El Condor Pasa (If I Could)

I swear that I live a movie. That I am secretly being followed around by a camera crew, a producer, a writer, a director, but unfortunately no hair or makeup artist.

The music I pick to listen to at any given moment is typically what I would imagine a person in a movie doing and the music correlating. For instance, a person jogging would have a soundtrack of Justin Timberlake, someone reading the newspaper and drinking coffee may be accompanied by of Lauryn Hill, while someone entertaining friends, putting down some cold ones may be shown on the screen with Bob Marley blaring in the background.

When Alicia and I finally took off in the plane from LAX, destination Germany, I picked an extremely sentimental song, to be playing on my soundtrack of life; El Condor Pasa (If I Could) by Simon and Garfunkel. My dad built a sailing boat with his brother and a few others, which they sailed for a few months to Hawaii, Tahiti and Samoa. My dad flew home from Tahiti, rather than continuing to Samoa, because my mom got in a car accident and was terribly upset. They had only been married a few months when he took off for the trip. The captain of the ship recorded the arduous journey, arrived home, edited it, put music and narration in the background and gave each sea-goer a copy. El Condor Pasa (If I Could) by Simon and Garfunkel is the only song I recall as continually streaming throughout the self-made movie. This was 1981 and I assume it to be a quite popular song of the time. Enter me. Stage Right. Growing up, watching this “thing” that my dad did, because he is the most amazing man ever. The strongest, the toughest, the bravest, the only one I could have derived from. Listening to this song, which to me is now synonymous with an amazing journey, doing what one wishes, what others only dream.

What song better to begin my own sail around uncharted waters than the eerie melody that I grew up whistling, never knowing exactly what journey may be in store for me. I scroll through my quite accomplished music library, and choose the song remembering it’s significance. Tears well my eyes as the lights of LA grow faint, not because I am sad to be leaving, but because I finally feel like I am living. Because I couldn’t be happier than at this very moment. Because moments like this a few and far between. Until now they have been reserved for those shared among the masses; graduation from high school, graduation from college, my last water polo game. Moments like this will happen in the future; walking down the aisle, having my first baby. None of those events were happening today, today was my own event. Today the stars were in alignment, I had my health, and that’s all that mattered. Today was my day because it took me 23 years to decide what I wanted to do and to do exactly that. I was not on a boat, with a new wife at home, sailing the ocean. I was on a plane, while at home awaited a patient boyfriend, disagreeing parents, no real career path, and a sad puppy. Time stood still.

I listened closely to the lyrics of the song, hoping something would resonate strongly with the moment. A theme for my trip, a mantra for my being. “I’d rather be a swallow, than a snail,” Garfunkel chants. Okay… good. We’re getting somewhere. I like birds. I have two doves as tattoos. Getting a tattoo was a huge step of independence. Birds fly. I live in Orange County where the swallows of Capistrano flock every year. Swallows are typical with sailors for tattoos because even though they fly away, they always come back home eventually. The song ended, the moment passed. It was only a song. They were only words that melodically joined the song.

A few nights ago, the “Fam” went out to dinner to Chinese food outside the little town we are staying. It was 7:30 but the place was empty, as most people don’t eat until 9:00. We were sitting at a table for 7 in the corner, of the large establishment. I have becoming very good as quietly entertaining myself, as every conversation is in German, which I know little to none. So I am left to my thoughts, unless Alicia engages me in a conversation in English. I was listening to the music playing in the background, thinking again about the movie of my life. A comedic, “fish out of water” story; American girl in a German town in a Chinese restaurant. The music was American songs but played with a Chinese instrument. Think Memoirs of a Geisha. What song would be more appropriate to be played on a Chinese instrument in a German restaurant as an American girl sits quietly, dying to be spoken to? El Condor Pasa slowing began seeping out of the speakers. It took me a second to recognize and believe what I was hearing, but upon understanding the coincidence and thus significance of the song, which the musical director assigned to that very instance, a secret smile crept across my face.

I have been inhaling books so far this trip. We have so much down time during the day and when I am back in the states there is “never enough time” to read. Which is why I am lugging around an overzealous amount of books to read; some classics, some historical; some romance. Yesterday, I spent the entire day in bed reading. No joke. All day. I had nothing to do, we are waiting out our time in Germany before our departure to Switzerland tomorrow, so I did everything I wanted and nothing I didn’t. I literally woke up, read, ate a little, showered, read, ate cake for Aunt Meggie’s birthday, read, read, read… I finished a book I started on the plane, began a book and finished it, and started another, which I woke up today and began reading again as well.

The book I began yesterday is a story similar to my own; woman seeking adventure, travels to Europe, encounters language barriers and good-looking men. Almost like a personal ad. During one of her descriptions of the Western World she details that some things are always the same; African men selling knock-off purses and Guatemalan musicians always playing “I’d rather be a swallow than a snail,“ on their bamboo pipes. I couldn’t believe my eyes. This song that many have heard, but few recognize is haunting me. It is following me from destination to destination, from one thought to the next. It is my continual reminder as to why I embarked on this pilgrimage, how difficult it was to get here, the sacrifices I made for my selfish desires, and that I will eventually return a different person.

We all have a soundtrack; all the songs different, but with a similar undertone, theme, description, mood. It’s the realization of what those songs are and what one would like them to be that changes people.

The just in.. The French are assholes.

Before we began our day of taxing sightseeing, we had decided to go out to a nice dinner. We came back, cleaned ourselves up and headed out to the “fish market district” recommended to us by again our concierge. We checked out each menu of the seemingly never ending room of restaurants. The best price we could find was that of 20 Euro a dinner, for a set French menu. Since all were around that price, and NONE of the menus we could read, we settled on the restaurant that had the most people inside, a sure tell way of a decent restaurant. We entered and were seated on the side of the restaurant on the opposite side of the kitchen. As in you had to literally walk through the kitchen to get to our side of the restaurant. We were seated by what we assume to be the female owner, who consequently did not speak to us in English. “Would you like an aperitif?” She began. “A what? Sorry, English?” We asked. “An aperitif?” “Huh?” “An aperitif?” “Um.” An appetizer the French and English speaking woman next to us chimed in. “OH! AN appetizer. Um, no thank you. Can we get two glasses of house red wine please.”

The menu that was set for 20 Euro on the menu, now remarkably read 25 Euro inside. It’s magic. The French woman came around again. “Would you like to order from the menu now?” “Um. I think we will just start with the wine if that’s okay.” “You need to order from menu.” “We just want wine for now.” “One second.” The abrasive woman stated. Instinctively we get up, gathered our coats and apologized for the inconvenience. We would be going now. We both knew that what would come from that dinner would not be an enjoyable experience.
We try our luck at a very busy Spanish restaurant instead. The man ushering people from the sidewalk inside told us if we come in, we would receive a complimentary glass of champagne before and after dinner. We agree, not being one to turn down anything free, nonetheless champagne. The check comes after a very disappointing, over priced meal, and to our very surprise we were charged for a glass of champagne each. One was comped, one was not. “Umm, we were told the champagne was on the house.” Alicia attest. “No, the first was.” This was a different waiter then the one who made the promise. “No, it’s included.” “One second.” There were many a seconds being thrown around last night. Turned out it was just a big misunderstanding. Fortunately, in Europe one may exercise their right to tip or to not tip, given the dining experience. Not being one to frown upon local color, I exercised my right to NOT tip, based on the preceding events.

Today, was Brugge. Lovely little town. Canals, brick building, medieval looking churches, line the cobble stone paved streets. Again, love is in the air. I do not love the boy they call Brugge as much though. He’s not for me. A little on the quiet, small town side. It is Brussels that has my heart. Large, sturdy, established, diverse, well-read, a Renaissance man. He, with his diverse cuisines, good natured friends and I have many a story to tell. We have our secrets, our tales of romance, but most of all, we will always have our laughs.

I don't care what you say...I'm moving to Brussels

Oh my gosh. I am in love with another man. His name is Mr. Belgium A. Brussels. We met on Thursday and although I was cranky, hungry and tired, it was love at first sight. The train ride that we thought would only take us a quick 2.5 hours, really took 5 hours of travel. First we took the wrong train, the wrong direction. After we figured out that fiasco, it was smooth sailing. I really should have eaten more for breakfast, because it wasn’t until 3:30 that we were settled and able to eat lunch. Alicia and I had our first “confrontation.” My stomach was cramping I was so hungry and once that happens there is no stopping me. I suggested we eat immediately, baggage in tow. She suggested we find the hotel. Out of all the maps we had, none had the street which the hotel was located on. She suggested we keep looking, I suggested we stop and eat. The travel gods insisted sarcasm to ensue. “Okay Erica, we’ll stop and eat RIGHT NOW because I know you are hungry and I know how you get when you are hungry, so, fine, we’ll eat now.” “No, it’s fine.” I contest. “I’ll wait until we get to the hotel.” “No, really let’s eat now because you are getting cranky and I can tell.” “It’s fine! Let’s just find the damn hotel even though we don’t know where we are going and no one will tell us where the street is that our hotel is on.” “Nope, let’s stop and eat now because you are cranky.” Alicia defers. “Stop talking to me so condescendingly! I’m not a child.” I conclude.

We continued to walk in circles, desperately wanting to enjoy the new surroundings, but hurriedly attempting to locate our hotel. We attempt a new plan of action; ask a cab driver to take us to our hotel. “You want me to take you there? I refuse. Only because it is right there.” He chuckles and points to the nearest intersection. “You go straight and then right and then you are there.” He simplifies. We conclude to only ask cab drivers for directions from now on.
Once we got our baggage situated in the room and asked the concierge for eating recommendations, we concluding upon a “cheap, very good” café a short walk from our hotel. There I feasted upon pesto spaghetti and mineral water, while Alicia picked a sandwich. The waiter fell in love with Alicia and gave us memento postcards of the restaurant so that we may come back. And that we did. After eating a late lunch, we walked around to gain our sense of location, take pictures and actually enjoy the scenery. A few hours later, we changed for dinner and returned to the same café. The same waiter immediately recognized the “California Girls” and seated us in a very small corner, blocked by a glass wall leading to the front entrance. I said he put us there so only he could talk to us. Alicia joked that people could only talk to us using sign language. We dined on much needed wine and a split plate of lamb and cous cous for only 8 Euro TOTAL. Amazing I know. Sure enough a young man walking past the glass entrance, pointed to Alicia, smiled and made a praying motion with his hands. “What is he doing?” He pointed to the sky, and her face and smiled and continued with the same motion. We then realized that he was just so smitten by Alicia he prayed and saw angels or something or another. Again we were forced to read sign language.

Friday morning, we wake up anticipating the arduous day ahead of us. We were told that the breakfast provided by the hotel was included in our stay. Alicia’s dad is friends with the General Manager of the hotel and informed him of our stay. I always feel like a celebrity when these chance opportunities present themselves. Am I deserving of them? No. Do I refuse? No. Before falling asleep we had made a pact that one or both of us were going to make us of the hotel gym. I am pleased to announce that both of us used the gym for close to an hour. I am allegedly on vacation AND working out. What has gotten into me? After the gym, we hit the continental breakfast just a voraciously. Omelettes, croissants, juice, prociutto, fruit, yes.

Next, a museum entirely about Brussels. Boring. I am all for museums and can very much appreciate art in its various forms, but when NOTHING is printed in English and no audio tapes are presented, even for me to purchase, how am I supposed to know what the significance of the various items is? I very much try to not be one of those people who acts like they are superior or more deserving because they are American and speak English. But I am coming to learn that English is the dominant language everywhere. And it just would have made sense if one of the two languages translated regarding the art was in English. After paying our 3 Euro, we probably spent about 15-30 minutes tooling around the artifacts. Next the Mannequin Pis. It is what it is. A statue of a boy pissing.

After we experienced what the city has to offer, we expanded our horizons and headed out to the Atomion. A giant structure of an atom of iron. An exact replica, 175 billion times the size, so I read. I could have seen it, taken a picture, and moved on my way, but we were told we HAD to go to the top. So, to the top we went. 9 Euro read the sign, but the male attendant charged us 7 Euro. Do you see why I love this city?

After waiting in line for a half hour to get on the elevator to head to the top, I was ready to go. But then you have to take the pictures of the 360 degree view of Belgium. Done. Then you wait in line to get back down the elevator. Done and done. Back on the metro. It amazes me that Alicia and I have actually been able to maneuver through the metro system in the various cities. We are two very smart young women, but they really do stack the cards against you. Nothing is in English, the stops and starts are difficult to find, it’s just plain confusing. You really do have to be paying attention. I feel like I am in lecture sometimes. You aren’t able to relax. If you do, you miss your stop, end up going the wrong way, get pick pocketed, or get raped. Running joke between me and Alicia; whenever we enter an area that looks sketchy, or it’s getting dark, or we enter the subway, I always remark, “Oh, this is the part in the trip when we get raped. I thought it be much later, but I guess it’s better to get it over with.” Morbid, I know. But hilarious none the less. Anything to make the overwhelming shadiness seem a little less shady, and a little more funny.

I love the locals.

So the last five days were Karneval in Germany. I really don’t even know how to describe it. It began 300 years ago and there are these traditions that people participate in like parades and storming a government building and drinking. We went out Thursday night in Dusseldorf to a party in a ballroom. Alicia and I have this theory that crazy stuff happens to us and we don’t know why. For instance, that night we met the Prince of Dusseldorf, which is nothing like meeting the President of the US, but up there nonetheless. And then a guy from the major Dusseldorf newspaper took our picture and it ended up on the front page. Crazy.

Then on Friday we rested to get geared up for Saturday. Saturday was shenanigans. We walked to the end of the street to watch the parade at 2 p.m. At the parade, relatives gave us little bottles of schnapps to drink. We came back after an hour finished getting into our costume, I am cat, and proceeded to put down a few beers with more family. Then at 4, it was off to the bar for more Karneval festivities. We met up with some of Alicia’s friends that are actually our age, I say that because until then we only hung out with older family. And the beer flowed like wine. We stayed at that bar until 3 or so and then walked home. We were settling ourselves in for a late night snack in the kitchen, with Alicia’s grandma, when there was an abrupt knock at the door. “Here is where the party is!” Yelled one boy to another. “No. You have the wrong house! My oma is sleeping!” Alicia whispered. “Okay, okay. You guys come next door then.” Next door is the boy’s our age that we hung out with at the bar.

What I neglected to mention about the neighborhood boys is that one of them has a girlfriend of 11 years. This boy ADORES Alicia and the girlfriend apparently has always suspected that something went on between them, when in actuality the truth is that nothing has ever happened. So instead of Alicia being able to enjoy her evening fully, she had to deal with the girls stupid low self-esteem drama. The girl took Alicia aside and said, “Just be honest with me… Has anything happened… Yadda Yadda Yadda.” Again, crazy shit just happens. But I love it because it gives us something to talk about.

When we arrived at the neighbors house at 4 a.m. they greeted us with more beer and scrambled eggs. Why scrambled eggs? I don’t know. But the boy that adores Alicia and has a psycho girlfriend, that managed to scratch his face till he bleed that night, wanted to make plates and plates of scrambled eggs for everyone. We blared the traditional Karneval music, banged on the table to the bass line and gorged ourselves on the “drunk munchies” of eggs and a few coveted little pizzas.

Sunday we rest, only to attempt to gear ourselves back up for another night of Karneval festivities. Monday at 7 p.m. I still could not believe we were going out that night, but once I put my makeup and my pirate costume on, I was ready to go. That night we went out with Alicia’s aunt and uncle to another local bar and proceeded to put down the local “Pils.” We met up with some different neighborhood boys and danced and drank and sang and drank and ate French fries and then realized that it was 4:30. 4:30!!! That is something I am going to appreciate about California bars when I get back. The 1:30 last call that I used to dread, is now something I find extremely useful. If you aren’t told when to go home, odds are you won’t. As we realized the last few nights. All and all, it is Wednesday and I am still recovering from the havoc I have wrecked on my body the last few nights. No more drinking for awhile, I can honestly proclaim.

Oh, and for the most part, the locals we are meeting, love Americans. Maybe not so much that we are American, but more specifically California. One girl, about 16, wanted us to take pictures with her and exchange email addresses. She has already emailed the pictures to Alicia. Upon hearing us reply, “Cool,” it was her new favorite word. “Cool.” She would remark, looking at us for some approval of her foreign language. “Cool.” We would say. “Cool.” Again just to make sure that she had the correct pronunciation, twang, and easy going nature. I love the locals.

This is so much more difficult than I thought...

After walking around the small town of Venlo, on the outskirts of Holland, we found the library, which amazingly has "free" internet. "Free" is a word I am very familiar with and have not heard too often since arriving. Getting internet, making phone calls, solving problems, corresponding with family, are all things that I am very good at. Here though, everything is a process. Things are expensive and internets are very slow.

Regarding, the bout with "homesickness" I am cured. I am realizing that time is moving very fast. Too fast to dwell on not seeing the people I love, or that I am most comfortable around. I don't feel sad or scared anymore. Things are being resolved and it is putting my anxiety at ease.

I am being told it Dutch that I have been using the "free" internet too long and must sign off. Until then, Goodbye.

Are you comfortable?

Two things you may not know about me is that 1. Avocados are my favorite fruit, and 2. I actually am a very sensitive person. Sensitive like I get my feelings hurt easily, not sensitive like I care how a flower or ants feel. Only those people that really know me are able to tell when I am sensitive to something that has been said to me. When I get my feelings hurt I get very, very quiet. Not because I attempt to make people around me uncomfortable or aware as to my feelings, but as I tend to be the loudest one in a social setting. Therefore take my voice out of what is contributed to a group and the volume immediately decreases. Unfortunately, the conversation immediately turns to, “What’s wrong? Why are you so quiet? What happened? What was said to you?” To which I reply, “Nothing. I’m fine.” In an attempt to quickly and discretly diffuse the conversation.

This exact situation has happened twice. Why is it my fault if the mood softens? Why should I be the one to dictate the entire volume of a crowd? Is it my responsibility as the “loud one” to cast my feelings aside in order to satisfy others insecurities?

This circumstance of me being overly sensitive came to my attention after something that happened today. I have had a very bad head cold the last three days. I am a week into my 8 months of traveling. I am missing my boyfriend, parents and friends more than I imagined I would at this point in time. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, last weekend was my birthday. Alicia is surrounded by her family and is able to communicate fluently with them. I have only spoken to my parents twice and left a voicemail for my boyfriend. I had a chance to use the email tonight at a dinner Alicia’s aunt was cooking for us, but declined going altogether as to not get other sick. Basically, I feel about as alone as one could feel.

I know I am physically tough after competing in sports at the Division I collegiate level. This kind of emotionally toughness is an animal entirely it’s own. I have to find ways to get through being alone and feeling sad. I have attempted to learn German in order to communicate with family dynamic I have been dealt for the next few weeks. This has proved successful to some degree. Reading and listening to music have been the only other two ways I have found to busy myself and remind me just enough of home to keep me going, but not so much to make me want to go home. After Alicia left for dinner, I took a shower and settled down for some much anticipated reading and music listening. The song I was dying to listen to was the song that belongs to me and my boyfriend. “Our Song.” I have never had a song with anyone before so this one is very special. I scroll through my IPOD and cannot find the artist of the song. My song is nowhere to be found. Also missing are the 50+ cds I had recently downloaded prior to departure a week ago. Gone. Poof. Like the IPOD gods were playing a terrible, cruel joke on me. I then realize what must have happened. When I plugged my IPOD into Alicia’s laptop in order to charge the battery it put all her music in place of my music, while her IPOD still has all of my music on it that she uploaded prior to leaving.

What do all capable, adventurous females do in this situation, in a house in Germany, when they are all alone? They cry. They cry like they have never cried before. Like their favorite dog died. Like their life is as bad as it gets. Like the deterioration of their music represents the deterioration of their first born’s health.

So here I am scribbling down in the journal Dr. CPK gave me the day before I left. Alicia has her laptop, I usually type my blogs on, with her at the dinner I am supposed to be at, emailing pictures and sentiments to eager family and friends. While I sit here, watching her Grandma peel carrots. Then I remember what I have attempting to remind myself all along. “This trip isn’t about being comfortable. It’s about making the best with what you have.” Right now, I feel like I have nothing. But I will always, until it is over, have the fact that I am on this trip. That I am following through with what most people have dreamed and what few have acted upon. I guess I was just unprepared to encounter these feelings so soon into the trip. No, I am not coming home. I am just going to have to toughen up, dry my eyes and find comfort in something else.

Two Hours Later.

Playing solitaire the old-fashioned way, with real cards. Alicia comes home and informs me that since I always am listening to music and she seldom does, that I can use her IPOD for the most part and she will use mine. I can be such a baby sometimes.

Anne Frank House

Eerily amazing. I had the same feeling inside that I get when I put flowers on my Grandma’s grave. Like this is closest to death you can get without actually being dead. I wanted to reach out and touch the objects that had been there some 70 years ago. The sink, the mirror, the window. Since I visited the house alone, as Alicia has been there some three times before, I opted to not be “that girl that touched everything.” Rather I would nonchalantly brush myself against the items we filed past. Goosebumps ran up and down my arms and legs. You can’t help but put yourself in the place of Anne Frank. What it was like to live in hiding, everyday worried that the sound of your footsteps or whispers would be heard by someone working below.

It can get very claustrophobic walking up the tiny staircases, crowded by other visitors on both sides. You then imagine what it was like for the family to not get to breath fresh air, or open a window, or feel like they can really stretch their legs.

I have learned about Anne Frank, and the Holocaust and read her book in school. It all seemed so surreal. Like Hitler in some time period that didn’t really exist. Like people aren’t really capable of those heinous acts or sickening thoughts. Even when I was inside the house, I felt like part of it wasn’t really. Like someone had decided, “Okay, this will be the house we SAY Anne Frank lived in. And this is the kitchen and this we will SAY is her room.” Like it was all just a show, to make us internalize that travesties the Jewish people encountered. That something like that could in reality never really happen, but an ambiguous house is decided to make us believe it did. I wish it were that way. That the walls were recently built with old pictures on them like the set of a movie. To make it look old and worn, when it is in actuality new. That the walls don’t have the history or have seen the horrors that they have.

At the same time, you gain such a sense of hope. That at least something like this would never happen again. Like we are past such capabilities of the mind. That hopefully, those held captive inside the walls never gave up hope that one day they will be free to walk as individuals again. Without the star on their shirt worn like a scarlet letter. But then you realize that there are things like this going on constantly, with and without our knowledge. Turning on CNN, I am made aware daily as to the continually and real suffering of human beings going on right now. And what do I do. I change the channel because the truth hurts. Because I am too selfish and too comfortable in my existence to give up my freedoms and responsibilities as a citizen to go and make change on someone else’s land. It makes you realize that your place on this earth is very, very small. And that only a handful of people will make an impact on other’s to such a large degree as Anne Frank did, in as short of a time span as she did.

"Amsterdam Land"

Amsterdam is amazing. The city is awesome, eclectic and eccentric. The walls are tall and foreboding. The city cast a sea of brown amongst the grey blanketed sky. Aside for the wind, the air is crisp and bitter. With the wind, a harshness enters the low temperatures, making leisurely walks an arduous feat. The city feels like an amusement park for adults, with it’s endless supply of “legal” drugs and prostitution. There are boats to ride through the canals, trams to ride through the snaking streets, and delectable food to gorge to one’s delight. They are amusement shows like the Red Light District, the Van Gogh Museum and the Rembrant House. These are exemplified on our map of “Amsterdam Land” as little houses or a different color.

The food here is overpriced because the vendors know that once adults visit “Amsterdam Land” they find it difficult to leave the looming cutouts to seek the same food for a lesser price. The overall ambience of freedom, equality and diversity seep into the soul, releasing all hesitation of outside consequence. Here you are allowed to be as similar or as different of an individual as you want to be. You can blend into the crowd as quickly as you can stand out. The sexually heightened atmosphere allows lovers to express their devotion candidly without fear of persecution. Those who have visited here before are desensitized to the tourist sights, while those of us who are “first-timers” are caught snapping various photos, of things we have heard of, but never imagined to be possible.

Everything is new, save for those that are just like home. The graffiti is nothing I have ever seen, except for that at home. The homeless are those like in the states. Only these are individuals without homes… In Amsterdam. The prostitution, still stomach churning and saddening, but legal. Not like back in the states. Everything feels different, even though nothing has changed.

I think I am officially mature enough to appreciate what museums have to offer. The Van Gogh Museum held works that I have only seen in books and longed to see in person. I was there just long enough to begin to trace the themes throughout his work and life, but not so long that I regretted visiting the amusement site in the first place. I took my dad’s advice, just don’t tell him, and purchased the audiotour in order to gain better insight as to the works and the various artist. It’s almost like being placed back in time when seeing the real art, close up. You feel like you are back in 1885 watching the artist strategically fill the blank canvas. Wondering if they are thinking it is rubbish and questioning whether anyone will appreciate it. Thinking that maybe they are playing a big joke on their followers, simply just painting a picture of a beach, laughing at how much people might pay for that very piece, years down the road.

Tomorrow the Anne Frank House and Rembrant House. Alicia and I are very careful to not do too much in one day, in order to “enjoy every moment” and not get too burned out on the sites. I have a very sore throat from all the cigarette smoke in the bars. Don’t know if I will every get used to that, or want to get used to it for that matter. Tonight we had Dutch French Fries with Mayo and Curry Ketchup. To die for. Then we went to the most local café we could find where there were families and couples and elderly people and a live jazz band, complete with a standup bass, which I love. All for now. Ciao.

Never Underestimate the "Power Shower"

I think I was awake tossing and turning more than I was sleeping last night. The polite neighbor from the Deep South next door, made sure we heard not only her voice, but every word in her entire conversation. How kind. It’s weird how hypersensitive to stereotypes I have become. Knowing that Europeans view Americans as piggy, arrogant, rude, obnoxious individuals, I have made it my personal vendetta to refute the aforementioned. Unfortunately, with hotel neighbors such as mine, it is a daunting task. I am not one to complain, but I was forced to make use of my “Delighted to Serve” button on my phone and inform the front desk that some hotel guest were being inconsiderate.

Regarding my shower. When you don’t have coffee, tea or breakfast at your fingertips while getting ready in the morning, other necessities morph into privileges. After a long day of trekking, sight seeing, drinking, etc, a long, hot shower is my sanctuary. The water here is nothing like anything I’ve experienced. It gets so hot that it makes your skin prickle. So hot, that when you get out your skin is red like you laid out all day without sunscreen. Amidst all the new sights and experiences, the “Power Shower” is that which brings me back to reality and makes me realize that not everything has changed. After a long night of restless sleep, my shower gave me the energy to get up and ready for another day of sightseeing.

That really is the theme of this trip, for me at least. “Don’t sweat the small stuff” I continually remind myself. “Make the best of every moment.” “Take everything in.” It is so easy to not enjoy each day because we have so many days planned and such a long way to go. This is Day 6 and I can honestly say that we performing our roles to the fullest. Me with my “Spontaneous Planning while Not-Planning, but Mapping Sites Precisely,” and Alicia with her never-ending pictures and stories and insight of previous trips. We have managed to give each other as much space as we can while at the same time being with each every minute of the day. During train rides, we’ll either read or listen to music or write emails, giving us the much desired “Quiet Time.”

Speaking of stereotypes, Alicia and I, even with our attempt to blend into the local color, apparently stand out as American. More specifically, Californians. Seeing as how I have never been one to shy away from attention, see this as an advantage. When in a coffee shop yesterday, Alicia and I were approached by two curious British men. They asked to sit down and seeing as how Alicia and I are unable to come off as harsh, we obliged. I am so glad we did. They asked what stereotypes Americans had of the British. Only thing I could think of was “proper.” I think they were slightly disappointed I have yet to put more thought into the matter. Too bad. Fortunately, a question such as theirs allowed me the imply the same request. They had plenty to say about Americans. Apparently, the typical Californian is thought of as a “fitness instructor.” Another said, “Playing tennis and drinking orange juice.” Sublime and Gwen Stefani were noted as the local music from Orange County. Dually noted that when asked where in CA we live and I said, “Orange County,” I was informed, “Oh, ‘The O.C.” Yes, there is a show based on our county.

I have never put much thought into it but quintessential New Yorkers are thought of as the cast of “Friends.” Awesome. I hate that show, but I can’t blame the British Boys for their opinions. How else are we supposed to gain a perspective of our others except for what we give them? In today’s media driven age, television, the internet, music and movies are all that other cultures are given to derive a single opinion regarding an entire country. Amazing how technologically far we have gotten, but how little we have intellectually advanced.

The television over here is better than what we have back home. Probably because Alicia and I didn’t have cable and over here we do. Every country that we visit is adamant about their version of “American Idol.” Which sounds good in theory but, proves a disaster in practice. Not that the contestants are not talented, but a fluent Deutsch or Dutch speaking individual, would best display their talents in their own own language. However, Europeans are obsessed with American Culture, therefore all the songs are sung in English. Hilarity ensues. The result in a melody of the song with the words barely understood. They don’t annunciate as we do, so every word sounds unfinished. I really can’t describe it any better than that.

Lost in Translation...

On our way to Amsterdam. Amazing how you can travel 14 hours away and how similar things still are. I wouldn’t say that I was expecting things to be completely different, but the things that are similar are those that I am best at. Being polite, smiling, laughing, enjoying company and family, eating, drinking and sleeping. Alicia’s family is amazing, warm, inviting and extremely accommodating. I will make sure to take back their sense of hospitality. Her Oma (Grandma) is the cutest in the world, second only to mine of course. The weather is cold, but nothing we can’t handle.

It is 0-5 degrees Celsius, so freezing basically. I am enjoying the change right now, but have a feeling it will wear on me, like the Santa Ana winds we all know and love. I am quickly picking up Deutsch (German). Oma and Alicia’s Aunt Miggie, Aunt Ana and Uncle Rudiger seem to be quite impressed. Their praise gives me the motivation and encouragement to continue learning so that I may better communicate. It’s weird how you just manage to make due in situation’s where language is not a barrier, but rather a dissimilarity. I have begun to use my hands when I talk and choose my words carefully. I have learned that not all words translate throughout the various languages. For instance, there is no such word as “stuff” or “actually” in Deutsch. We use those words so often that attempting to translate or explain such common English words proves to be quite a task. We were able to explain “stuff” as “things” which there is such a Deutsch word for. “Actually” proved to be more tedious. I attempted to explain as “rather” which apparently there is not a Deutsch translation for either. Alicia explained it the best should could in Deutsch.

It snowed on Thursday, the day we traveled to Koln (Cologne). I have only been in snow twice, up until now. Once in Big Bear, my second time in Whistler. This however was my first snowfall. It was gorgeous, for the first five minutes. Then just an added annoyance in our quest to reach the Cathedral. The Cathedral in Cologne is amazing in size and the pictures really do not do it justice to it’s size. “Behemeth” is the only world I can think to describe it’s overwhelming size. We walked through the Cathedral admiring not only it’s size, but the somber ambience. There are places for people to pray and tea candles which to light. It smells of cheap wax and stale air. The stained glass provides the only muted light to enter. The colors of the stained glass and how intricate they lay is enough to take even the most ignorant tourists’ breath away.

It’s amazing how even the most simplistic social discrepancies add such complexity to a traveler’s journey. For instance, the graffiti or tagging on passing trains and overpasses is so gorgeous. Many elders may find it the work of deviants, but to a naïve 24 year old (Happy Birthday to me) it is a calming commonality amongst such new surroundings. I have always been in awe as to the talent of most graffiti, but from what I’ve seen in California, most is done with black spray paint. Here it is an art. Pink, yellow, green, white, purple, teal cast a rainbow amidst the grey, brown, green and black background.

I know it has been almost a week since I have gone and am sorry that I have not called, emailed, made contact sooner, save for my parents of course. Alicia and I are diligently working on finding the best route in which to communicate. “Best” of course being the least expensive. We have found some people that have an internet connection and have decided upon getting pre-paid phone cards in each country which we will be staying for a duration of time. On Monday or Tuesday we will be getting a phone card for Germany in which we will have cell phone number. Then it will be free for us for you to call, or a few cents per minute for us to call home.

I still feel like I am just on vacation and that this trip will be over soon, like most vacations. I am having so much fun seeing everything I have only heard about. I have not had a bad meal yet either. Everything is so fresh from the farmer that it takes differently. Even though we eat mostly meat on bread with a slice of cheese, it is so much richer tasting. One night we had beef and potatoes and cauliflower. Of course after riding bikes for a few hours anything would taste good, but trust me even if I was zat (full) I would have thoroughly enjoyed my first “real” Deutsch meal. My favorite meals are those that are the most simple. Prosioutto (sp?) on ze (the) Baguette mit (with) a cup of Kaffe (coffee).

Our train is about to stop in Centrum (Central) Amsterdam so I will sign off. In the next few days we will visit the Anne Frankhaus, the Rembranthaus, the Van Gogh Museum, the Hemp Museum and take a stroll through the highly commercialized Red Light District. I have already seen a few people smoking “hash” since crossing the Holland border, which I can not help but giggle at. Also you can walk on the streets with an open bottle of alkohol (alcohol). Amazing how places where people don’t completely condemn those individuals who consume what we consider a “controlled substance” they are used nonchalantly and infrequently. I read that hash is only sold legally here if people don’t abuse their privileges and it does not become a public nuisance.

Leads me to believe that by placing restrictions and limitations on individuals is that which drives human nature to seek and rebel. The drinking age in Deutschland is 16 and I wouldn’t be surprised if alcoholism is less apparent here. Drinking is so prevalent among that Deutsch that I would be amazed if someone would feel compelled to drink more than they already do. Then again, alcoholism is a disease, so maybe I am wrong.

On Thursday, I visited my first authentic Deutsch pub, for the first day or Karneval festivities. I strongly believe that everyone I know would have hated it. I was about 90 degrees inside a crowded bar. Everyone was bizoften (drunk). They played Deutsch Karneval muzik which everyone but Alicia and I know the words to. Aunt Miggie will describe to me in English what the song is saying. One was “the water in Cologne is good,” another “we will stay friends forever.” Since I don’t speak Deutsch, I instead sing my version of the song. “THE WATER IN COLOGNE IS GOOOOD!!!” Only to the rhythm and melody of the blaring Deutsch chant. Quite a sight.

I miss you all, but be rest assured that I am eating delicious and healthy food, and working it off with all the walking and farat farren (bike riding). Hopefully I will come home 10 pounds lighter! Chooss (Goodbye)!