The Last Month in Paris

I sincerely apologize for a lack of blog posts in the last few weeks. Since I got back from my spring break vacation, I've been kind of busy with schoolwork, tourismwork, and partyingwork, so it's been a bit difficult to find any time for blogwork.

That being said, the wrap-up to my semester has been an amazing one. I would have to say that the last three weeks of my program rank as my favorites of the semester,  despite the fact that I had as much schoolwork in those three weeks as the entire rest of the semester.

So since I've put off this blog post a little too long, I'm going to have to summarize and give you the condensed version.

It was sunny and 75 essentially all of May, and I did a lot of walking, with no real plan, but a few ideas of things I wanted to see. I went by Montparnasse Cemetery, Luxembourg Gardens, les Arenes de Lutece, the Jardin des Plantes, the Viaduc des Artes, and Parc de Belleville. Paris was never more beautiful.

Also, as the end of the program approached, I  gave up on cooking.  This was bad for my bank account, but helped me find a bunch of great new places to eat. Paris has a crazy variety of ethnic food, and I hit up some new Lebanese, Indian, Thai, Vietnamese, Greek, and North African places. I also ate waaaay too many kebabs, but hey, it's better than McDonalds.

Another great thing about the last couple weeks was that I discovered how to use the Paris Velib' bike share system, previously thought to be limited to those with European bank cards. This was merely a rumor, however, and the world of "Paris by Bike" was opened to me. This world, unfortunately, was absolutely horrifying, as biking the streets of Paris was basically like trying to go for a run in the middle of a herd of wildebeest. Biking was at its handiest after the metro closed and the streets were empty and you needed a quicker way to get home than walking. This, however, is not an easy endeavor after a few too many pints at the Wall, so I usually stuck to walking or cabs.

The weather had many benefits, and one of these was the fact that parks opened up their lawns. It was also warm enough to comfortably be outside at night. Both of these things helped step up the Drinking Wine in the Open Air scene. It is the perfect pregame: a bottle of wine on the quais of the Seine as the sun is setting. Paris could not get any better.

As I alluded to before, the bar of choice for the past few weeks has been The Wall. Now, I've written about The Wall before, but even since then, it has increased in importance, and a lot of my favorite memories of this semester are from that place. Thus, I shall chronicle its beauty once more.

By the end of the semester, my friends and I had basically become regulars at The Wall. We knew the bartenders; which ones were good, which were bad (the worst, Pierre, was nicknamed "Pire," which means "worst" in French). They would give us free drinks and shots (B-52's once!) and we had repeated encounters with many other frequent guests at The Wall.

Becoming a regular is a great feeling, and I always cherish the occasion to do so. But why The Wall? Of all the bars in Paris, why did we choose to go here most often? The answer is manifold, but begins very simply. At first, we went to The Wall because it has cheap beer. 3 euros for a pint from open to close is essentially unbeatable in Paris. Most places don't even approach those prices for happy hour.

But that only got us through the door. If the place was boring, or weird, or the people there sucked, we wouldn't just keep coming back because of cheap beer. (or would we?) Nevertheless, The Wall was fun, and that kept us there. This is in large part because of the music they played. The Wall had a large selection of fun, classic rock and pop songs, most of which were excellent drunk singalongs. The Beach Boys, David Bowie, and Queen got the most spins, but we also heard a lot of Michael Jackson, Eagles, Bob Marley, and many, many cheesy 80's songs.

For drunk American college students, this selection of music is absolutely sublime. Needless to say, whenever a certain song came on, we would stand up, perhaps on chairs, and practically yell the lyrics to each song, while slightly confused and slightly amused French students tried their best to keep up in English.

This touches upon my third point about The Wall and probably the reason we ended up liking it so much in the end. The Wall is a very strange place. All of the people there, from the obnoxious Americans (us), to the French students, to the random groups of bankers and lawyers in their late 20's/early 30's, were a little bit off. This suited me perfectly. While those nicer, classier Parisian bars are enjoyable, you can't really let loose, as you are always image-conscious and trying not to portray yourself as a loud American. Which is unfortunate, because I am a loud American.

At The Wall, they didn't care who you were. It was a completely unpretentious night out. They were just as strange and thus were as bemused by our antics as we were by theirs. We made a lot of friends this way; trying to get French patrons to "raise the roof" or sing along to Buffalo Soldier.

I would feel bad if I didn't tell you about at least one of the characters we met at The Wall, so I shall tell you the story of my favorite encounter: Kems, also known as "French Vin Diesel."

Kems is a bouncer at The Wall, and all in all and exquisite person. He's a pretty big, beefy guy, with a shaved head and a chinstrap beard. He sometimes wears a fedora. He never wears sleeves, whether it means a dragon-graphic button down with the sleeves cut off or a fierce wifebeater/suit vest combo. He always has a man purse.

Kems also speaks nearly perfect English with a British accent, which isn't all that unusual for French people. What is unusual is the odd manner in which he talks: almost entirely in imperatives.

The first time I met him, he asked me if I was an American student. I said yes. He said, "You must stop speaking English. What you need to do is speak French, all the time." Then he went over to my friend sitting down and said, "Why are you sitting. You must be having fun. What I need you to do is stand up and start dancing."

It's endlessly entertaining. Kems is also a great dancer, carries a small leather belt/whip, and is prone to inappropriately interacting with women. What fun!

So anyways, I spent a lot of great nights at The Wall over the last few weeks, usually followed by Le Violon Dingue. Le Violon Dingue is a slightly larger bar/club that stays open til 5 AM. Our nights usually got pretty hazy and dissolved at this point, as people found their way home via cabs or bikes or foot. On my last night out in Paris, though, we were determined to stay up. Strangely, we met a nice French man named Guillaume from Le Mans, who took us to one of the only 24 hour brasseries in Paris, then paid for all of our food. Eventually, as the sun was coming up, I made my way home on the morning metro, reflecting on what an amazing semester it was in Paris. This was the best way to end my semester: a full night with friends from wine on the Seine to The Wall to Le Violon Dingue to a brasserie and then home on the Metro. As I went to sleep, I couldn't stop thinking about how extremely lucky I was to have had the amazing experiences I have had in Paris.

ROMA

We woke up Thursday morning in Rome, the Eternal city, my long professed favorite city in Europe. Of course, I gave it that distinction when I was 8, so I had little recollection of why that actually was. I would figure out part of this at the Roman Forum, where we started our day.

I'm not a classics or anthropology major, nor do I have any overwhelming interest in the Roman period, but, simply put, the Roman Forum is the COOLEST. It has an undeniably awe-striking quality. Walking amidst the beautiful ruins and gardens and hills was probably the highlight of the entire trip. Every corner was breathtaking. Additionally, the forum was hosting a special exhibition on Nero, which was very interesting. All of this goes as well for the Palatine Hill, they are essentially the same place.

After that walk and some solid doner kebab and gelato, we checked out the colosseum, more hyped but no more impressive than the forum. We got in a few good "Are you not entertained?!?"s and "Titus of Gaul!!!!!"s before heading to see the central sights of Rome: the Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, and the Piazza Navona. These were by and large beautiful but spoiled by mobs of tourists (like ourselves, I suppose).

This would be a theme in Rome, as it was the weekend of John Paul II's beatification, as well as the week following Easter. It wasn't terrible, though, as we just had to stay out of the center during peak hours. That night, it was fine as we got some drinks and some italian meats and cheeses and sat out on the Spanish Steps for dinner. (This was, by the way, probably the time me and Max were most confused for a gay couple and not two travelling tourist friends. This was with just cause, as it was objectively romantic. And AWESOME.)

We decided to hit up the Vatican the next day, before the beatification celebration got too rowdy for us. We cruised through San Pietro and the Vatican Museums, somehow avoiding all the 2-3 hour lines that the guys hawking tours said there would be.

Even so, all the museum-walking kicked the crap out of us, and we returned to the hostel for massive rally naps.

Afterwords, we decided to check out the nearby and allegedly "studenty" neighborhood of San Lorenzo in what would go down as aone of our better decisions in Rome. San Lorenzo was very reminiscent of Kreuzberg in Berlin: young, fun, cheap, edgy, and unpretentious. We got pizza at a restaurant called Formula 1, which was the best pizza I got in Italy. For 6.50, I got a pie stacked high with mushrooms, ham, artichokes, olives, and a hard-boiled egg. The house wine was also cheap and good.

Following dinner came one of the strangest, and one of my favorite, experiences on the trip. After grabbing a couple of beers, we were wandering San Lorenzo when we came across a bar that had live folk covers drifting out from inside. Since we had to finish our beers, we took a seat on a bench on the sidewalk and listened to a couple solid folk songs.

When we heard the opening to Bruce Springsteen's "Adam Raised a Cain", though, we had to go in, spurred by our mutual, undying love for the Boss. Unfinished bottles in hand, we began to sing along.

This display of affection for the music, as well as our familiarity with the lyrics, astounded and delighted the two guitarists in this tiny bar. We were instant favorites with both the musicians and the crowd (numbering about 8), such that they played about 6 more Bruce sings in a row. After about the third, the lead singer asked us where we were from, and was ecstatic about the answer ("New Yersey!!" he yelled) and went right into "Jersey Girl."

The whole affair got everyone really riled up and into the music, and at certain points, one of the guys would come to our table mid-song to sing along with us. People in the bar were looking at us excitedly and asking about us. It was all very strange and exciting.

Eventually, we had to call it a night, though I was hardly ever prouder to be a Bruce fan.

(Note: I wrote most of this blog post right after Rome, and I'm now finishing it a couple weeks later. This will not be quite so detailed.)

The next day was kind of crappy weather, and we got some more doner and then walked around the Villa Borghese. We decided that night to go to dinner again in San Lorenzo, as we had had a great time there. While walking around the neighborhood, we came across something I initially thought was a mirage.

There was a small wine bar on one of the side streets. Well, not really a wine bar, more of a wine miracle. It had several large stills, and plastic bottles for filling up wine. I saw the price 1.60 on the sign outside, and I assumed it was for a glass, which would be a reasonable price. Upon closer inspection, though, the sign definitely said 1.60/liter. This was simply astounding. Me and Max, obviously not about to pass this up, filled up a bottle for before dinner. They were helpful and happy, and gave us cups and free cashews. PEOPLE NEED TO KNOW ABOUT THIS PLACE.

Anyways, we were feeling the wine by the time we got to dinner, which was at an osteria apparently famous for its meat dishes. I got some tasty skewers, but the portions were not huge, and we hit up a pizza place on the way home. All in all, a great night.

The next morning, after working out yet another misbooking, me and Max had most of the morning to do some exploring. We checked out Trastevere, and some other places near the colosseum. We got doner one last time, and fought through crowds of nuns and Poles in searing heat to get back to the hostel. It was a good way to leave Rome, because I honestly couldn't have taken much more of it. But I will never forget the strange, amazing times I had in Rome, especially San Lorenzo.

It was a great trip. A trip that will be written about for generations to come, and I made it back to Paris safe and sound. I then realized how little time I had left in Paris, and set to planning three blog-worthy weeks. COMING SOON!!

FIRENZE

When we arrived in Florence, the skies had darkened, and we were let off in a slightly boonsy section of town, where everything was closed for Easter. After a stressful 15 minutes trying to figure out the buses, we headed towards our hostel. Located in a leafy outer district of Florence, full of sports complexes and stadiums, we were a safe distance away from the throngs of tourists that descend upon the city center in search of Renaissance beauty.

After settling in at the hostel, we decided to take the evening to discover a bit of the city, resulting in a walk that yielded two of my favorite discoveries in Florence: the first was in a small corner shop, where a bottle of Birra Moretti was 1.30, a solid deal. Then we realized that in Italy, beer comes in giant 66 cL bottles. It was a full two thirds of a liter of pretty good beer, for fairly cheap, and that wasn't even the best deal we saw. (We later snagged some Moretti's in Roma for 90 cents, a mind-blowing deal.)

The second discovery was the aperitivo buffet, an Italian specialty at bars. The idea is that you buy a drink, then get unlimited access to an appetizer buffet. Not only was the food actually delicious (bruschetta, seafood pasta, pizza, couscous, chicken wings, etc.) but the deal allows you to get one of those fancy expensive cocktails you normally wouldn't spring for. BECAUSE YOU'RE GETTING FREE FOOD.

After dinner, we grabbed a couple more Moretti's and roamed the streets before setting up on the steps of the Duomo, the 4th largest cathedral in the world. After catching some of the Knicks-Celtics finale in a bar, we returned to the hostel.

The next morning, we got up for a free walking tour of Florence. I would suppose they use the free tours as training grounds, as our guide did not speak English very well. It was all fine, though, as we got to see some cool renaissance architecture, before splitting off to find lunch. We found it in the form of an awesome market. We cruised the free samples of meats, cheeses, sauces, and olive oils before settling on a decadent porchetta sandwich, which consisted of fatty slabs of roasted boar topped with delicious pecorino cheese.

From there we decided to mix it up a bit. We had seen a poster for a rally against the "Imperial War" in Libya, hosted by the communist party of Florence, and we wanted to check it out. When we first arrived, the rally was more like a picnic, but they were selling 50 cent glasses of wine in a souvenir communist/Leninist plastic cup. We obviously each got one and helped ourselves to some glasses (cups) of wine. Knocked out by the walking/wine combo, we went back to the hostel for some rally naps before dinner.

That night essentially consisted of pizza, cheap beer, and more walking. The next day we went to Siena, where we essentially did the same stuff we did in Florence, but with more hills and better views.

Back in Florence that night, we grabbed another aperitivo buffet before taking advantage of a free museum night that apparently no one else in Florence knew about. We got to go to the Accademia to see Michelangelo's David, a stunning sculpture that garners the distinction of being the only Renaissance art I will praise in this blog. It was very impressive.

The next day in Florence, we rambled around a bit , seeing the Uffizi, the Duomo, a panoramic view from the belltower, and a delicious roast beef sandwich from the market.

Our train out was at 6:30.

It was to be my first major mess-up of the trip, as it turns out I had accidentally booked my tickets for March 27th, not April 27th. After some panic and bargaining, they made us pay a fine to stay on the train. We ended up with a room to ourselves though, which allowed us to watch Animal House, though, so it was all good. The stress from the train, and crappy weather dampened the mood, and we didn't do much before crashing in the hostel in Rome.

But what adventures did await us there . . . . Muahahahaha

VENEZIA

On Friday morning, Max and I awoke, eager to start our glorious bro-venture in Venice, Florence, and Rome. There were to be many delightful candlelit dinners, gondola rides, enchanted piazzas, and awkward moments when we would be confused with a gay couple.

With this anticipation in mind, we zombied ourselves out over 45 U-Bahn stops, plus another bus ride to Berlin Schonefeld airport. We would be flying Easyjet, my third budget airline experience, to Venice. The flight was fine, Easyjet being comparable to Ryanair.

Our nearly complete unfamiliarity with the Italian language showed itself immediately after landing, as we took a 10 minute detour to Parking Lot 5 of Venice Marco Polo airport, rather than Bus number 5, which would eventually take us to Venice, when we found it.

(To be fair, this was after we had to wait a half-hour to buy our bus pass because the only receptionist working decided to take a break shortly after our plane and a few others landed. True Italian service.)

The walk to parking lot 5 was nice, though, and confirmed one thing I had remembered setting Italy apart from other, more Northern European countries: the trees. Due to its Mediterranean climate, Italy's foliage looks nothing like France or Germany. It's not easy to describe, but it gives Italy a palpably different atmosphere.

At the hostel check-in, we encountered the first of many travel planning mistakes, as we had accidentally booked two beds in an all-female dorm. It was quickly resolved, though, and we took off on waterbus to see bella Venezia.

While we're on the subject of waterbuses, I would like to ramble a bit about their awesomeness. After 3 months of trains, subways, planes, landbuses, and god knows what else, it was endlessly refreshing to ride around Venice in a boat for three days, especially at a similar price to those other modes of transport. Not only can you chill in the deck and get a nice sea breeze while watching the beautiful buildings of Venice go by, but the system runs at the same or better efficiency than any other public transport system I've been on. Even though New York can't do it, Venice posted arrival times of boats at each stop. They were never late, either. And even though Paris can't do it, Venice runs its main transport system all night long.

Anyways, for the first day, Max and I were content to just wander around the streets and waterways. We grabbed some pasta for dinner and got to sleep pretty early, after a long travel day.

We started out on the second day at Murano, where we got a brief but exciting glassblowing demonstration. The island didn't yield much else, and we headed back to Venice proper, where we enjoyed some amazing pizza and wine in Piazza San Polo. Afterwards, we checked out the cathedral of San Marco, probably one of the two essential sights of Venice, along with the Rialto bridge.

After dinner that night, we ran into a group of students from the University of South Carolina who were studying in different cities across Europe. It was nice to hear some American, especially Southern, voices, and we wandered around for a bit before ending up at a bar in the one square in Venice that had them. I tried the Venetian signature Aperol Spritz, which was hands down the driest drink I've tasted. We eventually made it back to the hostel, where I got to sleep early, awaiting Catholic Easter Mass the next day at Il Redentore, a massive basilica.

To be completely honest, Catholic masses have always made me a bit nervous, just because it's a mix of familiar and strange experiences in an intimidating setting. I figured this would be worse in an Italian cathedral that could easily fit two or three 1st Presbyterian Church of Ramsey's in it.

It turned out not to be so bad. The church was fairly plain and airy for an Italian cathedral. The all-Italian service was accompanied by some sort of all-monk contemporary Christian band, one member of which played a mean 12-string guitar. I swear they played an Oasis cover at one point.

The service was about 45 minutes long, and walking out to a view of blue lagoon, brilliant facades, and immense sky was an unforgettable experience. It was also one last reminder of the beauty of Venice before our train ride to Florence.

Auxiliary Post #1: Warning to Parents -- Do Not Read

This is my first auxiliary post of my spring break. Because of the wealth of experiences I'm having and because the city summary posts are sort of dedicated to an item by item retelling of events, this is how I will indicate some other feelings about certain overriding themes. I am writing this first one halfway through my stay in Rome, before even having started my Venice and Florence posts. It is a very important issue, though, and I have to get it on paper.

It's about beer.

I know what you're going to say.

"Brendan, if you're going to tell us how awesome beer is, hold your words because we KNOW how awesome beer is, and we don't want some uppity European to tell us."

Or you might say:

"Seriously, Brendan. Beer again? Sometimes I don't even think you're seeing anything in Europe besides the bottom of a pint glass. Don't you think the beauty of ancient cities is more important than beer?"

You're both right. Beer is awesome, and sightseeing is important. But you're looking too narrowly. The amazing thing about beer and sightseeing is that they can be done together. Beer is awesome to drink in public, amongst crowds, strangers, on the steps of famous buildings, in the presence of beautiful views, in the shadow of years of built up history.

That's right, I'm talking about open container laws.

Let me give you a familiar scene I've experienced in many cities in Europe and you tell me when it ceases to parallel the US (thanks to the presence in most places of open container laws):

- - - - - - - -

You're walking in the city. It's late evening, and unseasonably warm for the middle of spring. The lights in the windows come on along with the stars as the sky darkens.

You are headed downtown, and as you go, the streets get livelier and livelier. Delicious smells emanate from the restaurants with open doors and windows. It is a beautiful night.

You look to your left and you look to your right; flanking you are two of your best friends in the world. They are also feeling blessed by this bountiful spring evening. There is a feeling of possibility in the air. All the worries you had earlier in the day have faded, setting the stage for a night free from problems and full of opportunities.

You wonder amongst yourselves what you should do. It's far too early for a club, and you don't want to coop yourself up in a bar. It would be a shame to waste this night.

Your friend comes up with the brilliant idea to get a beer at the corner store.

This is a great idea, you all agree. Beers are tasty and refreshing and it is fun to drink them with friends. Most people agree with that.

You head to the corner store. You glance over a wide selection of delicious beers before settling on a fairly standard brand from the local region. Not fancy, but it's refreshing and a 660 mL bottle only sets you back $1.70. You bring the beer up to the cash desk where you pay and the friendly shop owner offers to open your beer for you. You are thankful for his generosity, but tell him you've got it. You open your beer and walk outside into a beautiful square full of people. At one end, a man is playing "No Woman, No Cry" to an enthusiastic, spontaneously gathered crowd. At the other end is a beautiful building with a well-lit facade and sprawling steps, where people are congregating and socializing, beer or wine in hand.

You take a swig and head for the steps. You see a cop on the way. He looks at your beer, then your face. There is a pause. He smiles mischievously and reaches for his holster. He unbuckles it , and pulls out a beer of his own. You shake hands and sing along to Bob Marley. Afterwards he lets you fire his gun at some pigeons. Then you continue on to the steps.

As you walk over, you are exulting with your friends in the beauty of the night, cracking jokes about cops and pigeons and foreign people. You are having so much fun that you accidentally bump into a woman and drop your beer, which shatters on the ground.

No worries, she says, and hands you an extra. You take it and walk to the steps together. She is the most beautiful woman in the world, and, as you will later discover, she is your soulmate and an incredibly wealthy patron of the arts. You will later get married and she will use her immense family fortune to prop up your shitty blog-writing career for decades.

- - - - - - - -

Believe it or not, this exact scenario has happened to me at least eleven times since coming to Europe, in various cities and countries. Let me guess where it deviates from the American version: right when the store owner offers to open your beer for you? That means that everything after that, from the cop to the wealthy and generous woman to the dead pigeons could never happen in the USA.

Even though I may have slightly exaggerated some things, it is true that they open your beers for you in Europe. I've even had them pull out the corkscrew for a $3.00 bottle of wine.

This just doesn't happen in America, thanks to our open container laws. Sure, drinking in public is still fairly common in places like stadium parking lots, fireworks shows, and similar venues, but you can't really just grab a beer and drink it on the streets. You can't really hop on the train and drink a road beer. If you're drinking and you see a cop, that beer instantly is hidden between your legs, or at your side.

In Europe, public, outdoor drinking is just part of the culture. It is also usually done much more sensibly than indoor drinking. Drinking outdoors is just about enjoying the environment, rather than getting intoxicated or drinking competitively.

So in closing, I like to live in a world where someone can walk into a greenhouse at the national botanical garden with an open beer, have their bag checked by the security guard, and then be allowed to go in without a second glance at the beer.

That's Europe, folks.

BERLIN

Paris and Berlin are both capitals of premiere countries in Europe and the world. They are each greatly populous, two of Europe's biggest cities. But after that, the similarities tail off. As I said, these cities are both hugely populous; with Paris having roughly 2.2 million within its city limits and Berlin 3.4. Paris, though, is only about 100 square kilometers and Berlin is roughly nine times that size. This means that Paris, despite having a smaller population, is much more densely populated. It is crowded and fast-paced while Berlin is spread out, laid back, seemingly empty sometimes in comparison.

This is far from the only difference, though, or even the most important.While Paris's history is defined by the period from 1789 through the early 1900's, Berlin may inarguably the city at the forefront of the last 100 years of history.

Paris's stunningly beautiful architecture is is also rather uniform, almost entirely a relic of Baron von Haussman's mid-19th century city overhaul. Berlin, meanwhile, is an eclectic blend of styles and eras, changing from neighborhood to neighborhood, a result of its asymmetrical growth pattern and history as a partitioned city.

Paris is also a city that clings fervently to its French heritage and tradition; Berlin is a progressive metropolis, one that has raised questions about the meaning of identity and heritage in order to come to terms with its own checkered past.

Many differences remain, but the point is that while Paris and Berlin are undoubtedly two of the world's greatest cities, springing from a similar area, they are worlds apart in terms of feel and attitude.

To me, especially coming from Paris, the best thing about Berlin was the way it confronted and analyzed its history, rather than displayed it as unquestionably proud heritage.

This feeling of thoughtful progress was everywhere in Berlin.

Meanwhile, I have a story to tell.

The train ride from Prague to Berlin was enjoyable, as I got some writing done and enjoyed the German and Czech scenery before we rolled into Berlin around 1:15. Max met me at the station, and helped us get to the hostel where I dropped off my bags. Then it was straight on to the neighborhood of Prenzlauerberg for a sunny afternoon in Mauer park. This open space had been a death strip between the two parts of the Berlin Wall during the Cold War, but today it was flocked with people from young to old. We grabbed some flatbread pizza things from a vendor and a couple of beers and sat down to enjoy the sun and listen to the USSR themed, Balkan folk, polka, reggae, punk, ska band the Cosmonauts.

After a while, the group, which was me, Taylor and Alia, plus Max and several of his friends, ambled over to a small amphitheater where a dense crowd was packed in to watch the free open air karaoke. This was easily the best part of the afternoon, as we watched in delight while people from all over the world either butchered or glorified various classics. To recap, the best performers were definitely the guy who did "Purple Rain," the girl who sang Frankie Valli while seducing a middle-aged German dude, and, especially, the little kid who absolutely brought the house down with "No Woman, No Cry."

After Mauerpark, Taylor, Alia, and I returned to the hostel. From there, hungry and tired, we walked to a nearby Asian restaurant. Low expectations turned into fabulous food, and we made American fools out of ourselves by eating outrageous amounts before crashing at the hostel.

The next morning, I met up with Max for a personal tour of the city. Taylor and Alia settled for a professionally guided bike tour, though somehow saw less stuff than me and Max in the same amount of time. High praise for an amateur tour guide.

We started the day at the Eastside Gallery, the longest preserved stretch of the Berlin Wall, as well as the world's largest outdoor art gallery. Miles of murals both impactful and incomprehensible covered the wall. We moved on from there to the neighborhood of Friedrichshain, shabby but soulful, for a delicious lunch. I had a knoblauchwurst burger with a ton of arugula (common in European sandwiches, thankfully).

We headed from there to Alexanderplatz, where we began our walk down Unter den Linden, Berlin's (not as charming) answer to the Champs-Elysees. It was however, equally if not more interesting than the Parisian boulevard, as we saw the spot of Hitler's infamous book-burning, a poignant memorial to the victims of war and tyranny, and various museums before reaching the Brandenburg Gate and the Reichstag. We headed down through the tiergarten, the Holocaust Memorial, Potsdamer Platz, and into Schoneberg (I think?) where we grabbed a beer at a famous hang out/cafe. I was pretty beat then, so I went back to the hostel to rest up a little.

When Taylor and Alia got back, we journeyed back up to Prenzlauer, where we walked around before settling on a cheap fast food place for dinner. My burger was surprisingly phenomenal, pickle and all (Europe IS changing me!), but the highlight of the night came next.

We had had a wine bar, called Weinerei(sp?), recommended to us by both Max and others, and decided to check it out. The premise, which to us aspiring Parisians sounded truly ridiculous and unbelievable, was that you paid two euros for a glass, then got access to as much wine as you wanted, from their whole collection. At the end of the night, you simply paid as much as you felt that you owed.

When we arrived, we were shocked to see that not only was this the case, they also had honor system food, were incredibly friendly and helpful, had a warmly decorated bar, and a large number of wines to choose from. Let's just say we spent a great deal of time there. At the end of the night, we hit up a doner kebab shop on our way out, fulfilling my dream of late night Turkish fast food. Then it was U-Bahn, and good night.

The next morning, Taylor and Alia were heading off to Copenhagen, while I was staying behind in Berlin before my Great Italian Broventure with Max. I said goodbye to them before, since Max was still in a final, headed by myself to Curry 36, to grab some of Berlin's famous fast food/street food, Currywurst. It was a satisfying, if strange meal, and I definitely prefer doner, but the Currywurst was a nice change.

Later on, I met back up with Max to head to a biergarten, again in Prenzlauer. With the incredible sun we'd had all week (it was like 70 every day in Berlin), this was an incredibly relaxing experience, as well as a good opportunity to hang out with Max's friends, who were pretty cool as well. More importantly, I got to taste a few delicious beers, including my summery favorite hefeweissbier, and kristallweissbier.

Around sunset, we moved on to dinner, at a nearby restaurant owned by a friendly Palestinian man. Max had another exam the next day, so we called it a night.

The next morning, I checked out of the hostel and trekked to Krumme Lanke in Southwest Berlin, where Max lives and where I would be staying for the next two nights. Though on the U-Bahn and technically in Berlin, the neighborhood felt more like a suburb, a leafy little hamlet situated on two beautiful lakes, perfect for running, sunning, or beer drinking, of which we saw all three. Later on, after Max's final, we took a field trip to Templehof, the former airport for Berlin and site of the Berlin airlift, now a city park. The immense complex, which contained the largest building in volume at its time, was so big that it took us nearly an hour and a half to find the entrance to the park. When we finely did, it was one of the largest open areas I've seen anywhere close to a city. On the runways, it was about ten degrees hotter, making it feel like a true summer day, with people grilling, playing frisbee, and sunning in the grass.

Hot and thirsty, we took the U-Bahn to Mitte to refresh ourselves at a bar with over 100 beers. After hanging out there, and drinking a delicious Kostritzer Schwarzbier, the whole group moved on to Kreuzberg for some of Mustapha's famous Doner. Though it was a long line, we were able to relax with a few beers, thanks to one of my favorite perks of Europe, lack of open container laws. More on my thoughts about this coming up. Mustapha's proved to be the best doner I'd had, and indeed one of my best meals on the trip. As a tip, the vegetables in the doner are so good, if you go, you don't even need to get the meat, it's auxiliary to the gemuse.

The next morning, Max and I worked out some travel stuff before heading out to the Olympiastadion, the colosseum of of fascist architecture, site of the controversial 1936 olympics. The building and grounds were impressive, and strikingly parallel to what one would associate with Nazism, at least from the outside.

After walking around the quiet, wealthy neighborhood of Charlottenburg, we went back to Krumme Lanke to prepare for Max's program's farewell dinner. Though he would be staying in Europe even later than I was, Max's program was ending, while mine had another solid month to go. So it was a bit strange to be at a farewell dinner, and I got hit with a wave of misplaced nostalgia. I did, however, really enjoy Berlin, and would be sad to see it go the next morning.

First, though, we had the dinner, staged at the classy Galileo's, Italian restaurant extraordinaire. The buffet was alright, the company was good, but the real attraction came following, at the farewell party for Max's program.

For this, we headed to a bar in Friedrichshain, a divey place, but ideal for the occasion. I had a great time, making the most out of my status as a relative unknown, as well as the beer deals and foosball tables. Max and I had been determined to make the party last fairly close to when we had to leave for the airport, as we had a ten o clock flight the next morning. We succeeded in not getting back to his house until 3:30ish, then got about three hours of sleep before getting up to head on our Italiadventure. That, though, is my next story. For now, I get to reflect on the city of Berlin, one that has embraced itself and made a difficult past into a dynamic present. Cheap, fun, intriguing, diverse, and little like Paris, it was a welcome breath of fresh air.

Have a Good Night, Good night, Goodbye.

Thusly, the Czech flight attendant greeted us in Prague, beginning our spring break, whose first stop in the capital of the Czech Republic yielded many similar turns of English phrase, beer cheaper than you could imagine in Paris, beautiful buildings, and awesome matching sweaters.

But first, the flight, the sketchiest of my life. Having booked it on a budget Czech airline allegedly called "Smartwings," according to its website "smartwings.com", I expected to find it listed as such when looking up my terminal on Paris-CDG's website. Smartwings was nowhere to be found, though, and my flight was allegedly being carried on an airline suspiciously called "Travel Service"

This suspicion was only amplified when my tickets were issued at the desk by some company named "Swissport." When Taylor, Alia, and I got to the plane, it was Travel Service again. When we got in the plane, it was Smartwings. Having had nothing answered as to the name of the airline, I decided to think of it as what it most certainly was: "Low Budget Czech Airline." The plane made Ryanair's fleet seem state of the art, and was most likely a relic from the communist era. My seat was broken such that it could fold in half. Nevertheless, we made it safely to Prague, eliciting the titular greeting in a thick accent from the husky looking Czech lady.

After touchdown, we made our way into Prague by skipping fares on the bus and metro, consecutively, thanks to help from a friendly local American student.

As we wandered from the metro station to our hostel, we turned a corner into Old Town Square, and immediately fell in love with Prague, as we stared up at the Disneyland-meets-Gothic-stronghold Old Tyn Church. It was around midnight, and the square was mostly empty, save for one open shop, selling beer and sausages. We sat ourselves down and got acquainted with Prague.

After checking in at our nice and very central hostel, we got a couple of pints at 40ish crowns: roughly 1.70 euros. We thought those were amazing prices. We had yet to truly get to know Prague.

We started the next day at the Easter Market in Old Town square, an installation that only added to Prague's nearly unsustainable quaintness. We eventually made our way over to the astronomical clock tower, which, despite hosting weddings what seemed like every twenty minutes, was open to the public to go to the top for only 50 crowns (2 euros(3 dollars)). The view was spectacular, as Prague has countless beautiful old buildings and a cascade of red tile roofs. After a meeting of couple nice British friends, we moved on towards the Charles Bridge. After all the walking, it was time for a beer. Or four. We pub-hopped for about four hours, trying pints in different neighborhoods, with prices plummeting to 24 crowns. Then it was time for a break before heading out to dinner at an Italian restaurant, which seemed to be the "specialty" of Prague. The tomato soup tasted good, but did not end up well for our stomachs, contributing to our night's early demise.

Before we headed in, though, we did stop at one bar, which brings up a very salient point about Prague. The Czech Republic is a country that still does not have a smoking ban in bars, making it the first country like that I've been to a bar in. I don't mind the smell of smoke, and sometimes I even enjoy it. But the bar we went to that night made the smoking ban seem like the best legislation of the past thousand years.

Starting off on the ground floor as a nice, but crowded and fairly smoky wine bar, it winded down several stories in a labyrinthine manner. The farther you descended, the smokier it got, and the more confusingly configurated and crowded as well. By the time you reached the last bar (or was it the last bar?) the air was so thick with smoke that it almost made moot the fact that you couldn't remember how to get back anyway. It hurt to open your eyes, and I'm positive I would've passed out from lack of oxygen had I stayed any longer.

Besides that adventure, though, Friday night was fairly tame, as our stomachs could not handle much besides that tomato soup.

Saturday was late starting and we headed off to get street food for lunch at the market. I got a delicious mix of potatoes, sauerkraut, cheese, and sausage. We followed this up with ice cream and then it was off to the commercial Melantrichova street for some cheap, Eastern European shopping. I settled on a pair of sunglasses and a sweet blue sweater with skulls and crossbones on it. Enticed by its incomparable style, Taylor and Alia bought one each as well, leading us to look like some sort of strange, hipster tour group. From there we did some pub hopping, even finding Hooters Prague (!) at one point. We got dinner at a neat, cheap, seemingly local Czech place where 6 euros got me a huge helping of curry penne pasta, a side of fries, and a pint of delicious Czech beer. We moved on from there, alternating between pints at a bar and cans of beer drunk outside. It was in this manner that Prague endeared itself to us. We didn't do nearly as much sightseeing as we might in other cities, but we got to know the city through its streets and its beer.

As a final note, the most hilarious translation in Prague was the salads category on one pub menu:

"Salads irreparable for eaters flowers."

PS: Blogs from the rest of the trip to come as I am able to transcribe them. This is tiring work!

This Ain't the Same Jolly Old England

Aaaaaaaand I'm back. Not for long, though I'll touch on that later. For now, I'd like to review my recently concluded trip to the Queen's land, London, England. For those of you back in the US, you'll know that England is the land of bad weather and bad food.

But that, interestingly, is untrue. Indeed, my long weekend in England was a stereotype busting one. After a neat trip on the Eurostar on Thursday evening, I awoke in England on Friday to a bright, seventy degrees fahrenheit London. Needless to say: mind was blown.

My ever gracious host and (fraternity) brother Daniel Sonabend and I set out to see the British Museum, which is as representative of the British empire as it is completely unrepresentative of Britain. By this, I mean that the museum is essentially an enormous temple to the various priceless artifacts that the British stole from other cultures and display as a part of their heritage. It certainly sets the looting bar high.

Following that, we headed to a pub for lunch and a bit of cider. This would be one of the few actual British meals I had during the week, and though it was delicious, it probably doesn't hold its own against the rest of the weekend.

Deciding not to waste the rare weather, we then headed to Hyde Park for a stroll, an ice cream and a look at Princess Diana's memorial fountain, which was more like a mix between a wading pool and a lazy river. After that, we headed up Primrose Hill in Regent's Park for a spectacular view of the city. Panoramic views are a particular pleasure of mine, and this one didn't let down.

Since it was Friday night, and Daniel's family is Jewish, we sat down after that for the traditional Shabbat dinner, something I had strangely never experienced before. The food was delicious, and the company was made even more delightful by the presence of a Canadian couple, friends of the Sonabends, who, despite being 50 and 70 something, regaled us with their pot smoking, hard drinking adventure tales. The university age kids at the bar afterwards seemed tame by comparison. (Though that was partially my fault; the heavy touring rendered me sleepy and unable to function).

The next day started at what was probably my favorite part of London: Borough Market. Tucked away under what appeared to be train tracks, the market offered up a wealth of expertly crafted specialty foods, from curries to olive oils to spicy African sauces to sausage. After about an hour and a half of wandering around and trying dozens of free samples, I settled on a lamb burger with blue-veined farmhouse cheddar and grilled onions. Twas delicious.

After that, we headed to the Tate Modern, where the main event was the vast and impressive exposition by the recently imprisoned Chinese artist and dissident, Ai Wei Wei. The exhibit was an enormous field of porcelain sunflower seeds, all hand crafted in a poor Chinese city. The space was all the more poignant watching sympathizers spread flyers urging the Chinese government to "Release Ai Wei Wei."

Following that, we wandered around some of the more famous areas of London, such as Trafalgar Square, stopping in at one point to watch the British Kentucky Derby, the Grand National. I only say it's their Kentucky Derby, though, because it's their most popular race. In reality, it is completely different. About eight times longer, it is filled with treacherous jumps and ditches, sending horses and riders flying to the ground at every turn. This running was a relatively tame one, apparently, as a whopping 19 of the 40 riders actually finished the race. I read somewhere that the lowest total of finishers for a running of the Grand National was 2. I now believe that the Kentucky Derby is for sissies.

Later that night, we met up with Daniel's friend Greg for some good old fashioned Thai food and city wandering. One note, apparently London shuts down half of its underground on weekends, meaning there was like a 20 minute wait just to get into the station. Other than that, though, it was an enjoyable but tiring night.

Sunday brought us to Brick Lane, one of the capitals of hipsterdom in England, a street that used to be characterized by delightful immigrant cultures now characterized by hordes of people in skinny jeans pillaging immigrant cultures. The atmosphere was raucous though, and the streets were filled with the scents of delicious food. We grabbed some of London's best bagels and headed on to Spitalfields, a historic area of London where most of the immigrant waves usually settled. There, we visited a house restored by an eccentric American to look exactly like it would have in 19th century London. And I mean exactly. Like, there were half eaten pastries, and open dishes of makeup. It was eerie, as if you had just stepped in to someone else's life. Utterly compelling, though.

From there, we headed to Hamley's, the British FAO Schwarz, for some well needed playtime. After a stop in a pub, and a gourmet burger joint, we headed to another weekend highlight.

This time, it was the Comedy Store, a comedy club where we saw the Comedy Store Players, Britain's premiere improv group, boasting Mike Myers as a co-founder. It was the best ab workout I've gotten in a while: two straight hours of gut busting humor.

The next day began with a nice walk around Daniel's nice Hampstead area, continued with delicious Portuguese chicken at Nando's, and ended with me on the Eurostar back home, marvelling at an amazing trip.

Chocolat

Peter: Do you know the best night
I've had in the last five years is the night
that Zooey and I split a bottle of wine,
we made a summer salad,
and watched Chocolat together.
Sydney:  You mean Chocolate?
Peter:  Chocolat.
Sydney:  Chocolate with Johnny Depp.
Peter: Chocolat.
Sydney:You're not fucking French, Pete.
It's called Chocolate.
Peter:  Chocolate has got an "E" on it.
Sydney:  That was your favorite night?
Peter:  Yes.
Sydney:  Your best night in five years is
watching Chocolate with Johnny Depp?
You should be ashamed of yourself.
Peter:  The combination of wine
and summer salad and Chocolat, yeah.
Sydney:  You should be embarrassed.

-- I Love You, Man

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

As a young male attending college in The United States, I must fit into many of
the stereotypes one would often associate with my demographic.  Thus, I am in a
fraternity. I care about sports more than is sociologically healthy.  I enjoy
movies such as Super Troopers and Knocked Up.  I say "dude" and "sweet" and
"bro" and generally present myself like the red-blooded American twentysomething
I'm supposed to be.

But as a Parisian étudiant and (part-time)tourist, I am inclined to enjoy life in a
much different manner than I do back home.  There are things for me to do here that
are so awesome, but I don't want to react to them like an American.
Example of American reaction to something great:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=70Ak4nW1Rg8

When I eat a macaron that tastes so good that I actually want to spit it out, freeze
it, and eat it like a popsicle, I don't SAY that.  Instead, I say what I say about
countless things here in France, and not really America.  I say that it was
delightful.

Just delightful.

Now before I get mobbed by youngblood Americans opposed to use of this word in
principle, picture yourself in this situation, and tell me how you would describe
it:

It's a Saturday night, and you know later you will probably be going out to the bars
and clubs to get nice and toasted.  But for now, it's seven PM, that awkward time
where you no longer have the patience to do work, you've finished whatever your
activity is for the day, but it's way too early to start drinking, because you
would crash too early.  You're bummed, and resign yourself to a couple of hours
of How I Met Your mother re-runs on the internet.  Then you remember you have
tickets to a performance of Antoni Vivaldi's "Four Seasons" at Saint-Chappelle.
You find yourself in the front row,admiring the stunning 12th century chapel clad
fully in stained glass, and once used by royalty.  The performance is flawless,
with three violins, viola, cello, bass, and harpsichord filling the room with
Vivaldi's light and playful melodies.  The lead violinist is especially impressive,
and as you close your eyes you are immersed completely in the bliss of the moment.

What would you call that?  Huh?  Awesome?  Sweet?

NO

I would call that DELIGHTFUL.  DE-freaking-LIGHTFUL.

And the best part of this, is it's a true story.  That kind of stuff happens to me
ALL THE TIME in Paris.  It's just how it goes.  I could go on for hours about all
of the delightful stuff I've done in Paris.  I've taken a cooking class at the Cordon
Bleu and learned how to make a souffle.  I've spent far too long lingering by a
a particularly proficient street musician while admiring the beautiful views of
Paris from Montmartre.  I've picnicked like a boss in the Jardin des Plantes before
the botanical garden and menagerie. I've walked the Seine and the Canal Saint-Martin
in beautiful weather.  I've eaten foie gras, confit de canard, creme brulee,
frog's leg's and countless other French delicacies (including those mind-blowing
macarons). I've taken in works by Rodin and Monet and Manet and Courbet and Van Gogh
and Picasso and Da Vinci.  I've done all this and more, and it wasn't sweet or cool
or "the tits" or anything like that.

It was delightful, cause that's how Paris rolls. (Actually, not at all.  One of
Paris's great perks is that it has these delightful activities available everywhere,
but people here are not dissimilar to Americans in that they typically enjoy
activities that wouldbe "cool" or "fun."  Despite what I have described, they are
generally not all leisurely strolling around the quais of the Seine discussing the
weather and Sartre.  But for the purposes of this blog, they totally are).

I bring all of this up because yesterday was one of the most delightful days I've
had since I arrived in France.  It began inauspiciously at 8 AM with a scalding hot
shower(apparently if February was "freezing shower month," March was "melt your skin
off shower month.  The trend continues in April.) and then a sweaty metro ride
(apparently if February was "sweaty metro month," March and April are also "sweaty
metro month"). But I arrived at the office of Fat Tire Bike Tours at 9 am, ready
to get some physical exercise for the first time in a while.  Also, it was
seventy-five degrees and sunny. I was a little dubious of the biking, with the
knees and the fact that I hadn't really done any cardio in a while, but soon after
I hopped on my bike, dubbed "Foie McGras," I was hooked.  The breeze in my hair,
the road beneath my wheels, the rubber of the handlebars; it was all beautiful.

After getting to the town of Versailles, we stopped in at the town market to stock
up for our picnic lunch later in the day.  I bought myself a baguette, some jambon
de parme, and a small bit of chevre (goat cheese).  Then it was off to the grounds
of the chateau, where we took in the fields of horse and sheep, rode by Marie
Antoinette's personal peasant village, past the king's summer homes, and down to
the canal.  It was here that we set up shop, feasting on wine and cheese and ham
and strawberries. As I laid myself out on the edge of the canal, I let the sun warm
me up and the breeze keep me cool. It was spectacular.  After lunch, we biked up to
the chateau to explore the opulently decorated rooms and beatiful artifacts of the
former royal family.  Finally, we headed back to Paris, our lungs filled with the
beautiful air of the countryside.

Now, how would you describe that day?

-----------------------------------

Sydney:  And for the record, I saw Chocolat.  It was just delightful.

Barcelona?!?!? More like Party-lona. . . because of all the parties they have . . . in Barcelona . . .

After a month cooped up in boring old Paris, I thought it high time to give myself a little vacation, and head off for a long weekend in Barcelona, one of the party capitals of Europe. I also thought that I owed it to you, my loyal readers, to spice up this blog with some real life, non-speculative action. What better way to do this than spend 65 hours on a whirlwind voyage, experiencing the wild, non-American, non-Parisian life in a beautiful seaside city. The problem is, though, the weekend was such a whirlwind that I'll have trouble describing it unless I give myself some kind of frame. So thus I present to you an hour by hour timeline, guaranteed to get my ideas across without being able to hold your attention:

Friday, 6/7 PM:

To get cheap tickets to Barcelona, I had to fly in and out of Paris Beauvais airport, which might as well be in Belgium. To get there, I had to take, along with Alia, Alison, and Amy, the three friends I was travelling with, a bus from Paris to the airport. Naturally, the bus company decided they had to cram everyone that was going to be on the plane into a bus that was roughly half the size, which meant I spent the entire ride trying to sleep by resting my face on the seat in front of me, making me look like a monk perform some sort of bizarre, auto transport related prayer session. It was a nauseating experience.

Friday, 8 PM

One of the reasons Europe rocks is because of the vastly available, dirt cheap transport. Their enormous rail system is well known, but even cheaper than that is the low-cost airlines, notably RyanAir. A British company, they can charge so little for flights by going in and out of airports in Bumsfuckville, Nowhere and advertising them as "Paris," "Rome," and "Barcelona," and thusly avoiding exorbitant landing fees at bigger airports. Knowing this, I wasn't expecting much as I got to Beauvais. My predictions were confirmed. The airport was essentially a giant warehouse boasting some facilities that vaguely resembled "security," "gates," and "baggage claim." Instantly, the mystery behind cheap flights was revealed. Also, we need this in the states.

Friday, 9 PM

Another explanation to the miracle of cheap flying was revealed when I boarded the Ryanair vessel. The interior vaguely resembled a NASCAR race. They had tightly packed in a huge number of bright yellow and blue plastic seats. There were no seat pockets, the safety card was displayed vividly on the back of the seat in front of you and advertisements adorned the baggage holds. After takeoff, the flight attendants read off pre-written commercials for everything from perfume to smokeless cigarettes (airplane safe!) I was glad I had headphones.

Friday, 10 PM - Saturday 12 AM

As I said, airports in Bumfuckville, Nowhere. After we touched down, we had to walk 15 minutes just to get in the terminal before taking a bus the 90 minutes to Barca.

Saturday, 1 AM

One thing I've found out about Paris after eight weeks of living there is that, despite being an enormously entertaining and interesting cultural capital of the world . . . it's not, strictly speaking, relative to the rest of Europe, a "party city." The bars close early, the clubs are hotbeds of ego and pretention, and Parisians themselves are modest, quiet, guarded, and work-oriented (despite the strikes and infamous 35 hour work week, Parisians work very hard and efficiently) Immediately after getting to Barcelona, on our very first metro ride, we noticed how different this city was. For one, the people were LOUD. In Paris, a raised voice will immediately out you as an "asshole American." In Barcelona, Spanish youths were yelling and chasing each other on the metro, dressed for the clubs in bright, wild outfits that would shock conservative Parisians. The party vibe continued as we got off the metro and were immediately offered "cerveza" by a strange looking guy with a bag full of beer. At first, I thought this guy was just a drifter trying score a couple extra bucks off of some party-starved Americans, yet the "beer can man" is everywhere in the streets, parks, and beaches. Sometimes, they call it "sexy-beer." I have no idea why they think this is appealing.

We forged on to our hostel, the party vibe keeping us entertained. Our hostel was right in the middle of Placa Reial, one of the liveliest squares in the city. Decorated with palm trees and Gaudi-designed lampposts, I felt immediately light years from Paris. Our dorm was next to a busy nightclub and packed with drunk, beer toting American, Spanish, French, Italian, and youths among many others. Everyone was yelling in different languages and drinking in one. This was home.

After check in, though dead tired, we decided to set off and see what the city had to offer. Not knowing where the hell we were going, we set towards the Mediterranean Sea. After walking for an hour, and not really finding anything worthwhile, we decided to cut our losses and start fresh and with a clue in the morning. We headed back to the hostel to go to sleep.

Saturday, 3 AM

Or so I thought.

Saturday, 4 AM

The combination of lights and noise from the Placa were keeping me up. This was evidence of the Spanish phenomenon of doing everything late, a topic which I will discuss again in a bit. For now, if I remember, I was close to finally dozing off . . .

Saturday 5 AM

How wrong I was. Let me preface this story with a couple statements. You see, as this was my first time staying in a hostel, I was admittedly a little nervous, having heard all the typical horror stories. I had, however, been assured by many a friend that the experience was usually fine, and often very fun. And, in retrospect, it was . . . except for that first night. But on that first night, you see, I was right about to fall asleep when . . .

the door opens. One of my roommates ( I had nine of them, eight of which I had yet to meet. The ninth was Alia.) stumbles in, drunk from a presumably heavy night of drinking. This didn't bother me at all, and I started to fall back asleep. Moments later, I am jarred awake again by a loud noise, which I at first thought was someone coughing. As the fog of sleep fades away, I become acutely aware that it is not the sound of coughing, but rather the sound of vomiting. Loud vomiting. It appears that the drunk guy managed to avoid all of the bathrooms in the building, make it into his top bunk on the fourth floor, only then to begin throwing up over the side. The only thing worse than someone vomiting in the room you're trying to sleep in is when they do it from six feet above the ground. I'm just glad I was safely out of "The Shamu Splash Zone." Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do. It seems like he's already mostly done, so it's too late to tell him to go to the bathroom. I can only hope that he cleans it up. This seems to be a pipe dream. I now have to simultaneously use my blanket to cover my eyes for the light, my ears for the noise, and my nose because it smells like vomit and shamelessness in the dorm room. Trying to do this with my heavy, thick hostel-issue blanket makes me fear that I am going to suffocate myself.

I'm not the only one in the dorm, as there are probably four other girls who, like me, definitely weren't sleeping. Once he was done, we uniformly try to forget it happened. His friend comes in, realizes the situation and tries to comfort his friend. He whispers creepily in German ? Portuguese? some sort of Slavic language? to his friend. I was vaguely offended. I should have been the one being comforted in creepy foreign languages, not the inconsiderate vomiting slob. I at least thought this guy should help run the clean-up crew.

6 AM

The dynamic duo of night ruining strikes again, as vomit man goes into his second round of heaves. Meanwhile, creepy whisperer does what he does best, by whispering creepily instead of taking his buddy to the bathroom or finding something to direct his vomit into. Further sidekicks, a couple of girls that inexplicably associate themselves with these two buffoons stop by to laugh at my plight. If I wasn't sleeping easy earlier, I could forget all about it now.

To illustrate how difficult it was to sleep, one of the other people in the room arrived home at 6:30, in much better shape than the earlier person. He sniffed the air, took one look at the vomit on the floor, carefully removed his hat and valuables, and took his mattress off of his bed. He then proceeded to take said mattress out to the balcony, where it was bright and loud and both cold and hot, depending on the wind and the sun, and slept out there. Mind you, the balcony was four stories up and about two thirds the size of the mattress, but that was apparently a better option than the room I was in. Anyways, the guy went through his third, loudest, most blood-curling heave set, and when I finally gave up sleeping, I fell asleep at 7 am.

Saturday, 9 AM

Which would have been a regular Barcelona time to go to sleep, had we not had to go spend much time sightseeing. You see, in Spain, they have a different way of doing things. They like to be fashionably late to everything they do. For example, they eat dinner at 10, go out at 1 am, stay out til 5 am, wake up at eight, and make up for this by taking a siesta during lunch.

SO our plan of getting two hours of sleep, and spending the whole day sightseeing didn't seem so viable. But damned if we weren't going to try.

Saturday, 10-11 AM

Our first stop in Barcelona was the Sagrada Familia, the famous unfinished cathedral of architectural visionary, and patron artist of the city, Antoni Gaudi. Gaudi designed many buildings for Barcelona, and was known for his surrealist style and his designs influenced by the fluidity and organic growth of nature. The Sagrada Familia, which has been in construction for over 100 years, represents this style well. A massive structure, it looks as if it is a wonderful fungus, sprung from the ground. It's intricate stylings are leafy and the whole thing looks like something out of Alice in Wonderland.

Saturday, 12 PM

When stopping into a little bar/bocadilleria for lunch, we met a group of American tourists from Chicago. They seemed to be on their third or fourth round of the day, and not shy or quiet about their drunken intentions. This was indicative of the general population of Americans in Barcelona. They all come here to party. Except, of course, for the one middle aged midwestern woman we heard on our way to Park Guell after lunch: "There ya go Babs. Ice Cream!" I swear to God it was so American/midwestern/Fargo-esque, I almost died laughing.

Saturday, 1 PM

Speaking of Alice in Wonderland (2 paragraphs earlier), Park Guell is another of Gaudi's greatest hits. A large, strange, beautiful amalgamation of fairytale houses, caves, lizard sculptures, columns, and colors, Park Guell is a fantastic place for people of all ages and also for a great view of the city. I would imagine it would make a hell of a nutmeg trip . . .

Saturday, 2 PM

Exhaustion sets in. SIESTA!!!!


Saturday, 3-5 PM

After a short nap to refresh, we all remember that Barcelona has a beach. It's been in the high sixties . . . not warm enough to swim, but plenty warm enough to grab some cervezas and enjoy the sunshine. This is one perk of Barcelona that Paris certainly can't keep up with


Saturday, 8-9 PM

One of the dishes of Spain is Paella, and that was evident walking the streets of Barcelona, where every restaurant had a deal pairing the rice, spice, and seafood meal with tapas and sangria. We found a good restaurant tucked away by the harbor and sat down to one of the best meals of my life. (Shout out to DSJ's paella, which was one of the few that topped it.)

Saturday, 10 PM - Sunday, 12 PM

We were absolutely exhausted by then, but managed to head out to a bar along las ramblas for a few drinks and some live music. When I crapped out around 12:30, I was thoroughly embarrassed for myself amongst the hard partying Barcelonans.

Sunday, 1:00 AM

When I went to sleep, a bunch of people in the hostel were pregaming. I am a loser.

Sunday, 2 - 11 AM

Going to sleep early = best decision ever.

Sunday, 12-5 PM

After an Irish breakfast at a nearby pub, we headed to Park Montjuic, on a mountain overlooking the city, for the day. After a subway ride, a funicular ride, and a cable car ride, we arrived at the hilltop castle, stunned by the views of sea, land, and metropolis. Barcelona spanned farther than I had ever imagined, and is truly an enormous city. The mountaintops surrounding it were dotted with towers and castles, and the sea was a beautiful blue.

It was here, on top of this castle, that I had one of the best sitdowns of my life. A good sitdown is underrated, and in many ways trumps a nap. With the views surrounding me, the sun beating down, and the wind whipping at my hair, I was in pure bliss. I sat on the wall of that castle for what felt like an hour, and might actually have been an hour. Then we all took the skyride back down to amble the beautifully landscaped roads of Montjuic, seeing the National Catalunyan Art Museum, the Olympic Stadium, and many other beautiful buildings.

Monday, 12-3 am

We headed to a bar, determined to make this a proper Spanish night. After drinking some sangria and beer and meeting astonishingly nice Swedes, we went back to the bar to meet some people from the dorm before heading out to the club at 1:45. Just like I always predict about going to clubs that late after starting to drink early, we lasted hardly fifteen minutes. We stumbled back to the hostel, and by 3, we were in bed and in awe of the Spanish lifestyle. This was probably a good idea because we had to wake up at 9 to get the bus to the plane to the bus back to Paris.

All in all, the Barcelona experience was amazing. Despite the fact that we never made it past 3 AM, we still got a piece of the nightlife, and we saw a beautiful city in beautiful weather. But now I'm back in Paris for a week or so, and it's supposed to be 75 this weekend. SO PARTY ON.

Springtime in Paris

Today was the vernal equinox, or, as I like to call it, the V.E. day. "The first day of spring" is for uneducated people.

Anyways, this is a landmark time because it brings about a phenomenon known in some places as "Springtime in Paris," so called because of the season during which it takes place and the city which is famous for it.

During this event, the city of Paris is said to be at its most beautiful, charming, romantic, and endearing, and is all around every shade of lovely. This has to do with some sort of confluence of weather, flora, and the travel agency advertisements.

As I was eager to test the validity of these claims, I started out for a day of sightseeing to celebrate V.E. day. I went to the Louvre, Notre Dame, and Canal Saint Martin, all with clear blue skies, comfortable temperatures, and a refreshing breeze. Needless to say, all theories were confirmed. I had a delightful day. As did my parents.

Which brings me slightly backwards in the past. Before it was spring, this past Thursday, my parents arrived in France to pay me a visit. This guaranteed that the weekend would be spent, thankfully, sightseeing and dining on expensive food. You see, one of the tantalizingly taunting things about Paris has been its status as one of the best places in the world to have money, yet having no real extra money to spend. This weekend brought wine, kir royal, foie gras, veal, confit de canard, creme brulee, frog's legs, lamb, and many many more delicious dishes. It also gave me an excuse to get out of the dorm and into Paris. I took in the Eiffel Tower, no short of three museums, Montmartre in beautiful weather, the opera house, and many shops and galleries. I spent roughly zero dollars on all this as well, making this one of the most successful weekends of the year.

Yet the tale of this weekend could not be complete without a recounting of a Parisian Saint Patrick's day. I'm not entirely sure, but it seems to me that the Irish presence in Paris is and has been very strong for a while, dating back to James Joyce, Samuel Beckett, and Oscar Wilde. Whatever the reason, Paris certainly has a ton of Irish bars, and me and my friends chose one, Finnegan's Wake, to begin our night at. The pints were a touch expensive, but it was refreshing to have a Guinness, and we all got buzzed while waxing envious over the large plush St Paddy's Day Guinness hats that had all been handed out already. We moved the party over a couple of blocks around 12:30, to a bar called The Wall, which I'm not sure if I have yet described.

The Wall is one of my favorite bars in Paris, for a few reasons. While the front room is cramped, there is apt seating there and in back. The decor is nice, and the crowd is certainly very college-y. The music is a huge plus, as it is a mix of American classic rock, pop, and alternative hits from the mid 60's through the late 90's. Hearing David Bowie mixed in with the Clash, Michael Jackson, the Beach Boys, and Oasis is always nice.

Yet there is one reason The Wall truly rises. The price of its cheapest beer, the Wall Lager, is a Happy Hour price throughout all hours of the nice. Three euros, believe it or not, is incredibly cheap for a pint in Paris, and unheard of after 10 pm on a weekend. It is for this reason that the bar was absolutely packed for St. paddy's. And it is for this reason that girls got drunk, got up on the bar to dance, and got sprayed by champagne.

This was a nice event, and managed to distract me from the NCAA tournament that they were showing on ESPN America for awhile.

Finally, with an increasingly disorganized and ragtag group, we made it to Le Violon Dingue, where I had one more drink, a gin and tonic I had no business ordering that late, and we took a packed night bus home. All in all, a great night. A great weekend. And a great spring to come. BARCELONA awaits me this Friday.

A Semester is (not) a Long Time

It happened last week some time, I think. I was in class, and I was bored, like I usually am in class because each session is three hours long, roughly six times my attention span on a good day. Also, all that stuff's in French, which doesn't help. So I was doing my classic time killing, mind occupying tactic, which is essentially to make a calendar in my notebook and write down everything I have planned in the next few weeks and months. I am easily amused, quite like a cat.

Anyways, I was doing this, and I listed out my plans for the remaining weekends of my study abroad trip. I realized, instead of the fact that I would be visiting Barcelona, London, Prague, Berlin, Venice, Florence, and Rome, that I had essentially four real weekends in Paris left. Immediately, I freaked out. Which was weird. Because for the first month or so while I was here, being in Paris meant being in Europe to me. Or simply just being abroad, with not much work for class and a city of bars at your disposal.

But now, as they say everyone does after awhile in study abroad, I've adjusted to the way of life. I've become interested in rather than confused by the cultural differences. I could go on and on about the thing in Paris I find interesting and comforting and cool and frustrating. I have seen so many amazing things, and I have yet to even scratch the surface of what the city has to offer.

Which is why I was kinda bummed when I saw the few remaining days I have in Paris. Sure, I'll see all the great sights in those cities, but that will be a vacation, something I can do whenever. For now, Paris is my home, and it will only remain so for a short while. I need to use that time wisely.

Before it seemed like a semester would take forever. While I never hit a stage where I was disappointed to be here, it seemed like I had endless time to do it how I wanted. Now, though, this semester is disappearing before my eyes. Luckily, I can live it how it should be.

Tomorrow, I'm going to post about exactly how I'm adjusting to life here, my weekend with my parents in town, and St. Paddy's day and other nightlife-related adventures.

Past the Quarter Pole, But That's Okay.

SOOOOO for the official 25% mark of my semester abroad, I had planned to do a big summary post, on the grounds that the quarter way mark is one of my favorite times of any sports season. The quarter way mark is the last point in the season where pretty much anything is possible. Your team can get off to an awful start, and turn it around to win the championship. Similarly, you can completely tank after a promising run to begin the year, like the Royals do. Any scrub can bat .400, Chris Shelton can be Albert Pujols, and Mike Pelfrey can have 7 wins and a save. Once you get past this point, reality settles in and the true course of the season takes over.

I'm applying this to my semester in France because even though, at the quarter mark, it feels as if I have done so much to really define a semester, the narrative actually has yet to reveal itself. I mean honestly, the first couple of weeks were spent in class and discovering my way around the city. I've spent my time trying to see the "must-see" sights, exercising my new rights as a 21 year old (and by that I mean a living-in-Europe year old, because the 21 thing doesn't really matter), scrambling to make new friends and to become operational in French.

It's been great, and the quarter pole doesn't mean it won't stay that way. It's just refreshing to realize that my adventure hasn't even been realized yet. I could take what I've been given so far, and make whatever I want with it.

This thought has hit me especially now for a couple of reasons. One, it's been freezing and gray for a month in Paris, and now all of a sudden it has turned sunny and started to warm up. This could revolutionize the way things are done. Secondly, I've been planning some trips; London, Edinburgh, Italy, Germany. The rest of my semester is going to be very travel-heavy, and I'm really excited.

SOOOO, while the potential for an amazing rest of the semester is what's occupying my brain right now, I wanted to take this moment to do the obligatory quarter pole summary. Here is a comprehensive summary of my experience so far:

Food Division:

MVP: Crepes! Street food is everywhere in Paris, and depending on the arrondissement, you can get everything from paninis to burgers to falafel to kebabs to couscous. But one street staple here reigns supreme. The crepe. It is such a simple and delicious concept, I am astounded that you can barely find them in the United States. Want the taste of a pancake, but the convenience of a tortilla? Want the versatility to put both savory and sweet fillings in it? Want to make it range in size from a small snack to an enormous meal? Crepes are truly grand. I have had a lot of them, but one sticks out. There was nothing special about it, just a regular egg and cheese crepe, but it blew my mind. Maybe it was the circumstances: 1 am, with friends, kinda drunk, Bastille area. But it confirmed my believe in the crepe for good.

Runners Up: Other than the crepe, their is a ton of good food in Paris (duh). Paninis are just as plentiful and delicious, I've gotten amazing pastries and quiche lorraine, duck, and other delicious meals. One that stands out is the falafel on rue des rosiers, in the Marais, the Jewish quarter of Paris. I honestly never knew a vegetarian meal could taste so good, and be so filling.

One meal that I have yet to experience is le Double Mix from Quick, the French/Belgian fast food restaurant. Le Double Mix is probably the best non-American contributions to fast food, and a real game changer. It takes two different types of burgers, one with pepper sauce, one with melted brie, and fuses them, right down the middle. With three patties, and a hybrid bun, you could have expected Quick to rest on those sandwich laurels. But they didn't. They took a goddamn chicken sandwich and did the same thing, with sweet and spicy curry sauce. Here's a look: http://eater.com/archives/2011/03/02/le-double-mix-the-twoheaded-monster-of-burgers.php

Bar Division:

MVP: Le Violon Dingue. Sure, an American bar is a guilty pleasure, but this one is too good to get hung up on that. It's bigger than most bars in Paris, which is a plus, unless you like to get hit by both the bathroom door and the front door while you're wedged against a bar stool. The bartenders are friendly, and the drinks, while not as cheap as some, are reasonable. The large downstairs is nice, and the people there are generally outgoing and fun.

Runner up: Le 10 bar. Solid Sangria, met the Bravery there. Enough said.


Sight Division: Close between the Eiffel Tower (badass presence) and Sacre Coeur (striking view), but the 15th around Eiffel Tower is ok, while Montmartre is a really neat area right by the basilica.

Adventures

So after my long weekend with friends from back home, it was finally time to settle down, dig my feet in, and establish a routine that I would loosely follow for the rest of the semester. Of course “loosely” is a key word, because there’s only so much you can plan for when you have four day weekends and an entire city at your disposal. So in order to fill these massive blocks of free time, I’ve decided to take some trips (finalizations upcoming) and explore Paris when I get the chance.

Before I get to that, though, I’ll speak to my weekend. Thursday and Friday night were pretty quiet, as many in the dorm were taking off for the weekend, and I had to wake up at 6 am on Saturday. I did challenge myself to the Amsterdam 11.6% MAXIMATOR can of malt liquor on Thursday night. Though I had once before successfully completed this challenge, I failed that night. To my friends in the United States: there is no equivalent to the MAXIMATOR. It’s as if you took a Steel Reserve, added a fifth of vodka, fed it to a donkey, and drank the piss. It is simply that disgusting. I’m not proud of not finishing it, but I’m also glad I didn’t.

But moving on, Saturday I woke up early at the crack of (actually an hour or so before the crack of) dawn to head with my program out to Caen, Normandy and the D-Day beaches. We spent the morning in a surprisingly comprehensive and deceptively immense World War II museum before heading out to Omaha beach. It was a moving experience to be there, the site of such a momentous historical occasion. Little remained from ’44, save for a couple of small German bunkers carved into the bluff. Some of my favorite things I saw were the signs in the small towns throughout the area that said in French and English, “Thanks to our liberators,” often with depictions of American, British, and Canadian servicemen on them. I’ve heard that Americans are very well received in Normandy. (Not that we didn’t also liberate Paris. They’re just a little more stubborn.)

Following a short walk on the beach, we headed up to the American cemetery, overlooking one end of Omaha beach. The sun came just after we arrived, giving us a “weather window” that echoed the one that allowed such a successful invasion 67 years earlier. The cemetery was absolutely breathtaking and was one of the most beautifully serene places I have ever been to. Over 9,000 American war heroes are buried there, each with a brilliantly white Italian marble headstone, mostly crosses, but also a smattering of Stars of David throughout. With the sun hitting the headstones perfectly, and the entire cemetery overlooking the ocean, it was a sight to behold. After wandering through the cemetery for a short while, then to Arromanches to see the artificial harbor (apparently an engineering wonder, though I have no context for that) we headed back to Caen for dinner and then Paris.

I spent a lazy Sunday and an equally lazy Monday, with one exception. Since not many others have off on Mondays, I decided to take a trip myself out to the Puces (or flea markets) at Porte de Clignancourt. They are massive, and more like the street markets of Paris then an actual flea market. I heard at some point that this market in particular was one of the largest in the world. After grabbing some sort of sausage and peppers with chicken kebab thing from a halal stand, I set off to fulfill my goal: purchase a nice, light jacket for the spring weather that I dearly hope is upcoming.

Along the way, I met a couple of Haitians with their own clothing brand, and practiced a little French with them, and then tried on a couple leather jackets before realizing that even at a flea market, I didn’t want to spend that much.

Finally, I came across a stand with a jacket that I liked. The man there said it was thirty, and I wasn’t bout to shell out. I embraced the market environment and successfully haggled him down to half that. I walked away satisfied with my skillz. Though the jacket was probably worth ten . . .

My week begins tomorrow with a day of classes and hopefully a night on the town. I had thought about going away this weekend, but it looks like those ideas have been killed due to procrastination. A long weekend, all in Paris, may be just what I need, though, since I’ve hardly had a proper one yet.