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Lauren & Brittney do Europe

Archive for March, 2010

Copenhagen

Monday, March 29th, 2010

Warning: upon review, this is kinda long.  Perhaps grab a snack or prepare to read it in installments.

Oh, Denmark.  Perhaps the quote from our trip that could best sum up the experience was when Greg (formerly New England, but I feel these pseudonyms are not only confusing but pretty unnecessary) asked us something along the lines of “What would you do if you had one wish?”  David’s answer, “Have enough money so I wouldn’t have to travel around Europe like a hobo,” served as oddly perfect foreshadowing for our less than 48 hours in Copenhagen.

Our bus to Denmark didn’t leave until 11:30 pm from Hamburg on Friday, so a group of us took the train in early to get Qrito Burritos, Deutschland’s version of Pancheros/Qdoba/Chipotle.  Not as good, but darn tasty anyway.  The SECOND D-Bag (his nickname stays because it’s starting to catch on.  And because it’s slightly inappropriate) and I step out the door, the heavens unleash what I can only assume was Germany’s first hurricane.  My umbrella didn’t stand a chance against the freak amounts of water blowing sideways at me, but I wasn’t as pissed about that as I was I had straightened my hair earlier, obviously now in vain.  We managed to wade our way to Hamburg and eventually to the bus stop, soaked and frozen to the core, but pretty excited about our upcoming adventure anyway.  We waited at the stop that said “COPENHAGEN” and tried to board the bus that said “COPENHAGEN” when it arrived, but you forget Dear Reader, this is Europe, thus nothing is ever that simple.  Some Italian woman two cig puffs away from a tracheotomy yelled in broken German that we actually wanted the bus that said “STOCKHOLM” and would magically drop us off in Denmark.  Luckily there were at least 20 other people getting the same direction, so we took faith in numbers and boarded the bus.  The very. crowded. bus.  Sitting next to any of my three amigos was immediately out of the question, so I plopped myself next to a stranger (I’m thinking Danish, approximately a year or two older than me) for the next five hours and hoped to God sleep would come quickly.  Do you know what I didn’t notice about this young man when I chose him as a seat partner?  His abnormally large ass.  Such an ample body part that, when turned to his right to sleep on the window like he did, took up half of my lap.  I won’t take you into a chronological history of my presumed psychological problems, but if there’s one thing the world knows I’m not a fan of, it’s another human coming into physical contact with me.  Do. Not. Touch Me.  Obviously something was going to have to change, so I shifted to my right as well to provide even an iota of neutral air between our hot, mashed up flesh.  It was not comfortable, but we were not touching, thus eventually I fell asleep.  I slept while spooning that Dane.

Quick question: did you know Copenhagen is not on regular Denmark, but in fact some sort of island/peninsula part that requires water-crossage to get to?  If you did, you’re smarter than me.  Imagine my surprise when we were woken halfway into our journey because our bus had pulled into the belly of a FERRY and we had to go up to the oddly cruise ship-like decks during the 45 minute crossing.  It was all quite Twilight Zone-ish, and needless to say I got much less than the five hours of sleep that night I was gunning for.  At a little after 5 am, we arrived in a dark and drizzly Copenhagen, looking and feeling mere heartbeats from death.  Rich enough to not travel like a hobo, indeed.  We hung out in the train station for a while, making game plans and trying to figure out the best way to procure Danish Kroner (because they don’t use the Euro.  Put that little nugget of info in the Things Brittney Didn’t Know Before She Got There column also.)  Our best plan was to find the hostel we’d booked to see if we could drop our stuff off/ check in as quickly as possible and SLEEP.  Using subway maps in Danish and some Internet kiosk Googling, we set off in… completely the wrong direction.  Of course we didn’t find this out until at least an hour after we’d walked toward absolutely nothing of use to us.  I can’t even really say I got to witness a Danish sunrise because the RAIN AND SLEET CLOUDS were taking up most of the sky.  So it’s about 6:30 am, we’re a group of four ever-increasingly soaked American students with backpacks, bleary eyes, not a clue in the world as to where we’re headed, and we all have to pee.  For my comrades, anatomy served them well and facilitated their bladder evacuations without much ado.  I was searching for alleys, bushes, really anything with even slight cover to go ahead and commit my public urination (if you think this was an isolated event during our Danish stay, you are so mistaken.)  Finally along the harbor I see some low-walled children’s playground and have a mental struggle that ends with D-Bag telling me to just man and up and do it.  So I did it.  Where children play.  I am so sorry, children.  It was in a far corner in a very non-child friendly area anyway, so my moral compass isn’t losing too much sleep over this, and afterward it was actually very liberating like Huzzah– I’m one step closer to actual homelessness!

I’ll spare you the epic trek to our hostel, except to thank 7-11 for it’s straight up invasion of Denmark, thus providing us with cheap(ish) coffee and breakfast while getting absolutely dumped on by rain.  I don’t get that wet in the shower.  To say we got some strange looks when we FINALLY (3.5 hours after getting off the bus) arrived at our desired destination would be an understatement.  Thankfully the hostel guys were really cool and invited us to chill on the couches until our rooms were ready, which we did and I got in a quick nap.  We were able to drop off our bags in lockers and explore town; while still overcast, the rain had thankfully ceased.  Copenhagen’s a really beautiful city, much dirtier trash-wise than Germany, and very Americanized.  Absolutely everyone speaks English, and there are many more American shops and restaurants.  Danes are much more laid back then the Germans, and seem freer to express themselves in how they dress, how loudly they talk, etc.  The very best part of Denmark: THEY TAKE CREDIT CARDS.  This is especially good because Copenhagen was oddly expensive, and the 10 dkk to 1 Euro thing made it seem like I was withdrawing ridiculous amounts of money if I needed to go to an ATM.  We ate lunch in an Irish Pub where I ordered the BBQ ribs and may or may not have eaten alley cat for the first time in my life.  That night we did more of the same– enjoying the lack of open container laws and engaging in general shenanigans.

On Sunday, D-Bag and I headed off to the Track Cycling World Championships.  This kid is an insane cyclist so was obviously far more stoked for the activity than I was, but I figured it’d be a cool change of pace, not to mention I don’t often get to hang out in an arena full of Olympians.  I learned more about biking, especially of the track variety (the bikes don’t have brakes so there’s no coasting– every turn of the wheel is because their MASSIVE THIGHS are pedaling) than anyone might ever need to know.  It was actually really interesting and fun to watch, and a 17-year-old American won third place in something.  My feet were absolutely ready to fall off from two days of straight walking and standing because oops I haven’t mentioned that my choice of footwear for the weekend was a pair of ballet flats (read: no support.  At all.  Essentially barefoot.)  Family members, please spare me your e-mails– yes, I am a dumb ass, my feet were in SO. MUCH. PAIN.  My blistered pinkie toes are probably the worst.  Apparently while running I’ve also done some damage to my right calf and that screamed at me the entire day, especially when going up or down stairs.  Oh, and my left arm feels like it’s been shot because D-Bag and I played Dead Arm and needless to say I lost (after one punch.  He claims I punched him later that night like six more times in the arm, but he’s thoughtful enough to not give me the requisite six in return.)  At the end of our journey yesterday, my mood took a nose dive and I wanted to go home NOW.  Not like Germany home, but my big bed in America, why can’t I just drive a car, where the hell is NPH, put me on a plane HOME home.  I realized this was all due to lack of sleep and managed to not flip shit on anyone around me, though now that I’m back in Germany things are looking up.

IN CONCLUSION: I feel kinda like I’ve been hit by a car.  Copenhagen was really wonderful, though not a place I feel I could hang out for more than a day or two.  It’s super expensive and there just generally isn’t THAT much to do, but a really pretty city with amazing scenery of the North Sea and a nice juxtaposition of super old buildings and really modern architecture.

Hey all you Facebookin’ family members: click here for my pictures from the trip.

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Wochenende

Friday, March 26th, 2010

Hot Roomie is moving out today.  This is both good and bad– he’s taking his <insert expletive> Foozball table with him and the kitchen will be cleared of the piles of dishes he tended to leave out forever, but overall I’m sad to see him go.  No more Monday night dinners with his hot friends, not to mention he was certainly the most outgoing of our WG 18 bunch.  A moment of silence may be in order.  Our door just buzzed earlier and a woman from the campus newspaper was here, asking if she could ask me a few questions on what I think about the housing.  The best part is: she asked me in German and I understood. My handle on the language is near first-rate if I’m reading it, but when it comes to listening and speaking, this is where my brain still gets bamboozled.  I was able to reply to her though that yes, she could come in but mein Deutsch ist schlect, to which she said no problem and conducted the interview in English.  Score one for the home (away?) team.

In other news, the weather has been in the sunny low 70s so I’ve been spending an uncharacteristic amount of time outside. Apart from setting my alarm unnecessarily early to run in the mornings, we’ve also taken to playing soccer and/or sand volleyball after lunch.  This provides heaps of entertainment for the Germans (who do e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g. outside once the snow melts) who think we are just the most laughably dumb American group of people to e’er kick a ball around.  One group was FILMING us on their cell phone the other day, most likely to show their friends and say “Can you believe they wore that and said this?”  To their credit, we knew we were being heinously judged, thus played up our obnoxious inability to care at all what those around us thought.  If there’s one thing studying abroad has changed about me, I will certainly no longer think any less of foreign students on our campus.  Yeah, they might be weird, but how they act is normal to their culture and it has zero to do with me.  You shoulda seen the stink eyes I was getting walking across campus today in flip-flips, rolled up jeans, and a guy’s Marvel comics t-shirt.  WHATEVER.  I’m all about assimilating to the culture, but on a sunny Friday afternoon post-test, I’m not gonna put heaps of effort into my appearance– priorities, people.

Tonight I’m boarding a bus for Copenhagen with three guys from my program (my mother: “Why do you never hang out with girls?!”  As if she met me yesterday.)  It’s an overnight bus and we’ll arrive early in the morning for a day of sight-seeing and GIANT COFFEE drinking because Denmark has 7-11′s.  On Sunday there’s a bike race we’ll be attending which will be akin to Christmas for D-Bag because he’s a giant cyclist, then we’ll take the night bus back to Hamburg and arrive heinously early Monday morning.  I’m not foreseeing much sleep in the coming days, but I’m super excited to visit a new country.

With only six weeks left til the program ends, some students are getting anxious for home and some are going into full-on “I’m never leaving Germany” meltdown mode. Most of the students also here for the fall session absolutely dread returning home, a lot of them it seems because they escaped from less ideal personal situations in the states.  Those of us who have only been here since January have kind of kept one foot in Germany, one in America, and are eager to return to our normal routines and friends.  While leaving will be HARD and suck and produce days of “Aaagh I miss Germany so much,” I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to go home at all.  My life in Iowa is great, and there are people and places I want to return to stat.  My last six weeks look like they’ll be filled with travel, and my last weekend will be spent doing some fabulous shopping in Hamburg since I have done little to none in my time here (and someone needs a pretty new dress or ten to celebrate her 21st birthday in Vegas.)

Lastly, I have a project due for my one non-language class next month and it draws on my high school experience as yearbook editor (cue the dungeon music.)  I’m making a “semester book” type thing and my teacher wants me to expand it, make it real professional like, and include everyone so they can possibly use it to show future students/ prospects.  I’m not too concerned about this (though should be since I was supposed to start like… months ago) but who knows what types of posts written in pure frustration and agony might pop up later.  Get excited.

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Creepers! At The Disco

Friday, March 26th, 2010

Discotecas are a funny thing. You can’t show up before 2 a.m. The line to get in is at its longest by 3 or 4. After waiting in that line, don’t expect to get in with casual shoes. These people mean business when it comes to shoes. The guys in your group with the Air Jordans or whatever the hell will not be joining you inside.

If you’ve made it in you’ll be greeted by the usual mass of humanity paired with heavy bass and sweat. Here, at the heart of the discoteca, you can see exactly why it’s such a funny thing. Or, mejor dicho, a creepy thing.

I think the unspoken system is to make googly eyes at your dance floor prospect for several minutes, and if that gets you nowhere, move on to the next one. Or at least that’s one part of the system. I went out last night with Francesca and Austin, and Austin is very in tune to who is googly eyeing who. He pointed out one or two brosephs googly eyeing in our direction — but then what? Am I supposed to googly eye back? Start communicating through sign language across the orgy? Or just continue flailing around and singing the words to “Smack That” with Francesca? I stuck to #3.

So then the googly eyed dude gets bored and moves on. Most club creepers are of the googly eye variety, but for every 10 of them I’d say there are one or two much more ballsy bros who will skip the googly eye game and move right on up to your face. One such fellow came up to me last night, blabbering in broken English, asking me I don’t even know what. I can’t tell you how many times I yelled “HABLO ESPANOL” in an attempt to get him to give up on his sorry English. I did understand one part though: “Want to dance?”

Eh… not really. See, I’m with my friends. And if I dance with somebody…….. they need to dance with somebody too….. so yeah, rain check.

(I actually tried explaining this. In retrospect, I realize it makes no sense.)

Bold Broseph #1 retrieved another friend for Francesca at which point the two of us were under siege, trapped in the mass of humanity between two bold brosephs. Vom dot com. Vom punto es.

I continued making desperate eye contact with Austin. Bold Broseph #1 commented that I wasn’t looking at him… probably because I was plotting my escape. Francesca snapped her head in my direction with an unmistakable look of “We need to get the hell out of here” on her face. I concurred. At this point I believe Francesca and I grabbed hands to return to Austin, but when I got to Austin I realized I had the hand of Bold Broseph #1. Goddamnit!

After developing another sorry excuse about why I had to leave (aka, walk downstairs for a minute and then come up to another side of the dance floor), broseph asked for my phone number. Shit. Another brilliant idea from Lauren: give him my number from home… and change the last number. Then he asked me to type my name into his phone so he could find me on Facebook. Damn technology. I stupidly gave him my real name, because I couldn’t think of a good fake one on the fly. But that’s what the “Ignore Friendship Request” feature is for.

The rest of the night was fine except for when we came dangerously close to running into the Bold Brosephs again. I booked it in the opposite direction because this was not a confrontation that I was ready to have.

From then on nobody approached us for the rest of the night. Bad karma from blowing off the bros? Or truly a blessing, given the setting and the people at the club? Or, more likely, a simple matter of no one being interested. My towering over everyone at 5’10″ + three inch heels and functioning under a compromised level of sobriety while dancing up on Austin and Fronch may not be the magic way to encounter non-creeps in a club, but oh well. The three of us converted into the creeps for a while, people watching downstairs and yelling reverse cat calls at good looking European men.

Now, I’ve got a beautiful Friday at my feet, but I’m sitting in bed and still haven’t opened the shade. I’ll get around to it soon. I’m meeting my family in Madrid tomorrow to commence our whirlwind tour of southern Spain which will eventually bring us back to Sevilla at the peak of Semana Santa; Holy Thursday and Good Friday. Consequently, I may not be blogging much this week; I certainly will not be discoing much this week.

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ROME: A novel.

Tuesday, March 23rd, 2010

You know what I can’t stand? People who visit Rome, upload their photos to Facebook, and once they’re done slaving over captions and photo order (other people do that, right?), they name it: “When in Rome.”

LOLOLOL get it?! When in Rome! Like the idiom!!! And the city!!!!!! And the Mary-Kate and Ashley movie.

Anyways.

I plan to recap my visit to Roma, Ro-mama by avoiding the old cliche and attempting to start a new, Lady Gaga-inspired cliche. Tell your friends!

An important chunk of my trip was the flight itself – or, my first encounter with Ryanair. I’m not proud of the fact that I paid 3 euros for a bottle of water, but this company robbed me at gunpoint. By some miracle (papal intervention?) my carryon bag met the size requirement, but I knew for a fact that it was overweight, and Ryanair is notorious for weighing carryon luggage before allowing passengers to board. I didn’t know what to do, so I shoved my purse under my jacket in the least discrete way possible in an attempt to alleviate some of the weight. It turns out nobody was weighing the bags that day. Conflict averted.

I took away a lot from my visit aside from the history and the sights and the tourism. Sightseeing solo makes for a lot of quality time. With yourself. In fairness, I wasn’t wandering the city alone very much. My aunt graciously revisited loads of places throughout Rome that I’m sure she passes every day; my uncle gave me a tour of the U.S. Embassy and a ride on the back of the motorino complete with unbeatable views; my cousin wandered through the Colosseum with me, and helped maneuver through the marathon that overtook the city on Sunday (and that both my aunt and uncle ran… someday I’ll run 26 miles, too. Right).

I did, however, visit the Vatican on my own. I got in line for the museum by 8:45 a.m., and after 40 minutes of silently trudging forward and eavesdropping on the Spaniards behind me, I’d had enough solitude. The time was nigh to make small talk with Spaniards. I asked them if they knew where the front of the line was — they told me. They asked me why I speak Spanish — I told them. I learned that two of them, brothers, work as architects in Jaén. The third is a medical resident at a hospital in Sevilla. Soon we were comparing Rome guidebooks and piecing together the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

At this point the Spaniards lost any chance of losing me. I had leeched onto a group of sightseeing companions with no intention of letting go. It was a seamless plan, above all because one of the architect brothers was some kind of Vatican scholar. They surely thought I was an idiot American for my extremely limited knowledge of Roman history, much less Vatican history, and my age likely came to light when I got into the museum using my student ID — their old Universidad de Sevilla IDs were rejected. Student IDs are apparently mean nothing if you’re over 27.

Architect Brother 1 gave me a free tour as we went through the museum and up to the Sistine Chapel, accompanied by architecture lessons that I pretended to understand. In my defense, anything mathematical is doubly difficult to grasp when presented in Spanish.

I only saw the Sistine Chapel and the rooms leading up to it in the Vatican Museum, as the rest would have required another full day to explore. The Spaniards were heading to the Colosseum, and I even received a (pity) invitation to join them, but St. Peter’s was on my afternoon agenda so we parted ways. My uncle asked if I exchanged information with them, but I didn’t bother, and neither did they. It was a one-Vatican stand. And I kind of like that Jesus, Santiago and Antonio will continue to exist in my memory only as characters from that day. Not to get all poetic on you.

In another massive line waiting to go up to the copula of St. Peter’s, I continued to do what I do best — prey on Spaniards. I really never planned on it, but every time I heard Spanish it was like some strange comfort of “home.” I chatted up a couple from Madrid before splitting off and making the ascent on my own. And Holy Curvy Walls, these places aren’t made for non-dwarves. See photo.

From the top of St. Peter’s Basilica I decided that Italy is beautiful. In case you wanted to know the exact moment. I also decided that another drawback of traveling alone is the lack of people pictures. At this point I preyed on American teenagers to take a goobery photo of me at the top of St. Peter’s. And one more time, in the basilica, because everybody needs a pic in front of St. Peter’s tomb!! A word of warning: if you go below the basilica to visit the dead popes, don’t accidentally have your camera out of its case and turned on while passing by John Paul II. The guards don’t like that.

Although the Vatican was great, one of the true highlights of my trip came after. I met up with my aunt and her friend Jennifer after peacing out from the pope’s place and we went for gelato. Jesus, I can’t believe I’m about to type that gelato was one of the highlights of my trip. But it was! Nutella-flavored flavored gelato… my heart melts again just thinking about it. If my life completely goes to shit after college and I’m unemployed for 15 years and living in a rotting apartment with a three-legged cat, I’m going to commit slow suicide by only eating Nutella-flavored gelato for every meal.

On Sunday I went with my cousin to the Colosseum, where those bastards rejected my student ID. Forget the Colosseum, I’ll go back to the Vatican, where people appreciate my scholarly endeavors. Although honestly, I thought the Colosseum was well worth entering. A lot of people told me they didn’t bother going into it when they visited Rome, but the history is so fascinating and grotesque that I’m glad I did. Unfortunately, the Palatine and the forum didn’t have great signage, so Nate and I had no idea what we were looking at for that leg of the afternoon. Lots of… rocks.

There was so much more sightseeing I could describe, but I’d be surprised if anyone’s made it to this sentence. Of note, I did visit the Keats-Shelley house, per the recommendation of one of my favorite people. That was a good Alone Time visit, better than doing the Vatican solo, although slightly depressing if only because of the whole “Keats’-death-by-consumption-in-this-room” thing.

Like I said earlier, I had a moment of introspection on the bus that I’m still grappling with now. I don’t think I’ll realize that I was in Europe until I go back to the States, as ridiculous as that sounds. Although coming back to Sevilla early Monday morning I quickly left vacation mode only to resume real-life mode, a space I currently occupy where I’m stressed beyond reason and losing the proverbial battle against time. Finishing this blog post tonight was my way of accepting defeat against my staggering Tuesday to-do list. Three hours of interviews, an equal amount of time spent transcribing interviews and a frustrating attempt at contacting other sources, and I now remember that oh yeah — I’m a journalism major, too. And a student… perhaps a prime time to acknowledge the midterm that awaits me tomorrow.

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The Slovak and running

Tuesday, March 23rd, 2010

It’s 1:30 pm and I’ve ne’er been more due for a nap.  No, I did not go out last night, though I did stay up too late dancing with boys.  There was also banana bread and an earlier than usual wake up time involved, but these will be explained in due time.

D-Bag’s got a new roommate who has easily captured the title of my favorite European of all time.  He is from Slovakia, has lived in Germany the past ten years, spent a semester in Britain, but became really fluent in English during his year studying in Australia (from where he just returned) thus speaks like our mates from Down Under.  I die.  Not only is he rather easy on the eyes, the Slovak is perhaps the nicest damn person you’ll ever meet.  Yesterday afternoon he popped in to get supremely jealous over how much bigger my apartment is, then we went back to theirs for coffee with another roommate and an impromptu German lesson.  I learned more in that hour than I have in the past week; it was amazing.  During our conversation (more like their conversation auf Deutsch while I tried to absorb as much as possible) the Slovak inhaled almost an entire plate of peanut butter cookies I’d brought over a few days earlier, so we decided trading baked goods for Deutsch lessons is a pretty fair deal.  After my night class, I returned to turn a nearly black bunch of WG 17′s bananas (kinda like my German 713, you could say) into banana bread.  Their kitchen is approximately the size of a shoebox, but four of us managed to fit, and D-Bag and the Slovak both wanted to get hands-on in the baking process.  Now, for my firstborn perfectionist in the kitchen self, relinquishing control over the countertop is not always an easy feat.  I did the majority of the measuring and mashing and mixing, but let the Slovak crack the eggs and D-Bag preheat the oven (<–haha okay that one doesn’t count at all, mostly I just didn’t want to Google what 350 degrees Fahrenheit is in Celsius.)  But then, and I’m only retelling this because I think it was absolutely adorable, Darin gradually added the dry ingredients while the Slovak alternated the mashed banana as I held the mixer and scraped the bowl.  I KNOW.  (Maybe because I’ve been baking since the womb I find this much more endearing than my average reader?)

ANYWAY– we managed to turn out some kick ass banana bread.  We used almost double the amount of bananas we were supposed to (NPH has since informed that there is no such thing as too many bananas in banana bread) which resulted in a super moist, dense loaf that we all sat around the tiny table and enjoyed a slice of while listening to party beats from the Slovak’s laptop.  THEN, some Indian music came on (apparently Australian is rife with Indians) and the Slovak started dancing because he was in the Punjabi club last year.  They performed an elaborately choreographed traditional Indian dance for the Festival of Lights and still remembers most of it, so tried teaching us as well (ok, teaching me– D-Bag kinda just sat in utter confusion and inquired as to where my camera was located because I looked like that big of an idiot.)  It was a ridiculously fun evening.  After the sugar high from the banana-y treats and the multiple hours of rap and dance music, my brain was wired for anything but rest even though it was after midnight.  Sleep did not come so easily.

Why then did I set my alarm to go off an hour earlier this morning?  So I could get my run in and over with (and of course enjoy banana bread for breakfast after.)  Yeah, I’m proud of me, too.  The morning is a great time to run for a variety of reasons, but the one exclusive to German is that I’m seen by less people in my very American running attire.  When I’ve seen Germans out pounding the pavement, they’re always in some pretty serious-looking gear usually consisting of long, dark pants with some sort of dark long-sleeved windbreaker and the characteristic German grumpy face.  Imagine their horror when out of the woods struggles a red-faced, heaving American with a “Relay for Life!” white t-shirt and cut-off high school sweatpants that say TIGERS over the butt.  It doesn’t sound that out of the ordinary, but the foreigner is fairly easy to pick out, and after almost three months here I’m quite certain “Pick the Foreigner and the Judge the Shit Outta Them” is one of Germans’ favorite games.  Also, I’ve only ever seen one of them running with an iPod, whereas I am clutching mine for dear life because God forbid I forget to charge it and am left with just my thoughts (which are usually centered on “Can we PLEASE stop running?!”) for a couple miles.  Yes, I have one of those armband thingies it could safely sit in, but I much prefer it in hand so I can crank the volume when Miley comes on or frantically hit skip because sorry, Iron and Wine, you just aren’t that physically motivating.

In the only slight bit of relevant news you will actually find in today’s post: I need to make plans for Easter break.  From that Thursday afternoon to the following Tuesday I don’t have class and would like to get outta town, possibly the country.  Or if some readers want to come over and hang, that’s perfectly acceptable too, just don’t all jump on a plane at once now, ya hear?  Also, not to get all politically minded, but I (and perhaps Lauren also?) wish I were in IC a teeny bit so I could see the PRESIDENT speak on campus on Thursday.  …oh and… kudos to 219 votes on Sunday night :)  That is all.

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Lauf machen

Saturday, March 20th, 2010

Sorry to hear there’s snow back home– definitely not any here (knock on wood..)  It’s  been overcast and slightly misting all day, the perfect weather for my first outdoor run of the season!  …oh baby am I outta shape.  My legs already hurt, and I didn’t exactly go a marathon distance.  While out on my non-characteristic spurt of physical activity, I stumbled upon some sort of Holy Grail nature preserve in almost literally my backyard that put the woods in Iowa to shame (again, Mom– you might want to start working on your German citizenship now.)  There is a wide (and clear!) creek and wooden benches and trails and TALL trees and little bushes and lots of wet, leafy underbrush that goes on for acres.  You could be naked for quite a while in the area and never get caught– it’s not thick with fauna, it’s just so BIG.  After my body said “eff that” to the whole quickened pace thing, I wandered around the trails for a bit, never seeing another person save for the tree fellers (sorry) at one clearing.  Eventually I figured I should find my way back to some sort of civilization, not hard to do once I got onto the big main trail.  This is where I wouldn’t exactly say I was “lost” more as I was “pleasantly unsure of where my home was.”  There was no cause for alarm, though I was a bit surprised when I realized I had gone outside of city limits.  I made it back fine, though not without eliciting some full-on stares from my fellow Saturday morning pedestrians.  I should learn how to say “Don’t be alarmed, I’m not actually about to fall over dead from a heart attack, my face just naturally turns this bright red every time I run” auf Deutsch.

One of my flatmates popped in for about three minutes today to, I don’t know, make sure the American could actually be trusted with the place on her own.  He informed me he wouldn’t back til April when their school break is over (question: can I eat their food??), which I’m more than a little excited about because this whole living solo and playing German house thing has been pretty great.  In his absence, his room is unlocked in case I wanna borrow any of his movies.  He is so my new favorite.

Yesterday a group of us Yankee students went into Hamburg for some window shopping and HOFBRAUHAUS DRINKING!!!  Before I get to the obvious best part of my day, props to my three guy friends who followed me around to… 4? 5? maybe 6 stores before I found an inexpensive yet cute purse.  The weather’s getting nice enough that my coat pockets can no longer hold my camera/ cell phone/ bus pass/ wallet/ gum/ Kleenex, and being the sketch backpack girl everywhere isn’t really my thing.  I finally found one I liked for less than 20 Euro so that beast came home with me.  Hamburg has A.M.A.Z.I.N.G. shopping.  I die.  SO many beautiful things, so little time, even less money.  Did the EU meet up a while back and say, “Hey, let’s charge ridiculous amounts of money for normal things!”  Germany, you are killing me.  Not that I’m dirt poor over here or need any of these things,  but more than once I had the thought, “Man it’d be great if <insert name of someone who has lots of money to shower me with gifts> was here?”  At least all of this window shopping worked up a bit of an appetite, so off we strode to ZE HOFBRAUHAUS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  They have one in Hamburg, not as great as the one in Munich, better than the one in Vegas (some people collect figurines, I visit beer halls.)  Two more friends had joined us by this point in our journey and we all had a liter of Bier and Brezels (regular sized, unfortunately.)  The waiter originally brought out liters for the four guys at the table, and HALF liters for me and the other girl in our party.  Excuse me, Sir– I’m not sure who you think I am or where I come from, but I assure you I can handle the big one, thankyouverymuch.  Luckily he asked when he brought the littles one if we’d prefer what’d we ordered (um, yes) so the change was made without too much bodily harm.  The NERVE.

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A thought

Friday, March 19th, 2010

I was taking the bus from Ciampino airport to the Termini Station in Rome today, and all I could think to myself was, “Holy fuck,” over and over again. I am 20 years old, in Rome, functioning without the language, using public transportation without getting lost, not being robbed or otherwise taken advantage of. Oh — and once more — I’m in Rome. That’s in Italy. That’s… not the United States, and it’s not Spain.

I thought, “I should pinch myself. This is an opportune moment to pinch myself.” So I did. I pinched myself very, very hard. Not as hard as a nose-piercing pinch, but I left a mark. And I pinched myself multiple times. Maybe the lack of sleep was getting to me, but I really can’t grasp that I’m in Europe, and not just one state over. Italy =/= Indiana.

But I felt a tinge of homesickness for Spain. Is that possible? Homesick, for Sevilla. I kept trying to respond to Italians in Spanish and wishing I could ask questions in the native language instead of needing to speak English.

Rome is beautiful, and I’m excited to see it by daylight. Today was full with a tour of the U.S. Embassy, some solo exploration of Piazza di Spagna and the Keats-Shelley House and taking in city sights at dusk with my aunt. As of 11:31 p.m. local time, no pizza or gelato consumption… yet. I’ll be up early for the Vatican tomorrow, so I’ll put in a good word for all of you with the pope. And of course, I’ll return next week with a novel-length entry and photos to boot.

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Das Wetter ist sehr Nett

Thursday, March 18th, 2010

IT’S SO GORGEOUS OUTSIDE. I’m not one to usually get all hot and bothered by outdoors stuff, but after this winter (which the US Embassy informed us was one of the worst in Germany’s history) I just want to live outside.  The giant sports field about ten feet from my front door is finally drying out so we can spend our days and nights playing soccer.  It’s not even noon on Thursday and my weekend has started, I will definitely not be toiling away inside at my laptop.  My flatmates have all mysteriously disappeared, glamorous ski vacations in the Alps and such during their time off from school, but you will hear no complaints of this from me.  Spring is reminding me of Easter, which is oddly reminding me of my grandmother’s house (shout-out to Lin!)  We get a solid four days off for the holiday and methinks D-Bag and I will be heading to Dresden/ some of the smaller surrounding towns.  Sometimes I get really anxious that I haven’t been tons of places while abroad, but I like Lauren’s approach that I’m here so I’m going to explore here instead of trying to pack a bunch of 48 hour trips across the continent.

Germans don’t celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, but that in no way stopped us Americans from donning green and getting betrunken on a Wednesday.  We went to the local Irish Pub, which thankfully was also celebrating and had the green beer a-flowin’.  They were also giving out giant cloth Guinness top hats and had green “Tullamore Dew” streamers hanging from everything.  I now have a giant pile of these on my floor thanks to people draping them around my neck, making bracelets out of them, etc.  The hats were in hot demand and we nearly sparked an international incident trying to snag another before we left, but I’m proud to say one did manage to make it back with us, which D-Bag let me keep (or perhaps I’ve taken it hostage.)  There was some Irish guy with a guitar singing songs; he played some Neil Young, Lynrd Skynrd, and after asking the crowd for requests (big mistake) some Guns ‘n Roses.  Either he was drunk and sad or wanted the crowd to settle because “Simple Kind of Man” and “Patience” aren’t exactly party tunes in my book, but the crowd’s back-up vocals helped to liven them up, I guess.

I only have SIX WEEKS of class left which I’m sure will fly by.  Not exactly stoked about leaving Germany, getting back on Monday was a huge sigh of relief.  My body has fallen right back into my German sleep schedule, and as soon as I deplaned for my layover in Amsterdam my brain took hold of the language again.  Yesterday I met with my Sprachpartnerin (speaking partner) for the first time and we had a bilingual lunch.  Her English is much better than my German, but she was very patient with my “I know I know this word but I’m completely blanking out because I’ve never actually had to speak freely in German before” pauses.  My  brain hurt afterward, not to mention I was still wanting to say everything in Spanish.  We’ll meet up a few times before I leave, and if you’re wondering, I VOLUNTARILY signed up to get a speaking partner.  I do believe a pat on the back is in order for stepping out of my comfort zone.

Oh, after my creepy Senatorial stalking, the rest of my trip back was pretty uneventful.  I was less than thrilled to be sitting between two people on the 7.5 hour trip from Detroit to Amsterdam, but luckily miracles do happen and I didn’t have to get up once.  I watched The September Issue (documentary about “Vogue” and Anna Wintour– LOVED) and Paper Heart (lame pseudo-documentary about love I only watched because Michael Cera’s in it.  It was boring and his ex-gf who stars in it absolutely annoys the shit outta me.)  I got to sleep maybe four or five hours, mostly I’m just psyched that my passport has a shiny new Amsterdam stamp in it.  Off to lunch with my homeslices, or the ones who aren’t bed-ridden all day thanks to St. Patrick, and then OUTSIDE or Hamburg or something WITHOUT A COAT!!

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Responsibilities? They have those here?

Monday, March 15th, 2010

Keeping up with this blog has been a challenge in the past two weeks. The unexpected sinus infection mixed with pending midterms and actual homework (?!) hasn’t facilitated writing to, as Brittney says, our “legion of followers.” So combined, five people?

View of La Alhambra from the Albaicín barrio in Granada. SWOON.

I never wrote about Granda, but I absolutely adored it. It was worth destroying my ears on the mountain-y drive up. I would gush about the Alhambra or something, but it’d be 90000 words typed in vain. So here’s a photo.

Adam visited this weekend and by some miracle it didn’t rain. I was able to revisit the Alcázar (!), the Catedral (.) and the Plaza de Toros (…). I’ve also taken to using punctuation marks to express how I felt about each visit. The Alcázar was great because there were peacocks; the Catedral was still a gothic cathedral, but going to the top of the Giralda offered a fabulous and sunny view; the Plaza de Toros robbed us (ok, 4 euros) by failing to mention that half of it was closed and under construction. Under construction? In Spain?! QUE VA. We also got stuck in a Jesus parade in my barrio and together slaughtered two boxes of Don Simon sangria, a 40ish bottle of Cruzcampo and a jar of Nutella, among other bebidas y comidas. Despite the fact that I was on antibiotics and presently live in a makeshift pharmacy, the weekend was an enormous success.

The transition back to real life has been difficult, and it’s only Monday. I have two midterms this week and a mammoth article due in four weeks. It sounds like plenty of time, but not when one of those weeks is dedicated to traveling with my family over Semana Santa, and this weekend is dedicated to Rome (Roma, ro ma ma…).

Despite my debilitating indecision, I finally booked the flight. I’m reluctant to make travel plans here because a) I love Sevilla, b) I’m afraid of Ryanair and c) I’m cheap. But I had to do Rome. My aunt, uncle and cousin live there right now, so I have no excuse not to go. Plus, I think this will be my only trip outside of the Iberian Peninsula in my time here. A lot of my friends have already hit up Paris, Amsterdam, London, Brussels… I’ve stuck to Granada, Córdoba, Jerez de la Frontera, Barcelona. And I’m beyond happy with that. But it will be exciting to see another part of Europe this weekend, to visit family, and to hit the town with the Pope.

I’m beyond flustered that my study abroad experience is already at its halfway point. I’m really going to miss my friends here, Elisa, the lack of snow… and why the hell am I already worried about this? I have two months left, but it’s not enough time. I finally developed some sense of direction — it’s been days, maybe even weeks, since I’ve gotten lost! I listen to my iPod when I’m walking to class because I know the streets well enough to not worry (much) about being plowed over by a batshit Spanish driver. The long-awaited sun has finally arrived, and the combination of endorphins + “The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill” while walking has been most enjoyable. You could even say empowering. It’s probably because I’m one letter shy of sharing her name.

The Puente de Triana, "my" bridge (by virtue of living in Triana).

Also– another sentiment I don’t share with my study abroad cronies, along with my disinterest in Ryanair-ing through Europe every weekend: missing my university. It’s not even a question. Iowa will be there when I get back, save for the possibility of another apocalyptic flood. Chicago isn’t going anywhere. Naperville will be thriving. My family comes in less than two weeks, so I miss them, but pretty soon we’ll be in close quarters on a bus traveling through southern Spain. Maybe I’m insensitive, truly emotionless — this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve wondered — but I don’t miss Iowa at all. By writing this I’ve perhaps jinxed myself into a panic attack/weepy breakdown by the end of the week due to separation anxiety from cornfields and Interstate 80. I’ll be sure to provide a live streaming update if this happens.

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Meeting a Senator

Monday, March 15th, 2010

Who has two thumbs and just stalked a US Senator through Detroit International Airport?  You won’t be shocked to find out it’s ME!  When boarding my flight in Des Moines, I turned to the guy next to me and asked, “Is that Senator Harkin?” about the stately, well-dressed man settling down five rows ahead of us.  He didn’t think so, but I knew it was and texted Neil that I was riding the same regional jet as someone who gets to hang out with the President on the regular.   He urged me to go strike up conversation with him about healthcare, but because I am complete chicken shit, I instead watched the back of his head read The Des Moines Register for most of the flight (this sounds much creepier than it actually was.)  Perhaps it was the sugar rush from my in-flight orange juice and cookies, but I decided upon landing that I was going to go wish my senator good luck on the upcoming healthcare vote.

Unfortunately, by the time I deplaned (very last row, right next to the lavatory) he was nowhere to be found.  Now, to the naked eye what I did next may seem borderline illegal, and if someone had actually noticed me closely following a US Senator through the underground tunnel from Concourse C to A I probably would have been tackled by security.  I was just texting Neil that I was unable to talk to Harkin because he’d gotten off ahead of me, when I looked ahead on the escalator and THERE HE WAS.  It was at this point I decided the universe wanted me to go bug him, and since I voted for him I figured there was a good chance he’d at least acknowledge my existence.  Instead of doing what any normal, non-anxiety wracked person would do, I caught up to him then walked about three paces behind for the entire 1-200 yards of moveable sidewalk until mustering up the courage to finally ask, “Excuse me, are you Senator Harkin?”  He said yes, and then I realized I had no opening line, so just dumbly shook his hand when he offered it and then introduced myself.  He ushered me in front of him on the escalator as I barely audibly stammered something about making some phone calls for him and campaigning for Obama, which he thought was just dandy (he didn’t say “dandy”, but I’ve now idealized him as a wise grandfatherly figure who might, under the right circumstances, say “dandy.”)  He asked me about myself, and I tried not to sound like a complete idiot, but quite frankly I was star struck (what—you don’t get this giddy over your politicians?)  I then wished him luck on the healthcare vote, and he explained to me that it’s in the House this week and the Senate the next, where there would certainly be fireworks.  I said I hope we win and he said, “Oh, we’ll win,” with a smile.  After some small talk about studying abroad, we got off the escalator and I said it was nice to meet him and he said perhaps he’d see me this summer and I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS, but I would love to see him this summer (perhaps in Washington?  In some sort of internship position?  Maybe I can invite him over for dinner, Neil could grill brats and impress the Senator with his whip-smart political mind.  I am so going to the Iowa State Fair to see him this year.)  I then went and hid behind a trash can to call Neil and tell him about my brush with my fame, of which he was quite jealous because he’s never met a United States Senator before.  In conclusion, Senator Harkin was extremely gracious to me and I think he’s just the cat’s meow.  And with THAT, my connection to Amsterdam is boarding.  Deutschland, I’m coming for you!!

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Spring Break

Saturday, March 13th, 2010

Plan A would have had me drunk in Deutschland with mein Schmetterling D-Bag right now instead of watching my mother start her very own grow house in our kitchen.  Thanks to Delta Airlines, Plan B (<– we should get some Google hits with that one) has me boarding a plane tomorrow at 6 pm and not returning to Germany until Monday afternoon.  I don’t really want to get into intricate details of what an epic clusterfuck my afternoon was yesterday that resulted in me not getting on a plane, but if you are a representative for Delta Airlines reading this, I expect some class upgrades, free tickets, or at least the whole can of soda during beverage service tomorrow.  The jist of it is that Delta sent an e-mail AND called me to tell me my flight would be delayed two hours, but then told me (when I showed up after adjusting my airport arrival time to accommodate this extra time) that the plane had actually come and left early.  Yes, essentially they said “You don’t need to come so soon” but then said “Oh wait, you definitely should have been here.”  Because I’m so great at telekinesis.

What’s a girl to do when she has 48 new hours of unplanned time hanging in her home state?  Go back to Iowa City, obviously.  Shout-out to future roomie Lauren for being my partner in spontaneous crime as well as my Pancheros-loving hungover couch partner this afternoon.  My 713ers were all sadly off on their great Spring Break adventures– NPH and I parted Wednesday for me to have some family time in Adel after mooching off of them for the better part of the week.  My family doctor debunked my German diagnosis of staph infection and instead gave me enough steroid cream and antihistamines to keep this mystery allergy at bay for the next two months.  The mother and I got a pedicure (shamrock green, for me) and I went to Valentine’s Day, the cutest move in the history of time, with Kayla and Sav.  They didn’t exactly share my review of the flick, but does plot even matter when Taylor Lautner is onscreen?  Nein.  I was accused of only liking it because of my recent boyfriend procurement, to which I’ll plead the Fifth because they’re probably right.  Definitely do NOT watch this movie if you’re feeling cynical in the slightest– it will either cause you to breakdown in public and/or become extremely violent to the squealing saps around you like me whose boyfriends stand in the rain at 10 pm to grill them bratwurst after work even though they have papers they should be writing instead.  Not like that’s happened to me.

IN CONCLUSION: I am beyond thrilled I came home for Spring Break, but I am so so so ready/ excited to get back to Germany.  And I would be there right now if it weren’t for Delta Airlines.

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Vengeful immune system: 1. Lauren: 0.

Wednesday, March 10th, 2010

A lovely past week has now been eclipsed by a sinus infection and my first encounter with the Spanish health care system. There’s not much I hate more than missing class. It puts me on edge, and it’s almost always worth just showing up sick, but after several days of feeling like my head weighs 500 kg (yep, European) and battling my dysfunctional respiratory system, I decided to go to the doctor. I’ve dedicated today to quality time with my close friends amoxicillin and ambroxol. Of course, I get sick as soon as it stops raining in Sevilla. And immediately preceding the weekend Adam comes to visit, a time when my immune system (morever, my liver) desperately needs to be in good working order.

But I figure that by this weekend and after two full days of antibiotics I should be capable of enjoying Sevilla outside of the piso, where I alternate from bed to sofa to desk in numerous failed attempts to sleep and do homework. Anyways, this update has no purpose other than to let out a little bit of self pity. Getting sick is a frustratingly regular part of my life, ever since The Great Mono Diagnosis of 2007, when my immune system officially declared war on the rest of my body. It’s a losing battle for me — Lauren : Immune system, USA : Iraq.

My dedication to daily multivitamins, weekly gallons of tea and constantly lugging around a water bottle is entirely in vain. And for the record, I survived the CRAAAZY socialist health-care system of Spain without any horrible repercussions (sarcasm — I’m all about the public option, thanks for nothing, United States [strangely, this has become a somewhat politically charged entry]). But then again, after two years of frequenting Student Health, anything else is a step up.

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Eye Oh Dubya Aye!

Monday, March 8th, 2010

Just a quick update for my legions of admirers (okay, two people) who have inquired as to how Spring Break in Iowa is going…  I made it by train and subway to the airport and checked in all by myself on Friday!  With like five hours to kill, I had breakfast (one Euro for a hunk of bread as big as my thigh?!  Win!  Almost four Euro for a Coke Zero?  Ahh, there’s the Europe I know and love.)  I had a very quick layover from Hamburg to Paris, the only time I ever wish to spend in France.  The flight to Atlanta was almost nine hours, but there were 130 empty seats on the plane, leaving much room to lay out and kinda sleep but mostly not.  When the pilot welcomed us to the United States, I felt… SAD.  My lack of sleep coupled with general travel anxiety definitely had me second-guessing my decision to come home.  Also, the South definitely should not have been my first taste of America after two months– have you heard those people attempt to speak English?  Being able to understand all conversations around me took a bit of getting used to, and I found myself responding “Danke” and “Entshuldigung” to flight attendants/ sales people/ those around me.  FINALLY… after 11 p.m. on Friday, after over 24 hours of waking up in Germany, after 13ish hours in the air, I landed in Des Moines.  There to greet me were my parents and… NPH!  Apparently he was in cahoots with the parents for weeks to surprise me at the airport, and while I was quite certain he’d be there, it wasn’t appreciated any less.

Being back has been… amazing.  At first I MISSED GERMANY SO MUCH.  And I still do.  But oh 713.  These boys, how I missed them.  It’s also been great to hang out with Lauren and Natalie and basically everyone with whom I’ve managed to have dinner or lunch or Oscar-viewing dates.  Going back is going to SUCK, but this trip has definitely made me realize the things I love about Germany.  Leaving permanently (0r at least for a while) in May will be really hard, but there’s plenty of things in Iowa City I’ll be rushing back for.

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Alive and (patiently?) waiting

Thursday, March 4th, 2010

Patience is not my virtue.  (Neither is decisiveness, or self control, or a bevy of other attributes one would hope to possess, but that’s for an entirely separate therapy session.)  Luckily today has gone by faster than I was dreading it would– I now have less than 12 hours til my alarm goes off to get to the airport and I’m not exactly packed yet.  My Elementary German II Final went about as well as one could hope; I now have the language credit requirements completed for my major (the whole reason I’m here.)  In eight weeks I’ve learned as much as I would have in a year at Iowa, though feel free to not quiz me on it later.

Since I am writing this from the comfort of my oddly clean apartment  and not a hospital bed, it seems my staph infection will not actually be my demise (Is this one of those knock on wood times?  Where in five days someone will be eulogizing me: “She jinxed it on the damn blog!”  There’s always a plane crash tomorrow to worry about.)  While my hand still isn’t back to 100% normal, the swelling has gone down significantly and I should be able to board a plane tomorrow without setting off too many red flags.

D-Bag asked me if I was going to color my hair when I’m back home because even he has grown tired of my near-daily grievances over my faux-gingerness.  Sadly, I’ll probably just have to let the color grow out since any more chemicals would quite likely render me bald.  My freak amount of hair shedding has warranted being referred to as “The Yeti” a few times from aforementioned friend, to which I then usually grab a hunk of loose locks from my scalp and drape them politely on his lap.  If staph or a 35,000 foot plunge into the Atlantic doesn’t kill me, I’m quite certain one day his usually docile demeanor will come unglued and finish the job.

Some of my classmates are quite jealous of my short trip to America coming up.  We’ve discussed what things they want me to bring back (butter popcorn, Taco Bell, specific deodorant) and what I’ll make sure to do when I’m there just because I can (be obnoxiously loud in public, wear sweatpants outside of my bed, drive a car, FREE DRINK REFILLS!!)  Not gonna lie, pretty nervous about drinking American beer again– I can’t see it tasting any more appetizing than if I peed in a can.  Some more seasoned travel veterans have already warned me that my brain might go on English overload the first time I enter a mostly American setting.  The strangest thing is that after 12 years of hating few things more than flying, I’m looking forward to the flight.  Not just for my destination, but like being on the plane– the in-flight movies, the food (chicken or pasta?  For the first time I chose chicken on the last plane, um… not so much.)  From Chicago to Frankfurt I sat all eight hours WITHOUT GETTING UP.  I, Brittney, DID NOT PEE for eight  hours on an aircraft.  If you know me in the slightest, you will know what a David Blaine-like feat this was.  Not expecting the same tomorrow, but hoping for the best.  Obviously my dear minions, I’ll keep you well-informed of all mid-flight bodily evacuations.

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Spanish phrase of the day: “Estar mareada.”

Thursday, March 4th, 2010

I did it. Got a new hole in my face. Gathered the nerve to have my nose pierced.

Before pulling the trigger I talked to a few people who have nose piercings, all of whom assured me that it only hurts like a pinch. I don’t know how you people pinch each other, but having a needle  jammed through my nostril hurt considerably more than just a friendly pinch. Or even a malicious pinch, for christ’s sake!

Fronchy came with me, which is lucky, because I almost passed out when the two employees started explaining aftercare procedures. Side note: this experience is a good test of my Spanish comprehension, because if I missed some vital cleaning instructions I could end up with a fatal, flesh-eating nose piercing infection.

Anyways. I didn’t faint, I was just too dizzy to stand. Estaba mareada — I was dizzy. But really, I still can’t think about the part when he stuck me with the needle because I get mareada all over again when I relive the experience, thus putting myself at risk to actually faint and end up on the cold concrete in the living room until Elisa gets home from work. I tried to explain to the employees that I’m usually not a very queasy or nervous person — I saw someone get a tattoo once! For two hours!! — but I was still That American Girl who almost passed out. My leather jacket wasn’t fooling anyone either.

Magical machines for sherry distillation at the Gonzalez Byass bodega.

Overall, this abbreviated week has been pretty jam packed. I went to Jerez on Monday to the Gonzales Byass bodega — adorable town, potent sherry, not upset that I’ll be going back with my family next month. Yesterday I went to a high school near Las Tres Mil Viviendas with my editorial projects class to interview/chat with students there for our first major writing assignment. Las Tres Mil is on the south end of town and is, to oversimplify, sort of like the projects of Sevilla. The barrio is almost entirely removed from the rest of Sevilla’s public services, and it has evolved into something of a political disaster. There’s a lot of history behind the complicated dynamic of the neighborhood (if you happen to understand Spanish). Oh yeah, and then today I paid some guy 25 euros to stab me in the nose.

But today wasn’t all dizziness and needles. I wandered around Plaza Nueva and bought gifts for my CHBs back in Chicago and Champaign, respectfully. I suck at haggling. I only talked down one vendor, by only one euro… good thing I’m not a business major or a lawyer. This weekend we go to Granda, where I’m going to be a huge nerd (per usual) and take fifty thousand photos of the Alhambra, all while recalling unrelated facts from my Islam class/intensive Spanish history class. We also have loose plans to salir de marcha tonight and hit up a discoteca, but that remains to be seen. I’m really not in the market for any of the gilipollas and capullos this town has to offer.

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My cat, Staphy

Tuesday, March 2nd, 2010

I’m watching the “Road to Germany” episode of Family Guy.  If you’re wondering what it’s like over here, I’d say Seth got it spot-on (minus the whole Nazi occupation thing.  So really my study abroad experience has been nothing like this episode except the European See-and-Say part.)  If you’re wondering why I’m watching Family Guy instead of out bowling with my friends or doing Hausaufgaben, I’ll spoil the end of my story and then go back to fill in the details: I am sick.  Not just under the weather, oh man sometimes snot runs down my face when I run for the bus in the morning sick, but head-pounding hand-swelling fever-inducing STAPH INFECTION coursing through my body sick.

You may recall me thinking on Sunday I was having an allergic reaction to something which caused my fingers to get red and swollen and hurt and sometimes itch and be hot and generally be annoying, especially when trying to grasp things (brushing my teeth, opening doors– all not fun activities.)  Yesterday however I started to feel BLLLLEEEECCCCHH, I had a constant headache and my chest kind of burned and my eyes were kind of seeping.  I then found out one of my classmates was just getting over what had finally been diagnosed as a staph infection.  Aha!  A few Google hits later and I’d convinced myself I was suffering from the same.  I decided that if I lived through the night, I’d go to the doctor today.  D-Bag tried to keep my mind occupied with list-making, one of my all-time favorite activities:  ”Top Five Songs You Want at Your Funeral”, “Five Historical Figures You Want Portrayed by Muppets in a Puppet Show on Top of Your Casket”, and my personal favorite, “Five Names for the Cats to be Adopted in Your Memory” (Snickers, Oliver, Staphy– I was delirious with fever, just go with it.)  Kudos to him for putting up with my constant bitching.  I bought him a candy bar, don’t worry about it.

SO TODAY, the program director called an English-speaking German doctor for me who was able to squeeze me in by having me meet her at the Orthoklinik.  Never having been to this mystery place before, I set off early and got caught in, wait for it… a HAILSTORM.  There was HAIL falling from the sky even though the SUN was shining.  A more pathetic picture could not be painted of this unshowered, half-dead American wandering unknown streets getting pelted in the face by HAIL (between BB and pea-sized, if you want a visual.)  I managed to see through the HAIL and find the Orthoklinik, which is essentially a random building in the middle of a residential area for the over 70-year-old set to come try out their new artificial hips.  I sat in the lobby, creating quite the sludge puddle as the hail melted off my coat/ now extremely soaked hair, and tried to keep an eye out for this unknown doctor lady while also trying to look busy enough that no one who worked there would confront me auf Deutsch that this was not, in fact, a homeless shelter.  To complete this Seventh Circle of Hell, “Purple Rain” was playing on the overhead speakers.  I can’t make this shit up.

Doctor lady came and whisked me off to some, I don’t know, closet or something and took a look at my hands and asked for a timeline of my symptoms.  Apparently my original diagnosis of a spider bite was just DUMB because don’t you  know Germany doesn’t HAVE spiders that bite?  No, lady, I did not.  This is not something they included in the orientation manual.  Also, I think that’s a bit of an overgeneralization of your country’s arachnid population, but whatever.  Since this was not her office, I didn’t so much as get my temperature taken let alone any cultures, so she just kind of agreed with my staph infection hypothesis.  She wrote me a prescription for three horse tranquilizer-sized Penicillin a day for ten days and told me to call and give her an update on Thursday.  You can be sure that I will keep YOU, my dear blog readers, up to date on all my latest bodily swelling!

So you’re probably wondering how my midterm of death went yesterday.  Meh, not too bad.  Certainly not great either, but I didn’t head straight to a bar afterward as I had assumed would be necessary.  The absolute highlight of my week happened yesterday morning, however, when my MISSING DRIVER’S LICENSE turned up!!  Mein Ausweis has been missing since about… my first weekend here.  I have no idea when exactly/ where I lost it, but apparently someone found it, figured out where I live, and slid it in our mailbox.  I’m thinking I may have dropped it in the snow at some point and it turned up six weeks after the fact since everything’s finally melting.  Because a form of i.d. is needed pretty much at all times for booze purchases and on public transit, I’ve been putting my passport in peril on a near daily, and often drunk, basis.  Knowing my parents wouldn’t exactly be a fan of this, I decided to keep this info under wraps and just hope I wasn’t pulled over when speeding to Iowa City this weekend.  So, thank you Mystery Person who found my i.d. and did the right thing instead of selling it to a minor, as would have surely happened back in the States.  And I don’t really need any sort of responsibility talking-to since it turned up, so this is all just water under the bridge, right?  Just add this to the list of reasons I can never have children.

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