My time in Switzerland, and Europe in general, is quickly coming to an end (for now) and I'm not ready to return to the States to live permanently - it's just too... permanent... and doesn't involve enough travel. After lots of thought, I've decided to get certified to teach English as Foreign Language to adults. This seems like a good career path that will combine my passion for traveling and meeting new people with some form of income.
I found a couple of schools that offer the CELTA course (a Cambridge certification that is highly looked-upon by English schools worldwide). There is a school in Hawaii, and also one in New Zealand. Both seem like ideal places to live for a bit, but New Zealand will be a lot less expensive thanks to the exchange rate (right now about 70 cents US will buy $1 NZ). Because of this, I applied to the school in Auckland, New Zealand and interviewed with them at 11:15pm on Skype after I finished up work at the Chalet. At the end of the 45 minute interview, I asked when I would find out whether or not I'd been accepted, and Michael (my interviewer) told me it was safe to say I had been.
Not one to wait around, I immediately accepted the admission offer and booked my flight to NZ the following day. I'll be out there for 5 months, flying home for Christmas. I'll get a working holiday visa (available to US citizens 30 and under, healthy and without kids, and with enough money to support themselves and fly home) that will allow me to stay for a year. I don't know if I'll actually stay a year, longer, or just the five months, but the plan is in motion. I'm going to sell my car, and chances are I'll have to leave my job, but traveling is what I want to do, and being able to teach English all over the world seems like the perfect way of supporting my travel habit. So, we'll see what happens!
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
We Speak the Same Language, Want a Ride?
Finally, I ventured further into Eastern Europe, going from the Czech Republic, to Austria, down to Slovenia and eventually to Croatia. To get back to Switzerland, I decided to take the ferry from Croatia to Italy, and then take the train from there back into Switzerland. I did a couple of overnight ferries when I was going to Greece and Italy with Matthew, but this was my first venture on an overnight ferry alone. I was once again staying in the common area, so the first thing I did was find a good couch that I could use as a bed. It was near a couple of other ladies, so seemed pretty safe, and their was a table attached to the floor that I could wedge my backpack under to keep it secure. As I was getting settled I heard a couple, who appeared to be in their 60's, walking around speaking English. This was a language I'd heard very little of in the last week (it was the 5th language to read the safety instructions aboard the ferry, if that's any indication). Eager to talk to someone in my native tongue, I asked the couple as they were passing where they were from. Turns out we're neighbors - they're from Virginia. We made small talk for about 10 minutes then wished each other a pleasant night.
The following morning at breakfast, the couple spotted me and came over to see how I'd slept - they had their own room, so it was a bit plusher. We once again chatted for a few minutes, and then out of the blue they asked me if I wanted a ride - and not just a 5 minute ride to the train station, but a 3 hour ride to Bologna. I was astonished at the generous offer, but eagerly accepted. Italian trains tend to be expensive even when you have a Eurorail pass, so this was going to really help me out in the financial department. As we were docking, I made my way down to where the cars were parked on the ferry and met up with couple. We all got into the car, and within a few minutes, we were off and driving through the Italian countryside. This was my fourth time in Italy, but my first time being in a car there and it was exciting! We sped through the country on the brilliantly sunny morning, and even saw a guy on a moped almost get hit at a traffic light by a car that ran the red light beside us. An hour or so into the ride, we stopped in San Marino, which is one of the smallest countries of the world, and walked around a bit. We had a great time getting to know one another, and swapping stories about Italy, other travels, and life in general. I was so glad I had taken them up on their offer, and though we may never meet again, I will remember this couple from Virginia as being part of my first pseudo-hitchhiking experience, and all that went along with it.
The following morning at breakfast, the couple spotted me and came over to see how I'd slept - they had their own room, so it was a bit plusher. We once again chatted for a few minutes, and then out of the blue they asked me if I wanted a ride - and not just a 5 minute ride to the train station, but a 3 hour ride to Bologna. I was astonished at the generous offer, but eagerly accepted. Italian trains tend to be expensive even when you have a Eurorail pass, so this was going to really help me out in the financial department. As we were docking, I made my way down to where the cars were parked on the ferry and met up with couple. We all got into the car, and within a few minutes, we were off and driving through the Italian countryside. This was my fourth time in Italy, but my first time being in a car there and it was exciting! We sped through the country on the brilliantly sunny morning, and even saw a guy on a moped almost get hit at a traffic light by a car that ran the red light beside us. An hour or so into the ride, we stopped in San Marino, which is one of the smallest countries of the world, and walked around a bit. We had a great time getting to know one another, and swapping stories about Italy, other travels, and life in general. I was so glad I had taken them up on their offer, and though we may never meet again, I will remember this couple from Virginia as being part of my first pseudo-hitchhiking experience, and all that went along with it.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Broken French
I loved working at the Chalet in Switzerland. There was just enough work to keep me busy, but not too much to ever begin to stress me out or overwhelm me. I enjoyed the opportunity to occasionally practice my French as well, although not nearly as much as I had hoped since the majority of people who came through spoke English, either as their native language, or just better as a second language than French was for me. One evening I had a older man come through who wanted to book 5 dorms, for him and 4 of his "workers." This is what I gathered from a conversation we had in French, as he spoke no English whatsoever. We proceeded with the booking and the exchange of information and money, but then he started to ask other questions that reached beyond my French vocabulary. Fortunately there was a girl in the room from Switzerland who was fluent in French, so she came to my rescue. We figured out what the man needed and I showed him and the other four guys to their room, mostly just pointing to the showers and toilets on the tour with a few key words thrown in. When I returned from the "tour," I asked my friend I thanked my friend for her help and mentioned that I wasn't sure why I'd had such a hard time figuring out what the man was saying. That's when I informed that the man wasn't Swiss, or even French - he was Italian, and his French was as broken as mine!
Friday, May 8, 2009
Table for One
“I hope I didn’t just ruin your diet,” my server at the vegetarian restaurant says as I’m half way through the scrumptious fruit and nut cake he’s brought me “as a gift.” I smile, shake my head, and say “Maybe a little, but this cake is well worth it.” Naturally, it was just this very morning that I decided to go on a diet. That’s how I ended up at this vegetarian restaurant on the riverbank in Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic in the first place. Of course as soon as the cake is set before me, my diet is over, only to be started again tomorrow.
When David, my handsome server with the tanned skin and wavy blond hair, first brought the cake to me, asking if he could give me a gift, I had a flashback to the previous night’s conversation with a few other people at my hostel about eating alone at a restaurant. A Californian man who must be 25 years my senior couldn’t seem to fathom the idea of dining alone in a public place, and he called me brave for venturing out on my own. I wonder to myself if David feels sorry for me eating by myself in such a beautiful part of the world – a place perfect for sharing a good meal with friends and loved ones.
He clears my dessert plate that has nothing on it now but a few crumbs and a spoon that’s been licked clean, and comes back a few minutes later with a pot of green tea to “help my digestion.” I once again bow my head slightly and thank him, telling him he’s too kind. David smiles and flits away to another one of his many tables. It dawns on me that perhaps he doesn’t feel sorry for me after all, but maybe he fancies me and is trying to get me to stick around a bit longer. If that's the case, it's working.
I sip my green tea and peruse the travel book on Eastern Europe that I’ve borrowed from the hostel, soaking up the sunshine and savoring the perfect combination of heat and breeze on this Saturday in May. I am perfectly content and am enjoying finally having a day without traveling to a new place.
One by one, the tables around me clear and David stops by my table a bit more, asking where I’m from, what I’m doing in Europe, and eventually asking if girls from America have names. I tell him with a smirk that most don’t, but I do, and it’s Mary. I’m surprised at how impeccable his English is when I discover that he is originally from Prague and has lived in Cesky Krumlov for about 6 years.
David has intrigued me and I want to talk to him more about who he is and where he’s been, but I stick with safe topics like where to go and what to do while I’m here. I leave tomorrow morning, so I know I will probably accomplish few of his suggestions in the short time I have left, but it’s a good way to get him talking. We chat a while and David tells me he is working that night until 10 or 10:30 – he clearly wants to talk to me more too. I’m flattered and excited, not to mention surprised since I’m sitting there in workout clothes after hiking around the town the entire morning, with no makeup and unwashed hair that’s been slung up into a ponytail.
As I pay my bill, I mention that I might return later that evening since I'm on vacation and don't have any big plans. David looks down and is practically blushing when he says he would like that very much. I scoop up my bag and book and realize as I walk out of the restaurant that I must have been sitting there for several hours.
Laughing to myself at how the feared eating alone can lead to making a new friend, I float down the cobblestone streets having decided that I will indeed come back tonight – just to see what happens when I sit a bit longer.
When David, my handsome server with the tanned skin and wavy blond hair, first brought the cake to me, asking if he could give me a gift, I had a flashback to the previous night’s conversation with a few other people at my hostel about eating alone at a restaurant. A Californian man who must be 25 years my senior couldn’t seem to fathom the idea of dining alone in a public place, and he called me brave for venturing out on my own. I wonder to myself if David feels sorry for me eating by myself in such a beautiful part of the world – a place perfect for sharing a good meal with friends and loved ones.
He clears my dessert plate that has nothing on it now but a few crumbs and a spoon that’s been licked clean, and comes back a few minutes later with a pot of green tea to “help my digestion.” I once again bow my head slightly and thank him, telling him he’s too kind. David smiles and flits away to another one of his many tables. It dawns on me that perhaps he doesn’t feel sorry for me after all, but maybe he fancies me and is trying to get me to stick around a bit longer. If that's the case, it's working.
I sip my green tea and peruse the travel book on Eastern Europe that I’ve borrowed from the hostel, soaking up the sunshine and savoring the perfect combination of heat and breeze on this Saturday in May. I am perfectly content and am enjoying finally having a day without traveling to a new place.
One by one, the tables around me clear and David stops by my table a bit more, asking where I’m from, what I’m doing in Europe, and eventually asking if girls from America have names. I tell him with a smirk that most don’t, but I do, and it’s Mary. I’m surprised at how impeccable his English is when I discover that he is originally from Prague and has lived in Cesky Krumlov for about 6 years.
David has intrigued me and I want to talk to him more about who he is and where he’s been, but I stick with safe topics like where to go and what to do while I’m here. I leave tomorrow morning, so I know I will probably accomplish few of his suggestions in the short time I have left, but it’s a good way to get him talking. We chat a while and David tells me he is working that night until 10 or 10:30 – he clearly wants to talk to me more too. I’m flattered and excited, not to mention surprised since I’m sitting there in workout clothes after hiking around the town the entire morning, with no makeup and unwashed hair that’s been slung up into a ponytail.
As I pay my bill, I mention that I might return later that evening since I'm on vacation and don't have any big plans. David looks down and is practically blushing when he says he would like that very much. I scoop up my bag and book and realize as I walk out of the restaurant that I must have been sitting there for several hours.
Laughing to myself at how the feared eating alone can lead to making a new friend, I float down the cobblestone streets having decided that I will indeed come back tonight – just to see what happens when I sit a bit longer.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Directionally Challenged
I’m no idiot, but sometimes I can’t follow a map or directions to save my life. I think this is part of the reason why I so enjoy wandering – when you don’t have a set route, there’s no way to screw it up.
Yesterday I was in Vienna and my top priority was to go to the Spanish Riding School and watch the morning exercise program where the horses prance around the ring to classical music by Beethoven and others. I made it there with little difficulty, figuring out how to navigate the metro and tram without much issue. This proved to be my one and only real navigating success of the day.
Once I had my fill of watching the horses, I decided to head in the direction of the Schönbrunn Palace, which I was told is a must see in the city. I studied the map, determined I was on the correct street, and rather than take bus 54 as I was told I could, I opted to get some exercise and walk – an hour’s walk is nothing to me now that I’m accustomed to my legs being my main form of transportation.
Not seeing any signs that appeared to say the name of the Palace (German is a difficult language when you’re not familiar with it!), I continued marching along figuring the signage would appear as I neared my destination. Eventually I got to a very commercial area that reminded me of Champs-Elysées in Paris. I was (of course) captivated by all of the shops, and found myself weaving in and out of them as I trekked down the street. Finally I reached some grandiose buildings that looked as though they would be part of the Palace grounds – it also said Museum Quarter, which made sense to me since there are tours of the Palace. No such luck.
After finding a park bench, I unfolded my map once more and with a bit of searching, found the Museum Quarter – on the opposite side of my starting point from the Palace. That’s right, I just walked not one, but two hours in the wrong direction. I felt like such a moron, and, thanks to having a train to catch, I knew there was no hope of making it to the Palace on this trip. I turned around and walked back from whence I came, this time stopping and taking the first metro I came across – I was done with walking.
Later that day I found myself at one of two train stations in Prague, and my hostel had conveniently given directions from each of them. As the sun was setting, I exited the station and, not seeing the street name I was looking for, I walked the 10 minutes I was supposed to until I found a McDonald’s (which is about as good of a landmark as Starbucks). I didn’t see the tram tracks that were mentioned, so I looked at my choices – go straight on a street not too crowded, or stay on the main street to the right, which had people buzzing about all over. I turned right and walked for many blocks, clinging tightly to my bag as I’d been warned of pickpockets and felt like an easy target with all of my gear on.
Not seeing anything familiar from the hostel’s directions, a stranger pointed me back in the opposite direction to get to the metro station. After walking a couple of blocks, there was a girl about my age walking nearby – I asked her if she spoke English, which she did, so she was able to not only tell me where the metro was, but walk with me there as she was already on her way. She guided me to the Info Office where I picked up a map, a metro ticket, and guidance on which metro and tram to take. Finally, I was on my way.
It wasn’t until I was aboard the metro that I realized my blunder: I had been following the directions from the wrong train station. Realizing my careless error, I was able to follow the correct directions and find the hostel without issue. Apparently I’m not always an idiot when it comes to following directions, but I sure can goof up something simple.
It amazes me how one can travel so independently, but suddenly in a foreign city where nothing is familiar – not the streets, the people, or the language – one must depend on the kindness of a complete stranger to be steered back in the right direction. Whenever possible, I think I’ll just stick with my wandering ways - it’s much harder to go in the wrong direction when any direction is the right one.
Yesterday I was in Vienna and my top priority was to go to the Spanish Riding School and watch the morning exercise program where the horses prance around the ring to classical music by Beethoven and others. I made it there with little difficulty, figuring out how to navigate the metro and tram without much issue. This proved to be my one and only real navigating success of the day.
Once I had my fill of watching the horses, I decided to head in the direction of the Schönbrunn Palace, which I was told is a must see in the city. I studied the map, determined I was on the correct street, and rather than take bus 54 as I was told I could, I opted to get some exercise and walk – an hour’s walk is nothing to me now that I’m accustomed to my legs being my main form of transportation.
Not seeing any signs that appeared to say the name of the Palace (German is a difficult language when you’re not familiar with it!), I continued marching along figuring the signage would appear as I neared my destination. Eventually I got to a very commercial area that reminded me of Champs-Elysées in Paris. I was (of course) captivated by all of the shops, and found myself weaving in and out of them as I trekked down the street. Finally I reached some grandiose buildings that looked as though they would be part of the Palace grounds – it also said Museum Quarter, which made sense to me since there are tours of the Palace. No such luck.
After finding a park bench, I unfolded my map once more and with a bit of searching, found the Museum Quarter – on the opposite side of my starting point from the Palace. That’s right, I just walked not one, but two hours in the wrong direction. I felt like such a moron, and, thanks to having a train to catch, I knew there was no hope of making it to the Palace on this trip. I turned around and walked back from whence I came, this time stopping and taking the first metro I came across – I was done with walking.
Later that day I found myself at one of two train stations in Prague, and my hostel had conveniently given directions from each of them. As the sun was setting, I exited the station and, not seeing the street name I was looking for, I walked the 10 minutes I was supposed to until I found a McDonald’s (which is about as good of a landmark as Starbucks). I didn’t see the tram tracks that were mentioned, so I looked at my choices – go straight on a street not too crowded, or stay on the main street to the right, which had people buzzing about all over. I turned right and walked for many blocks, clinging tightly to my bag as I’d been warned of pickpockets and felt like an easy target with all of my gear on.
Not seeing anything familiar from the hostel’s directions, a stranger pointed me back in the opposite direction to get to the metro station. After walking a couple of blocks, there was a girl about my age walking nearby – I asked her if she spoke English, which she did, so she was able to not only tell me where the metro was, but walk with me there as she was already on her way. She guided me to the Info Office where I picked up a map, a metro ticket, and guidance on which metro and tram to take. Finally, I was on my way.
It wasn’t until I was aboard the metro that I realized my blunder: I had been following the directions from the wrong train station. Realizing my careless error, I was able to follow the correct directions and find the hostel without issue. Apparently I’m not always an idiot when it comes to following directions, but I sure can goof up something simple.
It amazes me how one can travel so independently, but suddenly in a foreign city where nothing is familiar – not the streets, the people, or the language – one must depend on the kindness of a complete stranger to be steered back in the right direction. Whenever possible, I think I’ll just stick with my wandering ways - it’s much harder to go in the wrong direction when any direction is the right one.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
A Safe Haven
It’s no secret that there has been a recent outbreak of a new strain of influenza, lovingly called the Swine Flu. This Flu started in Mexico and has spread to other parts of the world, including Spain, which of course happens to be where I was just the day before the discovery. Fortunately for me, I seem to have escaped the country still in a healthy state and made it back to my politically neutral and Swine Flu free country of Switzerland. What a great place.
A couple of days go by after my return, and the World Health Organization has raised the level of the outbreak to the second highest level that exists – just short on world panic, essentially. I’m still feeling pretty good at this point though since I’m in Switzerland: I’m high up in the Alps, far away from civilization, and there can’t even be more than a couple thousand people who live in my town. I’m safe – totally and completely safe. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that there is no safer place to be right this minute than the Swiss Alps.
Enter Alfredo, a friendly amigo from Mexico City. Seriously? We don’t even have to leave our town now to get Swine Flu, the Swine Flu has been brought to us? My levels of racism are at an all-time high and I consider wearing a mask around the Chalet until my Mexican buddy leaves, I think better of it though, and decide that if he’s come here of the places he could go, if he gives me the Swine Flu, it’s clearly my time to go and I should just get over it already.
Well, I’m over it, and I’m still alive too. Alfredo has gone to spread joy and terror around the rest of Europe and my little nook of the Swiss Alps is once again the safe haven it was meant to be.
A couple of days go by after my return, and the World Health Organization has raised the level of the outbreak to the second highest level that exists – just short on world panic, essentially. I’m still feeling pretty good at this point though since I’m in Switzerland: I’m high up in the Alps, far away from civilization, and there can’t even be more than a couple thousand people who live in my town. I’m safe – totally and completely safe. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that there is no safer place to be right this minute than the Swiss Alps.
Enter Alfredo, a friendly amigo from Mexico City. Seriously? We don’t even have to leave our town now to get Swine Flu, the Swine Flu has been brought to us? My levels of racism are at an all-time high and I consider wearing a mask around the Chalet until my Mexican buddy leaves, I think better of it though, and decide that if he’s come here of the places he could go, if he gives me the Swine Flu, it’s clearly my time to go and I should just get over it already.
Well, I’m over it, and I’m still alive too. Alfredo has gone to spread joy and terror around the rest of Europe and my little nook of the Swiss Alps is once again the safe haven it was meant to be.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Miscellaneous Moments
Moments lived, and observations made (from silly to sad):
Humorous: Walking down the street in Barcelona, I passed a lanky 20-something man wearing an eggplant purple velvet coat – and in the front pocket, instead of a handkerchief, was a single fire-engine red feather.
Sad: I passed by a little boy walking with his mother, who I realized was upset when one enormous teardrop rolled off his cheek and onto his shirt. He looked up at me with his big, sad eyes as I gazed on helplessly.
Entertaining: 10 minutes into an overnight train ride, a man who looks much too young for his gray hair appears to be asking two people about my age, a guy and a girl with dreadlocks, for a lighter. Instead, I realize he’s actually asking if they want to smoke with him on the train. They eagerly accept the offered cigarettes and are instantly on their feet following him into the tiny water closet, where they file in one after the other, and lock the door behind them, reminding me of clowns piling out of a tiny little clown car, only in reverse. Yuck.
Irritating: The three girls across the aisle from me on the train feel it’s necessary to clip and file their nails, creating two of the most annoying sounds I can think of. It’s a 10 hour train ride, but surely they don’t have that much nail to work with.
Creepy: A man dressed head to toe in black leather, accented by metal spikes, has a black cat on a leash perched on his neck and shoulders as we wait together for the tram in Nice, France.
Entertaining: An old man is playing a harmonica in the middle of La Rambla in Barcelona, and as I approach, a crowd has already gathered to observe. When I make my way to the front of the mob, I determine that there is more than inaudible harmonica music – the old man has a live rabbit sitting in front of him, on top of which he is stacking hair rollers and stuffed animals. The rabbit does nothing but twitch its nose and whiskers as the rest of it stays completely motionless. This is the most creative way I’ve ever seen anyone beg for money, so after taking a few photos, I empty my change purse into the cup beside the bunny.
Exciting (probably only to me): In Barcelona, for only 10.60Î, I purchased the following:
One WHOLE Pineapple
Tangerine
Tomato
Onion
Red Pepper
Cucumber
Pack of Sliced Turkey
An ENTIRE Wedge of Brie
2 Cans of Soda
An Enormous Loaf of Homemade Bread
4 Packs of Yogurt
In the States, that would have cost at least 25 bucks. Seriously. Barcelona rocks my world.
Heart-wrenching: Walking along the boardwalk in Barcelona, I spot a little old man in his bathrobe and slippers carrying a stereo with both hands, hugging it to his chest. He has surely come from the hospital right across the street, and as he sits beside me on a bench, I pray someone knows he’s outside. The volume on his stereo is practically muted, but I hope he can hear it and that it’s something good.
Generous: After trying on 4 shirts at a little souvenir-like shop, the owner who speaks as much English as I speak Spanish, personally escorts me out of the store, down the street, and around the corner to another shop where he shows me a wider selection of the same style shirt. He explains my “situation” of being unable to find a suitable shirt to this store’s owner who smiles at me, and gestures towards her assortment of tees. I graciously thank them both, peruse the shirts for a few minutes, taking several out, looking, and then refolding them and returning them to their piles. When the store gets crowded, I seize the opportunity to slip out without buying anything. I appreciated their helpfulness, regardless.
Infuriating: I ordered a 6-euro meal of chicken and potatoes at the train station restaurant. The man who took my order asked me to pay, then have a seat and he would bring me my meal. I looked at the two bills in my wallet and handed him the 20. He took it, put it in the register, and when I handed him an additional 1 euro coin so he could give me bills instead of a bill and coins, he instead handed me only a 5 euro bill. I paused, then said, “…and the 10?” In reasonably good English, the man curtly told me I had only given him a 10-euro bill. Absolutely certain that I was correct in having given him the larger bill, I calmly, and as politely as possible, disagreed. He plopped down a 10-euro bill on the bar, and said “No, you gave me a 10, but I don’t want any problems, so here,” and he slid the bill over to me. My heart pounding, and surely blushing from being falsely accused, I told him that was not the case, took the money, and walked off to find a seat.
It was the most awkward of exchanges when the bartender brought my meal to me. I smiled and thanked him as he set down the stew-like concoction in front of me. As I ate the warm meal, I prayed that my new friend didn’t add a laxative or anything else to it – that would not make for an enjoyable 10-hour train ride. For the first time I can remember, I did not leave a tip.
Laughable: I boarded the metro in Barcelona only to find a group of guys ranging from my age to their mid-30s, averagely dressed with the exception of sashes draped around them like beauty queens, and headbands with red glittery heart-shaped antennae. They looked at me and we all smiled and giggled. I wondered if this could be the Spanish version of a Bachelor party, or if it was remnants of the previous days St. George’s celebration.
Sheer Joy: My own hotel room. Two nights. Just me. Clean, white everything. Queen-size bed. Heaven.
Incredible Discovery: I found the perfect book at a French antique market in Cannes. There was only a small selection of English books and I couldn’t have found a book better suited for me in the biggest bookstore in the States if I tried.
The book is all about a girl my age in the 1930s who abandons tradition in favour of traveling Europe and Asia by train. She starts on the southern coast of France (where I bought the book!), and continues to live a life I could see being my own.
It amazes me how I can find a kindred spirit in a fictional character.
Humorous: Walking down the street in Barcelona, I passed a lanky 20-something man wearing an eggplant purple velvet coat – and in the front pocket, instead of a handkerchief, was a single fire-engine red feather.
Sad: I passed by a little boy walking with his mother, who I realized was upset when one enormous teardrop rolled off his cheek and onto his shirt. He looked up at me with his big, sad eyes as I gazed on helplessly.
Entertaining: 10 minutes into an overnight train ride, a man who looks much too young for his gray hair appears to be asking two people about my age, a guy and a girl with dreadlocks, for a lighter. Instead, I realize he’s actually asking if they want to smoke with him on the train. They eagerly accept the offered cigarettes and are instantly on their feet following him into the tiny water closet, where they file in one after the other, and lock the door behind them, reminding me of clowns piling out of a tiny little clown car, only in reverse. Yuck.
Irritating: The three girls across the aisle from me on the train feel it’s necessary to clip and file their nails, creating two of the most annoying sounds I can think of. It’s a 10 hour train ride, but surely they don’t have that much nail to work with.
Creepy: A man dressed head to toe in black leather, accented by metal spikes, has a black cat on a leash perched on his neck and shoulders as we wait together for the tram in Nice, France.
Entertaining: An old man is playing a harmonica in the middle of La Rambla in Barcelona, and as I approach, a crowd has already gathered to observe. When I make my way to the front of the mob, I determine that there is more than inaudible harmonica music – the old man has a live rabbit sitting in front of him, on top of which he is stacking hair rollers and stuffed animals. The rabbit does nothing but twitch its nose and whiskers as the rest of it stays completely motionless. This is the most creative way I’ve ever seen anyone beg for money, so after taking a few photos, I empty my change purse into the cup beside the bunny.
Exciting (probably only to me): In Barcelona, for only 10.60Î, I purchased the following:
One WHOLE Pineapple
Tangerine
Tomato
Onion
Red Pepper
Cucumber
Pack of Sliced Turkey
An ENTIRE Wedge of Brie
2 Cans of Soda
An Enormous Loaf of Homemade Bread
4 Packs of Yogurt
In the States, that would have cost at least 25 bucks. Seriously. Barcelona rocks my world.
Heart-wrenching: Walking along the boardwalk in Barcelona, I spot a little old man in his bathrobe and slippers carrying a stereo with both hands, hugging it to his chest. He has surely come from the hospital right across the street, and as he sits beside me on a bench, I pray someone knows he’s outside. The volume on his stereo is practically muted, but I hope he can hear it and that it’s something good.
Generous: After trying on 4 shirts at a little souvenir-like shop, the owner who speaks as much English as I speak Spanish, personally escorts me out of the store, down the street, and around the corner to another shop where he shows me a wider selection of the same style shirt. He explains my “situation” of being unable to find a suitable shirt to this store’s owner who smiles at me, and gestures towards her assortment of tees. I graciously thank them both, peruse the shirts for a few minutes, taking several out, looking, and then refolding them and returning them to their piles. When the store gets crowded, I seize the opportunity to slip out without buying anything. I appreciated their helpfulness, regardless.
Infuriating: I ordered a 6-euro meal of chicken and potatoes at the train station restaurant. The man who took my order asked me to pay, then have a seat and he would bring me my meal. I looked at the two bills in my wallet and handed him the 20. He took it, put it in the register, and when I handed him an additional 1 euro coin so he could give me bills instead of a bill and coins, he instead handed me only a 5 euro bill. I paused, then said, “…and the 10?” In reasonably good English, the man curtly told me I had only given him a 10-euro bill. Absolutely certain that I was correct in having given him the larger bill, I calmly, and as politely as possible, disagreed. He plopped down a 10-euro bill on the bar, and said “No, you gave me a 10, but I don’t want any problems, so here,” and he slid the bill over to me. My heart pounding, and surely blushing from being falsely accused, I told him that was not the case, took the money, and walked off to find a seat.
It was the most awkward of exchanges when the bartender brought my meal to me. I smiled and thanked him as he set down the stew-like concoction in front of me. As I ate the warm meal, I prayed that my new friend didn’t add a laxative or anything else to it – that would not make for an enjoyable 10-hour train ride. For the first time I can remember, I did not leave a tip.
Laughable: I boarded the metro in Barcelona only to find a group of guys ranging from my age to their mid-30s, averagely dressed with the exception of sashes draped around them like beauty queens, and headbands with red glittery heart-shaped antennae. They looked at me and we all smiled and giggled. I wondered if this could be the Spanish version of a Bachelor party, or if it was remnants of the previous days St. George’s celebration.
Sheer Joy: My own hotel room. Two nights. Just me. Clean, white everything. Queen-size bed. Heaven.
Incredible Discovery: I found the perfect book at a French antique market in Cannes. There was only a small selection of English books and I couldn’t have found a book better suited for me in the biggest bookstore in the States if I tried.
The book is all about a girl my age in the 1930s who abandons tradition in favour of traveling Europe and Asia by train. She starts on the southern coast of France (where I bought the book!), and continues to live a life I could see being my own.
It amazes me how I can find a kindred spirit in a fictional character.
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