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.
20 July 2007
one more thing
Before I left for Europe I was voraciously reading about American politics, but I've quite understandably put that on the back burner for my trip.
Can someone fill me in on what the hell is going on? Netvibes gave me this and this today. What else have I missed in the last three weeks? Are we really less than ten years from a revolution? This stuff is crossing all sorts of lines in the sand that people should have drawn.
oh, wait, we did draw them. it's called the god damn constitution. never before now have I actually felt ashamed to be American. everyone I meet who comes from another country asks me how things like this can happen in our nation without anyone even noticing, and all I can do is shrug and sigh.
i understand that there are a lot of great things about America, and I'm not trying to discount that. but seriously, for how long can we continue to call our country "the land of the free"?
end rant for fear of turning my blog into "the liberal media", only travel stories for the next week or two, i promise.
Can someone fill me in on what the hell is going on? Netvibes gave me this and this today. What else have I missed in the last three weeks? Are we really less than ten years from a revolution? This stuff is crossing all sorts of lines in the sand that people should have drawn.
oh, wait, we did draw them. it's called the god damn constitution. never before now have I actually felt ashamed to be American. everyone I meet who comes from another country asks me how things like this can happen in our nation without anyone even noticing, and all I can do is shrug and sigh.
i understand that there are a lot of great things about America, and I'm not trying to discount that. but seriously, for how long can we continue to call our country "the land of the free"?
end rant for fear of turning my blog into "the liberal media", only travel stories for the next week or two, i promise.
beer ex machina
According to some København locals, a club called Rust used to be the de facto center of nightlife in the city. A year or two ago, the club was the site of a fatal shooting (which reportedly stemmed from gang violence), and the reputation and atmosphere of Rust never quite recovered.
Two months ago, a fire ravaged the inside of the building, closing the club. (I couldn't find out the circumstances of the fire but I don't think it's assumed to be foul play.)
A group of us from the hostel had been planning to hit the town last night. I'd heard that the area around Rust was an energetic part of town, and it's very close to the hostel; we decided to check it out. As our small group was leaving the building, three hostelers ran up to us brimming with excitement. "Come to Sankt Hans Torv," they yelled, "there's a massive street party!" We hadn't heard about the party yet, but that's where we were planning to go. We joined our messengers and booked it toward the square.
Despite its charred interior, Rust is working hard to get back on the scene. Last night, the club blasted music outside of its defunct building from 8pm to midnight, and passed out an enormous supply of free beer! (Drinking on the street is legit in København.) Unfortunately we arrived after the last can had been distributed, but the people and the music remained. I'd estimate there were a couple thousand twenty-somethings crowding the wide street, milling about and dancing and yelling.
Since there were no more free drinks, we headed to a 7-Eleven on the corner to stock up. The refrigerators had been absolutely raided; there wasn't a drop of beer left in the store, and the shopkeeper looked overwhelmed at all of the foot traffic. We bought an overpriced bottle of rum and climbed atop some sort of dumpster to join the party.
From our vantage point we could see the whole scene: hundreds and hundreds of people swaying to inaudible music, broken glass and 6-pack rings everywhere, a vibrant buzz in the air. It reminded me of the snow day in Ithaca last year, when everybody junked their plans for the day and went sledding in the streets. (This time instead of snow falling from the sky it was beer.)
The music died at midnight, but the crowd stayed for at least an hour after that. We stuck around and chatted up the locals, and unearthed some valuable pieces of København lore. For example: the neighborhood in which both our hostel and the club are located is called Nørrebro, but young residents of the city call it "Nørre-Bronx" because of the amount of gang activity. (We heard this word a few times throughout the night, always in different groups of people, so I guess it's legitimate.) We heard the story of the Rust club and Københaven's cultural fixation with riots, both of which explain the scene at this particular street party. Still, it seems like these kinds of parties are rare enough that they're special events when they come together.
The night went on from there, but this was the cool part.
edit: If you're interested in the riots, Wikipedia has some nice info.
Two months ago, a fire ravaged the inside of the building, closing the club. (I couldn't find out the circumstances of the fire but I don't think it's assumed to be foul play.)
A group of us from the hostel had been planning to hit the town last night. I'd heard that the area around Rust was an energetic part of town, and it's very close to the hostel; we decided to check it out. As our small group was leaving the building, three hostelers ran up to us brimming with excitement. "Come to Sankt Hans Torv," they yelled, "there's a massive street party!" We hadn't heard about the party yet, but that's where we were planning to go. We joined our messengers and booked it toward the square.
Despite its charred interior, Rust is working hard to get back on the scene. Last night, the club blasted music outside of its defunct building from 8pm to midnight, and passed out an enormous supply of free beer! (Drinking on the street is legit in København.) Unfortunately we arrived after the last can had been distributed, but the people and the music remained. I'd estimate there were a couple thousand twenty-somethings crowding the wide street, milling about and dancing and yelling.
Since there were no more free drinks, we headed to a 7-Eleven on the corner to stock up. The refrigerators had been absolutely raided; there wasn't a drop of beer left in the store, and the shopkeeper looked overwhelmed at all of the foot traffic. We bought an overpriced bottle of rum and climbed atop some sort of dumpster to join the party.
From our vantage point we could see the whole scene: hundreds and hundreds of people swaying to inaudible music, broken glass and 6-pack rings everywhere, a vibrant buzz in the air. It reminded me of the snow day in Ithaca last year, when everybody junked their plans for the day and went sledding in the streets. (This time instead of snow falling from the sky it was beer.)
The music died at midnight, but the crowd stayed for at least an hour after that. We stuck around and chatted up the locals, and unearthed some valuable pieces of København lore. For example: the neighborhood in which both our hostel and the club are located is called Nørrebro, but young residents of the city call it "Nørre-Bronx" because of the amount of gang activity. (We heard this word a few times throughout the night, always in different groups of people, so I guess it's legitimate.) We heard the story of the Rust club and Københaven's cultural fixation with riots, both of which explain the scene at this particular street party. Still, it seems like these kinds of parties are rare enough that they're special events when they come together.
The night went on from there, but this was the cool part.
edit: If you're interested in the riots, Wikipedia has some nice info.
19 July 2007
something resembling an itinerary
I actually have the next two weeks mostly planned out, for better or for worse:
July 19, 20 nights: København, Denmark
July 21: fly to Berlin
July 21,22,23 nights: Berlin
July 24: fly to Stockholm
July 24,25,26 nights: Stockholm
July 27: fly to Nice
July 27,28,29 nights: Nice
July 29-31, wander back to London somehow
August 1: fly back to Boston
I hadn't planned to go to Berlin, but I've heard so many great things from fellow travelers that I think I need to stop there.
Today I'm planning to bike to the Louisiana Museum, supposedly named after the creator's wife and not the US state.
July 19, 20 nights: København, Denmark
July 21: fly to Berlin
July 21,22,23 nights: Berlin
July 24: fly to Stockholm
July 24,25,26 nights: Stockholm
July 27: fly to Nice
July 27,28,29 nights: Nice
July 29-31, wander back to London somehow
August 1: fly back to Boston
I hadn't planned to go to Berlin, but I've heard so many great things from fellow travelers that I think I need to stop there.
Today I'm planning to bike to the Louisiana Museum, supposedly named after the creator's wife and not the US state.
18 July 2007
well, one could always count the boats in the harbor
Picasa update: Amsterdam pictures are up, København ones are updated, and Dragør has been added as well.
I biked to Dragør today, a small fishing village about 15km outside of København. I hadn't heard about many "tourist attractions" there, but it comes highly recommended as a nice place to visit.
I parked my bike and walked around, and I came to an ice cream shop. While the girl behind the counter was scooping my chocolate-pistachio mix, I asked her what to do in Dragør.
"hmmmm...." she thought, "do you like shopping?" I shook my head. "well, you can always come back and buy more ice cream!" She told me that there's in fact nothing else to do in Dragør, and that the locals pretty much hang out in the town square and then jet around on their boats. She'd lived in Dragør all her life, and confessed that in the winter (September - May) everyone just drinks all day. Since there are no bars, though, it's done at home.
It's true, there wasn't much to visit in Dragør, but I liked it all the same. I relaxed on one of the piers, ate my picnic lunch, and watched two tours of elderly Danes pass through the city. I walked along the rocks by the water and checked out a bunch of little produce shops. Dragør is not quite an attraction, but it's a nice place to catch your breath.
I came back to København and visited a few of the parks; they're great, check the pictures. Gotta run!
I biked to Dragør today, a small fishing village about 15km outside of København. I hadn't heard about many "tourist attractions" there, but it comes highly recommended as a nice place to visit.
I parked my bike and walked around, and I came to an ice cream shop. While the girl behind the counter was scooping my chocolate-pistachio mix, I asked her what to do in Dragør.
"hmmmm...." she thought, "do you like shopping?" I shook my head. "well, you can always come back and buy more ice cream!" She told me that there's in fact nothing else to do in Dragør, and that the locals pretty much hang out in the town square and then jet around on their boats. She'd lived in Dragør all her life, and confessed that in the winter (September - May) everyone just drinks all day. Since there are no bars, though, it's done at home.
It's true, there wasn't much to visit in Dragør, but I liked it all the same. I relaxed on one of the piers, ate my picnic lunch, and watched two tours of elderly Danes pass through the city. I walked along the rocks by the water and checked out a bunch of little produce shops. Dragør is not quite an attraction, but it's a nice place to catch your breath.
I came back to København and visited a few of the parks; they're great, check the pictures. Gotta run!
bicycle, bicycle
First things first: Pictures on Picasa of København, and Belgium! (Amsterdam pics coming soon.) I found a nice Internet cafe, though I had to ask special permission to access my external drive.
Streeeetttch. I woke up yesterday to bright sunlight and bounded out of bed, only to realize that it was 5:30 in the morning! Sunrise is at 4:50am here, oops. I went back to bed and caught a couple more hours of sleep.
I bought breakfast at the hostel and met a few travelers who were planning another day of exploring København. I had a similar itinerary as an Austrian guy named Daimer, so we decided to journey on together.
Our first stop was renting bikes. After my mediocre bike in Bruges, my bike in Amsterdam was a little more expensive but actually very nice. My Danish bike seems to be the worst of both worlds: expensive and shoddy.
My first attempt from the bike shop here had no bell, a worn-down brake, and a non-adjustable seat. I switched it for another bike with sticky gears, but more effective brakes. Both bikes have that back-pedal brake that we all used when we were 6 or 7 years old... which is, to understate, a pain.
I've been traveling by bike for most of my trip thus far, so I should take a minute to explain the biking culture here in Europe. Bikes are literally everywhere; in København, an estimated 35% of commuters use bicycles to get to work. The landscape is completely flat (here but also in the Netherlands, Belgium, and probably countless other places), so bicycles are an easy and effective means of transportation.
Those of you who bike in the United States (and those who drive or walk, for that matter) probably know how universally everyone hates bike commuters. Cars think bikers should be on the sidewalk, pedestrians think bikers should be on the roads. Here, though, there are separate bike lanes, complete with signs and traffic signals and differently-colored pavement.
Unfortunately, tourists often use bike lanes as sidewalks, and that's where the bell comes in. The easiest way to send a family of four fleeing for the hills is to give a little tap on that high-pitched bell, and then listen for the cries of "shit, get out of the way!" It is a point of pride to be able to remain seated on the bicycle through the most dense and inattentive crowds. I have become very skilled at this game.
My time is running out, so I'm off to bike to Dragør, a small town outside the city.
Streeeetttch. I woke up yesterday to bright sunlight and bounded out of bed, only to realize that it was 5:30 in the morning! Sunrise is at 4:50am here, oops. I went back to bed and caught a couple more hours of sleep.
I bought breakfast at the hostel and met a few travelers who were planning another day of exploring København. I had a similar itinerary as an Austrian guy named Daimer, so we decided to journey on together.
Our first stop was renting bikes. After my mediocre bike in Bruges, my bike in Amsterdam was a little more expensive but actually very nice. My Danish bike seems to be the worst of both worlds: expensive and shoddy.
My first attempt from the bike shop here had no bell, a worn-down brake, and a non-adjustable seat. I switched it for another bike with sticky gears, but more effective brakes. Both bikes have that back-pedal brake that we all used when we were 6 or 7 years old... which is, to understate, a pain.
I've been traveling by bike for most of my trip thus far, so I should take a minute to explain the biking culture here in Europe. Bikes are literally everywhere; in København, an estimated 35% of commuters use bicycles to get to work. The landscape is completely flat (here but also in the Netherlands, Belgium, and probably countless other places), so bicycles are an easy and effective means of transportation.
Those of you who bike in the United States (and those who drive or walk, for that matter) probably know how universally everyone hates bike commuters. Cars think bikers should be on the sidewalk, pedestrians think bikers should be on the roads. Here, though, there are separate bike lanes, complete with signs and traffic signals and differently-colored pavement.
Unfortunately, tourists often use bike lanes as sidewalks, and that's where the bell comes in. The easiest way to send a family of four fleeing for the hills is to give a little tap on that high-pitched bell, and then listen for the cries of "shit, get out of the way!" It is a point of pride to be able to remain seated on the bicycle through the most dense and inattentive crowds. I have become very skilled at this game.
My time is running out, so I'm off to bike to Dragør, a small town outside the city.
17 July 2007
anarchists on welfare
Despite being exhausted when I arrived yesterday, I knew I couldn't waste my first day in København. (That's how the locals spell it.) I met up with a guy named Levent, a Turkish traveler who was also interested in walking around, and we set out with a map to explore the city.
Our first stop was Vor Frelsers Kirke (remote image link), a church in the Christianshavn region of Copenhagen. Climbing to the top costs 25DKK (a little less than $5 USD), and provides an exquisite view of the city. I have some pictures; I'll post them when I find a computer that's a bit, ahem, newer.
On the way to Vor Frelsers Kirke, we passed Strøget, a famous shopping street in the center of the city. Supposedly it's a top tourist destination but we found absolutely nothing appealing about it. Levent shares my distaste for 'vacation shopping', but this street was so crowded that it was considerably worse than either of us had expected. We turned off and walked parallel to Strøget to get past the area.
The view from the top of the spire was perfect as promised. Yesterday was the best weather-day of my trip thus far, so the visibility was well worth the hike up the stairs. Just below us and a couple of blocks east, we could see a run-down house with hippie rainbows and trees painted on it. We figured it was the entrance to Christiania, a colony of hippies that took over a former military base in 1971 and declared themselves independent from the Danish government. We went over to check it out.
Well, the place certainly had a 60's vibe. Nearly every free surface was adorned with graffiti, most of it suggestive of drugs. I'd been under the impression that the colony was making a statement about government in general, but we soon realized that legalizing marijuana was the primary issue here in Christiania. Official city maps are emblazoned with pot leaves, and the streets bear names like "Pusher Street" (which is the local term for a drug dealer).
I was impressed by the cohesive nature of the culture; everyone in Christiania seems to be "living the mission" of mutual respect and simple living. Still, the whole colony is living in a bit of a massive delusion, possibly as a result of overindulgent marijuana consumption. We talked to two storekeepers who insisted that Christiania doesn't need the Danish government for anything. While they assured us that this is the party line within the walls of the city, it's hard to believe that severing ties with the Danish government would work very well. The colony doesn't have any doctors or schools, trade is conducted in Danish kroner, the list goes on. Levent and I found the whole situation pretty humorous (and no, we didn't partake in the local hobby).
Eventually we made it back to the hostel and joined a circle of ten or twelve travelers that were preparing to go out for the evening. We exchanged the typical where-ya-from greetings, and a guy named Matt seemed particularly intrigued that I live outside of Boston. His first question was "Do you know Dan Wollin?" We were quite impressed by the coincedence!
Each of my travel days has been preceded by a night of two hours' sleep (quite literally), so I forewent the bars for the evening and chose to get some rest. I made it to bed just before midnight, and I was in dreamland before my head touched the rolled-up towel that I know as a pillow.
Our first stop was Vor Frelsers Kirke (remote image link), a church in the Christianshavn region of Copenhagen. Climbing to the top costs 25DKK (a little less than $5 USD), and provides an exquisite view of the city. I have some pictures; I'll post them when I find a computer that's a bit, ahem, newer.
On the way to Vor Frelsers Kirke, we passed Strøget, a famous shopping street in the center of the city. Supposedly it's a top tourist destination but we found absolutely nothing appealing about it. Levent shares my distaste for 'vacation shopping', but this street was so crowded that it was considerably worse than either of us had expected. We turned off and walked parallel to Strøget to get past the area.
The view from the top of the spire was perfect as promised. Yesterday was the best weather-day of my trip thus far, so the visibility was well worth the hike up the stairs. Just below us and a couple of blocks east, we could see a run-down house with hippie rainbows and trees painted on it. We figured it was the entrance to Christiania, a colony of hippies that took over a former military base in 1971 and declared themselves independent from the Danish government. We went over to check it out.
Well, the place certainly had a 60's vibe. Nearly every free surface was adorned with graffiti, most of it suggestive of drugs. I'd been under the impression that the colony was making a statement about government in general, but we soon realized that legalizing marijuana was the primary issue here in Christiania. Official city maps are emblazoned with pot leaves, and the streets bear names like "Pusher Street" (which is the local term for a drug dealer).
I was impressed by the cohesive nature of the culture; everyone in Christiania seems to be "living the mission" of mutual respect and simple living. Still, the whole colony is living in a bit of a massive delusion, possibly as a result of overindulgent marijuana consumption. We talked to two storekeepers who insisted that Christiania doesn't need the Danish government for anything. While they assured us that this is the party line within the walls of the city, it's hard to believe that severing ties with the Danish government would work very well. The colony doesn't have any doctors or schools, trade is conducted in Danish kroner, the list goes on. Levent and I found the whole situation pretty humorous (and no, we didn't partake in the local hobby).
Eventually we made it back to the hostel and joined a circle of ten or twelve travelers that were preparing to go out for the evening. We exchanged the typical where-ya-from greetings, and a guy named Matt seemed particularly intrigued that I live outside of Boston. His first question was "Do you know Dan Wollin?" We were quite impressed by the coincedence!
Each of my travel days has been preceded by a night of two hours' sleep (quite literally), so I forewent the bars for the evening and chose to get some rest. I made it to bed just before midnight, and I was in dreamland before my head touched the rolled-up towel that I know as a pillow.
16 July 2007
hello from Denmark!
I decided to forego the 14-hour bus trip I'd planned to get here, and I took a plane from Amsterdam to Copenhagen this morning. For now, I'm getting settled into my hostel, and I'm about to head out and explore the city. The "concierge" at the front desk gave me and some fellow travelers some tips on the hot spots, so we're going to do a bit of wandering. (In exchange, we told her about Amsterdam.)
I met up with Lee and his friend Alex last night; his was the first familiar face I'd seen in over a week! We hit the town for awhile, and it was great fun. I know I've been slacking on the updates, but I'll fill in some more later. For now, Christiania here we come.
I met up with Lee and his friend Alex last night; his was the first familiar face I'd seen in over a week! We hit the town for awhile, and it was great fun. I know I've been slacking on the updates, but I'll fill in some more later. For now, Christiania here we come.
14 July 2007
mob mentality
I almost forgot, I saw a street performer last night. It was probably the most unsettling thing I've seen on my trip thus far.
I noticed a crowd gathered in the middle of a city square, so I walked over to check it out. At the center was a man wrapped entirely in metal chains. He'd arranged the chains to form a straitjacket (or an "ambulatory camisole", for you Rulloff's trivia buffs). Under one of his armpits was a padlock, which presumably kept him secure. A random audience volunteer held the key.
The crowd was about 300 strong, packed three-deep in a circle around the performer. When there was a momentary lull in chatter, the guy would start to psych himself up for his eventual escape from the chains. Every couple of minutes, though, he would pick a different person out of the crowd and start shouting in his general direction. "you're disrespectful," he would yell, "you're a coward. shut the hell up and let me work in peace!" The audience member would usually slink away from the circle, and the performer would go through the same speech: "look at me when i'm talking to you! i'm chained up and you're still scared of me!" He became agitated and threatening, though his limbs were restricted. He really seemed like he was going to snap. At first I thought it was a genuine reaction, but it happened every three or four minutes. It got very repetitive.
It was the classic "watching a train wreck" moment. The performer was doing his best to act violent and disturbed. The crowd was captivated.
I wanted to watch him escape from the chains, but after the first three outbursts it was clear that he had no intentions of doing it anytime soon. I started to walk away, but just then he got angry again, this time at a man in the second row who was barely in view of the crowd.
It was then that I noticed a pattern in his victims. Three of the four people he yelled at were dark-skinned. Scanning the circle, I saw mostly white faces. I stuck around for a few more minutes to confirm my suspicion, and it was undoubtedly true. When he ran out of Black viewers to attack, he started returning to people he'd already yelled at. "don't look away from me! i make more in five minutes than you've made in your life at mcdonald's. hey, look, you know english, i bet you were the first person in your family to go to school."
Whenever he slung a particularly vicious insult, the crowd would hoot and applaud. People were eating this up. I couldn't tell whether it was the thinly-veiled racism, the perceived instability of the performer, or simply the excitement of waiting for him to break the chains, but the crowd grew larger and larger with few defections.
I didn't really want to be a part of his fan club, so I walked away. I saw two groups of Black audience members (who hadn't yet been targeted) shaking their heads and walking away in disgust.
I noticed a crowd gathered in the middle of a city square, so I walked over to check it out. At the center was a man wrapped entirely in metal chains. He'd arranged the chains to form a straitjacket (or an "ambulatory camisole", for you Rulloff's trivia buffs). Under one of his armpits was a padlock, which presumably kept him secure. A random audience volunteer held the key.
The crowd was about 300 strong, packed three-deep in a circle around the performer. When there was a momentary lull in chatter, the guy would start to psych himself up for his eventual escape from the chains. Every couple of minutes, though, he would pick a different person out of the crowd and start shouting in his general direction. "you're disrespectful," he would yell, "you're a coward. shut the hell up and let me work in peace!" The audience member would usually slink away from the circle, and the performer would go through the same speech: "look at me when i'm talking to you! i'm chained up and you're still scared of me!" He became agitated and threatening, though his limbs were restricted. He really seemed like he was going to snap. At first I thought it was a genuine reaction, but it happened every three or four minutes. It got very repetitive.
It was the classic "watching a train wreck" moment. The performer was doing his best to act violent and disturbed. The crowd was captivated.
I wanted to watch him escape from the chains, but after the first three outbursts it was clear that he had no intentions of doing it anytime soon. I started to walk away, but just then he got angry again, this time at a man in the second row who was barely in view of the crowd.
It was then that I noticed a pattern in his victims. Three of the four people he yelled at were dark-skinned. Scanning the circle, I saw mostly white faces. I stuck around for a few more minutes to confirm my suspicion, and it was undoubtedly true. When he ran out of Black viewers to attack, he started returning to people he'd already yelled at. "don't look away from me! i make more in five minutes than you've made in your life at mcdonald's. hey, look, you know english, i bet you were the first person in your family to go to school."
Whenever he slung a particularly vicious insult, the crowd would hoot and applaud. People were eating this up. I couldn't tell whether it was the thinly-veiled racism, the perceived instability of the performer, or simply the excitement of waiting for him to break the chains, but the crowd grew larger and larger with few defections.
I didn't really want to be a part of his fan club, so I walked away. I saw two groups of Black audience members (who hadn't yet been targeted) shaking their heads and walking away in disgust.
fiets
I'm writing from Amsterdam, after arriving here yesterday. I checked out of my Bruges hostel on the later side, said goodbye to some of my fellow travelers, and hopped on the train. I spent the afternoon exploring and remembering how to get around in Amsterdam, and then took a much-needed nap.
I wasn't quite in the mood for the crazy Amsterdam nightlife, but I roamed around to check out the spectacle. The streets of the Red Light District supported a steady stream of tourists - nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with people at times - but elsewhere the city seemed almost quiet around midnight. (I'm sure I was just in the wrong places.) I had a couple of beers in a youth hostel bar and then came back to my hotel and crashed. I have 3 days here and I need some sleep!
On Thursday, I rented a bike and rode from Bruges to the Dutch border, about 20km away. I stopped in a couple of small towns, one of which (Damme) was comprised almost entirely of bookstores. I also saw more cows than I've ever seen in a single day. Once you leave the Bruges city limits, it's all a big cornfield; in that regard it reminded me of Ithaca.
The Dutch town at the border is called Sluis. Halfway to Sluis, my bike started making a chirping noise: twice for every rotation of the front wheel. It was a seven-speed bike, but three of the gears were impossible to use because the derailleur wasn't aligned properly. Also, the back of the bike had a metal panel behind the seat, which rattled every time the bike hit a rock. Biking in the rain, I was a pathetic sight indeed.
When I made it to Sluis, I picked up the classic traveler's lunch (baguette, cheese, random meat) and walked through the streets. The town is about 7km from the coast, and it has a "seaside" feel to it: think Cape Cod. The only real attraction is a windmill at the end of the main street, but the town seems to attract a fair amount of tourists nonetheless. Since it's in the Netherlands, there are sex shops sandwiched between some of the nice restaurants, and they're not exactly discreet: the windows feature nude mannequins sporting all sorts of 'equipment'.
The rain had passed, so I took the scenic route back; it's a very peaceful winding bike path that seems to cut through the back of someone's farm. The cows seemed to take offense at my noisy bike, but they weren't very aggressive. I have a few pictures, but I'll upload them later.
For a pre-dinner snack, I picked up my first kroket of the trip. (This is a staple of the Dutch street vendor, and an old standby from my voyage last year.) I'd planned to stop at a supermarket and cook something simple in the hostel for dinner, but when I returned I found a pair of Aussies who had made way too much pasta and insisted on sharing. Jackpot!
The guy and girl who had cooked the meal together had actually met that morning, and spent the day together. (They seemed to "fancy" each other, as the Brits would say.) They both seemed to enjoy the anonymity of traveling, so they had agreed to call each other only by their bed numbers in the hostel. I was introduced to "23" and "21" and never learned their real names. I was "15".
I wasn't quite in the mood for the crazy Amsterdam nightlife, but I roamed around to check out the spectacle. The streets of the Red Light District supported a steady stream of tourists - nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with people at times - but elsewhere the city seemed almost quiet around midnight. (I'm sure I was just in the wrong places.) I had a couple of beers in a youth hostel bar and then came back to my hotel and crashed. I have 3 days here and I need some sleep!
On Thursday, I rented a bike and rode from Bruges to the Dutch border, about 20km away. I stopped in a couple of small towns, one of which (Damme) was comprised almost entirely of bookstores. I also saw more cows than I've ever seen in a single day. Once you leave the Bruges city limits, it's all a big cornfield; in that regard it reminded me of Ithaca.
The Dutch town at the border is called Sluis. Halfway to Sluis, my bike started making a chirping noise: twice for every rotation of the front wheel. It was a seven-speed bike, but three of the gears were impossible to use because the derailleur wasn't aligned properly. Also, the back of the bike had a metal panel behind the seat, which rattled every time the bike hit a rock. Biking in the rain, I was a pathetic sight indeed.
When I made it to Sluis, I picked up the classic traveler's lunch (baguette, cheese, random meat) and walked through the streets. The town is about 7km from the coast, and it has a "seaside" feel to it: think Cape Cod. The only real attraction is a windmill at the end of the main street, but the town seems to attract a fair amount of tourists nonetheless. Since it's in the Netherlands, there are sex shops sandwiched between some of the nice restaurants, and they're not exactly discreet: the windows feature nude mannequins sporting all sorts of 'equipment'.
The rain had passed, so I took the scenic route back; it's a very peaceful winding bike path that seems to cut through the back of someone's farm. The cows seemed to take offense at my noisy bike, but they weren't very aggressive. I have a few pictures, but I'll upload them later.
For a pre-dinner snack, I picked up my first kroket of the trip. (This is a staple of the Dutch street vendor, and an old standby from my voyage last year.) I'd planned to stop at a supermarket and cook something simple in the hostel for dinner, but when I returned I found a pair of Aussies who had made way too much pasta and insisted on sharing. Jackpot!
The guy and girl who had cooked the meal together had actually met that morning, and spent the day together. (They seemed to "fancy" each other, as the Brits would say.) They both seemed to enjoy the anonymity of traveling, so they had agreed to call each other only by their bed numbers in the hostel. I was introduced to "23" and "21" and never learned their real names. I was "15".
12 July 2007
two quick comments
1) I just posted some photos of Bruges, on Picasa.
2) Many European backpackers are seeking to reinvent themselves, leave their lives behind, start fresh, and all that jazz. These days though, if you have a couple of pieces of basic information about a person, you can probably find something about him or her on the Internet. (Especially in the case of travelers, who often rely on social networking sites to keep in contact with friends.)
I haven't Googled anyone I've met on my trip and I'm not about to start. Still, one can only assume that *someone* out there is doing it.
2) Many European backpackers are seeking to reinvent themselves, leave their lives behind, start fresh, and all that jazz. These days though, if you have a couple of pieces of basic information about a person, you can probably find something about him or her on the Internet. (Especially in the case of travelers, who often rely on social networking sites to keep in contact with friends.)
I haven't Googled anyone I've met on my trip and I'm not about to start. Still, one can only assume that *someone* out there is doing it.
11 July 2007
waffles and chocolate
These posts come in spurts because I try to do my Internetting all at once.
Right now I'm in Bruges (Brugge), Belgium. It really an awesome town: it's very laid back, it's full of friendly locals and friendlier tourists, and the beer is cheap and plentiful. On top of that, each day feels like it could have taken place in any of the past five or six centuries; it's packed with historical beauty. I was here last year with Sam, Aaron and Ed, but not for nearly long enough.
I need to get back on my rented bike, but before I go: last night there was a celebration in town, commemorating a past military victory. It featured a band, some marching, and free-flowing beer. All was well except for the neo-nazis. (Check my Picasa pictures for a little taste of the action.)
a bientot!
Right now I'm in Bruges (Brugge), Belgium. It really an awesome town: it's very laid back, it's full of friendly locals and friendlier tourists, and the beer is cheap and plentiful. On top of that, each day feels like it could have taken place in any of the past five or six centuries; it's packed with historical beauty. I was here last year with Sam, Aaron and Ed, but not for nearly long enough.
I need to get back on my rented bike, but before I go: last night there was a celebration in town, commemorating a past military victory. It featured a band, some marching, and free-flowing beer. All was well except for the neo-nazis. (Check my Picasa pictures for a little taste of the action.)
a bientot!
10 July 2007
mon jeu avec les oiseaux
Feeling satisfied about what I'd seen and done in Paris, I had no idea what to do last night... until I got on the Metro to come back from the Louvre. Two British guys behind me were arguing in English about the Metro map, and out of nowhere one of them said "man, I can't wait to play poker tonight!" (It was actually a very bizarre non-sequitur.) I'd completely forgotten there are poker clubs here, but it now seemed worth a look. Despite not having played since March and not having any cash, it was starting to sound like a good idea.
I went to the trusty Internet café and found some names and places. All of the "famous" clubs feature strict dress codes, which basically means you can't wear sneakers. Unfortunately for me, I only brought one pair of shoes - sneakers. (I've spent half of my trip walking, so I defend the decision!)
Undeterred, I hit up the ATM and headed for the first two clubs, conveniently located on the Champs-Elysses. As expected, I at each club I was turned away by the "bouncer".
Now if there's any place in the world to buy a pair of shoes, it's probably on the Champs-Elysses. I half-seriously window-shopped for a bit, but was discouraged at each store by the prices (I think the lowest pair of men's non-sneakers I found was on sale for 99 euro) or the "fermé" signs (it was 8pm).
I hopped back on the Metro and headed to the dress-code-free club, le Cercle Concorde. A bouncer guarded the door here too, but he barely gave me a second glance. (Still, the atmosphere was upscale and a bit intimidating to our sneaker-clad hero.)
Still, I almost left. At the entrance to the cardroom, the staff demanded to keep my passport in a box for "information". (They didn't speak any English, so there might have been a connotation I didn't understand.) Weighing my options, I couldn't decide whether it was worth it to separate myself from the one piece of paper that assures my return to the States. I did a MacGyver-esque scan of the room, though, and found a photocopier that looked a lot like a doorstop. I pointed. "What about that?" While the female staff member insisted to me that it didn't work and never had, the male staff member photocopied my passport and handed the original back to me. Jackpot.
As I entered the room, I understood why the room was described online as "very smoky". Ventilation was at a minimum, and the few light sources in the dim room illuminated dense columns of smoke up to the ceiling. In the States, smoking isn't allowed where poker is played, but that's not the case in France.
I was instantly seated at a table. Despite the language and culture difference, the players and the table dynamic seemed exactly the same as at a low stakes game at Turning Stone. There were a few young tight players, a couple of guys in their thirties with iPods, and some relaxed older gentlemen who didn't say too much. I was seated next to two players my own age, who I later discovered were both named Anthony.
The blinds were 2€/4€, with a 100€ "suggested" buy-in. (Yes, a ridiculous structure, especially when you consider what seemed to be an uncapped 5%/pot rake.) The average stack seemed to be about 150€ when I sat down. I'll save the poker hands for later (probably another post, I can only stay inside here in small doses), so stay tuned if you're interested.
As one would expect, the game was conducted entirely in French. Fortunately, there aren't too many things you need to say during a poker game except numbers, so I did fine with that. A few of the players taught me French poker slang: all-in is "tapis", or coloquially "boite" (which means "box"). Clubs are "trèfles"; when I learned this word one of the Anthonys told me that my French accent sounded German. And of course, bad players - "fish" in the states - are birds: les oiseaux.
Always the talkative one, I tried to liven up the previously-quiet table, with success. Unfortunately, though I can form sentences in French pretty well, I'm not nearly as good at understanding what people are saying in response; it's sometimes hard to pick out the words amid the accent. The Anthonys knew English and would speak to me a little more slowly, so we talked for quite some time switching every few minutes between French and English. They were the first Parisians I really conversed with on the trip (aside from short business transactions or questions on the street), and it was a nice break from the relative solitude of traveling alone. We went through a lot of the typical questions that foreigners have of each other; the funniest was when one Anthony asked about Bob Dylan and the Rolling Stones and I countered with MC Solaar. What a poor state of affairs, they said, when all an American knows of French music is MC Solaar!
Most of the players at the table would joke with me in English slang if we were in a hand together; I taught an older man the phrase "you're goin' down", which he used every time we played a pot. It was nice to feel somewhat integrated in a card game with the locals, and it certainly helped me understand the Parisian accent and get better with the language.
This is the part where I get sick of writing, so I'll be brief: I left the club at 4:45am, an hour before the metro opens. I walked home through the red-light district, and saw a bunch of prostitutes. I bought a pastry. I woke up the owner of my hotel, he let me in, and I passed out on my bed.
I went to the trusty Internet café and found some names and places. All of the "famous" clubs feature strict dress codes, which basically means you can't wear sneakers. Unfortunately for me, I only brought one pair of shoes - sneakers. (I've spent half of my trip walking, so I defend the decision!)
Undeterred, I hit up the ATM and headed for the first two clubs, conveniently located on the Champs-Elysses. As expected, I at each club I was turned away by the "bouncer".
Now if there's any place in the world to buy a pair of shoes, it's probably on the Champs-Elysses. I half-seriously window-shopped for a bit, but was discouraged at each store by the prices (I think the lowest pair of men's non-sneakers I found was on sale for 99 euro) or the "fermé" signs (it was 8pm).
I hopped back on the Metro and headed to the dress-code-free club, le Cercle Concorde. A bouncer guarded the door here too, but he barely gave me a second glance. (Still, the atmosphere was upscale and a bit intimidating to our sneaker-clad hero.)
Still, I almost left. At the entrance to the cardroom, the staff demanded to keep my passport in a box for "information". (They didn't speak any English, so there might have been a connotation I didn't understand.) Weighing my options, I couldn't decide whether it was worth it to separate myself from the one piece of paper that assures my return to the States. I did a MacGyver-esque scan of the room, though, and found a photocopier that looked a lot like a doorstop. I pointed. "What about that?" While the female staff member insisted to me that it didn't work and never had, the male staff member photocopied my passport and handed the original back to me. Jackpot.
As I entered the room, I understood why the room was described online as "very smoky". Ventilation was at a minimum, and the few light sources in the dim room illuminated dense columns of smoke up to the ceiling. In the States, smoking isn't allowed where poker is played, but that's not the case in France.
I was instantly seated at a table. Despite the language and culture difference, the players and the table dynamic seemed exactly the same as at a low stakes game at Turning Stone. There were a few young tight players, a couple of guys in their thirties with iPods, and some relaxed older gentlemen who didn't say too much. I was seated next to two players my own age, who I later discovered were both named Anthony.
The blinds were 2€/4€, with a 100€ "suggested" buy-in. (Yes, a ridiculous structure, especially when you consider what seemed to be an uncapped 5%/pot rake.) The average stack seemed to be about 150€ when I sat down. I'll save the poker hands for later (probably another post, I can only stay inside here in small doses), so stay tuned if you're interested.
As one would expect, the game was conducted entirely in French. Fortunately, there aren't too many things you need to say during a poker game except numbers, so I did fine with that. A few of the players taught me French poker slang: all-in is "tapis", or coloquially "boite" (which means "box"). Clubs are "trèfles"; when I learned this word one of the Anthonys told me that my French accent sounded German. And of course, bad players - "fish" in the states - are birds: les oiseaux.
Always the talkative one, I tried to liven up the previously-quiet table, with success. Unfortunately, though I can form sentences in French pretty well, I'm not nearly as good at understanding what people are saying in response; it's sometimes hard to pick out the words amid the accent. The Anthonys knew English and would speak to me a little more slowly, so we talked for quite some time switching every few minutes between French and English. They were the first Parisians I really conversed with on the trip (aside from short business transactions or questions on the street), and it was a nice break from the relative solitude of traveling alone. We went through a lot of the typical questions that foreigners have of each other; the funniest was when one Anthony asked about Bob Dylan and the Rolling Stones and I countered with MC Solaar. What a poor state of affairs, they said, when all an American knows of French music is MC Solaar!
Most of the players at the table would joke with me in English slang if we were in a hand together; I taught an older man the phrase "you're goin' down", which he used every time we played a pot. It was nice to feel somewhat integrated in a card game with the locals, and it certainly helped me understand the Parisian accent and get better with the language.
This is the part where I get sick of writing, so I'll be brief: I left the club at 4:45am, an hour before the metro opens. I walked home through the red-light district, and saw a bunch of prostitutes. I bought a pastry. I woke up the owner of my hotel, he let me in, and I passed out on my bed.
a big pyramid
Monday morning recap: I switched hotels yet again, had some lunch and headed to the Louvre for the afternoon.
The view of the Louvre from outside (including I.M.Pei's huge glass pyramid) is an essential part of the experience - which is why I was disappointed that the Metro stop dropped me directly under the museum. I walked inside and joined the throng of museum-goers waiting in line to buy tickets. With the amount of English floating through the air, I may as well have been in New York!
The Louvre is evidently a place to appreciate art, but I got just as much enjoyment observing the behavior of the people in the museum. The museum is divided into three major "wings"; by far the most crowded is the Denon wing, in which the Mona Lisa makes her ambiguous smile. Despite the signs clearly proclaiming "no cameras" in about sixteen languages, tourists pushed and shoved through the crowds to defy the rules and photograph Leonardo's masterpiece. The funniest though is when those people don't even stop to look at the painting sans lens - I saw one couple push through, take a picture, and instantly turn around and walk out.
Also, no one in the Denon wing seemed to notice the rest of the art lining the walls. In contrast to the other two wings, the Denon-goers were just pushing their way in a line to get to the Mona Lisa room, which was not as directly accessible from the entrance as it may have appeared on the map (in the same way that the milk isn't in the front of the grocery store. It's funny to think of paintings in the Louvre as bags of potato chips, positioned between visitors and their destination in order to attract some impulse buys.)
As for me, I didn't bring my camera into the museum. Photos of each of the 35,000+ works are available on the Internet, and they're much better than anything I could take with my digital camera in mediocre lighting. That was actually one thing that surprised me about the Louvre - most of the rooms on the upper floor featured skylight windows that cast a nasty glare on many of the paintings. I'd think the designers of a world-famous art museum might have considered such a thing.
All in all, I enjoyed my visit. Three hours is about my limit for a museum of any kind; I obviously didn't see all of the paintings, as a tourist jokingly asked me on my way out, but I don't think the point is to speed through as fast as possible and make sure you've stopped in every room.
The view of the Louvre from outside (including I.M.Pei's huge glass pyramid) is an essential part of the experience - which is why I was disappointed that the Metro stop dropped me directly under the museum. I walked inside and joined the throng of museum-goers waiting in line to buy tickets. With the amount of English floating through the air, I may as well have been in New York!
The Louvre is evidently a place to appreciate art, but I got just as much enjoyment observing the behavior of the people in the museum. The museum is divided into three major "wings"; by far the most crowded is the Denon wing, in which the Mona Lisa makes her ambiguous smile. Despite the signs clearly proclaiming "no cameras" in about sixteen languages, tourists pushed and shoved through the crowds to defy the rules and photograph Leonardo's masterpiece. The funniest though is when those people don't even stop to look at the painting sans lens - I saw one couple push through, take a picture, and instantly turn around and walk out.
Also, no one in the Denon wing seemed to notice the rest of the art lining the walls. In contrast to the other two wings, the Denon-goers were just pushing their way in a line to get to the Mona Lisa room, which was not as directly accessible from the entrance as it may have appeared on the map (in the same way that the milk isn't in the front of the grocery store. It's funny to think of paintings in the Louvre as bags of potato chips, positioned between visitors and their destination in order to attract some impulse buys.)
As for me, I didn't bring my camera into the museum. Photos of each of the 35,000+ works are available on the Internet, and they're much better than anything I could take with my digital camera in mediocre lighting. That was actually one thing that surprised me about the Louvre - most of the rooms on the upper floor featured skylight windows that cast a nasty glare on many of the paintings. I'd think the designers of a world-famous art museum might have considered such a thing.
All in all, I enjoyed my visit. Three hours is about my limit for a museum of any kind; I obviously didn't see all of the paintings, as a tourist jokingly asked me on my way out, but I don't think the point is to speed through as fast as possible and make sure you've stopped in every room.
09 July 2007
to busk or not to busk
A few things I didn't mention from London:
(1) Sam and I were walking around a Tube station when we spotted a sign: "No Busking"
Of course, we both burst out laughing. What on Earth is busking? We hypothesized a few things; I was hoping it was synonymous with "basking" (as in, no sprawling on the ground?). As it turns out, a "busker" is a street performer; in some stations, they aren't allowed.
The buskers who *are* allowed to perform (at "busking points", of course, which would be a point where busking is permitted) are licensed, and are therefore very good.
(2) A lot of the newspapers in London are more like the Boston Herald or New York Post than the Boston Globe or New York Times. They have crazy sensationalized headlines which extend "below the fold" and take up nearly the whole front page. They are printed multiple times during the day, and are distributed for free next to the Tube stations. As a result, the Tube trains are covered in fish-wrappers, each of which is picked up and discarded by multiple passengers.
hmm, more later... my interweb time is about to expire. For now, I added some more pictures to Picasa. Here's the link. I'll insert the captions later. (Look for Jerome.)
(1) Sam and I were walking around a Tube station when we spotted a sign: "No Busking"
Of course, we both burst out laughing. What on Earth is busking? We hypothesized a few things; I was hoping it was synonymous with "basking" (as in, no sprawling on the ground?). As it turns out, a "busker" is a street performer; in some stations, they aren't allowed.
The buskers who *are* allowed to perform (at "busking points", of course, which would be a point where busking is permitted) are licensed, and are therefore very good.
(2) A lot of the newspapers in London are more like the Boston Herald or New York Post than the Boston Globe or New York Times. They have crazy sensationalized headlines which extend "below the fold" and take up nearly the whole front page. They are printed multiple times during the day, and are distributed for free next to the Tube stations. As a result, the Tube trains are covered in fish-wrappers, each of which is picked up and discarded by multiple passengers.
hmm, more later... my interweb time is about to expire. For now, I added some more pictures to Picasa. Here's the link. I'll insert the captions later. (Look for Jerome.)
triumph at the triomphe
Two days later and I'm still in Paris. I'd initially planned to stop here only briefly on my way to northern Europe, but I've been enjoying the city and I still have a few things I'd like to do here. There's so much history crammed into a relatively small space in Paris; every time I walk out of a metro station I stumble upon a statue or a park that just as well could be a main attraction in the city.
Yesterday I visited a few of the most famous symbols of Paris: the Tour Eiffel, l'Arc de Triomphe, the Champs-Elysses, the Palais du Luxembourg. I don't think I quite grasped the sheer size of these monuments until I saw them; the Arc de Triomphe, for example, is 45 meters wide. Someone once flew an airplane through it. Honestly, before I arrived, I was picturing a twenty-foot arch that just barely covered the tomb of the unknown soldier. (Napoleon did always have that complex.)
The Arc de Triomphe is funny. It's so big that taking a picture from close up leaves you with no sense of scale, so the best spot for a photo is somewhere along the Champs-Elysses. However, if you want to actually see it and stand under it (which I would recommend), you need to play a glorified game of Frogger to get there. Crossing the street to reach the Arc means crossing a rotary that could accomodate at least ten cars widthwise; the road is very busy and there are no crosswalks.
As I prepared to make my way to the center, I was joined by a Japanese man and his daughter. We exchanged cautious glances, and then dashed at the first opportunity. Though the man spoke neither French nor English, we shared a celebratory cheer when we made it to the other side. I wonder how the elderly or infirm get to see this monument? There was probably a crosswalk I didn't see (though I doubt it since I walked around the entire perimeter.)
[Interesting note: a "rotary" or "roundabout" is called a "circus" in England.]
Random tidbit: A nice feature of Parisian street signs is that often they explain their namesakes. "Rue de George Bernard Shaw," for example; in smaller print below, "1856-1950, écrivain irlandais".
Before I go: I haven't been able to post many pictures because I took them at high resolution. I have a 4GB memory card so I see no reason to skimp and take 1600x1200 pictures. However, this makes them too big to upload at Internet cafes. I found a program to resize them: http://www.virtualzone.de/resizer/ , now I just need to find a cafe that lets me execute software. Stay tuned!
Yesterday I visited a few of the most famous symbols of Paris: the Tour Eiffel, l'Arc de Triomphe, the Champs-Elysses, the Palais du Luxembourg. I don't think I quite grasped the sheer size of these monuments until I saw them; the Arc de Triomphe, for example, is 45 meters wide. Someone once flew an airplane through it. Honestly, before I arrived, I was picturing a twenty-foot arch that just barely covered the tomb of the unknown soldier. (Napoleon did always have that complex.)
The Arc de Triomphe is funny. It's so big that taking a picture from close up leaves you with no sense of scale, so the best spot for a photo is somewhere along the Champs-Elysses. However, if you want to actually see it and stand under it (which I would recommend), you need to play a glorified game of Frogger to get there. Crossing the street to reach the Arc means crossing a rotary that could accomodate at least ten cars widthwise; the road is very busy and there are no crosswalks.
As I prepared to make my way to the center, I was joined by a Japanese man and his daughter. We exchanged cautious glances, and then dashed at the first opportunity. Though the man spoke neither French nor English, we shared a celebratory cheer when we made it to the other side. I wonder how the elderly or infirm get to see this monument? There was probably a crosswalk I didn't see (though I doubt it since I walked around the entire perimeter.)
[Interesting note: a "rotary" or "roundabout" is called a "circus" in England.]
Random tidbit: A nice feature of Parisian street signs is that often they explain their namesakes. "Rue de George Bernard Shaw," for example; in smaller print below, "1856-1950, écrivain irlandais".
Before I go: I haven't been able to post many pictures because I took them at high resolution. I have a 4GB memory card so I see no reason to skimp and take 1600x1200 pictures. However, this makes them too big to upload at Internet cafes. I found a program to resize them: http://www.virtualzone.de/resizer/ , now I just need to find a cafe that lets me execute software. Stay tuned!
07 July 2007
Bonjour from Paris
A quick update: I am now in Paris (specifically, here)! I took a flight in from Heathrow early this morning, and I'll soon be checking into my hotel for a well-needed nap.
It seems that the aimless European backpacker is not adored by airport security! Upon arriving in London, I waited in an hour-long 'queue' at the Passport Control station before finally approaching the window. I handed the woman behind the desk my passport and information card, expecting a smile and a quick stamp. She asked how long I'd be in London, and I mentioned that I'd be leaving for Paris 'in a couple of days' - not the correct answer. Exasperated by the lack of definition in my plans, she probed a little further. When I couldn't procure the name of a hotel or an exact date of return to the UK, it seemed like she was about to summon reinforcements.
Then she asked how much money I was carrying, to which I told her the truth: 100 pounds. Her face looked nearly aghast. She asked how much was in my bank accounts, and like a good American appalled by any government Big Brothering, I answered 'enough'. At this point, I couldn't tell if she wanted to turn me back to the States, or give me a blanket and some scraps of food. In the end, I entered the country by showing her my return itinerary (proving that I did indeed have a plan to get home), and assuring her that I was about to enter the workforce in the States.
Things are looking up, though. Entering France today, all I had to do was show my American passport and renounce my allegiance to the Crown. (Just kidding about the passport.)
Anyway, I'm exhausted, so I'm going to get to my hotel and maybe later I'll post something a little more coherent. I didn't take too many pictures in London, but I posted four on Picasa. I'll post the rest when I have some more patience with these French keyboards. (of all letters to switch, the A and the Q?)
It seems that the aimless European backpacker is not adored by airport security! Upon arriving in London, I waited in an hour-long 'queue' at the Passport Control station before finally approaching the window. I handed the woman behind the desk my passport and information card, expecting a smile and a quick stamp. She asked how long I'd be in London, and I mentioned that I'd be leaving for Paris 'in a couple of days' - not the correct answer. Exasperated by the lack of definition in my plans, she probed a little further. When I couldn't procure the name of a hotel or an exact date of return to the UK, it seemed like she was about to summon reinforcements.
Then she asked how much money I was carrying, to which I told her the truth: 100 pounds. Her face looked nearly aghast. She asked how much was in my bank accounts, and like a good American appalled by any government Big Brothering, I answered 'enough'. At this point, I couldn't tell if she wanted to turn me back to the States, or give me a blanket and some scraps of food. In the end, I entered the country by showing her my return itinerary (proving that I did indeed have a plan to get home), and assuring her that I was about to enter the workforce in the States.
Things are looking up, though. Entering France today, all I had to do was show my American passport and renounce my allegiance to the Crown. (Just kidding about the passport.)
Anyway, I'm exhausted, so I'm going to get to my hotel and maybe later I'll post something a little more coherent. I didn't take too many pictures in London, but I posted four on Picasa. I'll post the rest when I have some more patience with these French keyboards. (of all letters to switch, the A and the Q?)
04 July 2007
about to take off!
I'm packing up the last of my necessities and I'll be heading to Logan Airport in a couple of hours. Flying on July 4 amid heightened security could be a hassle; among other measures, cars will be randomly searched in the Ted Williams tunnel.
Hopefully, I'll get to the airport in a timely fashion and begin hibernating for my overnight flight. First stop: London Heathrow!
I'm not quite sure about the easiest way to share pictures from overseas. I don't know how the internet cafes will be set up and whether most will allow hard drive access, USB connections, and the like. When I figure it out, I'll post a link on here.
edit: I'll give Picasa a try: http://picasaweb.google.com/dave.bogaty
Hopefully, I'll get to the airport in a timely fashion and begin hibernating for my overnight flight. First stop: London Heathrow!
I'm not quite sure about the easiest way to share pictures from overseas. I don't know how the internet cafes will be set up and whether most will allow hard drive access, USB connections, and the like. When I figure it out, I'll post a link on here.
edit: I'll give Picasa a try: http://picasaweb.google.com/dave.bogaty
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