Here I am, back in Massachusetts!
The end of the trip was probably the least exciting part. Tuesday, I woke up in Nice and headed to London. Wednesday, I woke up in London and headed home.
After arriving on Tuesday night I decided to check out the Gutshot poker club in downtown London. It was reasonably well-run, though the quality of the dealers varied drastically throughout the night. I met a couple of interesting characters; most people in the club, however, were silent, brooding, iPod-and-sunglass wearing types who only took out their headphones to yell at someone for hitting a flush draw.
On what I had decided was my third-to-last hand, I shipped away the last of my pounds - appropriately enough, against a gutshot. The club had free Internet, so I got distracted and made it to the Tube a few minutes after its 12:30 close. Somehow I found my way back to the hostel, where I stayed up far too late doing nothing at all.
Before getting to the airport on Wednesday morning, I headed to Brick Lane on the Tube. Brick Lane is often called "Banglatown" for its Bangladeshi population, and features quite an array of curry houses. Needless to say, I had a delicious lunch. Filled to the brim with lamb korma, I was ready to do battle with the airport.
When I'd arrived in London the night before, I noticed that all of the fish-wrappers in the Tube were running articles about Heathrow. Apparently the airport has been facing scathing criticism from important people for its long wait times, large crowds, understaffing, frequent delays, and so on. One of the articles featured tips for travelers, the last of which was "Assume they're going to screw up and get there very early." I audibly groaned (attracting some attention on the Tube).
Anyway, I made it through my air travel unscathed albeit quite irritated, and landed in Logan only an hour late. In the customs line I learned that ALL non-resident visitors to the United States are fingerprinted and photographed on arrival. (I hear that's part of this "Homeland Security" thing, have you heard of it?)
So that's that. Six countries, ten cities, one month, and a whole lot of kebabs. It's been a fascinating experience which I haven't even begun to appreciate. Blogging the trip has helped me feel like I've kept in touch more effectively than usual, so thanks to those who have been following along. (If you're addicted to blog entries, stay tuned as I'm planning to start an, uh, "domestic" blog, which I'll link from here after I get it set up.)
My digital-camera fingers ran out of steam toward the end of the trip, but I have two albums of stragglers: Stockholm and Nice.
Oh yes, for some closure: I did not successfully locate my sidewalk etching in Nice, but I did track down a Pschitt!
fin-
02 August 2007
30 July 2007
always know where your towel is
The principality of Monaco, half an hour east of Nice by train, is home to the famous Monte Carlo casino. I'd stopped in Monaco on my high school trip a few years ago, but we were too young to go into the casino and ended up hanging around in kiddie-fun-land instead.
Well, I'm a little older now. A few hostelers had expressed interest in making the trip, so five of us hopped a train last night to check it out.
I was a little worried that my sneakers and cargo pants would pose a problem with the dress code. When we arrived, though, we found an equally-pressing issue: apparently ATMs all throughout Monaco were broken due to a worker strike. My attire posed no problem, but after paying the 10-euro entrance fee we had about forty euros among the group - enough for one minimum bet or one drink for each of us.
The grandeur of the casino was certainly impressive, but the scene inside left a bit to be desired. There are three or four relatively small public gaming areas; the remaining space is devoted to private rooms or restaurants. The slot machines are exactly the same as the ones in the US. The chips (at least, those worth 100 euros or less) are plastic. When we were inside, there were two tables of blackjack running, and two of roulette. One guy was plunking down 500-euro bets on multiple circles of blackjack, but that's nothing you can't see in central New York.
and the drinks I was talking about? Well, a gin-and-tonic is 15 euros; the cheapest alcohol is a 7-euro beer. "Small glass of tap water" is not a concept that exists in Monte Carlo.
We walked around indecisively for a few minutes, admiring the high ceilings. (The casino really is beautiful.) A couple of the others lost some money on roulette. We left.
Back at the train station we found another surprise - a little mixup with the schedule left us twenty minutes late for our return to Nice. Oops. The next passenger car was set to depart at 11:57pm, a frustrating two hours in the future.
Despite its size (2 square kilometers) and population (30,000), the casino and the exquisite waterfront views attract very wealthy visitors to Monaco. We admired some of the cars in the casino parking lot before venturing off the "rich strip" to find food.
This brought us not only a meal and our small glasses of tap water, but also a working ATM. (I still don't understand how all of the ATMs near the casino were broken but the sketchy one in the middle of nowhere was working fine.) Too little too late, I guess, though our paltry few euros wouldn't have gone too far in Monte Carlo anyway.
Our next stop? You guessed it: kiddie-fun-land! (I wasn't joking.) A huge crowd was gathered around some trampolines and ferris wheels. A Daddy's Beard stand sold cotton candy. I saw no clowns.
We dragged ourselves back up the hill to the train station and plopped down on the last train to Nice - the land of cheap wine, Desperados, and the beach.
Well, I'm a little older now. A few hostelers had expressed interest in making the trip, so five of us hopped a train last night to check it out.
I was a little worried that my sneakers and cargo pants would pose a problem with the dress code. When we arrived, though, we found an equally-pressing issue: apparently ATMs all throughout Monaco were broken due to a worker strike. My attire posed no problem, but after paying the 10-euro entrance fee we had about forty euros among the group - enough for one minimum bet or one drink for each of us.
The grandeur of the casino was certainly impressive, but the scene inside left a bit to be desired. There are three or four relatively small public gaming areas; the remaining space is devoted to private rooms or restaurants. The slot machines are exactly the same as the ones in the US. The chips (at least, those worth 100 euros or less) are plastic. When we were inside, there were two tables of blackjack running, and two of roulette. One guy was plunking down 500-euro bets on multiple circles of blackjack, but that's nothing you can't see in central New York.
and the drinks I was talking about? Well, a gin-and-tonic is 15 euros; the cheapest alcohol is a 7-euro beer. "Small glass of tap water" is not a concept that exists in Monte Carlo.
We walked around indecisively for a few minutes, admiring the high ceilings. (The casino really is beautiful.) A couple of the others lost some money on roulette. We left.
Back at the train station we found another surprise - a little mixup with the schedule left us twenty minutes late for our return to Nice. Oops. The next passenger car was set to depart at 11:57pm, a frustrating two hours in the future.
Despite its size (2 square kilometers) and population (30,000), the casino and the exquisite waterfront views attract very wealthy visitors to Monaco. We admired some of the cars in the casino parking lot before venturing off the "rich strip" to find food.
This brought us not only a meal and our small glasses of tap water, but also a working ATM. (I still don't understand how all of the ATMs near the casino were broken but the sketchy one in the middle of nowhere was working fine.) Too little too late, I guess, though our paltry few euros wouldn't have gone too far in Monte Carlo anyway.
Our next stop? You guessed it: kiddie-fun-land! (I wasn't joking.) A huge crowd was gathered around some trampolines and ferris wheels. A Daddy's Beard stand sold cotton candy. I saw no clowns.
We dragged ourselves back up the hill to the train station and plopped down on the last train to Nice - the land of cheap wine, Desperados, and the beach.
29 July 2007
nice is nice
Well here I am, basking in the glow of a monitor on the French Riviera. It's 27 degrees out, which is French for 80. My plan for today is to sit my ass down on the beach and not move until my skin is crispy.
I spent most of Friday and yesterday wandering around the city, seeing how much I remember from my three weeks here in high school. Quite a few memories come rushing back, while others are more elusive. I'm still trying to locate a very important artifact from my last trip, of which I will post a photo if I am successful.
Along those lines it seems like an old family tradition may have come to an end. I've looked in supermarkets and convenience stores but haven't been able to locate a single bottle of Pschitt! soda. The pictures on the web site suggest that it now comes primarily in plastic, which would represent only a partial victory.
Some useless information before I go: did you know the French had a relatively popular precursor to the Internet known as Minitel? Read about it if you're interested. I was reminded of this by a sign in the train station which mentioned "Internet or Minitel payments" (though the service was discontinued 1/1/07). The French government handed the Minitel terminals out for free starting in 1982. The government also settled on a "tax, not regulate" stance on adult content, interesting in light of today's Internet politics.
It's hard to believe but I'll be back in the USA in three short days. (well, actually, Wednesday when I fly against the time zones will probably literally be the longest day of my life.)
I spent most of Friday and yesterday wandering around the city, seeing how much I remember from my three weeks here in high school. Quite a few memories come rushing back, while others are more elusive. I'm still trying to locate a very important artifact from my last trip, of which I will post a photo if I am successful.
Along those lines it seems like an old family tradition may have come to an end. I've looked in supermarkets and convenience stores but haven't been able to locate a single bottle of Pschitt! soda. The pictures on the web site suggest that it now comes primarily in plastic, which would represent only a partial victory.
Some useless information before I go: did you know the French had a relatively popular precursor to the Internet known as Minitel? Read about it if you're interested. I was reminded of this by a sign in the train station which mentioned "Internet or Minitel payments" (though the service was discontinued 1/1/07). The French government handed the Minitel terminals out for free starting in 1982. The government also settled on a "tax, not regulate" stance on adult content, interesting in light of today's Internet politics.
It's hard to believe but I'll be back in the USA in three short days. (well, actually, Wednesday when I fly against the time zones will probably literally be the longest day of my life.)
28 July 2007
talar du Yucatec Maya language?
I'm in Nice right now, after arriving last night. Sorry for the slow week of updates; this blogging on the run is tough stuff! Annnywwayyyy,
Friday was pretty much just a travel day. I rose at 6:30 after a nice three-hour nap, ate breakfast, and took a bus to the train station. The journey from there to Nice consumed 12 hours, three buses, a plane, and a train... but only 60€.
That being said, I'm blog-hopping back to Stockholm. On Wednesday night, Totte's brother Johannes and a couple of his friends cooked dinner - something delicious involving salmon and goat cheese. Let this be my public compliment to the chefs; I hadn't had a nice home-cooked meal in weeks! After dinner and a box of wine, we ventured out into the city.
A nice coincedence: when I'd met up with Totte in the States last year, he was traveling with his friend David. I didn't know if we'd see David during my visit to Sweden, but we happened to bump into him randomly at a bar downtown. (The one other person I know in Stockholm...)
On Thursday we met Totte's sister, Linnea, at the quite-trendy cafe at the Moderna Museet. After eating and chatting for awhile, though, our energy had waned and we never actually went inside the museum. As a result, my memory of the Moderna will be the one piece of "art" that I saw - an ashtray on our table that looked exactly like a roll of toilet paper.
After two nights out we thought we'd take it easy and rent a movie. Thirty minutes of indecision in the video store gave us Apocalypto, the recent Mel Gibson offering set in the ancient Maya civilization.
Most American movies that come to Sweden are presented in English, with Swedish subtitles. Imagine our surprise when all of the characters started speaking Yucatec Maya language! The only subtitle options were Scandinavian languages, so I wouldn't have been able to understand the movie. (We found it pretty great that there was also a "no subtitles" version, which we thought should have been English. How many Yucatec Maya language speakers are there in Region 2?) The Björkstrand crew and I watched Fargo instead, which I'd never seen and was excellent.
I'm off for now, but stay tuned kids - we'll be back in a flash!
Friday was pretty much just a travel day. I rose at 6:30 after a nice three-hour nap, ate breakfast, and took a bus to the train station. The journey from there to Nice consumed 12 hours, three buses, a plane, and a train... but only 60€.
That being said, I'm blog-hopping back to Stockholm. On Wednesday night, Totte's brother Johannes and a couple of his friends cooked dinner - something delicious involving salmon and goat cheese. Let this be my public compliment to the chefs; I hadn't had a nice home-cooked meal in weeks! After dinner and a box of wine, we ventured out into the city.
A nice coincedence: when I'd met up with Totte in the States last year, he was traveling with his friend David. I didn't know if we'd see David during my visit to Sweden, but we happened to bump into him randomly at a bar downtown. (The one other person I know in Stockholm...)
On Thursday we met Totte's sister, Linnea, at the quite-trendy cafe at the Moderna Museet. After eating and chatting for awhile, though, our energy had waned and we never actually went inside the museum. As a result, my memory of the Moderna will be the one piece of "art" that I saw - an ashtray on our table that looked exactly like a roll of toilet paper.
After two nights out we thought we'd take it easy and rent a movie. Thirty minutes of indecision in the video store gave us Apocalypto, the recent Mel Gibson offering set in the ancient Maya civilization.
Most American movies that come to Sweden are presented in English, with Swedish subtitles. Imagine our surprise when all of the characters started speaking Yucatec Maya language! The only subtitle options were Scandinavian languages, so I wouldn't have been able to understand the movie. (We found it pretty great that there was also a "no subtitles" version, which we thought should have been English. How many Yucatec Maya language speakers are there in Region 2?) The Björkstrand crew and I watched Fargo instead, which I'd never seen and was excellent.
I'm off for now, but stay tuned kids - we'll be back in a flash!
25 July 2007
what does your father do?
As I type this, I'm relaxing on the couch in my five-star accomodation here in Stockholm. This is by far my nicest and cheapest lodging thus far; I'm staying with my friend Kris and his siblings in their parents' apartment in the city.
After I arrived yesterday, Kris (or Totte, as he is known around here) met me at the train station and we headed back to the apartment. We biked around town, during which time we vowed to open the bank that would house the next publicized instance of Stockholm Syndrome.
Totte's friend Louisa came over for dinner. We introduced ourselves, and then she asked me the next logical question: "what does your father do?" I blinked for a second. "...what?" I mumbled a bit, probably embarrasingly so. I was slowly constructing a bizarre and archaic picture of Swedish society, in which one's father's occupation is of primary interest.
Anyway, we quickly cleared up the misunderstanding. Whatever she actually had asked me, it was exceedingly normal and had nothing to do with fathers.
We made tacos for dinner, and I introduced the Swedes to the Mexican/American delight of refried beans. Totte claimed to like them, but none of the others seemed very excited. I can understand the reaction; they couldn't believe that the pile of mush in the pot was a) beans and b) edible.
The rest of the night was great; I met a couple more of Totte's friends and we hung around downtown. We watched the aftermath of a fight at an outdoor bar, in which a face and a beer bottle had exchanged unpleasantries. I slept without locking up my stuff for the first time in a few weeks.
Today we saw the changing of the guard in front of the Royal Palace, then toured the city by boat. Stockholm is made up of a bunch of islands, so it makes for a beautiful boat trip. (Our boat passed under 20 bridges!)
Little-known fact: the band Europe, of Final Countdown fame, is Swedish. The audio tour on the boat played a subdued, orchestral version of the song between bits of information.
Before I go, I feel like I should mention that it's not an easy job being royalty in Sweden. You're trotting around the world every day shaking hands and what-not.... and to make matters worse, supposedly you're actually required by law to own a bunch of animals. (Sheep, horses, deer, and the like.) I can't find evidence for this online, so it may very well be a myth.
For now I'm off to the balcony. Long Live the King!
After I arrived yesterday, Kris (or Totte, as he is known around here) met me at the train station and we headed back to the apartment. We biked around town, during which time we vowed to open the bank that would house the next publicized instance of Stockholm Syndrome.
Totte's friend Louisa came over for dinner. We introduced ourselves, and then she asked me the next logical question: "what does your father do?" I blinked for a second. "...what?" I mumbled a bit, probably embarrasingly so. I was slowly constructing a bizarre and archaic picture of Swedish society, in which one's father's occupation is of primary interest.
Anyway, we quickly cleared up the misunderstanding. Whatever she actually had asked me, it was exceedingly normal and had nothing to do with fathers.
We made tacos for dinner, and I introduced the Swedes to the Mexican/American delight of refried beans. Totte claimed to like them, but none of the others seemed very excited. I can understand the reaction; they couldn't believe that the pile of mush in the pot was a) beans and b) edible.
The rest of the night was great; I met a couple more of Totte's friends and we hung around downtown. We watched the aftermath of a fight at an outdoor bar, in which a face and a beer bottle had exchanged unpleasantries. I slept without locking up my stuff for the first time in a few weeks.
Today we saw the changing of the guard in front of the Royal Palace, then toured the city by boat. Stockholm is made up of a bunch of islands, so it makes for a beautiful boat trip. (Our boat passed under 20 bridges!)
Little-known fact: the band Europe, of Final Countdown fame, is Swedish. The audio tour on the boat played a subdued, orchestral version of the song between bits of information.
Before I go, I feel like I should mention that it's not an easy job being royalty in Sweden. You're trotting around the world every day shaking hands and what-not.... and to make matters worse, supposedly you're actually required by law to own a bunch of animals. (Sheep, horses, deer, and the like.) I can't find evidence for this online, so it may very well be a myth.
For now I'm off to the balcony. Long Live the King!
23 July 2007
the free encyclopedia that anyone can edit
Pictures on Picasa: Berlin, Copenhagen.
I got out of the hostel relatively early this morning (11am!), and I've spent most of the day biking around. Berlin is huge and full of places that are worth visiting; I could stay here for a month and probably still miss entire parts of the city.
I mentioned that I left at eleven. By 1:30, I'd ducked into a store to buy a pen so I could write down all of the things I wanted to look up when I got home. (Below is only a sampling.) The guidebooks aren't exactly comprehensive, and I can't read German.
I got out of the hostel relatively early this morning (11am!), and I've spent most of the day biking around. Berlin is huge and full of places that are worth visiting; I could stay here for a month and probably still miss entire parts of the city.
I mentioned that I left at eleven. By 1:30, I'd ducked into a store to buy a pen so I could write down all of the things I wanted to look up when I got home. (Below is only a sampling.) The guidebooks aren't exactly comprehensive, and I can't read German.
- I passed a Häagen Dazs today. Enticed by the authentic-seeming umlaut and "non-American" name, I bought an ice cream cone, though I was very suspicious. Sure enough, the company isn't German and it isn't even Scandinavian, it's plain old American. Either way, the ice cream is delicious.
- I had schnitzel for lunch. When I ordered it I didn't even know whether to ask for " a" schnitzel or "some" schnitzel or "a couple of" schnitzel, because truthfully I had no idea what I was ordering. I received a deep-fried patty of meat, which I could only identify as "probably pork". Since it was cheap, I was probably correct.
- I've been seeing colorful bears all over the city. The bear is the symbol of Berlin, and apparently fiberglass animals are all the rage these days! I'm not going to lie, these guys will brighten your day.
- My guidebook didn't mention a Holocaust memorial (which I actually found quite strange), so imagine my surprise when I came across this. Here's the scoop.
I'm off to Stockholm tomorrow, but by no means have I scratched the tip of the cultural iceberg of Berlin. The rich history of the city dates back over 750 years...but the fall of the Wall happened less than 20 years ago, and don't forget that the Allied forces bombed the hell out of the city in the 40s. Hopefully I'll have time to write about some of my observations on this constantly-evolving place.
Quick, fun anecdote from today. I was standing at the Holocaust memorial talking to another tourist in English. A relatively young girl came up to me with her mother and sister in tow (clearly she was the English-speaking representative of the family) and asked me directions to the Berlin Wall.
I showed her a couple of nice vantage points on her map. She thanked me, I complimented her English, and I added "good luck!" (referring, obviously, to their imminent attempt to find the mauer.)
She smiled, waved, and repeated "good luck!" This pure-hearted, international expression of benevolence kept me smiling for a few blocks.
22 July 2007
rachael ray's global empire
When John F. Kennedy famously proclaimed "Ich bin ein Berliner" in 1963, the world cackled in mockery. In German, the president of the United States had just called himself a jelly doughnut. This gaffe(?) is still discussed and quoted today!
Still, walking around Berlin last night, I noticed quite a few stores with the word "Berliner" in their names. Could this be a city of doughnut shops? Beer taps and banks and delicatessens alike bore the mark of the "Berliner". Maybe, just maybe, the word could be used as JFK had intended it - to refer to a citizen of Berlin?
I've found a couple of opinions here and here.
Anyway, later on I was talking to some Irish girls back at the hostel and I mentioned that I'm from the Boston area. They got very excited: "Dunkin' Donuts is in Boston!" Apparently they'd visited Boston once and fallen in love with DD. There are no Dunkin' Donuts stores in Ireland, so this has been a big problem for them. Yesterday they actually tried to go to the Dunkin Donuts in Berlin but it was geschlossen.
On the subject of commerce, it is very difficult to keep clean-shaven when airport security constantly steals your shaving cream. I took a quick walk in the rain this morning to try to find a convenience store, but Sunday is not a great day for business in Berlin. Most of the larger stores aren't open and the smaller ones only sell beer and apples. (I'm not really kidding.)
I found two stores with shaving products. One had a single Gillette Fusion razor, the belle of the ball, stocked proudly on a well-visible shelf. The other had two identical Gillette Fusions and three different types of Nivea after-shave. Neither had shaving cream.
Still, walking around Berlin last night, I noticed quite a few stores with the word "Berliner" in their names. Could this be a city of doughnut shops? Beer taps and banks and delicatessens alike bore the mark of the "Berliner". Maybe, just maybe, the word could be used as JFK had intended it - to refer to a citizen of Berlin?
I've found a couple of opinions here and here.
Anyway, later on I was talking to some Irish girls back at the hostel and I mentioned that I'm from the Boston area. They got very excited: "Dunkin' Donuts is in Boston!" Apparently they'd visited Boston once and fallen in love with DD. There are no Dunkin' Donuts stores in Ireland, so this has been a big problem for them. Yesterday they actually tried to go to the Dunkin Donuts in Berlin but it was geschlossen.
On the subject of commerce, it is very difficult to keep clean-shaven when airport security constantly steals your shaving cream. I took a quick walk in the rain this morning to try to find a convenience store, but Sunday is not a great day for business in Berlin. Most of the larger stores aren't open and the smaller ones only sell beer and apples. (I'm not really kidding.)
I found two stores with shaving products. One had a single Gillette Fusion razor, the belle of the ball, stocked proudly on a well-visible shelf. The other had two identical Gillette Fusions and three different types of Nivea after-shave. Neither had shaving cream.
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