Thoughts in Transition

We're in a layover in Frankfurt and I'm recuperating with a Ritter Sport Voll Nuss. Chocolate and hazelnuts are my "feel good." There's a certain familiarity about Germany that I missed while traveling. Even though everything is in German, I just realized how acquainted I am with the language and culture. Oh how I've dearly missed my inexpensive, high-quality chocolate. In every other country it's freaking expensive; but, in it's cocoa-bean homeland chocolate is cheaper than going to the WC. It's a whopping 0,85 for a normal-size Ritter and 2,19 for an extra large.

Also, I love traveling by train. I don't need my passport. It's easy, laid-back and a scenic ride. There are no time zones throwing off my sleeping pattern or security threatening to throw away my Pro-Active because I'm over my liquid allowance.

The time I have in Germany is rushing by. I only have two more months left until my free health insurance expires. I haven't even gotten to use it yet. confused emotion face. Maybe I should get a mammogram or something.

Two hours later...
We just transferred to an express bus to Prague in Nuremburg, Germany. The snack bar on this double-decker reads: "We trust that you will put the money indicated on the price list in the jar." Wow! The integrity expected of Germans is unbelievable.
Freedom. I like the taste of it.

Paris Rendezvous

There was nothing ugly about Paris. It has surely lived up to its stereotypes. I saw universal versions of dirt and grime, but Parisian filth is magnificent. It's the kind that if you roll around in it, you may find your soul mate or at least a date.

By the time we arrived in Paris, I was tired of people. Everyone there seemed to move in mobs. Berlin has me conditioned to a less-chaotic way of living. Returning to New York in January will be an interesting transition. Parisians are dainty. They walk around their city with cardigans flipped over a shoulder, heel boots and several attempts to be "high fashion." I swear this one girl thought she was on a runway -- parading through town in three-inch heels and a hoodie. But, I saw some very beautiful people. And Africans infected this city more than I ever expected. My fetish was rekindled.

I did a lot of escaping in Paris. The first day we arrived, I went exploring nearby. It just so happened that our hotel was perched in the middle of Paris' Red Light District in Montmartre. To put it in perspective, we were 10 minutes away from Moulin Rouge. Our neighborhood was quaint - there was nothing raunchy about it. It was a district where people live, work and play. And to my surprise, our hotel even had pets. There were two cats and a pup roaming freely and occupying furniture at their will. Max the cat found a resting place on my lap a few times. Even though I'm allergic to cats, I let him do it anyway because I miss having an animal bothering me. Don't worry (animal haters), he had tags.

Paris should be renamed the city of steps. I exercised my quadriceps and hamstrings way too much. Up one-million steps and Sacre Coeur is still in the distance. It's a beautiful church on top of a hill that overlooks the rest of the city. Locals and tourists were throwing back cans of beer on the outside and Jesus-lovers were praying on the inside. I found the juxtaposition interesting. We went on Sandeman free walking tour (http://www.neweuropetours.eu/) that covered every important building in Paris. From Notre-Dame to the Palais Royal to the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower. And the Eiffel Tower was grand. It used to be the tallest building in the city for 40 years. There was a dazzling light show that night to celebrate its 120th birthday. We never made it up the Eiffel Tower (way too many steps), but I was satisfied just to share breathing room with this beauty. On our last day, we had a brief picnic on the bank of the Seine River with Nutella-oozing crepes and Notre Dame in the landscape. There are 37 bridges spanning the Seine River. While my friends went to see the Mona Lisa in the Louvre, I took a stroll along this massive river to find ultimate relaxation. For a while, a French guy entertained me with his horrible English and deeply expressed how much he loved American girls. I scared him away with my evil wit. "Who are are you? Some sort of American-girl snatcher?"He walked away. All I needed were my thoughts to keep me company anyway.

And this city had the same people-oriented pigeons who pecked baguette crumbs from the cracks of cobblestone in the park; and the same rats who crept around looking for whatever it is that they eat. Cheese? But it also had Parisians kissing, holding hands, hugging and doing a really good job at acting like they were in love. sigh. Even the music of their language screamed "marry me." Paris and Amsterdam (but not Berlin) have those same European streets that I often dream about. You know the ones that are so small that pedestrians, cars, bikes and mopeds collide paths, sometimes pushing you into an age-old cafe with a man in a vintage Parisian hat playing the accordion and a gorgeous waiter greeting you in French, "Bonjour mademoiselle," but you thought he said, "move to Paris and I'll wait for you at the alter." Yeah, those streets....they're so lovely.

Public transportation was rickety, but cheaper at 1,60 than Amsterdam's outrageous price of 2,60. The metro stations had an overwhelming amount of stairs. I almost gave up a few times. Germany has me spoiled with their cute, clean, fully-functioning, ALWAYS on time, and pay-if-you-want-to system that takes you ANYWHERE in the country. It just doesn't get any better than that.

I've been thriving on ham, cheese and baguette for seven days now. There's a chance that the ham is growing old since it hasn't seen a fridge, but I'm still eating it like the true savage I am. We're on our way to Prague now. My energy and tolerance levels are low.

(I named this blog after the painting that I have in my room in Texas. It seemed fitting.)

Transvestites on Sunday

Amsterdam isn't a counter-culture. It's a city of everlasting social freedom.

There are canals, bridges and trained cattle. Yes! I couldn't believe my pupils either - these burger-making vertebrates weren't brewing milk behind any wire fences or gates. Instead, they were enclosed by moats. They were the same water-filled trenches that you would find surrounding an enchanted castle in Geneva. Not only is this extremely economical, but it's a darn good idea. If I ever decide to start a farm (alternative to getting a job), I'm buying my dogs in Berlin and my cattle in Holland.

After stepping foot off of the train, I was marveled. The Amsterdam Central train station is architecture at its greatest. I instantly fell in love with the people, buildings, bridges, streets and swans. There was so much diversity among the people that I still don't even know what a real Dutch person looks like. I thought the Dutch were like the Germans - blonde hair, Karl Marx and a language that requires a regurgitation sound before speaking. Dutch is very similar to German, but most people spoke in English. My friends and I have used more German here than we do in Berlin. Our displaced tendency to speak in a language that has absolutely nothing to do with the country is very strange.

The Red Light District was something else. It's vivid, peculiar and exactly how I imagined it. Whores really do stand naked in windows with doors. There are streets lined with these girls caked in gaudy make-up, with a universal stench of "hussy," selling their souls for a buck. Some girls stand behind the glass with a mean grimace that is supposed to be sexually desirable, while others smack gum and listen to music, but the ones who need to pay their light bills will smile, flirt, point and scare you with friendliness. All I could do was walk and stare. For a moment, I tried to imagine going to work in a red-lit closet...but, that profession doesn't suit me. The system was easy: customers have their picking, go inside, curtains close, sex happens, walk of shame, (hopefully some sort of cleaning process is inserted here), she's back in the window. And the blue-light specials were the half-finished transvestites who looked just like the she-males that they are. Word on the street is Muslim men are their most valued customers. We were told transvestites pay higher rent because they tend to bring in more cash with their unheard-of sense of adventure. ew! Allegedly, prostitutes are made from Eastern European girls (starting at the age of 14) who sign contracts to work in the west. After they sign their bodies over, they're brain-washed and threatened to eventually become a prostitute. Sounds like a campfire story to me...

The entire liberal culture of Amsterdam was amazing! Beautiful apartments are stacked on top of the erotic stores and those notorious coffeeshops sit on almost every block. Swans and ducks paddle aimlessly through the canals, creating bits of romance that is veined throughout the city. October leaves effortlessly decorated the cobblestoned streets; couples shared space cakes leaving crumbs of hash on a napkin; and the children who biked past prostitutes and through marijuana-spiced air didn't seem shocked, choked or more susceptible to corruption. Everything was normal.

There was a carnival in Dam Square that was blocking the Dutch Royal Palace that we failed to notice until the very last day. The facade was being renovated so we skipped right over it and went to see the Reguliers Gracht. It's a bridge near the city center where you can see seven bridges all at once. Amsterdam has more than 1,200 bridges with canals on almost every street. I really feel like I experienced the city, and I think it was due to the fact that we didn't have a plan. We just showed up in Amsterdam and got lost a few times.

Densely populated hostel life isn't my cup of tea. Our Canadian bunk mates were true nomads. They were one city away from the end of their three and one-half month voyage throughout Europe. We exchanged stories, blogs, and European survival tips. I admire the spontaneity of backpacking. I'm technically backpacking with my neatly-folded suitcase, book bag full of baguette and Pringles, and Chanel purse. I'll have you know I've worn the same jeans and sweater for three days straight. I'm also taking showers in the morning because I figure the sheets on the beds are infested with germs anyway. Going to bed with dusty feet just isn't my thing (LOL, Ma). I blame my OCD-tendencies for not allowing me to explore life in a gritty fashion. I feel indian-ish.

My room mate and I are on the way to Paris - we are tracking through Belgium right now. I adopted a new cookie into my diet: Roomboter Stroopwafels - thinly sliced waffel circles with caramel. To die for.

Here I come World...

I'm on the ICE 642 train to Duisburg, Germany, and then make a quick switch to Holland. Our train ride is six hours of a whole lotta trees and European funk. People really shouldn't eat on the train (as I put a strawberry müsli (granola) in my mouth) - it makes me breathe differently. I'm discouraged to fully inhale this stale wagon air we all have to share.

My two friends and I booked a six-bedroom hostel in Amsterdam. I'm certain that I will have a mini anxiety attack since I find sharing spaces a repulsive consequence of being a frugal traveler. On that note, my globe-trotting pass (http://www.eurail.com/) was purchased in my favor so that I could finally get around to seeing this over-sized world of ours. I'm on a 10-day excursion through Amsterdam, Paris and Prague. I'll be cranking these blurbs out all along the way. I can't wait to see something erotic, sketchy and scandalous in this Red Light District where the nymphos won't let you snap their pictures. I'm going to play the tourist card. They can't criminalize me for taking a picture of an Amsterdamian building that happens to be an office space for sexually promiscuous women. All I have to say is the Anne Frank House better be a freaking bookcase.

I just discovered WC means toilet/washroom/bathroom on this train. That explains my beloved cleaning products. I guess I shouldn't go to the WC, Without Cash. I still don't like this.

A Less- Exciting Endeavour

As a failed idea at fun, my architecture professor decided to take our class to a brick factory in a bitter-cold outskirt of Berlin. This German brick place had a bunch of stupid bricks. We saw an assembly line of Germans dirtied in mud, man-ishly slapping grey chunks of clay into squares. This is how the brick is shaped (in that monotonous lecture voice). The workers were clad in cute, blue overalls, listening to Mexican-construction-worker's style of German tang. The only difference between these guys was the Germans had health insurance. The only part about the field trip that I enjoyed was the freebie from class, and of course the baking process of the bricks. I got to stand in a furnace where 3,000 bricks can bake. The crisping process takes two weeks and then a brick is born. But who really cares about bricks anyway?

The next day was even more underwhelming. NYU took us on another day trip to Weimar to see the Buchenwald concentration camp. Weimar was a cuddly city with forests and cobblestone. My expectations were way too exotic for this trip. I wanted to see rigor mortis at this concentration camp. I was highly anticipating barbed wire with dried-up Jew flesh and clothing remnants. Heck, I was at least expecting some left over Nazi blood. Turns out, the walls were spick-n-span, the body ovens weren't nary an ash, and the inmate cells had fake mistletoe. There were a few remaining prison houses with antiqued signs of torture, but that's about it. I saw a few half-stimulating photos of body piles and mal-nutritioned corpses. That was sort of expected. I know what you're thinking...I'm inhuman and my heart is made of solid...right? Pardon my writerly use of imagery, but aren't concentration camps supposed to have "things from concentrate?" sheesh. This place was a freaking memorial.

I'm falling in love with this perfect economy. I feel so free - I think this new-found liberation (and massive amount of leisure) encourages me to write more. Go me!

Mind in a Mid-desert Mirage

When I have my notepad, I pay attention to peculiarities. I notice voices, smells, sounds, textures, atmospheres and all the detail that journalists aren’t supposed to ignore.

It inspires me. Or, I inspire it.

Would you look at that, I’ve found my writer’s voice – it’s a light-hearted, witty tone with a dash of poet.
Moments ago, I was scrambling through my handy-dandy notepad in class. I re-read some old thoughts, half-written anecdotes, scribble- scrabbles, and poems that only make sense when I read them. Sometimes I can’t believe I wrote that stuff. Good thing writing is a progressive practice of the imagination. I’m actually just now coming to terms with the fact that I’m a writer. It’s odd that I’m a member of the “writerly” culture who forms the backbones of this society.
We’re different from artists. Words are our art. We don’t make pottery, knit patches of fabric together, or paint canvases – we write words. It’s mentally laborious, that’s for sure. We have a third eye for sharp perception on the page. All I need is a free imagination to engage the senses.

In fact, I don’t even know why I’m writing this right now. I’m just letting my thoughts run wild instead of listening to this lecture that will probably have less than profound effects on my life. I stopped listening when I heard the word “teached” used in a sentence. As it turns out, writing about writing induces more writing. I don’t doodle on my spirals, I write half-page blurbs instead. It appears to my colleagues that I’m taking comprehensive notes right now, but my mind is in a mid-desert mirage.

Creativity fuels me.
Art remains entirely resistant to anything resembling an obligation since its domain is where freedom reigns – Emile Durkheim. That’s all I’ve learned today.

The most boring topic on earth is a dull encounter with a writer.

------- <3

I went to the Sony center at Potsdamer Platz this weekend to catch the children's movie, UP. The ceiling in this fascility was far out. The children in the theater were bilingual. I got jealous.

A Berlin Immersion

Canines aren't bound by leashes here. It's an interesting cultural phenomenon. The dogs seem so well-behaved. They scurry alongside their owners, ignoring my cat calls "Hallo Hündchen," disregarding my human scent that (American) dogs are so fond of, and apparently don't like to get their bellies rubbed. I've been yearning to pet a dog since I've been here. These obedient little mutts will even leashless-ly follow their owners on bikes, wait outside of the Getränke (convenience store) on the steps with wagging tails, and even wait to cross the street when cars are coming. There must be something in the German Kibbles n' Bits because Americans use chokers, chains and electric collars to keep our dogs from escaping. I'm convinced that if I dropped an entire chicken on the sidewalk, a German dog wouldn't even growl.

Speaking of chicken, that's all I eat here. German food is hearty and keeps you in the gym. Bratwurst (elongated sausages served between an insufficient piece of bread), currywurst (sausage slathered in yummy red sauce), Ritter Sport, Nutella, and my all-time favorite Vollmilch (16 butter crackers with a layer of oh-so delicious German chocolate). Did I mention the German's whole-hearted commitment to pizza, pasta and all things abundant in carbohydrates? Everywhere I go I'm faced with a China Box -- a red, shoe-box like franchise with noodles, chicken/beef, bean sprouts and greasy drunk food that's open until dawn. I had to go to McDonald's (or more precisely, Mc Cafe) to get a freaking Chicken Caesar Salad. Counterintuitive, right? It even had perfectly-sized clusters of Parmesan cheese that they usually only decorate salads with in fancy restaurants. Mc Cafe was an actual cafe with modern furniture and reduced portions. Ketchup wasn't even free, in fact...nothing in Europe is free.

You have to deposit one euro to use a basket at the grocery store; you have to pay to use the bathroom; you have to pay for refills; you have to pay for plastic bags; you have to pay €8,00 to do laundry; and my goodness, I couldn't even get a sample of ice cream for free. Last night, my room mate found a hostel in Prague where you had to pay for your own damn sheets and towels. Not to mention, the hyper-sexual men at bars are resistant to buying drinks for random girls. Don't they know conversation isn't free? Sheesh. I guess they're saving their euros to buy a basket at the grocery store. I'm tired of buying stuff while simultaneously lacking a job.

If I sound like I'm complaining, it should be interpreted as an "I miss NYC" claim. I miss everything about my dazzling city. The lights, the dirty, disgusting subways, that Manhattan hurry even if you're just going to a newspaper stand, the ability to read street signs/menus/engage in day-to-day conversation, and most of all my Cinnabon pecan-roll candles that can be purchased at K-Mart on Astor Place for $10. (I'm not hinting for a care package or anything, PARENTS). A few weeks ago I went to a Vietnamese restaurant and for a brief moment, completely forgot I was in Berlin until I had to request a menu in English. Berlin has a New-Yorky feel sometimes.

The beauty and artistic flavor of Berlin is quickly growing on me. I couldn't think of a better way to spend the first half of my senior year. When I return to NYC in January it will be time to crack down to business and figure out real-world stuff. I already started looking for apartments with no job offers. I'm convinced that I'm on the right track.

I'm also developing favorites.