My first full day in Berlin, wasn’t quite as full of adventure as I would have thought. While my sleeping habits had me waking up with the sunrise that Saturday morning, the same was not true of Doug and Elise. The more than three hour wait had me dying for a cup of strong German coffee, the kind my Dad is always nostalgic about, and a pastry. When they finally woke up, got ready, and went out and about--it was close to noon!
We decided to search the streets near the hostel for a quaint place to soothe our monstrous appetites. Cafes aplenty, sure, but not a single "German" traditional restaurant. In fact, a majority of the establishments were Asian food.
Well, there was Andy's Wurscht Palast, but apparently Elise and Doug had already had "curry hotdogs" and were in the mood for something else.
Along the way I spotted "Gandalf"...I can only wonder what that was.
So after a long search, we ended up eating at some Asian fusion place using rudimentary hand signals to try and order from a Filipino-German. Unable to read a single word on the menu, I just pointed to something and smiled, hoping it would be delicious--whatever it was.
The man got to work on our orders and I finally got a taste of what appeared to be some kind of duck covered in something over something. Whatever, I had hardly eaten in days and it wasn't half bad.
We strolled back to the hostel, though I was completely unsatisfied with not having a German meal of some kind. This, as you will see, would continue as a point of duress for a while.
After our little adventure, I returned to the hostel and did what I've done best since arrive in Germany--sleep.
(I swear this will actually get exciting at some point.)
What's the German word for "Teriyaki"?
The Toilet Trials
Nothing makes me feel more cosmopolitan than being able to describe/compare my experiences in different countries.
In 2006, I traversed the globe to China. Rich with history, my fascination never seemed to cease. Especially when I walked into the bathroom of a swanky hotel to find only a hole where the toilet should be. I was confused. Had I walked into the Men's Bathroom? Perhaps it was some kind of alternative urinal. It didn't seem that far fetched. I walked back outside and checked the door. Nope, it was the womens. I looked into the other stalls, praying that this wasn't the only way. My prayers were not answered. That was my introduction to the infamous squat-hole toilet of Asia.
Jumping forward to the present day, nature calls no matter where on the planet you might be. As I saunter over to the nearest WC, I notice the toilette is not what I remember from my last trip here. Apparently, throughout Eastern Europe and Germany, the toilets have shelves. Yes, you lift the lid and there, staring back at you, is a porcelein shelf placed perfectly to intercept your excrement. I read countless travel sites before my trip, why did none of them mention this slightly appalling discovery? I should have been prepared. Not even Doug and Elise had given me the heads up.
See Below:
The purpose of this obscenity? Its quite obvious actually, to inspect-- well, whatever it is that you might need to inspect.
Personally, I don't feel the need to reminisce or spend quality time with my feces. It makes me wonder about what kind of people actually bought these monstrosities. Was it a new kind of technology that people bragged about at dinner parties? I can only imagine something so terrifying becoming popular due to some strange fad or military enforcement. Otherwise, what is wrong with the people of Germany? This takes post-partum depression to a new level. But hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go--that's what adventure is all about right?
For more information about toilet shelves (and other strange German washroom practices) go to:
http://asecular.com/~scott/misc/toilet.htm
If you have any thoughts about the fecal fascination of Germany, please leave your comments, I'm dying to hear.
Also, I apologize to my parents for my less than ladylike subject matter. But sometimes, something just needs to be said. :)
Enter Sandman
Exit Light
Enter Night
Take my Hand
We're off to Never-Never Land
--Metallica
This post illustrates the passing of time while I continue to sleep :)
The Neverending Journey
During the multiple-day ordeal of flying I kept myself going by imagining a giant bed awaiting me at the end of the journey. Little did I know that the giant bed was still a couple hours away once I landed. Delirious, I could barely comprehend a word of what Doug was saying. Bus? Tram? Whatever.
I landed at TXL on July 30th , but our apartment wasn’t available until August 1st. This meant two days at a hostel northwest of Tiergarten. I’ve never stayed at a hostel before and had no idea what to expect. From the airport Doug and I bought a transportation ticket and took a bus to a tram/train then walked at least half a mile to a place Doug hadn’t been to before. After a few puzzled glances from natives and a couple near falls from the uneven cobblestone we finally arrive at a nondescript building tucked away on a tiny street. There was some graffiti style markings on the side of the door with the words “Comfy Corner” which apparently was the time of our short term home. The women who worked at the hostel, one may have been named Paula, were from Belarus some miniscule country next to Russia. It was a blessing when we finally exchanged my Euro for the key to a room. By this time it was only about five in the afternoon, but after two days of not sleeping and barely eating I couldn’t care less about jetlag. I crawled into bed and fell asleep. I woke up briefly at eight when Doug insisted I eat something and brought me a Turkish wrap, we watched an episode of Mad Men and one of Jersey Shore--some things stay the same. Then I fell back asleep until just before seven the next morning.
So for those of you frantically texting my phone, I apologize for the late response. At that point, a call from the pope couldn't rouse me from my slumber.
Flights of Fancy
I love flying. I love the exhilaration of being thousands of feet in the air. I love watching as the people turn to ants, then the houses, then the mountains, then all you can see is clouds billowing around you like a fresh blanket of snow. I love the sunrises and sunsets above the clouds, the colors are unlike anything else. I even love turbulence, a high stakes rollercoaster.
Leaving LAX was hard. A part of me wanted to run back to my mom and say "Please don't let me go. Tell me it's too far, too dangerous." It's not that I'm worried about traveling. I was terrified that I would get lost in some airport where I didn't speak the language. The anxiety manifested itself physically, I already had a head cold and I felt as though my stomach was staging a coup and about to claw its way out.
The first flight was from LA to Philadelphia. I sat next to two brothers on their way to Tel Aviv. They were probably between 10 and 14. They bickered the way brothers do, but when the younger one got tired and put his feet up and laid his head on his brother's shoulder, then lap, his brother cradled it. It was so adorable (especially for kids that age) that I didn't even mind that his feet had crossed over onto my side of the chair and were pushing up against my thigh. I tried not to think about my brothers, homesickness so soon would make the rest of the trip impossible, but I couldn't help but think maybe one day the little freckled siblings would also go to the gym together and "firepower" through life. I slept for no more than 20 minutes, instead spending a majority of the time reading one of the books I picked up for the trip and masochistically enjoying the turbulent ride. The flight ended, I left my two little friends and scurried over to my next connection with only a couple minutes to spare.
The second flight, from Philly to Frankfurt, was scheduled to take about six hours. I was most concerned with navigating the Frankfurt airport, notoriously large and confusing, and I only had an hour to make it. This anxiety meant sleep, once again, would be impossible. I sat down in my aisle seat, waiting to arise for the passenger to my right. Eventually a young German man came down the aisle and passed me a little, then just stood there, staring. I asked if he was in the seat next to me, he mumbled "yes", so I got up and let him in. Later during the flight, as I finished the book I was reading, I felt the uncomfortable feeling of being watched, I turn to my right and he, once again, is just staring and has been doing so for several minutes. "Do you need me to get up?" I ask. Once again a mumbled "Yes". A couple times during the flight he would just stare and wait for me to figure out what it was that he wanted. Strange, and a little obnoxious. Not long after I finished my book and realized I was much too groggy for word puzzles, the flight attendant came by to deliver meals--pasta with cheese sauce and spinach--surprisingly, delicious. And on and on with mundane details. The flight dragged, so I was taken aback when upon landing the captain revealed it was only 9:50am in Frankfurt--we'd arrived an hour early.
It would turn out that the hour was a godsend. Frankfurt airport: beautiful, yet treacherous. I felt like Theseus at Crete, making his way through the labyrinth. Little did I know that soon I would meet my Minotaur. Half way to my next gate, I discovered that I needed to go through security again. I made my way through a hellishly long line, walked through the sensor and "beep". Shocked (as I'd not set off the machine in LA and had not changed), I step to the side. There she was, my Minotaur. I understand the need to wand someone--I get it. Maybe even a light pat down if they are wearing baggy clothes. However, in skinny jeans and a tee, I wasn't really too conspicuous--at least I don't think so. The Minotaur obviously disagreed. She patted me down, I mean, it was a borderline cavity search. She grabbed at my underwire, going so far as to put her hand up my bra, completely down either side of me, and in the groin area enough to make me extremely uncomfortable. She even ran her hands through my hair, I'm still not sure what she was looking for there... Then her Minotaur companion decided to run my bag through the scanner twice. I get it--I look suspicious. Obviously, since the German airport was so thorough, it took quite a while to actually get to my gate (which had changed).
Getting onto that last plane took all the energy I had. Once again, I couldn't sleep since the sun was shining right into my eyes. The only thing that kept me going was knowing this heinous journey was almost done.
Finally, the plane landed. I scuttled down the aisle as quickly as my fatigue allowed and out into the airport. I waited impatiently as my bag ceased to appear from the mouth of the carousel. Just as I was convinced that my fear of lost luggage would be realized, out popped my bag. I pull it off the conveyor belt and as I roll around the bend, I see a familiar face through the glass partition.
I scurry passed the last of the customs guards-nothing to declare!- and give Doug a huge hug. I couldn't help but note that he hadn't shaved in weeks and obviously hadn't showered in days. I smiled to myself, happy to see him nonetheless, and resigned to the idea "It's Europe, people here are supposed to smell like that."
I'm in Dire Need of Cutting the Cheese
The reviews are in!
The main complaint so far? Nope, not about flatulence...My blog title is "cheesy".
I earnestly agree, however, the creation of an original and dairy-free title is a daunting task.
So...
Anyone willing to help me thinking of something better fitting for a blog about travels spanning Europe will get a special post about them in my blog...or something way cooler that we negotiate. Suggestions begin now.
Dripping with the Learned Mastery of the Avant-Garde Brain
Let's not dwell upon the necessity of introduction. Not because I feel like it is unnecessary, but primarily because I feel it is as bland for you to read as it is tedious for me to write.
For me, reading is an integral part of vacation. While thinking back to my favorite vacations, or at least the memorable ones, I always remember the highlights in reference to the book I was reading at the time.
I saw Arlington Cemetery just after the young ingenue discovers the identity of the ghost plaguing her home. I sat on the beach in Mexico while that little brat from Atonement forced her cousins into that ridiculous play. (Thus illustrating how reading a book in the wrong setting can destroy it forever) The National Cheerleading Competition in Florida was home to my discovery of the French Revolution through the eyes of a man imprisoned for stealing a loaf of bread.
Choosing the right book is paramount. Not only for personal enjoyment, but because people judge you on it. Who hasn't sat poolside and pretended to read while glancing over their own book to make internal commentary on those around them? The lonesome housewife reading some trashy romance novel while taking quick, flirtatious peeks at the boisterous, rowdy twenty-somethings --dreaming that the words on the page might float into reality. The "supermom" who picked up the lastest Oprah book of the week because having her own taste in books would take up too much of her time. The ditsy buxom babe who rarely reads, but when she does picks up the latest (photo heavy) "memoir" from some equally buxom "reality star". Though I suspect the most effective use of the book is to hide her overly-bronzed, cancer-taunting face from the sun. Then of course, there is the middle-aged tamed stallion, the once macho man who has since resigned to being the hero of his family. (This I do not find nearly as pathetic as that sentence seemed--I find it admirable, though a "type" nonetheless) His book of choice? A How-to or Do-it-yourself: From Computers to Beating Alcoholism they are constantly seeking to exert their pent-up power over something. Of course there are the overworked professionals seeking distraction in their thrillers and mysteries, though often they choose predictable and contrived stories whose words won't tire their typically overstimulated minds. An old couple, sitting in the shade reading the same book, something inspirational and peaceful. At some point one would lean over and kiss the other on the cheek or forehead. The kind of kiss that says they've shared a lifetime together and given the choice, they'd share a million lifetimes together.
Then, there are the people like me, probably pseudo-intellectual elitists who completely overthink their book choices and pick obscure, classic, or other pseudo-intellectual works in order to dodge the judgment of their peers. And while we elitist bastards love reading and genuinely enjoy the witticisms of the cynical memoir, and the melodic words of James Joyce, or the thrill of discovering an "unknown" writer, the only thing better than that would be appearing as though our literary tastes are beyond reproach, and to the worst of the elitists--as though the scholarly circle that we inhabit could never be breached by the other, average peoples who occupy the poolside. All the while, hidden deep within the confines of our oversized beach bag is some massively popular New York Times Bestseller...and perhaps, if we feel daring, we will hide our new James Patterson into the book jacket of something "dripping with the learned mastery of the avant-garde brain". You may be relieved to find out that if I am not as mild a member of this category as I believe, at least I am probably, or possibly, more (slightly?) self-aware than my pompous companions.
Choosing a book is more than just something to pass the time. While some people live with a soundtrack to their life, the songs that bring them back, for me, its been the books. Not just for vacations, but for every pivotal moment in my life. The literary stories are the subtext, the characters are my companions, the authors are my mentors. After reading a book that really resonates I can hear the narrator in my head, as though they are narrating my life. My thought pattern may even begin to mirror the cadence of the book. And it sounds crazy, but it is exhilarating. The books are a second home, an escape but a familiar one at that. Nothing smells as brilliant and enticing as the pages of a book. Closing one can be as sad as a friend moving away, and then reading it again, whether years, months or days later, you meet again. And the reunion is sweet and you learn things about them and yourself that you never knew before.
It is the passion I have for reading that mourns the production that goes along with the critique of the literary desires of others. But it is part of the fun. The lonely housewife, I don't look down on her, I wonder about her. I try to consider her life-- Does she have children? As the C-section scar pokes out beneath her tankini, I conclude yes. Do they look like her? I could see them now, maybe twins--a boy and a girl-- dark hair with a hint of red, light skin. Maybe their father has green eyes, that would look beautiful against the color of their hair. Maybe their father is gone. Did he leave them? Maybe that explains the sadness and longing. Maybe he died. I wonder if he was the kind of man who would have read a how-to or do-it-yourself. I bet when she was pregnant and the doctor told them they were having twins he went right out and bought a how-to-raise-twins book. Yes, he would have. When they were born he would have looked into their green eyes and thought that he would do anything for them. Maybe the housewife sees the overly-attractive busty woman in the ittybittybikini as well and wonders about her--Does she look like her daughter? Does she remind her of herself before the husband and the kids and the minivan? Is there a glimmer of jealousy in her eyes, or perhaps more of a maternal instinct? Maybe she sees her and projects the image of the skank her husband ran off with, if that had been the case. A man approaches the housewife and they kiss lovelessly on the lips. An obligation rather than a profession of caring--nothing more than a practiced habit. Does she look at the aged lovers and resent them? Or does she see a future without the worry of kids where, just maybe, the stresses of the present fade into nothingness and the companionship rises again to the forefront. As I continue to stare, the housewife and I make unintentional eye contact and I quickly avert my gaze, as does she. I can't help but wonder what she was thinking when she looked at me.
The search continues not for A book, but THE book. The companion to my travels. Who will explore the streets of Berlin with me? Who will rock me to sleep in the noisy hostels of Europe? Who will laugh (at or with) me as I struggle through Spanish in Spain? Who will marvel with me at the exotic delights of Morocco? As of now, I have no such companion. But I have a gift card, and a little free time, and I feel a familiar optimism run through my veins. A new book awaits- a new romance, a new friend, a new mystery, and an untold number of new revelations.
Oh, the journey that awaits.