No thanks, I don't need a rug... I'm 20-- Spring Break in Marrakesh

Life in the Shoebox- Spring Break in Barcelona

"You're going to Barcelona? My friend went there! She had hot coffee poured on her, and her wallet stolen!"

"My friend tried keeping his hands in his pockets to protect his wallet, so they started to lift his shirt to distract him while they..."

Sure, I want to hear recommendations from people who have traveled to the places I'm going. It's just that I'd rather hear about restaurants and sites, rather than endless stories like those above about people who have gotten pick pocketed or mugged on the streets of Barcelona. Needless to say, our group of 6 girls embarking for Spain for the first leg of Spring break were more than a little paranoid about the possibility of being the next victim in a story that begins "...they were looking at the Gaudi church when suddenly they had no wallet, no passport, and no hope."

I suppose I'm getting ahead of myself. I left for Spring break with some of my favorite people in the world, excited, a little paranoid- yes, but looking forward to getting to Spain. We boarded our Ryanair flight that waited, and waited, and waited on the tarmac. No doors or windows out, hundreds of noisy, aggressive, chatty, and some, smelly, Italians, the plane quickly became a fiery hell-hole. People were disrobing, climbing over the seats and one another, and crowding the galley in order to receive their ration of tepid water and one ice cube. We waited for 2 hours in this inferno before being informed that the fog was too bad to lift off, and that the flight would be delayed until the morning. We would be sleeping on the floor of the airport...

And yes, it was not cool. Yes, it was uncomfortable. Yes, we were delirious and crazy come morning. BUT, the girls were troopers, and HEY, we're abroad going on the vacation of a lifetime. So all in all, who can really complain?

After this delay we arrived in Barcelona only to find that our 2 rooms with a private bathroom was a single shoebox of a room with 3 bunkbeds tightly packed inside, and a fairly disgusting bathroom shared with 18 other people. So far our trip to Barcelona was not what we had planned.

Unsure of where to go, and in the drizzling rain, we hoped onto a hop on hop off bus tour. Miraculously the sun came out, and the city seemed to welcome us, at least a bit... The city is like a memorial to Gaudi, his mark left everywhere--colorful, surreal, like a child's dream or what I assume an acid trip would feel like.

As we left our hostel that evening for dinner and passed under the Arc de Triomf, a woman shook her head and said, "Be careful, girls." Not the best omen. Despite this ominous remark, we had a fantastic night, eating some of the most delicious fried, greasy tapas, looking at the lights of the city from the beach, some of us dipping our toes in, freezing in the ice bar and dancing like lunatics. What great friends, what a great night!

After a bit of a late start and a breakfast of "crashed eggs" (eggs over easy on top of french fries. I just died a little inside thinking about it...), we set off in the rain to search for the Parc Guell--Gaudi's masterpiece. Despite the lingering fog and rain, the parc was magnificent. Mosaic tiles, spires that look like they're from the candyland game, winding and waving terraces-- this was my favorite thing place in Barcelona, well, tied with the place that served crashed eggs...

The next morning we grabbed our last tapas and congratulated ourselves on successfully holding onto our belongings through practicing constant vigilance... and got pick pocketed in the airport. Just kidding...

J'adore les Bruxelles et le Bruges!

I went to skyscanner.com and typed into the search fields "Venice" and in the place of destination "everywhere". That is how I ended up in Belgium. I then turned to my friends in the computer lab and asked, "Who wants to come to Brussels with me?" Kim looked up from her computer and asked, "Jenn, what's in Brussels?"

"WE will be in Brussels" I responded.

"BOOK IT" she replied. And that is how 5 of my friends ended up in Belgium.

After taking a bus to the plane to the bus to the metro to the brisk walk at midnight, we found the Hotel Fredriksborg. Of course the concierge told us obscure street names, but neglected to mention that is directly next to a gigantic, beautifully lit up dome on a spectacular church, on a grand, tree-lined path straight from the metro.

The next morning we woke up and asked the concierge (nicest man alive) where to find the best waffles in town. Call us typical tourists with little knowledge about Belgium beyond waffles and beer-- you would be correct. Instead of focusing on sites (of which we knew none), we decided to make this trip a gastronomical adventure. Thus we followed our howling stomachs to the old city center. Attempting to locate the tiny waffle house, we inadvertently stumbled onto some of the most intricately detailed buildings I've seen in Europe. Stopping to "oooo" and "awwww" and take some embarassing, self-timed jumping pictures, we finally partook in some delicious goffres with whipped cream and strawberries. Bliss. That's all I'm saying.

Contentedly full and but now problematically aimless, we did the only thing we could. Jumped on a hop-on hop-off site-seeing bus. We toured the city, on a strangely beautiful half cloudy half rainy, half sunny day, started from the old city center and ending up at the Atomium-- a giant jack looking structure that overlooks the city that was build for a worlds' fair. From there we trekked back into the city to pick up a friend from BC, studying in Florence, who had the itch to travel-- the grand Margaret Galiani. Back to the hotel, a quick nap and a raspberry beer, then an almost midnight dinner of steak and fries. The taste adventure continues.

The next day we hopped a bus to Bruges, nicknamed the Venice of the north. While Bruge had nothing on my Venice, it was quaint and quiet and delicious. Another goffre with whip cream and chocolate sauce, and a jaunt into a dafodill filled cloister and I realized, I'm not in Kansas anymore. Bruges has everything you'd want in a tiny medieval town, including a perfect square lined in cafes and perfect, vividly painted shops- all advertising Calsberg of course- and a narrow stone tower, so narrow that the stairwell needs a rope up the spiral steps. Only one person can go at a time. About every ten mintues, one of our travel group would stand with outstretched arms and shout, "I LOVE BRUGES" or "I CAN'T BELIEVE HOW MUCH FUN I'M HAVING IN BRUSSELS!". When faced with the prospect of a Belgian weekend, all I can say is book it. You won't regret it.

Paris, Je t'aime

Hello friends and family across the world. I know, I know, I have been remiss in updating my blog. I am very very behind. But you see, I didn't realize anyone even looked at it. I was pleased to hear from my mom that an update had been called for. And thus, I will selflessly push aside the paper I hope to complete today, and reach out across miles of land, water, time, space, language (I say this because enunciating all these barriers may help substantiate my choice of working on the blog instead of my finals, haha), and tell a little about my trip to Paris.

Paris was a horse of another color from Roma and Florence. On my Italian weekend excursions I attempted to do it all. Site-see, eat, drink, visit friends, and walk walk walk. It was exhausting, but I felt successful. Arriving in Paris, however, I had an entirely different outlook for several reasons. Number 1) we're talking about Paris here. PARIS. Nuff said. If this statement makes me a francophile, euh, je suis une francophile. No matter how hard I tried, I knew I would feel defeated in trying to conquer this city in a weekend. Thus I arrived at Charles de Gaulle with my white flag merrily waving. Number 2) I was staying with one of my favorite people in the world- Chirstine Turner- in her fabulous, chandelier adorned apartment in the 3rd arrondisment near le Bastille. She's already done the touristy thing, and I wouldn't make her do it all again. Plus, no matter how beautiful Paris is, it will never be as important to me as she is. My priority was drinking in this city with a friend in any way we saw fit. Number 3) there is no doubt in my mind that I will be going back to Paris. No question. I WILL be returning. Now that I have defended my seemingly un-planned and incomplete visit, I shall proceed with my musings.

I arrived on Friday afternoon, not exactly sure where I was. I popped out of the subway near the Bastille, blinking in the sunlight, scanning the crowd for Christine. Finally, I found her (looking fabulous as always, but particularly Parisian. not sure why), and after hugging in an intersection for about a year, we grabbed meat from a local butcher, bread from a local baker, and went to the apartment to make dinner. There really is nothing like sipping wine, devouring french bread, and cooking steaks in a beautiful apartment in Paris. Some friends from Christine's school came filtering in, and we headed off to another apartment in the neighborhood. What a great night with Boston College students in Paris. What a network we have!

The next day we got going a little slowly. Ok, so it was a bit of a late night. After a lunchfast of eggs and pasta, an a viewing of High School Musical 3, we set out on a gorgeous day. Mais, bien sur il faisait beau, c'etait Paris!! We grabbed a cappuccino at the corner cafe and walked to the Notre Dame Cathedrale. Did I go inside? No. The line would have made me kill myself. My self preservational instincts run deep. From there we walked to the Louvre. Did I go inside? Of course not, read the reasons listed above. Instead we sat in the Tuilleries at a cafe and had lunch. From there we walked on the Champs Elysees, poking into shops and ending up at the Arc de Triumphe. Everywhere we went, we were confronted with pages of history. What a storybook life, living in Paris! Around dusk, we met up with my travel buddies from Venice and their BC guides at the Tour Eiffel. It took us so long to wait, scale the thing, descend and wait for someone at the bottom of the Tour, we saw 3 light shows that run on the hour. We may have been a little hungry and cranky by the 10 o'clock show, but we were still enamored with the glittering lights each time. Dinner-- something chickeny. something delicious. The woman on the way out said to the one boy with us, "Qu'est que tu as fait d'avoir 7 filles pour 1 garcon? Quelle bon chance!" which roughly translates to, what did you do to have seven girls for one boy, what good luck! Good luck indeed, haha.

The next day Christine and I proceeded to wander around Montmarc, munching on crepes while visiting Sacre Couer and the Moulin Rouge, and took in a foggy view of all of Paris. Oh yes, and shopping. Woops! Did I leave that out?? I like to think of clothes as the most useful and economic souvenirs (which is the french word for memories. and yes, everytime I wear them I will remember Paris!). Too soon, much too soon, it was time to leave. But oh lala, Paris- je t'aime, et je retournera bientot!

ROOOOOOMA

Roooooma Roooooma Roma! What an amazing, crazy, messy, beautiful citta! My group of 14 (we aren't conspicuous at all) arrived at the train station Thursday night, anxiously anticipating what we thought would be a comfortable and relaxing six hour over night ride. All of our tickets said we were in the same car, though we booked at different times. For some reason, this made us believe that the train must be empty save for us swarthy American travelers, and we looked forward to sprawling out over multiple seats for a pleasant nap-- waking up fresh and rested in the morning-- the city of Roma just waiting for us to take it by storm.

How naive we were.

Climbing over passengers in the hallway (thank you, giant backpack, for making me a walking road block) quickly dispelled our childish fantasies. This train was NOT empty by any means. I opened the door of our compartment to four of the most unhappy Italian faces I've ever seen. All men. Not particularly small men either. And some were in our seats. "Scusi, ma...." (Excuse me, but...) is all I could say, accompanied by some wild gesticulations from my ticket to the seats. My friend Tim and I managed to clamber into our seats only to abandon them less than an hour later, in favor of the fold down seats in the hall. Since sleeping really wasn't on the menu, we chatted about life-- no better time to get to know someone than in the hallway of a packed midnight train to Rome, I say.

Regardless of the somewhat unpleasant way this day started, it was truly amazing. After unloading all of our belongings at the Hotel Mariano (thank you, hostelbookers.com), we took to the city. In a sleep-deprived yet excited blur, we took to the city, seeing more in one day than most do in a week. Piazza Venezia, Victor Emmanuel's Monument, the Trevi fountain, the Pantheon, the Spanish steps, and more that it is truly blasphemous that I cannot remember the name of. Part of this memory loss can no doubt be attributed to the fact that I was able to meet up and travel around with one of my favorite people in the world, Kelly Morton, a friend from high school studying in Roma. One minute we're sitting in front of one of the city's many stolen obelisks, and the next this blur of neon colors and checkers flies into my mid-section like a linebacker and begins telling us about Roman cobble-stones and decaying temples. I mean, who better to show you the Trevi fountain than a guide who has swum in the fountain in the wee hours of the morning as a guard slumbered on the steps?

I must pause here and thank my high school history teacher for forcing me to complete the most laborious assignment I ever undertake-- the art notebook. There is nothing I would trade for the moment I stood in front of this beautiful facade on some random street in Rome and could say, "Hold on, guys, I know this building. We need to go inside and see the dome." After stressing over this project in the wee hours of the morning my sophomore year, it was surreal to finally see the tiny, pixilated representations in the flesh and stone. There I said it-- thank you for giving me homework.

After a full day of Kelly and Rome, we grabbed a great dinner (and yet another waiter fell in love with my roommate Lauren. I kid you not, the phrase "there is magic in your eyes" may have been thrown about), and headed to a local pub frequented by too many students studying abroad. Trust a group of Irish catholic kids to hone in on one of the only Irish establishments in the area. Around midnight, we found ourselves at the Trevi fountain, yet again, to watch BC's chorale (which just happened to be on tour in Rome to sing at the Vatican) sing in front of that great fount. For some strange reason, the police found this to be an aggressive action of sorts, and decided to break up the spontaneous singing. They could have given the BCPD a run for their money.

The next day we saw some of the most quintessentially Roman landmarks: The Roman Forum, the Colosseum, and the Vatican. I must say, I love American history but though we may have flavor we seem to lack legitimacy when placed in contrast with this amazing sites of antiquity. My camera ran out of batteries as we reached the Colosseum, so when I finally got into St. Peters, I was left with no frame through which to see this amazing church. Frustrating, yes. But to attempt to capture the awe inspiring interior of this building in a 3 x 5 box (thank you John Mayer, for saying it better than I ever could) would have been a sin. It really was a religious experience. After an all too brief time in St. Peter's, we headed to another house of worship-- the soccer arena.

Maybe not the most avid of soccer fans, I loved the soccer game nevertheless. Men singing, swearing, and sweating over a simple game (a tie game, 1-1); it certainly was a sight to be seen. I learned some of the more eloquent Italian curses from the young man sitting next to me. VAFFANCULO! STRONSO! LA BRUTTA DI MERDA! So maybe now my Italian vocabulary is that of an illiterate sailor. At least I can put someone in their place, should the occasion arise.

That night we visited the Colosseum again, lit up at night. Even exhausted and hungry, the impact of this, for lack of a more magnificent word, building was unavoidable. We couldn't help but stop, smile, snap a few pictures and say "We're in Rome".

Florence

Some may say that a weekend is not enough time to do a proper trip to Florence. And they would be right. However, we did make the most of the time afforded to us. Friday morning we hopped a train to Florence, trekked to the hostel where I immediately perjured myself to the man at the front desk (so I gave him a fake passport number-- who knew you'd need a passport to check in?), and hit the city. As it turns out, Florence is a hotbed for great restaurants that take our meal vouchers. Risotto, lasagne, penne all'arribiata, and molto molto molto tiramisu. Eating for free has never been better (well, kind of free).

I was also able to meet up with a friend from BC studying in Florence, managed to squeeze in a spot of shopping (I always do...), and she took us dancing. The ladies in our group found the men of Florence mullishly indifferent to our indifference. However we never lost the upper hand-- We developed a dance move called the Heisman. I believe the mental image negates the need to explain the movement involved.

Although its been a few weeks and the details are a bit unclear now, I must backtrack to make one confession. I met someone in Florence. And I know it's a bit sudden, but I think I love him. His name is David. He's very tall, and though he looks young and sprightly, he's a BIT older than me. Oh, and he prefers to go au naturale.

Yes, I am a nut. But let's be real. The David. The David. The David. I could say it a hundred times with different inflections, each denoting a different facet of my awe at this statue, this creation, and I still wouldn't have fully expressed my feelings toward this man. His stark figure stood in isolated perfection at the end of a hall, flooded in light from the dome above. I wish I could have sat there all day. Unwilling to leave without snapping a picture, I whipped out my contraband camera and snapped a few from my hip without looking. Check them out, they are truly awesome. A moment later, I could hear a guard yell "NO PHOTO" to a pour woman, gaping in equal amazement at my man. That'll teach her for leering at my boyfriend.

The Nuts and Bolts of Being Abroad

Hello friends and fam!

Here I am in my dorm room on San Servolo, an island about a 10 minute vaporetto (water bus-- you can see why I would prefer the Italian word for it) ride from Venezia proper. I'm not sure whether the room I sit in is space-age themed or just internationally bland, but it has 14 ft ceilings, 9 ft. windows with giant shutters and a balcony that overlooks the Venice and the sunset.

Life certainly is hard, isn't it?

Aside from the stunningly gorgeous post-card views that San Servolo offers, I've been attempting to become acclimated to life in Venice. Since it's orientation, our group benefits from a lot of free time. Each day around 4, we venture into the city and promptly get lost. I've always been directionally challenged, but this is a whole new frontier of ineptitude. I am no help, but I always speak with conviction ("Guys, it's totally this way. I remember that canal."). The group is starting to learn to take my directions and promptly walk in the opposite direction. It's probably for the best...

Because BC has a meal plan, they set us up with meal vouchers for 5 days a week. Seems like a sweet deal, no? NO. These meal vouchers are only accepted at a handful of questionable establishments which are tricky to find (especially since our list of places is not at all up to date). Sometimes we stumble upon good food and wine. That is right, BC pays for the wine. Who knew it was so progressive?

I'm off to search for school supplies. I managed to pack a small library of books to read for pleasure but only have one pen and no paper. I need to buy it some fellows because if I lose this one I'm up a creek. Love to anyone and everyone bored enough to read my ramblings. Pictures to come (I'm waiting for the end of Carnivale to add some that accurately capture the touristy madness).