Sunday, February 22, 2009

How to most efficiently get attacked by a prostitute in Amsterdam

The title is catchy ain't it?  Well unfortunately, you're going to have to wait to find out until much later on, for my recount of my winter vacation in Europe will go chronologically.  Starting.......now.

As some of you might already know, the French are all about doing as little work as is humanly possible.  This is why they give their students not only a two week spring break in April, but also a week off in the middle of February to go skiing and whatnot.  Being that I attend a French university, I am entitled to both these vacations, and given that the school is practically always on strike, I'm not really a student for all intents and purposes.  Thus, for the past 10 days, I have been traveling around northern Europe with a small group of friends.  We decided northern Europe is a better idea because the weather sucks pretty much everywhere in Europe right now.  So it's best to save southern Europe for when it will be really nice there and only "meh" in the north.  The following locations were chosen; London, Dublin, and Amsterdam.

On February 13th, I and four others hopped on a train in Montpellier on our way to Marseille, a much larger city on the Mediterranean.  We had a couple of hours to kill before we had to make our way to the airport, so we walked along the seaport and found a place to eat on the water.  If you've never been in southern France when it's 60 degrees and sunny right next to the sea, you really need to get your head in the game and haul your ass over here.  It's breathtaking to say the least.  Good thing I live on the Mediterranean or I would have been much more sad having to leave so quickly.  

We then bussed to the airport in Marseille to have our first Ryanair experience.  For those of you who have not experienced this wonderful little detail of European travel yet, Ryanair is a really friggin cheap airline that flies all over the place.   All in all, it's not a bad deal.  You learn real quickly how they can afford to keep their prices so low when the minute you climb on board they're making advertising announcements for Hertz or shoving scratch and win tickets in your face.  Note to the future Ryanair user: Put on your IPOD and ignore all of this.  You are not obliged to buy shit from them, and I'm pretty sure the staff thinks that those who do are stupid.  All in all, it's not a bad deal.  Baggage restrictions are a little tight, but you shouldn't be traveling around Europe with more than you can fit on your back anyway.

London is baller....enough said.  Okay, maybe that's not quite enough.  But really, it's baller.  Hostels, on the other hand, not so much on the baller scale.  The one we stayed at was pretty filthy, cramped, and smelly.  However, you could drink in the lobby until all hours of the night if you wanted to.  We only took advantage of this once, however.  The rest of the time we spent rolling through London being all stellar and shit.  Of course I saw all the normal things to see in London; Big Ben, Buckingham Palace and the like.  Two highlights, however, were the British Museum and the London Eye.  The British Museum is entirely made of artifacts.  There aren't really any paintings whatsoever.  While there, one can see the ACTUAL Rosetta Stone.  Believe it or not, it's not just some random name for the rip-off program that "teaches" you foreign languages.  The London Eye is that gigantic ferris wheel that you've probably seen in some movies before.  It's an amazing view of London, and is definitely something not to miss (this is starting to read like a travel guide...sorry).  Also, the tube is great fun...as long as you mind the gap.

Monday night, it was on to Dublin, the land of Guinness and Jameson.  Believe it or not, the Irish do really seem to play these two things up as the most important aspects of Dublin.  Our hostel here was much better, although the bedroom did smell worse than the bathroom.  I'm still not quite sure how that works...

Immediately upon getting in, I met my friend (and future roommate) Jessica, who is studying abroad in Dublin and interning with the Irish Parliament (SWEET).  We went out to a bar and drank...that's right, you got it....Guinness.  The next morning we went to....oh wait, what was it???? OHHH YEAHHHH The Guinness Factory.  Guinness was abound, needless to say.  

Wednesday, we all decided to take this tour of the countryside in southern Ireland.  Now generally, I despise tours with every fiber of my being.  Most of them are inauthentic, and you spend half the time listening to information about a place when you could be taking it in for yourself.  So obviously, I was skeptical going into this.  I realized it was going to be a killer tour the moment I saw the tour guide and the automobile we would be taking.  Usually, when one thinks of a tour, the words coach bus and charismatic asshole with a microphone come to mind.  This however, was a very old Irishman named Ed and a van.  Ed reminded me of the father from My Big Fat Greek Wedding, only Irish.  As the father in the movie could prove that every word in the dictionary comes from Greek roots, Ed could basically prove that everyone in the world was Irish in some way, shape or form.  Besides bringing us to some sweeping Irish landscapes, he also gave us tea and cookies with a view of both Bono's and Enya's houses.  Believe it or not, Enya's was way bigger.  It was also castle style.  Way to go Enya.  However, I imagine Bono has one or 17 more houses around the world. (see pictures on facebook of this tour...totally worth it).

And now for the part we've all been waiting for.  How to most efficiently get attacked by a prostitute in Amsterdam.  It's quite simple really.  Merely, take a picture of her (or him...you never can tell).  No no no, this did not happen to me.  However, it did happen to one of the girls I was traveling with.  Despite having talked about not taking pictures in the red light district earlier that day, she decided that she could snap one photo of a red light and no harm would come.  Well upon snapping this one photo, a very large, possibly spanish prostitute came dashing out of her window onto the cobblestone street in nothing but an ill fitting bra and some stilettos.  She moved pretty quick for someone of her size.  It was really quite surprising.  I was about thirty feet ahead when I heard her yelling "OY OY (random babbling in some language)".  I whipped around and saw my tiny friend Joan wrapped in the clutches of this woman's arm fat struggling to get her camera back.  She fought all the way into the brothel (something I'm not sure the hooker was expecting).  This all happened too quickly for anyone to realize what was happening, let alone do anything about it.  The rest of us stayed right at the window to make sure they didn't do anything to her.  The two hookers inside were really just looking through her pictures with angry ho scowls on their faces. Anyway, they let her go with her camera shortly after.  Joan took it like a champ.  To be honest, I would have just let them take the camera.

We didn't go back to the red light district, and with good reason. The rest of Amsterdam is really quite beautiful.  The Van Gogh Museum is life-altering and tragic all at the same time.  Starry Night was there on loan from the MOMA.  I'm not going to lie...it was way better in person than it is on all those bad prints you see around the world.  Also, if you go to Amsterdam, never pay for public transportation.  They have no mechanism to check, and it seemed like hardly anyone was paying.  Don't blame me if you get caught, but we rode it a lot and no one ever seemed to care.

We got back home today.  This was easier typed than done.  We woke up at 7:00 am in Amsterdam and got on a tram (free of course).  This we took to the Amsterdam Centraal (that's how they spell it in Dutch...pointless extra A if you ask me) train station.  From their, we got on a train to Eindhoven.  In Eindhoven, we took a bus to the airport.  We got on a 12:55 pm flight to Marseille.  From the Marseille airport, we took a bus to the Marseille train station across town.  Then, we got on a train back to Montpellier, arriving at 6:15.  And what did you do today, might I ask?

Really, there are too many details to write down.  So please don't hesitate to ask if you want more.  

Cheers!

(PS...I typed this up in a hurry.  Please ignore grammar/spelling/awkward wording mistakes...in fact this goes for every entry in this blog....please and thank you)

Sunday, February 8, 2009

Yet again...

I manage to break my promise of writing in this twice a week.  I'm sure this has left all four of you that actually read this all curled up in a corner rocking back and forth, just waiting for more.  Well the methadone has arrived my friends.  Here we go...

First, and definitely foremost, I finally went to Paris this weekend.  The fact that I lived in France for more than a month before hitting the Paris streets makes me a little sick to my stomach.  I'm just glad I've remedied this fact now.  Either way, I spent the weekend living in Versailles with my old buddy Andrew Organ from high school.  I hadn't actually seen him for two years before Friday, but we seemed to pick up as if that time in between had never happened.  Andrew has been living in Versailles (which is about a half hour out of Paris) for the entire year on an architecture program from the University of Illinois.

I got to Paris, Gare de Lyon, at around 2:00 on Friday.  I then figured out the metro/RER lines, or what have you, and made my way out to Versailles.  I met Andrew there a little bit later on.  He showed me around his school which is ridiculously nicer than the one I go to.  I've described my school as "Bratislavaesque".  I'd give his school at least "Warsawesque".  Either way, it seemed like a really great program consisting of a close knit group of kids.  None of them spoke French for all intents and purposes before moving, which is BRAVE AS HELL if you ask me.  

Afterwards, Andrew went off to a meet his "gypsy band" (I'll explain later), while I made friends with his roommate Daniel, who was to be my babysitter for the night.  We had dinner and hung out for a bit, and then we hit the train system to get back into Paris to see Andrew's band perform that night...

The metro...hilarious.  It's exactly as absurd as everyone told me it was.  In one three day stay in Paris, I managed to witness someone throwing up, someone receiving sexual favors, and two guys straight up smoking crack.  Now I've never even seen crack (you can breathe mom!), let alone seen it smoked, let alone on public transportation.  So I apologize if this seems naive to the crack experienced out there, but this was shocking to me.

We got to this dive bar somewhere in Paris shortly after to see Andrew's gypsy band.  Okay, so gypsy band.  What the fuck is this you ask???  Good question...I'll tell you.  It's an all brass band filled with all French people and then Andrew and his other roommate.  They basically get smashed, put on ridiculous outfits, and play such classics as "Hot Stuff" and various ABBA.  Needless to say, while jumping into that frigid cold pool everyday sophomore year for swim practice with Andrew, I never once thought that I would see him doing this.  Despite the slight awkwardness that came with not actually knowing anyone there except Andrew, it seemed like a pretty authentic experience.  

Saturday, we slept in late, as I was exhausted and Andrew's drunk ass definitely needed a few extra hours of sleep if they were available.  We got into Paris later that afternoon where Andrew took me to see all things that one must do on their first time to Paris, no matter how cliché they are.  We went to the Eiffel Tower, walked down the Champs Elysées, and saw l'arch de triomphe.  After that, we took the metro out to the Centre Pompidou (the crazy building that's tubes and pipes are all exposed), and then to Notre Dame.  Finally, we went back to the Eiffel Tower to see the light show at 8:00.  Stellar, enough said.  

Andrew and I went out to his friend's house that night where we played some drinking games like some good ol' Americans.  There were a couple really random French people there, but I got to talking to one of them about what the hell I was doing there.  He eventually told me that of all the study abroad students he has ever met, I speak by far the best French....This is possibly the best compliment that an American can receive in France, no joke.  I was giddy about this for quite a bit. 

Today, I went to the Louvre.  Baller is the expression that comes to mind here.  That and "Asian Tourist".  They're everywhere.  I had to fight through like 50 of them just to get a look at the Mona Lisa, and same went for the Venus de Milo.  Other than that, it was one of the greatest things I've ever done.  The Rubens room is breathtaking.  Andrew and I played a game where he sat in the middle of the room and made witty commentary about what he thought was going on in the paintings (all of which were bigger than my apartment times 2) and then I went up and read what was actually going on.  Which brings me to what I really admired about the Louvre.  I loved that they didn't put a billion different translations next to each painting.  They just have one in French.  I felt like too many of those little plaques would detract from the displays.  Granted, I read French...so I imagine opinions vary based on language competence. 

I trained back home to Montpellier at 3:30 this afternoon.  I was actually quite sad to be leaving.  I don't know whether it was because I was leaving a friggin awesome city or the comfort of a familiar face (probably a little of both), but either way I need to go back soon.  On the way home, I started thinking about how I'm going to remember this trip.  I was looking at some of France's breathtaking country landscapes and thinking...how the hell am I going to remember I saw this exact place at this exact time.  Of course I'll always remember going to the Louvre, but will I remember the funny banter I had or the delicious chicken caesar wrap Andrew and I split?  A lot of times, it's these little things that make the bigger things seem even greater, and I would hate to lose them in the dank pit that is my brain.  Photos will help, and so will this blog and my personal journal.  But I can't hit apple+s on everything I see, and I can't write down everything that happens.  Even if I could, I don't think my writing skills are good enough to really express everything that happens in a given moment in order to bring me back to it at a later time, and the pictures I've taken thus far haven't done one single bit of justice.  This might just have to be something I get over, I'm not sure.  Maybe I'll attach a video camera to the top of my had and run it 24/7.  Genius...

Okay...pictures are forthcoming...I promise.  Though my camera did die in the middle of Paris, so I only have the beginning and the end of that.  But Andrew is sending me the rest.  

A bientot!!!! 

Corey