exactly. Bara Bara Hutton.”

(For the record, I had no idea who she was but upon wikipedia-ing found out that she was a very famous socialite who was married 7 times, once to Cary Grant, and spent many of her years in Tangier.)

After the driver gave my camel a whack on the neck to get him to lower me down, it was time to get moving. Our next stop on the way to Assilah was a place called Grottes
d’Hercules, the Caves of Hercules. Hassan quickly hooked us up with a guide who whisked us through those things like Wham Bam Thank You Ma’am! He was quick but efficient, telling us exactly where to stand to pose for pictures and making sure to tell us over and over that the cut out in the rock formation looks just like Africa as seen in a mirror. He was right and I was impressed. It was a brisk tour, but we got the idea. Hey, I get it. The man’s gotta make a living and he’s not gonna do it if we just stand there all day gawking.

Finally, we reached Assilah and I was again relieved to discover that such a place actually existed and we weren’t being sold off or dumped and left for dead. Assilah was a spectacular whitewashed town right on the sea. It wasn’t nearly as shabby as old town Tangier, which I have to say was a pleasant change.
Not that old town Tangier wasn’t incredibly interesting but it got a little dark in the tiny alleys and Assilah provided some much needed sun exposure. All and all it was another fabulous day spent somewhere I could have never dreamed of being so soon. Morocco, though so close to Spain, just feels a world away. Amazing how a mere 9 miles can make such an absolute difference. Old town Tangier is the type of place I think every American should have to visit once. It’s important to see how the other side lives. Completely simply, yet seemingly, perfectly happy.

And NowEuropeToDate...