Getting Stuff Done

I have about a week left in Amsterdam. Home will be great, but I DO NOT want to leave. You can't make me. I know they made squatting illegal in the Netherlands just a few months ago, but seriously, I will need to be dragged onto the plane.

Anyway. These "finals" things are definitely making me ready to go home for the holidays, despite my reverse-culture-shock fears of going back to the US.

I have one final and one big presentation DONE. That feels good. Still up is finishing my seminar paper and a final the night before I leave the country.

I can do this.

On a happier note, I realized I forgot to blog about this time I went to a castle and it was awesome.

Barcelona

You guys. I can't even...I mean...Barcelona.

Don't get me wrong. It's the most beautiful city I've ever seen. It was about 20 degrees warmer than Amsterdam. I got to speak Spanish! Sangria! TAPAS! Churros!

But just about everything that could go wrong did. I am fairly convinced this trip was cursed from the day we bought our tickets. It was like every great amazing trip was coming back to be laugh in my face and say, "SEE? THESE THINGS ACTUALLY HAPPEN."

Okay. I'll take a breather. You look at this pretty picture while I do so.

Okay, still not ready to write this. Look at this one, too.

I KNOW, PALM TREES, RIGHT? 

Also, this thing is called the Arc d' Triumf. Which would not be weird at all because it's a pretty triumphant arch, but they kind of have one in Paris already. I mean, whatever.

Okay, here's how we'll do this. I'll tell you a crappy thing that happened, and then show you something pretty. If I run out, I'll just post some pictures of kittens. I won't run out though, because the city was so gorgeous I took approximately 50,000. 

We got to the airport. EasyJet, or NotEasyAtAllMostStressfulAirlineEver, decides not to post the gate until after the gates technically close. Cue travel anxiety, and strong consideration of buying an extremely overpriced airport cocktail. Resist. Like money. 

When they post it after a billion hours, we run to the gate and wait for our boarding passes to be scanned so we can go outside and sit in the plane (or glorified child's plaything...I'm still not so sure...). My friend Chelsea goes first, and the flight lady looks at it, squints, and says something in Dutch with an irritated tone. "Um, sorry?" Chelsea replies. "This ticket is for yesterday." 

We all hurriedly look at our tickets, but ours are correct. They send her out the door. "Try tomorrow."

A woman down.

PRETTY PICTURE

The Olympic Port. I'll have a yacht, please?

We white-knuckled the flight and giggled through it, despite the shock of having lost an entire person. Once we got to the airport, it was dark outside, but we saw palm trees. Therefore, we were pretty upbeat. We found the bus that would take us to the city center, where we could take the metro to our hostel. The bus was 5 euros for approximately ten minutes of travel. Sigh.

We exited the bus around the tourist mecca that is Las Ramblas. There was a metro station right there, and we began to root through our belongings to get out our cash to buy passes. Behind me, I heard, "Guys. OH MY GOD. GUYS."

Heart stops.

Behind us is Gaudi's Sagrada Famila. Coolest building I've ever seen. Also, I wear the same exact outfit every time I travel. Sorry.

Danielle's wallet had been stolen exactly 2 seconds after arriving in the city of Barcelona. 

We stood there in kind of a shocked silence among the flashing lights and never ending bustle of the city. 

With our rusty spanish skills, we managed to find a police station nearby. They barely spoke spanish, because the official city language is Catalan. So they directed us to another, which supposedly had a translator. They didn't but we got a form for her to fill out. 

After a 30 minute Metro ride we got to our hostel and managed to find it, even though it was kind of a hole in the wall. Even though it was nearly midnight by that point, they directed us to a nearby pizza place.

THIS PART IS REALLY HAPPY, BECAUSE I GOT PIZZA!

We were able to get in touch with her parents, so they could start figuring out how the heck we were going to get money. See, we had four people and only two people with cash. Before my friend Bre had left, her debit card had been "compromised." So, no cash for her. 

The next day, we got money wired to Bre and the IES office in Barcelona got cash for Danielle. We spent the rest of the day reveling in the sunlight and exploring. It was great. 

That night, we went out. Past 2 a.m. Unbeknownst to us, this meant the metro was closed, and we walked an hour back to our hostel, getting directions from creeped-out hotel desk workers who only came up to the door when we banged on them. You see, my family has this saying that nothing good happens after 3 am. You've probably heard it. It's probably really common, but I'm planting our flag there, okay? Anyway, my parents are right. Fine. 

Our hostel was on the side of a busy road and so incredibly loud none of us could sleep. And when I say it was incredibly loud, believe me. I live directly in front of train tracks in Amsterdam and I sleep like a baby.

We expected to get Chelsea that day and had heard from her when she left from the airport. We didn't know that she would sit on the tarmac for two hours, until the pilot came on and said, "Well guys, air traffic control just went on strike in Spain, so, we're cancelled."

She may have been lucky. 

Because the next day, we went to the Olympic port and gazed out at the sea, the beautiful buildings and markets, went to the maritime museum (which is...actually a boat) and basked in the sun. Oh wait, that's good. What I've failed to mention is that drinking the water got us sick and at least one of us ended up puking in a trash can on the beach and a few of us took high advantage of the Starbucks bathroom. 

Yeah, you needed to know that. 

But hey, Spaniards love their Starbucks. The things were everywhere. 

Okay. So, that night. Ever heard of the Rocky Horror Picture Show? Well, it's this cult classic movie that people act in front of and sometimes interrupt to throw food at people--apparently--and Danielle is a huge fan. So when she found out that a Spanish theatre does it the first weekend of every month, we decided to go. A cult musical in Spanish? I'm in. 

We found our way there. Well, not actually because it was the wrong theatre. They helped us figure out where it was, and we ran/walked to the real theatre. We got there with ten minutes to spare, breathless with self-satisfaction and success. "Oh, I'm sorry, December is the only month of the year we don't do it."

Really. 

REALLY. 

But, we made the best of it. How? We spent our allotted ticket money entirely on gelato and strolled through the city, gazing at the blinking Christmas lights and eating iced sugary goodness while wearing scarves and gloves. 

The next morning, we hiked up the mountain until it started to rain, at which point we ran down the mountain. 

We grabbed our stuff. Exhausted, queasy, delightfully pink-cheeked, and one wallet and one girl fewer, we made our way to the airport. 

Barcelona is the most beautiful place I have ever seen, hands down. I'm glad I went and had the experiences I did. But dang, Barca, you sure know how to make a girl want to leave.

I did have a little moment when we arrived back out our apartments. It felt like I was home, and crawling into bed was a relief. After four months, the canal houses, winding bike lanes, clanging trams, and cold winds have become the familiar. Amsterdam is the best city in Europe. Go. Pictures mean nothing to this city--it's an atmosphere you have to live. I am going to hate, hate, HATE to leave. But at the same time, going home, really going home, will be the best Christmas present ever.

Oh. And, this happened. 

Berlin!

Berlin.

I'm kind of beyond trying to put an entire city--so rich in history, culture, AWESOMENESS--into words, so I'm going to keep doing these in mostly pictures. That cool witchu? Also, I've got to save some stories to actually tell you guys face to face. Also also, I'm lazy. And busy. And this is way late.

Yeah, there was a ski slope IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CITY.

The park.

Funny story about this one. For history nerds. Ask me about it sometime.

The Reichstag. Also featured is the crazy weather.

Probably my favorite building in Europe. SO COOL at night. Also, check the Soviet television pole on the right. 

My amazing, trusty travel mates! We were tired here. But cheery.

Go to the East Side Gallery. Just go. Artists covered a mile-long piece of the Berlin wall. It's beautiful and moving.

And I'm the kid that had to take a picture with Einstein because she went to Einstein High. I never doubt that I'm SO AMERICAN. 

Oh, here's the hundreds of Germans gathering on a Sunday to watch random people karaoke. It's true. The Germans do love the '80s. 

That's your little taste of Berlin. Old and new, historical and graffitied, sad but celebratory. 

Brussels/Amsterdam

Okay, so I showed you the one really decent photo of Bruges. I didn't take any pictures because I was too busy thinking I was going to die because of the weather and eating lots and lots of fries.

Belgium really knows how to do fries.

Then, Brussels!

We were determined to have beers outside, which is the Belgian thing-to-do. We braved more torrential rain to do so.

The next day, the weather was waaaayyyy better, so we got quite the pretty view everywhere we went.

We also went to the city center, to get more awesome pictures and buy absurd amounts of chocolate. 

Here I am trying to pretend that the chocolate isn't extremely heavy. 

We also finally gave into the tons of people trying to get us to go into the millions of Italian restaurants. The neighborhood we ate in is behind Mom and Dad in this picture:

Then, Mom jetted off to Germany for a meeting, and Dad and I took the train to Amsterdam. They stayed at a hotel with stairs that were actually more like a ladder, which was run by a slightly eccentric lady and her wiry, ancient dog that she played with during breakfast. 

Dad and I lucked out on our weather and headed out bright and early to get him a bike. I am pretty sure this city was made for my father, because biking is the way of life here. Everyone does it. He was totally friends with the bike rental guy before I even arrived. Dad took to it immediately, to my extreme amusement. The typical rental bike is bright red with a large sign on the front, and the people living here use them to identify hazardous tourists. Dad kind of flipped that on its head and was dinging his bell to get people out of the way like a local after about five minutes. 

We biked all day. That sounds crazy, but it's not an exaggeration. We biked. All day. We stopped only to poke around the Van Gogh museum, and stopped for a beer at the best cafe in Amsterdam.

It's smack dab in the center of Vondelpark, which is essentially Amsterdam's Central Park, but way prettier and nicer. 

It was surreal to have my parents there. When we got Mom back that night, we did more exploring. We took a canal cruise and visited the Rijksmuseum, which had only a small portion of naked baby angels and a large dose of fancy pottery Mom loves. 

It was so great. I kind of forced them to say that it was their favorite stop on the trip. I did not force them to drink any Heineken. I am not that cruel.

The last night we found a place where I could get chili--spicy food of any latin nature is hard to find here--and had some type of Brazillian drinks. 

I was sad to see them go and return to a world in which I have to cook for myself. 

Oh, and two more things:

1. I got back from Berlin yesterday. You know, that place in Germany? Yeah. Kind of historically important. Stay tuned for that blog. If the lateness of this post is any indication, expect it in...like...a month.

2. A Christmas song just came up on shuffle and I didn't skip it. I feel kind of ashamed. I just had to confess, internet. We can tell each other these things, right?

Bruges/I'll Get to It

I really meant to finish my Bruges/Brussels/Amsterdam posts before I went to Berlin, because I am getting waaayyy backed up on these things.

This thing called give Abby 9 billion pages to write on a week she's traveling happened.

To tide you over though, I am going to give you my favorite picture from the entire week of our adventure. At some point along the way, my Dad observed that we did the same pose over and over in different locations. Boring.

When we went to Bruges, the weather gods frowned upon us. So much so, that a few minutes after I got off the train, I observed, "IT'S THE END OF DAAYYSSS"

It was freezing rain with high winds. My umbrella turned inside out 5 times. At one point we sought refuge in this gazebo. At least, that is what I believe it's called. In order to correctly document our experience, Dad and I decided to reenact how it felt outside of the shelter. Somehow, this picture makes it actually look nice outside.

DO NOT BE FOOLED.

This is how it felt:

See? My Dad is trying to stop me from blowing away. He's such a good Dad.

Paris

I remember watching the clock turn to 0, recognizing that I was now twenty and would spend the first 6 hours of my twentieth year inching towards the city of lights.

At about 6 a.m., we pulled into a musty station and I took the stairs down to its depths to grab the metro. I vaguely remember purchasing my ticket from a machine, and hopping on the first leg with ease. The windows were open, so you felt the damp air of Paris' underground all over you. It helped me wake up after only two hours of sleep. I transfered with no trouble, and arrived at the correct stop.

What worries me is that I'm far more competent and street-smart when deprived of full consciousness and reaction time due to lack of sleep. Oh, well.

I climbed up to the opening of the metro stop and it was pitch-black outside, with a few pools of light from street lights and emergency lighting through store windows. I squinted to my right. There was some big monument thing. "What is THAT?" I wondered. It was this:

Well, Mom and Dad weren't there. But it really was the Arc d' Triumph. It's kind of a big deal. 

I wandered for a few minutes looking for building numbers to find the hotel. I crossed the street randomly and was astonished to find that I had ACTUALLY FOUND IT. 

I walked into the lobby and the receptionist was extremely confused. "Uh...what is the matter?" He thought something must be completely wrong if I was showing up at 7:00 a.m. at the hotel. I swore I was staying there and he said I could park myself on a fancy couch. I gladly took a seat. I then spent the next hour pretending to read the french newspaper and desperately trying to stay awake. I don't think the receptionist was entirely convinced I wasn't a crazy homeless person, and falling asleep there wouldn't have helped my case.

At 8, a new receptionist took over and figured out that our room was empty. She took pity on me and let me into the room. I have never been so excited in my life. 

I woke up at about 9 in a panic that Mom and Dad weren't there yet. I was convinced their flight had been cancelled because of the strikes and blockade of oil refineries. I ran downstairs to see if I could access a computer to find out. I turned the corner...and there they were. Mom and Dad. I don't think I've ever been more relieved to not be in a foreign country by myself. 

After they dropped off their stuff, we found an extremely overpriced breakfast consisting mostly of french bread. Mom finally understood what I meant about Europe and their stupid obsession with tiny coffees.

We then set off on foot and explored. Eventually we ended up by the Seine and hopped on a canal boat that would take us to all of the major destinations in the city.

The next day, we decided to tackle the Louvre. This is after we slept for approximately 13.5 hours. They had an excuse because they were jet-lagged. I am just a college student. 

I didn't take any pictures inside the museum because I find it more enjoyable to make fun of people taking pictures of art than actually participate. I did take pictures on the way there, though. 

Okay, at first I was all excited to go to the Louvre because I'm trying this new thing where I'm an adult and appreciate things like fine art. I failed. Because after an hour, I noticed that all art in the Louvre must has one or more of these three things:

1. Unhappy Jesus.

2. Flying naked baby angel. 

3. Slightly unhappy woman who is naked for no particular reason.

I am serious. 

Dad and I found a picture that had people nearly smiling and I did what amounted to a happy jig. My favorite thing in the Louvre was actually the running commentary of my parents, who are both significantly funnier than I am. 

The third day we climbed the Arc to take some pictures. 

We then went to meet up with an old co-worker and friend of Dad's who works in Paris. We had a fancy lunch, in which Dad and I somehow ended up with an appetizer that was quite literally gelatin with soggy vegetables suspended in it. It was the only thing I consumed in Paris that wasn't absurdly delicious. This is probably because it was the equivalent of veggie jell-o and the only thing I ate there not slathered in butter. 

After that, we dragged our suitcases and made it to the train station. It was time for Belgium.

Further Proof I am Not an Adult

I know you're expecting Paris. I'll get it to you. I swear.

I just thought the blogosphere should know that it took me 30 minutes, an instructional website, a youtube video, and a unsuccessful attempt to call my mother for me to open a bottle of wine only to have it literally explode all over me.

I was feeling all excellent because for once I bought myself a bottle of wine here that:

a. cost more than 2 euros (3.99 people! 3.99! Luxury!)
b. was a brand that was not synonymous with the grocery store in which I was purchasing it.
c. was a deliberate purchase of a type of wine. A bordeaux. The best, obvs.

My roommate doesn't drink red wine, so this was basically a present to myself. I was so excited that I was practically emitting an evil-genius laugh while walking back from the store.

"HEHEHEHEhehehehehehehehe!"

I considered cradling it like a baby, but I restrained myself and shoved it in my backpack instead.

I know. Classy.

Anyway, so 7pm rolled around and I decided I could break it out. I ran across the hall to borrow a wine opener from my neighbors.

Strike one.

Then, I stared at the waiter-type opener cluelessly. I wisely decided the best option was to open it and screw it in, and then pull as hard as I damn well could.

That failed. Strike two.

I stared some more.

I then went to google and asked it how to open a wine bottle with a waiter opener. It gave me instructions which told me after closing down the two sides, my cork would magically pop out. I was skeptical, given my limited knowledge of physics.

That failed. Strike three.

Then I went to YouTube. I found a video, to which I had the response, "Oooohhhh....I see." I followed the proper procedure. Nothing. I tried and the lip kept slipping off. GAHH. More futile pulling. Profanity. Crazy twisting. More useless pulling and then...SNAP. Out came...half of my cork.

Crap. Next stop? MOMMMMMMM

No answer. She did e-mail me back seconds later, telling me to call her, but I was unaware. I was charging forward on my quest for wine, however blindly. I am the culinary version of a bull in a china shop.

It was back to google. This time: What to do when the cork breaks? I discovered my only real option was to push the sucker in. I tried to do it with my hands, and it got stuck in the neck. So I grabbed my expert tool, the end of a knife, and shoved.

PPHHSHEWWW!

My ceiling and front had wine splattered all across it. My dignity was shattered. I threw my shirt in the shower and sprayed it a bit.

Then, I took out my green plastic Ikea cup and poured myself some wine while serenading myself quite victory war-songs.

I don't care if I'm twenty. I am not an adult.

Guys, We Have So Much to Discuss

It's a little insane how much I have to blog about. If only work wasn't getting in the way of my excellent storytelling.

Here's the line-up:
1. The Hague/ Class activities
2. OMG I'M 20 YEARS-OLD
3. Paris
4. Brussels/Bruge
5. Amsterdam with Mom and Dad

Let's at least get my international law experience out of the way, shall we?

On the 18th, I attended a hearing at the International Court of Justice, on whether Honduras's application to intervene in the Nicaragua v. Colombia maritime territory. This sounds very cool and impressive, but let's not forget that I missed my train transfer and arrived at the Peace Palace sweaty, breathless, and with a only a minute to spare.

The Hague was more open and less crowded than Amsterdam, which I liked.

It was neat. The judges wore fancy robes with lace. There were the stereotypical wigs that I thought had been retired in like...the 1700s. Because all the expert witnesses and speakers were speaking in different languages, we got head-sets that provided live translation. That was awesome.

I found out that Honduras is not such a fan of Nicaragua. The dialogue was almost mean-girls-esque. There were points where I had to restrain myself from saying, "Oh, snap!"

I also found out that academic types like to repeat the same idea in many different words. At first I was taking notes in a panic, only to realize I was writing the same thing over and over.

So that was that.

OMG, I'm 20.


I turned twenty years old while riding on an overnight bus to Paris. I couldn't sleep, and instead watched blearily as the bright red numbers in the front turned to 0:00. Let me tell you, the 0:00 feels way more dramatic than 12:00. I'll cover the rest of that trip in my upcoming Paris point. Now's the time for freaking out about not being a teenager.

I am the youngest person on my program. Having to inform people that no, it was not my 21st birthday, was a frequent requirement. I know 21 technically means more, but 20 still feels strange. Sure, 18 mean's you're an adult--legally. But it's twenty that removes you from the comfort of teenage stereotypes: a little messy, a little reckless, a little aimless. At twenty years old I feel like future is in view through a foggy bathroom mirror. I see the general outline and recognize what may be there, but it'll take a little effort until I can see it clearly.

At twenty I can wander between extremes of company and loneliness. I can rocket from the embrace, advice, and guidance of family members to the intense anonymity of the crowds of a foreign city. I make youthful mistakes and take deep breaths to handle the consequences like an adult. I have a favorite kind of wine and own my own wrench but also cover my eyes during the surgeries on Grey's Anatomy and dance around my room when no one's around. The last bottle of wine I purchased was also 1.95 euros. So there's that.

But of course I can't say I turned twenty alone. Claire also turned twenty. (I still maintain that for a short while I was older than her...please stop using rational arguments to try and dissuade me of this). Let me wish her a very belated happy birthday. Claire, you are my favorite person on this planet. You can make me laugh harder, feel better, and worry more than anyone. You take care of me in every way. You can force me to put my chin up and give me a slap on the rear, or convince me it's going to be okay. You have more empathy in you than I have ever seen in another person. You're more talented and special than you know, as cheesy and cliche as it sounds.  I love you and there's no one I'd rather share my birthday or parents with. So, stop procrastinating by reading my blog and get back to work. Because I know that's what you're doing.

So far twenty's working out pretty well. Stay tuned for the Paris post.

Futbol!

I'll actually tell you about the game I went to, but since I'm uploading pictures and everything, let me just show you the view the other day from my apartment window.

Okay, back to the point. Tuesday night a bunch of us had tickets to the European Cup qualifier between the Netherlands and Sweden! Taking the metro was ridiculous. You didn't have to hold on to anything because it was so packed you wouldn't move if the train launched into hyper-speed. That didn't damper spirits, though. Oranje and Swedish fans alike were singing loudly together and jumping up and down, making the metro BOUNCE. 

At every seat there was a free little flag that you were supposed to wave when anything happened. Really. Anything. 

We did so enthusiastically. We also did the wave approximately 50 times. 

Then we watched soccer football! 

One of my friends summed up my feelings about this sport quite simply. "All this fuss and excitement, and it's very likely that no one will end of winning." 

But the Oranje did! 4-1!

And then it was over. After 90 minutes of playing time. When you're used to American football games, it was kind of anticlimactic. Like, wait, it's time to go? I'm just getting started!

It was fun. The atmosphere was crazy...borderline unreal. But I gotta say, I'll take Sunday afternoons in the states over Tuesday nights in Europe. That's just me.