An American Stranger

The birth of the Brothelites.

2012-02-03T06:09:00.008-05:00

10/26 – 11/1/2009: Geneva and Lausanne

Not long ago, our days had been filled with daily trips to the beach, day drinking, and setting out as an army for a night of partying. Now, many of us spend our days sitting at a desk behind a computer pretending to do the tedious, trivial tasks required of a college intern. The wild days of 18 Rue Muzy that brought all 40+ residents together seemed lost. We were forced to become productive members of Swiss society. Not to say that all joy had been lost; regular acts of amusing debauchery were still taking place. But the survival of our one big happy family was in danger. Naturally, it took a Marine to save the day.

Zoned out in front of my computer screen trying to find the grant requirements for the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, I made my regular 5-minute email check, hoping to find something to distract me for at least an hour, if not the rest of the afternoon. Opening a message from Andrew, I found just what I was looking for. Perhaps missing his days as co-chef on the Kallisto or simply longing for the big family feel that the former brothel once possessed, Andrew was proposing a building-wide potluck dinner. Each floor would create its own dish or drink, preparing enough to be shared with all 40. It was brilliant. And apparently I was not the only one slacking off, as several enthusiastic responses were sent before I even began typing mine.

But the potluck was not the only glorious result of Andrew’s initial email, for out of the chain of emails that ensued, the residents of 18 Rue Muzy gained a title. Who coined the term, I cannot remember. As soon as one person typed it, though, its popularity took off. A new nation was unfolding before our very eyes. It was the birth of the Brothelites.

Wednesday soon rolled around and upon returning to the former brothel, the Brothelites gathered on their respective floors and prepared their own culinary masterpiece for the rest of the house. There were pastas, soups, salads, and a sweet, lemony, dirty alcoholic beverage that had been prepared in a mop bucket. An endless supply of food covered the tables of the Brothel basement and we ate, ate, and ate some more. Then, I ate some more. It was a feast that left many immobile. More important than the food, though, was the company. Nearly all of the 40+ members of the household were in attendance, returning to the days when they functioned as a single unit. The 18 Rue Muzy family was back.

The first potluck.

* * *

“Mais, c’est l’hâlloween!” After such a long day and all of the trouble we had gone through to get to that point, was this brutish Swiss bouncer really not going to let me into the club because of what I was wearing?

The day started early. Despite a late night of drinking and belting “Bohemian Rhapsody” at Spring Brother’s, many of us forced ourselves to wake up early to take a tour of CERN (the European Organization for Nuclear Research), at which our RA Phil was working. Having taken an astronomy course my first year at BU, I am not totally inept when it comes to physics. What is going on at CERN, though, is so far over my head that any effort of mine to try to understand its projects and research would surely melt my brain. As our Italian tour guide took us around the various exhibits and showed us the numerous pieces of equipment used to build the organization’s massive reactors, he spoke of particle interaction, particle acceleration, particle collision, and whole bunch of other things that he might as well have said in Italian, because I didn’t understand a single word of it. Nevertheless, I nodded my head in understanding and even threw in a question or two. I could tell that what he was saying was interesting and felt smarter for simply having heard him speak. Maybe in another life, something will actually make sense.

Something to do with particles.

After relaxing for a few hours back at the Brothel, I met up with my boss and one of her friends at the Geneva hockey game. Working on building a relationship with the team, my boss had been invited to the game by ownership. Knowing I was the only one in the office who had a high interest in sports (I didn’t let her know how little I knew about hockey), my boss made sure she brought me along, somehow thinking I would be an asset in helping her forge this new partnership. For an NGO about peace and non-violence, I didn’t exactly see how a violent sport like hockey fit in, but I wasn’t going to turn down a night of sports. Of course, little to no business was accomplished at the game. Instead, I was lucky enough to enjoy an evening of free beer, free lobster, my boss’ cougar French friend giving her best Mrs. Robinson performance, and a pretty damn exciting hockey game.

When I returned to Rue Muzy, the Halloween celebrations were well underway. Working with what they had, the Brothelites dressed up as beer girls, Bo Peeps, nerds, ski instructors, naughty teachers, and Rasta-men, filled the basement, and saturated themselves with their alcohol of choice. By the time I arrived, it seemed the saturating had been going on for quite some time. I needed to join the party as soon as possible. But first, I needed a costume.

Brothel ladies (not those kind of brothel ladies).

My options in this department were limited. Never the Halloween enthusiast, I made no effort to find a special outfit or disguise for the day. My best option was to resort to the craziest outfit I owned. Luckily, the outfit I had worn to the Prague Tiesto concert would do just the trick. So, throwing on the multi-colored green, purple, and red outfit, I rushed across the street to snag a döner kebab and grabbed a few beers before finally joining my festive housemates as the Most-Winningest High School Football Coach of All-Time.

One word: Handsome.

The plan was never to party at the Brothel all night, though, and I did my best to gather everybody for a late-night trip to Lausanne. While many others were in support of the idea, rounding up the troops proved to be a difficult task. The level of inebriation was quite high, with a certain Rasta-man struggling to stand being but one example. Nevertheless, we were finally able to make our way out of the building and began moving in the direction of the train station. Of course, the walk to the train station was no simple task. Between running wild in Le Jardin Anglais, Teeny’s friend (of a friend) grabbing asses, and taking pictures with statues, the journey to Gare Cornavin was an adventure in and of itself. When we finally did arrive, half of the group somehow managed to disappear, leaving the other half to answer Halloween questions for a pair of Swiss “film students” (in reality, most likely just two creepy dudes with a camera). When the train finally rolled up to the platform around 11:30, we hopped on, hoping the lost half would do the same. After a train ride that was every bit as entertaining as the journey to the Geneva train station, we arrived in Lausanne shortly before 12:30. Stepping off the train, the missing members of the group were found and we began our journey uphill in search of a place to properly celebrate the holiday.

Waiting for the train to Lausanne.

The bouncer at our bar of choice began letting in members of our group one-by-one… that is, until I reached the front of the line. Giving me a stern look up and down, something about my appearance displeased him. Finally, he opened the rope reserved for those who were rejected, and hit me with an emotionless, “Non.”

“Mais, c’est l’Hâlloween!,” I argued. No matter how much I pleaded, though, he was not going to let me in. Of all of the ridiculous outfits that the Brothelites were wearing, mine was simply too informal. Joining me in my misery was Steven and as the rest of the crew went to dance the night away, the Most-Winningest High School Football Coach of All-Time and the Rasta-man walked through the rejection ropes, left to fend for ourselves.

It took another hour or so before we were finally able to find a Halloween party that was friendly enough to allow the absurdly dressed to enter (and even then, only after I put to use my patented, “Mais, c’est l’Hâlloween!” argument). Paying whatever ridiculous cover charge was being asked, we entered the club and hit the dance floor. Our buzzes wearing off and separated from our friends, it wasn’t exactly the Halloween we had in mind, but we were able to salvage whatever bit was left of the night. We had another drink, danced, and even fooled a pair of gullible Swiss girls into thinking that the Rasta dreads – which I was now wearing – were real. By 5am, we were back down at the train station, meeting our friends and ready to travel back to Geneva. It may not have been the ideal Halloween party, but then again, the journey from the Brothel to Lausanne was entertainment enough for one night.

A real life fairy-tale.

2011-12-14T08:49:00.004-05:00

10/19-25/2009: Geneva, Lausanne, and Gruyère

The first week back was rough. Not that being in Geneva was a disappointment. Despite the chilly weather, the glimmering lake and 360º view of mountains could never get old. Having to start an internship was just bad timing, though. In our hearts, we were all thrilled to have been given the opportunity to work at the various international organizations, diplomatic missions, policy groups, magazines, and NGOs we had been assigned to. Having to muster up the excitement immediately following a weeklong 21^st Century Odyssey was just a bit too much to ask for. The first day at my desk was spent reminiscing about the week that was, sending emails of remembrance to the divine dozen Greek travelers, who had, like myself, returned to mortality.

Spending hours a day making spreadsheets certainly was a stark contrast from the week of sailing bliss. Luckily, the grind of the office was broken up by the arrival of two of America’s finest. While I no longer had my family of deities by my side 24/7, the family vibe continued throughout my first week back in Geneva, as my mother and father came to visit. With them in town, I had the perfect excuse to rediscover Geneva. In addition to constant walks along the lake and allowing ourselves to be mesmerized by the mountains, we took to a tour of the United Nations (with my International Organizations class), strolled down busy Rue du Rhône, took in the passionate chess matches at Parc des Bastions, and wandered the windy cobblestone streets of Old Town, where we ate good food, drank good wine, and smiled in the delight of our reunion.

With the weekend’s arrival, the residents of 18 Rue Muzy set out to explore more of the alpine country, some heading to Zurich, others to Lugano. As for Lee, Kathleen, and me, the plan was to venture into France and pay a visit to Mont Blanc, the highest mountain in the Alps. However, having missed the early train and the next bus not leaving until later that afternoon, we had to readjust our travel plans. When in a country that constantly surrounds you with beauty, though, it is not too difficult to find an alternative. Thus, we hopped on the next train and 45 minutes later, we were in Lausanne.

Upon arrival, we were presented with two options: uphill or downhill? Opting for the ease of downhill and another visit to Lac Léman, we began descending the steep city stairs to the bottom of town. After stopping off for lunch, we reached the water, where we were greeted with an unbelievable beauty.

In Lausanne, the mountains that surround Geneva move closer together. On one side of the lake, there is Lausanne, a city that rises from the water on a steep hill. Across the lake, there are the majestic Alps, snow-capped and rising high out of the Léman to cast a serene shadow over the clear water. It was the perfect marriage of land and sea. The only thing to do was to enjoy it for as long as possible. With a cool autumn breeze at our backs and a blindingly bright sun above us, we walked along the lake, alternating between a slow stroll as we gawked at the mountains and a tiptoed dance as we tried to see the Swiss lakeside mansions behind the thick bush-lined fences. It was a near-perfect pleasure (it would have been completely perfect if not for the sometimes-cold Swiss people. Wanting a picture of the three of us, my father asked a moseying young Swiss if he would kindly take a picture. The young man declined with such an insulting smugness, that my father responded with a swift and warranted, “Va te faire foutre!”).

At a small marina, we stopped for a break. Watching the small sailboats move in and out of the dock, I was reminded of my recently developed love of sailing. A week before, I had been on the clear waters and under the sunny skies of the Aegean, sailing past and to paradisiacal islands. Now, all I wanted to do was take a small craft out onto the glistening waters of Léman and simply float under the majestic mountains that soared above me. Instead, I was left to merely sit along the shore and look out at the fantastic portrait that lay before me. How miserable.

It addition to its gorgeous landscape, Lausanne has strong connections to the international sports world. No, Lausanne does not have a powerhouse sports team or generate world-class athletes, but it is home to the International Olympic Committee and its museum located on the shores of the lake. This particular weekend brought additional sporting glory to the Swiss city in the form of the Lausanne Marathon, to be held that Sunday. The final stretch of the course would be a surreal ending to the gruesome race, as it would wind down to the lake, running past the Olympic museum and along the mountain-lined water all the way to the finish line. As if making it to the finish line won’t be enough, gutting out that final mile or so with the seemingly fictional backdrop to cheer the racers on will make those 26.2 miles well worth it.

As the afternoon transitioned into evening, we realized we had yet to even see the city itself. Thus, wrapping up our lengthy stroll along the lakefront, we made the steep climb back to the center of town. By the time we had reached the train station, the climb had become just about all we could handle after having been on our feet all afternoon. Able to muster up that last bit of energy, we began our ascent up the even steeper Rue du Petit-Chène. Along the way, the life and character of the city began to reveal itself. Reaching the top of the hill, it became clear that Lausanne in itself was a tale of two cities. Below the train station sat a quiet town with the alluring beauty of nature. Above the train station sat a quintessential European city, at the center of which sat a quintessential Swiss old town. The streets were cobblestone and the architecture authentic, bringing a simple beauty that this country seems to have perfected. And so, with renewed energy, we explored Lausanne just a little more.

Although the Old Town was certainly aesthetically pleasing, it did not offer a whole lot in terms of sightseeing. However, the main attraction was certainly enough to hold our attention. Strolling down the steady uphill streets, we bent around to the Cathedral of Notre Dame, Lausanne’s towering and spellbinding gothic cathedral. As we approached, we heard the organ from within, emitting a reverent sound that could place the hand of God on even the staunchest non-believer. Walking around the church, we became a part of an eclectic crowd; the touring family mixing with map-wielding tourists, dreadlocked hippies, young artists, elderly couples on an evening walk, and the solitary philosophers. Despite all of their superficial differences, though, they all shared an admiration of the magnificent beauty of the church that loomed over them.

With night upon us, we began to make our way back. After a final glimpse of the golden-lit cathedral from a bridge, we made our final descent toward the train station and hopped on the next train back to Geneva. Arriving in town starved and thirsty, we made our way over to Lord Nelson’s for some grub and a 5-liter tower of amber beer. As we filled our bellies and wet our palates, we smiled, laughed, and relived the day that was, as we closed out another day of blissful family reunion.

* * *

How could one study abroad in Switzerland without visiting a cheese factory? To not visit one would be blasphemous. To avoid such a travesty of travel, the majority of the residents of 18 Rue Muzy set off Sunday on an early train for Gruyère, arriving in the cheese kingdom in the early afternoon. The first stop on the visit was La Maison du Gruyère, home of the famous cheese. Here, we were hit with 40 minutes of a glorious assault on our senses. Upon entrance, we were immediately struck by the aroma of the tangy cheese. Preparing for our tour, we could see in the storage room behind the glass rows and rows of cheese blocks stacked high. Playing on the sensory motif, the audio tour – narrated by Cherry the Cow – led us through the sounds, smells, sites, and feel of both the Gruyère region and its cheese. We watched the large, loud vats mixing the dairy goodness that would be transformed into the famed fromage. At the end of the tour, we were finally allowed to exercise that final, wonderful sense: taste. Tasting the mild, semi-salty, and salty cheeses, the Gryuère Cheese experience was complete.

CHEEEEEEESE!

Leaving the factory, we walked through the pastures and headed uphill. As the land leveled out, we walked into the medieval town of Gruyères. Starved after having smelled nothing but cheese for the last hour, my parents and I stopped of for lunch at a fondue restaurant, opting for the beef and horse meet to dip in the boiling fondue broth. Following the meal, we began our exploration of the town and it quickly became clear that we had walked into a real life fairy-tale. The carless gray stone streets were lined with fused buildings that looked to be straight out of Hansel and Gretel. A large castle of the Middle Ages sits at the edge of the village, an enchanting mixture of citadel and royal residence. Walking through a stone gate, we made our way out to the town’s fortifications. Standing atop the aging wall, we looked out at the vast landscape below. Lying under a melancholy gray sky, deep green rows of evergreen trees lined the bright green grassy fields, with the deciduous trees provided dull flashes of color. This perfect combination of rich green led into the nearby mountains that rose high into the gloomy clouds. Never before had such a sullen portrait looked so beautiful.

The Gruyères landscape.

Rejoining the rest of the Rue Muzy residents, we all gathered together to take a guided tour of the charming town. Our fast-moving, heavily accented Swiss guide sped around town, showing us various houses, the cemetery, and church before leading us into the castle. The interior was a great contrast to the rather rigid exterior, displaying beautiful works of art and an intricate baroque structure. While the guide often moved too fast for me to hear all he had to say, simply walking through the medieval residence added to the fable feeling of the town. At the end of the tour, we all headed back downhill to catch our train, sadly leaving behind the fairy-tale landscape.

Riding back on the crowded train twisting through the mountains, I was glad to have experienced such a fulfilling day with my parents. While I still cherished Greece, the excitement of this past weekend and the weekends of exploration to come became the new focus.

From one dream to another.

2011-11-19T01:41:00.005-05:00

Fall Break: Day 10 – Kea to Athens to Geneva (10/17/2009)

“[Poseidon]!,” Hephaestus screamed.

“Hmph,” responded the slumbering Sea God, passed out on the bow as rain fell heavily upon him.

“[Poseidon], it’s 5:30 and it’s storming. We gotta get goin’.”

“Yeah,” replied the delirious Sea God.

“[Poseidon], we gotta get sailing.”

“Yeah.”

“NOW!,” Hephaestus yelled while shaking his co-captain.

“YEAH!” Poseidon finally came to and jumped up, suddenly ready to take on the heavy rains, strong winds, and turbulent waters in the black early morning. Manning the wheel, Poseidon pulled the boat out of the port and took on his stormy sea.

THUMP!

“OWWW!,” cried Apollo. The Kallisto, bouncing up and down violently in the tempestuous waters of the Aegean, knocked the Sun God from the couch and slammed his head against the kitchen table. Crawling to the stairs, he looked out to see Poseidon steering the boat through the chaotic storm as lightening flashed behind him. He seemed possessed to get the divine dozen back to Athens. His sea was throwing a dangerous tantrum, though, and he soon came to realize that it was not worth risking the mortality of his immortal friends. Pulling the ship back into the port at Kea, he decided to wait out his sea’s fits of rage.

The rising sun transformed the stormy skies from a menacing black to an ominous gray. Soon enough, though, the thunder, lightning, and rain subsided enough to allow Poseidon and Hephaestus to take the Kallisto back out to sea. The waters were choppy and the winds cold, but this would not stop the Gods and Goddesses from enjoying their final day out on the Aegean. With the boat heeling heavily toward starboard and Bob Marley over the speakers, the exhausted deities sat at the stern of the boat, silently expressing nostalgia for the amazing week that was. As they grew more and more awake, they discussed a range of topics from the extraordinary vacation, to which type of alcohol each one represented (courtesy of Athena).

The trip back to Athens was not without some excitement, though. With the boat tilted heavily toward starboard and rocking up and down in the rough waters, one of the buoys managed to slide overboard and into the cold Aegean waters. Not wanting to pay the price for lost property, the Gods and Goddesses turned the ship around to fetch the floating device. The first time back, they were unable to capture the buoy. Turning back a second time, they missed again. And then again. And then again. Time after time, the Gods and Goddesses reached over the edge of the boat – trying their best to avoid falling in – and time after a time, the buoy slipped through their hands. Nearly every divinity made an attempt and all of them failed. Then, Poseidon made an attempt. Naturally, it took the God of the Sea to tame his waters enough to grab hold of the buoy and allow the deities to get back on course to Athens.

Before long, they arrived back at the Port of Lavrion and bid farewell to Kallisto, their home that was. With time before their bus to the airport, the Gods and Goddesses parted ways to grab a bite to eat, the women to find salads, and the men to find the food of Gods: döner kebab. It had been over a week since they had last indulged in this favorite treat of theirs and were willing to pay any price for it. Even they were surprised by what they found, though.

“How much are kebabs?,” Ares asked. The man behind the counter pointed at the sign above, showing the price. “€1.70?!,” Ares asked with surprise. Used to the 10CHF (about €8.10) kebabs of Geneva, the Gods weren’t quite sure how to react, looking around at each other in stunned excitement. Finally, Hermes spoke up.

“We’ll take five.”

* * *

Following the delicious lunch, the divine dozen hopped on the bus and headed out to the airport. As their week of immortality was coming to an end, it was clear that exhaustion was beginning to set in. For one amazing week, they were all Gods and Goddesses sailing in their paradise. They swam in the clear waters of the Aegean. They hiked up mountains in Syros. They took in the breathtaking beaches of Mykonos. They were the life of the party in Chora, Mykonos. They crashed (multiple times) mopeds in Mykonos. They threw a toga party atop Mt. Olympus. They tasted the Greek life of pleasure in Kea. They threw one last bash on the beaches of Kea. They took on the angry seas. And it all added up the greatest week of their lives.

Stepping off the plane in Geneva, Kevin was met with chilly autumn weather not suited for the shorts and t-shirt he still had on. Taking the train into town, he walked out of Gare Cornavin alone and silently walked down Rue du Mont-Blanc, taking in the early evening buzz of the Swiss city. It was a sharp contrast to the warm weather, small islands, and ancient landscape of Greece’s Western Cyclades. But it was no less wonderful. As he crossed the bridge where the Rhône exits the lake, he looked out at a glistening Lac Léman, ripples calmly resonating throughout the water. Looking up, he found Mt. Salève and the Alps lining the horizon of the pale blue and orange evening sky. Looking behind himself, he found the long ridge of the Jura Mountains lining that horizon.

Turning down Rue Muzy in Eaux-Vives, he entered the dorm building. As the other Gods and Goddesses were missing their train connection in Milan (they had not taken a direct flight to Geneva), he was preparing to turn in early, utterly exhausted. Lying in bead, he reminisced about the amazing week with amazing people he had just had. At times, he was even a little sad that it was over. But he took pleasure in the fact that he was back home in Geneva. At worst, he had moved from one dream to another. It may have been cold and mountainous, but he was still in paradise.

Is this love that I’m feeling?

2011-09-08T11:29:00.004-04:00

Fall Break: Day 9 and 10 – Andros to Kea (10/16/2009)

The weeklong celebration of the resurrection of the Gods and Goddesses was beginning to take its toll on the participants. Luckily, life on a sailboat is aptly designed for the relaxation needed for recovery. After a morning to regroup, Kallisto left Andros and set sail on the calm waters of the Aegean, sailing under the cloudy skies en-route to its next destination in the Cyclades. For most of the day, they sat huddled together, discussing everything from Hemingway to which of the Seven Deadly Sins Athena felt each of them personified. “If only we had some Bob Marley,” they wished collectively.

In the early evening, with the gray autumn clouds hanging firmly overhead, the ship pulled into the small port at Kea. Again, they were hit with the quaintness of yet another beautiful Greek isles. Despite the number of boats and a crowd of cars, there was not much excitement along the port. A few shops and restaurants lined the shore, with narrow stairs of stone leading back to the crowded neighborhoods of terraced homes. At the end of this small port, up on the hill, sat a bell tower and charming little blue-domed church. It was from here that the true beauty of Kea was revealed.

Off in the distance, sprinkled in between the vast brown hills, sat villages of house on top of house, rising from sea level to the top of the mountain. At the edge of the island, alone on a hill, sat a small white church, a beautiful paradigm to churches scattered throughout Greece. After exploring their immediate surroundings together, the divinities separated for solo relaxation and exploration. Apollo wandered off alone, winding his way back through the cramped stone streets, across a lovely small cemetery, and back to the blue domed church. Climbing to the top of the bell tower, he took in the silencing view that lay before him. The sunny skies of days past had been replaced by a dark and menacing, yet tranquil gray that draped the island. Paradise comes in all shapes and colors.

With such an amazing journey through the fantasy that is the Western Cyclades, it was easy to forget that out there, a reality did exist. Unfortunately, the reality check hit in a most gruesome fashion. As the Gods and Goddesses relaxed and explored the immediate offerings of Kea, it became known that a dear friend of one of their own had passed away, a young man no older than any member of the divine dozen. To call it heartbreaking would be a gross understatement. Even when in paradise, the tragedies of the world can find their way to you.

But in paradise they were, and selfishly or not, they were going to enjoy Kea to its fullest. What good is paradise if not to help you forget your worries? And, so, with a view offering evidence of an island with much to offer, the deities rented a pair of cars to drive up into the hills of the inviting island.

* * *

“You’re not gonna believe what I found,” stated Hephaestus as Apollo, Athena, Aphrodite, and Iris climbed into the compact rental. Intrigued as to what it could be, the four of them watched curiously as Hephaestus hit eject on the CD player. As the disc slid out, he grabbed a hold of it and revealed to the others what had been left behind: Bob Marley.

The entire week, the Gods and Goddesses had been longing for the smooth sounds of the reggae legend, fully aware that his peaceful words and relaxing rhythms were made for life on the water. Other than two or three songs on various mixes, though, the traveling Gods were forced to endure a week without the sound of the dancing guitars, darting keyboards, steady bases, and smooth horns perfected by Bob Marley and the Wailers. Once again, though, Father Zeus was looking out for them all, presenting them with yet another piece to the utopia puzzle. Better late than never.

The five immortals wasted no time popping the CD back in, immediately beginning to groove to the music. Windows down, they ascended the islands twisting roads, the cool wind blowing their hair as “Is This Love?” played loudly over the speakers. As they rose higher into the hills, the splendor of the island grew more immense. Rocks of brown and fields of green lined the rural road. Approaching the top, the spellbinding blue-gray sea came into sight, fusing with the spellbinding blue-gray sky to create a vast and mystical existence, plainly signifying the infinite beauty of the world. And then Bob’s words hit home: “Is this love that I’m feeling?”

With night fast approaching, the five Gods and Goddesses stopped at the entrance to a small town at the top of the mountain. Before walking through the conspicuous entrance to the town, they took in one final view of the vast island. The island’s brown and green emptiness began to merge into a single shade of darkness, while rays of purple and pink splashed the gray sky as Apollo’s sun began its final descent into the sea.

But even darkness has its beauty, as the deities were soon reminded. Walking through the town gate, they found themselves on the car-less cobblestone streets of an enchanting Greek town. Strolling casually uphill, they were struck with a scene usually reserved for dreams. Golden lights gave a face to stacks of terraced homes rising in crowded unity toward a sky of deep purple. Above the rest sat the light of a small but bright blue cross, casting its grace over the rest of the fantasy town.

Its lure could not be resisted and after sitting in a prolonged state of trance, Aphrodite, Athena, Iris, Hephaestus, and Apollo continued uphill in search of the captivating blue cross. They climbed stares of stone, twisting and turning through the maze of slender streets. They caught the attention of the seemingly perplexed locals, who were not quite sure what this divine group was doing wandering through their quiet town. In an effort to reveal their graciousness, the Gods and Goddesses solicited the townspeople for help, but without positive results. One instance saw a group of curious children scurry away from the approaching Gods, clearly unable to handle the power the five bestowed (surely it had nothing to do with the fact that the Gods approached the children forming menacing crosses with their fingers in an effort to secure directions). The other instance was a simple case of communication incapability, as the townspeople could not speak the language of the Gods (actually, it was the Gods who couldn’t speak the language of the Gods, as the towns people were surely speaking the beautiful Greek that the Gods had once passed along to them). So they continued to wander, climbing more stairs, turning down alleys, following the light the entire way. Then, from the darkness, a bright light.

Although the church was closed to visitors at this later hour, the disappointment over not being able to enter the church that seemed to have roped them in soon passed. From the grounds of the church, the entirety of the mountaintop town came into view. Stepping out on to the roof of a building sitting a step below the church, they looked out over the quiet town, the homes cascading downhill with enough pale golden light to reveal them in the darkness of the night. Next to the church, a young couple enjoyed their evening together in their small apartment. With the soothing sound of trance music playing and glasses of wine, the man attended to his canvas, painting his personal masterpiece while his wife prepared a delicious dinner for the two of them, swaying her hips to the music. It was simple. It was romantic. It was pleasure.

As is always the case, the way back down was much quicker than the journey up and the five deities were soon at the bottom of town ready to head back to the ship. To give their legs a rest from all of the climbing, they relaxed for a few minutes on some park benches, surrounding an empty life-sized chessboard. Always one to indulge in the local delicacies, Athena entered the bakery that sat across from the small park and the rest followed. The short, stout, middle-aged woman running the small shop greeted all of them with a smile and helping hand, helping Athena, in wordless communication, pick out the best treats. Leaving the shop together, the five stopped outside the front door to have a taste of the recommended sweet. One by one, the immortals took a bite of the treat and one by one, they became considerably weak in the knees. The creamy, velvety goodness of the chocolate was unlike anything they had ever tasted. It was chocolate fit for Gods. They had to go back for more.

Following the immediate return-trip to purchase more of the divine chocolate, the five piled back into the car, turned on Bob, and made the winding descent back down to port. Deciding to give chefs Ares and Apollo the night off, the divine dozen chose to take in a family dinner at a restaurant on port. Gathering around the large table, they shared wine and delicious Greek cuisine, toasting one another with several rousing “Yiamas” and a few hearty “Hopa,” bringing joy to their final dinner together in paradise. Following dinner, in the cheesiest of fashions, the Gods and Goddesses gathered on the stern of Kallisto and took turns stating their favorite parts of the trip that was. The Greek Odyssey was quickly coming to an end.

Things were not over quite yet, though. With the reminiscing complete, the deities decided to leave their mark on one final Greek isle. A large supply of beers in hand, many of them headed down shore to find a suitable place to throw one last bash. Walking past a bar that seemed to be throwing the only party in town, the God and Goddesses took a quick peak inside. However, it was quickly decided that the establishment was not suitable enough for the godly group. So, they moved on, eventually stumbling upon a deserted patch of sand fit for Gods.

Turning up the music, the deities cracked open their beverages and in quick, godly (or American college kid) fashion, took down their drinks, just as they had done all week. But this night would not end up as all the others had. The wildness faded fast and they soon moved to the sand, where they sat in a circle talking, gazing at the stars, and listening to The Beatles. They had enjoyed paradise in just about every way possible the past week. Now, they were enjoying it the way it was meant to be enjoyed. With pleasure.

The return to Olympus.

2011-06-08T07:31:00.007-04:00

Fall Break: Day 8 – Mykonos to Andros (10/16/2009)

She looked back to Apollo with looks of indecision and guilt. Aphrodite had enjoyed being Apollo’s riding partner the day before, despite the chunk of skin now missing from her left leg. The thought of surveying the island with someone other than the Sun God just didn’t seem right to her. Apollo insisted she ride with Hestia, though, assuring her that he would be all right without her. He explained that he did not want to injure her anymore than he already had; that riding with Hestia would be safer. The chances of another accident occurring were slim, but Apollo didn’t want to take the chance.

Exhausted and hung-over from the previous night’s antics, the Gods and Goddesses were in need of a cure. With Greek paradise at their fingertips, many chose to hop on their mopeds and explore more of Mykonos, hoping the intense beauty would act as a natural cure. They rode up from the port, climbing the hills of the island as the clouds did their best to fight off the sun. Reaching a significant height, they looked down over the vacant island, the brown land sparsely dotted with white houses before dropping off into the vast dark-blue sea. And just as had happened the day before, the gray clouds lost their grip and the sun seeped through as the radiant blue sky revealed itself. Suddenly, the hangover had disappeared.

Hypnotized longer than the others, Apollo found himself separated from the group along the ride back to port. In an effort to make up ground, he twisted the throttle all the way back and buzzed forward. The clouds had again tightened their hold on the sky, though, and brought along a light rain. Sacrificing time for safety, the God of the Sun eased his grip on the throttle and slowed to a more appropriate speed. He had not slowed down enough, though, and as he began descending a curvy, wet hill, that slim chance of another accident occurring gained weight.

VRROOO––CLUNK!

The back wheel slid out from underneath and Apollo was thrown from the bike.

SHHHHGGGRRRRHHH! CLUNK! Cl-Cl-clunk!

As if sliding into home plate, he dove headfirst along the concrete and gravel as the bike continued bouncing along the road, eventually settling on his leg like a tag from a catcher. Apollo had tried to steal home and was caught. Now he had to deal with the pain.

With a heavy groan, Apollo lifted himself up and looked at his mangled hands. Chunks of skin had been added to the soil of Mykonos and the soil of Mykonos to Apollo’s bloodstream, as the grit and gravel slowed the blood flowing from his palms. With napkins in his pocket from the previous night’s gyro feast, he wrapped his hands and surveyed the rest of the situation. Miraculously, the rest of his body was unharmed and despite a few minor scratches, the bike was also in good condition. Thus, Apollo quickly hopped back on the bike and began his search for medical supplies. Riding to the center of the island, he eventually came across a supermarket and made his way inside.

“Can you tell me where the bandages are?,” Apollo asked. The young, dark-haired girl stared at him with big eyes and an open mouth. English was clearly not a language she understood, but that was all right. The visual aids at Apollo’s disposal needed no words, so he raised his bloodied hands to the cashier. Her puzzled look quickly transformed to one of disgust and nausea as she averted her eyes in an intense cringe, pointing in the general direction of the medical supplies. After making his purchase, Apollo returned to the parking lot and began tending to his wounds. Using the water he had just purchased, he washed his hands of the grime then applied the disinfectant spray.

“AAAAAHHHHHHH!!!” The scream was akin to that of a tortured war prisoner; Apollo had not expected such an intense burn. A man walking past stopped dead in his tracks at the sound, staring in fear at the fragile Sun God. Fighting off the lingering pain with a series of hearty grunts, Apollo gave the man the “I’ll be fine” head nod and wave, endured the pain of the spray to his other hand, and began his journey back to the Kallisto.

After illegally riding through the narrow, cobblestone, pedestrian streets of the beautiful Chora section of town, Apollo dropped the bike off at the rental center and walked back to the boat, dejected and in pain. His depression was short-lived, though, as he returned to a ship full of cheery deities. There may have been a few bumps and bruises along the way, but he could not think of a better Mykonos experience than the one he’d had. He and the rest of the divine dozen had left their mark on paradise and they were sad to leave her behind. As the Kallisto began its departure, Aphrodite and Iris bid one final farewell to Mykonos, hugging the island in a way only a Goddess could.

* * *

“Hey, [Hephaestus]. Could you do me a favor and spray this stuff on my hands.”

“What’s it for?,” the Fire God asked.

“Just some disinfecting spray,” replied the Sun God. Handing over the bottle, Apollo began to cringe, the memory of the previous spray flooding his mind.

“Alright. One… Two...” Before reaching three, Hephaestus doused the hands of Apollo, who strained his screams and groans as best he could. Grimacing with his eyes shut tight and hands burning, he stood for a few minutes to regain his composure.

“Thank you,” he finally let out, feeble sounding and barely audible. Then he went down into the cabin and sat alone, staring at his hands and sulking in his miserable pain. The other deities passed in and out, asking how he was and receiving little more than a half-nod and an “I’ll be OK.” Surely, he was over-indulging in his misery. He needed something to take his mind off of the pain. Then, Demeter came in.

“Oh, are you OK [Apollo]?,” she asked with motherly concern. Apollo smiled meekly and nodded as he continued to look down. “Do you want me to make you a sandwich?,” she offered.

The Sun God looked up in grateful amazement. They were quite possibly the sweetest words he had ever heard. The key to Apollo’s heart was food, especially a good sandwich. Demeter had incidentally stumbled upon that key. Perhaps it was because she is the Goddess of Agriculture; surely she possessed an intuition for feeding her fellow Gods and Goddesses. He accepted her offer and waited with excited impatience as she prepared his meal. Then she placed the sandwich in front of him and he took a big bite out of it. And the pain was gone.

By the time Apollo finished his delicious sandwich, his good mood had returned. Preparing himself an early afternoon drink, he joined the rest of the divine dozen outside. They spent the rest of the afternoon sipping cocktails, sunbathing, taking their daily pit stop to swim in the Aegean, and entertaining themselves with music and dinghy rides as the Kallisto sailed along to its next destination in paradise.

They arrived at Andros shortly before the sun made its final descent into the sea. Pulling into a small port, they quickly began to take care of business. A few went off to restock the food and drink supply, while Athena and Apollo went off to find a small beach suitable for a partying group of Gods. Each journey was successful, as nutritional supplies were found and a nice little cove was discovered. However, as the deities sat relaxing in the Kallisto before dinner, it became apparent that the men hanging around the port were not any they wanted to be around. Pacing back and forth near the boat and making no effort to hide their mischievous stares, the suspicious bunch of characters cast a shadow of worry and doubt over the Kallisto. Leaving the boat to party on a beach was no longer an option. The solution was simple, though, and after rounding up all of the Gods and Goddesses, the Kallisto made the short trip to the middle of the harbor and dropped its anchor. The boat would be their place of refuge for the night.

* * *

“What if we spoke without verbs? Let’s just not use verbs!”

An increasingly intoxicated and toga-clad Poseidon had been throwing out ideas for how to spend the rest of the night, each more nonsensical than the one before. Following another divine meal (which an injured Apollo – who had self-appointed himself a Co-Chef of the ship – could not help prepare) and gender-specific God talk (even Gods need their bro time), the celestial beings lounged lethargically on the bow, sipping beer and waiting for something to happen. Then it came.

“You should really put on a toga,” Poseidon responded to the Gods and Goddesses admiring his fashion choice. It was a thought that had floated around the boat earlier in the evening, but seemed to had been forgotten. It made perfect sense, though. There were at least a dozen white bed-sheets that had not been used the entire week and, on top of it all, they were Gods and Goddesses in GREECE! A toga party in Greece. How could they have forgotten?

The rejuvenated bunch rushed down into the cabin and, with the help of Hestia, applied their togas. Dressed in their traditional attire, the only thing left for the twelve immortals to do was to make the ascent to Mount Olympus. Starting the party off right, they turned on the Isley Brothers’ “Shout” as loud as could be (what would a toga party be without homage to Animal House?) and danced away as the Kallisto transformed into the original home of the Gods. They had made the return to Olympus.

With the stars shining bright, the party raged on. Dance moves were busted out and Dutch beers were drunk in excess.. The only thing left to do was take a late night swim. Thus, ridding themselves of their togas, the divine dozen plunged into the black Aegean for a divine dip.

Paddling his way back to the boat, Apollo asked Poseidon to find a towel for him. Poseidon politely carried out the request and then some. Rather than laying out the towel and allowing it to wait for Apollo’s return, Poseidon launched the towel into the sea. So much for drying off.

And, thus, another day in paradise had come to an end. The Gods and Goddesses dried themselves, lied down on the bow of Olympus, and dozed off under the starlit sky.

One more surprise.

2011-03-13T06:54:00.008-04:00

Fall Break: Day 7 – Syros to Mykonos (10/15/2009)

“HELLO (Hello, hello…)!”

Apollo tried to ignore it. It was far too early for such noise. Certainly it was just a part of his dream. But it only grew louder.

“SOMEONE COME PICK US UP (Up, up…)!”

“ALL RIIIIIGHT (Iiiight, iiiight…)!” With nothing but a tiny, wet blanket covering him, a freezing Apollo awoke. His neck was stiff. His back was killing him. Why did he choose the bow over a bed? Then, he opened his eyes to the bright morning sun breaking through a thin layer of clouds and looked around the cove. He was still in paradise. The pain was gone.

Able to loosen his back and regain some range of motion in his neck, Apollo picked himself up and grabbed Ares and the dinghy to retrieve Hephaestus and Poseidon. They lowered the small boat into the water, hopped in, and stared silently.

“Uhh… Well, I know how to steer it,” Ares said. “Do you know how to start it?”

“Yeah,” Apollo responded unsurely. “It’s just like starting a lawn mower, right?” Ares shrugged and nodded. Grabbing the cord, Apollo gave it a few yanks and the engine began revving. Ares then began steering to shore as the two smiled in self-satisfaction. By themselves, they were incompetent fools. But even two morons can start and steer a small rubber boat.

After a successful rescue mission, Ares and Apollo had a hankering for some more exploring. Thus, dropping Hephaestus and Poseidon off at “Kallisto,” the two continued navigating the small bay. Swinging around the rocky hill on which the tiny white church sat, they entered another inlet. Seeing a small beach, they decided to pull up to shore.

CLUNK!

As they approached shore, the engine smacked into a rock. Ares and Apollo sat silent and stared at each other with looks of concern.

“I think we’re close enough,” said Ares.

“Yea, I’d say so,” Apollo quickly chimed, in nervous agreement. The two hopped out of the boat and walked through the shallow water to the driftwood-filled beach. After a few minutes of mindless exploration, the two decided to head back to the ship. Walking the dinghy out to some deeper water, they hopped in and yanked on the cord. Then they yanked again. And again. And again. For the next few minutes, they took turns trying to start the engine, with nothing but a few gurgles to show for it. They sat dejected, trying to avoid eye contact, as they thought the same thing.

“Are we gonna do this?,” Apollo asked.

“We really have no other choice,” Ares responded. Nodding his head in reluctant agreement, Apollo joined his mythological counterpart in stripping down to his underwear. Throwing their clothes in a pile, they hopped into the water and began paddling back to the ship, taking turns dragging the damaged dinghy. Swimming back, though, they saw “Kallisto” pull out from behind the rocky hill and begin sailing away. Paddling faster, they screamed for their fellow Gods and Goddesses to wait for them. Echoing off the rocky hills surrounding the cove, their cries for help were heard and the “Kallisto” came to a halt, bobbing in the water as it waited for the two inept deities.

Reaching the boat, they climbed the ladder in near nudity, absorbing the playful jeers being thrown at them by the other divinities. Their incompetence in water vessel operation had become a stain on their godly statuses. Having shown a complete inability to help in the navigation of the ship, they relegated themselves to the kitchen. The least they could do was keep the crew full.

* * *

A cool, rather dull day on the Aegean, most of the sailing time was spent lounging as they warmed themselves with blankets and booze. In mid-afternoon, they approached their destination. Floating between the pale, cloud-streaked sky and the deceptively gray water was a brown, barren island with bright white buildings scattered throughout. Even with the less-than-vibrant conditions, it seemed to be a classic vision of Greece. But even the beautiful view with which they were provided upon entering the harbor did the island no justice.

After docking the boat, a few of the mythological crewmembers conducted some preliminary research around the port, finding a cheap moped rental center situated across the street. Many had never driven a motorized bike before, but how hard could it be? Plus, what better way was there to see the island? Thus, the divine dozen paired up and rented six. Following a few minutes of unsafely test-driving the sensitively accelerating vehicles, the pairs sped off to meet Mykonos.

They rode uphill in search of a beach, while Apollo’s sun fought hard to burst through the clouds. Along the way, Aphrodite, riding with Apollo, burst with joy at the surrounding beauty, telling him every 15 seconds to look and see how gorgeous everything was. He tried his best to ignore the distractions and keep his eyes on the road, but something stunning appeared before them and they pulled over with the rest to take a closer look. With a few clouds suddenly breaking apart, the bright glow of the sun shone down on Chora, Mykonos, illuminating the vividly white dream world. The definition of beauty had just evolved.

Eventually pulling their eyes from the amazing sight, the Gods and Goddesses continued their search for a beach. Eventually, they came across a small, sandy strip of shoreline that only added to their vision of paradise. As the sun continued to fight off the surrounding clouds, they spread out across the sand, lounged in the vacant chairs, and, despite its cool October temperature, splashed around and snorkeled in the clear Mediterranean water. Only the divine could have created such a perfect image.

Leaving the beach, they continued their exploration of the island, riding along streets of ancient-looking stone walls, high into the hills of the barren beauty. Winding in and out, they soon came across the sight of another small beach and took the descent down to the water. The sandy beach that lay before them was, with the exception of a few rows of beach umbrellas, deserted. The possibilities were endless. It certainly was the prefect spot to hold a private, mythological celebration from sunset to sunrise. But could they get the boat their?

“I’ll go scope it out,” Poseidon volunteered. With an energetic excitement, the God of the Sea took off at full sprint across the sand, hopped on his moped, and sped up the steep hill to investigate the surroundings. Whatever the possibilities, though, the immortal crew decided against a private beach party, opting instead for an evening of conventional raging. Thus, they paired back up and began the difficult trek back up the hill. The steepness of the road made it difficult to drive uphill with two people on the bikes, forcing many to walk a portion of the way. Apollo and Aphrodite were able to successfully reach the top without having to do so, though, and leaned against a stone wall as they waited for the others to arrive. Once everyone had finally reached the top, Apollo started the bike, revved the sensitive throttle, and…

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Over and over again, the moped bounced off of the stone wall. In a panic, Apollo pulled harder on the throttle, only making matters worse. After a few seconds, he realized that letting go would be the best option, and the bike came to a standstill. He hopped off and began assessing the damage. Miraculously, he was unscathed. No cuts, no bruises, not even a tiny scrape. However, Aphrodite had not been so lucky, as blood began pouring from her knee and racing down her leg. Apollo felt terrible, apologizing over and over to the injured Goddess. In true Goddess of Love fashion, though, Aphrodite did not blame Apollo and continued to smile. It was impossible to be angry in such a beautiful place, she explained. Thus, with an uncanny ability to forgive and a few tissues to wipe up the blood, Aphrodite hopped back on the bike with Apollo and they joined the others in further exploration of the beauty Mykonos had to offer.

* * *

Continuing their contribution to the “Kallisto,” Ares and Apollo fired up the stove and prepared another meal fit for Gods. The delicious pizzas kept coming, the wine flowed, and the beer spewed (an issue with the mini-keg created a beer geyser. The Gods had to resort to ladling beer) as the mythological crew began their celebrations of another incredible day in paradise. Sufficiently stuffed and adequately wet, they decided to take the party elsewhere, going in shifts out to the road to be taken to the center of town.

“All right, who’s coming next?,” Poseidon asked. Athena, Hephaestus, and Apollo were the only three left on ship, trading shots, dance moves, and playful derisions (mostly thrown in the direction of Athena). Ready to move on, Apollo exited the boat and hopped on the back of Poseidon’s moped. With little warning, the Sea God twisted the throttle and the bike took off. Apollo had no choice but to endure the increasing speeds and sharp turns as Poseidon took him on a joyride.

“Man, these things are fun to drive drunk,” Poseidon exclaimed as they reached the main road. Apollo thanked Zeus for letting him survive.

Reaching Chora, it became apparent that some of the divine were already falling victim to the night. This would not slow the rest of the deities, though, and they began their search for the proper establishment. Along the way, they were split up, and Athena, Hera, Iris, Hephaestus, and Apollo found themselves at “Argo.” The setting was mellow and the crowd was light, but they had come to party, and party they would. Securing beverages for themselves, they hit the dance floor. Hephaestus pulled out with his signature flowing shirt-pull, Apollo threw in a series of uncoordinated yet animated moves, and Hera delighted with her backwards worm. The crowd loved them and circled around to join in on the fun. As the God of Fire continued showcasing his dancing prowess, he drew looks of admiration and what looked like desire from the heavily male crowd. Mykonos, after all, is known for its popularity with the gay community. Such connotations were of no concern, though, and he continued to put on a show until the four decided to leave to meet with their friends.

Walking down the street, they ran into the other eight outside “Jackie O’s.” Rejoicing in reunion, they lounged on the comfortable chairs and couch outside the bar, planning their next plan of attack. They looked out at the calm, black sea that lined the street, cruise ships twinkling in the distance. With such serenity, Hephaestus, Ares, and Apollo decided that there was no better time for a swim than right that instant. Disrobing, they hopped over the wall, climbed over the rocks, and waded out into the sea for a midnight swim. Splashing around with drunken enthusiasm, they did their best to convince others (particularly the Goddesses) to join them. Unfortunately, their cries for potential partners in crime were met with threats of phone calls to the police. Thus, the late night dip was cut short and the three Gods returned to more conventional means of celebration.

While the bar had bumping music and a fair crowd, the dancing space was not quite to the liking of the divine dozen. Thus, they made due with what they were given and moved the dance party to the tables. Fighting off the initial stares of other patrons, and the occasional creepy Greek suitor, the Gods and Goddesses rocked out on the tiny white café tables for the next hour or so before deciding collectively to make a return to “Argo.” With a larger crowd, including a group of American students studying in Rome, the “Kallisto” crew continued their night of nirvana. Crazy dances were danced, drinks were drunk, and faces were eaten. What could have possibly made the night any better?

* * *

“Hold on. We have one more surprise,” Ares called out.

“What’re you talkin’ about, man?,” Apollo asked.

“We still have one more person,” the God of War answered.

Looking around, Apollo replied, “No we don’t. We’re all here. Everybody else went back,” the Sun God replied as he, Aphrodite, and Iris began to enter the taxi. But Ares shook his head.

“Follow me.”

Walking down the cobblestone street, he led them along the waterfront, past closed shops and restaurants and away from what remained of the early morning nightlife. Just before reaching the destination, he turned to the other three and made his request.

“Okay. Whatever you do, don’t laugh,” Ares asked of them. The other three turned to one another with quizzical looks, wondering what there could possibly be to laugh at. Then, turning around the slight curve, they saw what they had come to find, and burst into an uncontrollable laughter.

Perched against the wall of a seaside shop, a young lady slept with her long, light brown hair shielding her face. To her right and her left sat two family-sized bags of potato chips, their contents exhausted, much of it littered on her slumbering body. It did not seem as if the Goddess of Wisdom had exercised good judgment this time around, and once the other four Gods and Goddesses finished their hysterics, they awoke Athena and helped her to her feet. However, while the others were ready to head back to the ship, Miss Chips had other plans, and took off in the other direction, settling at a small beach nearby.

Keeping their mythological mate company, Aphrodite, Iris, Ares, and Apollo looked out at the still sea. So dark. So soothing. So serene. Just as was the case earlier in the night, the time for a swim never seemed more appropriate. The four hesitated, though. The temperature was growing chilly, and the water certainly would be much colder. So they stood and debated. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Athena came sprinting out of the background and plunged into the Aegean.

“Oh my God! It’s SO COLD!,” Athena exclaimed after she emerged. And, thus, the debate was over. Despite the confirmed frigid temperature of the water, they could not allow a fellow deity to swim alone, so the other four followed suit and raced into the sea. They treaded water, sharing laughs and stories about the day that was as they tried to stay warm. At one point, a police car came into view. And without a care, it drove right past the bathing immortals. No one would dare disturb them from enjoying the beauty of the black, empty sea and all its gorgeous surroundings.

Sobered from the cold, pre-sunrise swim, the five headed back to the taxi stop and dried off before heading back to the port. The girls headed out first, as Ares and Apollo took the time to enjoy their gyros, the brother of the kebab. Sitting on the stone wall with their feet dangling over the water, they took in a final gaze at the dark night. It was perfect. And it made sense why the Gods and Goddesses lived in Greece.

The meaning of yellow.

2011-02-13T05:55:00.007-05:00

Fall Break: Day 6 – Lavrion to Syros, Greece (10/14/2009)

It seemed too good to be true. There was absolutely no way anybody would let twelve American college kids take a sailboat for a five-day adventure around the Greek Western Cyclades. Granted, they were a fairly responsible bunch, but when talking about college students, responsibility is a relative term. It was only a matter of time before Ashton Kutcher would pop out of his trailer to inform them that they had been Punk’d.

But Ashton never came, nor the guys who ran the rental company, for that matter. They set sail, venturing out into a sea soaked with the color of the rising sun. As it crept over the horizon, its pale orange glow painted the sky purple as it transitioned from the brooding black of night to the bright blue of day. Drifting further and further away, what seemed a dream became reality: they were sailing the Greek Isles. So they let George Harrison and The Beatles carry them into the Aegean.

“Here comes the sun.

Here comes the sun,

And I say

It’s all right…”

* * *

“Would you guys mind if I took my top off?”

Lying on the dinghy, Apollo and Aphrodite looked over to the edge of the bow at a sunbathing Artemis. The Goddess of Love filled the air with her flitting, raspy laughter and her omnipresent cheeriness, conveying her steadfast approval of the request. Not wanting to deprive the Huntress of his brilliant sun, the Sun God gave his consent, as well. With a vow to obstruct the view of others and a gentlemanly promise from Apollo not to glance over, Artemis soaked-in the Mediterranean sun the only way she knew how.

Accidents do happen, though. With the scenery as beautiful as it was, it was difficult for Apollo to remember his gentlemanly oath.

“Can you pass me my drink?”

Briefly pausing his conversation with Aphrodite, Apollo reached over the grab Artemis’ cocktail. As he reached back to hand the glass to her, his absent-mind and wandering eyes were met with the sight of the bare-chested Huntress. Technically, he hadn’t even broken his promise, as he had only seen the left of the two. Nevertheless, he did his best to remain noble. Turning away without a word, the Sun God renewed his vows.

With Hermes, Poseidon, and Hephaestus alternating control of the ship, the rest of the Gods and Goddesses relaxed – drinks in hand – as they floated across the water. From moments of solitude staring at a beauty they never knew existed, to moments of unity singing and dancing along to their personal soundtracks, the deities remained in a state of astonishment. They were in paradise.

With blue skies, warm temperatures, and crystal clear water, the divine dozen chose to take a break from sailing for a pit stop in the middle of the Aegean. As they prepared themselves for a dip, Hephaestus hoisted up and perched himself on the mast, pondering a plunge into the sea. However, as he sat towered above the rest, he did everything he could to delay his dive, taking pictures and fielding the cries of the Goddesses for him not to jump. If not for the instigation of Apollo, he very well may have given. The encouragement of his fellow bro was enough, though. Tip-toeing out to the end of the spreader, Hephaestus took a few deep breaths, then flew out in front of the sun and plunged into the sea.

SPALSH!

A few seconds passed with no sign of the Fire God. Had he been swallowed by the sea? Then came the gurgles of an emerging body.

“F#@& YEAH! THAT WAS AWESOME!!!” He had survived. Thus, in celebration, the rest joined him for a swim. One by one, the Gods and Goddesses leapt off the side of the boat and into water more clear than that of a swimming pool. They were miles from any sort of beach and nowhere near being able to touch the floor of the sea. With nothing but a drifting sailboat to keep them from being stranded, they waded away in the Aegean Sea. Heaven had come to Earth.

By late afternoon, they dropped anchor at a small port at the island of Syros. Mountains rose out of the sea, nearly encompassing the small village at which the Gods and Goddesses found themselves. With an urge to explore, most of the mythological beings headed to shore, rented a car, and headed to the island’s main city. Exhausted from a hellish few days of travel, though, Apollo stayed behind. Joined by Hephaestus, the two spent the next couple of hours relaxing and exploring the cove in which they were situated. Before long, though, they, too, headed to shore in search of beauty and their friends.

Reaching shore, they hopped off the dinghy and raced up the nearest rocky hill, atop of which sat a small white church that was quintessential Greece. From the one-room church, they headed down into the village, hoping to squeeze out a few more moments of daylight as the glimmering sun fell into the sea. They wandered through the village, taking in its quiet streets and livestock. Before long, night was upon them and they began their short trek back to the port.

The way back was led by a scruffy village dog that seemed to be their all-knowing protector. With the Gods of the ship being Apollo, Hermes, Ares, Hephaestus, and Poseidon, it was only natural to be on the lookout for Zeus, the God of Gods. Perhaps they had found him. That little dog led them all the way back to the dinghy, but as Apollo and Hephaestus tried to have him hop on, the little Zeus took off. The Supreme God didn’t have time to waste on the drunken escapades of lesser deities.

Back at the boat, Apollo and Hephaestus awaited the return of their comrades. As time passed and the night grew darker, though, there was no sign of the other ten. They were growing quite worried about the whereabouts and wellbeing of their friends, but they were also growing quite famished. The question was, to search or to eat? Searching would be the noble thing to do, but how could they expect to effectively search on an empty stomach? Curing their hunger was really for everyone’s best. Thus, they struck up the stove and began preparing dinner. Then, a flashing light.

From the shore came the blinking of headlights. The others had finally returned. Hephaestus rescued them and brought them back to the ship. Dancing around to the techno-infused soundtrack of Aphrodite, the Gods and Goddesses began celebrating their first successful day of sailing as Ares joined Apollo and Hephaestus in the cooking duties. Eventually, the divine dozen sat down to dinner. As they made their toasts, Apollo felt he needed to get something off of his chest. Thus, with the attention of his superhuman counterparts, he made his confession: he had seen Artemis’ left boob. What was left to do but to toast to it? And so that is what they did. Raising their beers and glasses of wine, the big, happy mythological family toasted to Artemis’ left boob. When it was all said and done, it was a meal fit for Gods.

But the night had just begun. Well supplied with beer and good spirits (alcoholic and otherwise), the kids were looking for a good time. Luckily, they had Athena on board. With a set of dice on hand, she introduced her family of higher beings to “3-Man,” a game of debauchery in its finest form. However, the fun did not truly begin until Aphrodite rolled a five and introduced the greatest drinking game rule of all-time: British accents. Some were English, some were Scottish, some were Irish, and some were none of the above. Nevertheless, the following hour certainly made for some hilarious conversation as they did their best to imitate the speech of a drunken Brit. This matter was made all the more entertaining when Athena so inconsiderately made a no cursing rule, as the stubborn Gods chose to disregard the new law, paying their penalty as they continued on in their vile manner of speech.

Several beverages consumed and the early morning approaching, a handful of Gods and Goddesses decided to turn in for the night. For others, however, the night was still young. Their exploratory urges unsatisfied, Poseidon, Hephaestus, Hermes, Athena, Aphrodite, and Apollo hopped on the dinghy and rode to shore to conquer the mountain towering above the sea. However, ill-prepared to sleep at the peak, four of the Gods and Goddesses decided to turn back, leaving Poseidon and Hephaestus to conquer the mountain on their own.

Arriving back at the ship, Aphrodite and Apollo took a final gaze at the stars while Coldplay’s “Yellow” blasted over the speakers. It is a song whose meaning Chris Martin will have you convinced he doesn’t even know. But on that cozy night on the Aegean Sea, the meaning of yellow was discovered. Staring at the clear night sky, Apollo had never before seen the stars shine so brightly. They were shining for him and his friends; for all the things they had done and would do on their ensuing journeys. For this group of Greek Gods and Goddesses, yellow was a Greek night. Yellow was adventure. Yellow was friendship. Yellow was life.

Fall Break: Days 4 & 5 – Ancona, Italy to Patros, Greece, to Athens, Greece, to Port, Greece (10/12-13/2009)

2011-01-30T06:47:00.004-05:00

48 hours of traveling hell.

It was the moment of truth. I had just traveled ten hours in the direction opposite of where I needed to go without any assurance that there would be a ferry to take me closer to my final destination. There was a strong possibility that I would be spending the rest of my break in Italy. I suppose worse things could happen to a man.

I descended the ship around 7am, the dim light of the morning beginning to glow brighter. My first order of business was to see if and when I could be taken back across the Adriatic. Entering the ticket center, I found every counter closed and not another person in sight. It must have still been too early for the ticket booths to be open. Luckily, my nerves were put to rest by the posted times and destinations of the various ferries. It may not have been Athens, but there was a ferry that would be leaving for Patras, Greece at 1:30pm. My gamble had paid off.

With six hours on my hands, I decided to explore this Italian town that I had never planned to visit. After my wanderings, I wouldn’t be too upset if I never made a return visit to Ancona. Other than the Cathedral of St. Ciriaco and a beautiful view of the Adriatic, there is not much to see. From the port I walked through the fairly quiet town down a street that tries to emulate the section of Boston’s Commonwealth Avenue that runs from Fenway up to the Public Gardens, but contains the beauty of the section of Comm. Ave that runs from Packard’s Corner to Boston College. In essence, it was ugly. Reaching the end of the street, I took a seat near the Cathedral and gazed out over the deep blue sea. And that was about all Ancona had to offer.

I returned to the port around 10:30, figuring enough time had passed for the ticket booths to open up. Other than an electrician fixing some lights, though, the building was still empty. Walking into connecting convenience store, I did my best to communicate with the elderly Italian gentleman running the shop. He spoke no English and the only Italian I know comes from The Sopranos, The Godfather, and Goodfellas. I don’t think “Vaffanculo” would have been the appropriate phrase to pull out to show off my Italian. Through various hand motions and showing my ferry ticket from Split to Ancona, the old man was able to understand what I was asking, though. Spewing out a whole bunch of Italian, he pointed in the direction of the ticket center. Pointing to my wrist to find out what time the booths would open, the man pointed down to indicate that they were open “right now.” Perhaps the seller had just gone on a short break and would return soon. I thanked the man for his help, bought a few snacks, and returned to the ticket center to wait the return of the seller.

After a half hour of popping peanut M&M’s, there was still not a soul to be found. So has been the theme of this trip thus far. Why should traveling from one destination to another be simple? When I am able to purchase the ticket, I can’t seem to find the transportation to my destination. When I am able to find the transportation to my destination, I can’t seem to purchase the ticket. What kind of twisted world am I living in?

Around 11:30, somebody finally appeared behind one of the booths. Luckily, she was able to speak a bit of English and was able to explain to me that the tickets for the ferry to Greece were to be purchased in another building two kilometers down the road. I would have loved to stick around and discuss the illogicality of the situation, but any sense of logic seemed to have disappeared when I embarked on this trip. It was time to accept the fate of this Murphy’s Law world I was living in. How silly of me to think that the ticket sales for the ferries would take place at the port.

Naturally, the walk to the ticket center was not without issue. A beautifully sunny day up to that point, clouds descended upon Ancona and began dumping rain at an unbelievably high rate. Finally reaching the building, I wrung out my shirt and squeaked my way over to the ticket counter. The young lady at the counter seemed to sense that I had had a difficult time reaching the place and was kind enough to have some mercy on me. Despite the fact that all ten travel days had been used up and it expired two days earlier, the woman allowed me to use my Eurail Pass to receive a discount on my ferry ticket. She was also kind enough to inform me that a shuttle bus runs between the ticket center and the port, saving me another trip through the monsoon. Finally, a positive experience. God doesn’t hate me as much as I thought.

The luck didn’t last long, though. After boarding the ferry, I went upstairs to the pool deck to enjoy the fresh air. Hearing a group of familiar accents, I sat down with a group of young, rag-tag Americans and we discussed our travels over a beer. Listing the places we had been, I noticed that we had visited many of the same cities throughout Europe. As I began to talk about what I did in the various cities, though, my experiences suddenly became inferior in the eyes of the dirty wanderers.

In a slow-paced, LSD-trip voice, one of the young men said to me, “Man, you haven’t seen anything. You’re just a tourist, man. We see the real city. We experience the people, man.” I had come across travel snobs. What was worse was that they had nothing to be snobby about. Traveling to get to know the people of a particular land is a wonderful, unique experience. It requires time, though. No matter how many remote neighborhoods you wander through, how many dive bars you drink at, or how many “real” locals you speak with, an entire culture of people cannot be learned in three or four days, which is the maximum amount of time these dread-locked bohemian’s had spent in each of the places they had visited.

Why the traveler who takes in a city’s main attractions is seen as second-rate is beyond me. I am very thankful to have visited many cities throughout this great continent. I have taken in historical monuments, witnessed the works of the world’s finest artists, visited beautiful churches and other architectural beauties, eaten the local cuisine, and even interacted with some locals, who are just as real as anybody the snobs have met on their journey. One day, I would like to travel for the purpose of plunging into another culture. A fast-paced trip across Europe is not the time and place to do so, though. The world’s most famous sights are famous for a reason and are just as much a part of a city’s culture as that seedy bar on the outskirts of town. On one’s first trip to a city, not visiting these architectural, historical, and cultural landmarks would be a great injustice. If it means being referred to as the dreaded “tourist,” then so be it.

Having taken in my daily dosage of snobbery, I left the rag-tags and wandered around the ship for a bit. Returning to the top deck, I was met with another problem: the monsoon conditions had returned. Trying to save a few bucks, I didn’t buy a ticket for a bed. If the weather were pleasant enough, I figured I’d just sleep on the top deck. However, while there was a roof over my head, there were no windows to block the cold hurricane winds and pellets of rain from pummeling me. I went back inside to search for a place to sleep, but every potential sleeping accommodation was flanked by a “No Sleeping Allowed” sign. Since when did it become acceptable to outlaw sleeping? I contemplated the prospect of psyching myself into sleeping out in the cold, but as the ship began to noticeably sway and bounce in the stormy waters of the sea, I decided I’d take my chances with the sleep Gestapo.

* * *

WHACK!

“OWWW!” I thought I was going to make. I had gotten six hours of solid sleep without the secret sleep police catching me in the act. At 6am, though, they found me and were going to beat me senseless over the head for the heinous crime I had just committed. With my back to my abuser, I sat up and turned around to meet my fate. To my pleasant surprise, I was met with the smiling face of a little Italian boy wielding a toy hammer. I guess that’s one of the downsides of sleeping next to the children’s play area.

I tried my best to fall back asleep, but with many passengers debarking the ship at its first stop in Igoumenitsa, there was too much commotion. Thus, I was left to circle the ship, munching on the last of my bag of chips as I drooled over the high-priced breakfast platters. As the sun came up, I noticed the storm had subsided and decided to return to the top to wait out my last few hours on the ship, watching the remote Greek islands as we floated along. And then the string of good luck finally came.

I was so excited to see that there was a ferry from Ancona to somewhere in Greece that I didn’t even consider how I would get from Patras to Athens. As the arrival time drew nearer, this important fact finally dawned upon me. To go along with this major question mark was the fact that my friends were planning on hitting the open waters at 2:00pm. My ETA for Patras wasn’t until 10:30. Even if I were to catch a bus to Athens right away, it would take at least four hours to get there, plus another hour or so to get from Athens to the port where our sailboat was docked. There was no way I would be able to make it in time. As I was fretting over this fact, though, I received a text from Kelsey saying that the weather was pretty rough in Lavrion, delaying departure until the following morning. No more than 15 minutes later, I heard an announcement over the loud speaker that gave information about a bus that would be waiting at the port to bring passengers to Athens. The Greek Gods must have been watching over me.

* * *

The ferry pulled into Patras right on time and after waiting an hour or so for the bus to arrive, I was finally on my way to Athens. After a four-hour bus ride through the alternately green and barren Greek countryside (that included a rest stop that allowed me to check Greece off of my international McDonald’s list), I was dropped off on some random sidewalk in the middle of Athens. Thanks to the morning’s inclement weather, I was now in no real rush to get to the sailboat, leaving me some time to see at least one sight in this most ancient of cities. Just like Rome, ancient ruins are around every corner in Athens. It did not take me long to find something, as steps away from where I was let off sat a field of crumbling columns. I didn’t even know what I was looking at; the columns may have once held up an ancient Greek whorehouse. Whatever the building may have once been didn’t matter, though. The fact that my eyes were rested upon a structure thousands of years old was enough for me.

Not far from where I was let off lay perhaps the most famous sight in the entire world: the Acropolis. With the remains of temples dedicated to Athena (Athena Nike) and various other structures dedicated to ancient Greek rulers, several thousand years of history were at my fingertips. I would have loved to pay the admission to wander around the area, but between all of the ruins and the guaranteed amazing view of Athens that I would get, I surely would miss the last bus out to Lavrion.

Of course, I really had no clue where I was going. There was a good chance I was going to miss the last bus anyway due to my traveling incompetence, so maybe wandering around the Acropolis wouldn’t have been such a bad idea. I descended the hill in search of a metro station, walking up and down the narrow car-crowded streets without any luck. After several unsuccessful attempts to find a Greek who spoke English, I finally came across a young lady who pointed me in the right direction. The Greek Gods must have still been on the lookout, as I hopped on the bus just two minutes before it pulled away. Following an hour-long trip, I was dropped off at the bus’ final stop. As I walked over to the find the boat, Brian and Christian met me and I gave the two bros a hug of relief. My 48 hours of traveling hell had finally come to an end.

I joined the rest of the crew for dinner at a nearby mafia-themed restaurant before we returned to the boat for a little pre-departure celebration. With a stogie in mouth and a glass of Gentleman Jack in hand, the twelve of use took turns toasting to what was sure to be one of the greatest experiences of our lives. Surely we had to be the first group of college kids creative/crazy enough to embark on a self-navigated sailing trip through the Greek Western Cyclades. We were going to become study abroad legends.

Before turning in for the night, there was one final order of business to be taken care. Since we were to embark on a trip made for Gods and Goddesses, it was only right that we adopt appropriate names. Thus, on that warm October night just outside of Athens, twelve Greek Gods and Goddesses were reincarnated: Artemis, Athena, Hestia, Hera, Aphrodite, Iris, Demeter, Hermes, Ares, Poseidon, Hephaestus, and Apollo. A new Greek mythology was about to be written.

Fall Break: Day 3 – Split (10/11/2009)

2011-01-16T06:51:00.005-05:00

Life’s a gamble.

As a young traveler, sleeping arrangements is usually the last thing on my mind. Only twice – Interlaken and Prague, Part II – have I made reservations. I have spent many a night sleeping on uncomfortable hostel cots, back breaking train station floors, and boiling hot Italian trains. However, after two rather sleepless nights in the uncomfortable settings of a cramped overnight train compartment and a freezing train station waiting room, I took advantage of the massive bed offered to me at the B&B in Split, sprawling out and sleeping until 10am. The travel grind has definitely begun to take a toll.

Finally dragging myself out of bed, I walked out onto the wet streets, trying my best to take cover from the heavy rainfall. Instead of heading to the port to buy my ferry ticket to Greece, as I had originally planned, I opted, instead, to take cover in the closer-by Diocletian’s Palace. The center and focal point of Split, the palace was built by the Roman Emperor Diocletian around the 4^th century. With the rain pouring, I paid entrance to the elaborate basement. Moving through the ancient underground space, I enjoyed the architectural character of each room, as well as the various artifacts scattered throughout.

As the rain began to settle, I made my way out to the various courtyards and eventually emerged from the heavily fortified walls into the wide-open center of the palace. I strolled along the narrow, stone streets of this small, walled city within a city, marveling at how wonderfully preserved this site seemed to be. While the restaurants and shops were filled with modernity, the structures housing these establishments seemed to be in their original form, as constructed nearly 2,000 years ago. I don’t doubt the palace has seen its share of renovations over the years, but it does not seem to have lost its original appeal. Walking through the ancient Roman fortress truly allows one to go back in time.

Making my way back to the center of the walled city, I made my way over to the Cathedral of St. Duje and began my climb up the bell tower. Walking up the steep, frail stairs is not for the faint of heart. Once I reached the top, though, the careful steps, racing heartbeat, and sweaty palms were worth it. The sight from the top not only offered a bird’s-eye of the palace, but also a phenomenal, full panoramic view of the entire city of Split. Between the mountains to the north and the water to the south, a sea of orange roofs painted a vibrant picture of this beautiful city. Descending the hazardous staircase, I continued my exploration of the palace, making my way to the different gates and rubbing the toe of the Dumbledore-esque Gregory of Nin statue just beyond the north entrance (it is said to bring good luck). Eventually, I was able to pull myself away and head over to the port, beaming with the satisfaction that I had happened upon this city of great history and beauty. This satisfaction would be short-lived, though.

* * *

There are two types of travelers in this world: the planners and the improvisers. In addition to my lack of reserving sleeping accommodations, I mostly travel without any type of research into my place of destination. Sure, my existence as a living, breathing, half-intelligent human being has given me previous knowledge of the history and attractions of many of the cities and countries I have visited. However, with each of my traveled destinations, I have enjoyed the wandering that accompanies my lack of preparation, as well as the accepting of tips from both locals and fellow travelers. This combination of wandering and advice allows for an element of surprise; the pleasure of the unexpected. Sure, most of the places I stumble upon or am told to visit are the so-called “touristy spots,” but what would Paris be without that view from atop Montmartre? What would London be without walking across Abbey Road? What would Rome be without Trevi Fountain? What would Barcelona be without Parc Güell? What would Split be without Diocletian’s Palace?

The “Planner vs. Improviser” not only applies to activities within the city, but also the process that involves getting from place to place. However, while I have missed a few trains, I have never had difficulty in finding an effective and convenient means of transportation from one location to the next. That is, until today.

While a large part of my coming to Croatia was based on the recommendation of the two soldiers, perhaps the largest reason was because, geographically, Croatia is quite close to Greece, my ultimate destination for the week. Because of this, I felt there was no research necessary. Certainly there would be a ferry that ran from Split to somewhere in Greece. Even if the port of call wasn’t near Athens, a bus to the capital couldn’t be that hard to find. When I walked up to the ticket counter at Split’s port, though, I was hit with something so terribly unexpected.

“Hi. Where in Greece do the ferries let off?”

“There are no ferries to Greece.”

“Oh… Well, that’s alright. When does the earliest ferry for Greece leave tomorrow?”

“No. There are never ferries that go to Greece.” Uh-oh.

“Is there a way I can to Greece?”

“We go to Ancona, Italy.”

“Can I catch a ferry to Greece from there?”

“I think so.” I think so?! My only chance at getting to Greece was to travel in the opposite direction across the Adriatic and then once there, my only assurance that I would eventually make it to Greece was “I think so?!?” I stepped away from the counter and mulled over my unattractive options. A flight was out of the question. Either a train or a bus would require multiple, potentially unreliable transfers. My best alternative was to head further down the coast to, say, Dubrovnik and hope they would have a more direct ferry. I returned to the counter to ask the ticket sales-woman if there were any ferries from Dubrovnik to Greece, but was met only with a shrug of ignorance. There was nothing left to do. I bit the bullet and bought a ticket for Ancona. So much for the good luck from Gregory. I guess preparation has its advantages.

* * *

I spent the rest of my day exploring other parts of this gem of the Dalmatian Coast. I strolled over to Marjan Hill, enjoying the peace and quiet of the shady, green park and smooth, blue sea. My frustrations put to rest, I cut back across town and over to Bacvice beach (unaware that I had been steps away from the supposedly more scenic Kasjuni and Bene beaches). While not packed to the extent that I’m sure it is in the dog days of summer, the beach still had a large crowd of families and young adults, soaking in the now sunny day and swimming in the shallow, cool blue autumn water. With my departure time inching closer, I chose to spend the rest of my time in Croatia sipping on a beer on the shores of the Mediterranean, the clear water glistening as the bright sun began its evening descent.

As I sat in silence enjoying the scenery of happy families and the calm of the sea, my head filled with dueling thoughts of excitement about the day that had been and thoughts of frustration and the unknown. Experiencing Split was truly a blessing, but the uncertainty of where I would end up next was, no doubt, weighing on me. Finally boarding the ferry for Ancona, I let my worries slip away with the simple notion that there was nothing I could do. Life’s a gamble and sometimes chances, no matter how inconvenient, must be taken. My travels to this point have been full of all types of risk taking. Now, I was ready to roll the dice again.

Fall Break: Day 2 – Zagreb to Split (10/10/2009)

2011-01-08T06:33:00.004-05:00

It’s only fitting.

Sometimes, when the stars align and the planets are in a row, something extraordinary happens. A man can take every measure to fully prepare himself: sleep at the train station, wake up an hour before his train takes off, and head out to the platform 30 minutes before departure. Yet, the impossible can still occur. Under just the right circumstances, that man of preparation and diligence can still miss his train.

I could have crashed on a comfortable couch at one of the soldiers’ apartments. Instead, I chose to endure a night sleeping in the uncomfortable chairs of the freezing train station waiting room so as to avoid missing my 6:30am train. With a broken neck, I awoke at 5:30 and headed out to the platform by 6:00. Sitting there, my departure time drew nearer as the tracks remained train-less. I checked my ticket several times to make sure I was at the correct platform. The only item of concern was the fact that the ticket read platform 10A and I was standing at platform 10. I saw no platform 10B, though, so I figured 10 and 10A were one in the same. At 6:31, there was still no sign of my train. The only movement came from the tracks adjacent – rather than parallel, like most of the other tracks – to the train station, as a smaller train began to pull out of… SHIT!

How did this make any sense? I understand that if there is a platform 10A, there is a strong possibility that more than one platform bears the number 10. However, if there are multiple number 10 platforms, would it not make sense for them to be next to one another instead of one hidden in an obscure corner of the train station that is only easily noticed by those with a sense of awareness? I suppose it was only fitting. It was a missed train from Amsterdam to Berlin that eventually brought me to Zagreb, and another missed train would kick start my journey out of town.

My immediate reaction was to enter a supermarket, buy some bread and Nutella, and drown my sorrows by stuffing my face on a park bench. With the next train for Split not leaving until the late afternoon, my best plan of attack was to find an alternative mode of transportation. After an hour of sulking and polishing off the jar of Nutella, I finally began my search for a bus to Split. A straight shot from the train station, I arrived at the bus station and bought my noon ticket without any difficulties. It was all very easy. With my luck, perhaps it was too easy. Thus, to avoid another travel blunder, I asked a bus station employee to walk me to the correct terminal, where I sat for the next few hours waiting for the day’s second method of transportation.

This time around, my preparations were met with more favorable results, as I boarded the bus on time and even had a row to myself, allowing me to find a semi-comfortable position in which to sleep the ride away. Four to Five hours later, I awoke with a pool of drool on my shirt and a view of the Adriatic Sea. Coming off of the bus, I was met by an elderly woman looking to fill a room at her bed-and-breakfast, which she would give me for what was the equivalent of about $15. Finding it to be a pretty good deal and far too lazy to look elsewhere, I accepted the offer. Walking across the Riva Promenade with the woman, she told me of the places to see in Split and informed me that she, too, has family in Cleveland. Beyond the promenade, we turned down a few narrow streets before entering the small courtyard of her B-&-B. Then I was taken to what was probably the most comfortable accommodations I have encountered on my European. Finally, my luck was turning around.

Wanting to take advantage of whatever energy I had left, I headed back out to the promenade, grabbed a few slices of pizza, and began wandering the streets of Split. I walked past the port and over to Bacvice Beach, which the kind woman informed me was Split’s nightlife hub. The fact that it was still rather early in the night and the high season had passed, the scene was rather mellow upon my arrival. I took a seat at Po Bota, striking up a conversation with the bartender as I sipped on a beer. My energy did not last as long as I would have liked, though, and after one beer, I decided to head back so as to avoid passing out at the bar. It’s amazing how a day of relative inactivity can be so exhausting.

Fall Break: Day 1 – Zagreb (10/8-9/2009)

2010-12-30T05:42:00.008-05:00

You deserved more.

“What’d you put for the general principles of law question?”

“Isn’t it the same thing as customary law?”

“…I don’t think so…”

“Really??”

This is just a sample of the conversations taking place throughout the Brothel following our Intro to Public International Law final exam. I didn’t have too much time to fret over it, though. I had a train to catch. Our fall break could not have come at a better time.

For our 10-day long October break, a dozen of us had decided to head down to Greece, where some boat rental company was foolish enough to allow us to have a 51-foot sailboat for the week. We weren’t scheduled to ship out until Tuesday, though, so we went our separate ways for the first few days of our vacation. A few headed to Italy, a few to Istanbul, and me by my lonesome to Croatia. By 6:00 Thursday evening, I was on my way to Zagreb.

* * *

I was awoken by the young Swiss couple with whom I was sharing the compartment. We were stopped somewhere in the middle of Slovenia and the police were checking passports. After taking a total of seven seconds to check the two Swiss passports, the officer took mine and studied it in great detail. He read every line of my information on the data page, flipped through every single page to see my stamps, and even pulled out a small magnifying glass. Apparently, his thorough investigation wasn’t good enough, so he called in back up.

“Do you need some kind of special visa?,” the Swiss girl asked.

“That’s an American Passport! I can go anywhere I want to in Europe for at least 90 days!,” I shot back. I know my attitude at that moment wasn’t doing the people of my country any favors in terms of international perception, but I was so angry/scared that I was going to be arrested and taken to a Hostel-type human slaughterhouse, that I couldn’t help but sound like an arrogant American. Eventually, the situation was settled. I never was given an explanation for the hold-up, but at least I got a stamp out of it!

Not long after the passport incident, we pulled into Zagreb and I stepped off of the train and took in my first whiff of the Balkans. Having not eaten since scarfing down McDonald’s in Geneva the night before, I grabbed a sandwich at a supermarket, then began my tour of the city. Without a map of the city and not really knowing what to look for, I just walked in the direction most other people were going, soon finding myself in the city’s main square. Equipped with the standard European statue of a noble-looking man on a horse, Ban Josip Jelacic Square is a lively area of town that sits just below its historical section. With nothing but stores or restaurants out of my tightly budgeted price range, I hadn’t much use for the square, and soon moved on.

Just beyond the square sits the Zagreb Cathedral, a Catholic church beautifully crafted in the gothic style. The church dominates the street and the Zagreb skyline, as its spires rise high above everything else. Unfortunately, like many other beautiful churches on my European adventure, the Cathedral was under construction, with scaffolding over its left (when facing the church) spire. Is God ever going to stop renovating his homes?

Wandering away from the church, I came across small square full of fruits, vegetables, and rows and rows of red umbrellas. I had stumbled upon the Zagreb Market, Dolac. My stomach still unsatisfied, it was the perfect place to cure my hunger. Stopping off at a fruit stand, I picked out a couple of massive red apples, and handed the man a high valued Kuna bill. In perfect English, he asked me if I had anything smaller. Explaining that I’d just been to the ATM, he nodded his head in understanding and shrugged his shoulders.

“OK. It is free.” I was stunned by the kindness and tried to give back the fruit, but he insisted. “You are a traveler,” he said. “You need energy.” I shook his hand and thanked him over and over again for his kindness. Anybody walking by would have thought that I hadn’t eaten in days and that this man had saved me from dying of starvation. I just wanted him to know I was grateful.

Chomping on my delicious free apples, I picked up a map and found my way over to the Gradec area of Old Zagreb. I entered through the Stone Gate, the last remaining gate of five that once led to the historic neighborhood. It also is home to a miracle. As I entered the gate/mini-tunnel, I noticed a small chapel with several lit candles, a few praying Catholics, and a painting of Mary and Jesus behind bars. While I thought this was a strange location for a chapel, I was intrigued all the same. Turning to a man lighting a candle, I asked if he knew the story behind the gate. Very eagerly, he explained that in the 1700’s, a fire broke out around the gate, burning the surrounding houses and much of the gate to the ground. However, amid all the destruction, there was a painting of the Virgin Mary and Jesus that remained undamaged. The devoutly Catholic city that Zagreb is, a chapel was installed in the newly restored gate and bars were put up to protect the indestructible painting. I guess they’re not counting on another miracle should the gate be damaged again.

I moved through the gate and into St. Mark’s Square, where the colorful St. Mark’s Church dominates the scene. The roof of the small modestly sized church contains red, white, and blue tiling surrounding two Coats of Arms. According to a friendly passerby, the right Coat of Arms belongs to the city of Zagreb, the left to the Triune Kingdom, of which Croatia was a party to during the Hapsburg Empire. Who needs a tour guide? The people of Zagreb are willing to tell you anything you want to know!

Hearing the sounds of a powerful organ, I chose not to interrupt what was probably an ongoing mass and instead walked around the square and rest of the neighborhood, passing the Croatian Parliament and later taking in the view from atop Gornji Grad hill. From there, I strolled through Zagreb’s Old City, stopping off at yet another church. Following a “Lord’s Prayer,” I took a seat in the back pew to give my legs a blow. I was soon joined by an elderly Croatian gentleman and before I knew it, 45 minutes had passed and I had been given the full history of Catholicism in Croatia. Never before have I met a people so willing and eager to help tourists, whether it be with free fresh produce, explaining the significance of a landmark, or discussing their history. Maybe it’s because Zagreb is not overrun with tourists. Maybe it’s because the Croatian people are just that nice. Whatever the case may be, I’m a fan.

* * *

It didn’t look that far away on the map. Plus, I was afraid that if I took public transportation, I’d end up back in Slovenia. Thus, walking seemed like the best option. About an hour later, that notion faded, as I could feel my feet about to give birth to some blisters. Still beats ending up as the inspiration for Hostel: 3, though.

The Mirogoj Cemetery is one of the most alluring sights in Zagreb. With a spectacular entrance, exquisite arcades, and the resting place for some of Croatia’s greatest heros, it is a graveyard more massive and every bit as gorgeous as Paris’ Père Lachaise. Walking up and down the shaded aisles (in between my rests on the steps and benches), I admired the grandiosely crafted headstones and monuments, many accompanied by flowers and candles. However, as I reveled in the cemetery’s beauty, I was overcome – just as I had been in Paris – with feelings of guilt. Is it right for us to find beauty in a place where others grieve? While others grieved, I was taking photos of things I found to be beautiful in the graveyard. But how discourteous are these actions, really? Yes, the death of a loved one stays with one forever and that loved one's grave site is a place to mourn that loss. But just as there is beauty in life, the concept of death has a certain elegance. In death, honor arises. In death, legacies are made. In death, life becomes everlasting. Beauty found in a cemetery simply symbolizes this allure of death.

In an effort to make the walk back to town shorter than the walk to the cemetery, I decided to take a shortcut. But shortcuts never work too well when you don’t know the layout of a city. Thus, the short route turned into the scenic route. Most likely walking in circles around the outskirts of Zagreb, passing small neighborhood bars and beat-up homes, I eventually began winding down the hill towards the heart of the city. My meandering turned out to be a good thing, though, as I stumbled upon the massive park across from Maksimir Stadium. The baby blisters on my feet had grown into toddlers. A bench never looked so good.

In a daze of aching exhaustion, I had lost track of time. As evening began its transition to twilight, I realized I only had an hour and a half before I was scheduled to meet the soldiers. Not wanting to completely waste my entire trip to the park paralyzed on the bench, I hopped up and took a quick stroll around the park, walking down the long, tree-lined path toward the Swiss House, past a pond, through a large open field, and eventually back out onto the street.

On my way to Ban Josip Jelacic Square, I came across a McDonald’s. I wasn’t really in the mood for a burger or fries and didn’t want to room my appetite for dinner with the soldiers. However, I have set a goal and I intend on fulfilling it, so I found a way around the burger. One medium vanilla shake later, Croatia was checked off of the list.

* * *

If not for these two soldiers, traveling to Croatia would have never even crossed my mind. Having met in Berlin, my running into them came as a result of bad luck. Coming from Amsterdam, I had missed a connecting train to Berlin. Then, the hostel where my buddies Alex and Geoff were staying was booked. Wandering the streets of what was once East Berlin, I heard a, “Go BU!” Looking down at my t-shirt, I realized the man was talking to me, and turned to say hello to the man and his friend. I ended up spending the evening with the boys, who informed me they were serving in the US military (one in the Marines, one in the Army) and were stationed in Croatia. Sipping German beers with the two, we discussed our travels. Before turning in for the night, the boys extended an invitation for me to visit them in Zagreb. Who knew that missed train would end up taking me new places?

After a brief stroll down Ilica Street, the soldiers and I headed to the upper town to grab a bite to eat and a few drinks. Chowing down on some pizza and Heinekens, I shared stories of my European adventures since our first encounter in Berlin and accepted some more travel advice from the troops. Excited to have Americans at his restaurant, the owner came out to join in on our conversation. Proving that the world grows smaller everyday, after telling the man I was from Cleveland, he ecstatically informed me he has family in Cleveland. For the kind Croatian, this little connection was enough to offer us the meal on the house. Who the hell are these people and why are they so nice?

The night moved to a bar in upper town. As the beers piled up, the travel discussion continued in addition to a slightly drunken education on the recent history of the Balkans. Before we knew it, 2am had rolled around and it was time to call it a night. Rather than accepting the invitation to crash at one of their apartments, I decided I’d post up in the train station so as to avoid missing my very early train to Split. I parted with the soldiers and headed to the station, reflecting on the day. I was thankful to have visited this up-and-coming European city, but felt I had short-changed myself. While I had seen many of Zagreb’s major sights, there was still so much culture I had missed out on. For that, I apologize. You deserved more, Zagreb.

New Blog for Peace Corps Postings

2010-09-20T20:45:00.003-04:00

Let's make this easier.

My original plan was to alternate between study abroad and Peace Corps posts, but now I realize both stories deserve their own separate venues. Plus, while my blog is in no way affiliated with the Peace Corps, I somehow get the feeling it wouldn't be a good idea to have postings alternate between helping my Azerbaijani community and traveling/partying in Europe. Yes, both are valuable cultural experiences, but ought to be separated. So let's make this easy.

For posts about my time studying abroad in Geneva, I will continue to use this website. For my Peace Corps postings, you can go to my separate blog, An American Stranger: Peace Corps Edition, at the following url:

http://americanstrangerpc.blogspot.com/

Same American Stranger. Different story.

There. I feel better now.

Life is Calling

2010-09-20T17:36:00.005-04:00

"Life ain't meant to come around twice. That's why I gotta get it right."

When I first started this blog, I envisioned bringing you the story of my month-long backpacking trip across Europe and nothing more. I soon realized, though, that the end of that August, 2009 trip was not the end of my adventure. Thus, I transitioned to An American Stranger: Tales from the Brothel , bringing you the stories of my study abroad experience. While there are still many more stories to be told of that gang of misfits studying in Geneva, it is time once again for An American Stranger to make a shift.

Life is a series of transitions, some good, some bad. In the past few years alone my life has taken several twists and turns. Four years ago, I moved away from my lifelong home of Cleveland, Ohio to attend Ithaca College. After a year of frustration, dissatisfaction, and loneliness, it would have been easy for me to return to Cleveland, the place I love most. That would have been the easy way out, though. I needed to continue challenging myself. Thus, I transferred to Boston University, where I experienced three years of joy, satisfaction, and camaraderie. During that time at BU, I challenged myself in several ways. Whether it be volunteering at a nursing home in Boston or a soup kitchen in the Bronx; working at a small radio station in Boston or a small NGO in Geneva; roaming the streets of Boston or roaming around Europe on a month-long trip and subsequent study abroad program (of which you have all been reading about). I have continued to push myself. These physical transitions have allowed for personal growth, and I will continue to try new things, forcing myself out of my comfort zone, to live a purposeful, joyful, and fulfilling life.

Next up is the Peace Corps. For anyone who is unaware, the Peace Corps is a volunteer agency of the United States government established in 1961 by President Kennedy to promote world peace and friendship. One goal of the Peace Corps is to aid interested countries in areas including HIV/AIDS education, environmental preservation, and information technology, among many others. The other major goals are cultural, as the Peace Corps seeks to promote a better understanding of Americans abroad, and a better understanding of other peoples in America. Volunteers serve for a minimum of 27 months in developing countries all over the world. To learn more, I encourage you to visit the official website here. I, personally, will be serving in Azerbaijan, where I will be a secondary school English teacher.

Some may be wondering why I have chosen to do such a thing. Aren't there other ways to challenge myself? Of course. And if the challenge were my only reason for going, I probably would have never applied. My commitment is about so much more, though. First off, I have a desire to serve my country. I realize that when most people think of serving their country, they think of the armed forces. Two of my very good friends are in the United States Marine Corps and I admire them everyday for their commitment to our country. The men and women of all branches of the military are the most courageous and patriotic this country has to offer, and we are all thankful for their service. Despite the best recruiting efforts of one of my buddies, though, military service was not the right fit for me. I have always been more diplomat than warrior. Working in Azerbaijan, I will use my skills to share the knowledge, innovation, and goodwill of America with the people of my Azerbaijani community. My work and the work of all other Peace Corps Volunteers, will promote a better understanding of Americans, helping to forge a stronger relationship between our countries.

A second reason for my service is just that: service. My parents have always believed in helping others in need. Because of this, I have always felt a certain human responsibility to help those less fortunate than me. As a young child, any type of community service my mother volunteered me for seemed just an obstacle to having fun. However, by finding common interests with those I was helping, I discovered that volunteering could be just as fun as anything I participated in. This is why I volunteered with AmeriCorps VISTA this summer, serving the hungry at an emergency food pantry in Ravenna, OH. It is why I chose to forego a traditional college spring break of sun, sand, and shots to participate in an Alternative Spring Break program, where I helped the hungry community in the Bronx, NY not only by serving meals, but by conversing with the guests about areas of common interest such as sports, music, culture, and politics. It is why, as a senior in high school, I chose to give up weeknights and Saturday afternoons to teach young kids the fundamentals of sports and, more importantly, the values of sportsmanship and teamwork. It is also why I became a member of my high school’s branch of the National Honors Society, which allowed me to use my love of history to tutor young students, use my interest in the local community to assist at the Cleveland Food Bank, and use my love of the holiday season to organize a gift drive for senior citizens. "I don't want to be a product of my environment." It is a phrase we hear so often in the most desperate areas of America and applies to those living in the most desperate areas of the world. While I know I cannot solve all of the world's problems, I hope that my Peace Corps service will help establish a strong foundation for people to overcome their situation.

Finally, my desire to serve is influenced heavily by my desire to experience new cultures. My travels in Europe gave me the culture bug, and now I can't seem to shake it. Instead of traveling around and just getting glimpses of a culture, though, I want to be completely immersed in something new: the people, the language, the food, the pastimes, the surroundings, etc. Living in a foreign land for 27 months will allow me to satisfy this desire. Each and everyday I will learn about the Azeri culture and become more and more integrated into society. On the flip side, I will also teach my community about Americans each and everyday. In the end, I hope that a mutual understanding and respect of our respective cultures will arise. The promotion of peace and friendship at its finest.

This new adventure of mine begins on Wednesday, as I travel to Philadelphia for a pre-departure orientation. The following day, I take off for Azerbaijan, arriving on the evening of September 24. From this point forward, I will be alternating between posts about Geneva and posts about Azerbaijan.

As I embark on this journey, I would be crazy to think that I have made it here on my own. There are so many people that need to be thanked, and I'm going to do so right here:

The Solon Bros -- McCann, Rud, Tino, Geitz, Jer, James, Clay, Cooch, Con, Mikey T, Tigay, Camino, Baz, Maduri, Pish, Shwank, Krause, BC, Carp. You all have been my boys for the longest time, many of you since we were three years old. I know our loyalty will remain strong. I appreciate all the good times and laughs we've shared together, and know that there is plenty more of that to come in the future. No doubt we'll stay in touch. Oh, and if any of you are close to tying the knot before I get back, you better WAIT! A special shout-out to Clay for writing one of my letters of recommendation.

Alex and Geoff -- My first friends and roommates in Boston, we were the Flight of the Transfers. You guys made my transition a lot easier. Most of my memories of Boston involve you guys, and I'm grateful for that. We also took that little trip together to some place called Europe. It was alright, I guess. Look forward to more adventures with you two in the future.

BU Baseball -- Playing baseball has been a staple in my life, and I'm glad I got to continue playing in Boston. While new faces were added to the team every year, each new season brought great competition and lots of laughs. I may not remember every game, but I will always remember the van rides, outfield conversations, and jokes. We could throw a good party, too. Good luck this season, boys.

The Brothelites -- Who the hell studies abroad n Geneva? Uhh... pretty much the most awesome group of people ever assembled! Going into Geneva, I only knew one person in the program. Within hours, though, we bonded with one another. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before. I went into that semester skeptical, and came out with some new best friends, a bro-mantic love affair, and a lifetime of memories. I thank you for all the support you've given me about this decision, and will keep you all posted. I am so glad we have already had a few reunions since returning to the states, and look forward to the many more we will have (i.e. Oktoberfest, Greece, Yacht Week, and maybe even Azerbaijan).

My Family -- I know you're sad to see me go, but I thank you for your support and understanding. Mom and dad, you have done so much for me that it would take me the rest of my life to list it all. Just know that you've done a good job and I hope to make you proud. Mol, I will miss your cooking, stories, hard work and determination, and sassy attitude. I wouldn't be surprised if you've solved the obesity crisis by the time I come back. Pat, I will miss our competitions, jokes, arguments, and your un-athleticism. You know I got your back for life.

To anyone I forgot, you know who you are, and you will be missed.

In his song titled "Real" off of his debut album Food and Liquor, Lupe Fiasco raps the line, "Life ain't meant to come around twice. That's why I gotta get it right." All I'm trying to do is get it right. I will continue to challenge myself, experience new cultures, and unselfishly lend a hand to those in need, doing the right thing to fulfill my selfish desire to live a purposeful, joyful, and meaningful life. Whether you understand my reasons or not, I love and miss you all and look forward to our eventual reunion.

* * *

THE WORDS ON THIS SITE ARE EXCLUSIVELY MY OWN AND DO NOT REPRESENT THE VIEWS OR OPINIONS OF THE PEACE CORPS OR THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT.

Weekend 5, Oct. 2-4: Geneva

2010-09-15T23:10:00.008-04:00

This is a good place to call home.

The level of sloppiness for the entire group was quite noticeable at this point, but she seemed to be a cut above the rest. Liz and I had been watching over her and were debating whether or not she was ok to go in. After helping her stumble down the stairs, I had her take a seat on the bottom step.

"Alright, before we go in, tell me what city we're in," I demanded.

"MADRID!"

I looked over to Liz. We shared a chuckle and shook our heads. The debate was settled. "Not even close. I'm gonna take you back."

***

The man is an international law genius. Absolute genius. But to listen to Dr. T talk for three hours about customary international law, the use of force, the definition of terrorism, or any other topic he may be discussing, is difficult. Even worse, while we usually attended Dr. T's class in the afternoon, this particular session was in the morning, making concentration all the more difficult. Luckily, the ten-minute break halfway through class contained enough entertainment to bring me back to life.

A few people had been talking to her on Facebook throughout class and by the midway point, it was well known: Tracy missed her flight to Oktoberfest. This was the talk of the class for the entire break. On the one hand, we felt terrible. A large handful had been in Munich for the festival just a week before and had one of the greatest weekends of our lives. On the other hand, though, we were angry. How the hell does somebody miss her plane to OKTOBERFEST?!? She was in Milan meeting up with her friend that she was headed to Munich with. Apparently they had a pretty crazy night out on the town, but still! I'd rather be late for my wedding than miss out on that Bavarian beer-guzzling bash! Now she was talking about renting a car and zig-zagging through the Alps to reach the festival. We were all interested to see how this one would turn out.

Following an afternoon French class, the weekend finally arrived. While I had gone out during the week several times over the last month, this would be my first weekend in Geneva since... well, since my first weekend in Geneva, and I was looking forward to it. With Steven about to head to the airport -- there was no way he was missing his flight to Munich -- and Scott waiting for a buddy to come into town, Christian and I joined the two of them near the train station. Scott's friend, who was studying abroad in Berlin, soon arrived and the five of us headed over to Les Brasseurs for a burger. We sat at a table on the back patio, looked at our menus, and entered a state of shock. Over 20 CHF (almost exactly equal to $20) for a burger?!? Just then I could see Christian stretching out his neck and looking over my shoulder. I knew exactly what he was looking at.

"You guys just wanna get a kebab?," he asked.

"YEP!," we all answered.

It had started off as a bit of a joke. An afternoon kebab here, a late-night kebab there. The girls would poke fun at us a bit, but we didn't mind. Now, though, it was becoming a serious problem. Every single bro living in the Brothel was addicted to kebabs. Chicken. Lamb. Didn't matter. We couldn't resist a glossy, spinning rack of meat. Watching that succulent meat being shaved off is arousing. Then they pile it into that pita sandwich or galette and top it with whatever you desire. I'm an "avec tous" kinda guy, myself: lettuce, cabbage, tomatoes, sauce blanche, and chili powder. That first bite is pure bliss. Better than sex. Thank God Christian spotted Istanbul Kebab from our seat at that overpriced restaurant.

Steve took off after the kebab session, and the remaining four of us headed over to Lord Nelson's, where we met up with Brian, to enjoy a delicious tower of amber beer. As we enjoyed our multiple pints, Scott's buddy couldn't stop talking about the high-prices in Geneva. He playfully rubbed in our faces just how cheap Berlin is, saying he could get a beer for this cheap, food for that cheap. Studying in one of the most expensive cities in the world hasn't exactly been light on the wallet.

The real antics of the weekend began in the basement of the Brothel. Everyone armed with several pint-cans of Swiss beer (and a few bottles of wine), we headed downstairs for a professional Power Hour. Phil hooked up his computer to the TV and played his Power Hour mix. It was unlike any Power Hour I had ever been apart of. The mix was a montage of one-minute music video clips - some familiar, some not so much -- that both entertained and reminded us with each change in song that it was time for another shot of beer. It forever changed my views on how a Power Hour is supposed to be conducted.

As the hour closed, the consensus amongst the students of 18 Rue Muzy was that we needed to dance, and we needed to dance in style. We all ran up to our rooms to change, then took off for Java. Dressed to impress and talking obnoxiously loud, we walked through Jardin Anglais along the lake, showing the effects the hour before had bestowed upon us. The antics only grew more pronounced as we crossed to the other side of the lake and walked along Quai du Mont-Blanc. Through all the piggyback rides and unnecessary shouting matches, though, we found time to take a family portrait.

We soon reached the dance club and most lined up to go inside. One of the girls was not doing so well, though. The level of sloppiness for the entire group was quite noticeable at this point, but she seemed to be a cut above the rest. Liz and I had been watching over her and were debating whether or not she was ok to go in. After helping her stumble down the stairs, I had her take a seat on the bottom step.

"Alright, before we go in, tell me what city we're in," I demanded.

"MADRID!"

I looked over to Liz. We shared a chuckle and shook our heads. The debate was settled. "Not even close. I'm gonna take you back." As many of the others went inside to take over the dance floor, I took Madrid girl home, mostly by way of piggyback. Afterall, that's what family's for.

* * *

"Dude, I can't find my phone!," Scott cried as he barged into my room.

I heard an unfamiliar laugh in the bed next to mine and sprung up. With Steve in Munich, apparently Scott's buddy crashed in his bed. That brief moment of confusion settled, and now joined by Madrid girl, the four of us shared laughs as we talked about the night before, with the common theme of the conversation being, "What happened last night?"

We eventually got back to the issue at hand: Scott's missing phone. Using his Berlin buddy's phone, he dialed his number. Someone picked up.

"Hello?... Did you find my phone?!?" The other three of us burst into laughter. Only Scott would dial the number to his missing phone and ask the person who answered if they'd found it. More so, only Scott would lose his phone, then have it found and returned by a complete stranger. The Swiss sure are kind.

Saturday evening, much of the gang had plans to head to Lausanne, where the nightlife was supposed to be an upgrade from Genève. For the first time all semester, though, I had the strange and sudden urge to... (gulp) catch up on schoolwork. I tried my best to get all of the work done during the day, spending the entire brilliantly sunny day in the library of the Institut de Hautes Études (Geneva Graduate Institute). With a yet-to-be researched paper for international law and a yet-to-be prepared presentation for French both due Monday, though, there was just too much to do. Somehow, someway, I was able to resist the allure of a guaranteed great time in Lausanne and be "responsible."

Shortly after 10 pm, my brain completely fried, I completed my paper on the definition of terrorism in international law. While daylight had long since disappeared, I needed to get out of the building. After scarfing down a sparsely-cheesed Migro's Budget pizza, I grabbed a few pint cans of Feldschlösschen and went for a walk. I strolled along the lake through Jardin Anglais, the brightly lit Jet d'Eau splashing soothingly in the background. I cut up across Rue du Rhône and Rues Basses and into Old Town. I walked through the dimly-lit cobblestone streets, sipping my beer and listening to the life around me. There were loud bars and relaxed cafés. Young people out to party and older people enjoying a late dinner. And I was the spectator.

My nighttime stroll moved over to the small park across from the art museum. I took a seat at the edge of the park and looked out at my new city. Le Jet d'Eau, framed by rows of buildings on either side, shot out of the dark lake in front of me. To my left, Cathedral St-Pierre towered brightly over the rest of Old Town. The occasional knock of shoe soles or the soft whir of a passing car broke the silence of the streets below. Geneva is a quiet, peaceful place. Make no mistake, though. She is alive. There is a soft, sustained buzz in the air, one that does not insist upon itself. Geneva does not have to exhort one to recognize its beauty, because she is confident that beauty is around every corner. And she's right. From the parks to the lake; from Old Town to Place des Nations; from the Juras and the Alps, this Swiss city is a European charm. Sure, for a 21 year-old, the nightlife could be better, but this is a good place to call home.

The next day was spent revising the paper, putting together the presentation, and listening enviously to the stories of the night in Lausanne. There was also the return of Steven and his entertaining Oktoberfest stories, including one of getting his ass beat. It must be a roommate thing. More importantly, he saw Tracy. She made it, afterall.

Weekend 4, Sept. 25-27: Munich

2010-09-07T22:24:00.008-04:00

PROST!

"You two are still out here?"

Kat and I just looked at each other and shrugged. Kelsey kind of did have a point. After all, it's not exactly normal for two people to be sitting on an old couch on a city sidewalk at 4:30 am watching episodes of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

The night started off with a large group of us (rolling deep is our specialty) hanging out at a pool hall on the western end of town. After a few beers and Scott and I losing a game of pool to some of the girls, a group of us left the establishment and took a long walk to Pickwick's Pub. We shared another drink and spent some time listening and dancing to the live band before heading back home. When we arrived at our Rue Muzy building, a few of us took a seat on a couch that had been placed on the curb to be thrown away and began listening to music. One by one, students began to drop off and head inside. Kat wanted me to watch an episode of her beloved It's Always Sunny, though, so we stayed outside a bit longer. Before we knew it, it was 4:30 am and students were beginning to wake up early to catch their flights for their weekend trips. I, myself, had a 6:15 train to Munich that I needed to catch, so there was really no point in going to bed now. Thus, Kat and I stayed up and continued watching the show until I left for Gare Cornavin.

I slept the entire way from Geneva to Zurich, where I only woke up to switch trains. Once on the train from Zurich to Munich, I fell right back asleep. Around noon, I was awoken by the noise of loud cheers and joyous screams. Wiping the drool from my face that had dripped into the puddle on my shirt, I realized that the train was a lot more crowded than when I had boarded it. Young people filled the seats, luggage flooded into the aisles, and beer bottles decorated the tables. Day drinking, chanting, and young people on a train to Munich can only mean one thing: Oktoberfest.

Upon arrival in Munich, I immediately hopped on the S-Bahn and headed out to Wiesen Camp. As much as I wanted to explore the city, as the first one of the group to arrive in Munich -- the others left at 1:00 rather than 6:15 -- it was my duty to secure our accommodations for the weekend. I hopped off the train at Riem, walked the five minutes to the campsite, and observed the rows and rows of tents that had been set up on the site. Seeing as every place in the city of Munich was booked, this campground towards the outskirts of town was our only hope, so I grabbed a beer at the main tent and waited in line to make the reservation.

After securing two tents for the eight of us that would be staying there, I hopped back on the train and, without any real plan, rode back to the center of town. I had done absolutely zero research on Munich before my arrival. As a result, I had zero idea what to look for, let alone where anything was located. My best bet was to start at city center, so when I came upon the Marienplatz stop, I got off to begin my explorations.

Marienplatz is Munich's central square. In the middle sits a Marian column called Mariensäule. Lining the north end of the square is the spectacular neo-gothic style City Hall. As the city's center, it was no surprise that the square was packed with people. After gawking at City Hall for several minutes, I moved on in search of something new, soon stumbling upon Hofgarten. I walked along the Residenz (former royal palace of the Bavarian monarchs) and through the trees to the wide-open center, where many groups of people gathered to hangout, read, or take a nap. From here I walked into Englischer Garten. Knowing that it was one of the world's largest urban parks, I only wandered around the entrance for a few minutes. Englischer Garten is a park that would require a full day -- if not more -- to properly explore. I didn't want to give the park any less justice than it deserves.

I continued my explorations of Munich, walking God knows where and taking pictures of God knows what. Legs tired, stomach grumbling, and throat parched, I stopped off at some no-name beer garden for a brat and liter of Löwenbräu . As I sat alone enjoying my food and beer, a group of rowdy 30-something Germans called over to me and asked me to join them. With no reason not to, I chowed down the last of my brat, picked up my stein, and headed over to join the Bavarian boys. We exchanged introductions and handshakes and toasted one another with a hearty "PROST!" Then it got awkward.

"You hate us, don't you?"

"Uh... n-- no. Why would I hate you," I responded, flabbergasted.

"Vorld Var two. Vee did a lot of wrong," the drunken German explained.

"Oh, that was almost 70 years ago!"

"I am sorry for vhat Germany did. Vee ah different now," he continued.

"Trust me, I know. It's -- I know you guys aren't the same as you were," I stammered.

"Let me buy you a beer," he offered. Wanting to end the awkward conversation as soon as possible, I accepted. If buying me a beer allowed him to overcome his patriotic guilt, then so be it. I'm assuming this particular instance was because the man was drunk, but I wonder if this type of guilt is common with most Germans? I think recognizing its hideous past is good for Germany, because it did commit some of the absolute worst atrocities this world has ever seen. While the Nazi's should never be forgiven for their actions, I would hope everybody realizes that present-day Germans are a different, accepting, peace-loving people. Then again, if their guilt keeps getting me free beers, I guess that's not the worst thing.

I enjoyed my second beer with the Germans laughing and talking about everything from traveling, to American movies, to President Obama. Wanting to see the Oktoberfest grounds before having to meet my friends at the train station, I soon bid farewell to the boys and made my way over to Theresienwiessen . Along the way, I ran into St. Paul Cathedral. As I snapped photos of the beautiful church, I came across a young man passed out on the sidewalk. I must have been getting close to the festival grounds.

Within minutes, I was surrounded by food stands, games, amusement park rides, and, most importantly, beer tents. As if it were fate, the first tent I laid my eyes upon was the Hofbräu-Festzelt . The tent glimmered in the night, as if the beer gods were shining brightly down upon it. It was near impossible to resist, but somehow I did. Sure, walking into Oktoberfest's most legendary tent would have been amazing, but sharing that experience with my friends the next morning would be much more fulfilling. Thus, I reluctantly dragged myself away.

I continued walking around the festival checking out the Oktoberfest souvenirs, smelling the delicious German food, and looking for the most fitting beer tent. Drawn to the beer guzzling lion in its entrance, and having enjoyed its brew earlier in the day, I settled on the Lowenbräu tent. I sat down at a table of complete strangers, ordered my beer, and drank as I listened to Germans all around me reciting their drinking chants. Before I knew it, it was time for me to head back to the train station to greet my friends, but not before stealing a Lowenbräu stein for a souvenir.

Along the route to the train station, I ran into a drunken Roger and his friends from Wake Forest. Even in a city as big as Munich, the kids of the Brothel find a way to run into one another. He seemed as if he had had a good time at the festival that day, leaving me even more excited for tomorrow. After my encounter with Rog, I greeted the rest of the gang as they descended their train from Zurich. With a beer in hand, I was trying to illustrate that we had an amazing weekend ahead of us. The way my friends came off of the train, though, indicated that they were already aware. Apparently the train ride was an enjoyable one. As Ali took off to meet up with the family friend she was staying with, Brian, Andrew, Kat, Teeny, Kimm , and I hung around for a bit as we waited for Christian and Scott to arrive from the airport. When they did, we set off for the campground so that the rest of the bunch could get themselves settled in.

The others dropped off their things and we headed back into town for a bit, but with the festival closed down for the night, not having a clue of where to go, and a few of us wanting to wake up early to get into the Hofrbäu-Festzelt, most of us headed back to Wiessen-Camp for a not-so-good nights sleep.

* * *

"WHERE'S OUR BEER?!?," I angrily shouted as the beer maidens seemed to serve every table but ours. We had woken up early as planned and arrived at the Hofbräu Tent just before 8 am. It came as no surprise that hundreds -- maybe more than 1,000 -- of people were waiting outside the doors to enter Oktoberfest's most popular tent. Not wanting to miss the opportunity to get inside, we slipped our way towards the front of the crowd. From here, getting inside was much easier than we could have ever imagined. Waiting for the beers to be served, a few of us grabbed some pretzels and bought a t-shirt. But now after 9 am, the beer was being served and I was thirsty. I wasn't going to do much more than yell, though. The maidens serving the beer were enormous, with fore-arms as big as my thighs as they carried a dozen beers at a time. They could have very easily murdered me with their bare hands if I got too rowdy. When the beer finally did come, that first sip of Hofbräu Oktoberfest was like a little slice of Heaven.

For the next couple of hours, we drank our beers, raised our glasses, yelled out "PROST!," and chanted with the thousands and thousands of people inside the beautiful tent. Then something amazing happened. It seemed that every few minutes, a corner of the massive tent would start a new cheer that spread across the entire place within seconds. With Americans lacking in the drinking chant department, we were content with joining in with the others, playing our drinking games in between. The particular game we chose to play this lovely morning was the name game, the very game our friends from Malta taught us the week before in Prague. As we banged on the table, per the rules of the game, the people at the tables next to us began pounding on their tables, then the people at the tables next to them, then the people at the tables next to them. Within seconds, the entire Hofbräu-Festzelt was pounding on tables, and it was all because of us! It brought a single tear of joy to my eye.

By 11:30, our time inside the tent came to an end, as we were kicked out so that those with reservations could have our table. While initially upset with this new development, this actually turned out to be a very good thing, as we were sent to the Hofbräu beer garden, where we were able to enjoy the unbelievably beautiful autumn day. Running into Ali along the way, we found a table at the back of the garden and began interacting with the tables around us. While must of the gang was interacting with the Scottish, Irish, and Italian friends they'd made below, Andrew and I stood up on the benches and obnoxiously toasted whoever we made eye contact with.

"Hey, that guy's got an NC State shirt on!"

"WOLFPACK! PROOOOOST!!!"

Four liters deep at about 12:30, there was no way I and a few of the others were going to make it to the end of the day without a little nap. Lucky for us, there was a hill located directly behind the tent, very convenient for napping. In fact, hundreds of other people were already napping on Pass-out Hill, some in just tighty-whiteys. We found a cozy spot on the hill and passed out for the next two hours. Only at Oktoberfest.

If not for Andrew, I probably would have slept for the rest of the day. He sprung up at 2:30 and woke us all, rounding us up and bringing us back to the action. Kimm was still a little bit, shall we say... tired, so we left her to sleep for a bit longer. We went back into the Hofbräu tent for a bit -- briefly running into a lost Roger looking for his Wake friends -- in search of our lost Kat. Our search turned into an effort to re-enter the tent, where we were met with very aggressive German bouncers who had no problem shoving us away from the entrance. Wanting to drink more beer, we decided to cut our losses and head to another beer tent. On the way, we realized we were quite a few people short. On a day that started out with a gang of eight, we were now down to five, missing Kimm, Kat, and now Brian. We were too focused on the German beer to be worried, though.

Following a quick stop for some brats, we moved to Armbrustschützen, a tent serving delicious Paulaner beer. With a two hour wait to get into the tent, we decided to try an alternative route. Let into the beer garden with relative ease, we began our search for a door to the main hall. Andrew and Scott found an unguarded entrance and walked right through. Just steps behind them, I tried to follow suit, but as I reached the entrance, somebody grabbed the hood of my sweatshirt and slammed me against the wall. As Scott and Andrew scurried away, a 250-pound German security guard had my arms and head pinned against the wall and was yelling at me in a language I didn't speak. It is an ugly enough sounding language as is, but to be yelled at in German is a whole different story. It may be the scariest thing I have ever encountered.

Making no effort to pry free of the guard's grip, and apologizing faster than I ever have before, I was let go and joined my friends. The garden was packed, with only half of a table available for seating. Thankfully, the young Germans sitting at this table were more than happy to have us join them. In fact, they were so friendly that one of the girls even asked me if I wanted to sleep with her. These Germans really are a hospitable people. Then about eight men in their late 20's stopped by our table, seven of them dressed in light blue t-shirts, the other dressed in a dirndl. As we laughed at the scruffy-faced German dressed in drag, his friends explained that he was soon to be married. Could there be a better bachelor party than Oktoberfest? We spent the next half-hour signing the bachelor's "Good Luck" card, taking pictures, and for a few, wearing women's underwear where women's underwear is not supposed to be worn. Only at Oktoberfest.

A couple of steins later, it was time to move on to another tent, but not before being heroes to all of those wishing to enter the beer garden at Armbrustschützen. With 20 or so people standing just outside the garden, begging the guards to let them in, we sprinted through and broke the caution tape being held up by the guards, allowing a sea of people to flood into the beer garden. Lucky, the guards didn't even bother coming after us, for I surely would have had a second instance of being thrown against a wall. Just as had happened when we left Hofbräu, though, we were missing yet another person, as Christian somehow got lost in the process. And then there were four.

The next 30 minutes or so was a blurry whirlwind of interaction, conversation, and physical violence. While deciding which tent to visit next, Ali stumbled upon us. For some reason enamored by this reappearance, -- or perhaps just slightly more under the influence than we thought -- Andrew and I chose to display our joy through the art of the high-five. Like obnoxious high school boys, we held out our hands for all passers-by to slap. Boos were delivered to those who chose not; a rousing cheer for those who did. Following the hand-slapping extravaganza and the re-disappearance of Ali, we began a series of conversations, one with a group of American students (from Siena College, I believe), another with a group of young foreign boys. I started talking extensively with one of the foreign boys about God knows what. A minute or so into the conversation, I figured it would be appropriate to ask where he was from. In my intoxicated state, it sounded as if he had a German accent, so I asked.

"So, are you German?" The young man paused and a stern look overtook his smile.

"Ask me that again and I'll punch you in the face."

"... Are you German?" As soon as the words left my mouth, the boy cocked back his right arm and threw a punch in my direction. His arm seemed to be moving in slow motion, almost as if time had slowed down. As the fist moved closer and closer to my face, I stood there smiling, making absolutely zero effort to move out of the way.

POW!!! The right jab connected with my mouth and I stumbled back. Immediately, Andrew and Scott came to my defense. Instead of looking to fight back, though, I stood there with the same stupid smile on my face that I had before being hit. While Scott and Andrew argued with the boy and his friend, I took a few moments to suck the blood off of my top lip and poke at its new puffiness. Then I walked over to the foreign boy to simply ask why I'd been hit. As Scott and Andrew restrained the fighter, the boy's friend came over to talk to me. Apparently, the two were from New Zealand -- I was waaaaaaay off on my accent recognition -- and it was an insult to call New Zealanders German. Even while drunk, it sounded like the most ridiculous reason I had ever heard. Nevertheless, I went over to the German-sounding Kiwi to apologize for the "insult." He accepted and before I knew it, we were hugging it out and laughing like old friends. Only at Oktoberfest.

Our beer odyssey continued to the Spatenbräu-Festhalle, Ochsenbraterei. Like so many of those waiting outside of the Armbrustschützen beer garden, though, we were stuck behind a rope held by angry guards with dozens of other thirsty people. Sneaking in was our best option. While Scott, Andrew, and Teeny found the perfect time to sneak through, the memory of the physical abuse I had been subjected to throughout the day kept me from following suit. Luckily, the kids of the Brothel are a savvy bunch. As I stood behind the rope pondering my next move, Scott came to the rescue.

"Hey! Kevin!," Scott whispered loudly. I looked to my left to see him poking his head out from behind a pretzel stand. Just to the side of this stand was a narrow, unguarded opening that would lead me to the promised land. I hurried over to the pretzel stand, slid through the crack, -- receiving a wink of approval from the vendor -- and entered my new house of worship. We miraculously found an open table and sat down with theSiena (?) kids to enjoy our steins of Spaten as night descended upon us.

For the next couple of hours, the night was a bit of a blur to me. I got up to use the restroom at Ochsenbraterei, only to forget where my friends were sitting when I finished. Looking around with no particular plan, I was attracted once again by the lights of the Hofbräu-Festzelt and chose to make a return. Despite long waits again, I somehow snuck past the guards through a side-door and made it the ground floor of the tent. After buying a t-shirt, I sat down at a random table and shared my ninth liter of beer with a group of English university students. Then things got very hazy.

* * *

"Are you ok?" I snapped up, wiped the drool off of my face, and looked around in bewilderment. As groups of people walked by and subway cars rolled in and out, I realized that I had been asleep at the metro stop in Munich's central train station. I slowly looked over to the girl that woke me and told her I needed to get to Riem. "Take this train eight stops," she said, pointing to the subway train that was pulling up to the platform. I thanked her, stumbled onto the car, and soon enough was back at Wiesen Camp. Slightly more sober upon arrival, I was thrilled to find that all of the Geneva kids had made it back alive, and spent the rest of the night talking and laughing with a rowdy group of Brits that were keeping the entire campground awake.

After another uncomfortable night of sleep, I awoke around seven and decided to brush my teeth for the first time in days. While in the bathroom, I ran into Andrew. We looked at each other, shook our heads, and burst into laughter. Not a word needed to be said, as we knew that the day before had been one of the craziest and most fun of our lives. As we headed back to our tents to wake up everyone else, we exchanged stories, reliving the unforgettable day. Despite the exhaustion and toxic stomachs the day before had bestowed upon us, we headed once again to the festival grounds to enjoy a few more hours of Oktoberfest. With much smaller crowds on Sunday, we were able to take in quite a few of the famous beer tents, including Schottenhamel, a return to Hofbräu, Augustiner, and Hacker. After enjoying a few more steins and petting the Paulaner horses, we left Scott and Christian (who were flying instead of taking a train) and headed to the train station to hop on the packed train back Switzerland. Back in Geneva eight hours later, I was beaten and exhausted... and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Weekend 3, Sept. 18-20: Prague

2010-09-03T07:56:00.013-04:00

We rave on.

I lugged my mostly empty hiking backpack around the center of town, nervously checking the time every minute. Another gloriously sunny week in Geneva was coming to a close, but I could not yet take off for my next adventure. We had just left the Swatch Exhibition at La Cité du Temps and were headed to Omega. As part of our French class, Madame Wilhelm was taking us on one of the several cultural field trips she had planned for the course. Earlier in the week she had taken us all to a play at Théâtre du loup to see a play titled Un Contrat about a depressed mafia boss who goes to see a psychiatrist (à la Tony Soprano). Today, watches were the spectacle. For whatever reason, Switzerland seems to love keeping track of time, as not only are they known for their watches, but every town I have been to thus far has a clock tower in some location of prominence. But I must say, as eager as I was to head to the airport, it was pretty cool to see how extravagant and unique some of these watches were.

Chopard was the next stop on the trip, but with Madame aware that I had a flight to catch, she was kind enough to let me go. I quickly hopped on a tram that took me to the train station, and then on the first train that would take me the one stop necessary to reach the airport. The airport relatively empty at this time of day, I quickly checked in and made it through security, soon joining Tracy and Roger at the terminal. Our destination? Prague, Czech Republic. Our mission? Rage like never before at the DJ Tiësto concert.

After a two-hour plane ride -- most of which was spent talking to Tracy over a sleeping Roger -- we arrived in Praha. Roger, meeting some friends from Wake Forest, bid farewell to Tracy and I, and the two of us began our search for the hostel Scott, Steven, and Kat had booked for us. The three of them had left the night before on a flight that was to take them to Budapest, Hungary (where they planned to party all of Thursday night), then to Prague the following morning. I could only imagine the stories they would have for us.

The long bus and subway rides from the airport to the hostel gave Tracy and I even more time to get to know each other. While Tracy had taken part in almost every adventure I had since arriving in Geneva, this was the first time we had a chance to really talk to one another. We took turns sharing how excited we were to be abroad, our love of travel, and our life dreams. Although I had an idea of it before, I learned in these conversations that Tracy is the most genuinely happy person I have ever met. Because of this, it is impossible to be in a bad mood around her. As she said while her, Scott, and I were waiting outside of L'Usine two weeks before, "Why can't everything just be COOL?" She really and truly lives her life in the pursuit of happiness.

We hopped off the subway, wandered around the neighborhood for a few minutes, and finally found the hostel where the other three were staying. Upon reuniting, Tracy and I were so excited to hear about the night of raging in Budapest. The story they ended up telling was not at all what we expected. Apparently, there were some mechanical problems with the plane, so they had to make an emergency landing. Instead of a night of raging in Eastern Europe, they were given a night of luxury in Zurich, as the airline set them up at a 5-star hotel. Not bad, but I'm sure they would have rather slept on the streets if it meant a night of raging in Budapest.

After grabbing a bite to eat at a pizza place down the street, we began preparing for a night of raging, Czech style. The first order of business was putting on our rave attire. Earlier in the week, we all made a visit to a thrift store near our home in Geneva, hoping to find the most ridiculous get-ups possible. What we got was a pink doll, a hippie biker chick, Rico Suavé, the rave version of Hunter S. Thompson, and a high school football coach (or guido. Take your pick).

After a brief pre-game in the hostel, we hit the streets of Prague and began our walk to the O2 Arena. Maybe it was the liquor, or maybe just the fact that we were going to see the world's greatest techno DJ, but our level of excitement on the journey to the arena was palpable -- none more so than Scott's. Scott had been the one pushing the Tiësto concert since before any of us had even arrived in Geneva. Techno was his love and Tiësto his mistress. Since arriving in Prague, Scott had been saying, "Ever since I was a little boy, it's been my dream to see Tiësto in concert." He was only half-joking. His passion had definitely rubbed off on all of us, as our fast-paced walk turned into skips and frolics while we danced to Scott's mantra: "We rave on! We rave on! We RAAAAAAAAAAAAVE on!"

Arriving at the arena, we ran into Roger and his friends from Wake. It was only 10:00, much too early for Tiësto to be spinning. Thus, we went to a bar across the street to continue our preparations. After some beverages and a few memorable faces from Scott, we took our antics back across the street and into the O2 Arena.

Once inside, we began making our way down to the floor. Along the way, we noticed how absolutely ridiculous we all looked. Seeing as it was a techno concert, we had all been under the impression that everyone in attendance would be dressed in proper rave attire. But everybody was dressed so... normal. At least we would be memorable. Scott and I also noticed a young girl throw away some neon face paint. Without a thought, Scott reached into the trash can, pulled the petri dish of paint off the top of the pile, and began applying to his face. After a few seconds, I got over the disgusting thought that he had just pulled that from the trash can and began to decorate my face, as well. I mean, it was only in the trash for like a second, right?

The floor of the arena was huge, but naturally, everybody was packed against the stage, trying to get as close as they could to the origin of the thumping beats and flashing lights. We were no different. As we danced to the opening acts, we did our best to force our way to the front. Scott seemed to get there in seconds. I had more difficulties. Pushing people out of the way and squeezing through any bit of space I could find, I was slowly making my way to the front, pissing off several people along the way. Trying to squeeze through yet another wall of people, a massive hand began to wring my neck, throwing me back. I looked up to find that a 6'4'' giant girl had been the one choking me out. There was no doubt in my mind that she could beat me to a pulp. Rubbing my neck, I apologized in fear and scurried away in search of another route to the front. I eventually found my way to Scott, but apparently my pushing and shoving hadn't gone unnoticed. Just as I had rejoined Scott, two security guards came walking across stage pointing menacingly in the direction of Scott and I. Not wanting his dream to come to an
end,
Scott frantically dragged me away from the stage to escape the sights of the two guards.
Luckily, they let us go.

Finally, after dancing for about an hour to the opening acts, the legendary Tiësto took the stage. For the next five hours or so, the DJ put on a show unlike any I've ever seen. Obviously, his music filled the air, giving the arena an energetic pulse as the bass thumped, people screamed, bodies danced, and fists pumped to each Tiësto classic. Perhaps even more impressive was the light show. As the Dutch DJ spun his records, lights strobed on the packed house like colorful flashes of lightning. The blinking lights offered brief glimpses of twisting bodies, screaming faces, and extended arms before flashing back into darkness.

An added bonus to the show that I would have gladly paid extra for was Scott's dancing. From the second Tiësto hit the stage, I have never seen anybody pump his fist harder, jump back and forth faster, or sweat more profusely. It wasn't long before his shirt was off. Oddly enough -- perhaps in an effort to stay classy -- he kept his yellow tie on. His dancing and new wardrobe began attracting the attention of others, and a small, sort-of impromptu circle formed around Scott, people just as entertained by the music as they were by his dancing. Maybe this really was his boyhood dream.

After five hours of non-stopping dancing, Tiësto left the stage, finally allowing us an opportunity to take a break. The concert was not done, though. As soon as Tiësto left, a new DJ took the stage to keep the party going strong. We stepped out for a quick drink of water, then returned to the rage. By 6 am, though, I was dead tired. With seemingly no end in sight, Kat and I left, leaving Scott and Steve to close down the place. As for Tracy? We hadn't seen her since we walked in. Thankfully, she was asleep safe-and-sound at the hostel upon our return.

Waking up the next morning would have been miserable if not for the stories being shared. While we were all tired beyond belief, the excitement of recapping the night before with one another allowed us to build enough adrenaline to overcome the exhaustion. Perhaps the saddest, yet funniest story was that Tracy didn't think she stayed long enough to see Tiësto. She thinks she took a cab home before he hit the stage. Lucky for her, the cab ride was free (although, I'm sure the cabby wasn't planning on being so generous). After all, what are you supposed to do when you don't have any money?

We left our hostel and made our way to the center of town. After a quick bite to eat, we began exploring the city. We walked through Old Town Square, giving me the opportunity to take the necessary, yet unnecessary photo of the Cuckoo Clock Tower performing its act at the top of the hour. After this, priority number one was to find a hostel for the night. We checked out a few places near Old Town Square, but the prices were not to our liking. I figured this wasn't an issue, though. I had been to Prague just a month before with my buddies Alex and Geoff and remembered that we stayed just a block away from the Dancing House. Thus, I led the gang to this location, only to find out upon arrival that it stopped functioning as a hostel at the end of August. While nobody said so, I could tell that the others were not too happy with me for having made them walk 15 minutes to a hostel that doesn't exist. Luckily, we were able to avoid walking all the way back to the center of town, as we found a place to stay just a few blocks away from the building formerly known as hostel.

Settled into our new place, we headed out to explore Prague with the few hours of daylight we had left. At the top of everyone's list was the John Lennon Wall. After crossing the always-crowded St. Charles Bridge -- and Scott's endless search for the best exchange rate deal -- we made it to the colorful wall. Having signed it a month before, I was excited to find that my name had no yet been covered up. The others found spaces to leave their mark, as well. As they were doing so, Roger and his friends came around the corner to see the famous wall. Standing in peace staring at the huge wall, we struck up a conversation with a 50-something American expat. Hearing him talk of what this wall meant to him was something special. John Lennon and The Beatles were the voice of this man's generation, so it was no surprise that his connection to the wall was slightly different, and perhaps stronger, than ours. Nevertheless, the fact that 20-somethings and 50-somethings can be inspired in similar ways by the same piece of urban art shows how timeless John Lennon is. He may have been the voice of a generation for that 50 year-old, but his voice lives on in the 20 year-old that hopes for peace and love.

Running out of daylight, we left the wall and made our way back to the hostel to prepare for a night of pub crawling. The crawl we chose to go on happened to be the exact same one that I went on the month before. But while many of the bars may have been the same, the people provided quite a different experience. After leaving the pub crawl headquarters, we hit the first bar, located in a basement with walls made of stone making you feel as if you were in a dungeon. We began to mingle with the other guests and while Scott immediately fell in love with a British girl, the rest of us made our way over to the huge group of boys from Malta to play the name game. The name game basically consists of pounding the table, clapping your hands, and saying the f-word Everybody is given a different nickname that always ends in "fuck." For example, I was Peace-fuck, Steve was Scuba-fuck, Kat was Leopard-fuck, etc. The Malta boys then yell out their chant, and the game begins:

Hairy-fuck! What the fuck? How about a Peace-fuck?

(boomboom, clap-clap) (boomboom, clap-clap)

Peace-fuck! What the fuck? How about a Scuba-fuck?

(boomboom, clap-clap) (boomboom, clap-clap)

The first one to forget a name or screw-up the beat is the loser. It is not a game for the forgetful or the rhythmly challenged. Needless to say, the rowdy Malta boys got the night started off right.

As we moved from bar to bar, Scott grew more and more fond of his British beauty, Tracy and Kat grew more and more fond of the Malta boys, and Steven and I grew more and more fond of the booze and the dance floor. Just as it had the month before, the pub crawl ended at the huge five-story nightclub near the St. Charles Bridge, and just as I had a month before, I stumbled out of the club and found my way back to the hostel in one piece.

* * *

"Does anybody wanna get omelettes?" Silence. "Guys, let's go get omelettes."

"Tracy, shut up!," Steven finally responded.

"Tracy, how are you not dead right now?," Scott exhaustedly inquired. Tracy is such a nice person that it is difficult to ever be mad at her. But the morning after a pub crawl can cause someone to be mean to Mother Teresa. None of us were in any mood to move, so Tracy went out to get breakfast on her own.

By the time she returned, the rest of us were able to function. We packed up our belongings, left the hostel, and headed towards the center of town to catch the walking tour. Having already gone on a walking tour of the city, and an essay due the next day that hadn't even been started, I left the other four with the tour group and headed over to the Vlatava. As I sat reading the case notes for Nicaragua vs. The United States, I found myself constantly distracted by the beautiful setting in which I was sitting. The spectacular bridges over the calm Vlatava, the gothic beauty of St. Vitus Cathedral towering above the rest of Prague Castle, and the leaves beginning to change colors on Petrín hill all made for a truly enchanting scene. Before I knew it, it was time to head to the airport for the flight back to Geneva.

Meeting with everybody at the airport, it was evident that extreme exhaustion had set in. Not much was said on the way back, but not much needed to be said. We had just experienced a truly insane European weekend in one of the world's most wonderful cities. It is an experience we won't soon forget.

Weekend 2, Sept. 11-13: Bern and Interlaken

2010-08-29T13:53:00.008-04:00

I LOVE SWITZERLAND!

While week two brought about the first full week of classes, time was still had to explore our beautiful new home town. In hopes of getting a better feel for the layout of Genève, Steven, Michael, and I set out to conduct our own walking tour of the city. Despite being shown around Geneva several times during the first week, it felt as if we had just blindly followed whoever was leading the way, not fully taking in our surroundings or developing a recognition of where certain places were located. Much of our self-conducted tour focused on Old Town, where our main concerns were locating Chez Ma Cousine -- a chicken restaurant that came highly recommended from Kelly -- and our beloved Spring Brothers. We then wandered down to Parc des Bastions, where Steven and Michael took turns owning me on the life-sized chess boards. I'm more of a checkers man, anyway.

Our corner of Switzerland also happened to be graced with beautiful weather during week two, affording much time to spend at the beaches on Lac Léman. Roger, Steven, and I soaked up the sun at Genève Plage one day. Steve and I took turns cruising down the water-slide like overgrown children, and jumping off of the very high diving platforms, landing in what felt more like a sea of knives than an ice-cold lake. On Friday, I joined Tracy, Kat, Kelsey, Ali, Andrew, Roger, and Brian at Bains des Paquis, where we lounged and sipped wine to kickoff our weekend.

For the weekend, the Program organized a Saturday trip to Switzerland's capital city, Bern. A few of us decided to get things started a little early, though. With no class for them on Friday, Christian, Steven, and Scott took off Thursday for a night of partying in Lausanne, and spent much of Friday in Bern. Brian, Roger, and I left Friday night to meet up with them. Using our Swiss rail passes that allow us to travel free after 7 pm, the three of us hopped on a 7:30 train to Bern and within to hours were in Switzerland's capital.

Naturally, our first order of business was to find a place to stay for the night. We tried getting a hold of Christian, Scott, and Steve, but none of them were picking up. Stopping at a map of the city in the train station that listed a few hotels and hostels, Roger began placing phone calls to find a cheap spot. It didn't take long before he found a cheap 1-star hotel on the north end of town. But something was missing.

"Where the fuck is Brian?"

Roger looked around with a puzzled look on his face and responded, "Where'd he go?"

In our efforts to find a hotel, Brian somehow slipped away from us. After his persistent performance in trying to find our way to Mont Salève just a week ago, I figured he had ventured off to find a place for us to stay. Within a few minutes, though, Brian reappeared, having had to use the restroom.

As we rode the tram out to the hotel, we were finally able to get a hold of the other three bros. Apparently their night in Lausanne was spent partying hard and sleeping little. Combined with a full day of sightseeing in Bern, the boys were exhausted and not sure they would be joining us out on the town. Brian, Roger, and I were poised to go out regardless, and after enjoying a Swiss brew at our hotel bar, we jumped on the tram and headed back into the heart of town. Almost immediately after hopping off in a lively area of the city, we received official word that the other three were cashing out for the night.

Roaming the streets for a little while, we finally found a block crowded with young people and decided to settle in. Volunteering to scope things out, Brian ran off to find which bar would be the best fit. In the mean time, Roger and I ordered a few beers at the nearest bar and enjoyed our drinks at a table outside. Sipping our Heinekens and talking about the upcoming weekend, our conversation was interrupted by a group of boys sprinting down the street. One of the guys was way behind, trying his hardest to catch up. In his efforts, we could see him beginning to tumble forward, his body far ahead of his feet. And then... SMACK! In what was one of the greatest face plants I have ever seen, the boy flew forward at full speed with his arms extended, ending up with a face full of Bernese cobblestone. I just hoped my night wouldn't end the same way.

Brian rejoined us shortly after the amusing fall and led us next door to a packed bar. We bought a few drinks upstairs, then headed downstairs to join the scores of people dancing to the thumping beats. We stuck together at first, sharing a few conversations with some friendly Swiss youths. Eventually, with the right amount of alcohol in me, I set out to find a nice German-speaking Swiss girl to dance with. After failing a handful of times, I decided to cut my losses. But something was missing.

"Where the hell are they?"

I ran several laps around the basement of the bar in search of Roger and Brian, but couldn't find them. I went upstairs and tip-toed to scan the crowd for a few minutes. Still nothing. I went back downstairs and drank another beer, seeing if the two would turn up. No luck. I suppose I could have hung around and partied without them, but I had already fallen victim to the symbolic face plant in my efforts to find a dance partner. I saw no need to continue drinking and have my night end in a physical face plant without any friends around to scrape me off of the pavement. So I headed back to the hotel and turned in.

The following morning, the three of us made our way down to the train station. There, we met up with the students and advisers of the Program who had arrived that morning. Once everybody was accounted for, we set off on a guided tour of Switzerland's capital city. Highlights of the tour included the Federal Palace, the medieval Old Town containing the Zytglogge clock tower and Albert Einstein House, the Münster Cathedral, and a beautiful view of the river Aare, which we were told people insanely swim in year-round. While all of this did justice in showing that Bern is a beautifully one-of -a-kind city, we all wanted to see the bear pit, as well. With a bear as the symbol of Bern, the city has housed bears in a pit called the Bärengraben since the mid-1800s. Unfortunately for us, the site is now empty, as the last two bears were put down.

After the tour, many of the students actually had to go to class. The Art History students would be following Carla around the city, studying its unique architecture. The Switzerland and Small States class would be attending a presentation from the Swiss defense ministry. With nothing better to do, and interested in the complex that is Swiss neutrality, I tagged along for the defense presentation. After an interesting presentation, we were given the rest of the afternoon to explore Bern on our own. Andrew and I ventured over to the History Museum only to find that it was soon closing. From there, we wandered the streets of Old Town until meeting up with several of the other students to grab a few drinks. A little more meandering was done before making our way over to the train station and heading out to Interlaken.

As we arrived in Interlaken, I am sure every other passenger was happy to see us descend the train, as we weren't exactly quiet along the ride. Night had fallen upon our arrival, so the group of 15-plus headed to the hostel in the dark. Within 15 minutes, we were at Balmer's, where we quickly paid for our beds and settled into our room... if you want to call it that. We were placed in what was essentially a small warehouse. The massive room was broken up into a few compartments, each with about four sets of bunk beds. Then there was the back wall of the room, lined with numerous sets of triple bunk beds. There must have been more than forty beds in the "room." At least we had a place to sleep.

While walking from the train station to the hostel, Interlaken did not seem to have the most happenin' nightlife. Fortunately for us, the most hoppin' place in town was located in the basement of the hostel, Metro Bar. To make things even better, we still had another hour to take advantage of Happy Hour. We smashed Jack and Cokes, pounded bottles of Sam Adams, and mingled with the other Balmer's guests (mostly Americans, Aussies, and Kiwis). Then it happened. Much as we did the week before at Spring Brothers, we absolutely took over Metro, turning a relatively chill scene into the ultimate dance party. The rest of the night was a blur spent dancing amongst ourselves, dancing with randoms, and preventing the random creeps from dancing with the girls. The partying with this group just keeps getting better and better.

The following morning, we drunkenly dragged ourselves out of bed to prepare for our day of adventure. Interlaken is somewhat of an adventure sports capital, offering such activities as sky diving, canyoning, bungy jumping, and zorbing (which involved rolling downhill in a massive plastic ball). Roger had made plans for a large group to go canyoning. In the meantime, Teeny, Kati, and Michael had plans to go both canyoning and bungy jumping. In part because I wanted to save a little money, in part because my main goal was to go bungy jumping, and in part because I needed a little Kevin-time, I decided I'd join the latter group later in the day for the bungy jumping leg of their adventure.

Once the two groups set out on their respective canyoning trips, I was left by my lonesome to find a place to enjoy a lengthy hike. My research consisted of stepping outside, looking around at the many mountains surrounding the area, and choosing the closest. Schynige Platte was the winner. At the base of the mountain I saw that the hiking trail would take me six hours to reach the peak, so I decided to make things hard on myself and took the steepest route up the mountain, avoiding the trail altogether. About an hour and a half into the hike, filthy and scraped from the many falls I'd taken, I ran into the trail. Needing a break from the abuse, I decided I'd stay on the path for a bit. However, 20 minutes later, I somehow lost the path and found myself in a field full of bell-sporting cows. Thus, I reverted to my original plan: just go up.

Before long, I ran into the train tracks that lead to the top of the mountain and used them as a rough guide to the top. With the tracks winding in and out as they climbed up the mountain, I took every opportunity to cut corners, avoiding the long turns that would only add time to my hike. This plan was soon abandoned, though. While trudging along, I noticed the tracks taking a wide turn to the left and then bending back to the right about 300 meters ahead. To cut my time, I decided to veer from the tracks and cut across a huge field. There were a few wire fences running across various areas of the field, most of which I grabbed and crossed over with ease. In the middle of the field, I noticed the tracks turning right more than I had originally thought, so I adjusted my route. I approached another wire fence and grabbed it to cross over.

ZAP!!! My four limbs straightened out like an aroused part of the male anatomy and I fell back on my ass. I sat there for a few seconds, eyes wide and mind blank. When I was eventually able to form a thought, I realized I had been electrocuted. I picked myself up and walked quickly away from the fence, as if it were going to chase me down. I didn't want to be anywhere near another wire. I ran out to the tracks and followed along them faithfully, bends and all.

I soon ran into another dilemma, though. If I was going to continue following the track, I would have to walk through a very dark tunnel and risk getting pummeled by an oncoming train. I did my best to find a way around it, but all of my options were way too steep. Not wanting to turn back to find another route, and still delusional from the shock, I ventured into the dark tunnel, hoping I'd make it to the other end before another train arrived. About 100 feet in, I couldn't my hand six inches from my face. Simply put, what I was doing wasn't exactly safe. Luckily, about halfway through the tunnel, there was a small opening that led to safer pastures. Naturally, on the other side of this hole was one of the designated hiking trails. This time, I was able to stay on it the rest of the way.

About 45 minutes later, legs burning, sweat pouring, and elbows scraped from the countless falls I had taken, I finally reached the Schynige Platte summit. Unfortunately, there was not much of a view. It was a cloudy day in Interlaken, and this particular peak happened to be sitting above the clouds. The sense of accomplishment at reaching the top was enough for me, though.

Too dead to even think about walking back down the mountain, and having to meet with Teeny, Kati, and Michael in about 90 minutes, I decided to hop on the train, napping the entire way down. I ran back to the hostel to grab a snack and drink before heading over to the Aplin Raft building and heading out for the trip. The four of us were joined by about twelve other potential jumpers, all excited and nervous for the upcoming event. The calming bus ride out helped ease the nerves a bit, as the scenery was some of the most beautiful I had ever laid eyes on. The Bernese Oberland region of the Alps is full of beautiful green countryside, glistening rivers, and snow-capped mountains. The setting was not unlike that of a fairy tale.

We stopped near Grindelwald, in the shadow of the mountains of the Junfrau region. We all exited the bus and began our trek over to the jump site. About 100 feet before reaching the edge of the cliff, our guide turned around and gave us our first safety speech.

"Alright, we're coming up to the cliff. NO FUCKING AROUND! If you fuck around over here and fall off, you're dead."

Nervous giggles followed his short speech. There's nothing like invoking death to grab people's attention. Needless to say, point taken.

At the jumping site, we were given more formal safety instructions and asked to agree to a waiver, in which the last clause read, "Your mother doesn't know your here." From that point forward, we strapped into our gear and waited nervously for our turn to jump. The gear we were given was determined by our weight. All but two people were given the gear for average weighted people. There was one Australian man who was given gear for a larger man, and one American boy given gear for a smaller man... Michael. Because of this, Michael had the nerve-racking pleasure of jumping second. The Australian man stepped up to the platform first and was given his countdown.

"THREE! TWO! O--."

"WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO." Before the guide reached one, the Aussie took off screaming. From this point forward, nobody wanted to be the first to chicken out.

Michael stepped up to the plate next. Unlike the Australian man, he waited for his countdown to finish before taking off into free fall. Also, Michael didn't utter a sound. In fact, Michael wasn't even moving. As he bobbed up and down on the bungy chord, Michael's body looked limp. "Oh my lord, he's had a heart attack!," I though to myself. On his final few bobs, though, Michael let out a hearty yell and pumped his fist. He was okay.

I stood nervously buy the jumping platform watching each of the jumpers take off, some crazy enough to do back flips. In fact, Kati, the second of us four Geneva kids to take off, took off with a front flip, the last person I would expect to add something extra to her jump. Teeny was next and she did a flip, too! Following Teeny, I felt I had to do some kind of flip just to avoid being emasculated. But when I stepped up to the edge, I changed my mind.

"So, how are you gonna dot this? You gonna flip?," the guide asked me.

"Uhhh... Nah, I think I'm just gonna jump out."

"Yeah, that's probably the best way to go about it." But I couldn't help notice the tone in his voice that basically said, "What a pussy!" I didn't care, though. Palms sweating profusely, I looked at what lay ahead of me and couldn't help but think what an unbelievably stupid idea this was. I was about to jump into a narrow canyon where it didn't seem out of the realm of possibility that I could swing in one direction or the other and smack into the rocks. There was also a river running below with jagged rocks jutting out of the water to provide a most painful death. But when the guide asked if I was ready, I nodded yes, smiled for what would surely be the last photo taken of me alive, and waited for my countdown.

"THREE! TWO! ONE!"

"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!"

I took off screaming, arms spread as if I were trying to take flight, stomach jolting up into my throat. I just kept falling and falling. It seemed like it was taking forever. Just as it looked as if I were going to crash to my death on the jagged rocks of the river below, the bungy recoiled and I was sent back up.

"WOO-HOO." Never before had I felt such an adrenaline rush. As I bobbed up and down, I twisted my body to flash peace signs and animated faces to the photographer above, a completely different attitude than a few moments before. Being in a state of total free fall was a truly unique and thrilling experience. The fact that I didn't die was even more thrilling. What an unbelievably smart idea this was.

I was unhooked from the bungy and joined the other veteran jumpers to watch the rest of the bungy and canyon jumpers before hopping back into the bus and riding back to Interlaken. While the bus ride to Grindelwald was full of nervous laughs and tension, the ride back was much more relaxed, with everybody interacting with one another much more easily. I guess a thrilling experience will do that to people.

We returned to Balmer's, washed up, grabbed a bite to eat (and our Happy Hour drinks), and shared our stories of adventure with the group of kids who had gone canyoning. From hearing everyone's stories, there is no doubt that all of us had an amazing day. Then it was on to another night of partying. We spent the early parts of the evening enjoying our drinks in our warehouse of a hostel room, making small talk with one another and taking some nice pictures with the two older gentlemen who had been placed in our room. Then it was back to Metro to own the dance floor once more.

As the night began to wind down, the bar began emptying out. I was prepared to close the place down, though, and continued dancing gracelessly around the dance floor until the wee hours of the morning. Then, just as the night was about to end, somebody tried to challenge my dancing supremacy. As I was rocking to Michael Jackson's Billie Jean, another young man came out to the floor, starting what will go down in history as the greatest dance-off of all time. It should come as no surprise that he moved much better than me, but at least I was able to provide some entertainment for the crowd.

The next morning was much like the one before, haggardly dragging ourselves out of bed and preparing for a new adventure. While a few students had returned home, the remaining Geneva kids (plus Roger's buddy Sol and our new Kiwi friend Geoff) hopped on a train and headed out to Lauterbrunnen, placing us in the heart of the Bernese Alps. The original plan was to hike up the mountain, but with most of us suffering from exhaustion, the plan changed, and we took a gondola and train up the mountain towards Grimmelwald.

When riding out to go bungy jumping, I had been given a deep sense of just how beautiful this region is. Walking around at the base of the mountains in Lauterbrunnen strengthened this sense. But there is nothing like seeing it from up above. As we hiked along high on the mountain, I could not imagine a more spectacular view. The green mountainsides, the glacial rivers, the white clouds, and the behemoth that is Jungfrau. It was natural beauty unlike any I have ever, and will ever see. As we stood taking pictures of the awe-inspiring view, Roger yelled into the valley, putting into words what all of us were thinking: "I LOVE SWITZERLAND!"

The rest of the afternoon was spent taking in the scenery, finding gnomes, sliding down slides, and eating authentic Swiss cheese. Sooner than any of us would have liked, we bid farewell to the beautiful landscape and headed back to Interlaken, and then hopped on the train back to Geneva. The best Sunday ever brought a close to an incredible weekend.

Weekend 1, Sept. 4-6: Geneva

2010-08-23T17:34:00.008-04:00

We are going to destroy this town.

Week one can be split into two: "The Program" and "The Brothel."

The Program

The rest of week one was spent getting acclimated to everything from our new city, our classes, and most importantly, each other. The morning after Lord Nelson's was an orientation that more or less consisted of pairing up with another classmate (by finding the person whose half-postcard matched your own half-postcard) and introducing him or her to the program. My partner was Kat. While we were given a few minutes to chat and learn a little bit about one another, our time was spent mostly in silence. I don't know what it is, but I have never been very good with forced introductions. I am much better at getting to know somebody on my own accord, or at least introduced by a mutual friend. Case and point: without being forced, Kat and I had a much nicer conversation the night before in the Brothel courtyard. If not for our previous encounter, we would have been shit outta luck once it was our turn to introduce one another. Instead, our introductions may have been the best of the bunch.

"Alright, this is Kat from the BEAUTIFUL state of New Jersey. She is a junior at Villanova and is studying (sorry, Kat. I can't remember what you said. International Relations, maybe?)."

"This is Kevin from the really EXCITING state of Ohio. He is a senior at BU and is studying International Relations."

I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Following the formal orientation was the Geneva scavenger hunt. Each floor of 18 Rue Muzy teamed up and set out to find everything on the list. The grand prize? A ten-pound bar of Toblerone chocolate. I gathered with my fourth floor-mates Steven, Nicki, Anja, Scott, Michael, Deenah, and Anne, and we set off to dominate. Our domination quickly faded, though, as we missed the first bus we were supposed to take. Nevertheless, we remained competitive... at least for a little bit. We raced to Gare Cornavin, then to Place des Nations to find the UN, then to the Manor Department store, snapping the necessary photos along the way. While there was a definite sense of trying to win the hunt, the main priority of the fourth floor was to see Geneva. This was our new home, afterall.

We soon scrapped the whole winning idea all together, due mainly to the fact that we could not find Plainpalais. As we searched for this seemingly hidden area of town, we wandered through Parc des Bastions, taking in the chess matches and admiring the Reformation Wall. Eventually, we stumbled upon the section of town that is Plainpalais. How we were unable to initially find this huge quarter is beyond me. Still wanting to see more of Geneva, we continued to follow the scavenger hunt list, and before long, we were back at the Brothel. Surprisingly enough, we were the second group back (congrats to the third floor for the victory).

After our orientation day, classes were underway. For many of the students in the program, this meant our first encounter with our Introduction to Public International Law professor, Dr. Djacoba Liva Tehindrazanarivelo. Dr. T is from Madagascar, and English is his FOURTH language. Needless to say, Dr. T was a a bit difficult to understand on day one. Additionally, Dr. T was just a tad bit boring. Most likely due to the fact that English is language number four for the man, Dr. T spoke very monotone. You didn't have to look far to find somebody fighting to keep their eyes open.

French also got underway. Having been placed in the advanced class, I had the pleasure of being the only boy in our class of seven. I was joined by Meera, Kelsey, Liz, Ali, Claire, and Alyssa. Our professor was Jane Wilhelm, a middle-aged Swiss woman who smiled at all times and was prone to instances of awkward silence. She was also prone to motherly advice, telling me on day one that I should get myself a Swiss girlfriend. I'll work on that one.

Outside of school, the Program also set up a nice (albeit early) trip to the United States Mission. We listened to several U.S. diplomats tell us of their work in Geneva, as well as previous work they had done in their diplomatic careers. Whether or not the presentation was meant to be a recruiting tool, the people at the U.S. Mission in Geneva have got me seriously thinking about a career in foreign service.

The Program closed out a pretty crazy weekend with a relaxing boat trip on Lac Léman. Hungover and exhausted from the night before, we boarded the boat around 10 am by Jardin Anglais and began our cruise. The lake shimmered brilliantly as the bright sun in a cloudless sky shined down on the water. The Jura mountains towered to the north; the Alps to the south. As we continued moving east, new cities, beautiful vineyards, and stunning lake houses came into view. As we all sat in awe, Alexa M. and I talked about our new, unique surroundings. We took turnings babbling about how beautiful everything was and how we couldn't believe we were there.

The boat stopped off in Yvoire, France, a medieval town with no cars that sits on the lake across from Nyon, Switzerland. The narrow streets were full of people, some looking for a café to eat at, some shopping at the boutiques, some listening to the one-man Peruvian flute band, all admiring the beauty of the little town. I grabbed some gelato and took a seat by the water with Scott and Brian. Not much was said, but that was fine. The view was enough.

The stay in Yvoire was short, and soon enough we were back on the boat headed towards Geneva. While the cold wind led some inside the boat, most of us sat at the stern of the boat, enjoying the view as long as possible. Then something historical happened. The bromance was officially set in stone with one of the most brotastic pictures ever taken. A great ending to the first week.

The Brothel

While the week was full of orientations, classes, and other formalities, the kids of dix-huit Rue Muzy still needed their nights out. Following the scavenger hunt, under the guidance of our trusted RA Kelly, we went on a journey to Old Town. It had been raining on and off all day, never harder than when we left the Brothel for the bar. Crouching under Kelsey's tiny umbrella to at least keep half of my body dry, I and a group of about 25 others fought the elements to find our final destination. Though it took some effort, Kelly finally led us into Spring Brothers. Although most of us were uncomfortably soaked, the Irish bar in Old Town Geneva soon made us forget all our troubles.

The bar was pretty packed and poppin' once we arrived, but a group of 25 American college students is always going to liven things up a little more. We quickly befriended the bartenders, particularly an Englishman named Simon. The Brit took a liking to us, or at least the girls, and from then on we pretty much owned the place. Pints of Guinness were drank, blow jobs were thrown back, and an absolutely fantastic rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody was sung (close to the level of the performance given in London). Lord Nelson's may have been our first night out, but Spring Brothers was our first rage. And a successful one, at that.

We liked the Irish bar so much that we returned later on in the week. The result was pretty much the same: Guinness, shots, singing, and other occurrences of general indecency. The real debauchery occurred after Spring Brothers, though. Wanting to see some of the other bars Geneva had to offer, a bunch of us set off to find a bar named Funky Monkey. Talking obnoxiously loud and using one another to prop ourselves up (Kat became my de facto drunk buddy), we stumbled down hill and out of Old Town, somehow finding our way safely to the next bar. I'd like to say what happened next, but everyone else involved may feel differently. Let's just say we used the restroom, threw a private party in the basement, and drank a few beers. Don't worry. I eventually paid for them. If we continue going at this rate, though, we are going to destroy this town

The raging of week one also included a trip to L'Usine, an old factory converted into a dance club. The night started off with another large group rolling out together. The first stop was a boat bar on Lake Geneva next to Jardin Anglais, where the couches were comfortable and the drinks uncomfortably pricey. We moved on to Mulligan's across from Manor. We took over the downstairs lounge, but the place was a bit dead, so we decided to move on. It was at this point that Scott, Christian, and I decided we needed a break from the Irish bars. We decided we were going to hit a dance club and tried to recruit others to come along. Initially, there were no takers. As we walked toward the Rhône, though, we heard a raspy voice yelling, "WAAAAIT!" Tracy, the girl who seemingly lost her voice within seconds of being in Geneva, was coming along for the ride.

We arrived at club to find a discouragingly long line. For Christian, it was too much and he decided to turn back. Scott, Tracy, and I chose to stick it out, though, and within ten minutes, we were in the club. The lights were flashing, the techno music was bumping, and the people were dancing, many of them on a not-so-natural high. We grabbed a few drinks, joined the crowd, and began raging Euro-style. Scott and I somehow got separated from Tracy and when we were reunited, she had a new friend. Scott extended his hand to the dread-locked young man, introducing himself and asking where he was from.

"The World."

As Tracy giggled, Scott and I stood there with our eyes wide and mouths gaping, shocked at the response we received. Never before had I heard someone say they were from "The World," and probably never will again.

For the next two hours we danced to the thumping beats being spun by the DJ's. By 3 am, I was shot, and made my way out of the club for the walk home, leaving Tracy and Scott to rage the rest of the morning away.

Shockingly, the students of the Brothel were also able to enjoy themselves outside of consuming copious amounts of alcohol. On Saturday morning, we woke up fairly early and set out to climb Mont Salève, a mountain in France that overlooks Geneva. Michael should be recognized and thanked for organizing the trip. Unfortunately, his directions were less than perfect. According to Carla, the trip to Salève was about 20 minutes, but after several bus transfers and an hour or so later, we had yet to reach our destination. Brian took over the navigational duties, but his luck wasn't much better. Usually one to lend a helping hand, I instead chose to get pissed off and take out my frustrations on a delicious kebab. Brian wouldn't give up, though, and continued to lead us closer to the mountain. Eventually, we had to resort to walking about a mile or two to reach the base, but we made it.

Eager to start climbing, Brian and I basically said, "Fuck a trail" and starting going uphill. For whatever reason, everyone else decided to follow. Before long, we found a proper trail, but those first few minutes were unnecessarily difficult. As we trekked higher and higher up the mountain, the view grew more and more breathtaking. After two hours of solid hiking, we reached the top of the mountain... kind of. In reality, we were still about ten minutes from the summit, but we decided to take a break, grabbing a snack, watching the paragliders, and taking in the gorgeous view of the greater Geneva area.

So close to the top, we continued our journey to the summit where the view was even more... well, you get the idea. On one side we had Geneva, the lake, and the Juras, on the other the Alps and Mont Blanc, the tallest peak in the Alps. There was also a fenced-off area full of cows. Carla had explained Switzerland's love of cows, and although we were in France, I suppose the proximity to Geneva allowed this love to cross over the border. Wanting a picture with the cows, we hopped over the fence and did our best to sneak behind a cow laying in the grass. However, just as the picture was being taken, the brown beast decided to stand up, causing us all to scurry away in fear. The last think anybody wanted was to be trampled by a 1,000 pound beast during the first week in Geneva.

Although I could have stayed and looked at that view all day, we made our way over to the funicular and rode it down to the bottom of the mountain. We then hopped on the proper bus that got us back to Geneva in 20 minutes, concluding the first of hopefully many European adventures with this awesome new group of people.

Geneva: Day 1 - August 31, 2009

2010-08-03T23:03:00.011-04:00

Maybe these people are cool.

"Shit. Shit. SHIT!"

These were the exact words I spoke to myself after wandering around this foreign city for about 15 minutes. I needed to find the building where I would be staying for the next 3 1/2 months, but I had no map. Not that a map would totally help. I couldn't even remember the name of the street. All I could remember was that the building was a block from Lac Léman. Which side of the lake? Again, I had no clue.

Before leaving the train station, I asked a fellow passenger where the lake was located. He told me to exit the train station and walk straight for 5-10 minutes. I couldn't miss it, he told me. So I walked down the stairs from the platform and out the first set of doors I saw. Now I was approaching my 20th minute, back growing sore from my overstuffed backpack, and, while I had passed one park and was walking along a second, I still was unable to see any body of water, not to mention an urban setting. Asking a passerby most certainly would have helped, but what kind of man asks for directions? I'll walk to Zurich before I ask for directions.

Eventually, I decided the best plan of attack was to turn around. Before long, an urban landscape appeared, and soon after that, water. I crossed the Rhône at Pont de la Machine and turned up to the lake. I reached the end of the river and the start of the lake and had to make a decision: right or left? Seeing as I would have to cross back over the water to get to the left (west) side of the lake, I chose to search the right (east) side for my place of residence. I walked along Pont du Mont Blanc with the lake and Jardin Anglais to my left and hotels to my right. To continue walking along the lake, I turned up Quai Gustave Ador and began looking at street signs, hoping that one would jog my memory.

Rue Muzy. Now that sounded familiar. From the street sign, my eyes strayed down the street to a large group of people standing outside one of the buildings. This had to be it. Nearing the building, I was approached by a young man and young woman asking if I was part of the BU Geneva program. I had finally made it.

The young man and woman, who were my RA's Phil and Kelly, pointed me in the direction of Carla, the program director. A tall woman with the quintessential British accent, Carla handed me my room key and I lugged my backpack up the stairs to the fourth floor. I turned the corner and entered room 44. My roommate, Steven, was already unpacking his belongings. Before even saying a word or seeing his face, though, I knew we would get along. Anybody who wears a Ken Griffey Jr. shirt automatically gains 100 points in my book. Soon enough we formally introduced ourselves to one another, both making no effort to hide our excitement about being abroad. We chatted with each other as we unpacked, discovering such things about the other as where we were from, where we went to school, and a common love of sports. The first impression was definitely a solid one.

As we continued to get our room situated, another boy came into the room, dressed in a button-down shirt, nice khaki shorts, and loafers. The kid looked as if he'd come straight out of an Abercrombie ad. Taking a momentary break from packing, I walked over with my hand extended and introduced myself. He grabbed my hand and gave a nice, firm handshake. But he didn't say a word. He stared at me with his mouth wide open, a face that looked half as if he were suspicious of me and half as if he were on a serious LSD trip. We continued to shake hands in awkward silence.

"Scott," he finally blurted out.

"Nice to meet you, man."

After the rather strange introduction, Scott chatted with Steven and I for a bit. Asking him why he had chosen to study in Switzerland, he told us he Googled "hot European girls," and the first photo that came up was one of a Swiss girl. Sold. As ridiculous as his explanation was, I have to be honest, it made me like him more. Maybe this Scott character was a bit different, but I knew right away that he was going to provide me with an endless supply of entertainment.

Before we knew it, it was time to gather in the basement for a luncheon/meet-and-greet. As is always the case when a group of people unfamiliar with one another gather for the first time, there were awkward smiles, awkward hellos, and an overdose of politeness. Not to mention the uncomfortable process of finding a place to sit. As I waited in line to make my plate, I noticed the significant male minority. There must have been about 40 kids in the program, only eight of which were male. To me, it only made sense that the men would have to stick together throughout the semester. However, I wasn't so sure the other guys felt the same way. That is until another boy from across the room came over and introduced himself, passing up at least a dozen girls along the way. Roger knew the boys had to stick together, and a friendly introduction was the first step.

Having been one of the last to get my food, there were not many seating options available to me. When I saw an open seat at a table with another guy, I pounced. Everybody at the table introduced themselves, but in all honesty, I only remembered Michael's name. Like I said, we gotta stick together.

After everybody got settled, Carla grabbed everyone's attention and began the introductions. She gave a brief overview of the program, Geneva, Switzerland... the usual. What really grabbed everyone, though, was her brief history of the building. Not too long ago, the very building we will be living in for the next several months -- the building with the nice bedrooms, beautiful bathrooms, and awesome kitchens -- was a BROTHEL! And a popular one, at that. Carla told us of girls in semesters past taking cab rides back to 18 Rue Muzy being met with laughs when stating the address to the driver. How can we live up to such an incredible reputation?

The rest of the day was spent organizing rooms, taking walking tours of the city, and relaxing on the beach. From there, we did what American college students do best -- organized a beer run. After failing to find beer at several stores, we finally found a place that was not only loaded with beer, but cheap beer. 24 tall boys of Anker were selling for 12 CHF. Irresistible to say the least.

To best enjoy the beautiful evening that it was, we took our beers to the courtyard behind the building and began out first large-scale drinking/bonding session. I chatted with Christian and was excited to see that, like me, going out tonight was his top priority. Eventually I moved from my comfort-zone of the men and began interacting more with the girls. I talked with Kat from New Jersey, Tracy from Erie, and Alexa from Guatemala, all nice and pretty girls excited to be in Geneva... and open to the idea of going out.

In need of a good meal, we took our bonding session down to the corner and invaded Chez Marino. This Italian restaurant and pizzeria, conveniently located just steps from The Brothel, seemed thrilled to host this large group of American students, and we were thrilled to be fed. I found my way to a seat near my fellow man, of course, sitting across from Roger. But I also continued my interaction with the women, sitting near and getting to know Kelsey and Sarah over our meals.

The most important part of the night was now upon us. It was time to hit the town. Not knowing our way around, we found Kelly and Phil and had them show us to the promised land. When I saw how many people were coming along for the ride, I was shocked. Before arriving in Geneva, I had a preconceived notion of what the other students would be like. With the Geneva program being one of the most, if not the most, competitive abroad programs that Boston University has to offer, I was imagining a large group of book-worms, homebodies, and sobriety lovers. I was expecting nerds. Nothing more, nothing less. From what I saw on that walk to the bar, though, I was proven wrong. Maybe these people are cool.

Kelly and Phil led us to Lord Nelson's Pub. Although it was more subdued than I had hoped for, it was a good first step; a nice way to ease us into (hopefully) a semester's worth of late-night gatherings. To go along with the theme of the day, the men grabbed a table together outside. Our drink of choice for the night was the blonde beer, served in a five liter tower to be shared amongst the eight of us. Except there was only seven of us. Michael was at a table across the terrace sitting with the girls. The other guys took notice, so I walked over to pry Michael from the girls. He was reluctant at first. Hands down the nicest person I had met on day one, Michael was also a bit innocent. If he had drank in the past, it was not much. With us seven other guys, though, it was only a matter of time before we corrupted him. With the help of the other girls telling Michael to go join the bromance, I was able to bring Michael to join Steve, Scott, Christian, Roger, Brian, Andrew, and myself.

We sat there on that warm Swiss night enjoying our beers and talking about the possibilities ahead of us. There was definitely bromance in the air. These guys were not the dorks I thought they would be, and for once, I was happy to be wrong. Study abroad was underway and things were looking up.

A New Chapter

2010-07-28T23:54:00.005-04:00

"Studying" Abroad.

For those of you who have been reading An American Stranger, I hope you enjoyed (or are still enjoying) my tales of backpacking around (mostly Western) Europe. Having the opportunity and good fortune to travel around a continent full of such history and beauty is something I will always be grateful for. To travel around that continent with two of my best friends made it the trip of a lifetime.

My adventures in Europe did not end on August 30, 2009, though. In fact, they were just beginning. The very next day, I arrived in Geneva, Switzerland to begin four months of "studying" abroad. Sure, there was some homework done, papers written, and tests taken, but is the travel around Europe, the travel around Switzerland, and the nights out in Geneva that I will remember most. Because of this, I feel compelled to share my abroad experience with you. After all, it wouldn't really be fair if I left out four of the five months that I was in Europe, would it?

Here's the catch, though. After Barcelona, I stopped keeping a journal. Therefore, anything I write from this point forward will be straight from memory. Will there be a few key stories that I have forgotten? Perhaps. But for the most part, my experiences in and around Geneva were so amazing that the memories will stick with me for the rest of my life. I have full confidence that I can give you a substantial and entertaining account of what happened throughout those four months.

Now obviously I won't be able to write an entry for each day like I have for the backpacking trip. For one, I can't remember the details of every day. And two, there were some days where nothing really happened other than going to classes or internships. Therefore, instead of a daily account, I will conduct a weekly account, with a few exceptions in between.

You are going to be hit with a new cast of characters, new cultural experiences, new destinations, and an excessive amount of partying, all of which promises to be entertaining. So without further ado (and by that I mean give me a few days to collect my thoughts), I present to you a new chapter in my saga:

An American Stranger

Tales from the Brothel

First post coming shortly.

Barcelona to Geneva: August 30, 2009

2010-07-26T15:42:00.012-04:00

The end.

After a night of partying Catalonia style, I dragged myself out of bed at 10 am for the final day of my Euro-trip backpacking extravaganza. With my train for Geneva set to leave at 5 pm, I still had some time to see a bit of Barcelona (and perhaps find a breathtaking view of the city that I had been so desperately searching for). I said goodbye to a few of the Aussies, checked out of the hotel, and hit the streets of Barcelona one last time.

My plan for the day was to find Parc Güell, a park located on the north end of town. The hostel workers recommended it, saying that my Barcelona trip would be incomplete if I didn't go. Other than being told that the park was designed by none other than Antoni Gaudí, I knew nothing about the urban garden. Every other park I have been to in Europe has been great, though, so I was sure it would not be a disappointment.

While the park was a ways away from my hostel, I decided to go on foot in hopes of finding some cool sights along the way. My thought process turned out to be correct, as I ran into some very artistic looking buildings. The architect, you ask? Gaudí. The first building of his I stumbled upon was Casa Batlló. It looks as if it was a residential building in years past. Now, it seems to be solely a tourist destination. The building is defined by its colorful mosaics, curving roof, and irregular balconies. Bone-like rails, lined up at uneven intervals, guard the uneven windows that span the first floor. It is so fun to look at that I almost didn't even notice the cool building next to it. This building, which I learned goes by the name Casa Amatller, is very colorful as well, with bright turquoise shutters, a deep red lining the stairway-shaped façade, and red dots spread across the top of the building. Both buildings were cool to see, but Gaudí takes the cake.

My love for Casa Batlló must have been pretty obvious, as a man came up to me and began talking architecture with me. I told him I knew nothing about architectural styles, but was impressed with what I was looking at. He suggested a few more buildings for me to gawk at, conveniently located along my walk to the park. I turned down a side street to find the first one, but was ultimately unimpressed. The building was the Fundació Antoni Tàpies, a cultural center for contemporary art. The building is nicely constructed with red brick and big arching windows. The main attraction, though, is the roof, which consists of huge wires jumbled up without any rhyme or reason. If I were only creative enough (or dumb enough) to think of that, I'd have it made. But I guess that's what you get with a modern art center.

The second building was much more fascinating. Why? Because Gaudí made it. I knew very little about Antoni Gaudí before coming to Barcelona, but he may now be my favorite artist, not to mention architect. This structure of his goes by the name of Casa Milà. This apartment building curves in and out as it bends around the street corner. It contains numerous balconies with black iron that resembles ivy. Various sculptures spread across the rooftop, with tourists up top for an up-close view. Overall, my new architecture friend gave some good recommendations of sights to see. Too bad I didn't even think about going inside until after the fact.

I continued my journey to Parc Güell, stopping at Sagrada Família once more to snap a few more photos of the world's most intriguing-looking church. I can't wait to see the finished product.

As I neared the park, the terrain began to grow steeper, the streets narrower, and the neighborhoods quieter. For a moment, I thought I was going the wrong way (in reality, I probably just took the least direct route). Nevertheless, I trucked along as my feet and legs became more sore and the sweat began to pour. Soon enough, I turned the corner and there it was!

Parc Güell is unlike any park I have ever seen and ever will see. Considering Gaudí was the designer, I suppose I should have expected something like this. Then again, no first time visitor can really expect to see what is actually there. Two buildings flank the entrance gates as one is led into a sea of green and breathtaking art. The grand staircase is lined on either side by tile walls and contains a colorful mosaic dragon at its center. The stairs lead to a sheltered courtyard dominated by rows of columns. On the roof of this courtyard lies the main terrace, which contains a long, mosaic bench that I overheard is in the shape of a sea serpent. The best thing about the main terrace, though, was the fact that it offered a wonderful of the the city. But as I began to look around the park, I soon realized I would be able to find an even better sight.

From the main terrace I made my way further and further up the hill in search of the perfect view. I came to an opening that offered a great sight to the north-northwest. But only a sliver of the sea was visible. Not good enough.

I moved from this back part of the hill and found my way over to another landing. A bit higher up than the main terrace and offering almost a full panorama of the city, it was definitely the best view I had seen. But while the sea was now in full view, the north was being cut-off somewhat. I knew I could find better.

I continued to stroll around the stunningly green park, enjoying the calm in the midst of the chaos. In the heat of the Spanish afternoon, the sun was beginning to get the best of me, though. I was about ready to head back down to the main terrace and out of the park, doing my best to convince myself that I had already found the best possible view of Barcelona. However, I had yet to explore the areas of the park west of the main terrace and my tourist urges took over. I told myself that since I was already here, I had to see all there was to see. Besides, heat stroke can't be that bad.

As I continued to sweat away my body's remaining nutrients, I came across a stone plateau with a large crowd of people. Upon this plateau stand three stone crosses. With its obvious religious symbolism, I figured this was the reason why all of these people had flocked to this section of the park, and there's no doubt that it caught my eye, too. There had to be something more, though. When I saw that there was finally enough space on the tiny plateau, I climbed up to see what it was all about.

This was it. This was the view I had been looking for all week. I slowly spun myself in a circle to make sure it was true. And it was. I was witnessing a complete panorama view of Barcelona. From the shore, to parts north, and everything in between. I could see it all. It is a view I will never forget.

From the plateau of crosses, I made my way toward the entrance of the park. Before leaving, though, I was distracted by a beautiful sound. In the sheltered, column-filled terrace under the main courtyard, I could hear the beautiful playing of the guitar. I walked in to find a crowd of people surrounding two long-haired, suave-looking Spaniards as they played Spanish classical guitar to perfection. People -- some seemingly complete strangers -- smiled and danced with one another as the sensual music filled the air. It brought me back to that night in Paris just a few weeks back, sitting on the steps of Le Sacré Coeur as everybody smiled, laughed, and danced to the sounds of Bob Marley. It doesn't matter where you are from or what language you speak. Good music is good music. And good music brings people together, even if just for one song.

Following the mini-concert in the shade, I made my way back to the center of town, picked up my bags at the hostel, and took the metro over to Barcelona Sants. I was an hour-and-a-half early for my train, but since this was really the only train for the past month that I had to catch, I didn't want to take the chance of missing it. In keeping with tradition, I stopped at the McDonald's at the train station and ordered one more Big Mac. I honestly would have much rather enjoyed a cold deli sandwich. But I can't break tradition now.

Before I knew it, I boarded the train and was on my way out of Barcelona. I spent most of the ride alternating between sleep and reminiscing about my favorite moments of the trip. I'll never forget going to "Church" on Sunday. I'll never forget Abbey Road. I'll never forget Bohemian Rhapsody. I'll never forget the endless trek to The Prospect of Whitby. I'll never forget champagne in Luxembourg Gardens. I'll never forget wine by the Eiffel Tower. I'll never forget my visits to Montmartre. I'll never forget my first journey into the Red Light District. I'll never forget Toe-Knee Willy-Arms. I'll never forget the Anne Frank House. I'll never forget the U.S. military men. I'll never forget the Holocaust Memorial. I'll never forget the John Lennon Wall. I'll never forget my first pub crawl. I'll never forget missing trains. I'll never forget the Gondolas. I'll never forget dinner by the Grand Canal. I'll never forget the Colosseum. I'll never forget the Sistine Chapel. I'll never forget my second pub crawl. I'll never forget the filth of Naples. I'll never forget the destruction of Pompei. I'll never forget the Italian paradises. I'll never forget walking in like I owned the place. I'll never forget topless beaches. I'll never forget FC Barcelona. I'll never forget that final view.

Upon arrival in Nice, I had to secure my ticket to Geneva, The only problem was, there were no ticket booths open, and the machines were down. New memory to add to the list: I'll never forget being stranded in Nice.

Not so fast, though. I spoke to one of the train conductors and he kindly let me on the train free of charge. With that final bit of stress taken care of, I tilted my seat, laid back, and closed my eyes on Eurotrip '09. The trip of a lifetime has come to an end...

Or has it?

Barcelona: August 29, 2009

2010-07-19T00:09:00.006-04:00

And then there was one.

I woke up around 10 and decided that since I was in Spain, a Spanish omelette was necessary. I asked one of the hostel employees where a tasty breakfast joint might be located. Luckily, they pointed me to a joint just one block away. I went into the small restaurant and ordered my tortilla de patatas. My food soon arrived and I devoured the omelette full of potatoes, onion, and a hint of garlic. Having eaten so fast, I still had about an hour until I was to meet up with Alex. Thus, being just steps away from Las Ramblas, I headed over to Mercat de Sant Josep dela Boqueria, more simply known as La Boqueria. A public market on Barcelona's most crowded street, La Boqueria is packed with people and full of delicious foods. Meat, seafood, produce, poultry, sweets... The list goes on and on. While seeing all of the food had my stomach growling again (and I did end up buying a rather large fruit salad), simply wandering around the gigantic market was a joy in and of itself. With every step, a different smell filled the air; a

different vendor made his pitch; a different tourist tried to bargain. It is because of this that markets in any city will always be a sight to see.

From La Boqueria, I hopped on the metro and met up with Alex at a café near his hostel. Upon his arrival, Alex struck up a spirited Spanish conversation with a woman working behind the counter. He had obviously been to the café in days past, but the way they were talking, it seemed as if they were old friends. Alex was clearly enjoying the chance to practice his Spanish, and the woman was clearly enjoying Alex's efforts and ability to speak her language. I had no clue what the two were saying to one another, but it was fun to watch.

After a brief stay at the café, we decided to head toward Montjuïc to see the Olympic park. From Sants, we walked to Plaça Espanya, past the Palau Nacional, and up the hill. The steep, winding streets were lined with shade-giving trees and eye-pleasing flowers, allowing the difficult walk to be a bit more enjoyable. We soon reached the top and swung around to the Olympic Ring, which contains several facilities that were built for the 1992 Olympic Games, including the Olympic Stadium. Walking around the plaza, we gazed at the work of art that is the Olympic Tower (a unique telecommunications tower) before finding a little slice of heaven.

Baseball has been and always will be my favorite sport. It is America's national pastime, but with the exception of a few Asian countries, the game is rarely played outside of the Americas. However, with baseball being an Olympic sport in 1992, a field was needed to play on. One of those fields (if not the only one) was located at the Olympic complex. It took me a month, but I finally found a baseball diamond in Europe. Have I seen more beautiful ball parks? Sure. But the fact that it was the only one I had seen throughout my travels made it all the more attractive. It's too bad I wasn't allowed to play on it.

After a failed attempt to sneak onto the field, Alex and I headed on over to the Olympic Stadium. The stadium is a decent size, having what looked to be about 50,000 seats (and I'm sure they squeezed in quite a few more for the Olympics). I can only imagine how awesome it would have been to be there for the opening and closing ceremonies.

From the stadium, we needed a break from the heat and, thus, took refuge in the Olympic museum. I have a wide range of interests, from politics, to film, to literature, and can enjoy a history museum, science museum, or art museum (so long as it's not every day). But if there is one thing I could watch, read, and talk about non-stop, it is sports. I've played and watched them my whole life, and on both the competition and entertainment scales, there is nothing that brings me more joy. My mother always told me, "It's just a game," but to me, sports are much more. Watching sports allows you to be a part of something bigger than yourself. Playing sports brings out the characteristics of life. In (most) sports, just as in life, teamwork is vital. In sports, just as in life, you need a competitive drive to be successful. In sports, just as in life, you can't let yourself get too high or too low. Needless to say, the Olympic museum is the best I've ever been to.

The museum was a very interactive and educational. The multimedia displays allowed for a very enjoyable experience. While Barcelona hosted the games in 1992, the museum was much more than just the '92 games. There was a section dedicated to the Barcelona games, but the majority of the museum consisted of an account of each of the modern Olympic Games, from 1896 in Athens to Beijing in 2008. Some of the Olympics' greatest teams and athletes were given their well deserved recognition. Exciting moments were relived. There were even small exhibits on non-Olympic sports, such as American football. For any sports fan, casual or fanatic, the Barcelona Olympic museum is a must see.

From the museum, Alex and I headed back to our respective hostels to rest up for a bit. While relaxing, I watched the memorial service for Senator Edward Kennedy. It may be my parents generation that has the stronger connection to the Kennedys, but people around the world know how influential that family has been. Ted Kennedy was the last link to the Kennedys we all know. The United States will miss his leadership and passion. May he rest in peace.

Alex and I met up once more at Plaça Espanya and began wandering the streets of Barcelona in search of a cheap, delicious meal. We a tapas restaurant as the destination of our man date and shared a variety of dishes as we sat outside taking in the beautiful night. As good as the food was, the best part of the meal had to be the man sitting behind throwing a tantrum. What his exact issue was, I don't know, but he began yelling and throwing napkins all over the table and ground. He then proceeded to sit down at the restaurant directly next door. Some may call it immature, but I like his style.

From here, we strolled back to Plaça Espanya and said our goodbyes. Alex was heading back across the pond the next morning, leaving me to conquer Europe without two of my best friends for the next four months. I thanked him for a great trip and wished him luck on his new adventures in Washington D.C. And then there was one.

I returned to my hostel with every intention of going to sleep. Feeling I had more of Barcelona to see, I wanted to get an early start on the day tomorrow before my early evening train leaves for Geneva. But if there was one thing I hadn't seen that I needed to, it was the nightlife... at least that's what the group of Aussies at my hostel said. One of the many things I've learned while on this trip is that Australians are awesome to go out with. There was no way I could say no.

We hopped on the metro and soon arrived at Razzmatazz. Similar to the club in Prague, Razzmatazz is four or five clubs in one. The place is enormous and was absolutely packed. We chose the techno club and spent the rest of our night drinking, sweating, and raging. So much for turning in early.

Barcelona: August 28, 2009

2010-06-21T23:23:00.006-04:00

It wouldn't be Europe without nude beaches and fútbol.

After a good nights rest, I finally felt rejuvenated and ready to finish the trip with a bang. I checked my email to see that Alex and Geoff wanted to meet at the beach near Port Olimpic. Having not seen the boys in nearly a week, I was excited to finally be reunited and hear about their recent adventures. I grabbed a quick breakfast at the hostel and then set out into the city.

With a couple hours to spare until meeting up with the boys, I decided to hit some sites on the way down to the water. With Las Ramblas only about a block away, I used the Spanish Champs Élysées as my starting point. Despite the strong tourist presence, I enjoyed the vibe of Las Ramblas. Packed with people, stores, and vendors, it is an essential aspect of Barcelona that cannot be missed. Nevertheless, the commotion can be a bit overwhelming and annoying at times, and I soon found myself turning down side streets.

I eventually found myself at Catedral de la Santa Creu i Santa Eulàli, otherwise known as the Barcelona Cathedral. Like Sagrada Familía, the church is under construction (although it has been completed, unlike Gaudí's masterpiece). Unlike Sagrada Familía, the church is more conventionally constructed. Whereas the Gaudí church has its own unique class of architecture, the Barcelona Cathedral is Gothic architecture at its finest. Three magnificent steeples tower high and the doorway resembles that of the center doorway of Paris' Notre Dame. Inside, the ceilings are high, the aisles are long, and numerous chapels outline the church. Enjoying the cool air the church offered, I took my time examining the unique chapels. As I made may way around, I noticed people coming in and out of a door. When I came around to it, I realized that it led to an elevator that leads to the top of the church. It may have cost 3 Euros, but I could not pass up an opportunity to view Barcelona from above.

Reaching the top, I looked out over the sun-soaked city and was... disappointed. There is no question that the view was beautiful. I still didn't feel like I was able to see it all, tough. Maybe it is because I couldn't stand closer to the edge of the roof. Maybe the Cathedral wasn't high enough. Maybe I was asking for too much. In the end, the view from atop the Barcelona Cathedral gives a pretty good idea of how enormous and beautiful this city is.

After my viewing pleasures, I continued my journey to the sea. I walked through the narrow streets of the Ribera district, stumbling upon Santa Maria del Mar along the way. Following a short visit to this Gothic church, I finally made it to the sea.

The last few stops along my European adventure have included trips to the beach, but I could tell that the Barcelona experience was going to be unique. First of all, the majority of (if not all) Barcelona beaches are public. No fenced in areas. No lounge chairs to pay for. Just walk right on and enjoy the sun and the sea. Second of all, the beaches in Barcelona are SANDY! Every European beach I have been to thus far has been pebble. Obviously this allows for more comfortable public lounging. In addition, the sand allows for some spectacular sand art. I'm not talking about puny sand castles create with plastic shovels and pales. I'm talking about sand ART. Portraits, animals, cars, sand castles that look like actual castles. These seaside sculptors can make just about anything using the sand around them. I have never seen anything like it.

Third of all, Barcelona's beaches are topless. Everybody hears about the topless and nude beaches Europe has to offer, and it is every college boy's dream to find himself on one. To this point, though, I had not encountered such a beach. Barcelona was finally giving me my first topless beach experience. To state the obvious, I enjoyed it very much. Sure, the beach was not full of hot 25 year old Spanish beauties with perfect double-Ds. There was a fair share of old, fat, and saggy women walking around topless. There was a handful of pasty white skeletons walking around topless. Overall, though, the sandy beaches of Barcelona offered enough to keep a 21 year old college kid satisfied.

Before long I reached Port Olimpic and was reunited with Alex and Geoff. We shared stories about our recent adventures, with the main focus being on Alex and Geoff's La Tomatina experience. The huge tomato fight outside of Valencia, Spain had never been a major priority of mine, so when push came to shove, I opted to see the places I felt I needed to see rather than tagging along with the boys. My time spent in Sorrento and Nice was fantastic and I don't regret my decision one bit. But the stories told by my two friends have made La Tomatina a future priority of mine. It sounds like one of the most fun, insane, and truly unique experiences one can have. I would have loved to have shared that experience with the boys, but hopefully I can make my way to Valencia in late August one day.

The rest of the afternoon was spent working on our tans (or sun burns), swimming, and trying to not get got staring. Eventually, the sun drained enough energy out of us and we headed back to our hostels to rest up for the evening. We wanted to be well rested for our first European football experience.

At 8:00 I met the boys at a café near there hostel in the Sants area of Barcelona. From here we went on a search for a place to watch the FC Barcelona football match. Finding a good location was difficult, though. Many places we passed did not have the game on and the restaurants that did were quite small. After a while, we decided to take a shot in the dark, walking into a small, inconspicuous restaurant with a few small TVs. This was just a façade, though, as we were led into a back room full of Barça football fans watching their team on a large TV. If watching a Barcelona soccer match in the back room of an unassuming restaurant ain't authentic, I don't know what is.

We ordered dinner and a couple of beers as we watched FC Barcelona take on Shakhtar Donetsk, a team from Ukraine. It would later be explained to me that the match was the UEFA Super Cup, a match that takes place between the previous year's UEFA Champions League winner (Barcelona) and the UEFA Cup winner (Shakhtar). We enjoyed the first half action while being amazed at our luck in finding such a genuine Spanish fútbol viewing experience.

Halftime rolled around with the game tied nil-nil. The three of us continued conversing about our day, our travels, and anything else that came to mind. Suddenly, the man sitting at the table next to us leans over and says to Alex, "Do you ever stop talking?" There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by a round of nervous laughter. The man, who appeared to be in his early 60's with white hair and glasses, explained to us how he had been having trouble concentrating on the game because of the constant chatter coming from our table... mostly from Alex. Not wanting to offend these Barça die-hards, Alex apologized several times, promising to keep quiet in the second half. This didn't end up being the case. To no fault of Alex's, though.

Following Alex's apology, the elder Spanish man seemed to take a liking to us. He backed off of his brief hardline stance, now saying it wasn't an issue that we were talking so much. For the rest of the evening, he talked and babbled and rambled so much that Alex's first half talking performance looked amateur. He took and interest in our travels and had a little something to say to each of us. He told Alex that he looked as if he had been living in Barcelona all his life (as a man always seeking to discover the local flavor, I'm sure this pleased him). He told Geoff that western New York State is one of his favorite areas in the world (as a native of Rochester, I'm sure this pleased Geoff). He told me that he hates Geneva, Switzerland (as someone who will begin studying there in just a few days, I'm sure this pissed me off). He threw in a little bit of soccer, as well, speaking to us with great passion about the downfall of Ronaldinho and the rise of the magnificent Lionel Messi. If I know nothing else about fútbol, at least I know about the best player in the world.

The man continued to ramble throughout the second half, growing drunk from all of the whiskey he was consuming. As the game headed into overtime, I began paying less and less attention to the man who just an hour ago wanted nothing more than to watch the match in peace. Nodding and chuckling when necessary, my eyes were fixed to the TV, excited to see how the game would end. Finally, with about five minutes left in overtime, Barcelona scored! The little back room erupted in cheers, and we slapped a few high fives with those around us. Our new friend was talking so much, though, that I don't even think he saw the goal. Funny how that works.

We stayed to watch Barcelona hang on for the win, and shared a glass of unbelievably strong whiskey with our new friend. But the time was now nearing for this great European adventure to come to an end for one of us. With Geoff heading back to Boston tomorrow, he needed to get to the airport to catch his plane to London. We all headed back to the hostel and then over the Barcelona Sants. Alex and I both exchanged tight bear hugs with our roommate, best friend, and fellow world traveler, thanking him for coming along and sharing in this once-in-a-lifetime experience with us. After a month of life-changing travel, it was sad to see the end nearing.

Alex and I left the train station and wandered around the nearby neighborhood, as a very lively festival filled the streets of the Sants district. Alex led me through the crowded streets, brushed up on his Spanish with a few Catalan girls, and treated me to a kebab. From there we went back to our respective hostels and agreed to meet up around noon the next day.

As I rode the metro back to my hostel, I reflected upon my day. Obviously, the main thought was the sadness of Geoff leaving, signaling the beginning of the end. However, the day did allow me to check some essential points off of my European checklist. After all, what's Europe without nude beaches and fútbol?

Barcelona: August 27, 2009

2010-06-18T20:49:00.007-04:00

It doesn't feel all that Spanish.

Although sleeping was still a struggle, at least the French trains kept me cool and comfortable. I arrived in Barcelona around 11 am at the Barcelona Sants station. Before stepping out into the city to find Alex and Geoff, I had to book the most important train ride of my trip. Naturally, difficulties ensued.

After my time in Barcelona, I am heading to Geneva, Switzerland, where I will be "studying" for the semester. My date of arrival is supposed to be August 31. Knowing that the train ride from Barcelona to Geneva will be a long one, I tried to book a train for the 30th. I took a number, waited a few minutes, and was soon called up to the ticket window. I explained to the man that I had to be in Geneva, Switzerland on Monday. He squinted and cocked his head back. He had no idea what I was saying. Thus, despite the fact that I was at the international travel counter, he sent me over to the other counter. I pulled another number, waited a few more minutes, and was called up to the domestic travel counter. Lucky for me, the man at this counter was able to speak English. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to help me because he was at the domestic travel counter. Before sending me back to the international counter, he taught me how to say Geneva, Switzerland in Spanish.

I grabbed a third number, waited yet a few more minutes, and again went to the counter... to the same man who was unable to understand me in the first place. God must have thought this was really funny.

"I need to get to Ginebra, Suiza," I said.

"Ooooh, Ginebra!," the man cried. As I told him the date I needed booked, I realized he understood and spoke English quite well. He just couldn't understand the location. I find it funny that the name of a person is the same in every language. Whether I'm in France, Spain, Brazil, or China, I am still Kevin. The accents may differ, but I am still Kevin. However, the names of countries, states, provinces, and cities differ with each language. Why this is the case, I'll never know. Then again, there are a whole lot of things in this world that don't make sense.

While I was happy that I made the effort to learn a little Spanish (even if it was just the name of one city and one country), my problems were not over. The man was unable to book me all the way to Geneva. Instead, I would get to Nice and about 1:00 am on the 31st and have to find a way to buy a ticket the rest of the way to Geneva. I cursed a few times, forgetting that the man did in fact know English. With no other choice, I bought the ticket to Nice and hoped that the rest would work out. I suppose Nice wouldn't be the worst place to be stranded.

I walked out of the train station into the scorching Spanish heat and headed down a few blocks to the address Alex had emailed to me. He and Geoff had arrived earlier that day from Valencia, where, a day before, they were fortunate enough to be a part of La Tomatina. I was looking forward to seeing pictures and hearing tales.

Upon arrival, my luck (or lack thereof) continued to roll on as the man at the front desk told me the hostel was booked. I stood there with my mouth half open and jaw crooked, thinking of something to say in my state of helpless disbelief. In the end, I decided to close my mouth, turn around, and walk back out onto the steamy streets. I walked to the corner and pulled out a map, searching for the center of town. I had heard that Las Ramblas was a pretty popular tourist destination, so from that corner near Plaça des Sants, I walked. And I walked. And I walked. Barcelona is a HUGE city, and I found out the hard way. Along the way, though, I didn't get the feeling that I was in Spain. I suppose I am nobody to judge, seeing as I have never been to this country before, and know very little about the culture. Nevertheless, my vision of Spain did not match the city of Barcelona. And maybe that is the case. Catalonia, of which Barcelona is the capital, is an autonomous region within Spain. Perhaps this means their culture is slightly different. I suppose I won't know until I experience the rest of this country.

As I neared Las Ramblas, I turned down a few side streets in search of a hotel. I walked into the first one that looked inviting. When I stepped into the gorgeous lobby, I realized why it had looked so inviting. It was a 4-Star hotel. As I began to turn back around, a sweet voice asked, "Can I help you?" I looked over my shoulder to see a beautiful Spanish woman with dark brown hair and dark olive skin. The honest answer was that I didn't need help. There was no way I could even afford to stay in a closet in this place. But I couldn't turn away.

"Uh. Ye--Yeah. I'm, uh, looking for a--a room for the night," I stammered. In my hypnotic daze, I strolled over to the front desk and began telling her my preferences, my eyes never leaving the face of this gorgeous woman. Lucky for me, she gave me a key to the room to check it out before committing. I grabbed the key, reluctantly turned away from the sensational Spaniard, and climbed the stairs to the room. Upon opening the door, I snapped out of my daze. The room was gorgeous and included a nice view of the street below, AC, a big, comfortable bed, and my own bathroom. All of which I didn't need. The hostels and 1-star hotels have been treating me perfectly well this entire trip. There was no need to break away from the comforts of low-end accommodation.

Returning to the front desk, avoiding eye contact with the beauty so as to not fall into hypnosis again. I thanked her, but told her I couldn't afford it. She understood (did the huge hiking backpack give it away?) and offered to help me find a cheaper place to stay. She called a hostel, bargained for a low price, and booked my room. I think I'm in love.

I thanked the Spanish bombshell and walked the few blocks to the hostel. I booked my three nights, chatted with a few Aussies, and sent out and email to Alex and Geoff before heading out to explore the city.

Before arriving in Barcelona, I knew very little about the city. The only image I had of the city was that of La Sagrada Família, a beautifully structured Catholic Church by the Spanish architect Antoni Gaudí. Thus, this was my first tourist destination. As the church came into view, I was stunned by two things. One: the church is so uniquely beautiful. It is truly one of a kind. Two: it is still under construction. My ignorance of Barcelona and its most famous architectural site was beginning to reveal itself.

Despite the cranes and scaffolding, the church is still an incredible site with its high towers and endless idiosyncrasies. As I conducted my photo shoot, I overheard a man talking to his wife about the church. Gaudí started construction on the church in 1882! If that isn't crazy enough, construction isn't expected to be completed until 2026! The thought of a church taking nearly 150 years to build seemed ridiculous to me at first, but as I continued gawking at the church, I began to understand why this is the case. It is the most intricate structure I have ever seen, as every inch of the building is constructed with the utmost care and detail. Now I have an excuse to return to Barcelona in about 15 years.

I relaxed in a small park near the church before heading back towards the hostel. It was now late evening and I hadn't eaten anything all day. It was the perfect opportunity to try some Spanish cuisine... but I didn't take advantage of it. Strolling down the jam-packed Las Ramblas, I chose to walk into a supermarket and by an apple, baguette, and Nutella. Budget travel eating at its finest. From there I headed over to Plaça de Catalunya and took in the life that surrounded me. While Barcelona is vibrant at all times, it truly comes to life at night. Although it was still relatively early, I could see the nocturnal energy starting to build and I wanted to be a part of it. I was just too exhausted, though. It could have been the lack of sleep the night before, the non-stop walking throughout the day, or the month-long sprint across Europe finally taking its toll on me. Whatever the case, I decided to turn in early. Hopefully I'll gather

enough energy to enjoy this city to its fullest.

Nice to Barcelona: August 26, 2009

2010-05-30T09:39:00.008-04:00

I walked in like I owned the place.

Having seen all the sights yesterday, my second day in Nice would be one of relaxation. I checked out of the hotel, mailed a few postcards, then went to the train station to drop off my bags for the day. Stolen hotel towel and change of clothes in hand, I began to make my way back to the waterfront, purchasing a 6-pack of Heineken along the way. With the sun shining bright, and my body near incineration, I made one final pit stop to buy a bottle of sunscreen. The only thing left was to find the right beach.

Nice has its share of public beaches, and given that I had a towel to lay down, this would have been the most economical decision. The beaches were stone, though, and I wanted to be as comfortable as possible. I strolled along the Promenade des Anglais looking at the prices for the private beaches with sun loungers. All were about 17.50 Euros. Having paid for both the beach in Capri, as well as the one in Sorrento, I really was in no mood to throw down another $25 just to have a cushioned seat. Thus, I was faced with three choices. 1) Lay on the uncomfortable public pebble beach, 2) shell out my dwindling Euro supply for a private beach and lounge chair, or 3) sneak into a private beach.

I chose option three. I've snuck into a few places in my lifetime, the most notable being Shea Stadium. I have found that the best way to do so is to walk in looking confident, as if you are supposed to be there. I decided I would put this method to use at Lido Plage.

I stood above the private beach, waiting for the perfect time. As soon as the hostess stepped away from her podium, I walked down the stairs and entered Lido Plage. I walked in like I owned the place, giving a stiff nod and an assertive "Bonjour" to a few of the waiters and waitresses standing around in the restaurant section. They returned my greeting with a polite and cheery "Bonjour, Monsieur! Ça va?"

"Ça va bien, merci," I replied before making my way over to the lounge chairs. It worked! They didn't suspect a thing! I chose a chair, applied some sunscreen, and kicked back with a cold one. Some may say that 10:30 in the morning is too early for a beer, but what I had just pulled off deserved a bit of celebration. It almost all came crashing down, though.

"Excusez-moi, monsieur," a voice called behind me. My heart began racing. This was it. They found out I'd snuck in. They were gonna kick me out. I'll be a pariah. They'll never let me come back to a Nice beach. I lowered my Heineken and slowly lifted my head. Standing beside me was a beautiful brown-haired girl in her early 20's. It was the hostess I had waited for to leave her post before sneaking in. She must have seen me after all. I just stared at her with my eyes wide and mouth gaping, trying to think of an excuse.

"You 'ave to pay for zee towel, monsieur," she said. My heart began racing even faster. Not only did she know I'd snuck in, but she knew I stole the towel from the hotel, too! Forget not being allowed back on the beaches of Nice. They'll never let me step foot anywhere in the city ever again. Then she pointed to the lounge chair. I sat up, turned around, and saw that I was laying on a towel. "If you'd like, you can move to a chair wizout a towel," she said. I let out a huge sigh of relief. I was not going to be exiled from Nice, just from the lounge chair with a towel. I told her I would move chairs and began gathering my things. "Also, you are not supposed to 'ave drinks from outside," she said, referring to my Heinekens. "Just don't let my boss see." I smiled and thanked her. As she was walking away, I asked her how she knew to speak English to me. "I could just tell. You 'ave zee confidence of an American boy," she replied with a smile before returning to her post. Whether or not this compliment meant she knew that I had snuck in, I don't know. But I'll take the compliment.

I spent the rest of the day lounging at Lido Plage, sipping on my beers and dipping into the cool Mediterranean water. For lunch, I enjoyed a delicious four cheese pizza. The only problem on the day was the cloud coverage. Of course on the day I buy sunscreen, the sun goes into hiding. Nevertheless, the day was still very, very relaxing.

After dozing off for a bit, I awoke around 5:45 and decided to start gathering myself for my 8:00 train to Barcelona. I showered in the Lido Plage changing room, put on a fresh set of clothes, and made my departure. As I was walking out, I said good-bye and thanked the hostess. She formally introduced herself (her name is Nicolette), wished me a good evening, and welcomed me to return tomorrow. Too bad I will be in Barcelona.

I arrived back at the train station an hour before my departure. Needing to fill my belly, I walked over to a kebab stand near the train station and devoured a lamb kebab with fries. Afterwards, I sat on the platform waiting for my train to arrive, thinking back on my last two days. Nice has always been one of my father's favorite places, and now I can see why. This Paris on the sea is truly a breathtaking city. From the views offered by Castle Hill to the relaxing beaches, Nice is a must-see for all travelers.

I boarded my train and was immediately reminded of why I love French trains. Instead of six-seat compartments, the SNCF night trains offer reclining chairs. And AC, of course. Overnight train rides have not been my favorite, thus far, but I have a feeling this one won't be too bad.

Nice: August 25, 2009

2010-05-25T18:16:00.014-04:00

This just keeps getting better and better.

After a sleepless night and several train transfers, I arrived in the Paradise that is the French Riviera. More specifically, Nice. Per usual, my first order of business was to a train for my next destination (Barcelona) and search for a place to stay. I struck out at three hostels before finally settling for an underrated 1-Star hotel in a very good part of town. Having been on my own for a couple days now, and knowing I would be for a few more (as Alex and Geoff were on their way to Buñol for La Tomatina), I was looking forward to staying in a hostel so that I could meet other backpackers. Having your own bed and bathroom is always nice, though.

Having not showered since the morning of my day in Sorrento, which was without a doubt the hottest day of my trip, personal hygiene needed to be addressed immediately. I smelled like a Frenchman , which I suppose was OK considering my location. As much as I love France, though, I was not ready to make that adjustment. Besides, my shirt was covered in sweat-stains and dirt, and we all know how fashionable the French are. So I compromised. I would shower to smell good, but also change my clothes to look as sexy as the rest of the French.

Knowing that I'd be spending two days here, as well as the fact that I was burnt to a crisp, I decided to take a day off from the beach to see what sites the city of Nice had to offer. With a baguette and salami in hand (I really need to diversify my diet), I walked over to the Russian Cathedral. Although it was closed to visitors, the outside was still very pleasing to the eye. Having seen so many Catholic churches on this trip, it was nice to see a change of architecture. The green domed towers shined in the bright sun and gave off a very Russian vibe in the middle of the French city.

To continue the religious theme, I ventured over to the Church of St. Joan of Ark. It is a Catholic church, but unlike any Catholic church I have ever seen before. I much prefer the Roman and Gothic architectures to whatever the architecture I was looking at. Squeezed onto a street corner, the church was bright white with awkward egg-shaped domes. It may have been unique, but more than anything, it was just plain boring.

Following the two church visits, my day took a turn towards stagnation. I headed over to the archaeological museum, not knowing that the walk from Joan of Ark would take a half-hour. Sweaty and exhausted by the time I reached the museum, I was hoping to gain a boost of energy once going in. That hope was shot down when I saw that the museum was closed on Tuesdays. Who closes a museum on a Tuesday? I can understand almost any other day of the week. But Tuesday? It makes absolutely no sense to me. Ticked-off and in need of a short break, I sat down in the Parc des Arenes de Cimiez to rest my aching feet. Before heading back to the center of town, I walked through the cemetery at Monastère de cimiez. For whatever reason, Europeans, especially the French, know how to make a cemetery look cool. It seems that in the United States, only the "important" people get a shrine. In Europe, almost everyone has an individual mini shrine to celebrate his or her life. Some may say it's a bit much, but I think it's pretty awesome.

I eventually started making my way back to the heart of the city, irritated that I had walked so far and didn't even get to see what I had wanted to see. Then again, despite the exhaustion and the heat, I was able to see a completely different part of Nice. A part seemingly untouched by tourists. The neighborhoods I had walked through were quiet, empty, and green. Perhaps the outskirts of the city are not as exciting as the areas closer to the water. Nevertheless, the outskirts were very gorgeous and serene. I can honestly say that I have been to a part of Nice that most other travelers have not.

I reached the center of town, making quick stops at the Acropolis Congrès, the awesome looking Bibliotèque Louis Nucéra (library), and the Museum of Modern Art. I then wandered into Vieux Nice. This section of town was packed, and for good reason. The streets are narrow and lined with vendors, shops, cafés, and restaurants. It is a mixture of Paris' Latin Quarter and the area in Rome that surround Trevi Fountain. Old Town Nice is definitely the place to be.

To help deal with the heat, I grabbed a cone of gelato in Place Rossetti and continued exploring Old Town, eventually stumbling upon the fountains at Espace Masséna and Jardin Albert 1er, the main square of Nice. This green section allowed me to relax and enjoy my ice cream as I watched dogs run around and families play with one another. Just as is the case with the parks in Paris, these converging parks are absolutely gorgeous. The French know how to make a park.

I soon swung around to Quai des Etats-Unis, and for the first time all day, I saw the water. The Baie des Anges, as it is officially named, is exactly that, a bay of angels. The late evening sun provided a beautiful sparkle for the water, and thousands of people from one end of shore to the other were enjoying the last couple hours of sunlight on the beautiful beaches. I cannot wait to enjoy these beaches myself tomorrow.

From the beaches, I looked left and saw a large hill with a waterfall. I had to get over there. Continuing along Quai des Etats-Unis, I passed the Opera House and soon arrived at Parc de la Colline du Château (Castle Hill Park). A plateau rising above the rest of the city, I knew this park would provide stunning views of Nice. I began my climb uphill, and stopped at the first landing for the first of many photo shoots.

Continuing my hike, I reached the waterfall that had captured my attention from the shores below. More pictures.

I walked a little higher, standing on a landing directly above the waterfall. More pictures.

A little winded from my uphill trek, I contemplated having a seat at the café, but I could not take my eyes off of the view. I made my way over to the landing that provides the widest ranging views of Nice. It goes without saying that I took... more pictures. This just keeps getting better and better. On one end, there are spectacular views of Nice, Old Town, and, of course, the Bay of Angels. With the sun beginning to set, I could not have paid for a better view. At the other end of the landing, across the playground, is a stunning view of the old harbor. I could have stayed up there all night. And I almost did. By the time I started making my way back down, the sun had set and the night had arrived.

Reaching the bottom, I made my way through Vieux Nice one more time, passing through the restaurant lined Cours Saleya, Place du Palais, and Place Rossetti one last time. I grabbed a cheap sandwich and brought it over to Espace Masséna to enjoy on a park bench. I contemplated going out and finding a crowd of young people, but between the lack of sleep and walking all over the city of Nice, I was in need of a bed. I headed back to the hotel, satisfied with the day of sight-seeing, and looking forward to the day of relaxation.

Sorrento to Nice: August 24, 2009

2010-05-20T12:42:00.010-04:00

How did I get from Heaven to Hell so quickly?

Before taking a train from Naples to Sorrento, I had some travel business to take care of. I walked down to the train station around 8:30 and immediately got in line to book my train to Nice. Even at 8:30 am, the line was ridiculously long. With the exception of our first Eurail experience in Paris, extremely long lines at the ticket booth seem to be exclusive to Italy. In every other European city, I've gotten through the line in three minutes or less. In Italy, it's a minimum 15 minute wait. When I finally reached the counter, the struggles continued. Naples is the first city I've been where the people don't seem to understand a word of English, and I do honestly feel bad that I know none of their language. But at the ticket counter marked for international travel, one would think that a multi-lingual person would be in place. The man didn't speak English, so I tried French. No luck. For the hell of it, I asked, "Español?" I don't even speak Spanish, but, of course, neither did he. So I was left with ten minutes of trying to explain where I wanted to go. Eventually, after receiving three tickets to destinations that were not Nice, the Italian worker brought over someone who spoke English. I stood there stunned when the new man addressed me in English. Why didn't the non-English speaker bring the English speaker over ten minutes earlier? I shook my head and chuckled in annoyed disbelief, told the new guy my desired destination, and was finally on my way. Little did I know, this was the beginning of a day of Italian train troubles.

Having wasted so much time at the ticket counter, I missed the 9:00 train to Sorrento. With the next one leaving at 9:40, I took my time storing my bags and finding a quick breakfast. 9:40 soon rolled around and within an hour, I was in Sorrento.

Once in Sorrento, I stopped off at a supermarket to buy some items for lunch (bread, provolone, salami, Gatorade) before heading to the sea. Without a map, I followed the signs with boats on them and five minutes later was staring at the deep blue sea. I stood in the Villa Comunale, at the edge of a cliff high above the water. The entire town is basically one huge cliff, as from end to end, the entire city sits high above the bay of Naples. I had never seen anything like it. It was absolutely incredible. I was in another Italian paradise.

After an extremely long photo session, I walked down the steep ramps and steps of the cliff the reach the beaches 100 feet below. In need of another day of complete and total relaxation, I rented another lounge chair, changed into my swimsuit, and baked in the sun. Having given my sunscreen to Geoff before losing each other en route to Capri, I had gotten pretty badly sunburned the day before. I took no precautions to protect my skin today, either. I didn't buy new sunscreen. I didn't sit in the shade. I didn't keep a shirt on. In order to fully enjoy the paradise that is Sorrento, I was willing to sacrifice my skin. I will most surely end up with skin cancer one day, but when I think of that beautiful day I spent in Sorrento, it'll all be worth it... Right?

Feeling the heat of the sun more today than yesterday, I spent a little more time in the water, which was the perfect amount of cool. As I swam, I was again amazed at how clear the water was, smiling in disbelief that I could see the floor of the sea even as I was too far out to stand. I swam out to a large pile of rocks about 100 feet from shore and climbed up onto them. As the waves crashed against me, I sat looking out into the water, watching the sail boats that broke the static peacefulness of the sea. I turned around and looked up to the top of the cliff, scanning my eyes across the town that towered over me. I was the luckiest person in the world.

Drowsy and baked from the sun, I left the beach around 4:00. With some time left before having to head back to Naples, I decided to explore the small town. Before coming to Italy, I had an image in my mind of what an Italian town looks like. Today, I discovered that the image I've always had in my head is that of Sorrento. The narrow cobblestone streets are lined with small cafés, restaurants, fresh fruit stands, and shops. The buildings are connected to one another, each floor with a tiny balcony. In the thick of it all, there is a Catholic church. It was my vision of an Italian town, and it could not be more beautiful.

While wandering, I finally found an affordable Italian national soccer team jersey for my buddy Nick Camino, as well as an Italian horn. My journey then took me back to the edge of the cliff and I again gawked at what was in front of me. I struggled to pull myself away, but did not want to miss another train. Before reaching the station, I made one final pit-stop at a gelato shop. How could I not grab some Italian ice cream in the town that, to me, perfectly represents the essence of Italy?

When I boarded the train back to Naples, I immediately posted on my friend Erica Aamoth's wall. A trip to Sorrento was not on my original itinerary when I came to Europe, but Erica, who had been to Italy just a month before, insisted I stop off in Naples. I took her suggestion, and I could not be happier. Thanks to Erica, I found the Italy I had always envisioned and a place I will hopefully return to many times. It was the perfect ending to my time in Italy... or at least it should have been. Little did I know, the end of Italy would be a trip to Hell.

I got back to Naples and had an hour of waiting. With this, I may have committed the greatest sin of my entire land. In a country that has the greatest cuisine in all the world, I went to McDonald's and ordered a Big Mac. I hated myself as I sat eating my unfortunately tasty burger. I don't even know why McDonald's exists in a country that is so proud of its delicious food. As I sat there in self-loathing, I had to think of something to justify my actions. I almost never eat McDonald's back in the US. Why in Europe was I eating it so often? Then it dawned on me. If McDonald's can survive in a country with such culinary greatness, that means it is too powerful to escape. Thus, I am done trying to avoid it. McDonald's has taken over the world. I must accept this reality and embrace it by eating it in every country I visit. Don't judge me.

I soon boarded my train and immediately knew I was in for a long journey. As was the case with the train from Vienna to Venice, I was seated in a small six seat compartment. To add to the level of discomfort, the AC was not working. Only in the hottest place on my trip thus far would this happen. Still more annoyances came from the fact that the train was so overcrowded that people were sleeping in the hallways. With all of this, I have been unable to sleep. I can't wait to get into France so I no longer have to deal with Italian trains. How did a day in Heaven turn into a night in Hell?