An Old Brick Studio

I occupy the top floor of a red-brick walk-up tenement at 199 Avenue A, nestled between 13th and 14th Streets, in the thick of the East Village. It has typical pre-war quirks. The hot water flow tends to take a lifetime longer than my general, two-second-tolerance-level of patience, and of course, none of the electrical plugs are in ideal places. Nonetheless, the place does boast a few truly winning qualities. Relatively speaking, it has a generous layout. The sun pleasingly illuminates the studio, throwing graceful light beams across the high, bleached ceiling—absorbed eventually, by the exposed burnt-red brick. This genuine, brick wall that actually sheds gritty cement crumbles when your hand meets its texture is a highly desirable amenity— my idyllic idea of cozy, urban décor, since the very beginning of my Manhattan obsession. The whiteness of everything else juxtaposes (my decorator mom’s term) magnificently against the brilliant, old brickwork. A Turkish immigrant in his 60s owns and manages the continually renovated building and sets in place the outlandish, noncommittal rent prices. The recent additions of washers and dryers, stainless steel kitchens and polished oak floors that shine in the worst of situations have seemingly provoked crazy-elevated rents. April is a particularly stubborn, inflexible month for him. He targets tenants like me who respect authority and make mistakes in judgment that never occur to the 21 year-old brain beforehand. I paid his inflated fee last month; but then got wise to myself the next time. I appeared as a prettier, girlier girl in a delightful sundress with my pointer finger (wearing a silver band) coiled around a small grab of my black curls. The sugary smell of my perfume disarmed his greed and he conceded to a small discount.

These bricked walls are so thick, that on two different occasions when I screamed out loud (either for emotional relief or in utter dread) with all three windows widely opened, none of the city people were summoned to curiosity. It sometimes feels like I’m alone in the world here. That first heart forsaken scream was just that: my tender, romantic heart had been shattered into shards of glass— like a porcelain figurine knocked off a table or a finished whisky bottle flattened by rush-hour traffic or a light bulb that spontaneously ruptures upon your return home. Perhaps I was hoping that the echoes of my mourning would commute further downtown and barge silently into my old lover’s office, with the translated message of everything I felt entitled to vent. But alas, not even the stray, city cats seemed stirred. My second earsplitting screech occurred in my tiny, shiny metal kitchen, while leisurely washing plates. A bulky, overfed rat scurried quite un-nervously across my big toe. The fuzzy creature seemed confused and bewildered by my horror, as I shrieked and kicked and terrorized it out the door. I’ve since, chosen to never, not even for a moment, allow my feet to go bare—even though the cool, smooth luster of the oak planks are sole soothing after a frantic day of working for a publication. The rodent encounter is mildly bittersweet, because I’m truly not the type to be pitiless toward animals.

Ernest (yet another lover lost) whose charming, five feet nine stature, dry, but robust wit and quiet intellect could deactivate any girl’s heart-guard. He has a way of showing sincere interest in the most mundane of life’s events that arouses a weird feeling of special-ness. His baby-like face, and dimpled cheeks, and eyes that are big and brown and loving are entirely compelling. His top lip forms a perfect “m”. That flawless, beige skin remotely reminds me of my own. When lazy, he sports a skimpy, black beard, which makes him appear manlier than his boyish smile that causes his cheeks rise so high that his twinkling eyes squint. Rather characteristic of a man in his late twenties and works in a bank, his attire is atrociously neat. For a pretty conventional, loner type, somewhat opposed to change by nature, he’s unusually verbal about starting a family in the next five years. To the contrary, Ernest appears as uncommitted to relationships as he is to Manhattan apartments. During the short period that I favored his company, he moved three times: from midtown to Morningside; from Morningside to Chelsea; and then again to Greenwich Village. In clearheaded hindsight, I suppose there were many times, when he didn’t make me feel so extraordinary. The final time was on a gray, nasty, rainy day, when he called me “a chronic sufferer of failing romance.” I was deeply offended by this all-too-familiar reminder. Why can’t I seem to keep a boyfriend or a dating partner or a monogamous lover or cuddle buddy for any longer than a willful teenager can handle a glass of scotch for the first time? I’ve been single since elementary school in my suburban, hometown in Texas—a predominately married population of Jones’, who act very much alike: the phony laughs, the upward noses, the yard-playing children, the bricked mailboxes and manicured landscapes, the arguing that is never heard on the street.

At least, here amongst my beloved red bricks, I don’t have to worry about being seen while I sulk. My three windows face a tree-lined terrace, which I don’t care to have access to because my allergies are terrible this season. Every now and then, when I’m trying to purge my mind of my agonizing love diagnosis (and quickly drain my sinuses), I opt for a few hits of marijuana over allergy medicine. My mom says pharmaceutical companies are evil and don’t truly want you well, but merely want your money. While burning scented candles several times a week may not be particularly smart for a person with weeping sinuses, I routinely light cinnamon-vanilla candles every day to curb my appetite for baked goodies. After smoking a joint last week, I lit a cinnamon pecan-roll candle that apparently lured the neighbor from 4A, to my door with a request for brown sugar. He appeared unconsciously nervous, and introduced himself with a lethargic opener and awkward mid-sentence pause. “Hi, I’m Michael. From across the hall.” He wore a red and black plaid shirt buttoned to the last hole and dirty black Converse sneakers. I don’t recall if they were high tops or not, because his trousers were so unbecoming. He briefs me about how the sweet, aromatic waves from my apartment drift through the outdated halls, presumptuously convincing him that my cabinets possessed sugar. I handed him the Domino Dark Brown Sugar, in a yellow and white box that read: “we’ll always be your sugar.” Inside the threshold of my doorway, he is more inquisitive than I expect. I am rather taken aback when he bluntly asks, if I smoke pot. Once our shared practice is revealed, he lights up with confidence and becomes slightly more remarkable than his poorly kept presentation. Shortly, we find ourselves passing a bong back and forth, while seated in the middle of my apartment floor, because my living room doesn’t have a couch yet. I refuse to settle for just any old couch. It has to be the perfect sofa—chic, square-shaped, white leather in the Barcelona-style that I once saw through a store window on Broadway. After knowing each other for a half hour, Michael proves he adeptly plays the ukulele and acoustic guitar. He then forces me to admit that I’m a poet, if not a very good poet, but an average or aspiring or unpublished poet. I always remind myself of Erykah Badu’s infamous line, “I’m an artist and I’m sensitive about my shit.” I have the spirit of an artist. Prefaced with this, I read him one of my good poems, and then one of my bad poems. He withholds judgment and claims to have a pathetic poetic sensibility. He can be profoundly cynical and awkward at times and has come to the conclusion, that people only enjoy his company because his humor is unexpectedly dry, unpredictable yet comical. We linger for hours. There seems to be a bizarre correlation between our separate lives. But even if it could have been something, it wouldn’t have turned into anything, because nothing ever pans out for me, amorously. Then of course, it occurs to me that, there is, in fact no true connection. Marijuana has the lovely ability to alter unambiguous reasoning. I said good night to Michael.

I knock off work early on a sunny Friday that doesn’t seem like too hot of a day to be purchasing leather. I’m finally buying my dreamy, white couch from a small furniture store on Broadway. Days earlier, Michael had prompted me to just do it.— as if he were anticipating being a sitter, who breaks in its newness, or one who causes its first crack or stain. I experience the same enthralling whiffs of enthusiasm as I had the first time I moved to New York City. On both occasions, when I stopped to gather my breath and took a look around, I realized that dreams can come true. Jabal, my dear friend who drives a mini-van, yellow cab is madly in love with me. Unfortunately, I’m unable to reciprocate. No matter, he generously transports my much anticipated purchase to my apartment. Riding in the front seat of his yellow cab feels like no other. I have the privilege of seeing things from his disturbed point of view about passengers and the liberty to lower the volume of his Ghanaian Christian soundtrack. Whenever a passenger left a measly tip, Jabal felt dejected. “Oh my god, oh my god,” he’d say as he nervously counted his stash of money held together by a rubber band, and stashed in the middle console. He regularly complains about money, and amuses me with his grumblings on people who either didn’t pay enough, or overpaid or didn’t pay at all. I’ve ridden around with him on several shifts and learned all the thru-streets, spotted the undercover NYPD cabs, and crossed every single bridge in Manhattan.

The first time I hailed a cab from Jabal was when I was living on Water Street, across from the South Street Seaport, in a thirty-two story high rise where the Brooklyn Bridge was the astounding view outside my bay windows. Even though 199 Water Street was a less extraordinary view than that of the East River, or the Fulton fish market, or the people of the financial district, or the convenient vision of the clock tower in Brooklyn, it meant masses more to me. Water Street was my meeting with destiny. It was a sign. I had encountered that exact address on my virgin visit to New York City, four years before NYU ever assigned me to that precise building. As an entranced tourist, I had randomly snapped a picture of that very spot as purely an insignificant NYC address. My intentions were only to have enough photo material to create a meaningful album. I wandered around every energizing section of the city, relishing its eclectic sentimentality and creativity and Xanadu, clicking pictures of every noteworthy locale. I now see signs everywhere. Signs which I have interpreted as pearls, that when stranded together, form a Mikimoto. Once, when accidentally eyeing engagement rings, the residing jeweler obstinately advised me that diamonds were far better choices than pearls. Midway through her informative spiel, I was completely unimpressed with her perceived advantages of wearing a diamond. I had spent a good part of my twenty-one years trying to get to New York City to find my strand of pearls—to discover my purpose in life. My burnt-red brick wall, which creates so perfect a setting for the back of my new white leather couch, is my gem, my pearl, my cultured little bead.

An Eiffel Tower Affair

I know this video is extremely late, but I just figured out how to upload video.

A Loner in the City

In my hometown, I never felt like a local. Even on my street, I never felt like a neighbor. In New York City, mostly southeast of 14th Street, sardined with the offbeats and mavericks, the bohemians dressed as gypsies, the washed-up vegans, the addicted Wall-Streeters, the everyones' who ever wanted to be anyones, the whatchamacallits, and the might've-beens, I felt at ease.

I was reacquainted with my style here, the fad that I was born with before my time. When my lips are stained red, I look like a flapper and live like a modern classicist. I wear silky, baggy shirts salvaged from second-hand shops, scuffed up boots barely fastened by their rotting laces, with a new pair of skinny jeans that occasionally make me look brawny, and my hair is big. Like the big pin curls the women admired in the 1920's. My facial skin is ageless and not perfect, revealing a childlike sense of adventure through an instant gaze into a pair of quarter-sized eyes and confused demeanor. Generally, I appear well put together. But my nails are always chipped with decaying cuticles, bad judgment slips from under my tongue sporadically, and I'm a chronic sufferer of failing romance. As a rule, I rarely flaunt my well-earned figure because I have a peculiar ability of finding a way around this. My heart is stitched on a rolled-up sleeve, gravitating up and down with every bend, movement, or endeavor. I lost my innocence a long time ago, way before I moved to New York, and after my heart was broken. That's a good thing. Because only the Frank Sinatras' survive here.

You have to know how to function alone in this city. As an individual. As an anonymous.
It's not a place for tender-heart rocking or closed-minded foolishness. The legacy of cultural tolerance is not for the unadventurous, incurable bigot. But, here in my city...color is silently pertinent. Having the facade of a multinational is a fast track to joining the medley. But, if you want instant conformity, be true to yourself. New York forced me to acknowledge my sufficient eccentricities. I grew up within the confines of Texas, south of the Mason Dixon line; even when forced, refuse to use "nigga" as a pronoun or invite like-skinned people of similar socio-economic backgrounds into my world. I don't wear racially-distinguishable garments; and my social circles are of Benetton nature. It's a shame that my character difference is mistaken as deviance.

This is me, unveiled. I'm an over-analytical oddball, a three-dollar bill, an idiosyncratic, a case, a rarity. And my name is too often found next to a parenthesized weirdo. I bullied a pigeon today in Cooper Square; one time, I made three mistakes in two hours; the word "mad" has inadvertently slid into my vocabulary; there are times when I don't believe in myself; I dream about reality, but my life is not a storybook; and I live in a city that fully embraces my creativity as an artist. As an individual.

I'm a self-proclaimed New Yorker inspired by invention and freedom.

My Dazzling City

I am a rather eccentric person. The nature of my avocations for the last 20 years has brought me to the capital of nostalgia. I found my voice on a long crowded island called Manhattan. If I bargain a job in this depressed society, I plan to die here. Bury my soul in the overpopulated cemetery in Queens. I want curly bamboo sticks on my grave. Please don't mourn over my headstone with fresh-cut or artificial flowers that lack originality. Because this city is all about having character.

It took a long time to get to New York. The eternity of the ride into the city is where I met my irrational love for the place. New York is a city of perpetual filth, occasional hatred, daily tests of individuality, and a daring amount of energy to fully appreciate its dollops of charm. It's mysterious allure is epidemic, like love. I came to this soaring madhouse to discover love. Not just a well-wished romantic companion, but to marry my passion. This compacted and beautiful segment of America is my muse, my feel good, my gem. Waking up on Third Avenue is a daily indulgence, like sex. My proclaimed affair I have a metropolis is real. I consider myself a native newlywed.

The interval between my fourth-floor address, create contrast, and so much more. The direction of my window commands attention to the curiosities of humankind. I romanticize the unobstructed view of neighbors from my desk chair. I accidentally eavesdrop on drunk weekenders from the uncarpeted interior of a red-bricked mini skyscraper.
"Dude, I can't tell if she's hot or not. She's wearing too many clothes," a city character once said, crookedly passing over the gum-spotted and worn sidewalk, marching to the 4 a.m. beat of the village. This city is tolerant.

My Manhattan has been my health and my allergy, my battlefield and playground, my bruise and my band-aid, my sweet lemon with salt on it, my fetish and my nuisance. It feels like there's no other place in this world that penetrates my creativity as a writer. All else is uninteresting.

And just beyond my glassed pane is an enlivened bus stop. The M101 is my night light. It has the kind of digitized, exterior advertising that would gloss your eyes in Times Square. Fourty-second street is infidelity. It's the face of New York, but not my source of adoration or comfort. My dazzling city is a diagnosed spastic. I support every symptom of eccentricity. It's most tranquil moments are hard to decide. It requires no prescribed lens to reveal the lurking commotion. I'm most comfortable in the gritty East Village where suburb-starved artists wear suspenders and Elvis Costello glasses, clinging hands, creating a portrait of Cupid's graces, anxiously searching for golden inspiration. I find restful peace in the rush of a yellow cab's wheels intersecting with street vents. The homemade cheese store across the street, that lacks all commercialized showiness, is poetic enthusiasm. I have learned to dream in a restless environment. When the sun sneaks into my city's overcrowded infrastructure, I wake up craving more, ready to embrace every beautiful moment of coexistence.

By winter, I still have the butterflies, even when all six trees on my block have been amputated of their springtime bio. They appear starved and shivered by the erratic falls of February's snow. My love grows through seasons, through every tear of rain, burst of sunshine, and gentle drop of snow. New Yorkers don't know how to appreciate everything. By mid-day, important business people their scriveners have trampled over every last piece of preserved flurry, leaving the scraps to the latecomers and call girls. January, February and sometimes chunks of March are winters that burn your skin, color your nose cherry red, erect your arm hairs, and seem partially miserable. But, I'm here until death do us part.

Oh America!

I'm officially back on American soil. I anticipated being jet-lagged, shocked and resistant to orthodoxy. There was no reverse cultural shock. There was no urgency to raid the pantry for hearty U.S. snacks. There was no speech stuttering or lingual confusion. There was no allegiance to religion. Instantly, I fit right back into the American way.

The first thing I did when I arrived home was take a bath in a bathroom that was built by an American worker who probably doesn't have state-given benefits. It felt just right. I arrived on New Year's Eve, but had no desire to socialize with the masses that evening. Most of my relationships with friends that I deliberately chose to not keep in contact with, changed. For the first few days, I was closely examining how things Changed since I had been gone. I know that I felt different, but if you were to ask me how different I am, I wouldn't be able to describe it. Everyones' life had gone on (imagine that), and I was completely out of the loop on pop-culture. It seemed for the past four months that I was acting out a dream and everyone else was in reality. I didn't get pregnant, pay taxes, or fail miserably at anything. Life gave me nothing but lemons these past four months.

Reality check inserted here.

Now that I'm reconnected with my Blackberry; impeccable Hi-Speed Internet; recordable HD T.V; a multi-functional washer/dryer; daily encounters with the SUN; the devalued American dollar; dishes that don't wash themselves; a dog that doesn't follow you leash-lessly; a non-recycling family; a career choice that doesn't show up on your doorstep; a few bad memories from the past; and all of my overdue relationships have ended. These are the publishable parts of my reality.

I'm off to New York City tomorrow to face the rest! I have dearly missed my dazzling city. Even though I haven't ever experienced love, I KNOW that I'm absolutely infatuated with my city.

Good-bye. The American way.

Tschüss Deutschland

I did Christmas the Deutsch way. My friend invited me to her house for a family setting. We ate kartoffeln (potatoes) and played Tabu in German. I never realized how much German I knew until I started describing words that were outside of my vocabulary. During my stay in Koeln, I was surrounded by Swahili, Spanish, German and English. Luckily, they all sounded completely different from each other. I'm going to miss multi-lingual people. In fact, I think my English has become more simplified over time. I stopped using big words like "onomatopoeia" in my daily vocabulary. (Does anyone Ever use this word?) I was asked to describe cake sprinkles the other day. That was an unbelievably difficult task. I got nervous and thought I would misrepresent them. Describing ordinary items to someone who has absolutely no idea what the fuck a sprinkle is presented a new challenge.

I'm on my last (for awhile, at least) European train to Dusseldorf Airport. I love trains so much. You don't have to worry about Nigerian bombers or being busted for having toothpaste in your bag. Trains are relaxing, calming, spacious and easy to escape in case of derailment.?Yeah, I guess every institutional creation has its flaws. None the less, Koeln was a great way to top off four months in Europe. I've survived all of this time without BBMing and texting (among other things). This is a personal achievement.

I can't wait to be reunited with my better half (and my family, too)!

Winter Wonderland

There's a white blanket all over Germany. It's beautiful to experience from indoors. I have a decreasing desire for all outdoor activities. All I need is a glass of Glühwein (hot spiced wine), my snuggie and a cheesy romantic comedy for fun these days. I think I've grown out of excessive socializing and have become more of a bore - or commonly referred to as an Adult (pronounced with the long "-ai" sound).

The good news is, I made it to Köln without being re-routed into a snowy Germanic forest. The six-hour drive started off as unusual as the nature of any foreign-country Ride Sharing would be. Everyone was getting to know each other in German, and I was awkwardly tuning them out posing as a sleepy college Adult. After I comfortably settled into my window seat, another passenger was picked up to further reduce the European carbon footprint. I was sandwiched between a funky, black-haired photographer and a fat man who wouldn't let me lean on his arm that was invading my space. Europeans don't joke around when it comes to moderation. Americans are the ones who should be car pooling between states with our gas-guzzling SUV's and Hummers. My nation makes me feel fat sometimes. In Europe, I've been the one who cut a thicker slice of cheese at breakfast; requested more bread in a restaurant; opened a box of cookies in the grocery store; asked for extra sugar cubes for my cappuccino; and filled my glass waaaayyyy passed their measurement line. Overindulging is our way.

Meanwhile, I've been watching movies to pass the snow and hanging out with my two friends who have graciously lent their hospitality for twelve days. German people are so nice. I even have my own room and set of keys. I'll be experiencing my first German Christmas with a Ghanaian family. I bet the food will be amazing!

This travel experience has been unforgettable.

Final Days in Berlin

On a redundant note, studying abroad has been a wonderful experience. The semester is nearly over and my work load has topped off to a three-month compilation. My extensive semester of traveling and learning has wearied me. I'm just about ready to be re-initiated into my dazzling city of New York. But just about any American city will do that's installed with 120 watt plugs. I took (synchronously) plugging in my curling iron and hot comb for granted.

For the most part, I'm tired of hearing, learning and incompetently communicating in German. The language is hard. Don't let anyone EVER convince you otherwise. Although I've completely managed to slide with English, I don't imagine the German library being that accommodating. On Tuesday, I'm expected to reactivate my cryptic knowledge of how to use a library. This should be interesting, yet frustrating. I'm from the 21st Century litter. We don't use book repositories for research when Google has the e-book enabling me to wear my slippers and nightgown. If you ask me, Germany is a bit too nostalgic to the old ways of the world.

In my ONE favorite class, New York and Berlin as Knowledge Cities, all of my FIVE classmates and I were asked the reason why we chose to study abroad. It was at that moment when I realized the real reason why I chose an overpriced transnational education: I wanted to grow and mature in a foreign context. So far, I think its been working. My previous amounts of free time have allowed for a lot of self-reflection. In conclusion, I've had more of an Internal international experience than trying to master German, stuff my face with Currywurst or subscribe to the Berliner Zeitung (If you were bilingual, you would know that means "newspaper.") One thing I learned about myself: I like my space under all circumstances of daily existence. "Invasion" makes me feel uneasy. This may be subject to controversy, but Berlin has taught me how to live in semi-moderation. I've acquired awesome, new anal recycling habits where I don't let ANYTHING go in the wrong bin. I love how serious locals are about their throw-away-ables. They sit empty bottles near trashcans (never inside), and bring in multiple crates of recyclables to the grocery store with eco-friendly grins waiting to collect their stipends. Yes, Berliners get incentives to reduce their carbon footprints. This may be a good idea for America. I even keep my electronics (except my laptop) unplugged while not in use, while also rationing paper, food and hair products. I especially try to keep the lights turned off before dark. The contradiction of natural sunlight and artificial home lighting really bothers me for some reason. Not to mention, it gets dark here at 4:30 p.m., and the street lights only function on certain random occasions. I started sleeping with my curtains open to increase my encounters with the sun. When the church bells ring all the way through my glass-sealed windows, I know that's the cue to get up if I want to see a hint of daylight. I'm not going to miss those church bells.

With only seven days left in Berlin, I've made a few tardy discoveries that would have been useful three months ago. All the while, I could have been purchasing "short trip" train tickets saving a whopping €0.80 cents than paying €2,10 EACH way. I could have been having cocktails and curry at this cute Indian restaurant located 10 minutes away. I could have bought contact lenses out of a vending machine at Tegal Airport. I could have eaten less German chocolate. And come to find out, I do live across the street from a brothel - Club Sternchen. It's usually poppin on Friday and Saturday nights when the married men can get out of the house.

But most importantly, I've realized that I have had an out-of-this-world European traveling experience. The other reason why I wanted to study abroad was my deep desire to "feel" other places in this world. I had the opportunity to see a full moon in Paris; kicked acorns through a Germanic forest; climbed hills in Prague; witnessed the leaves changing colors in Amsterdam; sailed the Mediterranean; ate waffles in Belgium; star-gazed off my balcony in Berlin; and finally changed my Facebook status to: London is in London.

My odyssey isn't over yet; I'm headed to Köln on Saturday to reconnect with my German friends for ten days. I'll be riding in a car for four hours with a complete stranger that I met online. Don't fret, this is the European way.
Life's good.

Eight Hours in Paris

Random adventure found my footsteps during an eight-hour layover in Paris. I was unable to get a closely connected train back to Berlin on Sunday, so I spent the entire day in Paris instead. Darn?

I decided to explore the area near Gare de l'Est train station, when my flawless intuition guided me to Château d'Eau or in bilingual words: African town. It dawned on me that I was in A-town when black men scared me (so I grabbed my purse) with lines like "Would you like to get your hair braided, weaved, styled or how about your nails done in my shop around the corner?" Keep in mind that their hussle was in French. My incompetence of the language made me start walking even faster. A Nigerian man finally convinced me that I wasn't being harassed and COMMITTED (can you believe that?) to showing me the city for the day. Our encounter turned into a free lunch and coffee, swap of life stories, and I learned the ins-and-outs of the barber trade. He taught me how to hussle in Paris. There's not many techniques when you're black. Women think you're trying to harass them and men think you're trying to rob them. We stood next to the Parisian prostitutes (who were hussy-ing, too) at Strasbourg Saint Denis and my Nigerian friend talked to almost every nappy-headed black person who walked by asking if they needed salon service. Business was slow that day. Oh yeah, the prostitutes in Paris don't actually look like whores. They are dressed like normal deviant women. Their services are ridiculously frugal at 50 Euros for one session. I thought hoes were worth more than a penny.

The A-town husslers were on almost every block. Beauty salons and most French stores are supposed to be closed on Sundays. But this wasn't exactly the case. We visited almost every single African hair salon that had its door barely cracked with Yaky scraps and hair-sewing thread spilling out to the street. There was absolutely no disguise from the law that people were inside booming to level 23 American rap music, and clients coming in and out like a brothel. I didn't get it. I sat in on a few weavings and was thankful to be an African-American. In America, we seem to have more hair grease and do-rag options. All I recognized was Pink Oil Moisterizer and some poorly executed hair styles. But, I was ecstatic to see those nappy-headed men with tangled balls of hair on their cheeks to come in for a taper fade and trim. One man actually became more attractive when his village hair with flying dandruff was gone. I swear I had an extremely interesting day! I re-experienced Paris from a completely different set of eyes. I know where most of the best African spots and the Arabic cheap Internet-Taxiphone cafes are, too.

For tradition's sake, I went to Saint Michel to have a Greek gyro picnic on the Seine river again. The Seine and Paris are so beautiful by night. Eight hours in Paris wasn't so bad after all.

I'm on the train back to Berlin now...nine and a half more hours to go.

Off The Coast of France

Marseilles was a handsome and rugged coastal city on the Southeast of the Mediterranean. Cute and colorful villages were layered on top of each other molded to the silhouettes of mountains. It's the oldest city in France hugged by the deep valleys of the Calanques fjords. Most streets had that winding San Francisco hill feature with arm-length wide alleys leading to stairs of crumbled concrete. Everything was weathered by the sea.

A whisk of all things sea welcomes your nostrils as soon as you step foot off of the metro. The city center is divided by a commercial port that fosters tourism by water. Marseilles wasn't romantic or tense like Paris, but more of a refreshing getaway to Greek-like zen.

My favorite part of the trip was the train ride from Paris. Imagine a three-hour landscape of sunny mountains, St. Patrick's Day green, bridges spanning over great rivers, wine vineyards, architecture made of rocks, and a Parisian man eating two baguettes on a train in the middle of French nirvana. So much for those small European portions. It was stunning!

When I arrived to Gare de Saint-Charles main station it was as diverse as Wikipedia told me. My Couch Surfing host had me fooled. I thought she was Indian, but turned out to be Cameroonian. Her flat was minutes away from the city center with a window view of Notre Dame de la Garde. The church is nested on the highest natural point in Marseilles, often referred to as "la bonne mère" (the good mother). She was a friendly and fun stranger to find over the internet and then ride 16 hours to finally meet. That was my first Couch Surfing experience; and I'm definitely doing it again! We visited the "La Plage des Catalans" - a city beach where Marseilles locals were still scuba diving like it was freaking summer. The weather wasn't as "Mediterranean" as I wanted it to be.

My host kept me under her wing the entire weekend giving me an ultimate local's point of view. We hung out with all of her bilingual/trilingual friends who craved pancakes?! As a true American I was expected to be able to make pancakes, but not speak French of rehearse the The Bill of Rights. I lived up to this faulty stereotype and prepared the most creative pancakes I've ever made in my entire life. I invented a recipe from crêpe flour mix adding loads of ingredients that tasted good. The French thought my pancakes were awesome and were forever amused by our fattening choice of a breakfast item. One girl asked, "So...this is what you eat for breakfast?" And I proudly answered, "Yep and sometimes with chocolate chips. It's another one of our inequities." Over pancakes, we discussed French perceptions of Americans. They probably forgot that fact that I was the very subject of their criticism as they continued to make jokes about America's lack of culture and ignorant citizens. Good thing I'm light-hearted. I feel slightly motivated to learn another language so that I can show the French that Americans aren't as self-centered as our politics. Almost every person I met spoke enough English to engage in a conversation. English has become a universal language in which I happen to be an expert in. Thank Gawd! Oh yeah, and they asked me why God is so popular in the U.S. The SUN is on our money, in our text messages, daily conversations, and don't even let me get started on the church. I wanted to make a really intelligent comment about the Age of the Pisces that we are in, but playing dumb was much more fun. "OMG, I didn't even realize we used that word so much." (Side note: We are in the Age of the fish or Pisces which is the reason why we are being taught by Jesus today. Remember the man who fed the masses with two fish?)

On Friday, they took me to a hip-hop club where the black French added "Zimbabwe" to the Grapevine and dressed like American gangsters with beautiful diction. It just didn't look right. Also, I learned this weekend that I'm NOT a fan of that European double-kiss on the cheek greeting. I find it invasive and a dermatological hazard. Out of respect I do it anyway, all the while I'm silently gagging and worried about catching Eczema. I'm hyper-sensitive about human germs that come in direct contact with my face. I'd rather give a thumbs up or something. The next night we went to a university party full of a another group of bilinguals who were extremely open about their sexual orientations. In fact, a group of guys were chanting "Vous êtes gai" ("You're gay"), while dabbing each others nipples with red wine. How FREAKishly French is that? I was waiting for the pigeons to fly in to peck the tobacco crumbs off of the floor. It seems to be the case that Europeans smoke at 16, drink and drive at 18, and then turn gay in college. I saw four erotic acts (within 10 minutes) of alleged homosexuality before I made that judgment. When a drunken fool pulled out his man parts in front a group of mans, I turned halfway homophobic. If it were America, it would be two blondies in wet T-shirts making out on camera in South Padre Island. So I guess college parties are homogeneous-natured all around the world.

If I didn't have a local French-Cameroonian showing me the way, I wouldn't have developed my Afro-Arabian-neighborhood-finding intuition. We walked through the markets, ate Arabian food, took advantage of their cheap ass bakeries (French chocolate croissants are amazing), and even witnessed bloody sheep being unloaded from a truck. The Muslims were celebrating Hajj. It is the largest annual pilgrimage in the world. Most of the Africans in Marseilles are from the northern countries of Morocco, Tunisia and Algeria. Even at the southern tip of France, all Arabs double as terrorists and women clutch their purse when a black man gets on the elevator. Racism transcends geographic boundaries. On that note, I was surprised to not smell any won tons in a Chinatown or protect my valuables from the Turkish. It was a change of scenery, that's for sure.

I wanted to go the Mediterranean ghetto to visually compare economic misfortunes, but apparently it's not a sight to see. The only touristy thing we did was take a boat ride near the Calanques to capture an amazing panorama of the city. I regret not waking up early enough on Saturday to go hiking in the Calanques. That would have been a funny hindsight. ME mixed with nature's dirt, rocks, bugs, and soil? HA! I'm about as outdoorsy as having a drink on the patio with citronella candles and Mother Nature in the picturesque distance behind the mosquito net. This has been my most authentic trip so far. I prefer traveling alone - it leaves more room for random adventure.

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)...

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.