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.