Reflections

During the first month or so of my trip I walked around the streets of Prague curiously listening to the delicate and personal conversations that locals and fellow foreigners would carry. I would smile to myself as I shuffled with my pockets full of hands down the lively alleys of European history. The little girl inside of me would giggle at the natural lives of those around me; I was utterly intrigued and distracted by the sound of their languages. The casualty and ease of speech and the obvious understanding, attention and reaction of the listener was for me an odd and gibberish like noise of no comprehension. What a world it is that we live in I would think to myself. How each of us is so engrossed in our own lives and our own existence. The goals WE have and the company WE keep. But when you have the opportunity or a moment that stops you in your weaving track called life to see that there really are billions of people around you, functioning for you or like you at their own momentum and in their own home, just as unaware of your existence as you were of theirs moments sooner, it is a divine feeling. It is a small, but ever so powerful, warmth that ignites a candle within you. It’s only a temporary flame, you will continue to ride your wave as everyone else does, because the world does not stop, even when you do, but these moments are treasures, they are like little Easter eggs with prizes inside that are hidden so feverishly that only the most curious child will find them.

Months into traveling, my mind had grown familiar with the language swirl and I had become more lulled than distracted by it. It was like a musical swarm, gently following behind me. It was relaxing and mosaic and it wasn’t until I had arrived back in the states that I had realized how peaceful this melody had been. At the end of my trip, after just a quick ten-hour flight, back on U.S. soil, the wonderful white noise surrounding me had switched back in to comprehensible chatter, and unfortunately, I newly realized that most of said daily chatter from my fellow American’s was of nonsensical complaining. Maybe the conversations of those that I could not understand in Europe were complaints as well, but now that I could hear again, after months of “silence”, I could understand, I could listen. Listen and find such daily spoilage. Waste of words, waste of breath. Why not talk about the good, why not talk about what matters. It almost seemed as though our culture is more comfortable filling silence with judgments than with sitting in peace, in quiet. We could all use a little practice with quiet, a little practice with body laugh, a little practice communicating without words. Just because we can talk, doesn’t mean we always should. Sweet dreams, whole hearts. Sweet thoughts, sweet words.

Like They Tell You it Will…

It was the morning of the 1^st. The day before, I had reserved a spot for myself on a Stonehenge tour bus. I was excited to step out of the city for a “tid” to get some fresh air and to bask in the glory of enigmatic history. By 6am I was decked in cotton, my laces were tied and my backpack was secured. I starred at my ticket with no thoughts behind my eyes while I waited for my bus to arrive, just like a 4^th grader, but it never came. It eventually occurred to me that I had confused the date and my tour was, in fact, not until tomorrow. I huffed once and pouted twice to my adolescent self. I remember thinking “I hope these mistakes stop happening to me soon. I’m getting pretty tired of feeling dense.”

Since the “Henge” was “postponed” I had no plans for the day. Back inside I changed into run garb. I figured I would start in Hyde Park and see where the road wanted to take me. It took me in snaking routes throughout the city before dumping me on Oxford Street for a breather. There I exhausted the rest of my energy perusing the exquisite streets of London’s shopping center. Afterwards, I grabbed some fuel (lunch) downtown. Nothing supper exciting happened. Lunch was so-so and so too had the day turned out to be.

That was ok though. Historically, such a thought might have saddened my squishy heart, but this time it just kind of stuck on me. Something new had clung to my soul – an idea, a concept, self-discovery, maybe self-growth? It was happening to me like they tell you it would. Travel was helping me grow; to remain balanced by the way things happen, by the way things fall into place, by the way things will be. I was (am) young grasshopper; learning to be one who could experience, observe, reflect and continue-on more rational than before; more intact and composed and less unreasonable, frustrated and discouraged. In that moment, I had felt my vines growing, like I had branches and roots that were extending in new directions, changing paths, inevitably rerouting the length of my future. Well, almost. The only thing is that analogy makes no sense, for obvious reasons, but also because a traveler hardly ever has roots. Maybe instead I’ll call them gravity defying veins of comprehension that draw invisible passageways and connections to and from one another, and another, and another, linked together by geography and shared experiences..? Hmm, adjectives and I will try, but will never do it justice. It’s a beautiful thing, you know? To be unable to describe something the way you ache to. That, clearly, makes travel indescribable. Not many things truly are. I’d say travel has only one competitor – love.

Thursday morning. Hello sunshine, hello London, hello second stab at the Stonehenge. After quite the jaunt to where my new bus was picking me up, I stood slightly breath-taken and patiently waiting. I was looking so forward to getting out of the city, breathing clean air, clearing my fuzzy head and finally seeing my fourth Wonder of the World.

You know when you’re online checking out a house for sale, an apartment or something spatial and the photos are deceivingly panoramic? I think every existing photograph of the Stonehenge must have been shot this way. Not to imply that it was disappointing, that is far from the illustration I am trying to draw, it’s just simply… smaller. The Mona Lisa, the Coliseum, the Spanish Steps, gelato scoops ;), the WORLD – all equivalent examples of my subjective scrutiny – Objects are smaller than they appear. Side note: I was reading Great Expectations at this point in my trip. The title alone is amusingly ironic.

Although my anticipation had not been met with ‘greater-than’ reviews, the Stonehenge was still remarkable. The history was enlightening, the curiosity and suspicion it drew from within me was refreshing and the physical weight was heavily humbling. The wind however, the bloody flippin’ wind, was SO painful – literally, pain inducing. So much so that it was barely possible to concentrate on the marvel that stood before us. Even the tour guide suggested finishing his tutorial on the coach. Collectively, we wimped out and opted for the bus where we got the rest of the story on the Stones, circled the farms in the area and defrosted. The bonus countryside road trip was therapy for my nature hungry heart. In every direction there gathered beauttifuuulll happy lambs and clusters of pale colored flowers. Propped in my thick cushy foam seat, lap blanket, earmuffs, mittens and red hot pant, I was definitely, delightfully, snuggly warm, once again – in every way.

Our drive through the country ended when we reached Bath, England. If time had ever been frozen, it had been frozen here. I felt as though I was in a pop-up book, a pop-up town. Every building was the same color (tan), the same height, the same shape, but not in the cookie-cutter “Pleasantville” kind of way; more so in the ‘I was built so long ago that carpenters only used one form of medium for construction’ kind of way.

Bath is an immaculately intimate incarnation of quaint. The perfect village of everything old and good combined with just a tiny bit of new. My group and I flocked to the Roman Bath’s first, then toured the alleyways, learned Johny Depp’s home was “to the left” and adored the charming locals, the tightrope walkers and the special little grocery store that carried only locally made goods. The entire day was spent in this time warped sweet and gentle little town. The peace in Bath was much needed. I was so grateful for this day in the country. It gave me a new love and appreciation for a simple life, clean living and slow paces. Oh. Oops. It happened again. Travel had changed me.

Now that I have boasted about how “changed” and “wonderful” I have become, let me remind you (in one way) how rotten, human and hypocritical I still, unfortunately, remain to be. When you’re on the road for months on end, things start to go. Soles (the ones on your feet – hopefully), tights, gloves, hygiene, abs! As well as, which I am ashamed to admit, tolerance for shared bubbles. I loved being around people! There is something about meeting or watching all of the faces, shapes, voices, attitudes, charms and even the individual self-driven agendas that you know exist in each person that speeds past you on the street. They all made me so full of love and light. I even developed this internal, somewhat irrepressible, urge to hold hands with those strangers who stood too close to me (again, I know I am odd). I just wanted to love on everyone.

 

However, there is always an exception and it was for those seemingly lovely people, who openly coughed in confined spaces. Those grubs lost my love. I had become incapable of expressing sympathy for someone who didn’t cover their mouth while hacking a lung. It’s just that the science in my mind could see the tiny molecules of germs levitating through the air and cross-pollinating our shared space; my bubble. I know I am still an awful, snob of a human being, but come on – Common Courtesy 101: cover your halitosis before we have another epidemic on our hands.

 

Since my trip I have relaxed significantly (SF public transportation has conditioned me well). Although I still cannot gather myself to smile at germ spreaders, I can at least refrain from showing any sign of loath and instead offer the solution of a tissue.

It was Friday. I moved rooms again, went for run and splurged on a massage; my first ever by a man, a Moldovan man. It was a delicate day dealt with by delicate hands. Back at the hostel, I met my new roommate, Paulina, a French chic who reminded me so very much of my cousin Laura. Paulina and I decided to grab dinner and drinks at a bar nearby called Pride of Paddington. Two other gals from the hostel joined us and we ended up having a brilliant girl’s night out.

The following morning was slow going, but Paulina and I made it out of our beds with the incentive of Chinese food in our near (hung over) future. We bused and then walked until we reached the Borough of Camden. Camden was SO great. Corner to corner was sprawled with crazy, loud, artistic store fronts, tattoo parlors, markets, street food, tourist traps, bars, bars and more bars. It was a wanderer’s wonderland. We spent a couple hours here, popping in and out of the colorful gimmick shops before eventually finding a Chinese buffet – yep, I said buffet. After an indulgent lunch, we continued to play in the land of mischief getting to know one another. Once we could no longer take the cold we grabbed a bus back to the hostel. Although frozen from the day, somehow checking out The Ice Bar later that night sounded like a great idea. So when we arrived back at Equity it was nap time, followed by prep-time, followed by party time!

ICEBAR LONDON. Even though we had reservations, upon arriving, we still had to wait our turn to suit up before heading downstairs to the “cave”. No complaints. Upstairs was beautiful, posh, warm, laced with “potential”, “hot-lap” inviting and heavy on the drinks. Having fun communicating on an English/French level, Paulina and I surrendered to our wait above ground and sunk into our night at ICEBAR with another round. Just when a few blokes had joined us, so too had our escort to the cave. The four of us were beckoned to gear up for the cold. We were given thick, blue thermal cloaks, lined with fur, plush hoods, and mittens. Downstairs, every wall, bar and chair was made of ice. Even the glasses we drank from were carved ice and after every sip your goblet melted just a little bit more – great way to intoxicate “snow men” faster and sell more booze. Ice was etched and carved and molded to create nooks, benches and mazes. Poetry and quotes were engraved from floor to ceiling. We were in an igloo, in London, with a clan of fellow Eskimos. Yet, with the coats, cocktails and cute company, cold was definitely not an appropriate adjective for the night.

That is, until the bar closed and we discovered the reality of the weather outside – without the cloaks. It was late, we weren’t exactly sure where we were and we had planned on just taking a cab “home”. Unfortunately though, that wasn’t really an option seeing as though everyone in the city had had the same plan as us – cabs were out. Smart phone in hand, Paulina searched for London’s “Next Bus” app. The flurries were coming down heavily and quickly our shoes began to fill with slush. We were dead cold again, now regretting our heels and slutty excuses for clothing, but the snow was SOO BEAUTIFUL. We walked blocks. Blocks and blocks, mostly lost, until we found a stop where many people were waiting. We ditched the smart phone and decided to hail the bus driver for directions. To our luck he was just the bus we needed. We hoped on, shared a seat, the bus was packed, and sighed huge, mutual, sighs of relief – both from drunken exhaustion and for the survival of our nearly gangrene feet.

It was a long ride, but once we reached the closest stop to our hostel, we were happy to walk in the snow again. It had hardened a bit, everything was white. This was the first and only time it had snowed for me while I was Europe and it was picturesque. So early in the morning, nothing had tampered with the fallen flakes yet. Crisp, fluffy, sparkly dust coated the city. Had I been with a guy, this scene would have made “It’s a Wonderful Life” look about as romantic as Family Guy. Nevertheless, sharing it with Paulina, one of the best people I had met on my trip, was priceless.

February 5^th. I can’t remember what we did the next day, which makes me believe we must have done nothing. Considering the drinks and the afterhours exercising we had done post night, sleeping the day away had most likely been the outcome. The night however, that, I will NEVER forget!

“Reggae Concert – Hayereyah & the Human Bridge Band play Catch a Fire” – my first ever Reggae concert.

Andddd this, this is where it all began. “This” being my insatiable appetite for dancing like an animal. In college, you dance with the guys, you dance with the girls, you dance like u think you’re hot, but after this concert, I realized I hate dancing like that. I hate grubby guys, who weren’t invited, rubbing all on me. I realized I had wanted to dance like Hayereyah all this time, but never had the thought to, or the confidence. Fortunately, this trip had irreversibly given me just that, and so, it had begun. This concert had become the branch that led to my interest in eccentric, eclectic, ethnic dancing. Literally, this is my most favorite thing to do now, to dance like the wind, regardless of the scene. I am the peculiar girl doin’ her thing, sharing her vibes, spreading her wings, breaking down her walls, all in the name of happiness.

 

Meeting Paulina, bonding without the strong ability to communicate with words, but instead with travel, music, dance and laughter, made me so grateful to be a human, to meet other humans, to live and to understand one another no matter the language. Sharing time… it’s simply the most valuable, precious gift to share.

L.O.N.D.O.N. – Part IV

My February 16th 2012 date of deportation, issued by the UK border patrol back in Paris, was looking like a good date to head back to the States. It was a clean departure date, one that did not include arguing with the French embassy, and also left me with two more solid weeks of adventure in the United Kingdom. Therefore, without further ado, on January 25^th 2012, I booked my flight home to Michigan.

On that very decisive afternoon, I also booked fourteen days at a hostel across town. Checkout time at Astor was at one pm, so I figured why not make another steadfast decision and start the beginning of my last days abroad in a fresh hostel. While I was booking – on a sofa in the chill out room – I met two Australian guys, Basil and… I didn’t get the other guy’s name. They invited me to join them at the Walk About Bar. It was Aussie day and I was told if I like Aussie’s I would be swarmed by them today. So that became the plan! I told the guys I’d see them soon, packed up, checked out of Astor Hyde Park, and began my two mile luggage haul across town.

Great decision. Equity Point equaled a great location, great lobby, great computer room/loft, great kitchen – with breakfast featuring peanut butter and Nutella – great bedroom – complete with a vanity (great for someone planning on staying fourteen days) and a bath tub. Ok, I’d never soberly place my cheeks on hostel ceramic, but the option was nice. I nestled in, unpacked a few things, stored my backpack in the locker next to my bed and dressed my mattress. [PICTURE] After a relaxing hot shower (walking two miles in February chilled me to my core) I changed and headed to the lobby to map out my attack on Aussie Day.

I didn’t have a cell phone, so I couldn’t call Basil, but I was confident I knew how to get to the Walk About Bar without him. Pretty sure I was wrong. I walked in the direction that Google maps suggested for about forty minutes. I circled the blocks, turned several corners, rerouted my phone a few times, but had zero luck finding the place. I FB’d Basil to let him know I wasn’t a no-show, popped into a bar that I was able to find and waited for his response. The place was called The Churchill Arms – Kensington and it was amazing! On the outside the window frames were stained black and draped in greenery from head to toe. On the inside any available flat surface was filled by an old mug, a beer barrel, a tea cup, a flag or a photograph. Knick-knacks even hung from the interior beams and plumbing. The place was incredibly over decorated and immaculately tacky. Simply brilliant! I took a seat at the bar and ordered a Stella from Michel, the bartender. I spilled my predicament on Michel and he told me I was in luck because he knew exactly where my bar was, but also that I didn’t have to go to a walk about bar to celebrate Aussie day. He told me to “look about” and notice the Aussie celebrations amongst me. I spun in my bar stool and immediately realized how right he was. Australia had come to The Churchill Arms. I turned back around and smiled bashfully at Michel as he poured us each a shot. We lifted our glasses, clinked, “Cheers mate!” he said, and the mental fuzzing began.

I stayed at The Churchill Arms for hours! First just talking to Michel when he wasn’t busy, but soon sparking conversations with any unknowing victim who sat near me. Conversation was easy at the Arms. Maybe it was the liquor or maybe it was the spirit of Aussie Day, but either way, I met a ton of travelers and locals that night. One particular spark ignited with Meg, Shannon and Joel, three Australian friends who invited me to their table. We played drinking games, took shots, talked about our adventures – past and future – our lives at home, and how incredible it is to meet new people on the road. Eventually though, even the Aussie’s were tapped out and it became time to bid our adieu. We exchanged Facebook names and hugs, “walked” our drunken happy selves to the door and hailed separate cabs – don’t judge, I had no idea where I was at this point, a cab was necessary. haha

The next night (We all know I was not up before 3pm after last night) I found myself in the computer room with 20+ Belgium MBA students who decided to stay in London for the weekend after their conference was over. Just moments had passed and I suddenly realized I had been swallowed by a group of immensely attractive, stylish and TALL Belgium classmates. Somehow they noticed me in the midst and as one asked me a question, two joined in on my response, followed by four more with open ears and so on. Soon I was on display. They had so many questions, coming from seven different directions. I had my own for them as well, especially since Belgium was so reachable, it would have made a great mini trip before heading back to the states. Unfortunately though, all I was able to get out, before the group left for their tour, were the answers to their questions. Oh well, they were excited, lively human beings with alien-like beauty, I didn’t need to be on the receiving end.

One sole Belgian boy, named Lev, couldn’t be bothered with the tour. Instead, he stayed back and continued to “interrogate” me. Lev and I sat in the computer room for the remainder of the night discussing – with sincere position and opinion – politics, globalization, environment, choice of lifestyles, the pros and cons of money and why the world does or does not need it. I have to tell you this was one of the best argumentative conversations I have had in my life. It was like Ping-Pong in word form and our mouths were the paddles. Well done old sport, well done.

In the morning I crawled downstairs in my pajamas for a piece of toast and yogurt. I was so beyond exhausted, feeling the repercussions of drinking into all hours of the nights, that I couldn’t even nibble at the breakfast table like a normal person. I immediately went back upstairs, put my breakfast in a Tupperware container that I had bought along the way and slothed my limp limbs back into bed. Sleep was easy. I rose hours later at one pm and decided not to waste the entire day. I had found several yoga studios in the area when I had been on the kick to find work in London, so I Googled one of the names I could remember and figured out when their next class was. Clothed, fed and ready to finally start the day I hiked it to Indapa Yoga where I purchased a two week membership and jumped in to my first yoga class in months – Hot power Hour Dynamic Yoga – similar to Bikram. The studio was pretty and clean and they gave me a giant mug of tea when I walked in the door. It was so delicious and exactly what my dehydrated body needed! I practiced my practice and then took a loonggggg luxurious shower in the spa-like locker room.

When I eventually made it back to my room at Equity Point there were six French friends unpacking their bags. They were actually three French couples and they wanted nothing to do with me. I introduced myself and tried to entice conversation, but they really were not interested at all. I don’t even think they gave me their names. This was a first among my travels, but that’s ok, I could tell they were there to be with one another, not to make new friends, so I politely excused myself and headed back out on the town for dinner. I found a restaurant called The Pride of Paddington. I had an amazing grilled vegetable sandwich with “chips” and hummus all by my lonesome. It was kind of nice to take a break and turn off for the afternoon. The conversation flow the day before had been enough to suffice for a week (such a great night!) but this day had a different pace and it was indeed what I needed. After dinner I walked around Paddington, took pictures of the fountains and architecture. It was a good time to check in with the fam back home, so I turned back to the hostel where I grabbed my laptop and plugged in down in the chill out room. I was able to reach one of my best friends, Jack, which was perfect because we hadn’t been in touch for a couple weeks. She and I talked for only about an hour before she had to take off, but it was every bit of perfect catching up.

As soon as we said our goodbyes, this guy who had been peering from afar came over to ask if I was from East Michigan. I thought for a second “creepy” but only for a second because Jack and I had been talking about Rochester, Imlay City, North Branch, Brown City, etc. etc… all of “farmville estates” of East Michigan and I could comfortably assume that he had just been ease dropping (that or I also talk really loud when I’m on the phone… I know, it’s annoying, I’m working on it).

His name was Scott and he was from Eastern Michigan too. Well, originally from Ohio, but had been living in Michigan for years with a girlfriend (ex. girlfriend and instigator of said trip he was on… Go Scott! Haha). He stood uncomfortably over the table at which I sat for a few sentences of small talk before I invited him to join me. Scott and I hit it off instantly. It was nice to talk to someone who was exactly like you. Everyone I had met along the way was extremely fantastic, beyond great, fun and different, and that truly was one of the very best reasons my trip was so amazing, but it was also really nice to feel like you were hanging out with an old friend or a relative at this stage in the game. Scott and I hung out for a couple of hours, talking about the “where we had been’s” and the “where we were going’s”. We also made plans to meet for dinner and to go to the Tate Museum of Modern Art the next day. I had passed this museum on one of my walks and was sure I would have to come back to it. The exhibit was free, on the river, and at night the boardwalk lights up like Christmas! It’s stunning! I couldn’t wait. Scott had a bus tour to catch at 5:45 in the morning, so he headed to bed, but I headed outside with my night cap – tea tonight. I wrote a bit of this blog from the damp hostel porch step, but the doorman and I began casually chatting, so I closed my laptop, nestled into my seat with my knees tucked into my chest and braced my back against the concrete column behind me. I coddled my mug of tea in my worn mittens, deeply inhaled cold English air and enjoyed the occasional comfortable silence with Souley, the peaceful Equity Point doorman from Guinea, as we both watched the British traffic drive through the melted snowy sludge of winter London.

The next morning I woke to the sounds of a new roommate, Tara, from Queensland. Tara and I conversed as I got dressed for yoga. Spontaneous as she is, she decided to put on her yoga pants and join me. We spent the half mile jaunt to the studio getting to know one another and snapping shots of the red chateau filled streets where hierarchy resided. When we reached the studio we were greeted with the exquisite cinnamon apple tea in large ceramic mugs that I had spoke of before. Tara bought her two week trial and we both signed up for the next class. The type of yoga we practiced was called Iyengar Yoga. Ropes, blocks, chairs, blankets and wall straps are used in this form to assist in posture, strength, alignment and stability. It was interesting, very helpful, but I’m not sure that I enjoyed the class. We spent most of the time setting up chairs with blankets and moving to the wall or repositioning our mats for the next move that not a lot of yoga went on. Nonetheless, it was worth doing. After class, we stopped at a tiny grocery store where the bananas were ten cents and grabbed a post “workout” snack for our walk back.

Tara invited me to meet up with her and her friend Anna from New Zealand, so I gladly tagged along. The three of us walked around Oxford Street – aka shopping extravaganza. Having not been there yet, I was filled with childlike excitement! I took shots of the beautiful stores, window displays and street signs. There were people buzzing in every direction and languages swirling latte aromas. I was all warm and fuzzy inside and grateful to be hanging out with two very chill, very down to earth, welcoming friends. Tara, Anna and I stopped and had lunch at a diner right off of Oxford Street. We each ordered some sort of fish; grilled, in the form of a patty and fried – appropriate. Lunch was great and OBNOXIOUSLY filling, but unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on which of us you asked) we had previously discussed this place just around the corner that the girls had been to for a cookie dough lava cake with ice cream (ok, kill me now) and it was obvious we were headed there next. The girls were confident that I had never tasted anything remotely like it, so to gluttony we went.

Tara had been texting a mutual friend of hers and Anna’s during lunch so on the way to the patisserie we hit the train station and picked up another backpacker. Jesse was also from Australia, he and Tara had met in Northern Europe earlier in their travels. Coincidentally, they had similar paths planned, so they would meet up along the way when they could. Jesse was a lot of fun! He was a character full of humor and with such a gentle, relaxing demeanor – I was starting to understand this “demeanor” was an Australian thing.

It had taken us a hot second (no pun intended. It was a warm night in London and we were all bundled up like Frosty) to find the patisserie. We had actually almost decided to call it quits when, AH HA! There it was! The place was packed and even though the patio had been emptied for the night the hostess let us sit under the stars as long as we didn’t mind waiting a little. We all agreed we were the winners in the situation and filled a table closest to the street and the iron gated entrance. Our waiter came out only a short while later to ask us if we would like menus. We denied the menus, letting him know we already knew exactly what we wanted. Each of us ordered the cookie dough lava cake with ice cream and a blend of winter drinks; hot chocolate, warm milk, cappuccino and black coffee. The dense wafts of fudge, creams and cookie dough combined with the approaching night air closing in around our steamed and swaddled bodies, slow motion laughter, smiles and stories, made this night one more positively decadent evening to lock away in both my figurative and literal chest of memories. We were fat, happy and content, but I was supposed to meet up with Scott in the Equity Point lobby soon, so I had to interrupt our splendor. I invited everyone to come with Scott and me to the Tate Museum of Modern Art and everyone agreed!

The Tate was fun! It was so cool to see each of us really interested in looking at the different mediums and crafts. In my experience, usually someone is ready to go after a quick five minutes, but that wasn’t the case. The museum had really unique art! Staircases hanging from the ceiling, art made from books and nails, piles of seeds as big as a four cars, photographs of the most extreme cases of obesity. One pic I particularly remember was of a woman, a naked woman, who weighed over 300 lbs napping in a netted hammock. It was not a flattering image. There were also video rooms showing films on ants and rooms filled with comic strips the length of the walls. Everything was different, some were awesome, some were questionable, but the whole experience was indeed “greater than the sum of its parts”. We left completely satisfied with our free purchase. After the Tate we walked back in the direction of our hostel, we took pictures of the River at night and the Towers Bridge lit up. There were old ships that were visually appealing and the landscaping around the Tate appeared to be intentionally strange as well. It was a calm, melodious, museum paced stride home… that is, until we found a little bar on the river.

The place was kind of a stand alone, with a deck trimmed in patio furniture and lanterns. Inside there was a maze of bar top, table length, wooden planks for posting on. We flocked to the only open one like pigeons on a French fry. Tara and I went to the bar to grab the first round. I was pleased to find that they had a plethora of cider flavors for sippin’ on. The first one I tested was banana bread flavor; not the best concoction, but I chalked it up to “I tried it”. Later I also tried raspberry, peanut butter, lime, something wheat… and a shot we the group. The whole night was a gift of life, full of interesting convo’s with intelligent people and curious minds. Full of travel hopes and inspiring dreams, full of funny stories, embarrassing laughs and OMG situations. Tara, Anna, Jesse and Scott bring life to the people they meet, I am sure of it. At the very least they brought life into me. My little internal lantern flame that had been dimming slightly had its wick cranked that night. Once again I couldn’t wait to embark on more adventures and I hadn’t even finished the one I was on.

January 29^th… wow! The New Year was officially almost over. Tara and I woke up relatively early again and took our butts to yoga. This class was amazing! It was so rejuvenating and necessary after the boozery of last night. Beginning in shavasana (lying pose, dead man’s pose) we filled our lungs with deep breathes. Our teacher circulated through the room asking us to mentally stay on our mat, breath from our core, simulate paradise, be present and reject all distractions that come to the surface and try to agenda-size the day. Her voice was therapeutic and the lilac oils she massaged into each of our temples awakened our senses bringing paradise that much closer to reality. I am certain I have never been more relaxed in my life. Carefully gathering our attentions back to life the teacher brought us from shavasana to lower body stretches and forward folds. Each movement was carefully guided by her instruction to stay in the flow, dance with your mind and your body. “Press slowly through each pose, stretch just a little bit further, push beyond your last bend, breath with your body” she steered. She made it so much easier and much more enjoyable to deny your body’s natural desire to stop at its current maximum and to grow, to lengthen. Innnhaleeeee… reachhhhh… sweat. Holddd. Reach……. holdddd. HOLDDDDDD… sweating…. SweatTTing… sweating! …exhaleeeeee…… endorphins. Detox. Detox. Detox. Life. Is. Good.

Tara and I hit the showers and girl-ed it up quickly after yoga so we could meet up with Anna and Jesse for brunch. We zipped over to a place in Camden that Anna had heard was awesome for Sunday roasts. Of course, I loved this place too. Even though it was chilly out we decided to dine under a lamp heated outdoor tent. Picnic table style with candles adorning we chowed. After the roast we moved indoors for some wine and heat. After a couple rounds we agreed the morning had turned into a bar hopping, day drinking, kind of day in Camden. It was FREEZING out by then. Instantly, after hitting the streets, we scouted for another pub to duck into. I wish I could remember the name of the next bar found. It was epic! Massive in size, stories high, many a café in length and looked like you were in the streets when in actuality you were sheltered inside away from the weather of London. Could we have been any luckier? We had been attempting to drink outside since morning, only to stumble into an indoor outdoor bar – genius. We hung out there for a while, enjoyed the ambiance and eventually decided drinks back to our hostel sounded warmer, cheaper and less of an obstacle than hopping bars in February. Braving the cold one last time, we hit a convenient store and stocked up on a million snacks for our carpet picnic back at the hostel.

The next morning Jesse and Tara were leaving for Egypt. We said our sad goodbyes, but something stopped me from feeling too depressed. Again, with these guys, I felt like goodbye was only a formality and seeing them in the future, near or far, was a sure thing. Plus, knowing they were off to experience more great places made me happy to see them go do their thing! They had inspired me to get back into it as well. Exhausted, had I mentioned? My mistake. This word is not allowed in a traveler’s dictionary and IF it so happens to sneak “its” way in, “it” should quickly be addressed, reevaluated and made aware of where “it” actually is.

With my restored mindset, I walked to yoga (this time solo) scanning my thoughts for what I was going to do with my forgotten gift of time. Four days prior, I was ready to go home, but having been moved by my lighthearted Aussie/Kiwi friends, I was keen and motivated again to discover the wonders of the world, to take a hold of the incredible trip I was on and to realize it’s okay to miss familiarity, but just miss it and move on because life is for living, not for wishing.

London – Part III

It was eight am and my body was brimming with energy. Suited up, I stepped out of Astor and walked north roughly a hundred feet. There I stood in front of Kensington Gardens and from there I ran – like Forest I ran. Okay, maybe not exactly like Forest, but still I ran a lot, stopping to walk on the streets that were thick with tourists, locals, and shoppers. I also took those opportunities to snap a few pictures of the unbelievable reality that surrounded me. I was liquid, melting from my growing love for London.

At noon, I headed back to the hostel, took a shower and did my usual “prep work”. Afterwards, I landed in a torn red leather chair in the chill-out room to do a little research. Curiosity (and my keyboard) brought me to an employment sight. There I found a job that I quickly became VERY interested in. It happened to be at a local yoga studio not too far away, so I decided to walk there to check it out. In transit, I passed through a gorgeous neighborhood with manicured curbsides, wrought iron fencing, bold colored shutters, and black or red doors. Every branch, every plant, every mailbox was perfectly positioned. Several hair studios, cupcake boutiques, and specialty stores also lined my track before I finally arrived at LIVE yoga.

Now, don’t judge me, at the time I did not realize how many loops an American has to go through in order to work in another country. Silly me! Sometimes I think the whole world is sunshine and daisies (I blame all the dye jobs; sometimes it takes me a minute to figure things out). So, with mild reservations and a quizzical expression, the woman at LIVE yoga humored my employment inquiry and gave me the hiring managers email address. “Give it a shot!” she said. And I did.

I have an immense and strange love for Whole Foods Market. You’re probably thinking  “you strange, strange child, how does one fall in love with a grocery store?”. Well, my darlings, it all began on this very inspiring afternoon in the land of London.

I was headed back to my hostel (to draft my employment application for LIVE yoga) when I happened upon the ultimate natural foods store – Whole Foods Market. It was Buckingham and I was Queen. In natural grocers back home it wasn’t unusual to find me perusing (or what I like to refer to as researching, working, gathering data… important business, not to be diminished 😉 ) isle after isle of nutritional product. I have been caught dissecting nutrition labels, checking the validity of health claims, sampling new sources, harassing the meat counter, quizzing employees on their food knowledge – you know, nothing irregular at all. 😛 So naturally, when I found the Mecca of natural food stores in my paradise (aka London), anything short of my becoming obsessed would be unusual.

I dove in, “suited down” (took off my coat), “turned the lights on ‘upstairs'” (engaged my senses) and entered my biochemically intelligent, taste bud enticing, culture thriving oasis. With a joint appreciation for nutrition, conscious living and health (and with all due respect) Whole Foods became my Ashram.

Exploring the many layers of this immaculate store took quite some time. During my exploration I discovered a full menu restaurant, cooking classes, walls of flowers draped from the ceiling creating a free standing garden. The aroma was paralyzing to all senses but smell. Further in sprawled a color coordinated muesli bar drawing with food all the shades of a rainbow. Downstairs I found myself wrapped in a life size truffle box. Sugar and cocoa invited me toward its cozy endorphin rich nook, where it gently and gradually led me down to the baklava counter, the Chinese candies, Parisian desserts and international indulgences amass. Barrels of various shades of popcorn huddled together like a jovial gathering a friends, young tatted gentleman (could have been women as well, but for the sake of being honest, I only noticed the uniquely chiseled British boys) circulated the floor with sippings of wine, samplings of flavors and tastings of treats! Every item was creatively displayed. Every item was art.

Maybe I wanted to learn something more while shopping? Well, I need not fret. I could take a yoga class, learn how to sharpen my knives, arrange a centerpiece, build a menu, plan a party. This market was truly a valid illusion of endless options and I was a light, softly smiling foodie fool swimming in the pool of palate possibilities.

No one seemed to mind my consistent interactions with the store and all that was housed in it, nor my mild attention getting behavior. In fact, I like to think most enjoyed my quirky racket and delighted sounds of ouus and ahhs (at least that’s what their smiles told me). However, there was one conservative English couple that shamed me. I would assert that they found my presence, shall we say… “distracting”? Stepping into their stylish shoes I can understand their objection though. Imagine a tall, pale, American girl, dressed in all black (black tights, black mini, black jacket – army boots), swirling through the store, tasting double samples, repeatedly offending the wine host, giggling over the barrels of popcorn, inhaling sweet bouquets and smiling at fruit. I was having a splendid adventure, a blissful indentation in my mental memory book that I would have been pleased to carried on with, but for the sake of keeping my composure and for the sake of not further degrading the American culture (no I do not take FULL credit for this), I decided it was time for this child to leave Never Never Land. With a bag of goodies in my hand and a positively hearty expression on my face, I departed from the Whole Foods Market of my dreams a new person.

I attempted toward the hostel again – properly equipped to continue my mission of securing work in the city – but in route found too many great places that pleaded for my attention. Willingly I answered their call. I ended up stopping at several stores before reaching home. One was a health and wellness facility called BALANCE (I was convinced it was a sign, as balance is my favorite, self-defining, live my life by word. It has many meanings to me and when I am twenty five I hope to make it my first tattoo – permanently located where my fourth chakra – the heart chakra). I also stopped in a few organic botanicals, holistic health shops, acupuncture and massage therapist offices, and a couple fitness facilities to see if any were hiring. At each I picked up an application or took an email address. I was feeling positively optimist, elated and cheerful, bursting with bliss! Ha ha

I grabbed a treat at COSTA coffee called a Turtle. This little number was introduced to me by Jane and Karola in Prague. It is something of a mixture of chai tea, sugar, creams, and coffee – I believe. Hardly guilt free, but totally worth it! After COSTA, I told myself no more stops, it was time to get busy on the job apps., but then I remembered to stick a sock in my American (work your life away) mouth and instead, I intentionally visited each and every shop on my trail home. This was me rebelling against myself. All joking aside, this step may not have been a very big one, but it, along with many others, actually paved the first tracks of my new life. My mentality, values, goals, and respects changed drastically that day. I turned over a new leaf, as they say.

One of the coolest boutiques I rebelled into was an art gallery. The place had a very unique array of pieces; some things were made of hair and others of old clothes. They clearly had an eco-friendly, “go green” philosophy. Next to the art gallery was an art supplies store – convenient? The store was bigger than the front porch led on. It had a spiral staircase to the basement where you could find a cellar of glass bottles in a slew of different sizes, shapes, and colors. The layout was stunning, illuminating and reflective, but the danger of being in a cellar full of glass with a backpack, a Whole Foods bag and a coffee made me very nervous. I didn’t stay long. The art store was my last stop before reaching the parks that separated my hostel from the goodies of the city. Casually, I weaved through the gardens and in time landed back at Astor where I rooted myself in the chill-out room, poured myself a mug of wine (compliments of WFM) exhaled gratefully, and soaked in my lovely day. Eventually, I pulled out my laptop and began researching United Kingdom working visas.

A couple hours passed, my visa understanding was in the works and I had a thorough idea of the quality of wine I had purchased when Thomas and Van showed up. Along with them came Dan, Ben and Jenny. Dan was from New Zealand, and Ben and Jenny were from Oregon. Tom and Van saw me from the street and came in to ask if I wanted to grab some nosh and a bevvy with them (I think they were just being ironic). I wrapped up my work and together we headed to a vegan restaurant about five blocks south of Astor.

Eating vegan with fellow health nuts while also exploring new territory… bonus! We ate community style, shared a lot of stories and talked a lot of playful trash. Thomas and Van were such great company. I felt completely at home with them, like old friends – brothers. Dinner was also somewhat of a farewell as this was the last night that Thomas and Van would be staying at the hostel, but fortunately we did agree to hold a carpet picnic at their new place once they were moved in, so it wasn’t as sad as it could have been.

After dinner we went to a pub next to the restaurant. Drinks were flowing, laughter was contagious, and the walk home was a comical one. Like I had mentioned earlier, we were only about five blocks from the hostel, but I’m pretty sure it took us a good hour to get home. I remember turning left a lot and then having an irritating time getting my boots off and climbing the bunk ladder. When I did reach the top, it was over. Collapse, cheek to cotton – and she sleeps.

The morning came (quickly) with the sound of tip-toes and tinkering. I rolled over to see who the new mouse in the house was and found a crinkled Whole Foods bag tucked under my shoulder. A bold note in permanent marker was printed across the brown paper. It read, “Good morning bird! You are quite charming when you’re drooling in your sleep… haha Give us a ring when you rise! ❤ Tom and Van” I smiled, slipped the bag back under my pillow and directed a hello at my new roommate. She was putting her bed together across the room, trying very hard not to make a sound, but it wasn’t working. The throbs in my hung-over brain made any subtle tinking against the luggage cage sound like wands against jail bars – the agony! Loretta was apologetic, but I assured her, as I steadily braced myself down the bunk ladder, that it was no fault of hers and that I take full responsibility for the pangs. She smirked as if to say “been there!”.

When traveling, inviting a stranger to share a meal becomes as natural as asking one the time. Names were exchanged along with a few more words before Loretta and I had plans to get breakfast. I suggested a little diner that I had passed while walking amuck yesterday called Café Rouge. I thought it was a single bit place, but it turns out there are quite a few of them in London. We had a tasteful, delicate sized healthy breakfast, chatted about the mid-west (Loretta was from Wisconsin) and about being a solo female on the road. It was a relaxing hangover of a morning – exactly what I needed.

After breakfast we met up with Loretta’s friend Ramsey who was studying in London for a few months. Loretta and Ramsey had planned on sightseeing for the day and since I had no plans, the company was fun, and walking off last night was crucial, I decided to join them. Not to mention, the second, third, and fourth time around the city there are still sights to be seen. First we hit Buckingham, Big Ben, Parliament and crossed the bridge to see the London Eye up close. We also toured the Reaper, the financial, and the shopping districts (three places I had not been to yet). What was originally supposed to be just a jaunt after breakfast turned into a jam-packed, friendly, good-clean-fun, nine mile walk, kind of a day.

Ramsey was out, but Loretta and I thought it was appropriate to grab a traditional fish and chips dinner to complete the day. It took another thirty minutes of walking to get back to where the restaurants were, but once we arrived, we ate like bears, paid our tabs and agreed to continue walking on. To Notting Hill we went. At this point, walking officially became quite difficult and although scrupulously refueled, we were now more than ever lacking in energy. The heels of our shoes had surely worn thin. Plainly put, we were tired.  Slowly and in almost silence we robotically returned to the hostel where we both agreed a siesta was in order. We set our alarms for exactly 32 minutes, hoping to be ready to rally at the ding.

DING! Time to party. Brusha, brusha, brusha. A not so quick change of our clothes and a powder to our noses and we were ready to pounce on the London night. Downstairs at the front desk we asked the night shift guy where he recommended we go for a fresh sip, a good band and a lot of boys. He suggested Gloucester Arms, a bar/pub just down the road. Within ten minutes we were there, but unfortunately, no one else was. There was one older gent at the bar with his back to us and a mug mechanically shifting to his mouth, then to the counter, then to his mouth – crickets were playing in the background. We exited gracefully and turned the corner hoping to fall upon something better. Seriously, we must have walked for an hour looking for another pub. We were staying in a ritzy, neighborly area, thus we had no luck. Turns out if you go west of Kensington you will find a whole lot of nothing. Homes, that’s about it. Defeated and bummed, we finally decided to head back to the hostel, but not without a quick pit stop for some wine and biscuits to make up for the loss of the night.

Back at the hostel, Loretta grabbed us a seat at a picnic table and I rifled through the kitchen for some clean cups. A few Spanish guys were playing pool, so we watched them while we sipped and nibbled. A few others filtered in as the clocks clicked on and eventually our lonely picnic table became the better end of a bar deal. We shared our wine, others shared beer and tequila, and yet again each stranger shared a story. Pool tourneys began, some people played while others just drank and gradually the night shifted into quite a charming collection of languages, laughter and liquors.

The next morning, I had an appointment to redecorate my head. I had scheduled a dye job and a cut for myself a few days earlier with a salon near my hostel called Rush. I was starting to feel less like a female and more like a garbage can. Honestly, my roots were offensive.  I had mentioned my shameful vanity to Loretta the night before and apparently she felt my pain because she booked an appointment for herself first thing in the morning. Rush was a crisp place off of Kensington High Street and my hair dresser was a charming fellow with a perfect eastern European undercut. Currently, the most attractive hair cut on a guy – in my opinion). Loretta received a trim and a blowout and I was getting the whole lot – cut, color and style. My hair took hours. I felt terrible that Loretta was waiting for such a long time. I told her to take off, to go explore, that we could meet up later if she wanted, but she promised she was completely cool with just hanging out. After yesterday, we were both content with the idea of not walking a ton, so instead, while I foiled, we gabbed a ton, read magazines, sipped complimentary coffees and spent a good amount of time imagining what we wanted for lunch – both starving at this point. My hair was colored and it was almost time for the cut when something went wrong with the other clients. Unfortunately, this meant my hair dresser had to abandon me for a bit and tend to another. I was given a free deep conditioning treatment for my “inconvenience” – score!

A relaxing, but also exhausting and anxious four hours later we looked charmed. After we squared up with Rush and said farewell to our interesting and talented host, we overwhelmed our minds with lunch and where we would have it. Something spicy was necessary after months in Europe. Loretta had been perusing a UK magazine while she waited for my hair to be finished and in it she had found a promo for Memories of India, the perfect palate for our wanting taste buds.

Dinner was delicious and a great change of pace from the flavors I had been frequenting. By the time we left Memories of India it was dark outside and bitter cold. Randomly (and comically) there were fireworks being shot off in the distance. Loretta and I weren’t sure what they were for, but we joked about how official it made our “dinner date”. Back at the hostel again we contemplated our options for the night. Loretta decided to go out with Ramsey and a few friends in her program, but I decided to stay back (I wasn’t really into Ramsey; she had a tone about her that rang entitled in my ears). Before leaving for her night out, Loretta and I said our goodbyes. However, at four am she would be hopping on a bus, off to her next adventure and since it would be wasteful for her to pay for a whole additional day at the hostel, I told her she could borrow my room key and crash in my room when she got back from the bar. Knowing I’d see her again, we had just a quick ciao.

A “ciao” because she left me in our room with a new roomie, one from Italy, with a fantastically calm, swirling accent, as well as, truly, the most attractive feature (also in my opinion) that a guy could possess – a full sleeve. His name was Fred and he played in a band and also managed one. He, like Thomas and Van, was only staying at the hostel in between moving apartments. After a short chat and a free cd exchange Fred had to go “meet the band” he was managing. We walked out together parting ways at the chill out room. There I joined a few people for a casual night-in drinking brews and watching a really strange movie about killer sheep (no, you are right, it was odd).

When I woke in the morning, I had found my key in my boot and Loretta gone. Quick as we come, quick as we go. In Germany, Italy, and France, I had done the same thing, jumped from “ship-to-ship”, but in London I stayed put a lot more than those around me and it was personally very noticeable. I had begun to feel like I was in slow motion and everyone around me was in hyper speed. Like a movie clip where an actress stands in the middle of a busy street while cars and people buzz past her. On that morning, the 25^th of January, I found myself in a hostel room alone with Fred’s bags and empty beds. It was only slightly sad, as I knew it was only temporary, the beds would fill up quickly, they always did, but something new was in the air; something was missing. I went downstairs in my pajamas with my computer and decided to check in with the family. Eventually the entire morning was spent on Skype with my mom, sister and best friend Shannon. Each convo. was warm and inviting. By the close of my computer I had fully condemned myself to a third form of “sick” in London. First, I induced myself with the travel bug, second, I suffered through the flu bug, and third, I unexpectedly developed the homesick bug.  I mulled over my thoughts that afternoon, reflected on the week’s emotions and by days end decided to call it. The inevitable homeward bound date was to be decided.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I was (and still am) entirely, relentlessly, possibly even unhealthily, in love with London and all of its majesty, class and culture –  through and through – but certain future plans, along with the hole in my heart, coerced my intentions back to native ground.

I half knew before this trip that traveling would be a big part of my life. Having the dad that I have, having traveled around the US, having visited China and having completed a degree in Intl. Studies… all signs indicated that I would kind of like to do so. After backpacking Europe however, I undeniably, positively, knew that traveling would forever be an integral part of my life. I also knew then and still know now that London specifically will be in my future. I mean not to lead life solely on fate, but my psychic in high school did say I would own a home in England when “I grew up”. That’s promising….. right? 😉

London Continued… (I know, not a very creative title)

Jareb’s departure left me alone at our breakfast table, sad and droopy faced, locked on the stack of dirty breakfast dishes in front of me. I regarded the bar and peered through to the lobby with a cheek to my knuckles and an elbow to the table engravings. I embraced another moment of exhaustion before peeling Great Expectations from my backpack and taking a lethargic bite of my toast. The longer I stayed, the more my distaste for St. Christopher’s grew. What was once a charming “vintage” élan, was now a thick, dense and odorous dump. Sorry St. Christopher’s, but it’s true, it’s time for some updates.

I chewed like a slow motion cow, dragging my gaze from left to right attempting to read the classical lines of Charles Dickens. My eyes sat half-open as irritation pressed its staple look against my face. “Wow, get it together, you look like a sloth,” I thought to myself. Almost instantly, I transformed from sloth to bull – not quite the attitude change I was hoping for, but unfortunately it was unavoidable considering the new company entering the room. Such an odd individual he was, bouncing toward me as he had. I watched, hypnotized and still chewing, as he gravitated closer like a silent film. Suddenly, there was a hum in my ears, as if an explosion had just occurred, one so loud that the walls of my ear drums were left vibrating. I secretly and delicately clenched the table; preparing myself for the theoretical collision that was about to take place. His voice was a siren of words that broke the silent hum of his entrance. In 3…2…1…, bye-bye awesome Jareb; hello, clingy, war-time, slow-motion movie man – Christian.

I got lucky. Christian interpreted my facial expression as illness and not as rude American – I feel it’s never okay to be a jerk, even if it is warranted.  When he asked me if I was feeling alright I gladly took the bait. I told him, “Actually, not so much. I’m sorry I can’t stay, but I think I’m going to head back to bed for a bit.” With a groan, he offered to walk me to my room and I insisted I could manage. “I’ll check on you a little later…!” he screamed after me as I headed back up the spirals for a dirty thirty (minute nap). Climbing ever higher, toast sandwiched in hand, I thought to myself, “Christian’s company or gritty sheets…?” sadly, I took to the sheets.

Side note – In reflection, I am grateful that my bothered and rude behavior did not radiate as much as my mind had illustrated it. We (Americans) already have a nasty rap; I would hate it if I unnecessarily or inadvertently contributed to it.

My effort to avoid a cold in London had failed. What was supposed to be a thirty minute siesta, turned into a few days of isolation. It was January 18^th and I slept. January 19^th came and I left my room only to replenish my stock of crackers, tissues, and head pills. Ironically though, the cold did my body a service. My internal obligation to eat anything and everything – new, culturally stimulating or sugar-coated – had been revoked. My mouth was on vacation and my body was in bed.

On day three I choked down an orange. I knew I wasn’t going to recover on carbs and water, so I peeled the fruit and sucked the juice out of each slice; dragging the slivers between my upper and lower chomps and discarding the skins into a tissue – classy. After the sun “hit the sack” that night and rose again in the morning to stretch its figurative limbs, I was able to do the same. Twelve more hours of sleep and a dose of vitamin C had done the trick. In the battle of Simple Carbs vs. Vitamins … vitamins always win.

On Saturday, January 21^st, I woke with the anxious will to leave my bed. Steadily, I pulled it together, slipping out of my sick girl garb and into a towel and rubber slippers. To the shower stalls I was bound! Following my euphoric aqua rehabilitation, I took a wire brush to my disgusting teeth, blew out my hair, rocked a clean, sleek, high top pony, and finished with a meticulous face painting. I stared back into the mirror, inhaled deep and exhaled slowly, one big, solid, sigh of relief. No one was around when I finished grooming, so I tip-toed back to my room in my now damp towel and squishy, squeaky wet flops. I locked the dorm door, dropped towel and pulled out my “party dress” – black tights, black mini, black turtleneck, black scarf, and weathered black army boots –  from the “back of the closet” – aka suitcase.

I felt just a little bit better after every completed phase of hygiene recovery. Fully recovered, if not exuberant, by the time my transformation was complete. I strutted downstairs with laptop, map and orange (aka – battery charger) in hand. I passed through the corridors, left and right, weaving through the tangled hallways of old St. Christopher, ultimately grabbing a seat at one of the bar top tables in the lobby, where I set up shop. “Professor Google? What do the Boroughs of London have to offer?” My search of three days ago had finally resumed.

Boogie on my tail! – If you have ever played Star Fox on Nintendo 64, then you know what this means. If you haven’t, maybe a fly on an elephant’s ass is a better analogy? It was Christian again. “Well hello beautiful,” he clamored, as he took an uninvited seat. Christian appeared like a ghost and seemed to always be present whenever I surfaced in the hostel. Did he ever leave or did I just have awful timing? When he spoke I often drifted into imagination land where I created elaborate stories of his existence. This particular meeting/fictional story in my mind Christian was a ghost; The Ghost of St. Christopher’s Inn (Dunt, DUnt, DUNT).

Cause of death: one fellow female victim, back in the late 18^th century, could no longer tolerate Christian’s invasive behavior and potentially took the law into her own, petty-coat wearing, hands. Details are uncertain; an investigation was never completed.

Sorry, back to the original story…

Having felt more like my usual self – less like my alter ego – I humored Christian’s visit (for a while). We chatted about my cold and why I had been M.I.A as he continued to lather on the compliments. I tried, but after a few minutes I truly couldn’t take anymore. So as far as Christian was concerned, I was off to Ireland (when you’re backpacking you can tell guys you are going places like Norway or Spain and it sounds legit). I politely expressed that it was nice to meet him and thanked him for his company this last week. I also told him to cool it on the girls for a bit. He laughed at me, but I felt like I had to say it. I felt like it was my biological obligation as a member of what my father would call (brace yourselves) “the vagina club” to attempt to subdue Christian’s zealous libido. Thirty seconds later my laptop was safely stowed in its sleeping bag tote. I tossed it over my shoulder and scampered up to my room (again) to grab the rest of my things. I wasn’t locked down at the St. Christopher’s Inn, Christian was becoming a concern and my bed was currently still swarming in fever, everything about St. Christopher’s had gone sour – it was time to go. Sure, it was a random time of the day to leave a hostel (meaning I had already paid for the night), but my next “find” made up for it – you win some, you lose some.

Check out was quick and before I knew it, I was sauntering down the street with my luggage in tow. A few blocks away I stopped in front of a bar called The Dark Horse (later I found out that “The Dark Horse” means an unexpected success – ironic). There was a Wi-Fi sign in the window and at eleven thirty in the morning there were already a few people inside. I shimmied through the narrow entry way and presented myself by an accidental slam of the door behind me. The bartender looked up from his conversation with a painfully unimpressed look on his face.  He stood left center, donned half a sleeve, a V-neck, a leather wrist watch and an incredibly well pulled off undercut – hot. “Your pick,” he nodded toward several seating options; I picked left center.

His name was Shawn and he was a local (perfect! He would serve well as my new Executive Hostel Hunter). While I absorbed the menu Shawn and I asked and answered each other’s questions. “Where are you from?”, “Where are you from?”; “How do you like it here?”, “How do you like it here?” You go, I go; you go, I go. It was nice to have an insider’s perspective and Shawn had a lot of suggestions. He suggested Queensgate, an area outside of tourist pricing, near several parks, safe and close to a few metro stops – which could lead me to all the bars, clubs, shops and history. Queensgate it is!

Business had been decided on, now it was time for lunch. My body was finally ready to eat and Shawn definitely noticed. Ha! He told me I have the appetite of a fifteen year old boy – guess I blew my dainty cover. Fat and full, I pushed my plate aside and pulled out my laptop. It took an hour to find a good hostel in Queensgate; half because I was distracted, half because there are so many hostels in London – and I have trouble making decisions (lol). Eventually though, I picked one, Astor Hyde Park Hostel. I thanked Shawn for his expertise of the city, dropped a few bills on the mahogany, traded hugs, last names (for Facebook) and numbers, and headed out on the naked streets of London.

I trekked west over Westminster Bridge, the London Eye on the right of me and Thames river below. CLICK! CLICK! I gawked at Parliament Square, Big Ben suspended in its tower, and through Birdcage Walk. The walk was reserved for Royal use until 1828 when it was opened to the public. It is now lined with historical trees, Harry Potter street lamps, wrought iron gates, two-way tire and foot traffic, manicured greenery, and of course, charming British accents. I stood there briefly, blissfully re-experiencing the wanderlust that I had felt on my first days in London.

My map told me to hang a right out of the Birdcage and on to Constitution Hill; this placed me right in front of Buckingham Palace. Seeing something for the first time always makes for an incredible memory, but when you get to see something again and maybe even again, it’s a whole new experience; an opportunity to notice something you might have missed or the chance to see it in a different light – literally and figuratively. Constitution Hill took me along the border of Green Park, through the gardens of Hyde Park and past The Royal Albert Hall. This Hall was opened in 1871 and has showcased our beloved Frank Sinatra, Jimi Hendrix, The Beatles, Sir Winston Churchill, the Dalai Lama, and the recent Adele.

Sweaty and tired, I finally made it to Astor Hyde Park Hostel. It took me every bit of two and a half hours to walk the 4.2 miles across town. The journey was incredibly worth it and approaching the white washed concrete entrance was beyond rewarding. I lifted my fifty pound life and hoisting myself up seven wide front porch steps. I buzzed the front door and caught my breath while I waited for clearance. Through the entry hallway I rolled by framed years of Astor Hyde. I parked it – my caboose – in line at the reservations counter with the rest of the exhausted bed hunters or enthusiastic adventure seekers. “Haven’t seen one of these in a couple of months,” I thought to myself as I leaned against a cappuccino machine and eyed the vanilla latte. Astor Hyde had an old school appeal, similar to that of St. Christopher’s with the crown moldings, thick paint, and brown matted carpeting, but there was a space, height, and air about Astor. There was something that brought excitement back into my gut; I was elated to be at my new place and eager to get a bunk.

Thankfully, I had pre-booked a bed from hostels.com while I was at The Dark Horse, because three people before I was the first in line, Astro Hyde booked solid. Anyone who didn’t have a reservation was sent away with disgruntled and defeated faces – sad. The line lost a lot of weight as the “walk-ins” left and the “pre-bookers” scrunched together condensing a line of fifteen+ travelers to a mere four.  I was now just one away from a quick orientation, a deposit, a map, and a room key.

The stairs were a feat, but my room was a delightful upgrade from St. Christopher’s, so I was through complaining. I locked my luggage underneath my red metal bunk bed, washed my face and hands, threw myself onto my sheet-less plastic mattress and accidentally crashed – army boots and all.

“She’s got her shoes on”

I don’t think it was the talking, rather the British accent that woke me. My eyes blinked open like a mechanical ice cream scooper and fell upon my new roommates. I brought my legs around to dangle into the bunk below me. I groggily said hello to two very tall, very thin, British gents carrying “takeout” (Pringle’s, tangerines and beer). After a quick introduction they invited me to join them for a carpet picnic. I met the boys downstairs in the “chill-out” room a few minutes later (after some Listerine and a smear check).

Thomas and Van lived in London, but were in limbo while their new apartment opened up. They were the best-est of buds and had in fact traveled to Africa, Japan and all over Europe together. Needless to say, I had tons of child-like attention to give them. Even as the end of my journey neared, I hadn’t tired from hearing other’s adventures. Each wanderer had a tip, a must see, a hidden gem or an unforgettable memory to share. We spun off of each other like tumble weed; grabbing as we go, picking up where someone else left off, linking stories in unfathomable ways, jumping countries, continents and states. Every fellow roamer shared; in turn creating new memories from old ones, which too would be shared with future travel friends. Being a part of this world memory, this global bond, is the greatest honor a travel bug could be bestowed.

The three of us settled in, pulled a coffee table close, played cards and listened to music while I learned every, little, bit, about England. I fell; hard, heavy, fixated, and emotionally head over heels (army boots) in love with London. On January 21^st 2012, it had been decided, it was now my life goal to move to London – for good.

To be continued… (again)

From Paris to London… The Last Leg

Surprise!

My feet may be back on US soil, but the adventures shall never end! Besides, I never finished shoveling adjectives, similes, cliché one liners and excessive descriptions into your prying eyes and hopefully entertained guts. Let the cheese continue, as I FINALLY tell you the tale of my London voyage…

I came across a little pickle in the road at the train station in Paris. It seems, one might want to have a plan or maybe just rehearse a little bit before greeting the UK border control. Sure, if you have a legit reason for visiting the country you can get through, absolutely. All you need is a little Crisco (the only reasonable use for the product), a wiggle and a passport. However, when you are merely a floater with no occupational goals, no destination or return flight and you naively tell the officer this with a backpack on your back, bubble gum in your mouth and hair twirling around your finger, well, you’re probably not going to like what they have to say. After I gave the officer my honesty, he gave me (in his words) “the benefit of the doubt” and a stamp in my passport authorizing a thirty day visit to the country. This was significantly less than the six months I had originally planned on staying. No worries though, I wasn’t about to let “Grumpy” ruin my buzz, and so, through the gates I “skipped”, with a cocky “give me my passport back” smile and an “I’ll figure it out later” mentality.

Line, scanner, line, scanner, trainnnnnnnnnn, nothing exciting and scurrrrgeeee!  “We have arrived at our destination, London. Thank you for traveling Parisian railways.” Farewell my frisky French friends, hello delightfully charming and interestingly beautiful Brits.

The London train station has a mass of corridors; I was Harry Potter. I could finally read all of the signs and was able to easily find the line for taxis. Two weeks ago I would have mapped out my hostel from the train station, birds-eye-viewed the streets, and made a list of landmarks to follow. Essentially a “treasure map”, but this day wasn’t two weeks earlier, and therefore, I was losing momentum, only subtly, but losing nonetheless. So, instead of a typical Nancy Drew adventure, I herded in line like the rest of my fellow army figurines – aka travelers. One-by-one we entered our taxis like product on a conveyor belt.

My cab driver was super sweet. He transferred my luggage, opened my door, and naturally stepped into the right side of his flag-painted, hackney carriage vehicle. “Can you take me to 121 Borough High Street, please?” I asked, as I leaned into the glass window that separated us. The lean really wasn’t necessary, but that’s what all the classy girls do in the movies, with their elbow high gloves and designer hats. I was thoroughly enjoying my first London city moment.

It turned out that my hostel was a good hour and a half walk from the station. I couldn’t check in to St. Christopher’s until three pm and since it was just casually past one o’clock I thanked my delicate driver (in London they do exist!), gave him a generous handshake, stowed my belongings in the lobby luggage room, and walked across the street to a little market with ubber cheap goods to grab lunch.

Once I was inside I realized it was more like a Big Lots for food. I just spent fifty bucks on a cab, so it would have to do. I snagged a tub of organic tomato bisque soup, oyster crackers, bananas – for the mornings – and some cold medicine. I could already feel the new London “bugs” kicking out the Parisian “mites” and setting up camp in my organism. No way am I going to get sick on the last leg of my trip, so I popped two capsules, right there in the medicine aisle.

London – the last leg of my trip (sigh)… such a sad thought. I meandered over to the checkout line, half conscious of the human rotary belt I was on, thinking about how much time had passed and how I was ALREADY in London. LONDON – the last leg! “Am I ready to go home? Hmm. Wow… I … actually did it…” I thought to my smiling, dazed self, as the cashier yelled, “Next! … Ma’am? Next, please!” Ooops! I pulled myself out of my temporary conversation with, well, myself.

I walked back to the hostel with my groceries swinging in hand and with hopes of not getting killed by London road ways on my first day in the city. There are arrows and font on the streets that say ‘look left’ or ‘look right’. I would nonchalantly look through the bottom of my sunglasses to check these paint marks, trying not to be spotted a foreigner (pretty sure people could tell). I crossed the street safely and entered my current home.

Out of all of the hostels I had stayed in thus far, this was the scariest one. I hadn’t anticipated this, being in London and all. I expected $$, but London IS dated back two millennia and the British DO have their dark days, their ghost stories, their Jack (the Ripper), so yeah  – duh!

St. Christopher’s Inn was a musty and dim hotel from the 1800’s. Railings wobbled to the touch, like bobble heads, and moldings were densely losing shape, increasing in width each spring from the annual “fix-all” paint job. The floors had surpassed their years of squeak and had now entered their time of wilt. They were shined to mirror standards, but they were discolored like the edges of old photographs. They ebbed and flowed like the subtle waves in a bath tub currant, higher in the corners and against the walls where the waves of wooden age collided. Maintenance had been through, it seemed, and updates had been made, but the Inn was in no comparison to the standards of St. Christopher’s in Paris. In Paris there were bunk beds with stainless steel ladders, thick, light-repelling curtains, fresh duvets sealed in “plastic confidence”, wide hallways, and oh yeah, the bathrooms, they were not even in the same century. No big deal though, it was a roof and a key and that’s all I needed. Besides, I liked feeling far from home, that’s what I was here for.

Down the wooden hallway, past the banister, across the bridge to Backpacker Island (luggage room) and through the gate (doorway) to gumdrop buttons (beanbags and old ragged couches) I took my first meal in London. This is where I met Christian, a Rastafarian Australian dude, with a six pack of Newcastle, dreadlocks and wait for it …drummm roll …a banjo. HA! Cool guy. We hung out in the hang out room for a few hours, talking about adventures and his endeavors in London. Poor guy apparently came to England to be with a girl he had met in his previous travels, but after arriving she phoned him and asked him not to come (sad face).

Christian was fun for about six hours, after six, I understood why his girl had phoned. Christian shared his ale with me and introduced me to a few people who also joined us for drinks. We ordered fish bowls of vodka, rum and juice from the hostel bar; they even had floating plastic ice cube fish and umbrellas. Our foursome soon turned to an eight-some, then a twelve-some, and finally a twenty-some. We sat on beanbags, chairs, stools, and rugs; together as travelers, as friends. Bottles of champagne circulated, Ipod’s alternated music, Danish beer spilled on the crouches of drunken men, all while a symphony of languages weaved through the room. We took shifts to the liquor store, LAUGHED like hyenas, spouted out digs and cultural puns (all in good fun), and played several hands of the global card game – Waterfall. Day 1 was great; it was another slow motion reel for my mental memory box.

When the clock struck midnight the hangout room turned into the midnight scene from Cinderella, except this time, it wasn’t the girl who lost her “glitter”, it was the boy who lost his charm. The liquor started to do work and Christian began to change. I found out I could be cute far too many times in sixty minutes. ‘Thank you’ and ‘awh, haha’ responses just didn’t cut it after the fifth time. One of the gals I met there, Estelle, noticed Christian’s old man like tendencies and she came to my rescue. Estelle and I snuck out for a cig and decided to pop into the bar next door instead of returning to the love fest – good decision!  We met Shaun and Adam while waiting in line, both from London, and shared a few drinks and a few strange convo.’s once inside. We actually talked about the irony of pet names, and how we all mutually agreed that people names for pets are irrational. Please imagine how irrational this topic was for a couple of irrationally wasted strangers to be having at an irrational hour of the night – oh the irony! PS – for the record, I like people names for pets, but they were cute and the conversation was fun; I sold out.

The next morning I had a date with myself to take a free walking tour. I rose with the birds and crept out of my gritty bed. For five hours I had suffocated myself in a duvet-less, steel wool afghan, that God only knows how many people used before me and before being washed. So the second the sun was up, was the second my tired, hungover body eagerly leaped from the “sheets” and fled from its temporary imprisonment. Still in my pajamas, I moseyed down the crippled spiral staircase -keeping a look out for Christian – and snagged the comp. breakfast. The one good thing about this hostel was the wheat toast! If I had at all, then I couldn’t remember, the last time I ate wheat toast on this trip; which was consistently a staple in my American life.

My walking tour started out a little rocky. The meeting place took me twice as long to find as it should have, but fortunately, I wasn’t the only one that was late. Jareb, a charming Seattleite snuck in with me. Jareb had just come from a five year teaching stint in – you’re not going to believe this – South Korea. He was “just touring Europe” for a couple of months, before meeting a few friends in Northern Africa, where they would then drive down to Southern Africa to build a school. Yeah, this guy, this was the guy. As you can imagine I hardly learned a thing about London during this walking tour, but I now know a LOT about Jareb. Ha.

What I do remember from the tour was stopping at Buckingham Palace, West Minister Abbey, The House of Parliament and 10 Downing Street – where the Prime Minister lives. Timing was apparently my thing on this day. First, my tardiness provided my meeting Jareb – an awesome guy who wanted to tell me everything there is to know about a life in Korea – and then, as we waited at a light, heading toward 10 Downing, Jareb and I noticed a man in front of us wearing an ear piece. Childishly, we pretended to be celebrities who had forgotten to mention the undercover body guards that follow us around at all times. We joked, but quickly realized they must be there for a reason; there must be someone near us that needs security. Low and behold, three feet in front of us stood the Prime Minister, Mr. Hugh Grant himself – haha j/k. David Cameron in the flesh, ladies and gents, David Cameron. Jareb and I discretely shared this exciting information with our tour guide, but unfortunately, he didn’t handle it the way we had hoped. “Hey you guys?! It’s the Prime Minister!” he bellowed. Nice, that was classy. Cameron’s security moved in closer and their pace took off like an accelerated gas pedal. Poor guy (not literally of course $$), he can’t even walk around his home (I should say chateau) without an invasion – occupational pros and cons, I suppose.

After a brief moment of political excitement, everyone settled down and resumed the tour. We grabbed a few snaps inside the infamous red photo booths and a pic in front of St. Stephens Tower – Big Ben, before poppin’ a squat in front of the House of Parliament for story time. The story was a gruesome one, illustrating how the lives and bodies of those who committed treason in the late 1800’s would have been “dealt with”. Jareb volunteered himself to act as a criminal and tugged me on “stage” with him. Our tour guide narrated the historical and gritty details, limb by limb, section by section, of how a trader’s body was dismantled, as Jareb and I made a scene.

I severed his arms, he thrashed and wailed; I cut off his tongue, he screamed and quivered; I sliced off his knee caps, he fell to the ground (just wait there’s more…); I twisted my dagger into his gut and pulled out his intestines like a flag on a stick; he lived on, but a life of sheer agony, and lastly, before the inevitable decapitation, it was ordered by law of London, to eradicate… his manhood. Like a tossed cucumber and a Miracle Blade, game over.

The crowd applauded as if we were at a national championship game. Jareb, broken and defeated on the dewy grass, was silent as I walked triumphantly around him sword in the air and a man in my step. Jareb eventually stood and with hand in hand we took our bows, laughed, and enjoyed the last of our fifteen minutes of fame.

The tour was over, but the day had just begun! Jareb and I decided to grab lunch, so we shot a few more photos for the grand-kids of the gorgeous historical buildings and headed to what was my first official traditional English dish. We went to a little pub in the Boroughs and started with a couple tall boys. I of course ordered the fish and chips (had to!) and Jareb ordered a veggie burger (is it strange that this was a turn on for me?). After a leisurely lunch (FULL of details on what it’s like to live in South Korea for five years: how he adapted, things to overcome and where to start) we left our dark and quaint little pub to explore London. We walked through all the interconnected parks: St. James Park, Green Park and Hyde Park. We ventured around the Embassy, shooting pictures, noting strange people, the styles in London, and the oddity of a monarchy still in existence; our views are both here-nor-there and we reached the agreement that it’s simply, interesting – with a hmph and a smile.

We walked for miles, all the way to Notting Hill and the infamous, Portobello Road. Incredible street markets sprawled in every direction; there wasn’t a color in the rainbow that wasn’t present in this extraordinary perusing wonderland. Adorable little two or three story boutiques lined up, like cartoon homes with faces, awaiting the entry of their guests. We travelers, and locals, swarmed in and out of doorways like ants, each time appearing again in the streets of color carrying or eating yet another unique treasure. Money could not be tucked away for safe keeping here; my pockets must have smelt like ashes because the money within was definitely burning holes. The street lights popped on, a splinter of a second from one another, reminding me of the opening to Fraser – A! B! C!…. do, Do, DO!

Jareb and I (mostly I) spotted a super cute gelato shop that made me want to hold Jareb’s hand, dance in the streets and sing like Mary Poppins. If you hadn’t already guessed, I fancied myself a bite of frozen creamy ice and fancy I did. Coconut gelato was my favorite flavor. I delicately ate my conservative portion (about the size of a golf ball) with a miniature spoon to boot. FYI – Europe doesn’t “super size you” like the US does – if you hadn’t already heard. We exited the shop and shuffled over to a fruit stand a few boutiques away. Jareb laid on the ice cream guilt by purchasing two small tangerines. An hour or so passed since the street lights sang and shops were starting to iron down. Our wallets were angry and our bellies cried out, begging us not to taste another treasure; so we rounded the corner, in the opposite direction, on the opposite side of the street, still window shopping like a melancholy pair of newlyweds and headed “home”, to “Chateau” St. Christopher’s.

It was a hike back to the hostel with several metro connections. The gentle flow and melody of Portobello Road wore off and was replaced by a buzzing and swishing of clothing, shoes on concrete, and wheels on rails. When you are but a few in a meadow, you move gracefully, like happy cattle, but when the wolves come running through, at least ten from every direction, well, you might as well have been smacked on the bleep with a hot poker because you get moving just as quickly as the rest. The rush and push and hurry of the metro woke us from our perusing slumber and invited us to share a night cap instead of parting ways. We went down to the bar below our rooms and continued on with what had been a solid day worth of effortless conversation.

Jareb was off to Africa in the morning, so when the sun broke through the clouds of London we both reluctantly pulled it together to share a final corn flake and wheat toast goodbye in the café before his cab arrived. The wheat toast was bitter sweet and somehow didn’t taste so great on this farewell morning…

To be continued…

Warning!

Yikes! My next post will be a big one. I have not spewed words at you in almost three weeks and I have been in London, where the adventures are endless! That being said, to spare both your eyes and my finger tips London will be coming at you in chapters, stay tuned! I cant wait to tell you about the Brits!

XOXO

PS – It’s the 6th of February. Today is the day, the day that my 1st journey overseas comes to an end. Homeward bound by 4am tomorrow morning and on U.S. soil by tomorrow afternoon. Like a happy little chipmunk I will be!! ❤ Please send me good vibrations and safe travels! See you soon!

Paris…all kinds of sweetness…

Standing on my platform, waiting for my train to arrive, I glanced around. I lit a cigarette, attempting to look comfortable and impervious to the whirl of strange individuals buzzing about the station. My eyes wandered down towards my suitcase, which seems to be getting larger. I’m not actually sure why though, as I have bought very little and have left several things along the way. Maybe it’s because I no longer neatly arrange each piece, separate the clean and the dirty, and place them flat to avoid wrinkles. Nope, instead, it’s shove and zip, shove and zip, until it closes; always hoping I don’t become the idiot on the side walk raking her clothes back into a zipper-less bag. Back to reality Ash, you have a train to board. I take one last drag and I begin to walk towards my cart.

My first train ride took me from Florence to Milan. I boarded with my giant suitcase and struggled to lift my life into the overhead compartment. Watching from the table next to me was a guy with eyes of slate, silk for skin, bunny brown hair and teeth like the devil. After entertaining him for a moment, he stood and helped me with my luggage. I thought I would pass out merely from his presence. We gave the suitcase one last try in the top compartment before resorting to sticking it under my table. I thanked the Greek god for helping me and we sat down in our seats. Just before the train took off an older gentleman sat in the seat across from me; the seat that was partially occupied by the size of my suitcase. He tolerated the mass in our space for about five minutes until he tapped the hunk next to me on his knee, spoke something in French, and apparently an agreement was made. Mr. beautiful grabbed my suitcase from under the table and dragged it to his side of the train. I was surprised by the move and asked him if he was sure that was okay? I told him I could move it to the back of the train, but he insisted if it was bothering him he would let me know. He closed with a teasing wink and a playful bite to the tip of his tongue. Oh sweet, Jesus! I am in love! Lol

At the next stop the older gentleman departed. I motioned to grab my bag back and remove the burden from Hercules, but before I can make the switch he grabs my bag holding it in place, looks up at me, looks back down at the suitcase, shakes his head and laughs bashfully. Pushing the suitcase out of the way he gets up from his seat and comes over to my table. He sits, pausing, smiling and looking up at me from the brim of his eyebrows. Meanwhile I am trying like hell to look cute and uninterested. “Do you have a face wipe?” he hesitantly asks of me with these teeth and these lips and this jaw that… ❤ ❤ ❤ wow.

“Snap out of it!” I think to myself. A face wipe? Really? Nice ploy, but I dig in my bag and pull one out anyway. He tells me that they put makeup on him and his eyes are burning. This was his way of telling me he was a model (Duh! He was stunning). Nodding thankfully and after giving his face a clean swipe, he sits back and stares at me with curious eyes. I’m sure he was thinking, “yep, I could have this one in three minutes if I wanted”. Sadly, he was right.

Zeus turned out being nicer than I was giving him credit for and was actually quite shy. He asked me questions about where I am from and where I am going and I asked the same. He told me about his show, how long he will stay in Milan and his dream to model in Paris someday. His name was Lev and he was from Turkey. The conversation was fun and the language barrier was entertaining. We snickered, tilted heads and smiled at our misunderstandings, compromising over words, and then, there was a moment, one just a few seconds too long that broke my fairy-tale bubble. I realized I was talking to a strange man – on a night train. A stranger from Turkey, chiseled from head to pinky toe, 6’ 3”, and a military man. Was he from heaven or was he from hell?

Suddenly, the questions flooded my mind. Is he really a model or am I a sucker? Have I been doped or am I being paranoid? At any other time of the day, when I am not traveling alone on a night train and letting horror stories run amuck in my head, I would have suctioned myself to this model of a man and allowed my favorite story for the grandchildren to be created; but today, and with all these things considered, I decide it’s a better idea not to possibly become a victim of sex trade and end this delectable conversation on a positive note. I think he could sense my change of tone or the hesitation in my conversation and so it was soon after my moment of thought that Lev told me I was a brilliant woman and that he was going to get back to his book… (ugh! Just come home with me. You can stay in my flat for free as long as you do everything in your boxer briefs). I, confused by the quick change of heat, agreed it was a good idea and hoped to myself that I hadn’t appeared cold or frightened. What a perfect gentleman with a heavy dose of sexual tension, left in the dust. Womp, womp… damn my practical head! Damn it!

Within 25 minutes the train had reached Milan. Lev offered to help me with my luggage again and I firmly, but playfully, assured him I could take it from here – with a taunting smile and a glitter in my eye of course. Like a proper gentleman though, he insisted. “Just this last time, please?” he said. So we walked off the train with my hands empty and his barely moved by the weight of my bags. He dusted each of my cheeks with a single kiss, held on to my lower back with his bear claw and wished into my ear a wonderful journey.  Like the magnets we were at first (okay, maybe that’s wishful thinking on my part, but regardless), like magnets we were again. Only this time, we were flipped over on our bellies and shot in the opposite direction; he went left and I went right. My head told me not to turn around, don’t look back, but I didn’t listen (oh well right, if he catches me, he catches me). He peeked back as well, but he didn’t peek back alone. With him joined four legit models; rail thin, hair massive and exaggerated in every direction, airbrushed masks sealed with a polished perfection and all speaking French. FML. Maybe it was my conscious, hopefully not, but he smiled at me as if to say “I told you so” and with a salute and a smile my fairytale moment sparked, shrunk and disappeared into the “mystery man folder” in my head. Moral of the story: the model on the train is really a model and not working for the sex trade market. I blame my mother for filling my head with hypochondria and ruining what could have been a fairytale ending with a model husband. 😛 What? It could have happened..!

Do you know that expression “what goes up must come down”? This could be a good way to describe the last leg of my journey to Paris. Yeah, it suits, it works. I dragged my silly little love struck self across the planks towards my compartment which I shared with three Australian girls, each very sweet and inviting. We situated ourselves in our bookshelf sized beds and became acquainted with one another. We needed to refuel or maybe we were just bored and didn’t want to stay cramped in our bunks, so we headed to the dining cart. I bought a sandwich that upon opening I instantly regretted. I think it was meat, maybe it was leather? Ew… I chewed on the 7.90euro bread, minus the meat, minus the cheese, minus the guts of the sammy, out of principle. I couldn’t throw away $10.00 and not even eat a piece of it. After choking down my bun and the girls their soup we went back to our rat cage; still bored and now unsatisfied and feeling buyer’s remorse. We swayed, tossing a bit as the train moved across its rails; carnival fun house style and like good little puppets filed into our cubical.

“Passports please” said the train security guard. We looked at each other like ugh… huh? What? Who are you? … So I asked him. Do you work here? Can I see you identification? Why do you need our passports? He answered all my questions and explained to us that it is protocol when the French police are on the train to collect passports and confirm we are all legally boarding. Ok… so this was sketch, but I had his name, seen his badge, had seen him on the train earlier helping a Spanish girl and also helping us convert our upright seats into bedding, therefore, we took the chance. He took our passports and we took to our beds. Packaged like chocolates into our perfectly size French boxes, we attempted to get comfortable and assumed the train would depart soon; it didn’t. We stayed put for almost 50 minutes. Turns out there were other reasons why they needed our passports… there was a drug raid in the cart next to us. Bags were rummaged through, French accusations were shouted and we were asked to close and lock our compartment door. We secured the lock and pondered the ruckus next door. The lock was for peace of mind, obviously this was not a magical barrier that could stop all bad doers from entering, but it was better than nothing. As the clock ticked on the train stood still, but eventually the police prevailed, trailing two men off of the train and into the distant, dark station. Shortly after the men were escorted we trudged on again and shortly after that, to the sweet lullabies of my Ipod, I slowly and hesitantly struggled into a deep sleep… Ciao Italy, in the morning France I will be.

I really don’t need this much clothes and carrying a body bag for forty minutes was hell. My shoulders were even sweating! In retrospect though I think I should keep it all so that I can justify the inhumane amount of eating I did in France. My hostel was a forty minute walk from the train station and a modern design balanced on the river bank. St Christopher’s of Paris was centrally located, a perfect stomping ground for a Parisian vacation. Like always, I checked in, dropped my bags and ogled the goods in the lobby; couple of free tours, couple of shows, etc, etc. I stepped out the front door, pointed my index fingers to the sky (reenacting my favorite movie- Serendipity) and let the wind take me to the Patisserie of its choice. My pointer fingers picked one a few blocks east of my hostel, with red shutters and a big red door. Inside the shop there were pastries intricately placed on a slightly tilted shelf for easy viewing. I motioned towards the one with raspberries dripping out of its creamy, flaky, almond slice sprinkled layers, again wishing I had learned a little more of the native tongue before arriving so egocentrically in another country (I am in your land, give me your cake and please, speak my language). I feel dumb and rude, but apparently it was only I who was affected by this conundrum, because the shop owner smiled briskly at me and said, “For you, today only, five for one.” I smiled almost laughing and guiltily accepted. I took my five cakes: one raspberry cream, flaky, almond slice sprinkled sliver, one vanilla crème puff danced in white chocolate shavings, one chocolate caramel roll, one mocha whipped and dressed in pecans and one seven layer dark chocolate, chocolately chocolate, chocolate shaving, chocolate filling, chocolate drizzled mound of saintly sugar, and off to my hostel bar with fork in hand I went. Shamelessly I sat at a bar top intricately deciding which pastry would see its end first; they all saw the light (or the dark of my belly) within twenty four hours. 😉

I wasn’t planning on much socializing this night, traveling can really take the skip out of your step, but I met a few people on the patio who invited me for a drink and I agreed. Four hours later we were on the dance floor moving to some strange reggae/ techno vibrations and drinking jager bombs. It was so hot in this club that I could quite possibly have licked the sweat off of my face and called it a mixed drink. We danced for a few, drank for several more, at some point managed to exchange names and contact info and then stumbled to the closest resemblance of a bed around 5am. Luckily I scored and made a home run to the right room; unlike the guy who parked it in the stairwell.

The next morning I painfully coerced my hung over self to the free breakfast and navigated my way to the meeting point for a walking tour of Paris. I thought this would be a good way of getting acclimated to the city and also for meeting people. I tried like hell to look like I knew where I was going, but failed at the last minute when I had to ask a local where Notre Dame Tower was. She pointed directly in front of us. I blushed and looked around hoping we were having a private convo, thanked her with an “I’m an idiot smile” and walked towards the massive building dead center in front of me. Moments after arriving at the meeting point I made friends with a girl named Adelaide. We hit it off right away and actually found out that we were staying at the same hostel. The tour was fascinating, informative and a perfect length. We walked through the arch way of the Louvre, trekked along the river meanwhile learning about the siege of Napoleon and all the history he left behind in the sites of Paris. Mid way through we stopped at a little café for coffee and of course a pastry. We warmed our toes and wrapped our fingers around steaming cardboard cups-o-jo. The tour ended after seeing the Eifel from a distance and dining at a petite French restaurant. The menu was limited, maybe seven choices, so I took this opportunity to try something new; snails. When my plate came I had to ask the waiter how to eat the speckled, oozing shells of supposedly goodness. He and I had a perfect moment of movie montage – name that movie; the correct answer is Pretty Woman; classic. I have to admit I was semi-nervous at the thought of my first bite. I scrapped, twisted and pulled the little crustacean from its home, drew a circle with its butt in the garlic butter and quickly popped the sucker into my mouth before the jitters that were creeping up my spine arrived. Chew, chew, chew! Swallow, swallow, swallow! Breathhhhhhheeee… Was it good? Do I need to turn over chairs and trip on bags in order to make it to the bathroom in time? I’m thinking… no. I’m thinking that actually wasn’t so bad… and so to actually taste the delicacy I swirl another bugger in the garlic dressing and this time slowly mull over the texture, size and taste of the protein dancing on my taste buds. Utterly thankful, I feel a release of hesitation, a release of my pent up shoulders and a truly pleased reaction to my choice of dinner. I really like snails! They taste like mushrooms in a way, very soft and mildly flavorful. Never mind having one that would shock you with the strange texture or out of the norm zest. Instead, a snail has a very familiar texture and a very mild and buttery flavor perfect for a light but nutritious meal. I was given twelve critters with my meal so I shared them with my tour mates and we all agreed, all as first time critter eaters, that snails are surprisingly better than just edible.

After dinner Adelaide, Brittany, Jared and I walked back to the hostel. We had discovered there were more of us staying at St Christopher’s than we had known. A quick change and a few Skype/Facebook check-in’s and Adelaide and I were back out on the streets looking for something, something sweet to be honest. This was a good two hours after dinner so the snails and chips (French fries) had subsided; it was time for dessert. A posh brasserie – a type of French restaurant with a relaxed, upscale setting which serves single dishes and other meals – was just around the corner from our hostel (as were several other patisseries and brasseries) and was whispering “Adelaide, come in… Ashley, you need sugar…” (creepy?). We ended our search at 077 Brasserie. This cafe had a mesmerizing eclectic décor; bicycles were hanging from the ceiling, broken glass picture frames were hung crooked, tattered leather chairs of different sizes and shapes parked themselves where ever they liked and a dark hue, candle lit ambiance filled the room with comfort. The smell of sugar brewed (in what one could only imagine being a cauldron) and was suspended in the air making you crave the taste even more. Adelaide and I both ordered flaming crème brulee. Mine was a bit disappointing. In order to flame the crème brulee you need to use liquor on the surface and when flamed turns into a crisp, light, layer of caramelized sugar, unfortunately there was a lot of liquor left swimming on the top of my brulee and the dessert was over taken by the taste of a strong shot. Each bite was like choking down a mild dose of moon shine. Ok, a really really mild dose, but you catch my drift. Adelaide’s piece was perfect though. Not a drop of liquor left behind and a smooth and creamy under belly of a caramelized top. The next day Adelaide and I planned to scale across the Parisian city side, covering as much ground as possible. We also had tickets to see the Moulin Rouge! So after dessert it was to bed we went; only six hours before we had to rise and shine.

Through Notre Dame, along the river again and up 700 stairs we climbed to the height of the Eifel for an indescribable view. Cameras do nothing for this panorama; this view is one of the many “see for yourself” views. The mass amount of metal leaning against its self forms a beautiful, decorated iron, architectural stairwell to a view that doesn’t break promises. After the Eifel we jumped on the tube and headed for the catacombs. This place might be one place I could have done without seeing.

I have gobs of pictures from the catacombs, but I can’t get myself to look at them long enough to edit. Some will just have to go unedited and some will have to wait until I want to look at them again. The combination of the smell and the dampness still lingers in my nose and on my skin, and when I picture myself back in this dungeon of deceased I feel as though the walls are weighing in, the lives, souls and diseases of these people are clinging to me. Breathing felt like the worst thing one could be doing during the forty five minute maze, but holding your breathe for the length of this obstacle was literally impossible and therefore inhaling the remnants was inevitable. Two days later… I am sick. Coincidence? Maybe, but it still freaks me out. Have you ever watched those documentaries about the Egyptian tombs that are cursed and in the history of people entering follows a history of those same people falling to their death? If I don’t show up for the free breakfast tomorrow morning, check my room, I could be mummified, crinkled up, tongue flung to one side like the cartoon character I wish I was (cartoon characters usually have special powers- this would be cool).

Adelaide intrigued and I perturbed, we walked back to the hostel. Originally we planned on grabbing dinner just before the show, but so hungry now, even with the film of dead air on our tongues, we rearranged plans and ate at a diner that Adelaide had chosen on her first night here and was on our way home. We both ordered the chicken breast with mushrooms and garlic and a side of green beans. Dinner was perfect! I haven’t had a healthy meal in a while and with the weather and changing cities, it was nice to give my body a good dose of nutrients. Running low on time now we paid quickly and ran back to our rooms to change, freshen up, and do girly things. We stood at our door ways, 404 and 408, like runners ready for the gun to be shot, the ribbon to be cut, the flag to be waved,

“Back in the lobby in 15?”

“Yep, sounds good!”

Moulin Rouge. Moulin Rouge. Moulin Rouge. If I hadn’t left my job and traveled to Europe, If I hadn’t chosen Paris as one of my visits, if I hadn’t wanted to meet people, if I hadn’t gone on the free walking tour, if I hadn’t met Adelaide, if I hadn’t been easily convinced to go to the Moulin Rouge, because I am in Paris and in Paris you go to the Moulin Rouge…. I wouldn’t have seen… the greatest….performance of my life (did I mention in Paris? Just a little cherry for that piece of cake!) The show was outstanding! Ignore the fact that the girls are 93% nude the entire time and the men sadly show their pecs only a few times; sexist; and the fact that the male talent in the show are most certainly, 100%, homosexual, and even if they weren’t, they would be far too beautiful to obtain; these things aside… the show was jaw ajar, laughing in disbelief, attention sponging entertainment. Glitter and gems decorated each outfit as thoroughly as the Christmas lights on the Griswald’s house. The dancing was fun, alive and impressive and the costumes were elaborate and out of the norm. Dancing followed the acrobatics and after a comedian mimed with four guests from the audience a woman submersed herself into a giant tank of water filled with ten to twelve boa constrictors. She wrestled the snakes all while dancing under water. I watched with an open smile on my face like a child unaware of the world around her. Closer to the end of the show there was a man who had the strength of ten. I. Could. Not. Believe. What he could do. After ten minutes of balancing a woman on his shoulders, flipping her onto his waist, effortlessly tossing her about the stage he closed with a move that I now tell every Paris goer about. A table was placed on stage, followed by a chair that was placed on top of the table. The man raised himself onto the table where he proceeded to stand on the chair. With his feet locked on the seat of the chair the man sat over the back rest and hovered 75% of his weight over the chair. This maneuver alone should have sent the performer over the back of the chair and the chair propelled onto the stage below, but the strength of this man’s feet and shines defied gravity and pushed the chair further down into the table instead. If that wasn’t impressive enough, the man invited the woman to join him and she trustingly did. Within three minutes time, this woman was upside down, balancing on top of the man’s head. Her feet were darting towards the ceiling and he STILL hovered over the chairs backside. Physically this seems impossible. Applauds, ekk’s, ouu’s and ahh’s slip out of all of our mouths; we were in disbelief. Just when you think “how will they get down” the man gathers his strength; now shaking at the neck, thighs and core, sweat gliding down his greased up body like rain drops on the windshield and veins protruding further than his jutting clavicle. Slowly and steadily with the woman STILL upside down on his head he demands his body up over the chairs backside and down into sitting position; the breath of his and the breath of ours being held, suspended in our chests like the woman suspended in the air. We all sigh and release the air in our lungs and he continues. One foot after the other, onto the table top, hardly moving, hardly breathing, but sweating intensely. Might I mention the woman is STILL atop his head! He makes it finally, after the same struggles and stretching the limits of his strength, to the stage floor. “Miss suspended” tiptoed down his back like a monkey woken from her nap, takes a bow and proudly absorbs our awe and admiration. Unreal; he is panting like a dog out of water and she briskly bounces around him like a fairy on speed. Incredible.

A break in the solid roar of applause was lead by the colors and costumes of the dancers swarming onto the stage again. We had clowns, Egyptians, flamingos, cats, red feathered birds, ponies, stumbling drunks and snooty elites breaking out into dance in unison with one another and with the exotic array of music. Half naked and full of talent this show makes it into the top ten memories of my life time. Red velvet curtains are released and reach for each other like lovers hands almost grasping, but swaying back and forth before finally coming to a calm. I am sitting there motionless until I look over at Adelaide; we are both in a catatonic state of genuine approval. Well done sir, well done.

The next day was Adelaide’s last in Paris; she was heading back home to Australia where her boyfriend and mom both waited anxiously. Before she left though, we took the tube to Sacre Coer – the highest point in Paris to look out on the city. We snapped a few shots here and then roamed around the markets and tourist shops that surrounded. There is a cookie shop in this area that Adelaide and I had been to twice already, but we felt it was appropriate to end the trip with a final biscuit from there. One biscuit turned into 25euros worth of biscuits… yikes, I have a problem. Pleased we left the shop with tins full of the best cookies we have ever had.

After lunch we went back to the hostel, Adelaide made plans to leave and I spent two hours in a laundry mat, freezing my ass off, but excited to finally have fresh clothes again. After my chores were finished I came back to the hostel to met Adelaide for a farewell French fry and a beer.

After Adelaide left I ran into a few friends I had made on day one in Paris, we made plans to met in the morning and visit the historical posh housing area of Paris, the Musee D’Orsay which houses works from Monet, Manet, Van Gogh, Degas, Gaugin and Delacroix and finished with a walk and lunch on St. Germain Street. St Germain is a street where a lot of the romantic cafes and typical vibe of old school Paris can be found. Lunch was really delicious, I tried, per Brittany’s suggestion, the staple French sandwich which has cheese melted on top of it; vegetarian style with mushrooms and tomatoes inside, it was delici-o-so! Brittany wanted to visit the Lafayette Galleries for shopping and Jared wanted to take a look at the catacombs, so after lunch we parted ways. I ventured off down St. Germain Street, hands in pockets, peace in mind… happy. I wandered for hours covering ground and when the sun started to fade I decided to figure out exactly where I was and head back in the general direction of “camp”. It took me another good hour to get back to the hostel but when I did I was instantly greeted by a group of bartenders I had made friends with when I was waiting for Brittany and Jared for breakfast. They invited me to join them, introduced me to the rest of the wait staff and bought (rather gave) me a drink from the tap. It’s good to know people! Earlier that week I was allowed into my new room (had to make a change) before check in time just because I had chatted up the reception desk when I arrived and the bouncer addressed me by name. Yeah I felt like a regular. LOL good thing? Bad thing? I don’t know but the subtle perks were nice and the people were all legit so whether they worked there or not it was really nice to meet them. Anyhow, I have a few drinks with this interesting group of Irish trouble makers, they played pool and Ben and I had an insult war; your teeth are rank, your hair smells like piss stains, you have hair growing out of your chin, your tits are too small, your willy fits in a pencil sharpener… just to name a few. Yeah that was different and went on relentlessly for a solid 45 minutes. I took the victory trophy, lol, but he had some seriously good digs. I hope my self esteem didn’t take any blows that I am not aware of yet… oh the Irish, the things they do for fun, but oh how they really do know how to have it.

The next day was Tuesday (I had to think and refer to my calendar just now to figure that out) and I spent it doing my favorites. I woke for breakfast with a lot of coffee and a book, followed by a walk to a patisserie where I bought a chocolate cheesecake muffin which I would enjoy after my run. I changed at the hostel and stretched out side in front of the river. At a very leisurely pace (a pace I must take at this point as my stamina has been less than challenged in the last few months)I ran around the river; first on the north end and then on the south end. On my way back to the hostel I noticed a building with poster boards on the outer windows of upcoming movies and I lit up with excitement. I have been trying to see a show since I left Prague. I originally thought I would see one in every city I visited (thank you for the idea Maurice), but a cinema kind of gets the boot on the priority list when you are in historical and legendary cities. When I got back to the hostel I took a shower and then looked up show times and movies. I chose a movie called Shame which started in 30minutes. Quickly I dressed, walked with a mission, bought a ticket and some popcorn and pleased with myself picked a seat for my single ticket movie.

Shame was one of the strangest movies I have ever seen, but later it was explained to me that European movies have more of an Avant Garde approach. There is hardly ever a beginning, middle or end to the story lines, as was the case in this movie, and they are less traditional with plot, actors etc. In short the movie I saw was about a man who had an addiction to sex, a serious addiction that affected his life. Brandon’s crazy sister comes to stay with him for a while, they fight, she slits her wrists, they bond, lots of nudity, lots of porn… yeah, nice job Ashley. Not the best movie to go to by yourself (or in general). I look like a total creeper coming out of the cinema, theatre 5… all alone… ha. Are they really looking at me funny or is it my imagination? Slink out quickly. Quickly. Quickly.

My last night in Paris started in the hostel café eating the muffin I had purchased that morning, but ended in a brasserie near St. Germain with a really intriguing and charming British guy. We ran into each other at the café and had met before in the hostel on my first night in Paris. We agreed to take a walk, to get out of the hostel for a bit and ended up at a fantastic little café called Yellow. The ceiling of the brasserie was lit with a million twinkle lights and several yellow (obviously) low hue lamps in the corners and center of the room. The chairs were bright yellow and shaped like cups or solid hammocks and you had to take your shoes off at the entrance. It was a darker room with dark music shadowing in the background. The floors were covered in the softest chocolate carpet that swallowed your toes with each step. We shared a sofa seat that was half dipped in the floor and half out and allowed you to comfortablly lean back into the posh feathered pillows behind you. Our feet dangled under the table and we could slide the table a few inches closer to our chests creating a perfect half circle and a perfectly tasteful intimate bubble. We drank wine and talked about the most random topics; how computers are made, how he got the scar on his chin and if we lived forever what we would do with the time. It was an awesome day and an even better night… ahh Paris… We stayed in the café until they asked us to leave, slipped back into our shoes and out on to the streets of Paris. Believe it or not (corny or not) we held hands as we walked even further along the river bed and parallel to the glittering Eifel tower. The only thing that was missing was a fade out and a little bird to whimsically write THE END in fancy cursive letters….

Appreciation

It was a rough start for me in Florence. Prague was so amazing, Germany was swarming with ridiculously good looking men, causing me to act like a cat in heat, and Rome was magnificently historical and powerfully overwhelming. By the time that I arrived in Florence I was anticipating euphoria. Everyone loves Florence, and with telling fellow travelers or friends about my next destination came the floods of positive reactions. Endless responses of “You will LOVE Florence!” “Florence is amazing!”, “Florence is my favorite place in Europe!”. With such hype also came high expectations, and unfortunately, with high expectations, came embarrassing skepticism. However, by the end of my time in Florence, I was convinced everyone was right.

Day three – I couldn’t find my bus to Vienna and eventually had to settle with the idea that I would try again tomorrow. So I rearranged my schedule and made an appointment at the spa for Tuesday instead of Wednesday. Wednesday I would try again to reach Vienna, San Gimignano and Chianti. Meanwhile, the spa was amazing! I spent a reviving five hours practicing yoga, transfixed in the steam room, sweltering in the sauna and ending my indulgence with an hour long massage. They do massages a little different in Italy. For one thing you undress in front of your masseuse, they give you a cloth thong to wear – and that’s it – and they cover a lot more “ground” than an American masseuse would. I have to say I have never had my boobs fondled or my ass chopped by a professional before… this was interesting. I was under a catatonic spell of relaxation and then …. Chop! Chop! Chop! Instantly awake and wide eyed. I really thought my ass was tighter than that (lol), guess I need to do some strength training. After my massage I took a shower in one of those seventeen shower head slate rooms, I dressed at a casual rate and moved in a blissful manner. My walk back “home” was peaceful. I smiled delicately, appreciating each moment and reminding myself that I am in Italy; I am traveling alone, seeing a whole new world, breathing different air and eating different foods; life is good.

That night I came down to the bar and met another Australian guy who I shared drinks, stories and laughs with. After the bar closed we walked to a park and talked about our journeys, futures and more. We ducked into a photo booth and incriminated the night. Eventually we made it back to the hostel, watched Serendipity and fell asleep.

The next morning I was supposed to get up at 7:45 to make it to the tour I had missed the previous day, but unfortunately, I missed it AGAIN. So instead I got up at an obnoxiously late hour and spent the day in the city again. I met a tour group of 18 people who another straggler and I joined for dinner at a restaurant their tour guide suggested. We wondered around looking like a swarm of bees for about 30 minutes before finding the cozy bistro. The place was literally just big enough for our group. We piled in and apologetically smiled at the apprehensive faces of our wait staff; there were only two employees, a waiter and a chef. Our meals were legit! Great wine, hovering aromas from the kitchen and everything so tightly nestled together that we could watch our meals being prepared in front of us. The boys were told that they had to order the steak- a mass of meat big enough for an Italian size family to share- so they did. Not… my idea of yummy, especially when the slab looked like it was still mooing and the sauce that each sliver was traced in looked like blood juice; correction, it was blood juice. Yeah, no thank you, I’ll have the pasta! After our hive took the nectar we buzzed to another recommendation- gelato alamode! Again with the frenzied faces of the shop owner we once like bees now formed the shape of a caterpillar and ordered in a line of loud, drunken, but hysterical, Australians, Americans, Brazilians and Italians. In and out; we left the gelateria and headed back to the hostel for a hot swim and drinks. Really should have packed a bathing suit, but a sports bra and boy shorts did the trick.

On Thursday I got it together and finally made it to my tour. So worth it! First we stopped in San Gimignano where we had an hour and a half to wonder on our own. I entered every door in this quaint little medieval town that was open for business and in each if there was a pastry for purchase I made it happen. By noon I had eaten two cookies, a pastry bigger than my face and a gelato. Yep, that would be gluttony. Opps.

After San Gimignano we boarded the bus again and drove an hour towards Vienna. If I were to move to Italy, Vienna would be my city of choice. This sweet little village has so much character, a blend of city and country life, 17 different states within, which are divided by their location and animal mascot. Twice a year Vienna holds a horse race where the competing groups celebrate, host, drink and enjoy a friendly competition in their town square. The spirits are alive in this town and the buildings are a brilliant and clean illusion to the history and age of the city. This is a proud community; those who live in Vienna do so because they love it.

The last bit of the tour took us to an intimate Chianti Classico vineyard. Chianti wine, olive oil, botanicals and the prized product of organic, meticulously concentrated balsamic vinaigrette are produced here. The kind of Italian man that you adore owned this farm with his “Boss”; his wife. They served us fresh bread and ext. virgin olive oil, focaccia with a sweeter olive oil, vegetables and balsamic, cheese slices and honey spread (great combination I wouldn’t have thought to mix) and the grand finale of vanilla gelato with a few drops of vinaigrette. Incredible blend of tangy and sweet! Well done! The scenery was perfect and a nice change to the endless towers, Roman architecture and streets scaling with beautiful, but reoccurring stones. These last few months have really reinforced the expression “You don’t know what you’re missing until it’s gone.” I still love the city and will live in one someday, but the countryside will always give me that warm and fuzzy feeling of home.

Check out was at ten am today so I packed the mess I had sprawled out in my hostel and walked to the train station to get my ticket. I will leave for Paris tonight at 8:55 (or 20:55) making my arrival time 8:14am. For the rest of today I will make an appearance at the Statue of David, try to eat something healthy (not going to kid myself… the odds are not in my favor) and give a farewell to Florence at the Ponte Vecchio.

Florence has been completely enjoyable, despite my initial hesitation; just a great reminder to myself to give everything a second chance.

In Honor of Mirianna

Hello lads! I hope everyone had an amazing New Years Eve…! 2012 is going to be a pivotal year! I can feel it!

Step 1: In order to start the year off right one must surround oneself with good souls. So, I left Munich on December 29^th and returned to Prague for a New Years Eve/ farewell finale with the infamous Lewsky family. The WHOLE family: 21 people from Poland, 1 from the US – 4 beds, you do the math. It was a perfect night! Dancing, mischief, fireworks, too much food and far too much to drink!

I fought the urge to pass out for quite a while because the next day would be my last with the fam and I wasn’t ready for it. The inevitable came regardless of my efforts and at 4:30 the following morning I had to say a very sad goodbye. Karola, Rob, Piotr and Jane, like little jail cell prisoners in their pj’s, stood outside their bunker doors sad faced and sleepy eyed, and I, bundled in the layers that wouldn’t fit in my suitcase, my black jacket that I’m tired of looking at, hat and gloves, hugged and kissed and said our nashledanou’s. I was surprised I hadn’t cried at that moment. Days before just thinking about leaving made me misty, but I realized this was the case because I know I will see them again… no doubt in my mind. So instead of good bye, it was only see you soon.

Jane tuckered up, even though she was exhausted, and walked me to the train station and by 5:07am I was rolling. Well, the train was rolling… I was trying to ignore how thirsty I was by sleeping. This only made things worse for me when I came to 45minutes later. Sleeping on a train is far worse than trying to sleep on a plane. The plane does not stop every 15, 27, 44 or 56 minutes like a train, but it does have its advantages. On a train you can get up, walk (or stumble) around and you have ample leg room (this is a small amenity we tall people severely appreciate!)  So it’s true, I am warming up to the train station situation; slowly, I am becoming less neurotic and uncomfortable looking, when circulating a station.

From Prague I traveled through Schwandorf, Munich and Verona before arriving in Rome. On the last leg of the trip I met an adorable Italian woman. She was an angel (she thought I looked like Cameron Dias – lol). We spent roughly thrity minutes chatting before she confessed, as if released, the emotional distress she had experienced that day. Like the knife was still in her wind pipe, she muffled the words enough to tell me her mum had been diagnosed with cancer. Pain is contagious when you feel strongly enough that such a good person should not be punished so. Sitting next to her broken heart was like swallowing the facts right along with her.

Shortly before we arrived in Rome, Mirianna told me I had taken her mind off of things and she was extremely grateful. At one point during our conversations I had mentioned where I was staying and now as we were about to part ways she insisted on giving me a ride. I tried to assure her I would be ok, but she argued that she would not have me walking to my hostel in the dark and reminded me that she was a mother. When we reached platform 1 her husband and two daughters greeted us. Her husband wheeled my bag to their car and we circled around the center for a few minutes in search of my hostel. Within five minutes, like a flash in time, I was standing alone again, facing the street with my bags at my feet and Mirianna and her family out of sight. It was like the wind blew, a fragment in my memory. Moments like this, although very short, will always be remembered in our lives and it is people like Mirianna that give me hope. Even on her worst day, she thought of me, a stranger, when she had so many other things to worry about. I raise my glass…

A quick change in direction, from facing the street to facing my hostel, was like drinking new air. I gathered myself and checked in at The Yellow hostel. On my first night in Rome, I quickly made friends with a roommate, Bec. It was late, but we decided to venture off towards the sites and see if we could sneak-a-peek before day break. Winner, winner, gelato dinner! We proudly and accidentally fell upon the Pantheon. Wide eyed and mouth ajar we marveled over the stunningly decrepit architecture. Its size weighs in on you like the elephant in the room. Even though it stands in front of you, you feel more like you are surrounded by its historical presence. To avoid disappointing our Italian on lookers – smirking and nodding with the occasional lip licking – we snapped a few photos, posed a few posses and confirmed our foreign-ness (with class and discretion of course). Bec zero’d in on a gelato shop and we decided this was a good place to park it, grab some sweetness and continue soaking in the atmosphere.

Possibly the most expensive gelato I will ever taste, but it was fully worth it. The shop owner was a doll! Elaborating on our “when in Rome” moment, he, almost in a melodious motion, glided a café table closer to the monument, dressed it with linen, napkins, glasses of water and of course our chilled gelato bowls, adorned with waffle chips, and finally, invited us to sit, with the gesture of his hand. Like a mime he requested our cameras, spun around, performed a delicate semi ballet move and clicked one for the photo books – he was good. Tipping is not obligatory in most of Europe, but here, it was most certainly warranted.

I spent four great days in Rome, but in just one Bec and I traveled on foot for 10 miles, gobbling up everything the city was serving – and not just the food. We walked to the Palatine Hill, the Colosseum, the Pantheon (for a day view), the Spanish staircase, (fountain after fountain, monument after monument) the Roman Forum, the Vatican City and of course, frequenting many a gelato shop along the way (new cafes, new flavors; no one but our guilty conscious’ will ever know how many we visited). The day was life changing, overwhelming, underwhelming, informative, moving and long. I do not recommend tackling Rome in a day as we did. Guess that was the overzealous American in us creeping out, terrible, especially in this oh so inappropriate place – leisurely Italia. Nonetheless, it was a phenomenal day.

Before coming to Italy I had contacted a friend who had moved to Rome a few months ago to see if he and his family would be around while I was in town (some/most of you know this friend as Dirkson). It was looking like we weren’t going to be able to match our schedules for a meeting due to his in-laws being in town and work obligations, BUT a little thing I like to call fate happened.

When you are walking out of the Vatican the exit becomes very narrow and like a funnel you eventually trail like running water towards your fellow tourists. Like a herd. So as we are “herding” I notice in disbelief my fellow tourists happen to be the wife, in laws and kiddies of said friend. Out of all the places in Rome, out of all the days of the week, out of all the times of the day and out of all the sites to see in Rome… we happened upon one another, as destiny would have it, for a quick and surprising catch up. Call it what you will, but that was an ironic, comical and grateful moment for the Rome books at the least.

Another day passes like clockwork… ticking faster, it seems, the closer my February 7^th grim reaper approaches (a.k.a tourist visa expiration). Rome soon becomes the image in the rearview mirror of my train seat and Florence the city rising towards me.

My first day in Florence – perfecto. I arrived at my hostel, everything looked great. There is a pool, sauna, bar, LAUNDRY ROOM, great wifi, great location; room looks nice, balcony and terrace. What’s not to love? Additional bonus – the shower was actually big enough for me to finally shave my legs! 😉

The night continues to be fortunate when I head to the lobby to check in with loved ones waiting by facebook-side and I meet a chick from DC to grab a bite with. We dined at an authentic Tuscan restaurant so I could order my first official Italian spaghetti dinner. The waiter was charming (of course) and the restaurant itself helped me acclimate to the Tuscan vibe. Sophia and I strolled back to the hostel bar for a drink and met two guys from California. After acquainting with Rob and Brian an executive decision was made to get champagne and walk to the Duomo. We popped the cork and popped a squat in front of the massive and exquisite height of the Duomo. Wow. This cathedral makes it into my top ten (historical beauties). The mute but defining green, red and white marble walls hover over head like giant Tuscan guards. After we dripped the bottle dry we carried on, unconsciously distracted by each other’s life stories, making it all the way to the Ponte Vecchio (old bridge). Champagne, long walks in Florence … gelato was suggested and gelato was appropriate. I think we all thought the night was coming to an end as we again nonchalantly walked back towards the hostel, but when we were greeted by a few others the boys had met earlier in the lobby, we were spun around, back out the door, just as quickly as we had arrived. Italy may be known for wine, but their beer isn’t bad either.

Day two – super chill. I slept till 1pm (I told you the beer was good), got lost, ate my first tiramisu (holy wow. I think I like this more than the gelato!) and marinated in the Tuscany of life!

Today I tried to walk off the cold that is toying with my adventure by scaling through alllll the shops and street markets. I rubbed leather bag, after leather book, after leather belt… so soft, pretended to read the covers of old Italian books for sale at the flea market (I don’t think I was fooling anyone), bought a block of cheese just to eat (not a super large one… don’t judge…), looked at the leather jewelry, different kinds of olives, nuts and flowers and pulled into a little café “off the beaten path” where I had fresh fruit, toast and a caffe Americano for breakfast. After breakfast I turned back towards the direction of my hostel to see if I had any idea where I was. I didn’t, but that’s ok because (also don’t judge) I found a killer spa that I now have an appointment at on Tuesday at 4pm. First a workout, then a steam, sauna and massage, followed by the relaxation room, accompanied with tea, coffee, lounge chairs and oh yes… me! Isn’t that what people do on vacation? Well… I am on vacation aren’t I? 🙂

Happy Sunday everyone! I’ll see you all after my Italian revival session and my visit to Chianti, Sienna and Pisa this week.

Ciao!

A Polish Christmas in Germany

‘On the first day of Germany my hostel gave to me… a map offfff… Munich cityyy!!!’ 🙂

I rose, I showered, I ate and I was off with the 11am crew of youngsters eager to peruse the center. Such good little students we were! Our tour guide was kind of… intense. Instead of the traditional injection of historical remembrances, we were fed a whole lot about recycling history, economics, how to solve the largest crisis in the world (Psst! – Trust, the answer is trust. Apparently, when you have trust in your government, you have trust in the money you put and take from it and the world goes around much better; I will tell Obama!). I joke, but I actually enjoyed the lecture and our tour guides condescending tone. After the tour, two tour-mates, Natalie and Moto, and I went to a coffee shop, warmed up (I literally thought I would lose the last and third toe on both feet) and then we carried on for several more hours of oouing and ahhing the city.

Munich is really quite unique and only about sixty years old – apart from four gothic period buildings. However, the people of Munich prefer to preserve the old town charm, and so, as buildings decay, they are rebuilt with the exterior walls reinforced and the interiors replicated. What you think is ancient and decrepit is really just the tremendous effort of the city to retain the culture and history of this conservative Bavarian city (would you hire me? I think I would make a mighty fine tour guide!).

There was warmth, and then there was cold again. Ve evacuated zee coffee shop, and casually swayed through the Christmas crowds. This city, most cities (and people, myself included), are even more attractive under twinkle light. Dinner was dined in an overpriced tourist trap, but we felt it was necessary. Afterwards, Natalie and I met a few blokes at the hostel bar, drank some drinks and smoked some smokes (I realize sometimes my writing is a bit hick. I would like to apologize for this. You get what you pay for). Carrying on for the night, these fine gentlemen escorted us to a club for dancing (rather wiggling) and drinks. I have never been to a bar that packed before! I think I learned a few new dance moves, ones where your arms cling to your sides and they remain there until you slither out at the end of the night; which was four am BTW. When you are cheek to cheek with a Germany hottie, it’s not so bad though. 🙂

Day one made for a late start on day two, but eventually Natalie and I made it out f the hostel to the English Gardens. Absolutely stunning, but of course my camera was dead, I suck! When Natalie posts her pics, I will nab them for you to see. We spent the entire afternoon walking through the park, eating warm roasted-almonds, chocolate covered fruits, brats on hamburger shaped buns and more (and more and more). We went shopping, drank mulled wine and when night came we lackadaisically steered toward the hostel to “freshen up”. Regrouped and ready to rally, we trampled down to the hostel bar ready for a night on the German town. We met James, Ned and Dan (Australia), Andy (Seattle), Derrick (Michigan – Royal oak – coinci-dink), Alison, Kelly and Aaron (California) at a hostel down the street and carried on as a group for hours. Best bar night of the trip thus far. Exclamation point.

So what does that make this day? Wednesday? I need a pocket calendar. The days names are purposeless at this point. This is a marvelously liberating realization; when one no longer needs to know the days of the week, it means one has completely removed themselves from the ties of payday. A pleasureful moment, yet also, terribly alarming – gulp! Lol Let’s not concern ones self with such thoughts at the moment; at a later date I will check my bank account.

Back from my pep talk – I took the next day off. Most of last night’s group (ironically) left for Prague in the morning, so I slept. I also went for my first run of the trip and drank much needed fruit! PS – drinks at the bar last night were 10 Euro a pop – ouch!

Christmas was approaching and I was only half content with my decision to stay in Munich. One minute I am convinced that a “romantic” week on my own, in one of “Christmas’ capitals”, lavishing myself in spa like activities (in an effort to enjoy a home-away-from-home holiday) would be ideal; but the next minute, I am enticed by an opposite proposition.

My Christmas hero rings with an invitation to join him for Christmas with his family a few hours north of Munich. Tickets were ridiculous, but after realizing how great it would be to spend Christmas with Rob and his family, I no longer cared about the price. Rob swept me off of my hostel floor and carried me (sometimes literally) to Recklinghausen, where I spent a warm, incredibly generous and traditional German/Polish Christmas. After spending the holidays with Rob and his family the idea of spa treatments seem depressingly mediocre.

My trip to Recklinghausen was in fact my first time on a train and at first it was superb! My cabin buddy was from China, who now lives in Munich and was traveling to Koln for the holidays. By day he is a Mathematics major, but by night, an angel in disguise. For one thing, I had shared with Su my disappointment of forgetting to get my host family an arrival thank you gift. Ironically, a colleague of Su’s had gifted him a bottle of meticulously wrapped wine for his birthday, and as a non-drinker he was bringing the wine to his parents (also non-drinkers) in hopes that they would know someone to give it to. Like a rabbit out of a hat, Su pulled the bottle, dressed in holiday garb, from his backpack and like magic, I now had a gift to bring.  I was in disbelief and excited relief. Su generosity shined throughout our entire six hour trip as he unwaveringly offered his granola, chips, coke (literally digging in his bag to see what else he had to give to me) and in the end, also his name, to find him on Facebook, if I am ever in Munich again for a visit.

Another angelic moment of Su’s, and also the most important thing he gave me, was explicit directions on how to exit my current train and board the next. Don’t laugh, it sounds simple, but in the middle of the night, as a first time train traveler, during the holidays when all the train station workers have left to spend their holiday with family as well, well, it was not easy, for me. Let’s be honest, I was petrified! Train stations are not the prettiest of places to be in the middle of the night and I (regardless of how hard I try) look like a tourist (put a big red dot on my bleep and call me Target).

Without Su’s help I might not have made it to my final platform of the night. With his directions I found platform 21 with ease, but the adventure did not end there. I may have found the platform,  but not the train. I was standing on the cement slab, staring at the signs when a woman (or was she a man?!) asked me if I was going to Recklinghausen. Now, initial instinct, DO NOT TALK TO STRANGERS, but I needed help, so I crossed my imaginary chest with my imaginary middle finger (Christ be with me), and said to her (him?), “Um, yeah I am. This is the train, correct?” She (he) said, “Yeah baby, you’re alright. The train will be here soon.” AHHHHHHHH! my insides were freaking out. I was thinking, Jesus, my mom was right, I’m going to become a sex slave!

Melodramatic? Maybe, but you board a train at midnight in a foreign country, all alone, in the dark, without a phone, without a clue; I’m not Superwoman (lol). So, the train came and she pointed me toward it, boarding herself. I look at the number on the train and it does not match my ticket. As she continued to wave me on, I said to her, “Actually, I don’t think this is my train…”, but she persisted and then she involved the ticket checker (the guy who makes sure you paid for your ride). He said, “Let me see your ticket.” Meanwhile, the train doors were opening and closing, opening and closing and he was shoving his boot into the jam to keep it open; a woman was repeating something over the loud speaker in German, a man wearing a helmet boarded, the platform was barren….

I tell the man it’s not my train and he says it. I said no, he said yes. No, no. Yes, yes! AHHHHHH! So he comes off the train, I have a momentary heart palpitation, and he said to me, “Look here” showing me his handheld machine thingy. “This is the train you are about to get on, number 11247. Your ticket says number 11247.” I shook my head “ok”. Then he showed me how his machine lists four cities that the train will pass through before it reaches Recklinghausen and how my ticket listed these exact cities too. “Still not convinced?” he said, as he showed me the screen on the train and how it says Train 534 – the train that I need. Eighty nine percent convinced, skeptical as HELL, but figure its a better gamble than staying in this creepy station alone.

I am an awful person, the man was right, the woman was right, and although I am proud of the fact that I will not naively follow the herd with out any hesitation, I still felt instantly guilty. The woman glared at me as if to say “see if I ever help a dump, little, girl again”. Oh well, better safe than sorry, i suppose.

The train passed through all four cities as promised. When the train halted in Recklinghausen, the doors snapped open and there stood Rob, my knight in shining armor. Like a desperate child I flung my arms around him and refused to let go until we reached our ride. Witek, Robs step dad, and a darling, adorable man, picked us up and drove us safely home.

Robs mom welcomed me with a giant hug and warm excitement. I instantly knew I had made the right choice to spend Christmas with Rob and his family. Before the plumping up began, Rob gave me a tour of their charming and stylish home and the way to my room. I dropped my bags and Rob showed me to my seat at the table. We were presented with sausage, ham, potatoes, cabbage salad (delicious!), salmon apple salad, fresh bread… the list goes on. Coffee and really amazing apple pie that tastes more like apple cake after dinner, a smoke break, followed by my favorite – vanilla green tea with honey and fruit. I am officially a fat guy, yep, that’s me.

My entire stay at Robs place was peaceful, relaxing, INDULGING – incredible. We slept in, woke each day with an enormous breakfast spread, always followed by tea. we spent hours listening to amazing music; Rob has introduced me to a whole genre of music I have been robbed from – no pun intended. Rob may have tired from translating between his parents and me, but we thoroughly enjoyed it and found each opportunity of miscommunication as an opportunity to laugh. On my second day in Recklinghausen we had a shamefully large dinner with Witek’s daughter and long term boyfriend; two very fun and hilarious cats who, lucky for Rob, spoke English. Day three, Rob introduced me to his friend Adrian (of course over coffee). Adrian took us to Essen, a city outside of Recklinghausen, where we shopped and walked about the city a bit. Rob bought his mom a dress that looked absolutely perfect on her (and quite frankly I want one for myself ) and I bought Rob’s family a set of white wine and red wine glasses, to thank them for how much they welcomed me and pampered me during my stay. I will forever be grateful for their enormous hearts and for making my Christmas an amazingly wonderful one, never, ever to be forgotten.

❤ Your Ash

Knots

I have now spent exactly one week at the Lewsky household, today was supposed to be my last morning in Praha 1. We had a great dinner and went dancing to say farewell, but because of my beginner abilities with train stations and bus tickets (or anything having to do with transportation; you should have seen me getting on my first tram, yikes) I will spend an additional two days with my new family members. We call this serendipity – a fortunate accident; and also the word of the week.

Let’s dissect this sentence: “Two more days with my new family”. ‘Two more days’ because I booked my bus ticket to Germany online not knowing that if you book online you have to do so three days before departure and well, I booked yesterday… so I woke up this morning and I was brushing my teeth when I heard Jane from the Kitchen say, “Ash? We can go back to bed… your bus won’t be here until Tuesday…” Jane has been walking me through this process (thank god!) and the ticket was one thing I was proud I accomplished on my own, like a big girl -Guess not. 😛

I have mixed emotions about my snafu. On the one hand, I am very happy to stay with Jane, Rob and Karola for a couple more days; but on the other hand, I was mentally ready to brave a new city, to tackle a new playing field (never thought I would make a sports analogy in my writing… sometimes I surprise myself). In this situation though -and many others – one can only say “opps” and make the most of it. Already today, I have indulged in a giant blueberry muffin, watched a fantastic movie called Proof and here and now, I write, my favorite thing to do. Maybe these are strange things to be doing abroad and to be considered extraordinary, but I feel they are perfect Sunday activities and also things I wouldn’t allow myself to do in the States. Oddly enough, in certain ways as such, I feel more free here than in the US; free to eat carbs and free to “waste time”.

And now the second dissection: ‘my new family’. Like I had mentioned before the Lewsky friends adopt each other into a confusing and complicated scenario of family-hood and in this past week I too have been honorably given a “birth certificate”. I am now Jane’s estranged twin sister who was discovered after being thrown into Prague prison for crossing the street. I needed an English translator –aka Jane, to prove my innocence. Following clues we discovered that we are sisters who were separated at birth. Once Jane convinced the courts of my innocence she welcomed me into her home where I fell in love with her grandson, Robert. We married three days later. Robert bought me an island (no association to Twilight), we purchased a castle in Paris, and for our honeymoon, well, we actually spent it in a dentist office, but it was still a nice time. 🙂

Robert was not thrilled (to say the least) about destination – dentist… we waited for two or so hours in a dim, melancholy colored waiting room before entering into the torture chamber; where we literally heard screams and drills moments before entry; literally. There was a switch in shifts just as it was Robs turn to enter. Luckily, he now had a fresh, rested, English speaking dentist instead. Rob asked for a double dose of anesthetic and everything was mucho better!

Once the “honeymoon” was over, Rob and I perused a “private store” where Rob’s connections provided us with access to any and all wedding presents we would like. We decided all items were eclectically and atmospherically necessary for the ambiance we desired in our “new fortress”… and so it was that the truck loads were delivered to our property in Paris. 😉

This explains, to some of you who may have noticed on the World Monitoring System (aka –Facebook), why I am now a married woman with an additional sister, and a sister that comes along with several other new fantastic family members.

The Lewsky family tree is not a tree at all; no it’s more complicated than that. A tree connects each line with structure and understanding. This family is more like a mess of a tangle of a cluster of Christmas lights (seasonally appropriate). You think how the hell did this happen? The knot does not make sense, the ties and loops are creatively ingeniously intertwined and you may even wonder if a mini master knot knoter has come between Christmas’s to make a frenzy of your twinkle lights; but of course not, this would be nonsense. A mini master knot knotter does not have time for such tomfoolery! Nonetheless, however the knot came to be is irrelevant, the life of the knot is what is important. There is a knot here now and the more you pull the knots apart, the more tangled they become. No sense, or rhyme, or reason for being tied together, aside from all being lights who met along the way and found fondness in one another. A knot is a knot, and a knot is all a knot needs. I am so grateful to have been born on this strand of bright, individual, little lights, rolling amuck in one little Christmas knot – also known as life.

So instead of my previous departure date of Sunday at 10:00am, I will now spread my wings on Tuesday morning. To Germany I will go. I have a bus ticket and a reservation for nine days at the Wombats hostel in Munich. After which my return ticket will bring me back to the Lewsky flat in Prague for three final days of enchanting New Years Eve celebrations and an official farewell; until I met with my Lewsky family again.

The Lewsky’s

Rverwere vizzer vieepphhere URT. This is me fast forwarding, but don’t worry, I’ll fill you in on everything!

Last week was a quizzical week full of anxiety and stress, but also at midpoint the mood shifted and the pressure began to give. I will spare you the details of an obnoxious grammar exam that took place on Wednesday (along with a full day of Czech lessons and teaching our last class) and only share with you the gradual climb this incredible trip has taken.

On Wednesday night, after the flames of TEFL Hell subsided, we went out for drinks. You would have thought it was the first time an alcoholic beverage grazed any of our lips. It was like candy, like water after a run. Sweet release from the hands of the TEFL wardens! The pub that we went to was called… wait for it… The Pub. At each table stood a tap and a digital key pad, similar to what you would see in a bowling alley (a modern one). “Pick a number” said the waiter, as she stood there like a Jeopardy girl. I pushed #1, pull the tap down and ahhh… the flood gates opened and the pivo flowed smooth! Beside the obvious point of the taps at the tables, to hydrate (or dehydrate, how ever you choose to look at it), they also served as a counting mechanism. The more your tab was pulled, the more your table drank and the more you climbed the charts. Each table was competing with surrounding tables; what a great way to sell more beer. Our table didn’t win, but give us a break, we were competing with a room full of Czechs!

Since it was our last day of teaching, we also invited our students (of age) to celebrate graduation with us. What an amazing opportunity for full cross-cultural conversations, story sharing and laughter. The night became one where when you accidentally stop and look around, mid-laugh, mid-blink, you inhale the environment and seeing the warmth of friendship conspiring around you; it was a beautiful, united moment of bliss.

Thursday morning came and so did another slew of lessons, but only ones that I had to absorb, none that I had to prepare. It was refreshing to come to class without an ounce of concern for what you will teach to a class in four hours time. It was also much more tolerable to come to class hung over, knowing a nap was in your near future.

Friday was a quick and easy day. We had pastries with our last lesson with Renee, a delightful teacher who was a treat to work with. Renee gave us a packet of resources to use for getting our feet off the ground as a teacher; a plethora of activities and games, as well as sources to look up online or in textbooks. After our last class the girls and I went to the Christmas Markets and we bought presents for our friends and family. We sipped hot wine and took a stroll through Old Town like little tourists. Marvelous! At five pm we were to be back at the school to receive our last assignment of the course …. Dunt dunt dunt!

Let it be known that springing a lesson on brand new baby teachers is a very cruel thing to do… that being said, this makes Skip a very cruel instructor. Walking into our classroom we were presented with a whiteboard of terror:

Ashley – Uppers – 60mins

Carrie – Beginners – 60mins

Jane – Int. – 60mins

Etc etc etc….

“You have 1hour to prepare a lesson. GO!” If it is possible, I think that we all were shitting bricks. Carrie and I got up, still in disbelief, and headed toward the computer lab. I imagined strangling Skip for a brief moment, but lucky he came to his senses and announced the lesson was a practical joke. Not Funny.

Skip redeemed himself with an invitation instead to join him for dinner at an absolutely delicious restaurant (name unknown). I had a chicken breast atop a hill of cauliflower puree and a cabbage salad. Thumb and first two fingers to lips, kiss, smack and pull away! Devine! Closing the deal with a shot that tasted like Christmas… it was magical, intense and fragrant as all hell.

Hammered; and not like a nail on wood.

After dinner we went to an Irish pub, hopped over to a place called Chapeau Rouge, had a few more drinks and ended the night in a club called Dejevu… not like the ones we have in Michigan. 🙂 This club was like a fallout shelter. We were 30 feet under and encased in a tunnel of American music, smoke machines, strobe lights and dance offs. Crowds were slim when we arrived, but by midnight if your ass wasn’t dancing with someone, your girls were. Neck to neck; cheek to cheek. A –Mazing! This bar had far more potential than the last one… This one also had an Australian gent… Enough said. 🙂

Saturday was a day of relaxation and girl time. A.K.A – Twilight. Ugh! I loved it! Why must they torture us with such an ending! I want more! Carrie and I also walked to Banditos had a Mexican breakfast in Prague (yep we did, don’t judgeJ) and then we met Skip at a tea house called Cajnova Daruma where he dubbed us… TEFL teachers! Certification in hand along with a formal letter of recommendation, Carrie and I boarded the tram back to our flat, faces consumed in our letters and weight lifted from our shoulders.

Change is good, but change is also sad. I realized on Sunday as I packed that I had accumulated more than I had intended. I sat on my suitcase coercing my zipper closed thinking “didn’t I just open this thing?” Our tram passes expired on Saturday night so Carrie and I walked my luggage over to my new place of temporary residence (Praha 1; The Lewsky residence; three new, incredible, inviting and fun friends from Poland). After the drop, Carrie, Jane and I grabbed a table for lunch at a restaurant nearby and reflected on the weeks now behind us. We cannot believe HOW FAST everything has happened.

Pawel a new friend of ours and life friend of Jane’s joined us for lunch. We talked about differences in our favorite foods and plans for the New Years Eve party the Lewsky family will host. The Lewsky family is a family of friends from Poland, each assigned a different part in the family, and three of which are my new roommates for the next week. I have already grown a place in my heart for these creative and beautiful people. I am so grateful to have met Jane on the course and for her open heart, home and friends. Prague would not have been the same without her (or Carrie).

For New Years Eve the Lewsky’s have decided to throw a themed party: American High School Party. LoL I will teach them beer pong and flippy cup and make puppy chow and pigs in a blanket. If you guys have any other suggestions for traditional American party food let me know. It’s hard to find some things here, but I will make a version of anything. I can’t wait to meet the rest of the Lewsky family as they will be coming in from Poland. The end of a great year will begin another with new friends!

The evening came quickly as I nestled into a comfortable place in the Lewsky household. Karola, Robert and Jane (along with one of their friends from Turkey, who we call Habibi – meaning “darling”, He is a peach!) were more inviting than the concierge at the Ritz. Rob made us a traditional Turkish meal that Habibi had taught him how to make a few nights before. Before dinner we had hot wine with oranges; the sweetness melted like vanilla on the stove and after dinner we had glass after glass of hot tea with lime and honey. I have acquired a new addiction. I cannot end a day without this combination ever again. When the tea was sucked dry, Rob made us coffee with milk and we sat around the kitchen table sharing languages, music videos, learning French songs, taking pictures and listening to conversations I did not understand 🙂 …all while Rob continued to maintain the ambience of the room with candle light, delicate piano whispering from three rooms over, and of course we wouldn’t be in Europe if there wasn’t a romantic swirl of cigarette smoke gently and periodically hovering in the room. I slept like a child in a wonderland.

My next steps are yet to be determined…. Originally I was going to go to Austria with Jane this coming weekend, but Jane has been hired at Charles University and can no longer go. Therefore, I have two options on my plate now. I will either A: go to Italy at the end of the week and return when New Years Eve approaches or B: stay in Prague until the end of 2011 spending a few more weeks with the wonderful people of Poland. By Wednesday I will decide….

I PASSED! I PASSED! I PASSED!

School is fun. 🙂

2 more days and I am officially a TEFL Teacher!

Zet tis zol fur now. 🙂

Incarcerated in Prague

Just kidding! On a “less” dramatic note, I’m in hell. Brain to self this morning: OVER LOAD! OVER LOAD! EVACUATE! ERNNT, ERNNT! DANGER! Translation – it is indeed the last week of TEFL training and I think I might like boot camp better. Class m-f, lessons m-w, GRAMMAR EXAM, methodology assignment, 4 1-on-1 lessons, mock interview, etc., etc. Finals week in college?  I’d take it again, twice! On a positive note, I had a moment of panic this afternoon as I planned my first Upper-Intermediate lesson, but it ended up being my best lesson, thus far! Smiles! 😀

So, my beloved bloggers, when the air returns to my lungs, when the consistent pat of grammar against my frontal lobe expires, and when my blood pressure subsides, I will return to you with all the “deats” (details) of my adventure. For now, I hope you will find temporary satisfaction in the new snap shots I have added.

Nashledanou!

Much love-

In Knee Deep and 1/2 of an English Teacher

Wow, this week was intense. Not quite, bite through your lip, scold the old lady on the tram, intense, but pretty close. Thankfully, persistence prevailed yet again! Even though we are pulling 14 hour days, Prague was still as fantastic as it was last week. With the Christmas markets beginning to materialize like an IKEA commercial (things just start showing up: lamp, pillow, cup) it is easy to forget the trials of the week and remember, I am in Europe!

Teaching is going great! I am learning a mouth full, a body full. Every centimeter of space between my skin, my teeth, and each strand of my hair is being injected with teaching methodologies and techniques. The lesson planning is becoming less stressful and I am beginning to love being a teacher! This week I teach Intermediate level learners. Lessons range from Employee/Employer Interactions, Ordering From a Menu, Degrees of Warmth (e.g.: chilly, boiling, sweating, freezing, etc.) and my final and favorite lesson, Who Killed Ugly Doll?. Kyle’s mom gave me Ugly Doll as an inside joke, and instead of just site seeing, Ugly Doll has become my classroom “attention getter”.

Lesson “Who Killed Ugly Doll?” was a murder mystery focusing on the past simple and the past continuous tenses. Sounds like a snooze, right? It was, “surprisingly… upbeat!” (Movie quote from – How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days). Truthfully though, for a grammar lesson, it was pretty fun and I was able to get the students to interrogate each other, create an alibi and USE past simple and past continuous tenses! It was my best lesson thus far.

Last night was Thanksgiving in America (as you know) and even though this is not a Czech holiday, we still Christened the night with a hearty meal and a few equally hefty mugs of Pivo (beer). It was great to go out after the slavery of the week and since there is no student teaching on Friday’s, we felt tossing a couple back last night was justifiable. The restaurant we went to was called Spirit Bar. This place was traditional (perfect!), surrounded by hidden gems (bonus!) and near a great park that host’s the world’s largest equestrian statue. Eh, not really my thing, but the park is beautiful and definitely worth seeing again.

When I woke, there lingered a small voice in my head saying, “you’re an idiot” – of course referring to my choice to drink the night before. Not to worry though, I popped an IBP and skipped to school – literally (lol, just kidding). After three lessons, the girls and I went to a store I like to call “The Monster Mart”, it’s massive.  We stocked up on the basics and grabbed some chow. On the way back to our flat I found myself amongst a carefully thought out, romantically colorful scene.  I was standing in the middle of Prague center just as the sun finally dissolved and as if switches were being flipped in unison all the Christmas twinkles were born. If the lights could have made a noise loud enough for all of their spectators to hear, I’m sure it would have been a symphony. I was like a little Molly doll, pink nosed, nestled in her mittens and sweater, spinning on one foot and staring up into the center of her snow globe… waiting for the snow to trickle. Ahh… Miluji Prahu…

Tomorrow night I am going to a Thanksgiving party. Carrie and I are making green bean casserole and “monkeys” (ask Gramma Geri – you must know her to get the recipe :P). I’m excited to meet more people (the guest list says 60 RSVP’s), so hopefully we can mingle with a few fine lads and bond with a couple well sound birds! I hope everyone at home had an amazing Thanksgiving and your pie was even better than last year’s!

Miluji vas vsechny! (I love you all!)

Bug

Oh and PS – December is coming soon! Two weeks until Italy! ❤

Week 1. Will she stay or will she go now?

She will stay! Prague is fantastic! I am sorry I have taken my sweet time posting my adventure, but it has been just that! A time consuming, amusing, breathtaking adventure. On my first day in abroad, my flatmates, Carrie, Maureen and Laura, and I, toured Prague 1 and Old Town. We devoured giant American size sausages and lingered in the aroma of our dessert; trdelnik – magnificent pastry bread, cinnamon dipped and pecan rolled deliciousness.

Day Two – Mission 1 – Locate the schools. Brendan, a fine British bloke who took the TLH (TEFL Language House) course a time or two ago, graciously took a few of us around the city on Sunday night to get used to the trams and see a few things. He also took us by the school to make sure we knew where to go in the morning. Afterwards, we had dinner at a really great Italian restaurant. I had a fun convo with the bar tender about Czech and common words to get used to; like Na shledanou (good bye) or Dekuji (thank you).

Day Three – First day in class. Rise and Shine! More or less, I was still getting used to the time change. I was a dull star on Monday and Tuesday, but class still went well. We did warm ups and ice breakers and then we were taught HOW to do warm ups and ice breakers to our students. The rest of the day was spent with our fine friend, Andrea, a really cool teacher on the course. Aside from teaching, Andrea also gave tours in Prague, so she took us to The Charles Bridge, the Prague Castle and out to dinner. Another one of our really great instructors, Skip, met us for chow and bought us a feast. Oh, and also an obnoxious shot that I’m pretty sure left singe marks on my tonsils, throat, stomach, possibly even major organs… He’s a peach! 😉

Day Four – Learn and teach. Sleep and eat. Pretty uneventful, but still a great day.

Day Five – First Czech lesson this morning with Pete. We were not allowed to use English throughout the entire class. This was to demonstrate what it feels like for the students; the shoe is on the other foot scenario. A challenge, but very entertaining and Pete is an awesome teacher so it was super fun!

Day Six – Dunt Dunt Dunt!! Today was my first day teaching Czech students. I put together a fifteen minute activity that was not only observed by my ten students, but also by one of the instructions. This was a little intimidating at first, but not for long. You begin to feel very natural in the front of the room and when the students look to you for the answers your confidence rises, even if you do not know how to respond. I really like all my students, they range from 22 – 45. Hopefully Monday will go well, as this is the first day that I will teach a full lesson. Gulp!

Day Seven – Friday always rocks, but this Friday climbed the charts. First thing in the morning we had Renee teach us about grammar and about teaching in general. She is very sweet and phenomenal at what she does. I soaked up her pointers like a napkin (no Nik and Shannon, not that kind of napkin :P). Class ended early at 3:30. Cha ching! We had plans to meet up with some students on the last course at a restaurant called Banditos. Happy hour specials and a really authentic Mexican spread- winning!

Everyone was awesome! We ate, drank and ate and drank. A group of us went to The Dobry Den – one of the guys flats (Dobry den also means “hello” in Czech ;)) after dinner and had a few more drinks, hung out and listened to music. Around 11 we headed to this fantastic techno bar called Retro. I think I lost 4 pounds from dancing, and how can I put this…? MEN. MEN EVERYWHERE. Not boys, just men. It was like there was a sale of them. They were over stocked, over 6 feet tall and overtly good looking! Lord save me I am in trouble! 😉

PS – on this day…. I also became 1/4 of an English teacher. 😀

Day Eight – Yawwnnnnn…. UGhehkel  uhsh ahh (weird noise we all make when stretching in the morning. Don’t deny it, you know you do it too). After sleep and downing about 36 crackers with jam before hitting the hay last night I felt completely refueled. BTW – thank GOD for Jane last night. If it wasn’t for her the four of us would have had no clue how to get back to our flat from the Metro. Four, count them four, people gave me directions back, all of which made absolutely no sense to me. BUT, I was told it would come to me after a while… lets hope.

So today (Saturday) Carrie and I woke and got lost on purpose. We went in every direction, down alleys, on the tram, off the tram. We did this for about two hours and then popped into a really nice restaurant and became the window display. We wanted to “people watch” while we had another Italian meal (we know this is frustrating for some, that we keep eating Italian in Prague, but come on, it’s just so damn good and we have had PLENTY of meat and potatoes while here already. Trust.) After spaghetti for Carrie and minestrone and bruschetta for me we went to this shop or department store called Tesco. It has a toy store, a grocery store, appliances, clothing, makeup, jewelry etc etc. If we get home sick, we will definitely come here. It smells exactly like Macy’s – perfume counters and all.

We ended the day with something sweet, my first gelato. Eht hem. ATTENTION, this is very important. I would like my family to know, it is my dying wish, that on my death bed, I would like to have this magical substance siphoned into my veins. Yes, I know, this will only kill me faster, but I do not care. I cannot even imagine how it will taste in Italy, but in a few short weeks, I will let you know. 🙂

Other little tid-bits:

-Grocery shopping is hard. I cannot read a damn thing.

-Everyone is beautiful. Everyone.

-We are regulars at Paul’s already. This is a small café right outside one of our schools. They have great little sandwiches and again, more men. 😛

-There is a quaint little pub right around the corner from our flat that I adore. A few of us stopped there after class one night and now I think I will most definitely “frequent it”!

-I blew my CHI. 😦 Immay Stupit Ahmerichanka.

GREAT PEOPLE. GREAT COURSE. GREAT FOOD. So far, so good!

See you soon! Check out the tabs above. Pictures galore!

❤ Ash

Sending my love! – from the AZO Airport restroom…

Today is the day! As I wait for the biggest flight of my life thus far (both figuratively and literally) I realized…

1. I should use the restroom before this very long journey… 😀 And…
2. I want to send everyone tons of love!! I will miss you all!

Wish me luck! I’ll see you again when I land in Europe.

Love,
Bug

Seester

Ash

Akoss

Ashley K

Uvidime se prozatim!
(see you for now! -in Czech 🙂 )

Before the cobblestone…

When I was eleven years old my dad sat me down, at our octagon shaped kitchen table with 1970’s yellow leather seats, and pulled out a tape measure. He stretched it out just past ninety inches, pointed to the eleven inch mark and told me it represented my most recent birthday.  He said to me, “You have alllllll of this left to go”, pointing to the remaining seventy nine inches. As a youngster I was a tad rebellious, so his point that day was that I was still a child and he was the adult, the authority figure; however, I took something else from his wisdom. I understood that this tape measure was a timeline of life, and that it wasn’t very long at all. I had ninety nine years to accomplish my dreams, eleven of which I had already used up.

Over a decade has passed since then, and because of my time at Western Michigan University, my five years with a supportive team at Stryker Corporation and my incredible family and friends, I am now fully prepared to step on to the next centimeter of my tape measure. I raise my glass to you, to the fun, the fantastic and the influential people in my life.

In six days, I will board a plane to The Czech Republic with hardly a plan at all, but a plan to start a journey, to live and give a life of love – tape measure in hand.

See you soon!

Namaste.