I really can see my Grandmother from my driveway.
They live right next door.
My homecoming was preceded by my final week of legal drinking and adventure time in Denmark.
Free beer and entry at clubs and bars were taken full advantage of and my final baby bites and pastries were devoured.
I was also lucky enough to spend the day at Tivoli with my host family. [Tivoli is the H.C. Andersen theme park located in Copenhagen. American theme parks are dirty, ugly, and completely pointless for the elderly or easily nauseated people who can't enjoy the roller coasters, Tivoli is not this way. Tivoli is beautiful gardens and classy restaurants with tamer rides and better snacks. No, I'm not getting paid for this obvious endorsement. But I should be.]
And I FINALLY made it to see the Little Mermaid and did a canal tour.
Those classic tourist moves only took me four months.
And then I was packing.
Which took a surprisingly short period of time, probably because there was little to no decision-making to be done, and was merely a matter of throwing the shit I brought with me and the little bit of shit I acquired into large suitcases and praying that they weren't overweight.
And by the grace of God, Allah, the TSA, or those magical little traveling gnomes, neither bag was overweight.
And once the security guard at the Copenhagen Airport meticulously checked my hipbones after I set off the metal detector, I was on my way home, and it was smooth sailing.
I landed in Michigan, full of airplane food (although, not nearly as full as the Dutch guy I flew next to who devoured every single crumb on his tiny, tiny tray of shitty food), and absolutely exhausted.
Landing was overwhelming.
Exhausted (I'd only slept two hours the night before and didn't sleep on the plane), happy(AMERICA), sad(leaving Copenhagen, and I SUCK at goodbyes. I may or may not be a bit emotionally stunted in that department), and a little bloated(from the above-mentioned airplane food), I wasn't sure what my reaction was going to be when I was retrieved at the airport.
So as I stood, staring at the revolving doors that would take me into the American air, pondering how to get all of my heavy, well-packed possessions out there...a woman came up behind me and politely asked me if I needed help with my bags.
That's when I screamed, tackled the woman, and started to cry.
And then I got arrested for assault but there were no charges pressed....
No no no, I kid.
The woman was my long-lost best friend, the beautiful and world-changing Grace.
And after our nine month separation, hers being the first face I saw in the land of the free was perfect.
And here I am, sitting on my sofa with my parents, the dog forcefully snuggled in the middle, watching television, and pondering the fate of my summer, wishing someone would pay me to blog, or pay me to eat, either one really.
But this people, is where this blog finds its resting place.
It's been a hellofa semester and blogging about it was an experience I would willingly repeat, and am considering repeating during my senior year in college.
A big thank you to those of you who read this blog, regularly or irregularly, out of obligation of familial relation or friendship.
And if there are any readers who I've never personally met, mad props if you've been reading this the whole way through.
And to everyone, HOOK A SISTA UP IF YOU'VE GOT ANY CONNECTIONS THAT WOULD LET ME DO THIS FOR A LIVING.
Or just some for some spare cash to pay for things like school books, etc.
And keep a lookout.
I'm kinda addicted to this blogging-thing.
So I won't be offline for sure, I'm sure.
For the final time, and with only one time zone...
10:00pm USA
Mit dansk er dårligt/My Danish is bad.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
4 days left. WHAT THE HELL?
And that's only if you include today.
And today I'm going to take an "exam."
So it hardly counts.
I'm not ready to leave.
And then I'm ready to go home.
And then I'm ready to just miss my flight and stay here for the summer.
And then I think of the things I've missed and I get excited about Amurricah.
My reaction to the end of the semester has gotten a little bipolar.
Obviously.
I mean, I'm going to miss this place.
The silent Danes on the train.
The long, rambling dinners.
That feeling of pride when someone asks me a a question in Danish and I semi-understand the answer.....and then say in a very small voice "I'm sorry I don't speak Danish."
Legally drinking.
The social-welfare system, governmentless wonder that is Christiania.
Seeing the ocean every day.
The 'hygge', candle-lighting, wine drinking, conversating lifestyle.
The massive amount eye candy that is walking the streets at any given moment. YUM.
And the pastries.
WHY DO I HAVE TO LEAVE THE PASTRIES.
Open-faced, rye bread sandwiches are not on this list though.
Or having to ride a night bus home for an hour and a half leaving your bladder desperate enough to pee in a strange Dane's yard. Twice.
Or having the same conversation with every single Dane when they realize that I'm American. "WhatareyoudoinginCopenhagen?Studying.Wheredoyoustudy?DIS.Howlongareyouhere?Forthesemester.Doyoulikeithere?OhIjustloveithere.Cheers!Schol!"
And licorice-flavored anything should just get tossed in the ocean like the shiny new Americans did with their overtaxed tea.
And having to pay for water and NOT getting free refills?
Not gonna miss that, cuz lawdy people, sometimes a girl just wants a large, a LARGE cup a coke with ice that she can refill repeatedly, without shame.
And the prices! Hoo doggy have I spent a small fortune in this country because my cheapest purchase was a 5kroner lighter. LIGHTERS FOR ALL MY FRIENDS. [just kidding. I'm first world poor here people. I can scrounge money for snacks and going out, but can't afford souvenirs.]
And when I'm back in the land of the free water and home of the Bell [Taco Bell, that is.], there are some things that just have to happen.
Taco Bell.
Frozen cokes.
I gots to get ma hurrs cut.
Barbeque chicken pizza AND breadsticks from the local places in ma tiny hometown.
Snuggles. Major snuggles.
And my parent's cooking.
So much for my food and drink detox when I get home I s'pose....
3 more full days here.
ACKK.
4:00pm Denmark
8:00am USA
There will be only be a time difference for a little while longer...
And today I'm going to take an "exam."
So it hardly counts.
I'm not ready to leave.
And then I'm ready to go home.
And then I'm ready to just miss my flight and stay here for the summer.
And then I think of the things I've missed and I get excited about Amurricah.
My reaction to the end of the semester has gotten a little bipolar.
Obviously.
I mean, I'm going to miss this place.
The silent Danes on the train.
The long, rambling dinners.
That feeling of pride when someone asks me a a question in Danish and I semi-understand the answer.....and then say in a very small voice "I'm sorry I don't speak Danish."
Legally drinking.
The social-welfare system, governmentless wonder that is Christiania.
Seeing the ocean every day.
The 'hygge', candle-lighting, wine drinking, conversating lifestyle.
The massive amount eye candy that is walking the streets at any given moment. YUM.
And the pastries.
WHY DO I HAVE TO LEAVE THE PASTRIES.
Open-faced, rye bread sandwiches are not on this list though.
Or having to ride a night bus home for an hour and a half leaving your bladder desperate enough to pee in a strange Dane's yard. Twice.
Or having the same conversation with every single Dane when they realize that I'm American. "WhatareyoudoinginCopenhagen?Studying.Wheredoyoustudy?DIS.Howlongareyouhere?Forthesemester.Doyoulikeithere?OhIjustloveithere.Cheers!Schol!"
And licorice-flavored anything should just get tossed in the ocean like the shiny new Americans did with their overtaxed tea.
And having to pay for water and NOT getting free refills?
Not gonna miss that, cuz lawdy people, sometimes a girl just wants a large, a LARGE cup a coke with ice that she can refill repeatedly, without shame.
And the prices! Hoo doggy have I spent a small fortune in this country because my cheapest purchase was a 5kroner lighter. LIGHTERS FOR ALL MY FRIENDS. [just kidding. I'm first world poor here people. I can scrounge money for snacks and going out, but can't afford souvenirs.]
And when I'm back in the land of the free water and home of the Bell [Taco Bell, that is.], there are some things that just have to happen.
Taco Bell.
Frozen cokes.
I gots to get ma hurrs cut.
Barbeque chicken pizza AND breadsticks from the local places in ma tiny hometown.
Snuggles. Major snuggles.
And my parent's cooking.
So much for my food and drink detox when I get home I s'pose....
3 more full days here.
ACKK.
4:00pm Denmark
8:00am USA
There will be only be a time difference for a little while longer...
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Screw you May Day, I'm going to Sweden this weekend.
May Day.
How do I sum up May Day?
We got to the park at 3, the sun was shining, and the blindingly white legs of Danes were everywhere.
Because everyone Dane between the ages of 12 and 50 who felt the urge to soak up some of that rare sun and day drink all head to the same park. [a Danish word that I can't remember and will not look up for you.]
And once we had sat down, the drinking began.
And did. Not. Stop.
We drank until we left the park.
We picked up a bottle of wine to drink with our dinner. [We were eating McDonald's, in case you were wondering what kind of foods we were pairing our select choice of cheapest-wine-available with.]
We went to Kulør Bar- where entry was free.
And so was the beer.
But hey, I MADE IT HOME ON THE NIGHT BUS.
The night bus that stops right outside my house, takes me an hour and a half to get home on, and I had an alarm going off in my ears every 20 minutes to try to keep me awake WHICH IT DID.
So it was all smiles and pride and happiness and then...it wasn't.
Because then it was Wednesday morning.
And tiny, tiny gnomes had snuck into my head to kick at my eyeballs all day long and my stomach decided to temporarily become bipolar, both demanding and rejecting food at the same time.
I would do it all over again...
...in a year or so.
My 'struggle bus Wednesday' pretty much set the tone for my last academic day of the week and my three day weekend.
I wanted to relish in nothing-doing.
And what glorious nothing-doing it was.
Friday you could find me pretending to be academic and snacking on the sofa of my host family while they were at a confirmation party the whole day.
And Saturday morning [at 10am, much to my very-drunk-the-evening-before host dad's credit], we left for the farm house in Sweden!
It was right out of a story book- the quiet woods, the spring flowers, and the old red farm house [with new indoor plumbing and modern accoutrements. duh.].
But of course, my role as as a storybook princess was short lived when during our lunch outside I spilled my entire coke over the table. And the lettuce.
And then during my napfrom which only true love's kiss could wake me I actually woke myself up choking on my own snores.
COME AT ME, PRINCE CHARMING.
Our walk through the woods restored me a bit to my imaginative princess-state [and made me miss Bois Blanc Island. It's in Michigan, on Lake Huron. Never heard of it? Look it up.]
I went from princess to homemaker when I, yes I, helped get dinner ready.
There were three kinds of grilled pig on the table, salad, bread, asparagus...man, I got my NOM on.
Yea, this may have another place where I lost princess-points.
I shoveled food into my mouth like a starving inmate in prison.
AGAIN, COME AT ME, PRINCE CHARMING.
I was in bed by 10pm.
Awoken at 10am for breakfast, slept the whole car ride home until the ferry ride, where my wonderful host mother bought me a coffee because she knows I have actual academic work to accomplish today.
Some of which has gotten done, some of which has not.
Oh well.
8:53pm Denmark
2:53pm USA
How do I sum up May Day?
We got to the park at 3, the sun was shining, and the blindingly white legs of Danes were everywhere.
Because everyone Dane between the ages of 12 and 50 who felt the urge to soak up some of that rare sun and day drink all head to the same park. [a Danish word that I can't remember and will not look up for you.]
And once we had sat down, the drinking began.
And did. Not. Stop.
We drank until we left the park.
We picked up a bottle of wine to drink with our dinner. [We were eating McDonald's, in case you were wondering what kind of foods we were pairing our select choice of cheapest-wine-available with.]
We went to Kulør Bar- where entry was free.
And so was the beer.
But hey, I MADE IT HOME ON THE NIGHT BUS.
The night bus that stops right outside my house, takes me an hour and a half to get home on, and I had an alarm going off in my ears every 20 minutes to try to keep me awake WHICH IT DID.
So it was all smiles and pride and happiness and then...it wasn't.
Because then it was Wednesday morning.
And tiny, tiny gnomes had snuck into my head to kick at my eyeballs all day long and my stomach decided to temporarily become bipolar, both demanding and rejecting food at the same time.
I would do it all over again...
...in a year or so.
My 'struggle bus Wednesday' pretty much set the tone for my last academic day of the week and my three day weekend.
I wanted to relish in nothing-doing.
And what glorious nothing-doing it was.
Friday you could find me pretending to be academic and snacking on the sofa of my host family while they were at a confirmation party the whole day.
And Saturday morning [at 10am, much to my very-drunk-the-evening-before host dad's credit], we left for the farm house in Sweden!
It was right out of a story book- the quiet woods, the spring flowers, and the old red farm house [with new indoor plumbing and modern accoutrements. duh.].
But of course, my role as as a storybook princess was short lived when during our lunch outside I spilled my entire coke over the table. And the lettuce.
And then during my nap
COME AT ME, PRINCE CHARMING.
Our walk through the woods restored me a bit to my imaginative princess-state [and made me miss Bois Blanc Island. It's in Michigan, on Lake Huron. Never heard of it? Look it up.]
I went from princess to homemaker when I, yes I, helped get dinner ready.
There were three kinds of grilled pig on the table, salad, bread, asparagus...man, I got my NOM on.
Yea, this may have another place where I lost princess-points.
I shoveled food into my mouth like a starving inmate in prison.
AGAIN, COME AT ME, PRINCE CHARMING.
I was in bed by 10pm.
Awoken at 10am for breakfast, slept the whole car ride home until the ferry ride, where my wonderful host mother bought me a coffee because she knows I have actual academic work to accomplish today.
Some of which has gotten done, some of which has not.
Oh well.
8:53pm Denmark
2:53pm USA
Monday, April 30, 2012
A photographic breakdown of the things I'll actually remember from my adventures abroad
What I took with me to Copenhagen.
Mr. Darcy, the furry bastard, got left at home.
Mr. Darcy, the furry bastard, got left at home.
The outlet smiles because when you hit switch, he gets turned on.
I have a doodling problem.
And I think I'm amusing.
This is the result.
The Danes are known for the impeccable and forward-thinking fashion sense.
My host sister is no different.
Obviously.
This is at the modern art museum in Aarhus.
Don't ask me who made this.
But isn't it prettyyyy?
Apple juice and two croissants?
35kroner.
Approximately 7dollars.
And you people wonder where my money goes...
The text you get from your host mom when you don't get home until 8am.
#commutingproblems
I have now seen five ballets this semester.
Yea, I'm fucking cultured.
This artistic representation of a British woman is actually more accurate for Danish women.
If her eyes were blue, of course.
Big Ben, dreary sky, and the police.
London, in a nutshell.
Amsterdam!
Because I don't have a picture of the space cake.
Or the red light district.
[if by some chance you're reading this and have never met me, which would
mean that my writing has extending beyond my Facebook network, which would
be...unlikely....anywho, this is me.]
I rappel down mountains and wear the same clothes for two days in a row.
COME AT ME BRO.
I STAYED IN THIS CASTLE IN HRUBA SKALA.
I am your queen.
Prague.
BEAUTIFUL.
Even if the rain soaked through my down coat.
But hey, a beer cost me a buck eighty.
This bathroom epitomizes why we needed Liam Neeson at our first hostel in Barcelona.
Excellent penmanship though, if I may say so.
Barcelona.
I love the beach.
We did two pub crawls in Lisbon.
This was necessary.
Aren't you glad Europe hasn't changed me and my emphasis on health?
OMG this is like totally like the best thing I like ate ever and like I could just like eat this for every meal like for eternity.
But seriously.
Hole-in-the-wall restaurants for the win!
In retrospect, this mildly looks like I took this picture from a prison window.
I didn't.
And now, I have less than 3 weeks left here in the 'hagen, and spring has sprung.
On sunny days, I wonder why I'm coming home.
And then I remember Taco Bell and free refills.
The running theme in my lifetime obsession with eating.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Why is the silent Asian in my bed?
Language barriers, man.
They let the super-quiet Asian sharing a hostel room with you just choose the same bed that you chose and snuggle himself all up in there.
Without saying one word.
So after the giant misadventure of almost missing our flight to Lisbon (lemme holla at that good karma we were getting after a dastardly Spaniard stole Samantha's wallet), we landed in Portugal.
And that was when we asked each other, "Do we have any plans here? Or even know anything about Lisbon?"
Lisbon was the epitome of a pleasant surprise.
And fantastically lazy.
When Hollywood shows you hostels, they are always these funky little buildings with cool characters and an eclectic atmosphere.
Hollywood may have been filming the Goodnight Hostel the entire time, because that's exactly how it was.
And other than the silent Asian in my bed, we made friends, we felt comfortable, and the showers had amazing water pressure!
AND they sponsor free walking tours of the city.
And pub crawls.
Good pub crawls.
The first night we got there was my first ever pub crawl.
Our third night there was my second ever pub crawl.
A flat rate, three bars and one club, and then attempting to get ourselves home in the winding streets of Lisbon.
Hazy memories of dancing, peeing in the streets, friend making, picture taking, and flirting for drinks ensued.
The mornings after our crawls, were rough.
Our last day there, I was on the struggle bus until three in the afternoon.
I ordered a sandwich that was bread, cucumber, and tomato.
And I almost reached out to touch a stranger's baby, but luckily my brain caught up with my muscle function before a woman had to scream at me in Portuguese.
In between our struggle bus mornings, and pub crawl evenings, we wandered the streets of Lisbon.
The side streets of Alfama are as small as they come and the view as you climb up the giant mountain-hill is postcard-worthy.
The hole-in-the-wall restaurants are scrumdiddlyumptious and the local, famous gelato restaurant has deliciousmen scooping your gelato.
And even without actually making it to the beach, the water is beautiful.
And can we take a minute to discuss the European lifestyle?
THEY DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE 20 YEARS OLD AND HAVE ONLY WORKED IN THE FOOD INDUSTRY, HAVE NEVER HAD AN INTERNSHIP, AND HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU WANT TO DO WITH YOUR LIFE.
BECAUSE YOU'RE ONLY 20.
And they eat really well, all the time.
I'd tell you the intricacies of all the things we saw....but I really couldn't tell you those.
We did one walking tour, and I vaguely remember something about a nine minute earthquake at some point and time, but then I got hungry for lunch, and stopped paying attention.
I'd go back in a heartbeat. [Ya know, like maybe after graduation...with my family...doing a bit of traveling...if we win the lottery...or a blog reader feels like sponsoring it for the sole purpose of reading the comedic adventures of the Maki family in Europe, I swear hilarity will ensue!...JUST LET ME DREAM.]
8:19am USA
2:19pm Denmark
They let the super-quiet Asian sharing a hostel room with you just choose the same bed that you chose and snuggle himself all up in there.
Without saying one word.
So after the giant misadventure of almost missing our flight to Lisbon (lemme holla at that good karma we were getting after a dastardly Spaniard stole Samantha's wallet), we landed in Portugal.
And that was when we asked each other, "Do we have any plans here? Or even know anything about Lisbon?"
Lisbon was the epitome of a pleasant surprise.
And fantastically lazy.
When Hollywood shows you hostels, they are always these funky little buildings with cool characters and an eclectic atmosphere.
Hollywood may have been filming the Goodnight Hostel the entire time, because that's exactly how it was.
And other than the silent Asian in my bed, we made friends, we felt comfortable, and the showers had amazing water pressure!
AND they sponsor free walking tours of the city.
And pub crawls.
Good pub crawls.
The first night we got there was my first ever pub crawl.
Our third night there was my second ever pub crawl.
A flat rate, three bars and one club, and then attempting to get ourselves home in the winding streets of Lisbon.
Hazy memories of dancing, peeing in the streets, friend making, picture taking, and flirting for drinks ensued.
The mornings after our crawls, were rough.
Our last day there, I was on the struggle bus until three in the afternoon.
I ordered a sandwich that was bread, cucumber, and tomato.
And I almost reached out to touch a stranger's baby, but luckily my brain caught up with my muscle function before a woman had to scream at me in Portuguese.
In between our struggle bus mornings, and pub crawl evenings, we wandered the streets of Lisbon.
The side streets of Alfama are as small as they come and the view as you climb up the giant mountain-hill is postcard-worthy.
The hole-in-the-wall restaurants are scrumdiddlyumptious and the local, famous gelato restaurant has delicious
And even without actually making it to the beach, the water is beautiful.
And can we take a minute to discuss the European lifestyle?
THEY DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE 20 YEARS OLD AND HAVE ONLY WORKED IN THE FOOD INDUSTRY, HAVE NEVER HAD AN INTERNSHIP, AND HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU WANT TO DO WITH YOUR LIFE.
BECAUSE YOU'RE ONLY 20.
And they eat really well, all the time.
I'd tell you the intricacies of all the things we saw....but I really couldn't tell you those.
We did one walking tour, and I vaguely remember something about a nine minute earthquake at some point and time, but then I got hungry for lunch, and stopped paying attention.
I'd go back in a heartbeat. [Ya know, like maybe after graduation...with my family...doing a bit of traveling...if we win the lottery...or a blog reader feels like sponsoring it for the sole purpose of reading the comedic adventures of the Maki family in Europe, I swear hilarity will ensue!...JUST LET ME DREAM.]
8:19am USA
2:19pm Denmark
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
If we have to pay for water, we might as well get sangria.
When in Spain...
Barcelona is food.
And siestas.
And wine and late night dinners and tapas.
Everywhere we went there were glasses of sangria for sale that you could buy with fresh market cheeses or homemade jams.
When you walked by the restaurants there would be tables and tables of brightly colored tapas and paella that smelled so good I could practically taste it.
I mean, the history and architecture is absolutely beautiful and unlike any other city I'd ever seen, but let's be real.
I was there for the food.
And the beach.
But really just the food.
Restaurants on the beach with outdoor seating manage to combinepeople watching watching tanned, shirtless, men play volleyball with noms and drinks.
Not too shabby, Spain, not too shabby.
Traveling without an itinerary is the best way to enjoy where you are, in my professional opinion.
We got to spend a day enjoying the beach and exploring the city without time crunches or dashed unrealistic sightseeing expectations.
The only thing we had to haul ass to was the Fat Tire Bike Tour, which met at 11am. (Another bonus to goal-less travels? No alarm clock. Holllaa!) [Bike tour plug! We did one in London with this company which is why we decided to check them out in Barcelona and they seriously know what they're talking about without making it painfully comparable to a "Bueller.....Bueller..." moment. AND they are delightfully attractive men. It's a win-win! They do tours in London, Barcelona, Berlin, and Paris. And they should be paying me for this.]
Other than the bike tour, my days revolved around eating, attempting to dress myself from the itty-bitty suitcase I allowed myself to pack and then repacking it when we moved hostels.
Thankfully, our second hostel was a five-star resort compared to our original, shady, humble abode.
Complete with stylish watch-type roomy keys that coordinated with our lockable lockers.
You already know about our adventure at the shots bar with our 'dat's cool' SoCal friends, which happened in Barca, but we also went to the club with apparently the best sound system in Spain. (and judging by the ringing in my eardrums late into the next afternoon, I'd say that's an accurate assessment)
Spaniards are a friendly bunch.
A very friendly bunch.
And their drinks are strong.
Very strong.
But expensive, so I only got the one that was covered by my ticket price. (cheap-ass, WHAT'S UP)
But those nights are nothing compared to good old, American packed, Danish Kulor Bar!
Where you end the night with a new friend, a text FROM YOURSELF that says "Be earned. Not skipping. Eat Taco Bell.", and desperately peeing in someone's front lawn after the longest bus ride of your bladder's life.
There really is nothing like sitting bare assed in a strangers front yard, in Denmark, with one contact missing because someone whacked you in the face at 4:15 in the morning, nothing like it at all.
Reminded me of my childhood. [ask my parents about my sudden disappearances as a child where I would suddenly reappear, naked. I'll bet they didn't think they were gonna be reading about THAT in this blog entry. Or ever for that matter. But how could I not share that experience with the world?]
5:54pm USA
11:54pm Denmark
Barcelona is food.
And siestas.
And wine and late night dinners and tapas.
Everywhere we went there were glasses of sangria for sale that you could buy with fresh market cheeses or homemade jams.
When you walked by the restaurants there would be tables and tables of brightly colored tapas and paella that smelled so good I could practically taste it.
I mean, the history and architecture is absolutely beautiful and unlike any other city I'd ever seen, but let's be real.
I was there for the food.
And the beach.
But really just the food.
Restaurants on the beach with outdoor seating manage to combine
Not too shabby, Spain, not too shabby.
Traveling without an itinerary is the best way to enjoy where you are, in my professional opinion.
We got to spend a day enjoying the beach and exploring the city without time crunches or dashed unrealistic sightseeing expectations.
The only thing we had to haul ass to was the Fat Tire Bike Tour, which met at 11am. (Another bonus to goal-less travels? No alarm clock. Holllaa!) [Bike tour plug! We did one in London with this company which is why we decided to check them out in Barcelona and they seriously know what they're talking about without making it painfully comparable to a "Bueller.....Bueller..." moment. AND they are delightfully attractive men. It's a win-win! They do tours in London, Barcelona, Berlin, and Paris. And they should be paying me for this.]
Other than the bike tour, my days revolved around eating, attempting to dress myself from the itty-bitty suitcase I allowed myself to pack and then repacking it when we moved hostels.
Thankfully, our second hostel was a five-star resort compared to our original, shady, humble abode.
Complete with stylish watch-type roomy keys that coordinated with our lockable lockers.
You already know about our adventure at the shots bar with our 'dat's cool' SoCal friends, which happened in Barca, but we also went to the club with apparently the best sound system in Spain. (and judging by the ringing in my eardrums late into the next afternoon, I'd say that's an accurate assessment)
Spaniards are a friendly bunch.
A very friendly bunch.
And their drinks are strong.
Very strong.
But expensive, so I only got the one that was covered by my ticket price. (cheap-ass, WHAT'S UP)
But those nights are nothing compared to good old, American packed, Danish Kulor Bar!
Where you end the night with a new friend, a text FROM YOURSELF that says "Be earned. Not skipping. Eat Taco Bell.", and desperately peeing in someone's front lawn after the longest bus ride of your bladder's life.
There really is nothing like sitting bare assed in a strangers front yard, in Denmark, with one contact missing because someone whacked you in the face at 4:15 in the morning, nothing like it at all.
Reminded me of my childhood. [ask my parents about my sudden disappearances as a child where I would suddenly reappear, naked. I'll bet they didn't think they were gonna be reading about THAT in this blog entry. Or ever for that matter. But how could I not share that experience with the world?]
5:54pm USA
11:54pm Denmark
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Liam Neeson, where art thou?
If Liam Neeson were my father, he would kick my ass for temporarily forgetting all of the lessons he would have taught me in 'Taken' or in his parenting.
Cuz let's face it, Liam Neeson would obviously make a kick-ass parent.
He's Liam Neeson. [no offense intended to my parents who taught me the same lessons, I just don't fear as intense of an ass-kicking from them as from Mr.Neeson. if you've met my parents, you'd understand.]
It all started when we landed in Barcelona.
At midnight.
With absolutely no idea how exactly to get into the city other than a taxi.
Which we can't find.
And then a friendly man asks us if we're from Copenhagen and we start walking and talking with him and he asks us if we wanted to share a cab ride.
If you've seen 'Taken,' this is how it alllll starts.
So getting in the cab with him probably wasn't our smartest decision.
But he did get us to our street...and then offer to walk us to our hostel...but that, THAT is where we drew the line.
We even made sure he walked away before we headed down our street.
But that was after his living-in-Copenhagen-and-just-moving-to-Spain-but-still-speaks-fluent-Spanish-and-knows-the-streets-of-Barcelona-really-well story skeezed us out.
Liam Neeson would not be happy.
Or our parents for that matter.
Oops.
So we arrive at the street our hostel is located off of, which, by the way, our friendly cab-sharing friend informed us was a bit on the sketchy side.
An understatement, as it turns out.
And as the three of us walked down the street, carrying our luggage and wearily eyeing all the obscenely drunk Spanish men, we happened across a set of barred doors with an intensely creepy foyer area.
Our hostel.
We go up the stairs that my only reference for comparison belongs in the lair of the creepy-joker guy from the Saw movies that I can't actually sit through because they horrify me.
The actual lobby of the hostel presents itself in a pseudo-clean manner, but unfortunately for us the man checking us in was watching a spanish horror movie turned all the way, so the accompaniment to our check-in was screaming and the freaky music soundtrack.
We prayed that the beds were clean, we're semi-positive that they were.
We prayed that the bathrooms were clean, we're one-hundred percent positive that they weren't.
We peed together.
We waited for each other in the shower because being in that room by yourself was just not okay.
Not okay.
My grandmother would not approve.
And neither would Liam.
So now that our trip officially started with some choice points from the list of 'Things College Girls in Europe Probably Shouldn't Do Alone'...
We covered riding in cabs with strangers.
We've gone over staying in sketchy hostels.
We could probably add 'end a pub crawl in a club by the water in Lisbon without any idea as to where our hostel is' to the list....
Or getting to the airport one hour before our flight leaves, but getting to the wrong terminal, getting stuck in the check-in line, hauling ass through the 'Last Minute Check-In' line and sprinting through the airport to get to Lisbon...
My favorite might be Samantha and I getting in a cab to take us back to the hostel after the pub crawl and telling the driver that we had 3.70euro between the two of us and could he please 'just take us as close to the square as you can get us on this budget.'
He was nice enough to take us the whole way to the square....after suggesting we pay him in a different way and then driving down the wrong street in the direction of the ocean....
And of course there was the infamous oversized wallet in a small bag that was pickpocketed.
All in all I'd saw that we managed to embody a multitude of the traveling college girl stereotypes; including, but not limited to having strangers pay our entire 50euro bar tab at a shots bar. [sidebar: these kids told us they were 21 and attending college in California. They were maybe 18, from 'SoCal', kept saying things like 'that's real legit' or 'dats cool,' and at the bar with their uncle. We ignored them most of the night while they stood behind us talking about how impressed they were that we were taking shots. When we told them we were leaving, they told us that ladies never pay for their own drinks, picked up our tab, and we high-tailed it outta there as soon as their uncle started calling them idiots for dropping that much euro on us. WHAT UP HIGH SCHOOLERS. No shame.]
These are just the snippits of those moments that parents are most proud of when they hear about their child's spring break adventures.
And since I am unbelievably tired from spending the night in the Milan airport, this pride-inducing, wrath-of-Liam-Neeson-provoking moments are all I'm going divulge.
For now.
My apologies to both Liam and my parents.
3:40pm USA
9:40pm Denmark
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