tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81266389390956522732024-02-19T06:34:07.543-06:00Vive La JessieEvery few years I may leave the US, and I might write about it here.Jessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-40400724199078715452015-05-15T13:53:00.002-05:002015-05-15T14:06:17.164-05:00Costa Rica, A Year Later<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">About a year ago, I quit the only grown-up job I’d ever held, and went to Costa Rica for 4 weeks. To the surprise of most of the people who’d known me, I wanted to leave Corporate America (as I will forever call it, the loaded term that it is) to somehow help my neighbors--and myself--improve their well-being, their health, and their quality of living. I lacked a lot of necessary experiences and skills to do so, but at 26, it seemed like if I didn’t start then, I never would. So, I started by going to Costa Rica to learn the language that more and more of my neighbors speak. I think that, quite simply, I didn’t want any of the new skill sets I would be learning to categorically exclude anyone. Learning Spanish honestly seemed like the simplest first step. I had no idea, however, that I had picked a country with a public health infrastructure that would continue blow my mind even today, a year later, as I descend deeper and deeper into my understanding of the mess that is the US’s. A country where the average longevity is 79 years, an average that does not systematically exclude vast swaths of the population based on socioeconomic and racial/ethnic origins, <a href="http://www.businessinsider.com/huge-racial-gap-in-life-expectancy-2014-1">like it does in the US</a>. A country that, while the Northern Hemisphere spent the 1940’s melting their entire economies into armies and war, actually dissolved their standing army and invested the money into a universal health care system instead. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I never posted very much about my experience at the time. I was partially existentially overwhelmed, partially trying to stay immersed in Spanish language culture, and I was partially just trying to be quiet and absorb as much as I could. I felt, and continue to feel, so behind on experiences in this new career I am trying to build. But I just found my final journal entry from the trip, and despite its indulgent journal-like ramblings and a few inside references, I feel like sharing it. Call it nostalgia, or a 1-year anniversary commemoration. It just doesn’t seem right that I’ve never honored the Ticos I spent a month with for all that they did for me. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 18.8181819915772px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Names are changed where personal details are revealed.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">NOTE: If you are in any way considering trying to learn Spanish, I cannot recommend this <a href="http://www.adventurespanishschool.com/">program that I did</a> enough. Flights to San Jose cost about what a flight to California does, and this program is all-inclusive for about $500/week. Show up whenever, leave whenever. They will accommodate you. They even have awesome health-care-vocabulary programs, which I did. They took my French and turned it into completely conversational, Hey-can-you-help-me-with-directions, Let-me-tell-you-a-story, My-journal-entry-is-going-to-vacillate-between-English-and-Spanish Spanish. (Perhaps literally. I think my French is ruined. Oh well.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m everywhere and every-when today. I can’t stay focused on one thought on this bus ride to San Jose. Today was a perfect goodbye to Turrialba. I’m driving past coffee plantations trying not to tear up again. Isa sat next to Carla in Gabby’s office as I collected my bus ticket, ready to head to my <i>casa Tica</i> for the last time, and she said <i>"Va a estar falta"</i>. And that was it, they just started falling. I threw my head down and shuffled out, but Gabi of course would not hear of it and called me back in, <i>lloranda</i> and all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We spent the morning walking all over town, Danny, Rachel, Jesirae, y yo. I bought a perfect aluminum kettle to go with the <i>chorreador</i> my <i>mamaTica</i> Evelyn bought me. I bought Molly's nephew back home a<i> romper cabesa, </i>des frutes norteamericanos, pero todos en españoles (<i>manzana, naranja...)</i>. Compré más café de our favorite feria attendant. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Everyone reminded me to keep practicing my Spanish (...tearing up), and I'm committed to it. Evelyn & little Nicole shared with me their conversation about my leaving, how they would miss how I always showed up with my <i>¡Hola amigas! Como estan, chicas?</i> And that choked me up some, too. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">No matter how hard it can be to be away from home for so long, I just could never imagine a warmer culture than this one. It was all I could do to live up to it. I will miss walking home through the neighborhood streets, greeting <i>¡</i></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Buenos Dias! </i>y <i>¡Adios! </i>a cualquier vecino. Learning that, after 4pm, it was time for the day to wind down, so naturally you greeted folks with Goodbye! instead of Hello. Pasando la casa de Carina and holding little Alé or wishing Jes's <i>abueloTico</i> '¡Feliz Cumpleaños!'. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Carla and Isa brought energy and joy into every hour in the classroom, and even dry Danny stayed so committed to our improvement. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ticos are unlike any culture I've seen--it's a machista world where the family is foundation. Where las madres run the unit. Where you don't stray far, and you don't separate from your family. Where feminism might technically exist, but it focuses on such different issues that it is another paradigm entirely. Young Kate & Clara from Austin couldn't believe the volume of kids and families just out and about after dark, when we went for a walk their first night. It's a culture without strangers. It's a machisto culture without fear of men unknown. Attacks exist, to be sure, but closer to home. In the home, even, either outright or in quieter transgressions, including those of omission. Clara, as she told it, confused but happily pregnant at 16, somehow unaware that her new boyfriend and she could have arrived at such a result. "I hope it's a boy" was the simple commentary from mom. Mother of a child with child. Abortions are <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abortion_in_Costa_Rica">solely permitted </a>where the mother's life is at stake. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>"Here is the local detox clinic." "It's so small!" "Well, it's just a place to take a drunk person in public until their family can come pick them up." </i> We explained that a social work and safety-net system so deeply reliant on family help wouldn't really work where we were from. Danny shrugged. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Before departing for our ladies beach weekend, we four Americanas purchased the requisite number of cases of Costa Rican beer. <i>"For you? You ladies? Hm. Women do not purchase beer in Costa Rica. Well. Unless it is for the men, of course". </i>We charmingly assured him that would need not apply in our case.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh Ticos. <a href="http://noparticularplace.blogspot.com/2013/01/costa-rica-where-streets-have-no-name.html">Horrendous with directions</a>, because where is the need? <i>"¿Sabe cada tienda en Turrialba, Danny?"</i> <i>"Por supuesto. ¿Como no? </i>[Do you know every single store in Turrialba, Danny? Of course. How could I not?]</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And a country so beautiful. Is it a common co-occurrence, a people and a land equally beautiful? When did I ever think I'd miss a nation's flora and fauna so much? (She pined out the window, despite growing motion sickness.) I think the <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=living+fences+in+costa+rican+agriculture&rlz=1CAACAG_enUS627US627&biw=1242&bih=597&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=wzBWVdupIMSTyAT2zoG4Ag&ved=0CAYQ_AUoAQ#q=living+fences+in+costa+rican+agriculture&tbm=isch&pws=0">living fences</a> and <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=epiphytes+costa+rica&rlz=1CAACAG_enUS627US627&biw=1242&bih=597&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=8DBWVdm8BYaUyASSm4C4Dw&ved=0CAYQ_AUoAQ#q=epiphytes+costa+rica&tbm=isch&pws=0">ephiphytes</a> will stay with me most. Riding two-on-a-bike with Rebecca while trying not to startle the sloths crossing the telephone wires overhead, or drinking our Costa Rican beer in a pool and wondering if the totally bizarre-looking <a href="http://www.anywherecostarica.com/flora-fauna/mammal/agouti">agouti</a> who wandered up next to us was a hallucination, are close seconds.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"<i>Count the species on the tree." "¡Buena suerte!" </i>In the middle of the forest, harnessed to trees in between ziplines, I wanted a flash-bulb / laser technology to county and identify the number of species around us. Even without knowing the answer, it was staggering. Our <i>agradable</i> Mexican guide, as <i>pur</i><i>a vida</i> as the rest, and cheery Morales, self-appointed expert in every English catch phrase uttered by American ziplining tourists over the years. "Whyyyyyy meeeeeeeee" drowned by the roar of the zipline as he sails off into the trees. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And the roads. Winding through thick forests and mountaintop countryside, they were as beautiful as they were terrifying and nausea-inducing. </span><i style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Is this a stick shift </i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">bus</span></span><i style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">??</i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">" </span></span><i style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Claro que si. Bus en marcha."</i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I think I could write about <a href="http://costaricaspanish.blogspot.com/2013/03/what-does-ebais-mean.html">EBAIS</a> for my Rush or DePaul applications. From what I learned, the system functions exactly as a national wellness program should. Call it socialism, call it what you want, but to me the interpretation seems simple: how a nation that is deeply invested in the health and well-being of its citizens would design a healthcare system. The local health tech goes door to door, makes sure everyone is current on vaccines, and hands out prophylactic drugs, for free, in the event that a small epidemic is popping up in the next town over. If the family requires it, the tech calls in the nurse, who pays them a visit; and in turn, the doctor will pay house calls as needed. The US thinks that markets will always solve problems on their own, and thus all we need to do is ensure the markets can run smoothly and everything else will be addressed in turn. Because there is a need. Here, the systems were deliberately designed for the express purpose of keeping citizens healthy, laid down by a paternalistic government trying to create a better infrastructure for its children. Does it work because the nation is <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=costa+rica+population&rlz=1CAACAG_enUS627US627&oq=costa+rica+population&aqs=chrome..69i57j0l5.3257j0j7&sourceid=chrome&es_sm=0&ie=UTF-8">so small</a>? Because a fundamental national principle isn't the ability to live freely, however you choose? I can't quite figure it out. What does EBAIS do for my desire to administer public health? Well, it's a system with so many points of intersection into a citizen's well-being, so many moments of education, prevention, and health access, that you can't be left with any doubt that every Tico matters here. It's exactly what I want to enable every American family to have and to want to fight for their right to. To be motivated by healthful outcomes, to live in a world where, on an average household income of $22,000, the average citizen will live to be 79.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">How can it be over already? How can I be losing my access to everyone who cheerily answers my every <i>¿Como se dice...? </i>Sometimes it's hard to believe how much I'fve learned. Maybe I can get a Pura Vida shirt at the airport. <i>(Ed: I didn't. Anyone is welcome to purchase me on a future trip to CR.)</i></span></span><br />
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<br />Jessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-61039317810353173142010-07-19T15:32:00.004-05:002010-07-20T04:53:54.029-05:00Berlin, What a winner.<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">July 19, 2010</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>Um, so, Germany. Well, Berlin. My first time visiting, and it is like no place I have visited before. And yes, feel free to comment on the irony that despite her 4 previous ventures throughout Europe, this is the first time that "Jessica Reuteler" has visited Deutschland. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But, Berlin: we are all vaguely aware of the bananas-crazy business this city has been through in the past century (our guidebook's history chapter didn't hurt, though), and visiting it now inspires the already-in-withdrawal students within Kate and myself to constantly use this crazy history to explain what we will be seeing during this visit. In a nutshell:<br /><br />1. East Berlin was governed in a terrifying communist totalitarian state! Perhaps this vibe is still present in law enforcement! Or the laws, perhaps!<br /><br />2. The city was divided for 44 years! Surely we'll find east-west tension! Turf wars! Geographic pride?<br /><br />3. The wall physically divided it for 28 of those years! Surely there will be all kinds of remnants of it about! We'll take tasteless tourist photos, hooray!<br /><br />4. Or even, more somberly, Germany has a super sad history under the insane regime of the Third Reich... For Germans, talking about their own government's role in this will be awkward or at least taboo, for sure.<br /><br />Guys, it's seriously none of the above. I will attempt to explain, but the bottom line is that Berlin is the chillest (and illest) city on my Eurotour yet (sorry Amsterdam, close second), with an incredibly wise ability to look forward while paying due homage to everything in the past.<br /><br />So, in order. #1: Laws. Berlin ... does not have them? Anymore? I am Ron Burgundy? (Sorry.)<br /><br />To illustrate, let's look back to our previously visited nation, Italy. After a week there (and a lifetime in other more... mainstream? typical? cities), we have become accustomed to certain regulations of behavior that aren't exactly present in Berlin. You can't say, drink all over the place in the streets in Italy. Well, you can, but cops (when they are not cat-calling foreigners, TRUE STORY THANKS NAPLES) will get all up on you for it. Probably because you are being all kinds of sloppy, and it's time to rein it in. We arrive in Berlin, however, and attempt to figure out their policy on the ish, as it becomes immediately relevant:<br /><br />Jessie-Kate boards train from airport: Heyyy people drinking from beer bottles.<br />Jessie-Kate: Oh, check it. The young people of Berlin are casual rebels, probs left over from their bad-ass Berlin Wall Resistence days.<br />JK roams the streets on that Friday night: essentially every individual on the sidewalk has a beer bottle.<br />JK: Friday nights are serious business?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />But no, the beer bottles are never put away, despite the hour or day. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Adorable tour guide, when enthusiastically pressed on the issue: 'Open what? Open container laws? Oh, right. Yeah, we don't have those.'<br /><br />Sufficiently fascinated ("Yes, but what do you think is the historical </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">precedent </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">for such a law?"), we beg him to continue. Turns out the city that </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small; border-collapse: collapse; ">for nearly half the 20th century </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small; border-collapse: collapse; ">was anal-retentively controlled by 4 bossy nations has decided that it's time to err on the side of chill. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small; border-collapse: collapse; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small; border-collapse: collapse; ">'Be prepared to be offered pot in parks,' tour guide says. 'Oh, if the cops find it on you? I dunno, they'd probably confiscate it, give you a high five, and walk away.'</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small; border-collapse: collapse; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Prostitution is also legal-ish, and what is the sum total of these laws? What does it lead to in the streets every day? How does it affect the moral fiber (just kidding) of the city? Nothing! Not at all! What I mean is, we did not see public drunkenness, we saw a single cop car maybe twice, and we never found any such thing as a seedy neighborhood--and believe me, we wandered about aimlessly our fair share. It was like some sort of twilight zone.<br /><br />And in that vein, predictions 2 & 3? East-west pride tiffs? Wall remnants abounding? Also totally false. It didn't take us long to realize that putting those nasty histories in the past was a no-brainer--if an impressively sagacious one.<br /><br />Wiser visitors than myself already know that nearly every cubic centimeter of both of the walls (me: there were TWO??) were torn down in the days after Gorbachev gave up on the fool's errand that was East Germany. All that was left were a few meters of it here and there in memoriam, and a brick trail was installed elsewhere to remind where it once stood at other locations, though not even everywhere. The German government did its best to re-mend the two halves of the city, which was not that hard when you think about it, as they were ultimately were still filled with German people, most of whom didn't really give a shit about politics and Cold War mumbo jumbo. Granted, 12 years after the wall went up in '61 (East Germany had lost nearly a fifth of its pissed-off population through the portal that was West Berlin, so, hello Wall), efforts were made to reunite families arbitrarily separated by the wall, but all of a sudden it's not surprising to realize how easy it was to reunite the city when what split it up in the first place was an arbitrary georgraphy; people had been separated from their own friends and their ways of life for way too long. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Corn aside, as for the legacy of the monstrosity that was the Third Reich, Naive Prediction #4, judging from the effort put in by the post-Wall capitalist government alone, the order of the day is all about openness, education, and prevention of anything like that happening again. Kate and I only scratched the surface of Hollocaust memorials, they were so numerous (Surprise: I cried the whole time). The home of the government, the Reichstag, had a huge iconic dome installed for symbollic reasons: As legislators work on the ground floor, they can always look up to see hundreds of people circling around this huge spiralled (and free of admission) dome, a supposed reminder of their one and sole purpose of representing all the German people. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Much of the Nazi- and then Soviet-era architecture was torn down, but some of it remains, often juxtaposed (like the Reichstag) with something paying tribute to its ramifications or telling a more complete side of the story (e.g. still remaining is a hilariously communist tile mural commissioned in the 50's, whose message is essentially "Look how good it's going to be guys! ... Just not yet!" But installed </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small; border-collapse: collapse; ">under glass on the plaza floor in front of it is</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small; border-collapse: collapse; "> an identically sized--huge--beautiful photograph taken during the first deadly riot led by unhappy East German laborers not long after the mural went up.) </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small; border-collapse: collapse; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small; border-collapse: collapse; ">Geez, there was even a super cool below-ground memorial installed in the center of a square (below glass you saw empty bookshelves below the ground, descending for 8 meters or so) ... the square where Nazis, students, and even professors purged the local University's libraries of all literary works by Jews, not 4 months after Hitler's appointment as chancellor (not yet Fuhrer) in 1933. Across the square stands the University, Humboldt, I believe, and every goddamn day the students head outside the main gates with dozens of boxes, unfold some tables and sell books, in humble penitence of their forebears' actions, and donate all the proceeds to charity.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />Kate and I were shocked by this last detail in particular, and in truth I'm embarassed to be surprised by this policy of openness. Nonetheless, it takes so much wisdom and humilty to operate this way, and it makes visiting Berlin for the history (despite the fact that only 10% of pre-war structures remain) all the more satisfying, meaningful, and inspiring.<br /><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />We learned all these lessons and more on our first day and just spent the rest of the weekend delightfully taking in the awesome ambiance that is today's Berlin. Never before have locals waltzed up to me without expectation of what a speaker of their language "should" look like, and start speaking, in this case, German at me. Smiling and nodding is pretty fun (and weirdly effective), in addition to the fact that I was all touched and impressed in the first place to be addressed in German. Inevitably they then seal the nail in the WE-ARE-SO-NICE coffin by being like, Oh! English! My mistake, here I'll say the absurdly nice thing I said before in German in English! (e.g. Jessie sheepishly fills her water bottle in a train station bathroom sink--hydration while traveling is a game you never win, you only break even--and German woman ultimately communicates that That water won't taste very good, and here, why don't I take her extra 1.5L water bottle since she's about to leave the country anyway.) </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Or, once we got over the shock of Beer Everywhere as a way of life, JK buys 2 bottles from a vendor, and is too shy to ask him to open them. No worries, though, friends, any one of the dozen people they'll pass on the next block--with smiles on faces and beers in hand--will open them gladly! </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We noted with delight that after our week in Italy, Customer Service was back in our lives (sorry Italy, the tough love will do you good), and even our AMAZING hostel (Wombat's, thanks Amulya!) was unimpressed with how unfailingly helpful they were. Just completely blank stares of confusion at my asking if various amenities were available:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />Jessie: Can you recommend where to buy a toothbrush? I'm a Responsible Adult and left my entire bag of toiletries in a train station bathroom in Venice and have been brushing my teeth with my finger for 3 days now. (Okay, I didn't say that second part because that def would have warrented a blank--at best--stare.)<br />Attendant: You mean these toothbrushes you can obviously have right now?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />Jessie: Listen, Italy was a million degrees, and my clothes are already approaching lethal toxicity, any laundromat tips? (For those loyal readers, observe how Jessie has learned not to rely on Google Translator and webpages from 1998 to glean such information this time around)<br />Attendant: I mean, why wouldn't you use the ones we obviously provide for you.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />Jessie: NO WAY, this is amazing. But oh no! Check-out is at 10am tomorrow, and I'll need to do my laundry after that! What now??<br />Attendant: Why would you need to be checked in to take advantage of all of our services, what sort of inhumane hovels have you been staying at [if only you knew, sir], and would you care for a coupon for 85% with our in-house Swedish masseur?<br /><br />Okay not that last part, but the point is: Go to Berlin. Kate, lover of American cities and self-declared bitter enemy of learning foreign languages, is already scheming how to carve out a legitimate existence in Berlin and how to do so asap.<br /><br />Amulya went straight from Rome to Prague, so we're headed over to meet her there, now. She claims so far that "Prague is surreal," and our correspondence the past couple of days has resembled a bizarre City-off ("Berlin is BLOWING OUR MINDS"), so we're stoked that things are only going to look up from here. As long as it doesn't get hot again.<br /><br />J</span></span></div></div>Jessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-61119281014504909332010-07-09T04:29:00.020-05:002010-07-09T06:06:13.825-05:00It was a DAY<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.6px; "><i>July 8, 2010</i></span></div><div><br /></div>Today was one of THOSE days. To be perfectly fair, I hadn't had one yet this trip, and I was probably overdue. You know the kind of day that I'm talking about. You are, say, in a foreign country whose language you can barely fake, and everything and everyone is conspiring to make you as miserable as possible. Of course the foreign country bit isn't necessary; it can happen anywhere really: work, on a day of errands, or any given day high school, as I recall. <div><br /></div><div>All it takes is a series of three to five crappy occurences in a row, and then, you're DOOMED. Maybe it's your mindset, maybe it's fate deliberately screwing you over, but after that initial slew of mishaps you're destined for a day of woe of all shapes and sizes: pushing the pull door, repeatedly purchasing the wrong kind of ticket, tripping on every cobblestone (ha, i.e. Nathan + Europe), and so on. Now, in all actuality, my DAY probably started yesterday around 6:30pm, and I'm totally going to go with that because it puts me right at the 24 hour finish line, and I am super okay with that. <div><div><br /></div><div>What's really rough about THOSE days are probably two things. One, it will inevitably be preceded by the Best Day Ever. The sun is shining, locals are bending over backwards to be friendly, food tastes a little sweeter, and, in the words of that wise owl from Bambi, you're walking on air. Such makes the sudden commencement of said DAY all the more jolting and rude. The second thing that makes these days so rough--and as I'm barely, knock on wood, emerging from my DAY, this is hard to admit--is your quiet ever-awareness that everything is actually fine. The sun is indeed shining, you just can't be bothered to notice; you pass hundreds of cheery kind folk, whom you secretly dismiss for mocking your plight; and at one point you're even blessed with an act of kindness--but only such that you feel entitled to it anyway, after what you've been through, goddammit, and so its value is discounted.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, my day. Well, my day before. Yesterday I awoke in Rome feeling GREAT. My hostel was supernice, met lots of friendly folk, and hung out all the previous night swapping stories and watching the semi final (Holland, the little country that could) in our swank common room with superfancy flat screen TV. I was in a lovely twin bed with two superfriendly roommates, an adorable window shining just the right amount of sun in in the morning. The Nepalese dudes running the hostel were supercute and hooked us up with some hella cheap (3€) Katmandu-style food for dinner. So I am awoken a few minutes earlier than anticipated, still ready for my super day I had planned, to a pounding on the door. "Police," Nepalese dude says, "Must show dog-oo-menz." His English is not supergreat. "Odd," me and my Norwegian friends say. But we comply with the grumpy Italian cops, show our passports, I shower, get the vibe that all is well and head out for my super day; And it really was! Super, that is.</div><div>1640 1645 1657 1660 1661 1665 1666 1670</div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I went to the old town of Ostia Antica, by the mouth of the Tiber along the Mediterranean Sea. This town was THE port town of Rome, from roughly 400BC through 400AD. The town was then abandonned for a hipper town to the north with its newly dug canals, and by 1500, the coastline and the river had moved so much, the long-abandonned port town was once and for all rendered moot and forgotten about. Leaving us with, today, the most bad-ass, well-preserved set of ruins I've ever even heard of. 32 hectacres of houses, temples, govermental buildings, and even mosaics and scores of statues in decent shape. It was one of those experiences such that I'm walking around shrieking Look at this! This is so COOL... Oh wow, no THIS is the coolest... No, oh MAN jk it's totally this... Etc, etc. I will demonstrate, via a very small sample of the obscene amount of pictures I took that morning.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTPq1tfC5WVB2pu7ExvMDjfxmYCpnuTciVzYNhOCb7f52GYJCFzycKFg1CTrk5Thp3enN-wiPiBc0T5J7ENyoVAcd5GSqfV12y4N1o7hybXPIlWkwBTf40d3ExEoFvJuV5vQBo7_XqNy8/s320/P7071657.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491846099820328034" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; "></div><div><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small"><i><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2cQH1oB6aJDzbYkIOcfnuZul68bJMNnuqKTeRZfFKivBb6uWcaDpxPe98SuZooy9hsF4Ykosx-dHpO7BhcV9itcUU2T2b1udp6I-GkFV5rOkYSeImcLKgIKEWrO4qTgTalXJGix64_7Y/s320/P7071660.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491845215154378882" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; "></i></font><i><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small" style=" "><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="16px" style="font-style: normal; "><i><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small" style=" "><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font></font></i></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="16px" style="font-style: normal; "><i><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small" style=" "><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font></font></i></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="16px" style="font-style: normal; "><i><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small" style=" "><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"></font><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font></font></font></i></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="16px" style="font-style: normal; "><i><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small" style=" "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font></font></font></i></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small" style=" "><div style="text-align: left; display: inline !important; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small"><br /></font></div></font></i></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small" style=" "><div style="text-align: left; display: inline !important; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font> bakery! <font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font>from close up!</font></div></font></i></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="16px" style="font-style: normal; "><i><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small" style=" "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbrrK7sRORXvE9hC53sgDiHAkGQdkjVZEaF49M3nfxkvVTX-j8xAnR6JbNJ0Gz_euOG7BPWKFP9vvONvHccHdbXRD0qceBvqfQQTF9BXDKw3GJAq7FUFjPqWwtyZiQ8Cl6aF1fSwdD49I/s320/P7071661.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491846114928821874" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioqooXe88NtNDoHHqdXEmzUNTi0zaSR6MtDxZ9jNa9w6LFNgnIkfZm81PJQ7TigtC6pOA5JeIaQ526ru8UIyIlxiqXEYEwk-NlZeWSLHAgCz5_mcSNnZqc3YeSl7lXFPcEeh2hYV4Z6Ug/s320/P7071640.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491845192414861074" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; "><br /></font></font></i></font></div></font></i></div></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small" style=" "><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font></font></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small" style=" "><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font></font></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small" style=" "><br /></font></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small" style=" "><br /></font></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small" style=" "><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small">statues still intact!<font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font> </font></font></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small" style=" "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small">awesome mosaic!</font></font></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><font class="Apple-style-span"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small"> </font></font></font></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small" style=" "><br /></font></i></div><div style="text-align: right;"><i><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small" style=" "> </font></i></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMkRkROsz_QysCUp5GQ0zGU-WBabuiBTPeDmkz0pVda2KpN75psGs-gHuAXzGxlXA9qmAC4hgVa6nWJ-s2hyHtXAs_gsVzAm1MDEVKWtzjE1eiXc28w8064rosFdZGfSrrK6Z5kRMkXNE/s320/P7071666.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491846619472840754" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; "></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv7c05yY2gZ3t1xV2JHzq6quclvGlPMCLOoRjCIY84cheVP2THBxvpSCpUzd5Kjr9uNUxXCnABFIxiFGQxg8-8mjgRewb71f41zA21AA8GozqgT5BmLAOlSg5hX1lWtz2j9DMc5bW6QRQ/s320/P7071670.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491846630995443394" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; "><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small" style=" "><i><br /></i></font></div><div style="text-align: center;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small"><i><br /></i></font></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small">a pathway to somewhere!<font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font></font></i><i><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small">a dude's house!</font><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </font></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small"><i><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small"> </font></font><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font></i></font></div><div style="text-align: center;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="small"><i><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><br /></font></i></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">I wrapped up this portion of the journey with a fresh mozzarella sandwich from the </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">friendliest of gents, and headed over to the beach! People-watching Italians at the beach is </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">pretty much the most awesome thing ever. I quickly got over being the palest person on </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">the beach (by a longshot, I'm sure you're shocked), and gleefully applied my sunscreen </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">alongside my neighbor applying tanning oil. (Note for posterity: at this point, it was, of </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">course, too late. My sunburns for the day emerged on my upper back/shoulders, having </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">earned them, despite my initial morning sunscreen coat, while touring the ruins. They </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">were in the shape of my bathing suit strap, shirt strap, and yes, my backpack strap. Lovely.)</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">I navigate my way back to Rome like a pro, and march on up to my hostel, very ready for a </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">shower. Upon arriving, I can't help but notice among the buzzers at our shared front door, </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">that ours is not to be found. Upon further scrutiny, oh there it is, covered by a piece of </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">paper and tape.</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">Um.</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">8 more scans results in me finding the name hand written upon a new buzzer, in a similar </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">paper and tape fashion. Whew. Head up to the second floor, to find the door padlocked shut </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">with a notice taped across the double doors. Yours truly discerns the following from the </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">Italian: blahblahblah POLIZA blahblahblah. </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">Um.</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">I will note here for the purposes of the story that all of my earthy possessions have been left </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">in my room this morning. Most importantly, I held the key to the locker that contained, you </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">know, my PASSPORT. I am on a single track mindset, thinking only of the passport at this </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">point. Then, Nepalese guy (I should, out of respect, start numbering them because there are </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">at least 7 and I do not know a single one of their names) shouts down from the third floor. </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">Oh right. They have more rooms up there. He sits me down with two other confused looking </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">youths, and we sit silently for a while, as if in a holding pen. We are waiting for Nepalese </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">dude #6, who speaks English much better. It was at this point, that my realization of doom </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">started to set it, not triggered by the unsettling series of events beginning to unfold, but by </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">theangry, confused youth #2 to my right, who begins to bitch like the racist and entitled </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">individual he probably is about the whole situation to innocent, confused youth #3 beside </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">him. He attempts to engage me in the conversation, and I make it clear to all I care about is </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">my passport. I am prepared to speak of nothing else. </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">At this point, I'll speed up the rate of story-telling, because no one really needs to hear the </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">play by play of my woes. Nepalese dude # 6 arrives, we break into the locked quarters below.</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"> Room: cleared out. Locker: empty. CUE TEARS. Jessie is a 22 year old college graduate and </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">still cries, guys. This will be an ongoing theme in the narrative.</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">Super sweet Nepalese guy #4, English not his strong point, freaks out and says, "No cry, I </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">take you there, everything ok," on loop as we journey the 6 blocks to our new mysterious </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">quarters.</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">Passport, backpack, and all save my towel are present. Sigh. It is immediately clear this </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">basem</font></font><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.6px; white-space: pre; ">ent of a room will not live up to the previous in quality. I become incredibly sad and</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.6px; white-space: pre; "> frustrated that there are no longer computers (but how am I going to BLOG AND PUT UP </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.6px; white-space: pre; ">PICTURES WAAHHHH) and more tears come out. Brazilian kids take pity on me, we go watch</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.6px; white-space: pre; "> the second semifinal. They pretend to be Spanish and piss off German fans all around us. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.6px; white-space: pre; ">Pretty delightful. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">We return at 2am and crawl into our quarters. They have somehow managed to fit 6 sets of </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">bunk beds into a tiny room. These bunk beds are most likely assembled with metal </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">toothpicks. They sway when you breathe. I am, surprise, on top. We wait turns for the </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">single user bathroom (completely appropriate for 16 people, when you count the second </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">bedroom), and I launch myself into my bunk. It is sopping wet. It smells of sanitizer, but this </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">does not comfort me. After six to eight awakening distractions in the night (personal fave, </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">bunkmate starts snoring, can hear through my ear plugs, neighbor gets up and starts shaking</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">him, and thus me, violently until he stops). At 7 am I awake to wait 45 minutes to pee, wear </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">the crankiest face I have. Return to bed, and grumpily greet the day at noon. Things are not </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">on a good track.</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">I say, fuck this day, and create two and only two objectives for the whole thing. A) Find </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">somewhere, anywhere, an internet cafe in Rome, in order to B) find a laundromat, because </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">after nearly 4 weeks backpacking in the summer heat, my clothes are rank. The day goes </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">something like this:</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">Nepalese guy #4: Go Here for internet, There for laundry.</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">Here: "I am a tabacconist."</font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">There: "You can have some Indian food instead. Would you like that?" </font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">Web enabled, but pricey smart phones's web browser: "Go to Barberini for internet!"</font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">Metro turnstile: "I refuse your ticket."</font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">Metro man: "No no it wasn't good FOR 24 hours, it was good UNTIL 24 hours. You must be </font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">so embarrassed."</font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">Address in Barberini: "I am a bank. Your webpage was from 1998, BE GONE YOU FOOL."</font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">Man on street: "Go back to Termini."</font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">Metro turnstile: "Did you really not see this coming? DENY."</font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">Metro man #2: "No no it's only good for an hour for every type of transport except the one </font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">you wanted to take. Jesus."</font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">Termini: YOU CAN HAVE INTERWEBS. *cue heavenly chorus*</font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">I decide at this point that the only way to fix my mood is to see Toy Story 3 in English. Don't </font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">you dare judge me. I look up laundromat in Italian, find one by the movie theater that is </font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">indeed showing it in English, and make my way. Maybe things are looking up. Just to be safe,</font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">I will continue to wear my sunglasses indoor and scowl constantly.</font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">I walk the streets of Rome and an inner dialogue begins, something like this:</font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">Little Angel on shoulder: "You're in Rome, Jessie, all is well! Don't you want to walk around </font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">and enjoy sites?"</font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">Me: "NO"</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"></font></font><font class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">Angel: "Do you want to stop and eat some delicious Roman food? Surely you admit that will</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">make you feel better."</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">Me: "NO"</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">Angel: "... Do you want to skulk around the streets and hope your brooding face will simply make you fit in, even if only superficially so?"</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">Me: "... Yes."</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">I arrive at the Laundromat. It is instantly clear that this is some sort of tailor/dry cleaning shop. Thanks, Google Translator. I attempt to gather my wits, and explain what I am looking for to the nice lady.</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">Nice lady, English not really happening: " No no we wash!" Takes my bag.</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">Me: "GREAT! ... How much?" Note: I have 6 shirts, 10 undergarments, 3 bottoms, and a dress.</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">Lady: "4 euros per item."</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">CUE TEARS.</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">Lady: "omigodomigod."</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">Me: "I'M SO SORRY IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT."</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">Cue boss, extensive convo in Italian.</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">Them: "20 Euros, whole lot, you come back tomorrow, please leave."</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">I do so gladly. </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">At this point I have 2 hours to kill before Toy Story 3, and I plop down at an admittedly </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">lovely landmark by the cinema, the Piazza del Popolo. Trying to sagacious and level headed,</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"> I sit absentmindedly until I calm down. Just when I do, enter this little boy WHO WAS </font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">TOTALLY DOING WHAT I WANTED TO DO.</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; font-size: 15.6px; "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif26GMBPW8V0f5U0K1-Yb-Orhy0p56yF63qll9xNqhitIrE7cD8BEoxR09ct03jvQeahMoIfqvDYPtwqYRClSjySuReGx99jv1Z0OaKrCA39Kc3cZO4sKOa4vk33Mc2tPWedK6pXodGsE/s1600/P7081679.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif26GMBPW8V0f5U0K1-Yb-Orhy0p56yF63qll9xNqhitIrE7cD8BEoxR09ct03jvQeahMoIfqvDYPtwqYRClSjySuReGx99jv1Z0OaKrCA39Kc3cZO4sKOa4vk33Mc2tPWedK6pXodGsE/s320/P7081679.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491859473240341026" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 199px; height: 266px; "></a></span></font></font></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.6px; white-space: pre; ">There, there, little buddy. We totally feel you. I indeed creepily snapped the picture, and </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.6px; white-space: pre; ">headed to a quiet corner to write this post in the back of my book. Which, for the record, I </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.6px; white-space: pre; ">later lost. I am rewriting this from memory, but you know what? It was probably the little </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.6px; white-space: pre; ">boy, plus the sheer joy that was Toy Story 3, and maybe it was indeed the whole 24 hours </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.6px; white-space: pre; ">thing, but I walked out of the theater feeling pretty great. I'm now ready to actually enjoy </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.6px; white-space: pre; ">Rome. All's well that ends well, indeed.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"><br /></font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">Lots of love.</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium">Jessie</font></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="medium"> </font></font></div>Jessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-71226109248465225332010-07-02T12:37:00.004-05:002010-07-02T12:56:39.623-05:00HIP HUP HOLLAND<div><div>So today was a day that probably shouldn't have happened. As Nate put it, we witnessed fair, adorable Holland "slay the beast" in the quarterfinal match against Brazil. We started the day out with the perfect touristy/yet local/awesomely summery trifecta activity: we rented bikes and scooted all around. If you are not aware, in Amsterdam, bikes are EVERYWHERE. Other cities, inspired by their success, have tried to push biking onto their locals for years, with free bike share programs and the like. My guidebook estimated there to be at least 600,000 bikes in the city, and boy can you see them everywhere--hoards of them hooked onto everything stationary, hoards of them casually pedalling down the road, hoards of them zigzagging across every sidewalk and intersection. In Amsterdam, bikes are the kings of the road. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHp_Iek5e7N9SPxVFjSVqnt_a1y75CXeJVa4V4j4Iv9Ml0dP9DVGoozxjcfaKW12jqyp1iHIfJboaGdbjiH5PaXbGOEW4H4nyE6eB518UKaUWQ2rxRMX6Nl22BaQv4N2tZ_FNg2L5bNas/s1600/P7021546.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489366690618032658" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHp_Iek5e7N9SPxVFjSVqnt_a1y75CXeJVa4V4j4Iv9Ml0dP9DVGoozxjcfaKW12jqyp1iHIfJboaGdbjiH5PaXbGOEW4H4nyE6eB518UKaUWQ2rxRMX6Nl22BaQv4N2tZ_FNg2L5bNas/s200/P7021546.JPG" /></a></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHp_Iek5e7N9SPxVFjSVqnt_a1y75CXeJVa4V4j4Iv9Ml0dP9DVGoozxjcfaKW12jqyp1iHIfJboaGdbjiH5PaXbGOEW4H4nyE6eB518UKaUWQ2rxRMX6Nl22BaQv4N2tZ_FNg2L5bNas/s1600/P7021546.JPG"></a></div><br /><div>So we headed to the closest rental place, got our double locks, and pedaled out to Vondelpark, supposedly Amsterdam's answer to Central Park. We saw lots of tanning action, were dutifully informed that "We don't ride bikes 3 people across... not even in Holland"(whoops, sorry local!), and, KDries, this is for you: joined a mega-sized jenga game, just chillin' on a busy square in the middle of the park. </div><br /><br /><div>Not losing track of time, we made our way over to Rembrandtplein, supposedly a pretty hip square, by 2:30. Bright orange abounded already, on shirts, hats, and all kinds of streamer concoctions. It felt like an eerie<br />European version of U of I, actually. Found a restaurant fully geared up for the game, tried out the various remaining seats for optimal viewage (Bridget is the legit football fan of the bunch) and we ... waited. For the 4:00pm start time. By then, the place was S.R.O., so our prudence was rewarded. You all know how the game went down, but being surrounded by earnest orange and increasingly intoxicated Amsterdammers was just beyond delightful. They are really into the <em>clap clap clapclapclap clapclapclapclap</em> LETS GO cheer, only, of course, it´s HOL LAND. Upon the clock´s running out, the square went NUTS. Cops smirking on horseback, mooning, and roaring motorcycles contributed to a pretty awesome first day in Amsterdam.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>Out of time! Pictures to come!<br /><div>A+,</div><br /><div>Jessie</div></div>Jessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-44005592583994354092010-07-01T11:54:00.004-05:002010-07-01T12:24:26.263-05:00Things I Forgot, Part II30/06/10<br /><br />As we speed away from from Paris to Brussels on a shiny train, it seems appropriate to wrap up my 2 Parisian weeks with another installment celebrating the odd, impressive and freaking cute things I'd forgotten I'd be seeing upon my return to La Paree.<br /><br /><strong>1. Smokers, <em>partout</em>.</strong><br /><br />Not unlike maker-outers, this is one thing I didn't forget in essence, but in frequency. It's a part of the culture. It wouldn't be Paris without endless brooding faces dangling <em>clopes</em> from their lips, after all. And to be fair, in these past 2 warm and sticky weeks I spent in Paris, I doubt I saw quite as many cigarettes as I did in the late fall months of 2008, when "being in Paris" and "it being flipping cold" created the Smoker's Perfect Storm. My favorite move back then was the young, anxious (and presumably low-budget) metro-smoker, anticipating his stop, would whip out his rolling paper, toss in a tuft of loose tabacco and have a perfect tiny cig ready to go in seconds, before stuffing it behind his ear and jiggling his leg til the time finally came to zip out the car's double doors.<br /><br />I should quickly note that La Republique, however, is doing its fair share to cut down on this habit that Americans, at least, have been slowly banning and restricting for years. Completely forbidden inside all public buildings (and even, to many Parisians' horror, bars), smoking is acknowledged to be dangerous to the health in France, though I suspect they could give a shit about the whole "discourtesous to others" piece. (I doubt the 15-feet-away-from-doors law we have in Chicago is happening anytime soon.) My fave is definitely the surgeon general-style warnings on cigarette packs that the French have also adopted, maybe because they seem so much more INTENSE than ours, but probably only because it cracks me up to read them in french. Stuff like pregnancy warnings, "SMOKING KILLS," and, my personal favorite, "SMOKING LEADS TO A LONG AND SADDENING DEATH." Perhaps the moralists are making steady progress, but I'm not so sure.<br /><br />What's more impressive, though, and ultimately the point I'm trying to make, is not the quantity of cigarettes you see around you but just how efficient the smokers are at gettin it done. In a phrase, Parisian smokers are incredible multi-taskers. Two case studies:<br /><br />1) Kate Schnak and I were in a bar during a slow happy hour, gazing off at the display of televisions set to some sort of VH1/MTV/live concerts stations, and particularly on band, lead by grungy chick with neon pink hair. While she's giving it all she's got, she's accompanied by her aloof (typical!) french male bandmates--a camera pans the bass, guitar, keyboard--all just swaying nonchalantly, as if the notes coming out of their intstruments were merely an afterthought to their initial goal of sending out the most mellow groove vibe possible. All this alone cracked me up, until, cue the drummer, we see this dude flailing his sticks around without abandon. He was adorable, giving everything he had, and then I noticed he totally, somehow, had a cigarette dangling from his mouth! Now I'm no smoking expert, but I find this sort of thing incredibly impressive. How do you thrash you head with your arms otherwise engaged AND manage a few puffs all at the same time!?<br /><br />2) I was walking down St. Michel one busy afternoon (picture the Latin Quarter and Notre Dame) when a delivery truck appears as if from nowhere on the cobblestone sidewalk, presumably trying to turn onto what I thought was a pedestrian-only busy street of restaurants and shops. I'm in no particular rush myself, and notice that all the factors are present for total entertainment: confused tourists, angry locals, and the sheer physical impossibility of this truck fitting between the two Don't Drive Between These 3 foot cement poles coming up from the sidewalk. Dudeface immediately realizes the difficuly of the situation, and everyone's fuming, unable to get around him. He then executes the fastest series of forward/reverse steering wheel artistry I've ever seen, whipping it around to--somehow--make that truck fit into a space most physicists would have otherwise deemed impossible. And, of course, did you guess it, he had a cigarette not in his mouth but his RIGHT HAND the entire time.<br /><br />Clearly the french wouldn't be impressed by this sort of thing, because I began to see whole cigarette as afterthought thing everywhere. Classy (and slim, bien sur) middle aged women waltz down the boulevard in their shiny pumps, chatting up a friend and holding a tiny dog with a cig bouncing loosely between their lips. The aloof and greasy man, strolling along reading a newspaper, leaving puffs of smoke behind him. I even noticed cigarettes in the mouths of women portayed in Monet paintings, as if to say, "Jessie, give up. This is just how we roll."<br /><br /><br /><strong>2. Metro Musicians</strong><br /><br />With this observation, I simply want to pay tribute to an adorable phenomenon I have not seen in any other city transit system. Sure, in Paris you'll come across all kinds of musicians: accoridianists will jump in your metro car, wandering troubadours will serenade you as you make you transfer, and even awesome ethnic instruments I've never seen before make frequent appearances. But what I had TOTALLY forgotten about was when you come across the street musician motherload, in the depths of the metro: 4, 6, sometimes even 10 musicians, playing and singing some ethnically particular tribute to the motherland, where ever that is with utter and complete gusto. Kate S. And I caught 6 (was it 8?) presumably Russian men EACH with his OWN accordion, belting their brains out in wicked harmony, and we practically fell to our knees. You could hear the sound while you were on the train, approaching the station, wondering what full and bizarre orchestra could possibly lay ahead of you. I've also seen bad ass pipe flute varietites, maybe with some guitars to lay down rhythms, along with wicked drum and vocal combos of all sorts. CDs are often for sale nearby. If I haven't made myself completely clear by now, allow me to rectify that: these groups are ADORABLE and incredibly awesome and impressive. In Chicago, at least, the paint can drummers ain't got nothin on these.<br /><br /><br />And last but not least:<br /><br /><br /><strong>3. CHILDREN.</strong><br /><br />I don't know if we have any Madaleine books fans out there, but this one is for you. For some reason, upon leaving Paris in '08, I at some point forgot about one of the cutest sights to see: the frequent and orderly transportation of young children across town. This is presumably done for field trips, chapparones shepherding groups of ankle biters (upwards of 40), and they always seem to a) trek them along busy streets we'd never dream feasible in the states and b) cram them, even when they're tiny!, onto public transportation as if this were a perfectly reasonable way to transport children.<br /><br />On the streets, they seriously walk in long lines of two pairs. While they lack nuns leading the way or matching dresses and hats (the wide brimmed kind with the long ribbon, right?), they are indeed in those painfully cute pairs HOLDING HANDS. French passersby and drivers are totally accustomed to this, and are content enough to stop at the intersection to let the scores of whippersnappers cross an incredibly busy throughfair. Like ducks cross. UGHH it is so cute and I am always torn between OMG MUST DOCUMENT AND BROADCAST CUTENESS ON THE INTERWEBS and Holy cow don't be a huge creeper, Jessie. Nathan and Bridget have gotten impressively accustomed to me behaving in the former, creeping all up ons the children. While I never successfully creeped a street crossing picture, below is an example of me being crippled by all this cuteness. If you can blame me, you, sir, are made of stone.<br /><p align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488987147167216034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXZ6H2ElNPKHy4Kj3uk24VYBZkufI1kY5N9BGzX_dy8qx7l_HzorIrAHPoJMlls0e2ZBMLLod_rxi-NgGem6jelF3eFkSo_NVM6KQpWCpALaIStylwMWVVWavqu-ghPNCJFaLKMSsTt7g/s320/P6281439.JPG" border="0" /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Buhhhh they were playing a game of epically cute proportions where they ran back and forth squealing. </em></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>It was crippling.</em></span><br /></p><p align="left">Anyway, I did remember this phenomenon from before. The whole public tranportation piece, however, that was new. Returing home from my delightful daytrip to Auvers Sur Oise, I squeeze into the <em>crowded</em> city bus (but fair enough for a 6pm bus whose precedent came an hour ago), and it takes me exactly 15 seconds to realize what's going on: 5 seconds to notice that anything is off at all, 5 to confusedly scan the normal looking enough crowd and another 5 to realize and confirm that the bus is indeed entirely filled with CHILDREN. (<em>Author's note: if you have been getting throwbacks to TGS when I say that, this is why we are friends.</em>) I was instantly delighted to discover--this was my first time--that the Frenchs' bold ambition of herding massive amounts of children in public places that would be unheard of in America actually extends to public buses--the one Parisian transportation frontier I had until this trip ben too terrified to cross into. Stunned, I try to count them--groups of three seated in seats for two, some standing, clutching what rails they can reach, others slumped against the wall on a vacant piece of floor ready to accomodate their need to nap. Forty-two. I counted 42, and for a brief moment of horror searched for who could possibly even be their chaperones. There were probably 6 in all, as sunburnt and cheery as the 5-8 year olds. I've barely taken in the spectacle when said chaperones began calling to children neighboring the slumbering ones. <em>Levez Antoine</em>, <em>levez Sophie</em>, and before I knew it, they reached their stop and poured out, like a school of fish. Older ones holding the youngers' hands, grimy fists clutching backpacks, the bewildered passengers left behind passing forward hats and swim towels left behind. I move to sit by the window, and you cannot imagine how quickly I scrounged for my camera--looking at them clustered in the cobbled alley, they'd become at least 60--some must have been hiding under the seats. I am deeply sorry to report that the bus driver (go figure) made haste to get out of there, and so my words will have to describe what was perhaps too ADORABLE and bizarre for words. So though I have yet to see nuns at the fore of such groups, clearly whoever wrote the Madaleine books knew what was up.</p><p align="left">J</p>Jessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-14609888780922778412010-06-29T08:05:00.002-05:002010-06-29T08:11:17.611-05:00Not Quite Tech SavvyI'll spare you the details (or at least those I even understand), but my most recent post posted BEHIND the one before it. Scroll down for <i>Apartment Life</i>.<div><br /></div><div>Also, pictures are slowly going up on facebook! The public link is <a href="http://bit.ly/JessieEurope">here</a>, or if we are friends (sorry mom and dad), you can obs just hit up my profile.</div><div><br /></div><div>You can type in <a href="http://bit.ly/JessieEurope">http://bit.ly/JessieEurope</a> to get there.</div><div><br /></div><div>J</div>Jessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-70631912918897559842010-06-28T10:15:00.003-05:002010-06-29T04:49:36.053-05:00Technical DifficultiesFriends!<br /><br />I write to APOLOGIZE for my lack of putting anything on this website. It turns out that "blogging on the go" is a lot harder when you lack a computer and/or consistent access to wi-fi, both of which have been the case for me.<br /><br />I marched down to the UChicago Center in Paris today, my former digs when I studied abroad, ready to type up all my exciting blog posts I've hand-written, and upload my many snazzy pictures. Upon arriving I realized that I forgot a) my notebook containing all my blog posts, and b) my camera uploading cord. Guys, I swear I'm responsible enough to be trekking across Europe for 7 weeks.<br /><br />Anywho, the plan is to return tomorrow (I need to say hey to Sylvie anyway!), and proceed then. Until then, I realized I never posted my full trajectory on here, and now might be as good a time as any to get that done. To be fair, this itinerary wasn't really finalized until today, anyway, and Italy is still a work-in-progress.<br /><br />And so:<br /><br />Paris (with Kate Schnak, then solo, then with Nathan and his high school friend, Bridget)<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">June 16 - 30</span><br /><br />Brussels and Bruges (with Nathan and Bridget)<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">June 30 - July 1</span><br /><br />Amsterdam (with Nathan and Bridget)<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">July 1 - 6</span><br /><br />Rome (solo, then with Kate Dries and Amulya)<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">July 9 - 12</span><br /><br />Florence/Firenze (Kate + Amulya)<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">July 12-13</span><br /><br />Venice (Kate + Amulya)<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">July 13-14</span><br /><br />Naples/Pompeii (Kate + Amulya)<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">July 15-16</span><br /><br />Berlin (with Kate)<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">July 16-19</span><br /><br />Prague (Kate + Amulya)<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">July 19-23</span><br /><br />Budapest (Kate + Amulya)<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">July 23-27</span><br /><br />Istanbul (Kate + Amulya)<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">July 27 - August 2</span><br /><br />aaaand because it wouldn't be Jessie if I didn't make at least one hilariously heinous error, BACK to...<br /><br />Budapest. To fly home on August 3. Presumably after this trip, I will never confuse Budapest, Hungary or Istanbul, Turkey ever again. To my dear 8th grade geography teacher, Mrs. Fisher: I am so sorry.<br /><br />JJessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-37286520513020971152010-06-28T09:00:00.015-05:002010-06-29T07:58:37.390-05:00Apartment Life<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKjMn6CXvmTxOfDEXsGrSOSqxX8EP0ijCiasLLcCYMMEVqrELXy5AkEa0QzvRzQ9jbWnqC9w9TbXTBBc3rLTrxs8t8ciwUsJdGr83gRE_cH_8Mn0g69lCPVKkguRcMhGvTQ6VBcOZ1wIA/s1600/P6281414.JPG"></a><div style="text-align: left;">If Paris has a "Top Ten Things it's Known For" list, I would venture that "super hilar tiny apartments" would be on it. I've been very fortunate to spend 12 of my 13 nights in Paris so far in three separate apartments, and it's been many things I expected... and many others I did not.</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirs7un5Lsi3LKqyRp-gziiPbGVQ325adLM8ibLmXVC14zc5NEQ4cM78SQsqMzDBMjLHCdia2C1eCcE5Wp2Q7aq_MRtfP4sprJ3JyUPUr6NYasPd6WcoXQ593Th5QMWeIjRfVSF-_yeJTI/s1600/P6281406.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirs7un5Lsi3LKqyRp-gziiPbGVQ325adLM8ibLmXVC14zc5NEQ4cM78SQsqMzDBMjLHCdia2C1eCcE5Wp2Q7aq_MRtfP4sprJ3JyUPUr6NYasPd6WcoXQ593Th5QMWeIjRfVSF-_yeJTI/s200/P6281406.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488165407069687282" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Nathan is le triste over the absurd smallness of our "entry way."</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>And so I present to you, Some Things I Have Learned. </div><div><br /></div><div>In Parisian apartments:</div><div><br /></div><div><b>1) You get intimate with your neighbors.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>The stereotypical wooden spiral staircase that you may associate with Europe in general has most certainly been true for the apartments I've stayed in. The wood is often old (by which, of course, I mean, "It has character"), and marching up it is both a toil, and a noisy one. Walls tend to be super thin, so the arrival of morning is often announced not by sun peaking in through windows or the pleasant chirping of song birds, but the THOMPING of neighbors up and down the stairs. </div><div><br /></div><div>It wouldn't really be an authentic European (or metropolitan, in general) living experience if you didn't get to know your neighbors well in some way or other. When I stayed in a friend-of-a-friend's apartment by myself for five nights, I got to know the neighbors by means of a different excuse... the leaking of my toilet into each of their apartments. I actually began to fear the sound of their ascent up the steps, having done all I could to minimize this burden on them (picture trashcans and plastic bags, artfully arranged to capture each erratic pattern of drips). It turns out, of course, that these neighbors could not have been more pleasant. They just wanted a concerned sounding board for their woes, and I gladly took tours of each of their apartments and, specifically, their water damage ("<i>Ohhhh regarde-ca!</i>", *<i>tsk tsk tsk</i>*, <i>"C'est terrible! Pas acceptable</i>.", shaking my head and the like). The highlight was probably the Roman-god-worthy construction fellow from the apartment below, who came to inquire why the water had stopped leaking as much as it had been before. I admit, I was pretty distracted by his manly presence so my French was not as spot-on during this particular encounter, but I proudly showed him my McGyver-worthy drip collection station, in secret hopes that it would help me curry some favor. I'm pretty certain he laughed me off (lovingly, I'm sure) in every way before heading back downstairs.</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNE71UVF2LqJh5_-rgNr3hCo5AC6OktIBLAOiX2_i6c-qXvzGTo2JXbPPGiw2jiXCqbzs46dbBZk_GASjhmUjsfO_9jtGONV-1jp4KOVKKVkiQVbl1A8x2PToKOawn9vVb9R4UNkw3TjQ/s1600/P6221179.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNE71UVF2LqJh5_-rgNr3hCo5AC6OktIBLAOiX2_i6c-qXvzGTo2JXbPPGiw2jiXCqbzs46dbBZk_GASjhmUjsfO_9jtGONV-1jp4KOVKKVkiQVbl1A8x2PToKOawn9vVb9R4UNkw3TjQ/s200/P6221179.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488164963730943138" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A view from that apartment. </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">These are the neighbors, I suppose, who don't hate my guts.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Our new apartment (see ...adorable pictures below) is fully functioning, which is a plus. It does, however, lack direct sunlight, and our window instead opens up onto a very miniature courtyard whose only purpose can possibly be to give us all an excuse for a window. As the weather has gotten warmer the past few days, all have taken to throwing open said windows at all times, and neighborhoodly relations have gotten, well, more intimate. This morning, it was not chirping birds, sunlight, nor stair thomping neighbors that brought me into a state of consciousness. No, it was a truly delightful Epic Temper Tantrum. I call it delightful for several reasons. One, it <i>gradually </i>woke me up--as it increased in severity, I slowly put the pieces together as to what in the world was going on (Was I dreaming? Was Nathan completely inappropriately upset about something?), which just felt charming. Two, even more charming, it was of course in French, and as you can probably imagine ANYTHING said by toddlers in a foreign language you sort of understand is almost too cute to bear. Three, finally, it followed the classic trajectory--the Platonic ideal, even--of The Temper Tantrum. </div><div><br /></div><div>Step one was initial protestation: Statement of desire, followed by an attempt at its underlying reasoning. You could say this stage is still completely reasonable, logical, and perhaps even cool-headed.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Je n' veux pas, Maman! C'est pas l'heure!</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>I don't want to, Mom! It's not time yet!</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Internal-Dialogue-Me: <i>Buhhhh French toddler-ness SO CUTE and clearly worth waking up forrrrr.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Step two, brought on merely by lack of desired outcome, is really only a change in tone and emphasis, i.e. it is the steadily increasing desperation of the child. This step is often accompanied by, as you can bet it was this morning, by the child beginning to pace, then run, around the apartment. Mind you, this is all brought to me by sound alone, wafting through the "courtyard" window.</div><div><br /></div><div><div><i>Je n' veux <b>PAS</b>, Mamaaan! C'est <b>PAS! L'HEURE!</b></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>I don't <b>WANT</b> to, Moooom! It's <b>NOT! TIME YET!</b></i></div></div><div><i><b><br /></b></i></div><div>Step three is breakdown into complete emotion/irrationality, and, from afar, totally the most hilarious step. This child has, I can only imagine, dropped to the ground, become completely nonverbal, and is pounding his feet upon the floor in violent, outraged protest. Life is seriously NOT FAIR.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh Maaammmmmaaaaaaaaannnnnnn!</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>[Translation not necessary]</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>To sum it up, the most amusing part of this story for me, is that the issue was probably over taking his morning bath or something. Anywho, apartment is life is all about getting to know your fellow city dwellers as well as (and well beyond that) you could ever hope to.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlFS0q8vVMF0lyIqvjhxd0yT0yMBuDyUTpDwRVmpJNMny8np9HKq0YlwCE9iZlbgr0lYwjVGcoN-YyzmPL1LL9C2RWDQWhssP2UXiKp0IXc2f6rCshFDbZXAHJzFZGa8ufboHa8woDxEk/s1600/P6281410.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlFS0q8vVMF0lyIqvjhxd0yT0yMBuDyUTpDwRVmpJNMny8np9HKq0YlwCE9iZlbgr0lYwjVGcoN-YyzmPL1LL9C2RWDQWhssP2UXiKp0IXc2f6rCshFDbZXAHJzFZGa8ufboHa8woDxEk/s200/P6281410.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488163870944058386" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A chaotic but faithful view of the window. Nathan sleeps on the floor below it. </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Super classy, I know, but I also have no idea how he slept through this affair entirely.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div>2) In Parisian apartments: <b>You get intimate... with yourself.</b></div></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>No, no, not like that, ew gross. No, since Parisian apartments are completely and often impossibly small, you find yourself with the most condensed version of "personal space" you've ever considered appropriate (see Nathan, top), and this has surprising effects on your psyche over time. This effect is only exaggerated when you insert roommates into the mix. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Exhibit A: Tiny kitchen, Kavita's apartment, by Place D'Italie.</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO15oD8QW9S1BtTEG0L5EuJzI8hJOnPnqWIdEBjdL2gVkmNTLa8qC-qCVC5Nd9-CjSkdDqTVz98a3A0ZDBLkQapuAnhbW7MvApeWwhAv4P8Vz04NXf6U9AxzGS0eEPIgk62hbSf_7ZSIk/s1600/P6251279.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO15oD8QW9S1BtTEG0L5EuJzI8hJOnPnqWIdEBjdL2gVkmNTLa8qC-qCVC5Nd9-CjSkdDqTVz98a3A0ZDBLkQapuAnhbW7MvApeWwhAv4P8Vz04NXf6U9AxzGS0eEPIgk62hbSf_7ZSIk/s200/P6251279.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488168268748678434" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>But look at it, it's SO ADORABLE I can't even be mad at its complete lack of legitimate anything!!</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>When your kitchen is one square meter, and your bathroom is half that, you become surprisingly aware of your limbs. Before, you could waltz about your personal space, swinging those limbs to and fro--"Shall I grab the potato over here, or the shampoo over there? la dee daaaa"--you can reach as you please. It's all very easy and carefree, and certainly not necessitating conscious thought or effort. Now that your available space lends itself to using "postage stamps" as a legitimate frame of reference for describing measurements (the fridge is 8 across, the table is 12, etc.), such a cavalier swinging of the arm could result in disasterous consequences--usually ones that involve your possessions tumbling to the floor multiple times a day.</div><div><br /></div><div>Worse yet, with all those cabinets and walls creepin on your minimal floor space, when you do drop something (And you will. Avoid bringing home objects unnecessarily made of glass), you'll think to yourself, "Hey, I am so going to bend over and pick that up!" and instead you find yourself vertically trapped, without any bending room at all. This is particularly difficult in the bathroom. After hitting my head on the sink each morning when I've dropped the soap in the shower, this morning I was particularly sleepy and just forewent conditioning my hair entirely when I dropped the bottle. It just wasn't worth the further loss of brain cells.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Exhibit B: Tiny bathroom, rented apartment by Republique.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaIv2nZhAXkVTPI8cFThu8gdgWM5vpyWTKqrJeYgFs-Z_W7rDX-0jWRRwCxnJNt5OWPzCKPQloMZxphioiV_UAoqNXt8cniXJ-0_4ajuJOYBirDCVUiRTG5Nm7nzpacs0JyGO9CzbAwlI/s1600/P6281408.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaIv2nZhAXkVTPI8cFThu8gdgWM5vpyWTKqrJeYgFs-Z_W7rDX-0jWRRwCxnJNt5OWPzCKPQloMZxphioiV_UAoqNXt8cniXJ-0_4ajuJOYBirDCVUiRTG5Nm7nzpacs0JyGO9CzbAwlI/s200/P6281408.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488168961208086146" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It's actually impossible to take a picture of the entire shower, it is so small and crammed. </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Bridget has a photo, that I'll have to steal, of me using this toilet seat as our legitimate third seat in the apartment for when we all want to sit and socialize.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>What's probably the most amusing is how USED to it you get. You move slower, more delicately, and what was at first tons of deliberate effort, really does become old habit. It's particularly impressive, I believe, when you and two other people in such a heinously small space begin to not only tailor your own movements but anticipate each others', as you flit about, bending around cabinets, tables and people to get to your target destination, which cannot be more than 2 meters away.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Exhibit C: the rest of the Republique apartment.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPa-GDqLImBoB_V9IjP8i1Cxujv4un2gGZ_9yP_-4XiPjM0Yazq_a2KKsP1fDHKQUMPlsW_zoEgrHd-V4ZJxsgIlK4xRgM44GdZAKo0RWGxyF73DM9UlBiTvYVsv-7A_IEnNtAI4_f8a8/s1600/P6281401.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPa-GDqLImBoB_V9IjP8i1Cxujv4un2gGZ_9yP_-4XiPjM0Yazq_a2KKsP1fDHKQUMPlsW_zoEgrHd-V4ZJxsgIlK4xRgM44GdZAKo0RWGxyF73DM9UlBiTvYVsv-7A_IEnNtAI4_f8a8/s200/P6281401.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488171181230968146" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mentally piece together this picture with the one of the window above, and that's actually all we are working with. The mirrors fold down to reveal a bed.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And so, I am naturally led to the third and clearly most impressive thing I've learned in Parisian apartments...</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><b>3) The number of tricks to efficiently use space are ENDLESS.</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Tabletops are attached to the wall and fold down with the flick of a wrist. Washing machines are the size of a cat kennel and slip under countertops. Shelves appear just above the 5'8" mark or so, and extend upwards towards the ceilings. Pot & pan racks and drying racks are screwed into the wall tile. Stovetops are tucked into hard-to-reach corners American kitchens wouldn't even notice. Beds morph into walls and, it's true, even ceilings. Bizarrely impressive shelving, cabinets, and other items designed to affix to walls exist here that fit the most uniquely shaped spaces and corners. WHATEVER YOU ARE WORKING WITH, Europe's got you covered. Our joke of a studio still manages to have room for THREE french presses and a salad spinner--totally under- or (un-) used items I'm convinced the landlord threw into the kitchen just to prove that he COULD, along with the sink, cabinets, microwave, washing machine, fridge and electric stove top. It's really commendable stuff.</div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-jAP-eATleV7bFpb4LWoss1H5D44UeLniHa_4siSRGztMBTbDsMb4jbC97KjQx7l5i0KZWDWiALvB49-0FRugCzt3M76GjmITiC7wuPkYfyGFUOoDgJdCajHH1nzLLY44qd4zfMX4UlY/s200/P6251278.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488174390613946370" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px; " /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmzAjeC_HIHaQbHvc51LHg9KNHkzdjvBwfVq_QAwZDGM_ngerrumQk4Is76BfgpIVjgvR42uSBw91eqwN_QeL0wQJJwUjMLXCIdI4aRHF-FlT66tr6unGG4khZ8HqS748Hvo5nkhixDAA/s200/P6281411.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488173654673973698" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px; " /><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;"><br /></span></span></i></span></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><-- Tiny kitchen, ur do</span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">in it rite.</span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: right;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Bungalow bed, in the CEILING --></span></i></div><div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></u></span></div><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div style="text-align: left; "><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWG7AKNSJ00YTprTs6GlbsMuJI8cVVX1Mvlmm4G4Dzj0h1QZhYtG0UFFtJ3kmhxlHSqVJQvCxz7jWrL8Fc60TW3pmMKpuyBQndtlEtmOmwy6tS-JcBx2XXDBxX3kUxFHozqOdAkdKeCq4/s200/P6281412.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488174207094470610" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px; " /></div><div style="text-align: left; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKjMn6CXvmTxOfDEXsGrSOSqxX8EP0ijCiasLLcCYMMEVqrELXy5AkEa0QzvRzQ9jbWnqC9w9TbXTBBc3rLTrxs8t8ciwUsJdGr83gRE_cH_8Mn0g69lCPVKkguRcMhGvTQ6VBcOZ1wIA/s200/P6281414.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488174580443229250" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px; " /></div><div style="text-align: left; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: left; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: left; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><-- Stovetop, ready for duty</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A glam shot of Bridget and Nathan, whose actual purpose is to show how bad ass our keys are --></span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Upcoming are <i>Things I Remembered, Part II</i> and <i>Tales from Auvers St. Oise</i>, as I slowly get my act together. We leave for Amsterdam tomorrow!!</div><div><br /></div><div>Over and out, </div><div>Jessie</div><div><br /></div>Jessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-27700161190012188712010-06-21T16:59:00.004-05:002010-06-29T05:14:36.811-05:00Parc Troussau<div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK8-nlYfNpm0k-H3T5otwzTRLepj3C7lv60G_Mwii7FVd1FN0UMsy0M5w64J4KAYU1y2c9jetuKkswRbmQ8zm0w_wgO1KJnUzdydR0SL4UR46wBahncO2oN7tPNJqDOkMQOpjWcCWdzdE/s1600/P6191148.JPG"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">UPDATE: Pictures, huzzah. 6/29</span></a></div><div><br /></div>Lack of PC access has put me so behind! A retroactive post for now.<div><br /></div><div>19 June 2010</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Tis the wee hours of the morn (i.e. 9h50), and I find myself in an adorable park with impressively looming trees, not a km from the Bastille. I have just send Kate Schnak on her way to Charles de Gaulle Aeroport (CDG, for you world travelers), and I am meandering through this end of town in search of shelter. I have to admit, it feels sort of dramatic--me, this nomad with all my worldly possessions on my back (by which I mean non-glam things like toiletries and plastic bags), roaming around in search of a place to be un-homeless for a while. </i></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ZDzIGvpHof0ue3rS0SVX9MOCXz-sJD2M4vM0VxUrZOw6jTZhn6_jrZN_CMw_eax3FuigQnz_5kj7Mn2ysniqOwwTMjNivovSRCOF8DQPu1_PcPIIJ8sBYyfxKlTIFIMWFAQkAwIVdoM/s1600/P6191147.JPG"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ZDzIGvpHof0ue3rS0SVX9MOCXz-sJD2M4vM0VxUrZOw6jTZhn6_jrZN_CMw_eax3FuigQnz_5kj7Mn2ysniqOwwTMjNivovSRCOF8DQPu1_PcPIIJ8sBYyfxKlTIFIMWFAQkAwIVdoM/s1600/P6191147.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ZDzIGvpHof0ue3rS0SVX9MOCXz-sJD2M4vM0VxUrZOw6jTZhn6_jrZN_CMw_eax3FuigQnz_5kj7Mn2ysniqOwwTMjNivovSRCOF8DQPu1_PcPIIJ8sBYyfxKlTIFIMWFAQkAwIVdoM/s320/P6191147.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488135095367803522" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a><div><i>As I sit here, this Saturday morning, watching a remarkably agile older lady perform what I can only assume to be yoga moves, I almost feel compelled to shed the backpack (well, I definitely feel compelled to do that), and hunker down in the cool, damp air and reflect on life--mediate, or something. I'm pretty sure most nomads were pagans, but Buddhists roam, right? Anyway, vagabondism and mediation seem compatible to me.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><br /><div><i><br /></i></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK8-nlYfNpm0k-H3T5otwzTRLepj3C7lv60G_Mwii7FVd1FN0UMsy0M5w64J4KAYU1y2c9jetuKkswRbmQ8zm0w_wgO1KJnUzdydR0SL4UR46wBahncO2oN7tPNJqDOkMQOpjWcCWdzdE/s1600/P6191148.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK8-nlYfNpm0k-H3T5otwzTRLepj3C7lv60G_Mwii7FVd1FN0UMsy0M5w64J4KAYU1y2c9jetuKkswRbmQ8zm0w_wgO1KJnUzdydR0SL4UR46wBahncO2oN7tPNJqDOkMQOpjWcCWdzdE/s320/P6191148.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488135584139247410" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></a><div><i>The roar of cars is steadily rising, and children arrive! What an adorable oasis--soccer balls (excusez-moi, "footballs") and 8 year old (French) trash-talk flies alongside an assembling though wholly unofficial group of old men. From what I can tell, they are puttering around complaining about politics, but that probably went without saying. I sat down here in the first place because I just received the phone number of a friend of Kate's who is apparently willing to lend me her apartment for a couple nights. It turns out I'll be heading to the nearby hostel (the original destination) today after all, but I am so pleased to have found this spot. Parc Trousseau, the sun is finally peaking through Paris's gray ceiling, so I'll be sure to snap a picture. My love to all! Bisous!</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>J</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Note: Lack of PC also means lack of picture uploading!! I did indeed capture the yoga lady, and one remaining puttering old man on film... so stay tuned.</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXCUHWpqVnlRkQ0BmiznIPeJwwuuBttZ9dGvGHGFPQXnr1IcbuXf-fFcRVbAWHQFmpzlg37jbB5LpOy_iK-pY0nTAwrfiY7YnEjDKq7hp7onJkSUJJx6i7PnBqt5tBhLb3CThv-UzC2Rc/s1600/P6191149.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXCUHWpqVnlRkQ0BmiznIPeJwwuuBttZ9dGvGHGFPQXnr1IcbuXf-fFcRVbAWHQFmpzlg37jbB5LpOy_iK-pY0nTAwrfiY7YnEjDKq7hp7onJkSUJJx6i7PnBqt5tBhLb3CThv-UzC2Rc/s320/P6191149.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488136423001685186" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div>Jessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-8565142056347752092010-06-18T12:48:00.004-05:002010-06-18T13:40:13.374-05:00Day Three!Just a chronicling post today. As planned, but sadly nonetheless, three days in, my hostess Kate is making preparations to depart this town she's called home for the last 10 months. We spent the day fitting in those last minute beaurocratic to-do's (and believe us, in Paris, as an immigrant, no less, there are plenty of those) as well as the touristy ones. After making three (count them, 3) trips to the bank, a trip to the post office, and a trip to a fax machine, Kate succeeded in closing her flipping bank account, canceling her renters' insurance, terminating her lease, and ending her poor-persons' living stipend (HELLO Socialism.). We consumed crepes and espresso along the way, and considered it a pretty okay day.<br /><br />Yesterday was the touristy day--I took Kate to the Pantheon, the national mausoleum of the Great Men of France. Kate being a semi-legit Parisian resident was all "I've been past it dozens of times, but never inside," so I rectified that. We paid homage to the tombs of Voltaire, Hugo, and the Curies (Fun Fact: Pierre, her husband, was honorably interred in the Pantheon upon his death, but she was not until 1995), among many other acclaimed French figures. Our 10-minute torrential-downpour rowboat ride (see previous post) was certainly another highlight. Out in the sketch woods/park on the outskirts of Paris (a call-girl hot spot at night, I am told), our fears of getting lost/kidnapped/disemboweled/etc were pretty immediately nullified. Oh! And. I bought the necessary cable for my camera at FNAC (after bringing it home and threw a tantrum about how the bastard French sold it to me without the necessary cord, before Kate patiently held the cord up in front of my face), so these posts will soon become more visual. Promise.<br /><br />Out to Bastille for the evening--Kate and her friend Julia's last in Paris, so it should be a ... time.<br /><br />A bientot!<br /><br />P.S. A quote from Kate as I hit "Publish Post," as she lackadaisically examined various body parts out of boredom: "My foot... it just looks like a telephone." Wise words, wise lady. Paris will miss her.<input id="gwProxy" type="hidden"><!--Session data--><input onclick="jsCall();" id="jsProxy" type="hidden"><div id="refHTML"></div>Jessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-53938793611926048552010-06-18T04:04:00.005-05:002010-06-18T13:39:34.969-05:00Easing back inMy first several days back in Par-ee consist of remembering. Familiar sights, fuzzy metro connection memories, excavated idiosyncrasies about the French language.<br /><br />At least twice a day I am struck--I usually begin laughing when it happens. There are lots of French "fun facts" I have forgotten.<br /><br />1) [A freebie] <span style="font-style: italic;">The French make out ALL THE TIME</span>. I know this one's a give-away, too obvious to make the list, probably, but seriously, it catches me by surprise every time. No age, location, nor situation is off limits. My hotess charmante, Ms. Schnakenberg, took me to the man-made lake in the woods to the west of Paris (Bois de Boulougne), and rowed me around, a page out of a true Parisian romance. In that vein, the real Parisians did not disappoint: it started to rain (Me: "Kate, someday we'll tell our grandchildren all about how we fell in love in the rain, in a rowboat by Bois du Boulougne!"), and we see to our right two adults taking shelter under a very tall bush, Francois Le-Frenchy-Pants et Francine "I'm 40 but maybe this outfit will trick you into thinking otherwise" Le Peu. They are clinging to each other to stay out of the rain, how cute!, I think. Au contraire, they are clinging to each other, probably oblivious to the fact that a torrential downpour has commenced, and they are SUCKING FACE. Not cutesy, lovey dovey smooching but hard core This-Rain-Could-Be-The-End-So-Let's-Go-Out-With-A-Bang (pun maybe intended).<br /><br />It's not just old folks in natural settings, oh no; on the escalator, en ligne at a cafe, in the middle of the tourist flock at St. Michel, it's like these French people who (on the surface) detest the tourists that bombard their city each summer are determined to give us what we <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> came for--a first hand glance at what the City of Love is all about. I'm not intending to sound bitter, here, I just... forgot. And was really wholly unprepared. These scenarios turn you, against your will, into some kind of awful voyeur and you just <span style="font-style: italic;">can't look away</span>, and for a moment you feel like it's YOUR fault for being such a creep! But it's not, you guys. Paris is all about the exhibitionism. That's why you came.<br /><br />2. <span style="font-style: italic;">The French drink (drip) coffee from bowls. </span> Sure, we all know the Parisian coffee shop stereotype, lay down three one-Euro coins, receive a shot of espresso. (Worry not about being short-changed: the stuff will jolt you for hours.) But this particular coffee-consuming habit had completely left my memory. I first stumbled upon the custom when I visited Limoges (of porcelain fame) my sophomore year of high school. Sitting down to breakfast with my host family, I was delighted to see we were to consume giant chunks of steaming hot baguette and was utterly befuddled to see the bread dipped in large cereal-sized bowls. Bread in cereal? Soggy milky bread? What? No. It was a giant bowl of coffee, which was then and is typically consumed black. Kate's favorite cafe in Montmartre (the most Parisian p'tit dej' on the block) strays not from this tradition, and twice now we've jump started the day with bowls of cafe au lait. Parfait.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhX7Y9r4PhCu47SeC4dfsxYtn2sSE-tAsf_LLHBBYtZX-f23x0pLAAKV7P6dnQP8FP6jM_TrrpOwMW13BAXcBn3DfhfgPhUHVFz2OPMOLHjmcYAd_l9g6iyVtsZPdFyfQf72uDmeHUEk/s1600/P6181137.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhX7Y9r4PhCu47SeC4dfsxYtn2sSE-tAsf_LLHBBYtZX-f23x0pLAAKV7P6dnQP8FP6jM_TrrpOwMW13BAXcBn3DfhfgPhUHVFz2OPMOLHjmcYAd_l9g6iyVtsZPdFyfQf72uDmeHUEk/s320/P6181137.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484037827928693602" border="0" /></a><br /><br />In the interest of time, this is to-be-continued, but for now...<br /><br />3) <span style="font-style: italic;">The young people shorten EVERYTHING. </span>I mean, oh wait, totes so do we. But still. Did you turn on the <span style="font-style: italic;">ordi</span>? How's the <span style="font-style: italic;">coloc </span>in the new <span style="font-style: italic;">appart</span><span style="font-style: italic;">e</span>? It's usually not too hard to put back together (<span style="font-style: italic;">ordinateur</span>-computer, <span style="font-style: italic;">colocataire</span>-roommate, <span style="font-style: italic;">appartement</span>, etc.), but sometimes you can get it wrong. Kate and I concluded that French people, yes, even Parisians, are super kind and forgiving as long as you legitimately try to speak passable French. Non-intentionally, they are even a little insulting when they can't hide their shock at your competence at speaking their language. I thought a vendor would fall out of his seat today when I asked him if his crappy touristy post-cards were indeed 15 centimes each (not too good to be true, as it turned out). Kate's French friend hosted a lovely apero yesterday, and shared with the group, much to Kate's chagrin, her most amusing faux-pas's. Her brother, Kate had been explaining, recently bought a little puppy, un "shee-oh" (<span style="font-style: italic;">chiot</span>), but instead Kate told Olivia that her brother had effectively purchased a crapper ("shee-ot," <span style="font-style: italic;">chiotte</span>) and her story pretty much ended there, to the chorus of riotous laughter.<br /><br />All for now. <3<br />JessieJessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-20836271254389952392010-06-16T11:41:00.005-05:002010-06-18T01:47:13.236-05:00L'arrivé!Hello friends,<br /><br />An absurdly long/epic journey will begin with a modest post. Before I get to that, I will sum it up. I begin a frivolous post-graduation summer in Europe with a two-week return to Paris. Three nights with an American friend who spent the year abroad, 5 nights in a hostel, visiting a few French friends, and 5 nights in a rented studio, with an American friend traveling abroad. With the latter, we blaze through Belgium to Amsterdam for several nights. We part ways, I fly to Rome, to be joined by Kate D. and Amulya, also just-graduates. We will tear apart Italy (Rome, Venice, Florence, and Naples, to be exact), fly to Berlin, train to Prague and Budapest, and finally fly to our final destination: Istanbul. Kate Berner's parents informed us that while we are there, on the very cusp of the European border, we simply must have dinner one night in Asia. I suspect that will be a satisfying end to a 7 week-journey.<br /><br />And so! I flew O'Hare to Charlotte to Paris and arrived this morning. From my carnet:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Arrivée! Déjà. A bright, sun-lit morning--my first pre-Paris experience: a belaboring reminder that American credit cards ne marchent pas in the transit ticket vending machines. My first glimpse in the city, off the RER: a worn basketball court, framed in green leaves and a chain-link fence. Above the city on the ligne 2, the streets course with round, French cars and I catch myself surprised, having foolishly thought the city simply stopped when I left it two falls ago. I exit at Anvers, complicit (overjoyed) to flow again among les foules parisens. Kate Schnakenberg (there are a lot of Kate's in this narrative) really does live a block from the Sacre Coeur--the t-shirt shops and the half-block up the cobble-stoned hill confirm what has sounded to good to be true these past few months. I am beneath the church on the hill now, aside a carousel as I watch an impossibly small boy kicking at the air, alternating apparent targets between a soccer ball and city pigeons. I guess that sense of power derived from scattering resting birds spans all ages and countries. The sun beats down warmly and I am considering my first Parisian purchase: a crêpe, almost certainly.</span><br /><br />[UPDATE: the view from Kate's room, to the right.]<br />[technical difficulties with the camera. a sick view of the sacre coeur from Kate S's bedroom, among other sites, to follow!]<br /><br />J<br /><input id="gwProxy" type="hidden"><!--Session data--><input onclick="jsCall();" id="jsProxy" type="hidden"><div id="refHTML"></div><input id="gwProxy" type="hidden"><!--Session data--><input onclick="jsCall();" id="jsProxy" type="hidden"><div id="refHTML"></div>Jessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-30305249270578653302009-07-12T16:57:00.001-05:002009-07-12T16:57:13.168-05:00<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBYdLsj5HugaN4n7YCyWtxBMPmELH24m9Tqd33_XYa8xH2TfD1TRD3jSF3sn7IaJnwWoMKb8JYo-NLXn5U_2F-QIPyw1LkTSeOJbFTwZ2hXj9eIH-ujul_K3hFNZltNjet83mqFC_agnE/s1600-h/0712091651-733170.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBYdLsj5HugaN4n7YCyWtxBMPmELH24m9Tqd33_XYa8xH2TfD1TRD3jSF3sn7IaJnwWoMKb8JYo-NLXn5U_2F-QIPyw1LkTSeOJbFTwZ2hXj9eIH-ujul_K3hFNZltNjet83mqFC_agnE/s320/0712091651-733170.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357696107047366466" /></a></p>And two!<p>This message was sent using the Picture and Video Messaging service from Verizon Wireless!<p>To learn how you can snap pictures and capture videos with your wireless phone visit <a href="http://www.verizonwireless.com/picture">www.verizonwireless.com/picture</a>.<p>Note: To play video messages sent to email, QuickTime� 6.5 or higher is required.Jessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-22277960360591302522009-05-30T21:42:00.000-05:002009-05-30T21:43:56.138-05:00<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcZvZi-Pvp7y5P2e8b72_FWlHDqDN2UNvoqQ4s0eAkK8GyeM-kNG8ROkFLJw-3icW-RC9UkcVMmJ0FIP4FHqjWoojrZkgAVVRtqSHXQHAT-qXAJXTjnRPvU6S1aWDLNDcILXBofbTnh0s/s1600-h/0530092142-736139.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcZvZi-Pvp7y5P2e8b72_FWlHDqDN2UNvoqQ4s0eAkK8GyeM-kNG8ROkFLJw-3icW-RC9UkcVMmJ0FIP4FHqjWoojrZkgAVVRtqSHXQHAT-qXAJXTjnRPvU6S1aWDLNDcILXBofbTnh0s/s320/0530092142-736139.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341813333371173154" /></a></p>Biddies, indeed.<p>This message was sent using the Picture and Video Messaging service from Verizon Wireless!<p>To learn how you can snap pictures and capture videos with your wireless phone visit <a href="http://www.verizonwireless.com/picture">www.verizonwireless.com/picture</a>.<p>Note: To play video messages sent to email, QuickTime� 6.5 or higher is required.Jessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-30285586569495900422009-04-06T22:54:00.000-05:002009-04-06T22:56:24.952-05:00<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDa08XzoU2fnTfiWd_JOfupxqpXvg8y7n9DAGkQOn-x6TRGqnZVgTFMWx_noaVxtGdPzZK642H2oY-Qz0nN5cguBTOGOWf7hmxrdbkNRkzZZ8q41reSl7yW2sYilHO7SsFBZTf3zldQWA/s1600-h/0317091616-784953.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDa08XzoU2fnTfiWd_JOfupxqpXvg8y7n9DAGkQOn-x6TRGqnZVgTFMWx_noaVxtGdPzZK642H2oY-Qz0nN5cguBTOGOWf7hmxrdbkNRkzZZ8q41reSl7yW2sYilHO7SsFBZTf3zldQWA/s320/0317091616-784953.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321793413814992066" /></a></p>You've been warned.<p>This message was sent using the Picture and Video Messaging service from Verizon Wireless!<p>To learn how you can snap pictures and capture videos with your wireless phone visit <a href="http://www.verizonwireless.com/picture">www.verizonwireless.com/picture</a>.<p>Note: To play video messages sent to email, QuickTime� 6.5 or higher is required.Jessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-76206327787661736922009-03-18T20:12:00.000-05:002009-03-18T20:13:14.240-05:00<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLNIP4y_Qsfxkjk8pxPMgqhn29vnf75wR50410x4GQNJtinhPhhg4dU9MK9Kk_HRg5PWBVbyVnSBWJRVE7nvRM_jFrPy41hdoTVmZjiazUvS4uOwVPaKvgwiDV4StjMk2qMsDK19oygj8/s1600-h/0317091616-794242.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLNIP4y_Qsfxkjk8pxPMgqhn29vnf75wR50410x4GQNJtinhPhhg4dU9MK9Kk_HRg5PWBVbyVnSBWJRVE7nvRM_jFrPy41hdoTVmZjiazUvS4uOwVPaKvgwiDV4StjMk2qMsDK19oygj8/s320/0317091616-794242.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314700742575140194" /></a></p>You've been warned.<p>This message was sent using the Picture and Video Messaging service from Verizon Wireless!<p>To learn how you can snap pictures and capture videos with your wireless phone visit <a href="http://www.verizonwireless.com/picture">www.verizonwireless.com/picture</a>.<p>Note: To play video messages sent to email, QuickTime� 6.5 or higher is required.Jessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-38209084025450707112009-03-09T15:30:00.000-05:002009-03-09T15:31:52.414-05:00<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzw5Dtu4uuYxitvW5w-B6xuBQBKdmmyp2RYjJvnU1o-Lcs42AvesyZEZdf6LmOfsua402DJNqQfiFhLVLMcwNdJj6Hp8O-mD_UVapRfsvonm_nPQzQmwcaYDIMUM0oi98HzR-kRwfglyk/s1600-h/1223081902-712418.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzw5Dtu4uuYxitvW5w-B6xuBQBKdmmyp2RYjJvnU1o-Lcs42AvesyZEZdf6LmOfsua402DJNqQfiFhLVLMcwNdJj6Hp8O-mD_UVapRfsvonm_nPQzQmwcaYDIMUM0oi98HzR-kRwfglyk/s320/1223081902-712418.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311288469321686050" /></a></p>This is the baby picture of my father that looks like courtney..<p>This message was sent using the Picture and Video Messaging service from Verizon Wireless!<p>To learn how you can snap pictures and capture videos with your wireless phone visit <a href="http://www.verizonwireless.com/picture">www.verizonwireless.com/picture</a>.<p>Note: To play video messages sent to email, QuickTime� 6.5 or higher is required.Jessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-88551247733016038882008-09-06T16:32:00.005-05:002009-03-09T15:26:06.163-05:00Athens vs. RomeSo, September 1st rolls around, and here we are, back at the Athens International Airport. Emily and I coincidentally head out on the same flight to Rome, and to commemorate such a wonderful trip, we wanted to go out with a bang. With the flight at 6am, booking a room and waking up at 2 or 3 hardly seemed worth it. How sneaky we could be, we so cleverly devised, if we instead came to the airport at night <span style="font-style: italic;">before</span> they close, and spent the night over a bottle of wine, reminiscing over our fabulous times in Greece!<br /><br />But how early in the evening would we have to come? Where could we stow ourselves for the nights without looking too suspish? How to even go about obtaining the answers to these questions? Somehow calling to inquire about "When does the last flight of the evening leave" or "How late will you let me walk into the airport" feels inherently suspicious, while the truth ("Oh, we just want to booze it up and sleep on the marble floor") smacks of an alcoholic hobo, which I equally wanted to avoid. Being a foreign guest, it feels somewhat un-kosher to lie unconscious all night (while undoubtedly charging your ipod in a random outlet) in the entryway to a major international airport.<br /><br />As it turns out, the Athens airport never closes and not only is refugee behavior kosher, it's practically welcomed. Even around 1 am, I can honestly describe the airport as "hoppin' " with travelers drinking their "frappés" (a foamy ice coffee that has apparently become the lifeblood of Greeks) and socializing in airport cafés. By the gates, young and old persons like have awkwardly draped their bodies across those airport chairs, serenely catching some shut-eye before their pre-dawn flights.<br /><br />Frankly, we should have known. All throughout Greece, Emily and I have noted this "make yourself at home" sort of behavior. On each ferry we took, you'd find people sleeping on towels in corners (and, really, main hallways); in every restaurant, you're expected to waltz in and choose your table (never waiting to be seated); and not once did we ever see a "no smoking" sign obeyed. (Emily sincerely devoted hours to estimating Europe's rate of cancer.)<br /><br />So as we wheel our cart with all our Earthly belongings through the airport, we were instead in the position of not being able to find a single corner to call our own. Fortunately we found a sketchy hallway of some closed ticket office and dutifully set up camp. Perhaps even a little too much when people would curiously duck their heads in to see where our music was coming from... Our secret bungalow wasn't particularly well-suited for sleeping, however, with books for pillows and marble for mattresses, but we'll say that was part of its charm.<br /><br />Groggy-eyed, we deemed it morning around 4am, check our bags and headed off to Rome. You know, all in a day's work.<br /><br />We arrived in Rome, famished and ready to again nap and charge our electronics. However... I'm going to use a bad analogy here. Remember that movie Dirty Dancing where the rich socialite girl ("Baby." Yeah, THAT was a good call) is at her family's trendy, prim country club but then hangs out with Patrick Swayze's poorer, knows-how-to-have-a-good-time staff friends? Yeah. If Athens was where you dance and booze the night away, Rome was where you fold your napkin properly across your trousers.<br /><br />My God, I was embarrassed just to be seen at that airport! We're walking past designer store after designer store, trying not to run into some crisply suited color-coordinated man as we distractedly gaze at another. We quickly wrote off napping in public, jacking their outlets, and even (for a while) buying food when the one kiosk was a flurry of important-looking Europeans with chiseled faces and sarcastically small espresso coffee cups and saucers. Would you have wanted to step into that? Not unless you like getting fed to the lions, you wouldn't.<br /><br />Anyway, Italians are intimidating and Parisians will apparently resent my very existence, both huge departures from the hospitality and jovial good times we found in Greece. All the claims about hospitality and being relaxed seem to be true.<br /><br />Greece ruled.Jessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-77459152328178563142008-09-01T11:20:00.001-05:002008-09-01T11:20:56.718-05:00Up Next: Athens vs. RomeJessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-58818312580076461052008-09-01T09:47:00.013-05:002008-09-01T11:11:03.798-05:00Milia: Cretan Mountain SettlementOh man, do forgive my total lack of recent posts. When it comes to "new projects"--like this blog--I'm as bad as a 6-year-old on Christmas Day: ecstatic over the shiny train set at first, but distracted by a frisbee or something 10 minutes after its assembled. Take the scarcity of posts as proof that Greece has been fantastic, and retroactive posts are coming in due time.<br /><br />So after Hania, we rounded out our time in Crete with 2 days at the Milia Mountain Settlement and 1 day of epic beach experiences (sunburn, nudity, crystal-clear Mediterranean sea, all present in FULL force) at Crete's prettiest beach, Elafonissi.<br /><br />Milia was likely the highlight of the whole trip. After getting several Greek bus station attendants to argue over how we should get there, we were dropped off (and I say this legitimately) in the <span style="font-weight: bold;">middle of nowhere</span>, off the side of the road in mountainous western Crete. We were actually giggling with sincere appreciation for how ridiculous this scenario was. With a tattered road to the right and a shrub or two to the left, the driver had pulled the giant charter bus to an abrupt stop, assured us (as best one can in Greek to two clueless Americans) that this was where we wanted and pulled away, leaving a cloud of dust in our faces.<br /><br />We looked at each other (sweaty, backpacked), looked at the crumbling road and the one physical feature in sight (a small chicken farm), and honestly dissolved into hysterics. While this had been the plan (Don't Worry Mom, a car was coming to meet us), we didn't anticipate--we couldn't have--it being this ridiculous.<br /><br />So we began to trudge up (of course, up) this road, when a beat-up black pick-up driven by an old Greek hippie pulls up. With no words in common, we cornfirm each other's identity through some sort of proto-conversation that went something like<br /><br />Greek Hippie (<span style="font-style: italic;">inquisitive</span>): "Milia?"<br />Us (<span style="font-style: italic;">bounding with glee</span>): "Milia!!"<br />At which point we promptly hopped in the car.<br /><br />The next 10 minutes consisted of hairpin turns on the steepest, craggiest, most guard-rail-less mountain road I've ever seen; me fumbling through my Greek phrase book ("Is it much farther?" Answer: "Ha! ha! ha!"); and Emily and I in silent contented bliss for having gotten ourselves into such a (ridiculously) awesome authentic experience.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVSXqkLPMgdDjW3lm1KlotAOxBQ2rwRK7V1dGKXWgz_CIJRocutzmUye7bifaOkkwp2DjSplja2d4sEzgj4Mpei4bmBH_L00u1k6QYiqWHbtRAAjxQMIwYtnXpgZMSstAfderLaV7OYU/s1600-h/P8220381.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 155px; height: 207px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVSXqkLPMgdDjW3lm1KlotAOxBQ2rwRK7V1dGKXWgz_CIJRocutzmUye7bifaOkkwp2DjSplja2d4sEzgj4Mpei4bmBH_L00u1k6QYiqWHbtRAAjxQMIwYtnXpgZMSstAfderLaV7OYU/s320/P8220381.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241084097660620402" border="0" /></a>So Milia was originally settled about 500 years ago (!!!) with about ten freaking adorable stone cabins carved into the mountain's natural stone. It was abandoned maybe a century later when when every single resident died from cholera (!!!), and was re-habited briefly by hiding civilians during WWII and was quickly re-abandoned in 1945. (Note: please see Emily's blog for a legitimately factual retelling of Milia's history, as opposed to Jessie's Selectively-Remembered Fun Facts.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQkXzIUz-ugwP5VavGrzCWZGcj5UBHndpsgyBns6atxYi19SFf-wZ4YWkUNJJFTPj7p0Kmi5sSUWGjdWOnUC9UtZRbpJ3CFLCrukV8atgbe5jYEjH2ywIiqnfexncJWAbinNVkdRHIy-E/s1600-h/P8220375.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 243px; height: 182px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQkXzIUz-ugwP5VavGrzCWZGcj5UBHndpsgyBns6atxYi19SFf-wZ4YWkUNJJFTPj7p0Kmi5sSUWGjdWOnUC9UtZRbpJ3CFLCrukV8atgbe5jYEjH2ywIiqnfexncJWAbinNVkdRHIy-E/s320/P8220375.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241082623271675842" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZ6Y5aKFlzYQamwRCCOCC4KvrJE0_QczDJPXZcBFuAp-MO0EdtY2fhM7l1JUc5ib1yKFHQrpz1vpF-XGI_hyphenhyphenIxD-04Wfr2COeDs-LNYcUjrZU9DwGixIuQD2YJsxj3mni1cS7iBx6fzA/s1600-h/P8230422.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 242px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZ6Y5aKFlzYQamwRCCOCC4KvrJE0_QczDJPXZcBFuAp-MO0EdtY2fhM7l1JUc5ib1yKFHQrpz1vpF-XGI_hyphenhyphenIxD-04Wfr2COeDs-LNYcUjrZU9DwGixIuQD2YJsxj3mni1cS7iBx6fzA/s320/P8230422.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241084495743739666" border="0" /></a><br />Milia's current rebuilt status is only about 20 years old--its a primary function running a tavern serving only their own and local villagers' products. Now I know every traveler gets all enlightened in his journeys and likes to spew advice and superlatives, but I feel I can sincerely say that there is no such thing as food fresher than what they serve. Seasonal vegetables, fresh Greek yogurt (I discovered that my 20 years of life thus far without it have actually been hollow and meaningless), the most flavorful rusk (crispy baked bread), and melt-off-the-bone lamb, pork and chicken.<br /><br />They use very little electricity (after the sun sets, dinner and reading is strictly over candlelight and the hot water comes from a central wood-burning oven) and the energy they do use is powered by their solar panels and wind turbines. This place freaking ruled. All of this further encouraged Emily's future dream of living on a self-sustaining commune and running an organic locally-supplied restaurant. (Oops, I hope you'd already told your parents that, Em...)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLakPCksX2ozsP3PDEF0UmiV1P6GKX_yAUnDCvZDd2AZyvsUSRLsiJn2bmllAc0bpMfCIaMF9pepiCRR9EXV_ONJVpHVVCqwa0rE63ZoGxy6XwxTObk82OCmYI6fjQmagPsuriIAn947c/s1600-h/P8230408.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 190px; height: 254px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLakPCksX2ozsP3PDEF0UmiV1P6GKX_yAUnDCvZDd2AZyvsUSRLsiJn2bmllAc0bpMfCIaMF9pepiCRR9EXV_ONJVpHVVCqwa0rE63ZoGxy6XwxTObk82OCmYI6fjQmagPsuriIAn947c/s320/P8230408.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241084920226848866" border="0" /></a><br /><br />There were mountain trails to explore, countless goats to be encountered (no, really), and some of the most enjoyable company we had our whole trip. Our favorite was the manager-head waiter fellow. In typical Emily-Jessie fashion, we went a couple days having wonderful discussions with him, without actually knowing his name. So, we dubbed him "Zorba", in honor of Zorba the Greek, though to be fair, we actually have no idea who Zorba the Greek is. Though "Zorba" ended up not actually being Greek (we are not yet savvy enough to pick out immigrant Serbians from native Greeks, apparently), his name did end up being Zoran, so well-played enough, I say.<br /><br />Zoran clued us in to the inner workings of Milia as well as Greek culture. Update: It turns out the post-meal "vodka" is called raki, and is actually made from the leftover grapes after they've made wine. Served after every meal to everyone, it's the hallmark of Greek culinary hospitality. Apparently, as we also learned, Slovakians have a type of alcohol they distill from animal feces. Fun AND informative! It gets no better.<br /><br />Though we were sad to leave Milia, we left only a couple bus rudes and a ferry ride away from our most highly anticipated destination--Santorini, which I sincerely intend to chronicle soon.<br /><br />To break chronology (I did warn you), I write this as our plan begins our decent into Charles De Gaulle Airport in Paris, having sent Emily on her dear way to Valencia. The adventure continues... and though I am quite excited (because I totally am), I do have to put in a plug for how much I miss home, everywhere and anywhere that is. I've always felt my life is shaped and commemorated by the people in it, as much as (if not much more than) the experiences encountered.<br /><br />So, for real, stay in touch, kay?<br /><br />K.<br /><br />Hearts,<br />JessieJessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-37891097841308089902008-08-25T14:06:00.007-05:002008-08-25T16:12:58.273-05:00HaniaAccording to our tried and trusted friend, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Lonely Planet's Greece</span>, the number one highlight to see in the Greece is the Akropolis. (They especially recommend catching it under a full moon... Emily and I felt fortunate enough just to find it...) Number two on their list, though, is Hania Old Town. Hania is on the northern shore of western Crete and is the 3rd largest city on the island. The center of the city is a modest square with a modest fountain (we were clearly underwhelmed at this point) that leads you to the most picturesque harbor I've ever even seen pictures of. Every picture book and calendar of Greece has at least 1 if not 2 shots of this harbor.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghzL_kQdzoLo5aKQhVgeA495508yHzIVXL6egqMfj8SQmneCTGYcTmZuWnjzUTDN47JpswLMDknsPvR2M02Wmyv06V8uENbfM4EJEwEVIxahsMCVUuVvIUZ7dT0-6u7poM17_K3Kkea2o/s1600-h/P8200244.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghzL_kQdzoLo5aKQhVgeA495508yHzIVXL6egqMfj8SQmneCTGYcTmZuWnjzUTDN47JpswLMDknsPvR2M02Wmyv06V8uENbfM4EJEwEVIxahsMCVUuVvIUZ7dT0-6u7poM17_K3Kkea2o/s320/P8200244.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238560087720328018" border="0" /></a><br />With its half-circle arch of colorful homes and shops around the clear blue harbor and the old Venetian Wall built across the water, closing in the harbor to a small opening, Hania Old Town affords the unique opportunity of being able to walk in a full circle around it, capturing a truly incredible view from anywhere you stand or look. Whether you're standing on the wall between the Mediterranean and the harbor, looking in at the restaurants spilling onto the sidewalks, or looking out at the colorful boats heading towards the lighthouse, it seems too freaking cute to be true.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsYukTCj3wFkMuHCnhVDLYp1VKRW95peymXmmg_3OLoq5BSRamnB8kDGBHa29uG85Aehf5RG7CojMMlu3g1HhDSD9UXG4rKzSnxagtL2UbrEHbAbCiaLROf6wd8X7mU_XcShkMQUpitzk/s1600-h/P8210306.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsYukTCj3wFkMuHCnhVDLYp1VKRW95peymXmmg_3OLoq5BSRamnB8kDGBHa29uG85Aehf5RG7CojMMlu3g1HhDSD9UXG4rKzSnxagtL2UbrEHbAbCiaLROf6wd8X7mU_XcShkMQUpitzk/s320/P8210306.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238565161985461010" border="0" /></a>Our hostel, Villa Venezia (in blue letters) was right on the harbor, smack in the center (I tell you, I can really pick 'em). With our quaint little room (though whose mattresses felt like cardboard) looking into an adorable cobblestone alley adorned with a pink flowering plant and framed by a stone archway inscribed in Greek and Latin.<br /><br />Intending to check out the lighthouse first, we found another exit of our building that led to this alley instead of the harbor. Our somewhat suspish innkeeper had given us a brochure of things to see in Hania, but nowhere on it was "wander up and down its colorful labyrinthine alleyways practically in tears of awe and joy", which is too bad for the brochure because that's all we did all morning.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />In between wandering into handmade craft stores and staying away from the shlock-city alleys (after deeming it such in disgust, I immediately hoped the relatively fluent shopkeepers' English vocab didn't include "shlock-city"), we again took countless pictures: a doorway here, a vined staircase there, or, most notably, a window display whose picture turn out to be less memorable than the bird that <span style="font-weight: bold;">shat on my head</span> as the photo was being taken.<br />Emily said that as soon as I cried "What was THAT!", she knew.<br />It took me a second later, when I turned my head up, only to see a disappearing bird tail on the windowsill above.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje60JXmE9HphtZSnnogkHLOyYQzb6TUEqgns_10isRtztFBIpy-BorxDzAR-2YDnKf1y_14xCaci9EoGSzn12wv3Dd9c_Opl7kd18f43yLvvwYiwVfhRAOTHJDxUiS8q00HBq7qqF-G1M/s1600-h/P8210275.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 249px; height: 187px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje60JXmE9HphtZSnnogkHLOyYQzb6TUEqgns_10isRtztFBIpy-BorxDzAR-2YDnKf1y_14xCaci9EoGSzn12wv3Dd9c_Opl7kd18f43yLvvwYiwVfhRAOTHJDxUiS8q00HBq7qqF-G1M/s320/P8210275.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238560095845048450" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />I promptly dumped our water bottle on my hair, and, if I do say so myself, was a damn good sport about the whole thing, as my demeanor clearly demonstrates. Good times.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Our best find by far was a 16th century synagogue. The place was modest, fit snug into the surrounding buildings and alleyways, but draped in greenery, its mood somber and spiritual. It was cool and quiet, and felt even a little spooky, as if it hadn't been used in years.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4tcdyLoPXrt8CE-IEZDSjVUQKtEoOR42whFgM4k1qR9QrC5Cph72rW0rdy-UC_-rogpoBMqA4d5HzfOSv0_3n483FWW70BIyVJgIrP4ZHxoJxJ0k6ABmAhkjUh7OpyjRQGt2H0ynG5Q0/s1600-h/P8210294.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4tcdyLoPXrt8CE-IEZDSjVUQKtEoOR42whFgM4k1qR9QrC5Cph72rW0rdy-UC_-rogpoBMqA4d5HzfOSv0_3n483FWW70BIyVJgIrP4ZHxoJxJ0k6ABmAhkjUh7OpyjRQGt2H0ynG5Q0/s320/P8210294.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238562406827498594" border="0" /></a><br />On the way back to the courtyard with a lily-pad-<br />covered pool of goldfish and a cracked stone tablet of Hebrew with plants growing up between, we read the plaque dedicating the place to the entire congregation of 300 that was taken away by Nazis in 1944.<br /><br />We wandered in reverence before talking to the curator with remarkably good English, whom we have since named "Joe" for lack of any knowledge of what his name actually is. Joe told us abut how the synagogue was founded by Jews who had been in Crete for so many generations they were considered Hellenistic, and about how after the population was taken away, the building fell into disrepair. It was revived by a British botany enthusiast and is aided by a PhD candidate, plu this Joe guy, a native Greek who spent much of his childhood in Rhode Island. He moved back to Hania where he'd visited his grandparents growing up because, well, wouldn't you?<br /><br />We totally dug Joe and tried to get him to come to lunch with us, but being tied to the synagogue for the day, he gave us a recommendation for a place that was once a Turkish Bath instead. After wandering into the kitchen to ask if someone would please mind serving us, we had yet another delicious meal (me, however, not brave enough to eat Emily's whole anchovies). At the end, for reasons wholly unbeknownst to us, we were brought a small carafe of a chilled clear liquid, 2 little shot glasses and two dense, moist clumpy cakes. Eyebrows cocked, we delicately sniffed the liquid, tentatively ruled out it being ouzo, the local version of wine and upon tasting it, we conclusively determined it to be vodka. We suspiciously looked around the restaurant (no one else had any), checked out watches (it was barely after noon), and took a brief moment to confirm that we were not, in fact, in Russia.<br /><br />Unfortunately, the cake wasn't that good, nor was the vodka when sipped (does one even sip vodka? out of shot glasses? really?) but by no means were we going to do vodka shots in a former Turkish Bath at noon. But, then again, we figured this was Greek hospitality at its finest, and, as they (apparently) say, let it "wash our necks".<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDUG-meM_XPxwvii9yr6m16Ml-bruVWAQub8UmZynjTnbyF4ckpCLgoTrhSq35HVhRvwS1Fxp__O5VxNKQnKRf08Mz0Rd1UWtHKKotybHPi6BADlX7pxVSMx8qsfH-wBOqQIBwOkHPOes/s1600-h/P8210347.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDUG-meM_XPxwvii9yr6m16Ml-bruVWAQub8UmZynjTnbyF4ckpCLgoTrhSq35HVhRvwS1Fxp__O5VxNKQnKRf08Mz0Rd1UWtHKKotybHPi6BADlX7pxVSMx8qsfH-wBOqQIBwOkHPOes/s320/P8210347.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238563711378228946" border="0" /></a>The rest of the day's highlights included the lovely lighthouse, a beach filled with, oh let's call them "vivacious" youngsters (not to mention a particularly unabashed naked man), and at least 2 impromptu naps.<br /><br />I feel we are experiencing Greece to its fullest.Jessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-45575699368717972872008-08-22T15:20:00.003-05:002008-08-23T15:57:35.257-05:00The Oldest City In EuropeArmed with our copy of The Lonely Planet's <em>Greece</em> in hand, Emily and I decided to tackle Greece by attempting to follow their walking tour from our centrally located hostel. (And please do consider this an unabashedly shameless plug for their glorious publication.) We meandered up cozy ("Narrow," Emily later corrected) cobblestone streets, attempted to decipher Greek street names (I have yet to confess aloud that my newfound comprehension of the Greek alphabet makes me feel like a secret agent), and ended up in the main square of Athens before officially ditching the tour in favor of finding the Akropolis. The square was unimpressive, aside from its history for housing demonstrations that led to: the king's granting of Greece's first constitution in 1843, the beginning of Greece's civil war in 1944 (after open police fire, cool!) and the union of Greece with Cyprus in 1954. As you read this, you can pretend that you totally knew about Greece and Cyprus already, it's cool.<br /><br />In this bustling square, Emily and I also happened upon our roommates from the previous night playing cards in the grass. Unfortunately, we had not actually <em>met</em> them, persay, as they we arrived after they'd already fallen asleep and woke after they'd already left. We stood there for a moment, debating how likely it was that they'd recognize our faces since we were on the top bunks (clearly not very), or just how awkward it'd be to waltz up and join them anyway. Knowing ourselves as well as we do, we wrote off the certainly awkward encounter and trekked on in search of The Most Important Site In European History.<br /><br />One set of directions (from a quite friendly man in a car rental shop) told us to ride the metro. Now, building an underground transportation system under any major city is going to be a nauseatingly difficult undertaking. Digging, tunnelling, excavating under a thriving metropolis? Yeah, no thanks. But when a city like Athens attempts to tunnel under <em>their</em> thriving metropolis, they encounter the countess remains of millenia of <em>other</em> thriving metropoli. So think of Boston's Big Dig and add a few more years, a few more billions of dollars, and actually legit excuses. What they're left with is an effective beautiful new system with museums of <u>baller</u> archeological relics at each station. Man--other cities dig and hit cumbersome rock enbackments, but Athens digs and hits terracotta aquaducts, graves of Homerian-era soldiers and ornate mosaic floors. I was totally geeking out down there.<br /><br />I should probably take a minute to admit our obvious tourist-status. Armed with our passport wallets slung across our shoulder, backpacks in tow, camera straps attaching our cameras to our bodies (when they're not glued to our faces) and Greek phrasebook in hand, we unabsedly trek our way along, our earnest faces seeking our adventure (or our weary ones, seeking shelter). As silly as I might feel, taking pictures of mosaic floors or sleeping dogs in the curb, I figure I'm only here once and my dignity is well worth the momento.<br /><br />So all of Athens is in a valley of sorts, surrounded by mountains to the north and the ocean to the south, but right in the middle of the sprawling city of 5 million is a towering mountain visible from almost anywhere in the city. As you walk up, you pass ancient landmarks--the temple of Athena Nike as well as the Theater of Dionyseus where the plays of Sophocles, Aeschylus and Eurypedies (thanks, GTL!) were performed in the 5th century BC--and you can feel how spectacular the view is going to be. (And if you're like Emily and I, you may well keep squealing in anticipation as the view gets better and better.)<br /><br />All the buildings on the mountain comprise what we know as the Akropolis, which means "high city". Through the 6th century BC people actually lived up there until it was deemed exclusively for worship and government affairs around 500BC. You really break a sweat hiking up that thing on a August afternoon, but all of a sudden: It's There. The giant Parthanon stands looming atop this breathtaking (get it?) mountain, its giant marble pillars supported by an extensive iron rod infrastructure which seems well worth its unsightly toll to me.<br /><br />You stand there, torn between staring at it or at the view of beautiful white and yellow homes and buildings stretching for miles. Blue domes peak out between the red rooftops with craggy mountain ridges in the background. You <em>could</em> stand and marvel at how in Zeus's name they lugged countless tons of marble up this mountain thousands of years ago, <em>or</em> you could wistfully stare, head cocked just slightly, at the sparkling mediterranean, just in the distance.<br /><br />Odds are, you'll spend 30 minutes fruitlessly trying to capture the beauty on film before finding an English-speaking tourist to take a photo of you with your hair blowing in your face--or, if you're me, before realizing sunscreen has leaked all throughout your bag and trying to salvage your possessions by wiping off the sunscreen onto your gritty skin (and getting yelled at for getting some onto an apparently valuable block of marble you've chosen to sit on).<br /><br />However you do it, the experience will rock pretty hard. Especially if you are a student and do the whole thing for free.<br /><br />All in all it wasn't so bad for an unintended day in Athens, and before we could even reflect on it, we were off to our ferry to begin our time in the isles.Jessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-32300351675792733272008-08-22T14:49:00.003-05:002008-08-22T15:20:14.285-05:00The first day, always taxingOur first day was, even if all went accordingly to plan, going to be a rather long one. First to Memphis, whose airport looked exactly like a the inside of a chemistry building, as Emily put it (I was feeling more towards the geophysical sciences, but I agreed nonetheless). Then we flew to Norway from Memphis with a bunch of Norwegians. Emily was seated next to a rather unhappy-looking young woman who declined my request to swap for my window seat two rows up, so Emily and I rode apart. (Apparently this girl spent her 8 hours doing absolutely nothing, so I don't really see what the big deal was, but hey.) But let's take a moment to reflect on just how bizarre flying (esp. transatlantic-ly) is. Herded into our tiny pens, strapped to seats like calves waiting to become veal, we are fed and watered one by one, and are wracked with guilt even to request to step past the attendant's cart to go to the bathroom. In a large communal space we all attempt to fall asleep in chairs, despite having no room to recline nor anything to lean against (save a likely disgruntled neighbor, though if having someone be angry at you in English blows, having someone be angry at you in Norwegian could very well be hilarious, come to think of it). Then, a relatively arbitrary amount of time later, the sun has surrounded us and we stumble out of the plane, plucked from one time and place and tossed into another. I can't say I much care for it.<br /><br />Our last leg to Athens was filled mostly with an Asian student tour group quite full of energy--videotaping the take off and then their own (amusing, I'm sure) shenanegans, and bursting into applause upon a bumpy landing--but we sat in the exit row (roomy!) with a friendly British gent (I wanted to say 'bloke' but figured I couldn't pull it off) who works out of St. Louis and travels all over. He assured us that traveling quickly loses its glamour, which I had to admit was easily believable. And as if to make certain we took his words to heart, we land, ready to make our speedy commute to Pireaus to catch our ferry, only to rather wearily discover that while <em>we</em> had make our tight connection in Amsterdam (even with a passport briefly left at customs--where, by the way, they apparently give you a thumbs up for bringing a small plant in a burlap pouch filled with soil, no joke), our bags had not been so fortunate. After many rounds of tedious navigation, communication and negotiation involving 3 information desks, a lesson in Greek payphones (lesson learned: I cannot follow directions in Greek.), 4 hours in the Athens airport, and a rather surly store attendant (apparently in Greece it is not kosher to buy a pack of gum with a 50 Euro bill), we got our bags and got on the metro for our evening's back-up plan--a hostel in central Athens. Props to Emily Moss for telling me to book that one, though I should probably be mad for you jinxing us. After waiting on the empty metro that looked fit for deep space travel, it finally got moving and dropped us off a few blocks from the hostel.<br /><br />At this rather late hour in the evening (Dear Mom: it was still daylight, I swear.), I can not report that we got the warmerst welcome to Athens. We found our hostel alright, dropped our things and asked where to find some food. On this mini-adventure, Emily and I were struck by a few things (metaphorically? physically? you'll see!). One, Athens is not very clean--but for this, I think we can forgive Europe's oldest city. Two, Athens is populated with mangy stray dogs. Everywhere. Not cats,dogs. Big ones. What the hell. Lastly, Athens is home to some sketchy teenagers. On this particular evening some took the liberty of informing us that we looked 14 years old (and boy was he a looker himself), while others thoughtfully threw jelly beans at us as we ate our "parisienne crepe". But perhaps most memorably of all, we at one point turned a corner only to find a rather large group of sexily dressed teenaged girls.<br />"Why Emily," I remarked. "It almost looks as if that girl is wearing just a shirt and a thong. How odd!"<br />And indeed 5 or so were proudly displaying their butts ("Such beautiful butts," Emily later recounted wistfully) while another half dozen or so were in the process of pulling on their pants. We were stuck (fortunately not by a physical object this time) with shock, awe, and earnest confusion as we attempted to casually thread through this group, assembled on the sidewalk as if waiting for a play to start. I think the best part of this introductory experience in Athens was the jaw-dropped expression of horror on the face of a European tourist mother ahead of us, her head turned away from the girls, as if to confirm with us that the experience was indeed out of the ordinary. We smirked and shrugged at her, after all, for all we knew this was just another night in Athens.<br /><br />[End Day One]Jessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-40752221079050216992008-08-21T02:12:00.002-05:002008-08-21T02:36:42.372-05:00A Ferry and A Look at the NativesForgive me as these posts will not likely be chronological. We are here on day three, using free internet in the back of a restaurant in Hania... After a day's delay in Athens we are safely here in Hania, on the northern side of Western Crete. We spent the evening on a huge cruiser, sleeping like sailors in our bunks. Following the rambunction crowd's lead, we pulled up chairs to the edge of the deck for our late evening departure and slowly watched the lights of Pireus (Athen's port city for millienia) fade into pitch black. I recounted my favorite Roald Dahl sotry to Emily, where a man jumps into the ocean off a transatlantic liner, intending to be saved but is only witnessed by a crazy man whose testimony is written off. We spectulated how far from shore we could fall in and still swim to safety; our conclusion was "not far". The cruise provided for some excellent people-watching--mostly European tourists, some Greeks (August is when the locals return to their hometowns to reconnect and celebrate being Greek), and many young people armed with intense backpacks and sleeping bags. We have observed so far that 1) everyone in Europe smokes, 2) European women dress trendy at a much older age than American women bother (think hot pink heels that match a dress's trim, for heaven's sake), and 3) that European men are creepy. Well, that they are often attractive despite their greasy locks, but the older and less-accompanied they are, the creepier. We ate a delicious cheese pastry (enas, parakalo) and read under the orange moon before calling it a night.<br /><br />We had (we thought) 2 roomates in our double-bunk cabin, complete with mini-bathroom and the most fantastic showerhead I have ever experienced. It practically misted you, its stream was so fine. If love could be personified (de-personified?) in bathroom appliance-form, this would have been it. Our roommates seemed to be two Greeks, a youngish mother with dyed auburn hair, and her adorable blonde daughter with a ridicuous quasi-mullet haircut. There's something about young children in a foreign tongue that makes you feel at once so inadequate and yet so enamored you briefly consider the consequences of international child abduction. Her mother opened up some sort of prepackaged Barbie goodie bag, much to her glee, and we surrupticiously (forgive the lack of english spell check) observed as she rifled through its contents. She settled on a dart gun (eerily resembling a black handgun) and we crossed the language barrier by speaking the international language: pretending to get repeated stricken with a dart and feigning dramatic death. It was quite fantastic.<br /><br />We took advantage (as I have already adamantly referenced) of the shower after a hot, sticky, sunscreeny day in Athens, myself going first. I do my thing, dry off with a postage stamp-sized towel, emerge into our bitty room and was immediately concerned that I had somehow exited into the wrong room: I am horrifiedly witnessing an old Greek lady wrestling into a pair of panties. Apparently our new friends were sharing a bed, blessing us with roommate #5. I've read a bit about Greek culture, and this lady seemed to have possessed a few quirks they hold: 1) Voyeurism is kosher. Greeks apparently love their gossip (think My Big Fat Greek Wedding, I suppose) and the local news goes all-out (we watched cameras zoom in on a sobbing newly-widowed woman after the Madrid crash). They observe, they pry, they judge. All in good faith, of course. In such small quarters as we were, with strangers, most would avoid eye contact or engage in brief, miserable small talk for formality's sake, but with our newest friend I felt distinctly as though we were being acutely examined. Trait # 2) was passive-aggressive bossiness. Perhaps this is a trait--and do forgive me--among matriarchs everywhere, but watching her run the room from her little corner was quite amusing. When Emily kept her reading light on after the others were extinguished, she received indignant huffs in her direction. When the time came for our friend to wake (read: 4:30 am) before our wee-morning arrival, the time came for all of us to wake. And just like that, she disappeared from our lives as silently as she had entered.<br /><br />In the dark by the harbor we befriended an English transplant (the local men are known for their foreign, once-tourist brides) with whom we rode the bus into town, who quite openly gave us the scoop. We passed a beautiful fish market and arrived in the square by the old Venetian Harbor by 7am. Much of Crete was inhabited and run by the Venetians (back before Italy was a unified country) for much of the second millenium, and this little harbor--home to our current hostel--is heart-meltingly picturesque. Sitting right along the edge of the harbor on the cobblestone pedestrian street, we ate an exquisite breakfast featuring fresh Greek yogurt and fruit as the sun rose along the beautiful buildings. (Emily was too right, Greek yogurt does NOT disappoint.) We're about to explore and head out to the lighthouse--Greece's oldest!--a 1.5 km walk along the old harbor wall. Our British friend scolded us for not budgeting more time in this lovely town, but we're off to make the best of it.<br /><br />(I can't access a USB port on this computer without super-awkwardly climbing into this desk, so this entry will be updated with photos ASAP!)<br /><br />Lots of love,<br />JessieJessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126638939095652273.post-66595841741529943322008-08-18T11:41:00.002-05:002008-08-18T12:01:12.951-05:00GREECESo here I am, in typical Jessie fashion--about to leave for the airport in 1.5 hours, mostly unfinished packing, and doing something that entertains me more instead! Emily and I have quite the epic journey ahead of us before we end up at our first destination in Western Crete. It will go down something like this:<br />Fly to Memphis (clearly the international hub of the US...)<br />Fly to Amsterdam, not seated next to each other :_(, hopefully endure colorful/strange company on the plane<br />Arrive in Amsterdam Tuesday morning, Fly to Athens<br />In 2.5 hours, deftly navigate our way around the airport, find lockers to overpricèdly store put our semester's-worth of luggage, and scoot onto a metro for an hour's commute to the port to...<br />Hop on an overnight ferry to Hania, the largest prefecture in Crete.<br /><br />After that it's<br />2 nights at a hostel in Hania<br />2 nights at a remote, "mountain retreat" village that advises you to do things like "bring a flashlight as electricity is not consistent" and "have an open mind and open heart, for that is the stuff of life". This was Emily's find, and I am freakin' stoked.<br />a bus to Heraklion, the largest city in Crete, and either a night "couch-surfing" through the esteemed online network (www.couchsurfing.com, you should go and check out the profiles, they're pretty hilarious) or at a nearby hostel that looks truly beautiful<br />a ferry to Santorini, where we'll stay for 4 nights and recreate Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants to the best of our ability<br />an all-day ferry back to Athens, completely with scenic view of the islands and Ionian Sea<br />3 nights in Athens, complete with white-water rafting where the 2004 Olympic Kayaking was? I will go to ridiculous lengths to make sure we do this.<br />After that, we fly to Paris and Valencia, respectively to begin our semesters abroad!<br /><br />I hope to update regularly--we plan to hit up internet cafés that seem to be all the rage in Greece, but we'll have to see!<br /><br />I hope to hear from you guys, via email or posting.<br />Lots of love!<br />JessieJessie Reutelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164897485929415815noreply@blogger.com2