I can see my Grandma from my house! And other news from America.

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

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...

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 nap from 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

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.

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.

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 delicious men 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

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 combine people 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

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 

Climbing mountains in Czechoslovakia, adventures in the land of my people!

**general word of warning to this tale, I'm longwinded and this was a week of many adventures! That and the more I write, the more I can avoid laundry and repacking doing something productive. I DO IT ALL FOR YOU, MY UNFORTUNATELY AVID READERS. If there are any avid readers other than my mother. But maybe I assume too much. Perhaps my blogging ego is growing just as much as my ass is from all these pastries. Eh. Either way, this a is a long entry.** 

Meeting the people in the country where part of genetic history comes from explains a lot about my grandmother's cooking.
Meat and potatoes and meat and potatoes and meat and potatoes and meat and potatoes.
Not great bathing-suit-season food.

Our bus for the Czech Trek left at 5:45pm on Sunday afternoon, we arrived at our castle at 8:30am the following morning.
All it took was two girls taller than 5foot 9inches sharing a charter bus seat for 12 hours and my first ever bought of seasickness brought on by horrific wind conditions, hunger, and no air flow throughout the entirety of the giant, European ferry to get there. 
Luckily for my new DIS acquaintances and with a little help from my friends, I held in the nausea.
But my snoring and obnoxious giggling the rest of the bus ride still may have marred my new acquaintances first impression of me...

We pull up to our castle, a beautiful, old structure sitting above the small town of Hruba Skala.
Our room key could double as a weapon.
It's huge and I'm pretty sure the original from when the castle was built....way back in ye olde days.
After moving into our historic room that is seemingly heatless, we venture to our first Czech breakfast (the same breakfast that shall be repeated every morning but the one we sleep through).
It looks and tastes a lot like watered down orange juice, cold bread, and tiny, tiny hot dogs.
A breakfast of champions completed, our group of delirious students commences with the ice breakers.
A lot of blindfolded and silent activities with the occasional outburst of obnoxious behavior from Callie, Samantha, or I.
Typical.
After freezing during ice breakers[I'm so accidentally punny] we are granted a thirty minute grace period before lunch to nap, during which time Elena, Callie, Samantha, and I fall asleep awkwardly laying about the double bed in our room.
Lunch is not a welcome interruption.
The unwelcome lunch is followed by a valiant attempt at archery.
Not a hidden talent of mine like I was hoping.
Although Callie surprises us with some skill, it is apparently routine to teach archery in West Virginia high schools. [insert WV joke that I'm sure she's heard before here]

Archery attempts are followed by a glorious naptime followed by a scrumptious heavy dinner which is followed by an even better dessert.
Which is followed by a much-needed, and I mean MUCH-needed shower.

Before bed Samantha and I venture to the reception area where a desk and a language create a barrier between us and our need for extra blankets.
After the receptionist tells us that she'll "send the plumber" to our room and we just keep repeating "no plumber, just BLANKETS" our trekking guide appears in the darkness and helps us translate.
His interpreting leads the resident old-man-groudskeeper, Daddy, taking both Samantha and I by the arm in a firm grip and leading us to another part of the castle, speaking Czech to us the entire time.
Thanks to Callie's participation in a sex trafficking course this semester, my only thought was "Well, if this is how I'm gonna get trafficked, at least it's with Sam and at least the scenery is beautiful if they give me a window."
Luckily we are just given blankets of questionable cleanliness, rather than a price for our bodies.

The next morning (after the same breakfast that is eerily like a cheap meal at a baseball game) we begin our 10km hike through the forrest surrounding our humble lodgings.
The woods are beautiful and the fact that my out-of-shape ass manages to climb the many, many hills is just as beautiful. [see uploaded pictures on my Facebook page for reference. if they're uploaded when you read this. if not, feel free to check again at a later date of stalk Callie or Samantha.] 
Another Czech lunch, and then my abrupt realization that I am not as fearless of heights as I once thought I was.
I rappel down the side of a cliff, and realize halfway down that my arm strength gives me no confidence in lowering myself that far and I really just want to be back on the ground.
So I hurry down the mountain and only faceplant into the rock once.
This adventure is followed by zip-lining across a gorge-thing, which I find to be the most exhilarating experience, despite my girlish squeal when I leap off the cliff.
But my flying leap is followed by a return across the gorge-valley over a bridge where I am walking on one wire, and each of my arms has a wire to cling to, and it weebles and wobbles until you fall down.
I don't like it.
And neither does Samantha [ask her about the boy that chased her across it]. 
But having survived this adventure we are granted another napping period.
But being the girlish, feminine women that we are, we choose to spend an hour and a half discussing poop.
That's right all you "girls poop roses" or "girls don't poop" fools.
Poop.
Shit.
Fecal matter.
Doo-doo.
The end of our delicate conversation is followed by the pouring of wine that is to be finished at dinner.
After the finishing of our wine at dinner, we open the rum to better enjoy the upcoming scavenger hunt around the castle, in the dark.
After successfully completing the scavenger hunt using only tiny candles for light and the requirement of memorizing every clue we find, we take the time to bond with our fellow adventurers.
All college students bond the same way, around the world, in case you were wondering.

Subsequently, the following morning, we miss breakfast.
And as it would seem, my evening seems to be carrying over into morning.
This carry-over leads to some delightfully obnoxious behavior[imagine 12 year old boys, given caffeine and being told to run around in the woods for twenty minutes] while we wait to begin our caving exploration.
The caving itself is more of an adventure course where we climb, we cave, we jump, we crawl, and at one point I manage to kick our poor DIS-employee-coordinator-guide-man square in the balls as he helped me up a rock.
But he told me it's okay, cuz he has two of them.
And then I, in general, come to the general conclusion that in a real-life woodland survival situation, I am unbelievably screwed.
That and if I am left to sit in a cave without moving towards an opening, I become increasingly claustrophobic. [thanks, Dad!]

Lunch is served at a local pub, more of the same traditional Czech food.
And I manage to hit my head hard enough on the cement ceiling that leads down to where we eat that I hear my brain rattle around in my giant skull and Callie has a look of genuine concern.
Good thing my large head has a thick skull.

After lunch we climb up a hill that is both beautiful and increasingly reminding me of how out of shape I am.
After walking and walking and then climbing an awkwardly steep ladder, we arrive at our next adventure.
Rock climbing at a variety of difficulties, and rappelling down a very, very large cliff.
I make my way to the middle of the easiest rock climb, ask the kindly-but-strange Czech man who is assisting me if I can come down now.
He, and everyone paying attention to me tells me no.
With every amount of little upper body strength I have, I make my way to the top.
I'M ON TOP OF THE WORLD EASIEST CLIMB BITCHES!
And if only you could have seen Samantha being told to stick her butt out more to come down the climbing wall.
The poor Czech-climbing-assistant just kept repeating "act like you're sitting! like you're sitting! like you're sitting!" while the rest of us yelled things comparable to "stick dat booty out girl!"
She did eventually 'stick dat booty out' and make it down the rock.

And then comes the rappelling.
After hemming and hawing for three hours, and almost peeing my pants whilst waiting in line, I find that I am muttering to myself, facing a cliff, and lowering myself down it with rope.
Halfway down I spin in a circle and get to see the most beautiful view of a Czechoslovakian countryside, and no longer am afraid that I will suddenly be responsible for a puddle of urine at the bottom of the cliff.
This is a huge point of pride for me.

Exhausted and hungry we make our way back to the castle where we eat dinner before showering, my sympathies to those who sat at our dinner table.
A long, pseudo-warm shower later, I am sound asleep.
And then suddenly my damn alarm is going off, I'm eating more hot dogs, and back on the bus headed to Prague.

Prague is old and beautiful and cold and rainy.
The first stop is a market stand selling dough, rolled around a big rolling pin, baked and re-rolled in sugar.
Uhhhh why didn't we have these for breakfast at the castle?
AND THEY'RE SO CHEAP compared to Danish prices.
Then a bit of cheap[er than Copenhagen] shopping and an Italian lunch.
We spend the rest of the afternoon on a walking tour damp and freezing.
We cross the Charles Bridge where everyone desperately clutches their belongings because of the high pick-pocketing rate.
We see the bridge where people in love leave a lock to represent eternity, and then our tour guide points out the 50% divorce rate in the Czech Republic.
We write our names on the wall where people would leave messages during the Communist times.
And we take many, many pictures.
And in a majority of them I look increasingly like a turtle- something about the eyes and the chubby cheeks, I think.
Callie stands under a waterfall outside of a church to earn a free beer from Jonas, not at all sacrilegious.
And at some point Jonas makes a notable comment of Callie being "the fat Asian in the airport going home." I'm pretty sure this derived from our conversation about pastry-related weight-gain and her always being assumed as an Asian, even by Asians. No offense was taken by her and many laughs were had by the rest of us. 
The church was adjacent to the castle at the highest point in Prague where we mimicked statues and debated whether or not the guards were wearing make-up because "no one is that golden."

At this point I feel like someone has wrapped me in a cold gnocchi because my down jacket is so wet that both of my shirts underneath are damp as well.
We dry off and get our WiFi fix in Starbucks and then head to Pilsner factory/original restaurant where we are charged for the pretzels on the table and the beer is cheap.
Snacks are purchased from the Asian-owned market up the street and then Samantha and I find ourselves folding into the same bus seat for a multitude of hours and then lay on the floor of the ferry as we cross back to Denmark.

You would think this is where my journey would end, but oh no, not I!
Holidays and construction make my commute two hours long....rawr.
But it's okay, now I'm home with an empty fridge about to create a pasta concoction that, God-Buddha-Allah help me, tastes good and keeps me from eating an entire bag of popcorn and/or an entire sleeve of Pringles for dinner.

Ladies and gentleman, this has been your travel break blog update for week one.
Expect reports of warm weather, tapas, and swarthy Spanish men in the following update after BARCELONA AND LISBON!

12:35pm USA
6:35pm Denmark

I wish I was Katniss, among other things.

Trying to get you to read this entry by referencing The Hunger Games in the title...too soon?

But really, I'd be useless in any kind of ass-kicking situation.
The amount of yelling and lack of pain I would inflict upon an enemy attacking is embarrassing.

Since Amsterdam the weeks have been fruitful of academic success with the added benefit of sunshine!
I'd like to point out, though, that despite the rise in temperature and added sunlight to our days, my legs have yet to actually see sunshine barring the one, yes, count it, ONE, run I've been on since my arrival.

There have been the usual ramblings about town, typically followed by a deep sleep and shower to cleanse one's self of the previous night's activities.
But I shan't divulge those ramblings here.
Because a true lady doesn't kiss dance like a 18-year-old runaway, drug addicted stripper and tell. [you can't judge me until you've seen the girls who I suspect are actual strippers on the side dancing next to me. I look like an Amish girl next to some of them! Do the Amish dance? How ignorant towards the Amish can I make this side note? Oh wait! They can't be reading this. No internet! I'm going to hell...]
Or vomit in a hallway and tell. 


Saturday night I went to see The Hunger Games with Louise and Pia, and whilst I had high expectations of the movie after hearing about it from everyone around me, Pia's expectations were set surprisingly low.
Apparently a Danish newspaper labeled the movie 'disgusting.'
I don't know what expired pastry they ate, but the only "disgusting" part of this movie was watching a swarm of poisonous bugs attack a living girl.
But other than that? It was phenomenal!
Even dubious Pia thought it was fantastic.
And she is a harsh critic.
And completely unafraid to say what's on her mind. [sidenote: she once told a young girl who was trying to measure the length of her bra in class that she shouldn't even be wearing one until she needs it. the girl was 10 or 11. I quite possibly would have died of embarrassment. Even though someone could probably still tell me that today...]
Of course, then we cam home and they wanted to watch The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. In Swedish. With Danish subtitles.
And can I just say, the intense rape scene is even more intense when you can't understand the language.
Needless to say I wasn't too invested in watching it, which was probably a good thing because then, out of nowhere (sort of) BAM!
Gallbladder attack.
Sonofabitch!

An hour of writhing in pain, in the dark of my room, with the window open, attempting to use Netflix to keep my mind off of the intestine trying to violently hurl a rock through the lining of my abdomen later, the Vicodin kicked in.
Pain pills are the saving grace of this karmic retribution I'm facing for eating pastries and baby bites at every whim I had.
Gone are the days of carefree, fatty-laden foods for me.
I'm in Day 3 of my healthier eating habits, and this is least I've eaten and the most consistently I've been semi-hungry since my arrival. 
Doing momma and them doctors proud.
For now...
But I got some serious cravings going on right now.
DAMN YOU GENETICS, BEING A GIRL, AND A HIGH FAT DIET.

Anywho.
I blog this meaningless blog today because this will probably be the last you hear from me for a bit.
Sunday I leave for Czechoslovakia.
Where I will be staying in a castle.
And caving. And rock climbing. And hiking!
And then I'm home for a day and a half.
And then Barcelona.
And then Lisbon.
My life is very, very difficult.

HA!

Well, I should really be writing a press release about Nordic food.
Weird sandwiches, remoulade sauce, and the like.

Damn my gallbladder, I'm hungry.

8:50am USA
2:50pm Denmark [We jumped ahead!]

"This cheese shop really smells like...cheese."

Amsterdam, man, Amsterdam.
Talk about the epitome of a hot-mess traveling extravaganza.

We leave after all of our classes are finished on Friday afternoon and are all proud of our light packing.
After successfully getting to the airport, and checking we venture to the always-nerve-wracking-even-though-I'm-not-packing-weapons-or-drugs security line.
My half full facewash in a container that was only slightly over 100ml was confiscated by the security woman who had just spent a good three and a half minutes flirting with the men going through security in front of me.
She was, pardon my french, the crankiest bitch I have ever encountered in an airport.
[yes, mother. I should have known better than to fly with a container that large. and point of interest for anyone possibly, maybe considering sending your favorite blogger a package, my face really enjoys being cleansed with Mary Kay facewash. and I personally enjoy little frivolous candies and other expressions of your love. worried that you can't send anything because you don't have my address? I can take care of that!] 
Once another security friend has asked me to take off my scarf, the same sourpuss who took my facewash tells me that my mascara is also liquid.
She crankily rebags it and sends it back through security.
All the while I alternate between wanting to crawl in a hole of shame and embarrassment and the urge to get real feisty with Madame de la Cranky.
I decide to just throw my shit back together red-faced and head for the gate.
Whilst waiting at the gate I get a hot dog, coke, and snickers to get me over the stress of being facewash-less and get me through the act of finding our hotel before we eat dinner once we land.
I sleep, open-mouthed and slightly drooly, for the duration of the flight.

Holla for truly embodying the appearance of helpless female travelers who need all the kindness and assistance the 'verse (universe, for those of you who don't watch Firefly. i.e. most of you.) can offer us.
People are so much more helpful that way.

We make it off the train and onto the correct tram with a little help from an elderly Dutch man.
We make it to the correct tram stop where were see a sign for our hotel.
We make it to the hotel!
We can practically taste the success of our solo travels!
And then we are informed that we do not actually have reservations.....
uhhhh excusez-moi?
Apparently the foreign lady I set up the reservation with on the phone wrote my e-mail down wrong and when my lovely small-town debit card didn't go through (as it does when it's feeling particularly cranky/I can't enter my PIN number) they never sent me an anti-confirmation e-mail or gave me a phone call informing me of this.
Luckily for us they had a room for four people for Friday night.
But not for Sunday.
So at that point we had seven people staying in a four person room and we were going to be homeless on Saturday night. [sidenote: the seven of us traveling together were me, Callie, Samantha, Francesca, Brenna, Elena, and Liz] 
Traveling blog gold, right here.

Now in order to get into the "hotel", we have to get buzzed in and retrieve our key from the front desk.
A point of interest considering we have to sneak three people back up into the room.
Remember this.
This will come up later in our adventures.

After rearranging our small room so that the double bed and two single beds are all combined into one giant bed that will sleep seven people, we head to Rembrandt Square to look for dinner.
Rembrandt Square is all lights and food and tourists and fun.
We end up eating at an Italian restaurant where they seat us awkwardly at two tables that are perpendicular to each other.
The waiter at our table is friendly and attentive.
The waiter at the other table is a little surly and not even remotely helpful.
After nomming to our heart's content and taking twenty minutes to pay for our check separately at the register, we head out to look for nightlife.
Amsterdam has four kinds of nightlife; bars, clubs, coffeehouses, and red-light district type entertainment.
We find a bar.
It's an Australian themed bar that serves large drinks and we happen to hit it up during happy hour.
AND a friendly Dutch guy gives me a free shot because he finds it to be too pink.
As happy hour ends, the bar crowd becomes more and more...diverse.
Definitely an older crowd.
Even the music is an odd mix of the songs you danced to during middle school and the stuff you hear on the radio today.
In other words, the seven of us danced in a circle and jammed whilst and at the same time avoiding the throng of creepers surrounding us.
The perfect table dancing opportunity.
The hotter it gets on the dance floor and the later it gets the more ready we are to head back to the good ol Flipper Hotel.
A twenty-five minute walk later and by the grace of landmarks and following tram lines, we make it back and manage to get everyone back into the room without question.
We organize a shower schedule and Samantha and I reveal to the poor girls traveling with us our obnoxious sides.
And then Samantha wakes me up a few times during the night in an attempt to stop my snoring.

Holy hell my long-windedness is becoming more and more apparent with each trip I venture on.

GOOD MORNING.
Impressively, everyone is showered, dressed, packed, and ready to go after a little breakfast by 10am.
Two people go downstairs and bring food back upstairs on a tray, despite signs asking us not to.
But we had seven people to feed and only four people who could technically go downstairs and get food.
Then two people leave their bags with us and five of us head down to check out.
While I'm carrying the contraband trays down the stairs, I run right into the front-desk-dude that we were trying to hard to avoid.
That same front-desk-dude-Asian-man checking us out asks us how many people we had in the room, we say four and that Brenna met us here that morning.
He starts getting the look of a puppy peeing on the carpet, a little nervous and confused as to what exactly is going on here.
Then he asks us if the two other girls in the dining room are with us.
We all look at each other and then with a completely blank face I look at him and say, "What?"
"The two...in there...? They with...you?"
"I'm not sure what you're talking about."
"Uhhh they...those two...uhh...nevermind."
After checking us out we inform that we were told we could store our bags there for the day since the hotel lost our reservation and we couldn't be expected to carry around our luggage while we looked for a new place to stay.
He actually counts our bags.
But never says anything.
I leave my number, in case a room opens up [ha! like he would ever actually call me.], and while he's in the back room putting away our luggage we hustle Liz and Elena out the front door.
Deuces Hotel Flipper, deuces.

We aim for meeting with a free tour.
And so does every other Spanish, Italian, and English speaking tourist in the city.
We don't get tickets.
Instead we head to eat at a famous pancake restaurant, and despite never actually making it to the famous one, we find a place with a table big enough for seven, cats wandering the restaurant, and some bomb-diggity pancakes.
Success.
We have found a hotel which is right next to Central Station, has two double rooms, and, as to be expected, costs more.
We head back to the flipper.
The same poor guy is desperately trying to make sense of how we managed this and I think trying to trip us up so he can properly accuse us of having too many people in a room.
Thank goodness we paid in cash.
We rescue our luggage, which I considered to be hostages, and hightail it to the other hotel so we can actually book our rooms.
Now booked and "unpacked" successfully, our group splits up for people to do as they choose.
Samantha and Francesca head to the Heinkin factory for the interactive tour.
Liz and Elena....well I actually can't remember where they were going, but I think they were meeting up with friends.
And Brenna, Callie, and I head off to just explore the city area right around the hotel.

As part of my promise to remain honest in this blog, I can tell you that three of us each indulged in a piece of surprisingly delicious rainbow cake that was homemade.
We then ate all of the samples in a cheese shop, everything made us giggle uncontrollably, and a nap has never felt so short or fabulous.
Deduce your own conclusion.

We are then forced out of comfortable beds and fabulous slumbers by Samantha and Francesca to head to a hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant [in China town!] that was voted one of the best restaurants in Amsterdam in 2011.
And the food was phenomenal.
I love an Asian food coma.

Even better than the Asian food coma?
Finding Sky vodka at the closest liquor store for 13euro.
The sticker gave us the incorrect price and the poor store owner told us he had to sell it to us for the advertised price.
We buy some mixers and then head back to the hotel so we have a place to enjoy our purchase other than the nearest park bench in the rain.

After playing the usual girly games, we head to the red-light district.
I was expecting to giggle inappropriately and stare uncontrollably...but I felt surprisingly uncomfortable.
These men had no qualms about knocking on doors and negotiating a rate in front of crowds and crowds of people.
Men were pointing out the ones they were going to buy to their friends or telling their friends which ones they should go for.
These women looked bored or completely zonked out; they don't have to pretend to enjoy it.
And we were the only all-female-non-bachelorette party wandering around.
It just blew my mind, how serious it actually was.
We talk about going to a sex show, but it's a little bit out of our price range.
Instead we head back to the main street where Samantha, Callie, and I decide to hang out in a bar called Teasers.
As it turns out, it gets its name from the fact that bartending girls dance on the bar in the short shorts and low cut, midriff baring tank tops, but they never actually remove any clothing.
Subsequently we are surrounded by an interesting hodge-podge of tourists, groups of men, and the occasional, we're assuming after serious observations, hooker.
When we've had enough we deem it snack time; I buy a waffle, covered in chocolate, topped with cream and strawberries and Samantha and Callie eat McDonalds.
We head back to the hotel where I have to ask the guy at the registration desk to let us in the elevator and then Callie and I have to pound on our door for three minutes to wake up its sleeping inhabitants.
Then we crawl into bed with the other two in the room and the four of us sleep horizontally, boiling hot and I'm pillowless.
But I still snore to the extent that I disturb my roommates, and there is no stopping me.

Sunday morning means our last morning in the Vegas of Europe.
Elena and Liz have woken up early to see the sights.
The rest of us did not manage to do that.

After another breakfast where one of us shouldn't have been there, we head to the Anne Frank house.
I'd recommend this to anyone interested in history who has time to wait in the line.
After that sobering experience, we make our way in the cold and rain to an installation that is a giant sign that says 'I am' in red and 'msterdam' in white. [get it? I amsterdam. I am amsterdam.] 
My memories will always have thirty other stranger tourists in the pictures with me.
Back into the city for lunch which is followed by a trip to the cheese store around the corner that has free samples.
Plates and plates of cheese samples.
And in the adjoining shop?
Candy samples.
And Samantha is alllllll about these cheese samples. [the title of this blog might be a reference to an observation Samantha made upon entering this cheese nirvana. maybe.] 
Post cheese paradise is luggage retrieval, train station navigation, and then we're on our way to the airport.

The adventure concludes with us sprinting to our terminal after our delayed flight is no longer delayed and we notice that the screen says our gate is closing and we're still snacking.
An anxiety-inducing run was an exciting way to end our Amsterdam adventure.

And now, I am exhausted.
Zonked.
Pooped.
Tuckered out.

9:57pm Denmark
4:57pm USA

I gained pounds and I lost pounds. And the pounds I lost were definitely British currency, London Part 3

Prince Harry wouldn't return my phone calls asking for money.
Damn ginger-haired, royal bastard.

Thursday morning starts with me sleeping through breakfast, dashing to Starbucks (holla at my mom for that Starbucks card!) and then hauling ass to the cafe around the corner to meet with our group and get a lecture from a foreign correspondent.
And eat cake.
I remember the cake well.
The lecture not-so-much.

After the lecture about corresponding foreignly we, of course en masse, walk in the beautiful sunshine to the Saatchi Museum where we get a brief tour and then get a chance to the Sunday Times exhibit.
Cover photos from some of their renowned issues are displayed and explained.
It comes highly recommended!
And I think myself and Roger & Ebert would give it 5 stars or two thumbs way waaay up or whatever it is they say.

Afterwards a group of us find our way to the Camden market.
Which is a funky. Awesome. Frighteningly intense in the bartering department place.
The prices are low and the food vendors give out free samples.
Did I mention the free samples and good food?
NOM.
I split a pizza with jack whilst Dianne eats her long awaited crepe.
She'd been determined to get one since we arrived at the market and I really didn't give a crepe. [did you see what I did there? did ya? didya didya didya?]

After getting our nom on and finding the most epically perfect Starbucks/Star Wars shirt that I almost buy, we enter Cyberdog.
Not sure what to expect, we find a rave store.
Compiled of three floors and clothing that I'd only ever seen in Lady Gaga music videos.
Rumor has it that the lowest floor is all sex toys, but I was afraid to go check it out for fear of running into a local businessman legitimately trying to buy a whip or choke chain...

After leaving the fine 'cash only' establishment we head to Jamie Oliver's restaurant in the city where unfortunately, he is not present.
I order a pasta that has 'chili' sauce, not expecting the painful, painful FIRE that my mouth is about to endure.
I take a forkful and chug my water.
Then I accidentally eat a pepper and almost cry.
I ALMOST CRY.
LEGITIMATE TEARS.
So I stop eating it and stuff myself with bread and the fried-whatnots that were served as appetizers.
And of course, the dessert.
Not to mention the DIS complimentary long-island iced tea.

After dinner we head back to the hotel where we commence the Danish warm-up, American style. (i.e. sitting in someone's hotel room and trying to get tipsy off of the cheap alcohol before going out).
There is discussion of going to a club called Fabric, where the entrance fee is almost $25.
If I am too cheap to buy a beloved 5pound Starbucks/Star Wars shirt, I am most certainly going to be too cheap to pay for this club.
But as fate would have it, we don't even leave the hotel until midnight, when four of us decide to walk around the Earl's Court area in a search for a cheap place to dance.
And boy do we find one.
So cheap that it's free!
And let me tell you why it was free....
....it was empty save for two gay couples and a couple of creepers.
Needless to say I owned that dance floor.
I decided this was my one and only opportunity to run around in leaping circles in a "club" without risking pissing off a whole lot of drunk and grinding partiers.
It was spectacular.
Just ask Jack, Dianne, or Hannah.
So once Dianne's song request was played and we convinced her not to request it again, we decided to head back to the hotel, after peeing at the local McDonalds occupied with construction workers.
They cat called as we left the fine eatery, but we weren't sure if it was directed at us females or at Jack.
At the hotel Dianne tells us she wants to sit on the ledge by the fountain.
There is no fountain.
A ledge, yes, but it just sits about what I'm pretty sure was the entrance to the parking garage.
Obviously a successful night.

The morning is met with frantic packing throwing my wrinkled clothes into my duffel bag in careless disarray so I can get my nom on at breakfast.
And then we head to meet our tour guides for a bike tour.
And I think I fell in love with our charming, Irish tour guide.
I'd follow him on a bike anywhere.
Especially since, in all seriousness, the bike tour was phenomenal and probably my favorite part of the trip.

DIS then feeds us one last time and it's time to meet our bus to take us to the airport.
I always get a melancholy feeling when I leave a place that I love, but then I remember how much I spent there and the feeling passes.

When the exhaustion hits, we are on the plane and I am ready to go home to my Danish family.
And I am suddenly aware that this is home now.
We were going home.
And then I was home!
Where there were snacks in the kitchen and free internet.

And now I have consumed too much free coffee and am sitting in my history of ballet class pretending that I'm not blogging.
I wonder what everyone thinks I'm doing?
Probably writing the paper that was due in this class today.
Suckers.
I got my shit done on time.
Thankyouverymuch.

Now it's time to do as they do in Amsterdam.
Check out some hookers...and whatnot.

12:11pm Denmark
7:11am USA

I saw a large group Asians pose for a peace sign picture. Cliche Accomplished, London Part two.

Gotta love the Asian tourists.

Living up to stereotypes one cliche at a time. 

Not that Americans are any better. 

Could we be any louder about how hungry/drunk/lost/loud we are? 

When I so graciously gave your poor souls a rest from my London stories, I had been telling you of Sunday and Monday. 

This seems like a good time to procrastinate continue. 

Tuesday morning I awaken to an alarm set drunkenly for 8am. 

I turn it off. 

Our hotel room gets an 8am wake up call that we did not ask for. 

I roll back over. 

Then we get a knock on our door inquiring after a temporarily-missing fellow student. 

Fates way of telling me to go to shower the dried sweat from the night before off of my still-buzzed-from-RedBull body. 

After breakfast Dianne, Paige, and I trek back to Picadilly Circus where we invest in tickets for 'Wicked.' 

And I am still buzzed on RedBull and can't stop singing. 

A Starbucks coffee only feeds the hyper fuel that is allowing me to dance through the streets of London and admire the fine men in fine suits with fine accents on the streets of London's financial district. 

To Diagon Alley we go!

Or where Diagon Alley should be. 

WHERE THE HELL IS OLIVANDER'S? 

Now thoroughly disappointed in the market's refusal to capitalize on the Harry Potter franchise by turning it into a mecca for the true fans, we sadly trudge to the Tower of London where for the first time on a school trip ever, I am early. 

Too early. 

We read the schedule wrong. 

Merde. 

We use our spare thirty minutes to walk onto the London Bridge, where I can proudly say that I hawked(sp?) a loogey(sp?) that my mother can be proud of. 

Yes, my delicate and feminine self can now proudly say that I spat off of the London Bridge. 

Truly a moment for the scrapbooks and memories. 

After we reconvene with the rest of our group, we begin what will go down in history, in my memory, as 'the tour where I almost ate the tour guide.' 

I hadn't planned ahead and about ten minutes into the tour when I realized that he was going to repeatedly ask us if we could see the giant tower/window/pathway/raven in front of us, I got hungry. 

Another twenty minutes in and I was more than ready to eat. 

Tack on another hour to that and if he said another word I was seriously prepared to Tower of London style execute him and then flee to the nearest hot dog cart going to get even crankier. 

Luckily for him, watching the ravens walk around with their swagger amused me enough to distract from stomach beginning to eat itself. 

We leave for our next visit. 

Still no lunch. 

On our way to Bloomberg's, I make a quick dash [note the British influence!] into the nearest sandwich shop where I find sweet, sweet hunger relief. 

Only to discover that Bloomberg has an open kitchen upstairs stocked with every snack imaginable. 

For free. 

FREE! 

Thank god for big purses. 

Bloomberg is virtually in charge of the computerized financial organization......okay, I really don't understand exactly what they do. 

What I do know is that they work with almost every major corporation, have offices around the world, give me free snacks, and they have pretty fish on every floor! 

After we've gotten the tour watched the fish for an hour, we head en masse to afternoon tea. 

We all expect dainty sandwiches and quaint cups of tea, now I don't know if they were prepared for American style appetites (i.e. supersize it all for me bitch!) or if British tea time has gotten remarkably filling of late, but we were served endless small sandwiches, endless scones, and trays of rich cupcakes and dark chocolate cake. 

Endless, I say! 

After looking at our watches the eight of us headed to see 'Wicked!' that evening make a quick, but of course polite, exit from the restaurant and haul ass back to the hotel to have time to make ourselves look less exhausted and charge our phones. 

Approximately 10 minutes after arriving back at the hotel, we leave the hotel, prepared to meet the two with the tickets. 

They change the meeting location, the remaining six of us walk in the wrong direction. 

We continue walking in the wrong direction as the show time grows nearer and the two already at the theater anxiously call us trying to figure out exactly where we are. 

A kindly hotel valet informs us that we will need to take a taxi from here to make the show. 

A price we're willing to pay at this point. 

To the theater, sir!

Four of us arrive two minutes after the show starts and stand behind the lighting booth and watch the show from there for the first twenty minutes while we wait for an usher to seat us. 

Damn Brits and their polite 'late-entry' policy. (realistically this is probably all theaters, but I have to place the somewhere. I'm American!) 

We sit down.

And the show is absolutely fabulous, phenomenal, amazing, astounding, mind-blowing...and any other Webster's Dictionary thesaurus synonym for FUCKING AWESOME. [my apologies for the explicit language. but sometimes it just helps me express myself. and I blog, which makes me an artist, which means I'm allowed to express myself that way.]

I almost cry. 

Twice. 

After the show is over we all block the exiting traffic on the sidewalk to take a group picture and then head home via tube. 

We are each singing our favorite 'Wicked!' songs. 

Loudly and proudly. 

For the rest of the night. 

But luckily for the rest of the world with ears that don't want to be disturbed, we go to sleep after the show ends. 

I dreamt in green. 

Bloody hell I'm long winded. 

Can you tell I want everyone to just read this blog and not ask me for details via Skype dates? 

Wednesday morning after breakfast we make another group trek to the London School of Economics for a lecture on branding. 

Of which I remember very little and have no intentions of relaying here. 

After that rousing speaker, we break for lunch and three hours of free time. 

And by free time, we all decided that meant to go shopping. 

And by shopping that meant that I cried on the inside while I looked at prices at Top Shop and then went up the street to Primark where I could get 11pound jeans and a 4pound scarf. 

Post my sad shopping spree we all met at BBC for a tour of the facilities. 

I didn't learn much, but our tour guides were amusing and I gained an insight into the world of celebrity demands. 

[fun fact! Jennifer Lopez demanded a room that was wall-to-wall white and she had her furniture flown in from her Paris apartment. And somebody else who is famous that I can't remember the name of asked for puppies to pet to calm her down!] 

After the BBC adventure well, en mass of course, head to dinner in Covent Gardens. 

We lose half of our group when they don't get off of the tube with the rest of us and they STILL manage to beat us to the restaurant. 

Why? Do you ask? 

Well it was our great leader Søren's idea to take the "scenic" route to the restaurant.
Something he failed to mention to us when we disembarked the tube.
You know that feeling when someone tells you that you're going straight to the restaurant so you let yourself start to feel hungry and anxious for food?
Now imagine that hunger growing for an hour.
Apply that cranky, frustrated feeling to a group of about 25 twenty-something-year-olds and you have my core class for the duration of our scenic route.
Søren's life was at risk.
But luckily for him we arrive at Brown's and are promptly served bread and a questionably delicious green soup which was followed by a steaming bowl of shepherd's pie only to be concluded with tiny little cream puffs.
And maybe a few of us split a bottle of cheap white wine...

After the long-awaited dinner we all headed to Trafalgar Square where we head down into a crypt to listen to a jazz performance.
Yea, you read that right, I listened to jazz with old people in a place where they keep dead people.
Cuz you know what they always say, ain't no party like a dead people party cuz a dead people party don't stop!
Except after 45 minutes the party was, in fact, over for us DIS students.
The dead don't buy you drinks and the drinks weren't cheap.
So we head back to the hotel and make the mandatory pit stop at the grocery stop to pick up...well, it varied depending on the person.
I went for the cheap hard cider.
We, as the Danes call it, 'warm-up' at the hotel and then venture into the London night to Zoo Bar.
Dianne and I offer our fellow tube-riders some free entertainment, i.e. some beautiful and loud harmonizing to a variety of different tunes.
The bar itself is crowded but a good place to....make friends.
I make a Danish friend.
An Arabic or Italian friend? [he was ethnically ambiguous]
And a British friend.
And I am definitely not the only one of us who...made friends.

The night ends with a final Jaeger bomb taken alone at the bar when I can't find my friends, avoiding the men who watched me take the Jaeger bomb alone, and frantically searching my bra for my and Dianne's coat check tickets.
An overpriced taxi ride later and I am back in my bed, my leggings still damp with perspiration and spilled beer are piled on the floor along with virtually every other item of owned clothing that I packed.
I recognize that I am my Grandmother's worst nightmare and sleep peacefully.

And now you have read my London saga through Wednesday.
Luck you!
There is no prize other than my charming wit strewn throughout my relayed memories.

7:44pm Denmark
2:44pm USA [I see you springing ahead Amurrica, I see you.]

I think I gained 5 pounds and I'm not talking about British currency, London Part 1

I only wish I were joking.

My urge to blog on a daily basis so I wouldn't be forced to attempt to tell you everything at one time was marred by our Holiday Inn's insistent demand that we pay 50pounds for the week.
50pounds ain't cheap.
50pounds is approximately $80.
For internet.
For 6 days.
So unsurprisingly, my cheap ass would just walk to the nearest Starbucks and use their FREE WiFi without shame.
Why wouldn't I take my computer with me?
Because it is heavy.
And I am weak and lazy.

SO
I've been trying to figure out the most efficient and interesting way to tell you about my week if you are, unfortunately for you, interested in hearing about it.
But trying to figure this out is seriously turning out to be more work than actually writing a blog entry, so I'm just gonna start writing and just stop when I feel like it.
BECAUSE I CAN.

Last Friday night was spent in wine-induced giggles and girl talk with Samantha, Callie, Louise, and some of her Danish friends.
Saturday was a day of Christiania visits, a struggling hour commute home after the trains quit running north [I learned later it was because a boy committed suicide by throwing himself into the path of an oncoming train], and another sleepover at Brooke's house so my 6am commute to the airport would be that much easier. [I'd like to publicly recognize that after our cab driver cheated Samantha and I out of 30 Kroner it was Brooke, who is shorter than Callie, that went head-to-head with him on our behalf while I silently watched the altercation and wondered when I should just pay him the too-high amount and run away from the confrontation. sorry Brooke!]

And then our alarms went off at 5:45am on Sunday morning.
Poor Brooke had delegated herself to the sofa after my snoring became unbearably loud [I truly feel sorry for the poor sap who decides to spend the rest of their lives with me, and for the second time in this blog entry, sorry Brooke!].
We get to the airport at the required 6:45am meeting time where I proceed to check in for my flight and leave my essential DIS Study Tour Guidebook on the kiosk.
STARBUCKS. And the assholes won't take my Starbucks card [thanks mom!] because it's airport owned. But it's okay. Every other Starbucks in London would.
I set off the security metal detector despite the fact that I am, in typical Smaki traveling fashion, dressed head to toe in cotton.
We board the plane that is occupied with either DIS or Danish students.
I doze off against the window and awaken to see not one, not two, but three sheep farms passing below me.
We are in England.

We are guided to a charter bus where we enter on the left side and promptly pass out as soon as it starts moving.
We are chillin' at the Holiday Inn in Kensington and arrive within 2 hours, but as we, and other DIS groups, are demanding our rooms at approximately 11am, they are not ready and we store our luggage with the hotel and wander to Earl's Court to get a chicken sandwich for lunch.
[Fun Fact! My little family stayed in Earl's Court once upon a time when we traveled to London. We frequented the McDonalds and Burger King in the area and stayed at the charming Lord Jim hotel. And by charming I mean quaint. And by quaint I mean basic. And by basic I mean...cheap. Hole in the floor, questionable bed pads, a television with uncontrollable volume stuck on a spanish soap opera, and a shower without a functioning design concept.]
After our lunch we take the tube to meet for a guided tour of the Olympic grounds.
Did I mention that it's approximately 35 degrees and pouring down rain with hurricane-like winds?
Oh I didn't?
Well it was FABULOUS!
And the tour was more of the path where the spectators would be walking to get to the event locations. All of which are not going to be finished until 2013. Subsequently our tour guide would occasionally stop along the path and point at a building in the distance and inform us that the small, unfinished, impossible-to-see building waaaaaaaay over there would be where basket-ice-swim-floor-dance-ball would be held.

Cold and wet despite the hot chocolate break, we proceed to take the tube to the London Eye.
But we only make it to the London Eye AFTER our academic advisor Søren, who is absolutely brilliant in the PR field, asked for directions to the giant, looming, hard-to-miss ferris wheel three times...
But we made it! And all thirty of us got into the moving car and tried to take the same picture of parliament from every single angle as the wheel went round and round at the pace of a 87 year old driving grandmother.

The all-seeing eye was followed by my first ever Indian cuisine.
And I ate every. single. bite.
And then the remaining bites of my overstuffed neighbor's dessert.
And the leftover Indian bread that I can't remember the name of right now but could seriously eat baskets of.
I then rolled myself back to the hotel where I proceeded to pass out by 11pm.

I swear I had just shut my eyes and started to snore on the exceptionally firm mattress and pillow when my alarm went off again and it was time for the hotel's complimentary buffet style breakfast! [they could afford to give me neverending hashbrowns, apple juice, and bacon but god forbid they splurged for internet.]
We, as a mass of 30 students, then proceed to the London School of Economics via the tube for a lecture on mass media and politics.
After doodling through the 2 hours, I follow Mary Ann (our positively tiny and wise intern) to Picadilly Circus, which is in the approximate location of our next academic visit.
We eat lunch at a french themed cafe and I eat a strawberry tart that was so delicious that when I'm 50 years old and telling my grandkids that "once upon a time I went to London with my class before you could teleport anywhere and you chewed your own food..." I will still be talking about that strawberry tart.
We visit the PR firm Edelman [responsible for the Dove beauty campaign, among others] and I try to keep my eyes from going crossed due to sleepiness.
A group of us (Megan, John, Hannah, Stephanie, Mike, Meghan, Mariel, and Chris; if you're interested in the names and/or are one of those people and want blog name recognition] post PR visit go to the nearest Starbucks for coffee and free WiFi.
After a caffeination and Facebook exploration of the best kind, we walk by Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, and over the bridge where we each take approximately 1000 of the same pictures and almost get blown off of the bridge due to wind.
It was your cliche, dreary London day. [for those of you luck enough to be my friend on Facebook, which is probably how you got stuck reading this blog anyways, check out my pics!]
After this sightseeing excursion comes powernapping, and dinner at a delightful little place called 'Fish and Chips' where I, Jack, and Chris all order shawarma.
Cultural immersion? That's for tourists.

After dinner I purchase the ever-classy pint of Smirnoff and two RedBulls so I can stay awake AND be pregaming.
Not to mention feel similar to a crack addict the next morning when I still have caffeine coursing through my veins.
Once everyone is socially lubricated via alcohol, we venture into the night to find the club Moonlighting.
We lose one to hard pregaming and sleep.
We lose two on the tube.
We lose two to another club promoter.
We lose two on our powerwalk to Moonlighting.
Ultimately only two of us made it there together, after asking three times for directions and being told by two charming Brits that asking where Moonlighting was we were implying that we were hookers.
And only one of us made it home. [the other was safe and in love.]

Once inside the club and ultimately alone, I find Samantha [and Brooke and Francesca and Brenna and Taylor and others] and we dance and dance and dance and dance.
And I sweat more on that dance floor than I sweat during cross country practice in Virginia in August at 4 o clock in the afternoon.
And I really don't understand why people kept dancing with me when I looked like I'd been hosed down. [another Fun Fact! I re-wore those jeans that I sweat in at the club that night a few days after they'd aired out. what can I say? I had a limited clothing supply and a high demand for pants for London.]
Samantha, Taylor, and I leave around 2:45am and we find a taxi to take us home (sadly, the tubes stop running quite early in London. you can't 'mind the gap' after 11:45pm.)
Samantha manages to bust her ass getting out of the cab that we have drop us off four blocks from the hotel because we don't want to pay anymore and we know the area, but we manage to make it back in one piece, plus just a bruise on Samantha's knee.

Wanna know more?
Is the answer no?
Then you're in luck!
Because I'm done for now.
AND lucky for you, even though I got home on Friday night, my weekend has been adventure-less other than actually going for a run for the first time since November.
Holler at ma sore legs and nothing to blog about!

9:31pm Denmark
3:31pm USA [wait, is it still 3:31pm? The US sprang ahead but Denmark doesn't spring ahead until March 25....damn time zone differences.]