Grad School, Day 2

The first week of graduate school has arrived. Last week I sat through a lot of lectures on what things were going to be like and who to contact for what. It was like the introduction paragraph at the beginning of a really long essay. The next year is going to be a busy one, I think.

I’ve registered for a full load of classes. I’ve signed up for a French course beginning two weeks from now. I joined the society of the Red Cross on campus. I joined the International society. I’m going to an Insanity workout group a couple times a week. And now I get to look for a part time job. No big deal. I got this. 

In the meantime, I have to remember to make space for things that arise that are out of my control, but that do have an impact on my life. Such as this:

Yesterday was supposedly my day one of classes.  I didn’t get the e-mail that the morning class had been postponed until the following Monday, and neither did my new Kenyan friend Sasha. She arrived, saw me sitting at a desk surrounded by 50 empty seats, and suggested that maybe we had the wrong room. So began a 30 minute, sweat inducing power-walk through what can only be described a labrynth of the south side of campus. We were told by the front office that the class we were looking for wasn’t housed in the Samuel Alexander building, but instead it was in the Ellen Wilkinson. They told us the two buildings were connected. What they didn’t say was that it would be fastest accessed by going outside.  The way we went led us up a couple of stairwells, through a wing, down some more stairs, through a long glass hallway, and up three more flights of stairs.

Two days earlier I had done my first ever Insanity workout. It left me more sore than anything has ever left me in the history of my many years on this planet. Every time I wanted to sit or stand I needed to hold onto something on either side of me to keep myself from falling. I keep imagining what observers must have seen while I was trying to make my way from the wrong classroom to the right one. I’m guessing it looked like this:

 

Thing is--there was no right classroom. The teacher had decided last minute to change the date and time. This meant I had about an hour to kill before my next class. I went to the library and did some reading to get a head start. 

Interesting way to start the day :) 

This morning I got to the right place at the right time and everything worked out well. It feels validating to be so interested in the content and actually look forward to doing the assignments to learn more about something that fascinates me so much. 

More later fam! x

Day 2 Bruges

"Are you under 26?" the man at the ticket window asked me. After fumbling with a self-automated machine at the train station for 10 minutes, deciding I needed help, and standing in line for another 20, I had finally reached the front.
Under 26? Yup I am. I affirmed. Then I started laughing. I tried biting my lower lip because I have heard that helps you control yourself. It's never actually worked the many, many times I've had inopportune laughter, but it's never stopped me from trying. Still, this time it also did not work and I kept giggling.
No. I'm not under 26. Sorry. I--I don't know why I said that.
"Ok. So you aren't under 26?" The poor guy looked half amused, half concerned (most likely for my sanity.)
I shook my head. He rang up my total.
"That's 28 Euro please."
I handed him my card. When he handed it back to me he said, "If you were under 26 that would have cost you 12 Euro. So, if you're going to travel again around here--you should probably get better at that."
Damn it. Why am I such a bad liar.

I would like to tell you that the train ride to Bruges was spectacular: full of little farming villages, quaint towns, and rolling hills. But vehicular motion has always had a way of putting me straight to sleep.

Bruges = gorgeous. It's like a storybook. Cobblestone streets. Canals with lush vegetation hanging over them. You stare at the water while seated on stone bridges, feet dangling, eating the chocolate Belgium is famous for.
If you feel like getting up and walking around you will dodge more bicycles than vehicles.

My day was very food centric. I had chocolates from a shop you where you could watch people make them. I had a fresh Belgian waffle with strawberries and homemade whipped cream while people watching at the plaza and looking up at the gothic and  neo-gothic architecture the city is known for.
  

 

Even though I don't remember the train ride home, I think I may remember the bus ride back to my hostel from the train station for a very long time. On my way home I felt a wet sensation on my leg. I had felt it a few times throughout the day and feared that my water bottle might be leaking.
Every time I went to check I found that I had been worrying about nothing. Although, in retrospect, it well may have been a premonition.

The tram made an abrupt and premature stop. Something had happened and we were all instructed this would be out last stop. I got up and immediately felt the uncomfortable sensation of wet denim stuck to my skin. Given that my bag had been on my lap, there was a perfectly (crotch) placed wet streak down my leg. It couldn't have looked more like I had peed myself than if I had, well, peed myself.

I was about half a mile from the hostel, and had to walk home trying to use my handbag to cover the spill. It was a leeeeetle bit funny. 

Day 1 Brussels

The morning I started out for Belgium I was not in the most coherent of mind states. I had set the alarm for 3:45am to catch a bus that would take me to the airport.

When I got on the bus it occurred to me that I had no idea what terminal I was supposed to get off at. I didn't know if there would be signage. I did a quick scan of the bus for people my age or younger with big bulging backpacks, or at least big bulging beards. Good strategy as any to follow them, I figured. Alas, there were no other people on the bus except exhausted looking airport workers, or people who had wheeling suitcases so large they'd get laughed out of any hostel they attempted to check into. Right, I thought, no travelers.

I attempted sleep, because one thing my almost 30 years have taught me is that's as good a solution as any when presented with a problem. When I couldn't catch a moment's rest due to the incessant and high-pitched gossip being exchanged by the two women in front of me (yes, yes I was grumpy) I tapped one of them on the shoulder.
"Excuse me. Do either of you know where to get off for Ryan Air?"
"Yes. Terminal 3." One of the women said.
"Great, thank you." I said. Hoping that I sounded genuine and not sarcastic. I have a tendency to sound sarcastic when tired.

We arrived at Manchester Airport and the sleep-ruiners stood up. I at once felt grateful I'd chosen the seat I had. They were both wearing jackets that were labeled, "Ryan Air." I bet on them to know what they were doing and ended up following them all the way to the gates.

When I actually got to Brussels I, as usual, had no idea where I was going or what I was doing. Sometimes that works out really well for me. Sometimes it means that I pay as much for a round trip airport-city-airport bus ticket as I've paid for my return flight instead of the 5 euro it would have cost me had I booked it online. Whoopsies.

Friend from Heaven, Flight from Hell

I often love people after only a few seconds. From Seattle to Frankfurt I was seated next to a woman who I was convinced would be a good friend of mine if we were from the same town and spoke the same language. I spent the 10 1/2 hour flight laughing and gesturing with her, both of us equally unafraid of looking idiotic as the other. Our friendship blossomed, as many often do, over a meal. 
A couple of hours into the flight our attendant wheeled her cart by and asked if I wanted the pasta or meat dish. After handing me the pasta, she focused her gaze on my isle mate. 
"Pasta or beef?"
The woman--who I'm guessing was in her late 60s, looked at the flight attendant blankly. The flight attendant smiled and switched to speaking German, asking the same question (I'm assuming.)
The woman sitting next to me was still obviously not understanding.
"What language does she speak?"
I don't know, I admitted. I turned to her "English? Español? Deutsch?"
"Ukraine. I'm from Ukraine." my friend-in-the-making answered in hard earned English.
I gently placed my hand on her arm, uncovered my food and pointed to it. Then I motioned to the man in the isle across from us who was busy scarfing down the beef. She chose beef. That seemed to be the only thing we disagreed on the entire flight. She flipped through her in-flight magazine pointing out funny pictures, and I made a little makeshift foot rest out of our bags, blankets, and pillows. When I was trying to go to sleep, she leaned over me and closed my window shade. Instant travel buddies. 

I wish I could say that my flight from Frankfurt to Manchester had endeared itself to me as much but, in fact, it was one of two or three flights in my life that I could blame reality (and not anxiety) for my racing thoughts about whether or not the plane was going to crash. About half way through the 90 minute flight, the turbulence became so persistent and intense that I am pretty sure I either personally let go of, or heard other people half yell, half cry every expletive in every language any of us knew. And, as we were on our way to Europe, there were definitely some polyglots on that flight, so it was interesting. At least it would have been if I hadn't been preoccupied thinking, I hope my parents know I love them and that when they think of me in the future they'll think how I had a full and happy life. 

When we landed there was a collective round of applause. I don't know if it really happened, or if I imagined it, but my memory recalls the captain came on and saying, "We made it!" (If he didn't, he really should have.)

Italia, One...(photos coming)

I don't know why I always start my blogging ventures with such vigorous discipline and dwindle down to sporadic and vague postings.

Usually it has more to do with my lack of material but this time I'd say it has much more to do with a surplus of information which I have difficulty putting chronologically, and also figuring out how to tell in a sensical way.


Let's start with this; I am hopelessly and devoutly in love with Italy. Even my most "boring" days here surpassed most of my best days in other countries, which is saying a lot because this entire journey has been a whirlwind of novelty and surprises!

To be fair, Italy did stand the best chance of capturing me from the get-go because it's where I had always planned to spend the most extensive period of time.


Rewind to a Quick Re-Cap:

As my family, friends (who humoured me in my incoherent lambasting of Barca) and travel companions (who listened sympathetically to my stories over shared dinners and bottles of wine) now know, I was conned by a skillful pickpocketer in Barcelona.

Luckily for me, I found a pleasant distraction in the two Canadian girls I was bunking with. They were excellent company and made a bleak and disappointing visit a lot more fun than it should have been given the circumstance.


From there I moved onto Madrid. Ah, Madrid. It will probably take me a solid 6 weeks to lose what my new Australian friend Susan lovingly refers to as our Italian Food Babies, but I'm pretty sure that Madid is actually where I started my race towards the Rollie-Pollie. The food there! The drinks there!
Juevos Rotos, really?
I mean, who puts deep fried, sunny side up eggs on top of a bed of deep fried potato chips?

A genius! That's who!

Madrid is where I spent my first non-U.S.A Halloween, and (also on that night) confirmed that I am allergic to ciggerette smoke.
It is impossible to go to a club in Madrid and not reek of nicotine and other people's alcohol sweat the next morning.

Still, though, Halloween was a really fun night. Lots of dancing, drinking, singing, and whatever drama you might expect from a big night out in a Spanish city.

I met this really fun girl, Patty, and we went shopping for costumes the night before. I selected a blue and green striped wig. It definitely was my least elaborate costume ever, but it did the trick!

Next:

Landing in Italy I could not have been more excited! I was full of the kind of butterflies and palm sweats that are usually reserved for people who have a serious Case of the Crushes.

Disembarking my bus from the Pisa airport to Florence I took a slow, deep breath and reminded myself not to set my expectations too high...but it was too late.

And Italia did not disappoint!

Initially I was going to spend only 3 days in Florence. I ended up at the Archi Rossi hostel for 5 nights. Saw the sights, did a ton of walking, saw The David, visited the Duomo (the massive, stand out cathederal in town), made new friends, etc...Realizing how easy it woulòd be to get sucked into the loveable vortex that is Florence and use up all my holiday there I bought a ticket to Rome and headed out.

Rome, Roma, Rome. What can I say?

I spent my days walking through deeply storied streets, gazing around at the distinct achitecture, touing legendary historical sites, getting lost in lesser known areas.

And my nights?

I spent at my hostel bar running one day into another, clashing the hours into a jumble which would make it hard to determine if the day I went to the Trevi Fountain was the same night we walked what had to have been three miles trying to find a grovery store...only to realize we'd been walking in circles, besides which it was 4 in the morning and, of course, nothing was open.


Or was the night Susan and I went to dinner, bar hopping, and meadering through the streets with those American university boys the same day Daniel and I spent 4 hours at the Vatican and were so exhausted that we nearly walked right past the Sistine Chapel?

Even though I was averaging 3-4 hours a night of sleep in Rome it was absolutely a top highlight on my entire trip. I met so many great people and had some really great adventures!


After Rome, Susan and I made our way to (and ate our way through) Naples. That city was a hot mess! The trash piles in the steets are hard to get used to, but eventually if you force yourself to look beyond the grit and grime, a type of charm starts to emerge and surprise you.

We had heard plenty of horror stories. Every time you mention Napoli as a possible desitnation the most common reaction is someone cringes at you, and asks,

"Really? You want to go there?"

That's probably why it came as no surprise when we had to get a weirdo man that had been following us thrown off the bus as we were making our way.

This was the kind of thing we expected of our trip down south...
But we were very pleased to find that the food, the people and general vibe kept us there much longer than we'd ever have believed.


From my last couple days in Florence, through the beginning of Rome, and my birthday, and right up until the morning we left Naples a type of unparalleled exhaustion had set in. A kind that made me nauseas, delirious, and caused me to fall asleep in a shoe store at some point.


That's why the next spot on my itinerary was not only someplace I'd been curious to see, but at that point of my trip it was also quite necessary.

Perugia.



True, I had never heard of Perugia until Amanda Knox made front page news. And, true, most of the reason I went was my journalistic hopes of finding some good story out of the whole thing. But, guess what I did instead?

Slept.

For almost 15 hours the first night I was there. I got up, took a hike, ate an entire pizza, did a puzzle, and went back to bed.

I admit, I didn't even go into town.

My hostel was a huge farmhouse, empty of anyone but the people working there, the occassional goose or dog that would sneak in, and myself. It was exactly what the doctor ordered.


The view of the rolling Tuscan hills and fog was peaceful.

Watching the chickens run about and hearing the horses clopping around revitalized me enough to move on to my next destination...

Obladi Oblada, Life Goes On...

I carry my purse around like a child; Arms folded over, hugged into my chest. Even so, when a man on the Barcelona metro knocked into me he managed to take me for one of my most valuable posessions.
My first thought was this guy was rude for practically tackling me and not apologizing. It wasn´t until the next morning, trying to buy my ticket for San Sebastian that I realized not only had I been right about this guy being rude, he was also a theif!
I was no longer the owner of a passport.

I never had heard what a problem Spain, and in particular Barcelona has with pick pocketers. Appartently, Tripadvisor.com bestowed upon them the title of Most Talented in the world. Even Visa won´t let their cards be used there without some sort of tracking chip because of the high theft rate.
Guess what kind of card I´m traveling with?
Guess what doesn´t have a tracking chip in it?
Last question on pop-quiz, concentrate... Guess who was stuck for two days with no money?

Despite all the mishaps (because believe you me, there were plenty other than the aforementioned) Barcelona was a lovely place to visit. I had quite a fiesta my second night there--going to a bar and then a nightclub with some Aussies and Canucks from my hostel. But...that´s more of an in-person story.
I also took a walking tour to explore the most famous Gaudi buildings. The guide wasn´t so impressive, but the buildings were quite spectacular!
Also in those few days I learned I am a fan of Octopus. It came in a traditional rice and fish dish called Paella.
Admittedly, when the server first brought it over I almost wouldn´t touch it, let alone eat it because the prawns they put in it (and I´m not a fan of those anyway) came with their eyeballs still attached. Looking at them freaked me out so badly I had the mind to hurl and then cry simulataneously and likely would´ve if not for fear of being rude, so I (what I would like to believe was straight-faced and daintily) removed the offensive items from my plate and dug in! It was so good!

Being without money I became quite creative and figured out ways to entertain myself. I walked the famous La Rambla boulevard one afternoon and watched the street performers, people watched while making up their life stories in my head. I learned how to make Sangria and dare to say (at the risk of sounding self flattering) I´m quite good at it!

  

So, after taking a few days to resolve both the money and passport issue, I decided it was time to head out of Barca. It was a beautiful city, but...I wanted to get onto the next thing where these issues would be a thing of the past.
As soon as I laid my un-manicured hands on my temporary passport I skedaddled to the train station.
"One way to San Sebastian!" I proclaimed.
The cashier smiled at me, shook his head. "No San Sebastian. The train is full..."
I thought quickly and tried to exercise my memory of the map I´d looked at the previous night. What was close to San Sebastian?
"Bueno," I shrugged, "One ticket to Bilbao." 
The cashier chuckled nervously. "That´s full also until tomorrow night."
"Valencia?"
No.
"Granada?"
"I´m sorry. It´s a holiday weekend."
I was pretty sure this guy was messing with me. Here I was in the second biggest city in Spain and none of these trains had space? I glanced at the woman in the cashier window next to him for validation. She nodded at me, "Si. Holiday weekend."
Turns out the only train that had availability was to Madrid. So, already at the train station with all my bags, I booked the expensive but cozy fast rain to Madrid.


And....I love it here! It´s rainy, but the air is so fresh! It´s a really nice relief from the memory of Cairo just a few days ago where the air is so polluted that I found myself looking at cars with moonroofs thinking "why?" I think a better special feature would be an oxygen mask.


Here are a couple pictures of what I´ve seen here so far:

Cairo, Cairo, Cairo...

Everything from the taxi drive, to my first "hostel", and right up to this moment has been madness! (Not excluding my rush to the Athens's airport.)

I got slightly sidetracked, and also had a lapse in memory as to the time of my flight. It would be an understatement to say I rushed to the airport.
I got from Syntagma Square to the metro, to my hostel where I picked up my bags, back to the metro, changed subways twice, and sprinted my way into the airport security all within a 40 minute period.
This had much less to do with the proximity these places have to each other than it does the amount of sweat I presented the earth with in that time frame.
I felt like a contestant on The Amazing Race and, if I had been, I'm positive I would've won.

People say we don't change much from who we are as children, barring some traumatic experience, and I recently proved this to be true by using myself as an example.
I was always the kid who would get questions wrong on exams even when I knew the answers, but because I hated bothering with reading the instructions.
I felt very put upon when people asked me to exercise patience.
This, as an adult, came back to bite me my first night in Cairo.

When researching (and I use that word extremely loosely here) where to stay in Egypt I picked the first place that popped up on Hostelworld.com.
I did this partially because I felt I shouldn't be wasting my time online when I had other things to be doing, and partially because I made my reservations the night before I left for Cairo.

The taxi driver dropped me off at about 10pm in Nasir City (not Cairo) at a "hostel" where I was not just the only woman, but appeared to be the only traveler. The staff showed me to the empty 5th floor, and into my private room.
Before going any further, so as to not give the wrong impression, I want to make clear that this place was actually very nice. Or it would have been had it been what I was looking for. Everything was clean, the private bathroom was a nice feature, there was a T.V with 2 English-language movie channels.
However, reciting the lines with the actors in The Sandlot was the closest I got to an intelligible, two-sided conversation that night or the following morning since not one employee in the day or night staff spoke English.
Here is an example of a conversation I had after realizing that I might be stuck there since no one could tell me where I was, or what to see and do around town, or how to get anywhere:

 

Me: Okay. This isn't working. Can you please tell me where an Internet cafe is?

(blank stare from receptionist, I pantomime typing)

Internet?

 

Her: Coffee?

(she points to the next room)

 

Me: Internet?

 

Her: (smiling in friendliness) No, thank you.

 

Me: Is there anyone here who might speak English?

 

Then the receptionist handed me a rubber band.

 

I really can't blame her. She didn't speak English, okay fine--I mean, I don't speak Arabic, either. And, probably if I'm coming to her country I might have bothered to learn a few words, or at least carry around a dictionary, but-- I thought I would be staying at a hostel like every other one I've ever stayed in.

 

Suffice to say that I did finally figure out where a computer was and made a reservation for another hostel online, which my helpful mom recommended via email. I settled the price of my room and flew out of there as fast as I could.

 

This is the part where I write a love-letter to what became my home base in Egypt, Dina's Hostel.

42 Abd El Khalek Sarwat
5th Floor
Downtown, Cairo, Egypt

 

Dear Dina,

I have been to 4 continents and been traveling on my own internationally since age 17. Your small, well maintained hostel is a diamond in a rough but bustling city. It's my favorite hostel I've ever stayed in and you--darling Dina--are surely the most maternal, but laid back and cool young woman in all of Egypt!

Truly, this place created a better sense of community than any other place I've stayed.

When I got lost trying to find the train station, so couldn't buy my ticket to Alexandria, you found room for me to stay even though it would've been much easier to turn me away.

And, when I got sunstroke from the desert, you concocted an ancient Bedouin remedy and nursed me back to health!

 

You deserve huge success!

xoxo,

Amelia.

 

 

Speaking of the desert, I believe my first words as we bumped along the Sahara sands were, "I'm pretty sure this is what the moon looks like!"

I know it's hard to believe but I've never actually been to the moon. Still, I doubt if Neil Armstrong has seen much I haven't.

To be honest, I started to wonder about 6 hours into the trip if it was going to be worth traveling so long for only one night somewhere.

But about the time we were eating a cooked-over-the-fire dinner while listening to our guide singing tradional Bedouin songs quietly to himself, looking up at the stars I knew that I would've sat through 3 times the travel length to experience that.

We slept under the sky on teh sand and were visited by a desert fox who at first was shy, but curiousity eventually overpowered his cautiousness.

 

It was fantasic to know that the Bedouins (pronounced Bed-Win) lived out here still and knew their way around that part of the desrt the way I know my way to the nearest grocery store in Seattle. Everything out there looks exactly the same! Sand grain upon sand grain. But our guide said he and his Bedoin people, who are nomads by nature, use the rocks and the sun as their map. For all the iphones, and GPS, and satellites it was startling and humbling to find people living essentially the way they've been living for thousands of years. Obviously with the exception of the people who now use tourism as their primary source of income.  

 

On the way back from the desert a girl from Holland I fell asleep on teh bus and awoke to the man in front of us taking our picture.

The men in Egypt are the biggest cultural adjustment for me. They stare, make kissing and hissing noises. There is no attempt at subtelty. One look leaves you feeling violated somehow.

Yesterday I took a walk with a Frenchman and he was in shock. He kept apologizing to me, and half joked that he feared for his own safety when walking beside me.

 

Here I am, no makeup, unkept hair, convered in dirt and sweat, mismatched and dirty clothes and it makes no difference.

In such a sexually repressed society a forearm or elbow of a light skinned woman can cause mayhem.

I almost bought a burka just so as to not have to deal with the picture taking and "accidental" run ins.

 

I'm going to be sad to leave here because parts of Egypt are so great! But there is a part of me that will be glad to return to a place where even a man who finds you very attractive will go out of his way to pretend not to notice you at first.

 

Next, and most important item on the agenda is buying myself a duty free camera at teh airport in Spain. My old one is MIA. My desert pictures are gone and I have no Egypt ones except the following:

 

I hope to post pictures in the near future with the help of new travel friends via facebook.