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.