o’hare pt. 2

I left my Emerson sweatshirt on the plane.  My favorite one.  The yellow one that everyone hates except me, that is one of the warmest pieces of clothing I own.  The flight attendants did not leave it at the gate.  I’ll call lost and found, but for some reason it is not open on Mondays.  That is ridiculously stupid.

Also, O’Hare does not have outlets at the gates.  So me and like seven other people are camped out in this long tile walkway, sitting on the cold floor, so we can power up.  Really, O’Hare?  This is the 21st century and you are a hub airport, which means people have long layovers.  Get with the times.

o’hare

Currently 11:35pm.  Flight to Dublin is at 7:10.  Have been here since 10:30am.  Just ate an early, early lunch that  I didn’t even really want because I was momentarily so overwhelmed by O’Hare and frustrated about not knowing what terminal my flight is out of to set up camp, and just needing a place to sit down.  A $2.99 glass of iced tea, though?  You’ve got to be kidding me.

Money troubles escalated until Frank just had me write him a check and gave me cash, thereby serving as my own personal . . . erm . . . check casher.  We then rode the subway together for four stops, he on his way to work, me on my way to the airport.  When we got close, I cried like a little girl.  He got out, then ran with the subway for a couple seconds as I moved off, looking like a fool but making me extremely happy.  This boyfriend is continuous amounts of win. 

Flight from Boston to O’Hare was uneventful.  2.5 hours, and I slept uncomfortably pretty much the entire time.  Super chatty guy beside me whom I chatted with as we took a three-mile taxi to the termimal (seriously, I thought they were driving me to Ireland). 

Now . . . I have a hell of a lot of time to kill.  What to do?  I’ll go exchange currency.  Then I guess get a bottle of water and set up camp at my gate, or wherever nearby I have a plug.  It’s been over a year since I’ve been in a place of transit for this long.  Oh, and thanks to Blake for pointing out that my layover is actually about the same amount of time as both my flights combined.  Grrrreat.

So, off to do nothing!

A quick day in Slovenia

I will write about my love for Ljubljana. But in the meantime, I have an accidental layover in Villach (Austria? Slovenia? Who knows?) Stupid Slovenian trains. but I did share a compartment with a very nice Californian man. Huge, dark, Spanish-speaking. This is his first Europe trip. Did I really do it at 18?

Sitting in a cozy cafe in the train station right now –well, a cafe-bar, as is popular in Europe. I smell like perfume. I’m actually in an awfully good mood for how horribly awry my travels have gone. HOPEFULLY I’ll only end up a few hours behind schedule. Ha!

So Slovenia. The countryside certainly does looke like a fairy tale. Rough hike up to the castle and it wasn’t a very cool castle. All done over and mostly shut off to the public. The market stretching out at the base of the mountain, beneath the watchful eye of the castle, was much cooler. My favorite part of the city, though, was the market around the Three Bridges in the center of the city. Singers, balloons, beautiful children, cute dogs, mushy couples, the smell of cinnamon and ginger cakes and wood fires. Well, okay, the wood fire smell is really more contained to the residential parts. Like where I was hiking up to the mountain and, having asked an elderly couple for directions, the woman conceded that her husband could tell me much better directions than she ever could.

The architecture was bright, cheerful, friendly. Parts were coated with graffiti, but most of the city is kept charmingly clean. And there seems to be a very strong sense of community, only because it feels like everyone who lives here spends their days just walking around, talking to each other. I’m sure that’s not the case, but that’s the feel.

When I exchanged my Croatian kuna for “local currency” and the lady handed me euroes, i wanted to cry tears of joy. I was so happy that I gave a boy at the train station a whole euro when he was asking for eighty cents. Good karma, I thought. Ha! They wound up cancelling my train, so me and all the other people waiting had to catch the next one, and then change trains TWICE, and now here I am in Villach, hoping that the train to Munich arrives soon.

A sweet boy on the platform translated the train station announcements for me, then laughed about how he has an excuse to not know history because he’s only two years older than his country. Watched a little boy insist on kissing his big sister goodbye.

Ljubljana actually reminded me a lot of Freiberg. It was almost picturesque to the point of absurdity, as though the entire city is putting on a big show for the tourists. You kind of expect that when the sun goes down, all the people stop smiling and pull the coverings of the buildings down and trudge home. Like all the other Slovenian towns that I passed through, Ljubljana kind of crawls over the mountains that rule the country. Some factory towns looked like DEATH. But usually the pine-tree-covered mountains reflect in the crystal rivers. To be honest, though, I know very little about Slovenia and its culture.

As I left the cafe, I tipped the waitress, hesitating lest it be taken as a plea for good karma by the travel gods and they delay my trains again. Back onto the trains, this time to Salzburg!

Good thing I was who I say I am

Woah, boarder between Hungary and Croatia is NO laughing matter! The train stopped and border control poured on (I mean a dozen people in uniforms) while others checked around the outside of the train. I was stamped out of Hungary and into croatia by two different people after they had called my passport in to check it out. One last person checked my stamps and had me identify which bags were mine. Then they had to see my train ticket. This same process had to be done to every single person on the train.

I asked one of the guards near me if it’s always this strict or just between Hungary-Croatia and he said always, but he must mean only for the boarder of Croatia, because it certainly wasn’t this strict in Slovakia. Of course . . . I say that, but on that train from Prague to Budapest, they collect your passport before you go to sleep and then I remember they still knocked on my cabin and had me say hello. Jerks.

While the passports were being checked, several dozen flies buzzed strangely outside my window. Eery. There were upwards of nine police in the narrow car train aisle at one point. All I could think at this point was geez louise, what have I gotten myself into?

Last day in Prague and I’m off

I didn’t write much, and even then a week LATE, so you’ll have to pardon me.

I visited the Mucha museum in the morning. Though France tries to claim the artist as theirs, he was born and raised in Prague. The museum was great; I actually knew more of his work than I expected, and truly am in love with his art. “The Moon” and “Repose de la Nuit” are two of my favorites.

Spent the afternoon in Prague taking a tour of the Jewish Quarter. The synagogues really were beautiful, though the tour itself was long-winded and the guide was hard to hear, small and squeaky. The graveyards really fascinated me; I’ve always had kind of a morbid fascination with them. The creator of the Gollem is buried in one of the cemeteries, and I, like so many before me, put a stone on his grave and made my shallow wish. By the end of the tour, though, everyone was antsy to be on the road to their next adventures.

My train didn’t leave til late that night, so I shopped with Jessye and Amanda, searching desperately for a hairbrush. It was IMPOSSIBLE to find one. Crazy, right? Do Czechs not brush their hair? Hung out in the rather creepy station; saw Jessye and Amanda off; then finally settled into my cabin on my train. It was AMAZING. I never splurge on travel. I always take the cheapest seat possible, but had rented a bunk as a Thanksgiving treat to myself. I didn’t just get my own bunk, though, I got my own little ROOM! I had a bed, and my own little bathroom with a toilet and a shower. AMAZING. I’ve never felt so spoiled in my life . . .

Venetians are bad at labeling streets but it doesn’t really matter because you’ll still be lost

After several hours of people watching in the wee hours in Cologne Trainstation (I have excellent people-notes in my travel journal), I boarded my train.  The ride itself was uneventful to Munich, where I transferred to a new train taking me to Verona. 

The train ride was BEAUTIFUL.  And get this: it snowed.  Or flurried, to be more precise.  Apparently it was really snowing in Berlin further north, but in Southern Germany/Northern Italy, somewhere south of St. Jodak, it flurried against the background of beautiful mountains and tiny villages.

Had a 45 minute layover in Verona, but only stepped outside long enough to take a photograph of the church across the street; I was worried about wandering any further. 

So really, I didn’t lose much time in Venice.  Instead of arriving at 2:30, I arrived at 5pm.  To actually get to Venezia-St. Lucia, the train goes over the water, but it’s a really surreal experience.  You can’t see the track beneath you or any land at all out the window; nothing.  The train sort of slows down and sways, so it feels like the train is literally running across the water and any second you could plunge beneath the water.  I felt like Peter –in a train.  No wonder the poor guy was nervous; it’s a terrifying yet invigorating feeling.

Upon stepping out of St. Lucia station, you’re immediately on the central canal and surrounded by restaurants, tourist shops, and so, so many boats.  It was about a 15 minute walk to my hostel, over small bridges, along canals, down alleys, and I was utterly flabbergasted by this city unlike anything I’ve ever seen. 

Made friends instantly with the only other person in my four-bed room, a Bolivian boy named Marcelo.  After dropping my stuff, he suggested we go out walking.  By now it was dark, and I don’t usually go walking along at night by myself in foreign cities, so I was happy for the company.

Having arrived the day before, Marcelo was able to show me a lot of the cool sights (San Marcos square, church, Doges Palace, Per Rialto, etc.) by night.  Venice stays up late, which is night because most European cities don’t.  We wandered around, frequently asking for directions in a city where you never actually know where you are.  It’s a beautiful little place at night, with lamplight reflected on the water, cozy little restaurants squeezed in between shops closed for the night, and squares littered with friendly, cheerful people.

We wound up eating pizza at a rather nice little restaurant.  Got these interesting seltzer drinks that had olives in them, just to try.  Admired the towering buildings at night, the peaceful water, me snapping pictures (few, unfortunately, of which actually came out any good at all).  Everyone was very nice and helpful, though at the time I assumed it was because Marcelo could at least speak Spanish with them, so it wasn’t a case of obnoxious ignorant tourist. 

I finally was dead-tired, so we spent 30 minutes wandering around trying to make it back to the hostels.  Constantly we’d hit dead-ends in claustrophobic alleys, bridges closed for construction, or wander down one narrow streets to find it didn’t at all go where we wanted.

I pretty much fell asleep as soon as I got into bed, perfectly happy and in love with Venezia.  It was lovely to see Venice at night, though, so thanks Marcelo for showing me around!

Foiled in under an hour

I knew avoiding the strike was too easy.  Something else was bound to go wrong, and it did.  I sprinted from class, which ended at 8:45pm, to make the 9:03 bus to Venlo, where the trainstation is.  Arrived at about 9:40 (train was 10:04), so purchased some coffee. 

Standing out on the platform, waiting with about a dozen other people.  Waiting, waiting.  No train.  Finally some porters come wandering over and the following conversation ensues:

Porter#1: The train isn’t coming.
Everyone: . . . . (various curses in Dutch, English, and German)
Me: What?
Porter#1: The train isn’t coming.  There’s a bus.
Me: No, back up, why isn’t the train coming?
Porter#2: There was a . . . uh, accident.
Porter#1: So there’s a bus.
Me: But I only have five minutes to make my connection and I think I’ve already missed it and I have to get to Venezia.
Porter#1: Oh, that’s not going to happen.

I just stare at them long and hard as they try to encourage me that there’s a bus that will take me to Germany for free.  I pull out my itinerary to show how I have to make my connection in order to make it to Cologne in time to make the overnight train to Munich in order to make it to Venice.  They were very nice, at least.  I made the split-second decision that, instead of going back to the castle with my tail between my legs and thus not making it to Venice until midnight the next day (instead of the original 2:30pm), I would try to make it as far as Cologne.  Their train station stays open all night, so I could just chill as long as needed and then catch the earliest train to continue.

So the porters do everything but hold my hands as they walk me to the exact place to get on the bus.  I get on and the crowded bus takes off.  We stopped somewhere past Boisheim (where the train broke down on the way back from Vienna) to pick up more people and the bus driver piled their bikes up in the space right behind me, six bikes stacked on top of each other.  Safe!

We’re going and then it occurs to me that I don’t even know where this bus is going.  The guys just said “Germany”.  I need to get to Monchengladback to get on a train to Cologne, so I lean forward to ask these two guys about my age, seated in front of me.  One blatantly ignores me and the other says he doesn’t speak English, but his shifty eyes and the fact that I KNOW German students learn English doesn’t fool me.  So I ask, “Well do you at least understand me enough to tell me where this bus is going?”  He says, “Viersen, then next Monchengladbach,” trying to answer without giving away that he speaks English.  Then I guess he felt bad for not being more helpful, because when the bus finally stopped, he asked, “Monchengladbach?”  I nodded that’s where I needed to go, so he motioned for me to follow him, but he didn’t want his friend to realize he was helping me.  So I followed them into the train station and to the platform, and he subtly glanced over his shoulder to make sure I was following.  Took me to the exact platform, which is where he was headed, as well.  So even if he was stubbornly unhelpful, he was helpful as well.

Actually made it to Cologne from there with no problems.  The next train to Munich was 4:21am and it was only 12:34am, so I found a cozy little part of the train station down by all the restaurants and right beneath a heating vent. 

In the station, four homeless men ambled around, digging through trashcans.  A couple other travelers staked out claims near me.  And then came Ingls, me new friend.  Ingls was a middle-aged man with a green German military cap and a gold hoop in one hear.  In very broken English, I picked out during our ten minute conversation that he’s convinced he’s a German volunteer security guard.  He’s not (as clear by the other security guards who came by and stayed the rest of the night near me to make sure I was okay).  He wanted to make sure I was okay, offered me his half-drunk coffee, told me to find him if anyone bothered me, then shook my hand, then kissed the back of my hand three times and my palm once before he wandered off, intimidated by this boy sitting next to me watching him suspiciously.

I guess that’s the good thing about being a cute little solo girl traveler.  Guys who are spending any length of time with you –even just spending the night anonymously by you in the trainstation– tend to make a mental claim on you and will watch out for you, even if they don’t even know your name.  I don’t know how many times I’ve had guys I haven’t even spoken with get protective of me against someone else they perceive is annoying me.  It’s a good feeling.

So . . . by this point I was supposed to be sleeping in a train on my way overnight to Munich.  Instead I was in the Cologne trainstation, which is only 1.5 hours from the castle.  I was getting “Monaco 2007″ flashbacks . . .

Wrapping up Monaco 2007

It occurs to me that I didn’t finish up the Monaco trip.  We got to the train station early that morning and got on the train we had reserved the night before.  Unfortunately, the train was supposed to leave at 7:08am and didn’t even arrive until about 8:20am.  We sat on it for over thirty minutes before they had everyone change trains.  Finally, we were off.

 Got to Paris only to discover that there were NO MORE SEATS.  High speed trains only alott so many seats to passholders on each train, and with the strikes, everyone in Europe got bumped back.  So we had two options.  A.) Wait until the next free train at 10:30pm, get into Brussels around 1am, spend the night outside the train station, make it back to Venlo around 11am; two people would miss midterms.  OR B.) Pay full fare for a ticket, 78euro, and make it back in time for finals.  After some lengthy debate, we decided this was EXACTLY the emergency our parents had given us credit cards for.  After charging the tickets, it was a FRITEMERGENCY.  We went rabid until getting our grubby fingers on some “delicious frites,” and inhaled them in a manner of minutes.  One quick stop by the chocolate shop for another binge and we were on our way.

From there on out, we only had one more scare.  The last bus from Venlo to Well is supposed to be at 11:47, but there’s also supposed to be one at 11:13.  We were there and waiting, but the 11:13 bus didn’t show, and when we asked, the men we asked said the busses were done for the night.  Fortunately they were WRONG, and a little before 1am Monday morning, we stumbled into the castle and directly into bed.

Monaco was beyond beautiful.  Ineffably beautiful.  If I hadn’t already been there, I’d want to honeymoon there.  We are already planning a reunion there for in a few years.  Nice wasn’t unreal, but it was nice.  Paris was good for the unplanned evening we were there.  Maastricht is probably fun in the daytime.  The train rides themselves weren’t bad, though all the stressful traveling definitely took its toll.  Despite that, though, we all stayed in high spirits and are all still talking, which is rather miraculous.

 AND we all made it back in time for our midterms, though it’s been a crazy week with them.  And I can’t think about the fact that I leave for Vienna tomorrow night, though I know it’ll be tons of fun.  Just too much stress at once, you know?

Went for a run today since I got out of my exam early.  I haven’t had the TIME to go running since the day before we left for London.  It was glorious.  Now I just have to write my midterm paper for Honors, go to American Night at the Linden, go running tomorrow morning, shower, pack, go to class, and head out for Vienna, where I’ll meet up with Fidan!  Yay.

Next weekend I’ve wound up with nothing planned.  I think I might hop down to Luxembourg for a day, and if Kristen goes we’ll spend a day possibly in Antwerp, too.  Then that’s one more day, which I hope to spend at a monkey zoo with Bridget. 

 Now I’ve wasted enough time putting pictures online instead of writing my paper.  I think we’ll leave for the Linden 11ish, which means I have roughly two hours to try and get a start on my paper if I wish to sleep tonight.  Which I need to, since I won’t get much sleep on the trains tomorrow night; I’ve got six connection, and though one IS a sleeping car, I’ll be in a chair.

I have a few photos I’ll be adding in here that my friends took on the trip, but right now photobucket is NOT cooperating, so only one this time.  More later!

Me in the Oceanography Museum in the first submarine.  Built by an American and used during the Revolutionary War, I find that the man was an utter idiot.  What moron would submerge themself in THIS?!?

Yeah, it was as comfortable as it looks.  The hotel lobby in Maastricht.

Climbing up to the palace; I may not be loosing weight but I’m certainly toning up!

Us lovely ladies on the steps across from the Monte Carlo.  I am just impressed that we all have different hair colors, haha.

The Day to End All Days

Saturday, our one day to enjoy all Monaco had to offer.  We caught the 30minute bus into Monaco early, and had been tipped off that bus line 100 took us along the coast.  It was an amazing view, if not also a terrifying ride as the driver whipped us along winding curves, through the mountains, right next to the cliffs.

First hit up the Monte Carlo casino.  It costs 10euro to even get inside, so we just refrained, instead admiring the unbelievable collection of Lambourghinis, Mustangs, Bentleys, and Rolls Royce in front of the casino.  There were also some lovely gardens out back and a phenomenal view of the incredibly blue water, gorgeous green cliffs, and the orange roofs that climb up the mountains.

Next stop was the palace, which required us to walk along the water, through the harbor, through a carnival setting up.  We shopped and watched the changing of the guards, which was terrible.  The slouched and fidgeted and craned their necks to see what the other guards were doing.  Compared to Buckingham, it was a joke.  Stef and Amanda went into the palace while the rest of us hung around in the courtyard; I bought a fleece for myself finally.  The palace was nice from the outside, but small and overall not very impressive.

From there, headed down through the Jardins Exotique to the Cathedral, which is actually was inspired the whole trip.  Amanda has an absolute adoration for Princess Grace Kelly, who is buried in the church, and it has always been her dream to see her grace.  Every five steps it Grace Kelly monument or statue or picture, and she admired each and every one.  When we hit the Cathedral, though, the trip was all worth it for the look on her face, which I managed to capture on film:

We wandered around inside and admired the church and graves.  It was nice –late Roman, Eric said.  Less opulent than St. Paul’s, less intimidating than Westminster; reminded me a lot of Notre Dame, inside and out. 

By this point, when we got outside, we had to admit we were all FREEZING.  It was getting windier and windier, colder and colder, and we had all been under the impression it would warm, so we were underdressed.  Nonetheless, despite our frozen noses, off we trooped to the Aquarium, what was supposedly one of the world’s best.

Not.  All the hype was disappointing.  All the tanks were confined to the basement, and though seeing some new kinds of fish was cool, and though aquariums are ALWAYS fun, it wasn’t half as good as even Texas State Aquarium.  I was more interested in the Oceanography Museum upstairs, which had all kinds of fish, sharks, squid, and starfish preserved in formaldihyde (sp?) from the 19th and early 20th century.  It was disgusting; everything was all shriveled up like aliens.  But it made me feel like an old oceanographer.  And I finally got to see what whale baleen actually looks like.  The view from on top of the aquarium was what made it actually worth the 6euro admission.  Have I said yet how BLUE the water is? 

Ate lunch in a little pizza place that had good prices.  The waitress was horribly cold and rude, though.  And she also didn’t mention to us that when Bridget, Stef, and I decided to share one pizza instead of getting our own, there was a 2euro charge.  Each.  We could have gotten two pizzas for that much.  We were so furious –the waitress didn’t tell us and it didn’t say charge for splitting ANYWHERE on the menu– that we didn’t give any tip beyond the service charge.  SOOOO angry.

The day was growing old, and we had thought about trying to find the rose garden, but sudden clouds were looking ominious overhead and we had quite a bit of a walk to the beach –which is what we all really wanted to do.  So off we set, through the habor where we admired all the multi-million-dollar yachts collected from around the world, through the carnival, through the mountains, along the boardwalk, until finally finding a public area on the other side of the Monte Carlo Bay resort.  Some surfers were in the water in full body suits, but we dove right in –Stef, Bridget and me in bikinis and Amanda in shorts and a t. shirt because she forgot her bathing suit.  Eric opted out and Jessye preferred to take pictures.  The air was frigid but the water wasn’t bad at all.  Unfortunately, the tide was coming in.  So in our battle with the Med Sea, we lost horribly.  The waves knocked us all over the place and would threw us seven or eight feet upshore each time.  And the beach wasn’t sand, it was smooth pebbles, which were beautiful but impossible and painful to stand on.  So each time you couldn’t get footing to try and hold your own against the waves.  After about fiften minutes, we’d had enough and could now say we’d swum in the Mediterranean sea, so out we got and toweled off, our bodies aching and our feet near bleeding.  But it was totally worth it.

It was getting quite late and we didn’t know for sure where the bus we wanted was, but after only a bit of wandering we found it, and we got to watch the sun set over Monaco as we looked.  I’ve seen better sunsets overall, but it was still beautiful, and the fact that it was already paired with the unearthly beauty of the mountains and buildings and sea helped.

Just picked up things at the grocery store and had a powwow on the floor of our hostel room (which had a microwave) for dinner, taking turns showering.  It was a lovely, relaxing close to an AMAZING day. 

Actual travel time: 2.5 days

7:00am: Planned wake up time.

7:30am: Actual wake up time.

7:44am: Breakfast!

8:00am: Having made some friends with two Canadain boys (named Eric and Riley but referred to as “the Canadians) who are also stranded, set out together.

8:45am: Arrive at first metro station but it’s not running.  Hear line 4 is.

10:04am: Arrive at a line 4 station and hop on a train to Paris Nord.

10:30am: After waiting in line, learn trains are running again!  Get reservations for 11:55am train to Nice.  All dance and cheer in the station, then run for the metro.

10:44am: Perhaps because of strike, metro isn’t charging money. Amanda and I left behind.  Take next train: line 5 to Bastille, line 1 to Gare du Lyon.

11:34am: Arrive at Gare du Lyon.

11:55am: Schedule and Actual departe of train to Nice.

11:57am: Nap.

2:00pm: Studying for midterms, which begin Monday.

5:25pm: Actual arrival in Nice, France.  Dancing all the way to the hostel down the road.  Beautiful reception man and woman got married TODAY.  Thank them, then tell them Congratulations and to go home.

The hostel was simple but amazing for the 14euro a night it cost.  We wandered around Old Nice for a bit to find some place to eat and finally settled on a Chinese restaurant that insisted it was Thai food.  From there, we headed back to the room to get all dolled up for “Disco Butterfly,” a club Eric found online that was supposed to be free for the ladies.  Unfortunately, it no longer exists, so we wound up playing on the beach for a while and celebrating the fact that we FINALLY after TWO AND A HALF DAYS of travel made it to Nice.  Old Nice was quite nice (hahaha …), and even more fun at night, all lit up.  The moon reflected on the sea was beautiful; there were small groups of people all up and down the beach.  In a main square, boys were doing tricks on bikes.  It was a bit chilly, but overall not bad.  We finally returned to the hotel and fell into happy slumber a little after midnight.  And despite all the trauma endured so far, everyone is in good spirits and still like each other –which in and of itself is as miraculous as us actually making it to Nice despite the French railway strike.