Thoughts on Tracks

Traveling is infectious.
I'm on a 13 hour night train to Paris right now. Ive never been on a train this long. I'm traveling alone like the paid journalists do on the Travel Channel. I wanna be that hobo-ish person who roams from city to country, sleeping in train stations, and waking up to a stale piece of bread with no butter who has climbed trees in the Amazon. I wish I could disappear to the Greek Isles like I used to run away from home when I was eight. Life seemed so much easier then. All there was to worry about was how much lemonade to use for my sister and I's entrepreneurial initiative. We had an innocent lemonade stand on Jeffery's Bay. Ohhhhh the days of Polly Pocket and getting inside the dryer for clubhouse. Never predicting death, serious injury or overheating, my sister and I used to tuck ourselves in the dryer and take turns spinning each other. Where have those days evolved to?

Now, I'm a senior in college with one more semester to spare until I'm thrown into this recession with a passion for a field with diluting significance. Over the next few months, I have have a lot of responsibility to face. I'm scared and uncertain. College went by too fast. I still don't even know who I am yet. Sometimes when I discover a new part of me, I accuse myself of mockery. Who gave me this? Oprah once said "growing older is about becoming more of yourself." I'm hanging on to this.

Life gave me lemons last year, so I packed my bags to go live in my dream city. New York City has been a part of my REM sleep cycle since the beginning of time. I knew I was going to end up there Some Day, Some How. And I'll never forget this clue the universe sent me in Summer 2005. We took a family trip to Manhattan to finally meet my dream city in person. We stayed in Battery Park at the most southern tip of the island (also vaguely referred to as "Downtown"). Justin dragged me along to this unspectacular Abercrombie and Fitch chain he was dying to see. Like a South Street Seaport tourist, I snapped a picture of this stupid store with a (now cryptic) disposable camera. In fact, I took a lot of pictures on that trip.

Life progressed. Three years went by.

NYC became a distant daydream by the time I graduated from high school in 2006. NYU wasn't on my list of aspirations either. But one extraordinarily random day, I decided to visit the NYU Web Site with no hidden inclination to transfer universities. Once my imagination started to do all that uncontrollable psychological stuff, the very thought of attending NYU had me twinkle-eyed. I decided to apply with low expectations of being accepted.
Joy happened here.Once I was accepted, the department of housing gave me three dormitory choices. Water St. was my last choice; and that's exactly where I was placed. As I was checking out online pictures of my forced living accommodation, I noticed the gray facade of that Abercrombie and Fitch building on the home page of the housing Web Site. I immediately remembered that same picture I took three years ago. Turns out that retail store was located directly across the street from my dormitory. I shared a one-bedroom apartment in a 32-story high rise with a breathtaking view of the Brooklyn Bridge, Seaport, and 199 Water Street (A & F store). I kept my blinds open every single day. And whoever said dreaming is for kids obviously hasn't been snorting the right fairy dust. That's where I found the beginning of my destiny -- on 200 Water St.

Now my life has taken me on a 16-hour journey to Marseille, France. It's the closest I can get to the Mediterranean right now. I'm saving Rome and Athens for when I get a job. I'm going to be Couch Surfing while I'm there. I hope my host isn't a lunatic or a lesbian. Dad told me to watch out for homosexuals when I'm making dangerous decisions. I hope she doesn't "pull me into the closet."
More stories to come.

Five Minutes to "The Girl" District

After traveling to six countries in two months, I've officially earned the credentials (in the form of Passport stamps) to make broad statements about Europe - all of the cities begin to mimic each other. Brussels was a small Berlin, a dimly-lit Paris, flawed version of Amsterdam's red-light district, and most of the natives were dark featured like the Czechs. But, it's those human characteristics that create our grand differences.

Brussels surprised me. I thought it would be like the boring vegetation it was indubitably named after....Brussel-sprouts -- and who really eats those? I found familiarity in their culture while in the company of all tan people. We bonded that way. I blended in with their natives when I wrapped a scarf around my head for warmth. Their culture and people who decorate the replicate city gives Brussels a unique personality. I enjoyed the Eastern and Western European clash.

My mom and I randomly discovered a cuddled up isle of French and Italian restaurants. Their "attack" was different from the Asian food mobs in London. As you passed by (with or without scanning their menu) showing no interest in eating, designated saleschefs scuttled along your side spitting their pitch in multiple languages until they guessed your native tongue. Obviously fooled by my disguise, they spoke to me in French or Spanish, but never English like the rest of the tourists in Little Sicily. I exercised my Spanish to the smallest degree. The mesmerizing Grand Place-Grote Markt was embedded within this neighborhood of tourists. This square was one of my many "good finds" on the trip.

The only place my intuition couldn't guide us to was our freaking hotel. We were lost for nearly two hours trying to locate a dark alley with cool graffiti that for some reason didn't make the cut for city map worthy. We struggled to cross language barriers to ask five people where this place could be. And do you know what every single person trustfully advised: "Ah, it's only five minutes away." After awhile, we started to catch on.

We walked passed a bunch of stunning architecture that we didn't know the names of . De Brouckere, De La Bourse and St. Catherine's Place were the most memorable. Exploring all of the depths of Brussels requires more than just one and a half days to do. I came. I saw. I got inked.

Oh, but I made certain to visit the "Girl" district that is not called a Red-Light District in Brussels. When anxiously searching for it, my keywords were far more direct: "Do you know where the prostitutes are located?" But, the modest locals refer to this sketchy area behind the Brussels Nord train station as "the girls." Their girl district wasn't as groomed or hustling as Hollands. In a nutshell, there were two blocks worth of girls, drunks who didn't show any interest in the girls, and then a few serious shoppers in suits with their hands knotted behind their backs. When we passed by in PURE browsing mode the hussies weren't as receptive. Mom's wisdom chimed in and said "I don't know why they're getting mad, they're the ones in the windows." She made a valid point.

Easy Jet makes you check in your luggage if it doesn't fit in the shrunken dimensions of that luggage-measurer thing. Our flight was delayed, too. I have a sour opinion about them now. Ryan Air rocks because they don't give a shit about anything. Fly them.

Next up....Thanksgiving on the Mediterranean coast of Marseille. I'll be couch surfing for the first time as well. Cheers to new endeavours.

A Sleeping Beauty

Bruges was like a medieval narrative. The buildings had a lot to say. The horse carriages, castles and canals seemed as if they were plucked from a fairy tale. It really is the little Venice of the North.

We only needed one-and-a-barely-half day to explore Bruges' treasures. Everything was within walking distance, including French fries and Belgian waffles. I finally had my authentic waffle smothered in Nutella with powder sugar... and it was yummy, but highly replicable. Les can't make his Sunday waffles on the cobblestone streets of Bruges.

The native dialect of Belgium is West-Flemish, so I had to try the French fries. The mythical story goes as this...Belgian commanders during World War 1 spoke French when they baked fries and their allied colleagues remembered French fries. Voilà.

In Bruges, there's no graffiti, skating, good shopping, or enough content to write an entire blog about. We paced passed the Belfry and Michelangelo's Madonna to find something to do - later ending up in Anthony's De Kleine Nachtmuziek (A Little Night Music). At first there was no music (apparently, it's only available upon request), but we met an Irish and British twosome who kept us laughing for the rest of the night. They were on a Le Grand Tour-mockery sort of business trip. .

This trip added an interesting dynamic to my relationship with my mother. We sipped Cognac and Whiskey as two adults. We bonded like friends, instead. I guess that means we are both getting older.

Over the Kölnisch Rhine to Africa

We entered Köln over a river. It's a southwesternly city that nearly shares a border with Luxembourg. All German cities don't have the same taste. Köln had a different dialect and seemed more posh. There was a small-town, big-city attitude here. People knew each other at the grocery stores, no one appeared to be in a rush, and drunk college students chanted German soccer rhythms on the streets. I'd say it's an extremely safe city to get lost in.

NYU took us on another weekend trip, but this time it was unexpectedly worthwhile. We were paired off with University of Köln students to meet the city and exchange cultures. There was a seminar on Saturday that faced cultural stereotypes, politics, language, and became a successful outlet for bonding. I wandered off a few times and made some new friends along the way. We went to the Chocolate Museum, The Dom (church), and a college party. I finally witnessed the secret to those yummy Lindt balls in red packaging. Hands down, those chocolate spheres are the best in all of the land. They even top Ritter Sport, and that's a bold statement. Turns out, the family of one of the girls that I met used to own a cocoa bean plantation in Ghana. Pretty cool. Ghana is one of the largest cocoa bean distributors in the world, second to Brazil. One more reason why I should visit. The college party I attended was extremely non-collegiate. This liberal gathering was in the basement of a University of Köln dorm. Everyone seemed too young to be boozing in such a slutty manner. I passed minimal judgement because it's Europe and everyone seems to be a dirty bastard at heart. Well, I've officially been to a German dorm party that had loads of Vodka, but no keg. Weird, right?

I also befriended a blonde-haired native from Tanzania. We had one thing in common for sure: a love for Africa. And all who know me KNOW I interrogate the interesting. She gave her detailed account about being "white" in Africa. Apparently, Africans glorify pale-skinned people because they think they have money. This is very sad. I feel even more compelled to go to make this correction. Where are all these multicultural people hiding in the USA?

I really (times 8) want to visit Africa. I have a feeling it's going to be hot...and life changing. I have way too many African friends now to continue making up excuses. (Excuse #1: it's really fucking expensive).

Either way, I'm GOING on a star-gazing safari one day....

Destined to London?

For names' sake, I finally made it to London.

Everything was in order. Most street crossings routed you in the correct direction of oncoming cars ("Look Left"). The staircases even warned you about how many steps you're about to waste your time going down. And my favorite kinks were the "Way Out" signs in the tube stations escorting train-goers toward the "way out." I felt a little bossed around at times.

My mum (in true British fashion) and I took an overcrowded Boeing to London from Berlin for €20. The tiny, cheap jet had no extra room for comfort, slightly-stuffed baggage or beefy corporate men. It was bona fide European-style traveling. They even sold fumeless cigarettes on the plane. Can you believe that? Oh, and it gets better. London's Stansted Airport is NOT located in the city of London. It's far. One hour and 30 minutes far. You definitely get what you pay for. The ride was scenic. That's it.

When we finally arrived in the inner city, I immediately encountered a vibe. London felt nothing like New York City. That's a long-living myth subject to personal judgment. There was something missing from this city. Yeah, it had it's royalty, ethnic diversity :), and dreary weather...but, it didn't have enough vivacity. I thought I would have more of an allegiance to London (after all, it's my name), but the weather doesn't suit my hair and I searched darn hard to find that NY-ish energy that allegedly makes everyone walk fast. English people are too nice, relaxed, but far more stylish than Berliners. I had my NY-face on when a lady bumped into me and apologized, but I kept walking. Responding to elbow-bumps is just not global city etiquette. There was no homogeneous type of person here either. Just about every nation had trudged in my very same footsteps. Gosh, I really love all-inclusive cities.

Not only that, but London had a super-cool personality fused with European and English mannerisms. We found Camden Town on the first day. It's a trendy area that's overcrowded with vintage bazaars, Asian everything, flea markets, Little Morocco (as we named it), lights, fatty food and British hipsters. This was my favorite neighborhood because I was in vintage-store heaven. Second-hand shops were on every turn. But, in the middle of these shops, was a hard-to-miss Asian food isle. They were aggressive, and made you sample everything. One lady loudly commanded, "You come eat here!" I felt trapped. We caved in and had a greasy plate of Chinese for £4.

Not to mention, I'm an extremely expensive city. The U.S. dollar is like a peso in the U.K. We also explored Soho's Oxford Circus, which turned out to be a Broadway and Fifth Avenue experience. It was all Top Shop, H & M, Selfridges, Louis Vuitton and well-known stores that lack 1940's character. I love the idea of wearing the same blouse a woman wore in 1936. It's weird, I know.

On Saturday, we took a Royal London tour through Westminster. After all of this time, I finally met the Buckingham Palace, Wellington Arch, Thames River, Trafalgar's Square and the Big Ben. I spent a bulk of my childhood on Buckingham Lane (the corner street was Thames) where I often dreamed about the city of London. I felt most accomplished after I sought shelter from the rain in one of those stinky red telephone boxes (which happened to be perched right across the street from Big Ben). The movies never tell us that those telephone boxes have a horrendous odor. Turns out, most of the public pay phones are kaput because homeless people break them to steal the change.

I think I saw the sun three times. It drizzled, normal rained, hard rained and then when it finally stopped it surprised you with more rain. In spite of this, I loved the landscape of the city. Stores were bunched together with an African hair salon sharing an address with a Korean grocery store; public transportation was crowded; there was trash and beauty; and everyone spoke English. I was stumped when I had a delayed realization that I could read signs, ask for directions and eavesdrop on British conversations. I never thought that being exposed to my ONLY language would be so hard to swallow. I kept pronouncing my W's like V's, and "entschuldigung" slipped a few times when breaking through a crowd. I had to remind myself that everything was in in my native tongue. I'm not ready for English yet.

Well, I definitely plan to visit London again to hopefully acquire a dreamy British accent that is sometimes hard to understand.

So, did I find my destiny after all? Nope, I'm still a die-hard New Yorker.

Ma and I are on a train to Bruges now. I'm going to try a Belgian waffle if they really do exist.

Ich Bin Eine Berliner

I’m a Berliner now (and a die-hard New Yorker). I wear a hair-tie around my right leg to keep my bike chain from nicking my pants. My bike seat even has its own shower cap for this rainy winter weather. When dodging through cars and people on Friedrichstraße (”ß” makes a “ss” sound) daily, I finally have the guts to flick my bike bell at people who are in my route. They move every time. I’m still biking in these arctic temperatures, too. It snowed for 45 minutes on Wednesday. The front-desk staff at the gym knows my face and always greets me in English instead of German. The ethnically-unidentifiable girl who threads my eye-brows remembered the instructions on how to shape my brows that I previously wrote in German for her. I don’t get as frustrated being illiterate now. I’ve mastered native inflections of how to say “Sprechen Sie Englisch?” Although, I actually understood the lady at the post office today who spoke in retard-slow German. But, most of the younger generations speak in English. It gives America a bad smell. My friends and I have officially named every Saturday, “Sightseeing Saturday” that begins at 2 p.m. I feel so Germanic these days.

On that note, the dark-skinned German men here are full-fledged Africans who escaped from Rwanda or some other hot country. They’re not that diluted-American version that I used to be so fond of. They reel you in with lines like, “hello beautiful princess, would you like to come to my place so that I can make you one of my African queens?” Awkward pause inserted here.
“Are you implying that if I come to back to your house I will no longer be a princess, but a queen?”
“Yes, beautiful princess, I give my wives anything they want.”
“Did you just use Queen and Wife in the plural?”
I’m thinking about putting my African-men fetish to a rest. They have proven non-committal. Besides, I’m already LilQueen1311 – I need a new title that embraces my new ways of domesticity.
I cook and absolutely love to clean!
Berlin has turned me out. I hunt for fresh vegetables like those “broken” women who dig through piles of tomatoes to find the reddest few in the grocery store. I’m that grown-up now, except I don’t actually know what I’m searching for. Once I find the cutest tomato I throw it in a plastic sack and get excited to finger through the zucchini.
After a second-shifts work at the grocery store, I come home and whip up three-course meals for no husband or children. I’ve mastered holding a frying pan with one hand, positioning it a few inches over the burner, while swishing and flipping the contents with Top-Chef-like ease. I put a lamp in the kitchen next to a wine bottle with a dead sunflower. It’s vintage. Strangely, it’s become my territory of creation. Now all I need to do is bake a few beans in the oven to crank up that maternal intuition. I’ll teach my non-African husband who loves me more than I love him, how to cook for me. I’m egalitarian, sorry.

Today, I discovered that you have to pay 50 cents to take a shower at the gym. I thought water came with the gym membership. I’ve been hoodwinked. Damn, can I get a free soap bar? (in Justin voice) When did everything in life become a commodity?

Teeth Chattering in Praha

Prague was bizarre. I had no presumed expectations about its culture. When we arrived at the train station on Thursday, everything and I mean Everything was illegible. Czech is a clash between Russian, Polish and extremely unfamiliar vernacular inflections. They have a lot of V’s and swirl-y things over their letters and the words aren’t pronounced near anything you could wildly imagine. “J’s” sound like “Y,” “C” sounds like “S,” and the umlauts create clutter. In the midst of all this confusion, we then had to change our currency to Crowns. The American dollar is equal to 17.9 CZK. For once, it felt rewarding to get more for my money.

Our seven-bed hostel turned out to be unexpectedly spacious. But….the sheets were blue, grungy and faded. There always seems to be a flaw. I hate to sound opinionated (refer to previous sentence), but Prague didn’t activate any sort of “WOW” for me. We arrived at night and I thought it was going to be as wondrous as the charming castle that lit up a distant hill.

My friend and I went on a walking tour with an explorer who made Prague more interesting that it probably really is. He was one of those guys who get in a bar fight in Budapest, make untamed jokes that only people like me find hilarious, and somehow impresses ALL with his wit-infused historical knowledge. We were clearly in an ancient city, especially evident when you get lost in Old Town Square. We visited the Prague castle (pražskỳ hrad) and walked across the Charles Bridge to see the Astronomical clock, Tỳnskavlička Church, Powder Gate and the good ol’ Jewish Quarter. It was very Jew-y, but I felt no remorse with having little concern for it. I’m tired of hearing about the Nazis. Get over yourself, Auschwitz!

We met two British girls in our hostel and ended up going to a pub crawl where we later met even more Brits. Humans who speak English are a lot easier to chat with. Meeting people from every single country in Europe was more promising than the free liquor they over-marketed. We paid 250 CZK for BOXED wine, watered-down rum shots, and lethal injections of Absinthe. It tasted like a bad decision. The pub crawl was mostly a bunch of 18 year old Americans who were studying abroad and losing every last one of their inhibitions. College would be less exhilarating without a few cocktails here and there. We crawled to 1 ½ pubs and 2 ½ clubs until 5 AM only to discover this was not the city of lights or after-dark public transportation. And the taxi drivers take their giant-sized cut with their no-meter having Benzes. Their metro system is similarly based on the integrity of its riders, but shuts down at midnight.

I will admit that Prague was beautiful in its own sort of “Beautiful Mind” way. It took me until the very last day to get in touch with my sense of feeling for the place. Maybe my sensory glands were frozen because it was insufferably chilly. But, Prague lacked that Western European tickle that you find in France and Germany. And I haven’t been to Eastern Europe, but my imagination has, and this city definitely felt like the Czechoslovakia that it is. There were steep Californian hills with small villages embedded in the skyline. Pointy architecture competed with the horizon. I felt no flirtation or nostalgia – the Czech nation was coy.
I’m on the train back to Berlin now. The views are priceless. I feel like I’m riding through a wonderland. I never thought returning to an uncomfortable bed without a temperpedic mattress pad could sound so good. Berlin is beginning to feel like home.

Upcoming adventures: A weekend in Cologne, Germany. After that, I’m going searching for my destiny in LONDON!!!!!!!!!! Expect seasoned vignettes.

Na Shledanou (Goodbye)...