Home on the Road

Yet Another DC Mussels Joint

2011-08-27T21:18:00.007+02:00

For some reason Belgian food is super trendy in DC. Not only have there been a ton of new bistro-style restaurants opening in the past few years, but there was even an official "Belgian Restaurant Week" leading up to the National Day which I suspect had more fanfare than in the homeland! Seriously, I think I've eaten more mussels here than I ever did in Antwerp.

With so many moules frites to choose from, here is a helpful guide to your options in the District:

Et Voila - Tim and I found out about this place because they served amazing waffles at the Belgian ambassador's national day party (yes, we are fancy). They are in the Palisades area of DC, and thus only accessible by car or taxi, but there's a huge upside: if you make reservations after 9:30pm, you get a free bottle of wine. Good Spanish wine, too! I had veal sweetbreads (a guilty pleasure of mine) and curry-flavored moules frites. Tim had smoked trout which he loved, and stoofvlees which he loved a bit less.

Bistrot Le Zinc - this place is located on Wisconsin Ave. north of Glover Park, about 20 min walk from where we live. It's only been open for a few weeks but we were really impressed with both the food and the service. I had a tasty hot goat cheese salad and red snapper with an eggplant tapenade, which was really strong tasting but good. Tim had a sea scallop appetizer and giant delicious leg of lamb for his main course, and we split a chocolate cake for dessert. We want to become regulars here, we liked it so much.

Marvin - this U street restaurant is an interesting mix of soul food and Belgian cuisine, based on the few years that Marvin Gaye spent living in the seaside town of Oostende. We visited during Belgian restaurant week and the chef whipped us up a tasting menu right on the spot. We had a bunch of small plates: garlic & beer mussels, lobster waterzooi and pork cheeks. The caramel toffee cake was to die for, and so was the lavender ice cream that went with the chocolate cake.

Belga Cafe - I visited this place for brunch with a Belgian friend, and we were unimpressed. It was really American food - savory waffles, for shame! The portion sizes were much too small for the price, as well. It's a pity because this is one of the few places on this list that actually has a Flemish chef (who is married to Greet Dekeyser, the Belgian TV foreign correspondent based in the US*). The lines get out of control on the weekends here, when everyone is out shopping in nearby Eastern Market.

Brasserie Beck - This place is known as being a popular happy hour spot for K Street lobbyists, but we went here for Sunday brunch with a few friends. Although one friend had a bad experience with her shredded chicken omelet, the rest of the food was good, including their fresh blueberry pancakes and a seafood salad. This place is pricey, though: the stoofvlees (carbonade) will set you back $27 and a seafood plate costs almost $100.

Granville Moore's - This is a rustic pub that's housed in an old doctor's office on H Street. The food is a mixture of mussels and burgers, but their beer list is extensive and impressive. Show up early or in a smaller group because they don't take reservations. There are plenty of bars around to grab a drink while you're waiting, though.

Bistrot Du Coin - this trendy, noisy Dupont French restaurant steals Belgian menu items. Our waiter bristled when we asked if the place was Belgian-style or French. "Of course we are French!" she sniffed, then proceeded to bring moules frites to half of the table. They were good mussels, though!

*She had to stand outside today in Annapolis and get pummeled by Hurricane Irene on live TV. Pech gehad!

Voila! There you had it, the Belgian restaurants in DC. The only restaurant missing from this list? Marcel's, which is located near the White House and is the kind of place that only serves prix-fixe menus, such as the hoity-toity sounding "pre-theater menu." Anyone feel like sponsoring us?

Coming to America

2011-08-25T02:02:00.023+02:00

After waiting nearly a year for his visa, The Boy has finally arrived! And anyway, I figured it was about damn time I broke my blog vow of silence on the subject. Especially since I'm going to marry him.

Like immigrants of American yore, The Boy arrived with only his suitcases to his name. Suitcases which enclosed many delicious treats from Belgium, like Speculoospasta. Also plenty of liquor, but let's not mention that part in case Customs is reading this.

Just like the tales of many other immigrants, Tim's name has been unwillingly changed by various brainless officials. Usually they just smush the 2 words together into "Vanaelst", but my favorite, Geico, called him just "Van" on his auto insurance. I'm pretty relieved that in Belgian tradition, I don't have to change my name upon marriage - who knows what might happen if I did.

Worst of all, like many other immigrants, Tim is unable to go back to his home country. Not because of financial strife or war (although come to think of it, Belgium has been without a government for a year). No, it's because of immigration rules: K1 visa holders cannot leave the US until they get their green card. This takes 6-8 months, if you're lucky or if you have a relative who works at US immigrations.

Snide comments aside, this rule certainly curtails our international travel plans for a while. But not to worry - Tim and I have already bought tickets for our honeymoon, as far away in the US as you can get: Anchorage, Alaska. Maybe we'll be able to see Russia from our hotel!

Yes? Yes? NO!

2011-01-21T03:41:00.005+01:00

It has been forever since I updated this blog. Since September, I have been working part time blogging for other people so that took precedence, proving about how strong my blogging "keeping it real" principles are. Now that I'm somewhat less gainfully employed, I can go back to what I love best: telling strange stories about the French in their natural habitat.

Tim and I were sitting in a bistro in Reims, in the north of France, enjoying ourselves some delicious moelleux au chocolat (translation: lava cake. Is your mouth not watering?). In fact, it was so good that we started a fork swordfight over the last piece. The battle endured, but I swear we did not cause a scene. However, we were so absorbed in the fight that we did not notice the middle aged, very intoxicated French gentleman creeping toward us with a fork of his own. Seriously, we are pretty sure that he drank a whole bottle of table wine by himself.

As soon as we noticed him, mouths agape, he decided to be polite. "Yes? Yes?" he asked, fork quivering with anticipation. "NO!" Tim and I both shouted, maybe a little too loudly. He tried a different tactic. "American?" he asked.

Now, this was a moment of personal shame. I always make a point not to stand out as the American wherever I go, especially somewhere like France. I swear I was not wearing white tennis shoes, a baseball cap or sweatpants in public. I made a conscious effort to use my indoor voice.

Tim was wearing a Giants sweatshirt. "It's because of you," I hissed, glaring at the man. I considered saying some random things in Polish to throw him off.

"English? Allemand?" he tried.

"Espanol!" Tim gleefully replied. I facepalmed at that; we would make two of the most pasty-skinned Spaniards in history.

"Yes, American," I gave in.

The Frenchman may have guessed correctly, but he still couldn't have our cake. He went back to his seat in defeat, then proceeded to discuss where Tim and I might be from loudly the rest of the evening with his dinner companions. Loudly and clearly enough that even I could understand most of it.

So basically what I concluded from this experience is that based on fork swordfighting and overall gluttony, the French rank Americans number one, followed by the English and then the Germans. Either way, they figured that all three nationalities would give them carte blanche to speak about us loudly because there was no way we would actually understand it. Or no way that one of us might just turn out to be a Belgian who happens to enjoy watching American football.

But damn. That last bite of moelleux sure was delicious.

Almost heaven

2010-09-13T02:26:00.004+02:00

It's a little bit of a sad realization after only a month living here, but D.C.? A little pretentious.

At least it is in comparison to little Frederick, Maryland, where I went with friends this weekend in honor of their annual "In the street" festival.

Frederick - like many other small towns in this neck of the woods - is the kind of place where you expect townsfolk to dress up like Civil War* soldiers and fight mock battles in their spare time. As a matter of fact, the Battle of Monocacy Junction** was fought just outside of town, and Frederick is on the Civil War Trail - meaning busloads of elderly tourists in matching T-shirts roll through to visit all the numerous war museums and historic markers.

Sounds like a pretty frumpy crowd, but luckily just as we arrived the early-bird-special set was already getting back on the bus to go back to their hotel, and the rowdy locals had taken over. It was clear to us that they had been in the street since breakfast.

Something about the Frederickians put me at ease. It wasn't just the lower ratio of government-issue ID cards - who other than a cop has an ID card in a place like Frederick? It had something to do with the fact that when the band played "Country Roads" the entire bar burst into song. And maybe the preponderance of very, very good local breweries that hold their own Oktoberfest every year.

Guess I just have a little hillbilly in my blood, but I think I'll be back in Frederick sometime soon - corn maze, anyone? Pumpkin patch? Oktoberfest?

* Or the War of Northern Aggression, if you're Southern

**For the record, the Confederates won

Hand over the keys

2010-08-22T22:20:00.003+02:00

I was so excited to get my car back upon coming to the US again that I forgot one important thing: I haven't driven regularly in two years. And now every time I get behind the wheel I think it's going to end up like the picture.

I thought I would be reasonably prepared after dealing with insane, elderly and foreign drivers in Orlando, who tend to cut you off randomly, go 45 in the left hand lane, or accidentally drive on the left. I thought wrong.

For one, the DC area is known for its legendary long commute times because of near-constant heavy traffic - a friend of mine drives an hour to cover a distance that should take less than 20 minutes. Not to mention, this is a place where there have been, I kid you not, road rage induced gunfights.

The other day, I was lost on the way to a job interview and was on the phone getting directions, and a middle aged woman gestured wildly at me and flicked me off because I was too slow in pulling out of a parking spot. There were plenty of other parking spots around, but she had to have mine, dammit! It's funny because in all other circumstances people around here are really friendly; apparently they turn into demons once they get behind the wheel.

Why not just take public transportation, you may ask? Call me crazy but I just feel less safe on public transportation here than I do in Europe. DC's metro is crummy looking - it is gray concrete block, no artwork anywhere, dirty and stained trains, and rather than a recorded voice announcing the stop clearly, it's the driver, whom you can hardly hear muffled over the loudspeaker. There is a also sort of stigma about public transport in America - as in, why would you ever take it if you can drive?

Anyway, if you need me, I'll be walking to Whole Foods - a whole 15 minute walk uphill... let's see how long my car protest lasts.

the prodigal daughter returns

2010-08-16T20:57:00.003+02:00

So for those of you who don't already know, the girl on the road has found herself a new home base. At least through 2012.

It's hard having to describe to people that my plans changed so quickly, from a permanent job in Prague to moving to Washington, DC. As much as I hated to leave Europe, I ain't the type of gal to pass up such a good opportunity, nor am I afraid of a little risk in doing so.

Needless to say, or at least until my reverse culture shock has worn off, I'll try to keep this blog going.

While I'm here, I'll be attending Bill Clinton's alma mater. I can't think of Slick Willy without thinking of John Travolta's amazing impersonation of him in Primary Colors. The political circus in DC was a lot more fun circa 1998.

Check it out, if you haven't seen it already - and let's hear it for the Mommas!

Soccer!

2010-06-25T15:40:00.004+02:00

Why is it soooo surprising that Americans can get excited by the sport everyone else calls football? Every time any news source mentions the US team, it's always qualified by, "But, you know, Americans will never love it the way Europeans/South Americans/anyone else does."

Judging by what I have seen in Prague in the games against the UK and Slovenia, it's simply not true. Of course - it seems to make more sense to be rowdy if you're in a bar in Europe versus one in say, Buloxi, Mississippi - because you are much more likely to encounter people who actually support the opponent.

The UK game was played on a Saturday night, which I spent in a beer garden in the neighborhood park, Riegrovy Sady. There the benches were full with guys draped in American flags like Rocky, others with Uncle Sam hats, getting in chanting wars with the inebriated Brits and even holding their own against them.

As soon as the UK fans started with, "You're not singing anymore" their goalkeeper let by an embarrassment of a ball into the net. And everyone was excited! I shouldn't have to explain that - of course we were.

One thing I liked about the American crowd is that even the sorority girls in sundresses get into it. There seems to be a stigma in Europe about girls who play, or who are interested in, soccer. From what I'm told it runs along the same lines of the stereotype about girls who play softball in the US. Anyway, as someone who started playing the game at the age of six at the insistence of my high school soccer coach of a dad, I thoroughly reject this idea.

I saw the last minutes of the game against Slovenia in the main square of Prague, where study abroad students, English teachers, and whoever else had turned into a red, white and blue mob. I heard the anger when the ref took away Maurice Edu's perfectly good goal in the 86th minute and prevented the US from getting the win. Beer cups were thrown down, slurs were yelled.

I would say that the one thing that's really missing from the US soccer team is a star. A star who is so famous that he could get first name status like Pele or Ronaldo and little kids would put up posters of him on their walls. The only player who I think even comes close to that is a female player - Mia Hamm. When I was playing as a kid, all the girls would fight over who got to have her number (9) on their jersey. Who can do that for the US men?

Right now - nobody. But that won't stop me from screaming for blood when I go watch tomorrow's game against Ghana - who booted us out of the 2006 world cup. Vengeance is ours -- USA!
USA!

This mother has claws!

2010-05-09T22:23:00.003+02:00

In my first few weeks here, Prague confounds me. It's not that I don't like it - after all there is the weird coincidence that there is a PKP (Polish rail) office right in my apartment building. No, it's just too full of things that make you go, "huh?" Here are a few so far...

- Next to the royal botanic gardens, overlooking the river and with a beautiful view of the city, sits a giant metronome. It is bright orange, rusty and creaking, and the ground beneath it is littered with glass from beer bottles. What is it counting time for? Why orange? Why did it have to sully that view?

- If you take a metro and bus for 30 minutes outside of Prague, you arrive in the hills of Northern Vietnam. There is a whole village called Sapa complete with shops, restaurants, a school, hairdressers and God knows what else. Good luck communicating unless you speak Czech or Vietnamese*.

- Dutch coffee shops attract a bizarre crowd: hippies drinking huge steins of beer while jamming to Hank Williams Jr.

- Speaking of substances, on Saturday, there was a "Million Marijuana March" that went past my house, people yelling, Jamaican and pirate flags flying, music blaring. It's not only strange that high people would get so excited - it's strange that they are marching because marijuana is legal here.

- Today I happened to watch the very last place competitor in the Prague marathon finish as I was walking around town. The guy wasn't feeble, elderly or out of shape. He was running backward. He had been doing that for at least seven hours.

Living the surreal life in Prague must have inspired Kafka - as for me, I'll stick to the inspiration from the best margaritas I've had on this continent - from Las Adelitas down the street.

* In the '80s when it was easy to move between Communist countries a bunch of Vietnamese people came to Prague. Nowadays there is a 2nd and 3rd generation, which is becoming more and more successful. Their parents own the night shops; they are becoming real estate dealers and other professionals. It's interesting because there are very few immigrants in other places in central Europe (although some people count gypsies).

Trying really hard to be positive. Take that, EU!

2010-04-09T16:43:00.005+02:00

As I'm now applying to live in my third EU country, it's just too easy to whine about the bureaucratic nonsense, feeling like a puny worthless peon against the wily, impenetrable forces that yell at you on the phone while simultaneously losing your paperwork. In practice, it doesn't make you feel existential angst - although if France is anything like Belgium it sure explains a lot. No; it makes you very, very, angry. So in lieu of adding more fuel to the already brightly burning fire, I want to think about some nice things that happened as I worked on paperwork so far throughout my life.

My favorite story comes from when I was applying for my Belgian visa in Warsaw. I had to get my fingerprints done for an FBI background check. After getting hilariously lost on my taxi ride to the wrong address that I found on the criminal bureau's (apparently never updated) website, I finally arrived. I was greeted by a little old man who was 80 if he was a day. He was wearing a suit that he had clearly had to dust off after not wearing it for years, and greeted me enthusiastically in Polish. I explained in a bizarre mix of Polish and English that I needed the fingerprints to send to the FBI, and I could see the man's eyes widen in excitement. Somehow I had made this guy's day - the G-Men would see his work! He was so happy that he even accompanied me on the tram to the train station to see me off.

Honestly I have no such happy stories about my current struggle. Maybe I'll just think about how much easier taxes are over here...

Being with you and not being with you is the only way I have to measure time. -Borges

Here's a dance you should know

2010-03-15T19:21:00.004+01:00

Last weekend, I had the privilege to attend a real falutin', hootin', hollerin,' countryside Flemish birthday BBQ. Not firing your gun into the air in celebration? But surely Europeans aren't country the way Southerners are!, you might say. So I thought, too, until the country music started twanging from the speakers and people actually started line dancing to In Zaire by Johnny Wakelin. There was even a song about Indians where at one point enthusiastic revelers clapped their hand over their mouth and made the "woo woo woo!" Indian noise. I was mystified. I was jealous, even. They never taught me these songs in redneck public school. "But this comes from America!" everyone told me - the lyrics had just been changed into Dutch!

Not again, I thought.

Case in point: International Women's Day, which people were shocked I had never heard of because it came from America. As I discovered, Women's Day is celebrated on March 8th and consists of all women workers getting flowers at the office. It's kind of an unofficial second Valentine's Day where men are guilt tripped into buying more stuff for the ladies. Because it's targeted specifically toward women workers, my first impression was that it had socialist or communist roots (which it did). After that it kind of made sense that people from South America, China and Central and Eastern Europe were the ones who had kept celebrating it. But I'm not so surprised it was dropped in the US: "Socialist" is a bad word these days, plus to be politically correct we'd have to have a men's day too. And a transgender day. Oh, the politically correct possibilities are endless.

In the end, of course I was completely wrong about the songs heard at the Flemish hoedown. They were totally American. Just check out the Hucklebuck and I dare you to stay in your chair and not dance along with Norton and Ralph.

How the Saulpaugh girl lost her accent

2010-03-09T18:37:00.004+01:00

I feel like a Garcia girl...recently a friend of mine told me that I have "significantly lost my American accent after coming to Belgium." Never mind that I was in Poland for a year before that. Even at work, the Canadians I hear on the phone confuse me with an Austrian girl on our team (she's a far cry from the Governator of California, but still!).

Is it a good thing or bad thing that I now seem to be fluent in "International European English"? It's already become second nature to avoid obscure idioms and slang, mostly out of sheer laziness, but does that have the effect of making me a lazier thinker overall? And as a former coworker once told me, does living as an English speaking expat strip you of your personality until you fluently speak the local language? As someone who will soon make making a living as an in-house writer, I've gotta think about it.

When I first went to Poland, I made myself a list of common mistakes that, no matter how long I stayed abroad, I would not make. This mission has already failed, but nonetheless, here they are, in all their grammar Nazi glory:

1. Saying "Make the picture" instead of "take the picture". Once, I even said I was going to "make the bus tickets" in front of my translator friend. Man that was embarrassing.

2. Forgetting articles such as "the" "and" & "a". This one only happened in Poland, where they don't use articles. Flemish has articles, so they seem to do better with it here.

3. Saying "How it is in English?" instead of "How do you say it in English?" or "What it is in English?"

4. One for Belgium: directly translating the word abonnement to "subscription." If you go to the gym, it's a membership. If it's an event for work or a class, you sign up. If it's a yearly train or bus ticket, it's a pass.

5. Incorrect use of "does": "What he does?" instead of "What does he do?"

6. Answering "fine" to "What's up?" or "Nothing" to "How's it going?". Actually, I was guilty of this one in the US, too... mostly based on being an overall awkward person.

7. Saying prepositions like "on" at the wrong times, like "I was on the party" instead of "at". Prepositions are so hard to learn in a language that's not your own, so I will cut everyone some slack. In other words, please don't ask me the correct ones in French...

8. Saying "kitchen" instead of "cuisine", and other borrowed words. In English, it sounds fancy to say cuisine in terms of type of food. Kitchen is the room in your house.

9. Confusing "funny" and "fun" and "bored" and "boring"

10. Saying "take" a beer or meal instead of "have" a beer. This one is my all time favorite since it suggests that my friends are asking me to go around stealing beer from the tap at pubs.

So, who wants to go take a beer tonight?

No, not from my fridge.

Kamiel Spiessens says that it's easy!

2010-02-17T21:15:00.008+01:00

Flemish culture is a tricky beast. Unlike my experience in Poland, it remains mostly hidden to those who don't yet speak Dutch. Case in point: a friend of mine was in a gym, and was invited to a drink. "Do you speak Dutch?" he was asked. Upon giving a negative answer, he was told, "Oh, that's too bad, you can't go out with us then!"

I think it's a symptom of some of the strong regional pride that's been around for most of history in this area. I can't blame them, but still find it frustrating - and most expats I've spoken to agree. I haven't stopped trying, though.

Although I'm completely guilty of spreading myself too thin with languages, never becoming really fluent in any of them, I am still enamored of Dutch, and one boy in particular who speaks it. The other day, he taught me the following song, sung by a comedic farmer character named Kamiel Spiessens. That's him on the left.

Now the fun part: I'll translate the song for you now, to show you how easy it is!

Mijn naam is Kamiel Spiessens My name is Kamiel Spiessens
En ik droom niet van actrices And I don't dream of actresses
Ik hang nooit aan de toog I never hang out at the bar
Ben amateur-archeoloog I'm an amateur archaeologist
De natuur dat is een wonder Nature is a wonder
Met de wespen de gedonder With its wasps of thunder*
In mijnen hoofd is 't goed It's good in my head

Wanneer ik spit en delf en wroet When I dig and dig and dig**

refrain:
Het isj nie moeilijk It isn't hard
Het isj gemakkelijk It's easy!
Het isj nie moeilijk It isn't hard

Elk terrein heeft zijn geheim The terrain has its secret
En dat zit 'm in de grond And it sits in the ground
Als ge staat onder uw voeten If you stand under your feet
Als ge zit onder uw kont If you sit under your ass
Wat erin zit haal ik eruit What lies therein I get it out
Wat ik eruit haal zet ik terug What I get out I put it back
Zo'n tijd snel loopt het zweet Soon after quickly runs the sweat
Helegans van mijnen rug Whole down my back

refrain

Een doos biscuit, een treinticket A box of cookies, a train ticket
Een tijgerslip en een raket A pair of tiger underwear and a rocket
Een vals gebit, een perenpit, een jas van bont A pair of false teeth, a pear pit, a fur coat
't Is niet te doen wat dat ge vindt onder de grond There's no telling what you can find under the ground

Ik ben UV-bestendig en ik word dus nooit niet bruin I am UV resistant and I never get brown
Al graaf ik ganse dagen in mijn grote groene tuin I spend all days in my big green yard
Naar dingen onder 't gras For things under the grass
Onder de grond, onder 't gewas Under the ground, under the sod
Ik ben niet echt begaafd I'm not gifted
Maar wel op zijn minst verslaafd But at the least addicted

refrain

Ze zeggen mij "Kamiel, They say to me, "Kamiel,
Doe niet zo imbeciel. Don't be an imbecile.
Dat is toch genen stiel? Are those steelmakers' genes?

Zeg, vind gij dat nu veel wiel?" Say, do you find that many wheels?*
Dan zeg ik "Luister Bobbie, Then I say, "Listen, Bobbie,
Laat mij gerust, het is een hobbie. Leave me alone, it's a hobby.
Zowaar, ik ben Kamiel Behold, I am Kamiel
En ik spit met hart en ziel." And I dig with heart and soul."

refrain

*note: this makes no sense in Dutch either

** these are different words in Dutch but all are synonyms of dig

Where should I go next?

2010-02-10T20:30:00.005+01:00

You know, my gig here in Antwerp is almost up. In fact, I have only three measly months to get my act together! So I'll ask you out in cyberland for a little help: do you think there is any place that fits my needs, as outlined below?

1. After living a stone's throw from Wawel Castle for a year, I think I need to reenact my princess fantasies.

2. Out of the Beatles, my favorite is John Lennon. This is mostly because I love telling one person in particular that I "will never be the Yoko".

3. I have not lost my fascination with impossible languages. Especially Dutch!

4. I like good beer.

Hmm, this might be tough. Any ideas?

Karma...freezes

2010-01-12T21:54:00.003+01:00

A few days after I posted that goshdarn tropical picture of my backyard, God decided to have a laugh at my impudence.

That's right. Better put on ski socks with those flip flops, because it snowed in Florida.

By the time I saw it, it was only cold rain, since I was too busy packing to come back to Europe. But see this car, (which is stolen from the WESH Orlando local news website)?

That sure ain't no powdered sugar from a Krispy Kreme donut.

Also, this video accurately describes me when I first saw snow at the age of 19:

home is where the absurd is

2009-12-27T04:19:00.010+01:00

I spent the first 3 days of my ostensibly triumphant return holed up at home, trying to shelter myself from the reverse culture shock of seeing my hometown again. Luckily, it was pretty easy to do with cookies to be baked, family friends to entertain and jetlag to get over. But today I decided to venture into the wild, rough streets of Orlando on my own. I had prepared myself for this moment - I had been hearing "because

of the crisis" as a reason for everything for months anyway, so I figured that would also apply here. Basically, I was expecting to see tons of homeless people, foreclosure signs, and shut up storefronts everywhere. My fears were (mostly) unfounded, except for the notable demolition of the local ice cream joint, Coney's (which was formerly known as Dairy King - the estranged husband of the queen, I presume). But the other greats like Austin, the tea house on Edgewater Drive, and Orange Cycle are still around. And the traffic on 436 sucks as hard as ever.

I have to say, one of my favorite parts about being back is eavesdropping. My Mom and I went shopping in the old money part of town today (Park Ave., in Winter Park) and I heard some very interesting things. Ah, America, for better or for worse, there's nothin' like ya. Here are my favorites:

Overheard in Chico's, a middle aged women's fashion emporium

Overenthusiastic salesgirl, holding up blouse: "So, do you like this one?"

First snooty middle aged French lady: "I HATE it."

Salesgirl smiles awkwardly, shuffles away

Second snooty middle aged French lady [in French]: "I cannot find anything in this store..."

Overheard in a cosmetics store

One salesgirl to another, angrily: "I DON'T like avocados. They smell horrible, they taste horrible, it just makes me want to vomit!"

Overheard in a fair trade store

Flamboyantly gay salesguy to customer: "These purses are made out of used burkas. The women just sew them up when they finish with them, it's fabulous! But we're all out of black. As you would expect it's the most popular color..."

Overheard in a hippie dippy incense-stinking boutique

Southern accented lady with a bouffant who doesn't seem like she could possibly own a hippie store, but does:"Can y'all believe how cold it is out there? I hear we're going to have some cold air blownin' down all the way from Atlanta tonight..."

Meanwhile, I'm wearing shorts and flip flops. I guess I forgot to mention, Christmas in Florida looks something like this:

Could be worse, right?

back to basics

2009-12-21T20:35:00.005+01:00

Sometimes I feel like I can only handle simple things, like when I recently congratulated myself for getting up the motivation to leave the house when it was minus 12 outside (I work in degrees C now, boys and girls). Or when I was waiting for the bus for 45 minutes in the cold because it was late, and then took such a hot shower that I successfully felt my little toes again. Although I sneered along with the other Krakowians last year when London shut down because of snow, I have to say it is not fun to experience a blizzard in a country not used to a real winter. At least I know that I should wear shoes with tread, unlike the lady I saw on the way to work today who almost ate it walking on ice in her high heels.

These are much more satisfying victories than the more technically difficult things I accomplished this weekend, such as learning how slippery it is to ride a bike in ice when it hasn't been plowed or salted. Also, I won't tell you how, but I also learned (cue soundtrack of choir of angels) the Correct Way to Make Belgian Fries. I would give you the recipe, but then I would have to kill you. Let's just say it involves a little voodoo magic and a whole lotta love.

So let's focus on the simple stuff. Hit it, Ray!

all i want for Christmas is...

2009-12-15T16:18:00.008+01:00

Since I decided to quit French class, endlessly frustrated with not enough opportunities to practice it, I have a new hobby: trying to make money or win stuff by writing. Or at least get published.

My first endeavor: a contest at a travel writing website. First prize: a trip to Hawaii, woo hoo! Second prize (which might be even better for my hobby): a contract to freelance write some stories for the website.

Check out my entry & vote by clicking here:

http://www.trazzler.com/trips/miss-emily-s-blue-bee-bar-in-bs

If you're reading this, please take a few seconds to vote! You won't get spammed because the site connects you directly through facebook (or you can log in separately if you don't have an account). The deadline is December 23. If you have time to explore, the site is kind of cool because it recommends trips based on your location and the other trips you like. Sort of like Pandora but for traveling.

If I win, my plan is to take the opportunity to join up with an around the world sailing vessel: http://www.yacht-jennifer.nu/startpage.html?lang=2

I just read this guy's book, he spend 10 years sailing from port to port, circumnavigating the globe. Highlights on his last tour include diving at the infamous bikini atoll, and being the first sailboat to dock in Ho Chi Minh City after the Vietnam War. This, my friends, is the dream.

That is all.

You're a mean one

2009-12-06T22:41:00.006+01:00

Why is it that the Christmas season in Belgium is Christmas, interrupted?

Right now, there are about 30 small Christmas trees and 2 large ones in and around Antwerpen Centraal train station, and only half of them are decorated. They have been up for a week, and some lazy tree trimmer even left the lights dangling off one of the big trees halfway up, like he was interrupted mid-trim, and then forgot to come back. He can't even use the two past weeks of constant rain as an excuse, because half of the undecorated trees are inside. Shame on you, Mr. Antwerp tree trimmer! There are small children just waiting for the decorations to go up, and you are off drinking hot wine somewhere! You're as cuddly as a cactus, and you're as charming as an eel!

Not only that, every time I try to visit the Christmas market in Antwerp, it's closed up. This could possibly be because I work normal working hours, which tends to exclude you from a lot of things in Belgium. So, I decided to go to the market in Brussels today instead, and could only find 20 of the 240 stands the website claims were up there, and nary a sign of the ice skating rink. However I did find a totally unnecessary light show in the Grand Place. There were a lot of tourists taking pictures, but I think they were as confused as I was.

Mr. Brussels market planning guy, you could have made so much more money off me today than you did! Your heart is filled with unwashed socks!

Believe it or not, today I met someone even worse of a Grinch than the lazy tree trimmer and the poor market planner. He was in disguise of a middle aged businessman, and got escorted off the train by SNCB security guards because he forcibly pushed small children out of the way trying to get on. On Sinterklaas day! Sir, given the choice between you and a seasick crocodile, I'd take the crocodile.

Let's hope someone in Whoville invites these guys to a feast of roast beast soon, the world has enough people with their hearts two sizes too small...

and they shall eat turkey

2009-11-30T19:26:00.005+01:00

There's something funny about bringing new world traditions to the old world. I was never one to spend much time or effort on Thanksgivings past; it was more of a time to grumble a little bit about the commuting that had to be endured, eat a lot of pie and watch football with my Dad.

But something about being away makes you want to carry these things on, even if you don't get the day off. This is my second year putting on a 30+ person Thanksgiving in Europe, and I have to admit that sometimes it's better than the real thing. For one, the turkey in Belgium is infinitely fresher ("Hold on, we're just cleaning them, they're right off the truck," the butcher told me as I went to pick up my two 10 pound birds). Last year, after we finished eating, I watched incredulously as my Thanksgiving turned into a full blown dance party.

But traditions, I'm now realizing, are really important. Despite the near disasters, the expense, the hassle, it's worth it - maybe because it's a way to maintain your identity. Not only that, Thanksgiving is the perfect holiday for me and the people I tend to meet because it is a holiday expressly made for new immigrants eating together with natives.

Damn, I wish I had thought of that while I was making the toast. But to all who made it great, this cup of leftover wine is to you!

Sitting in a park in Paris, France...

2009-11-17T22:40:00.004+01:00

I came home from a day of frustration the other day, and decided to have a nostalgic moment. I started listening to songs written by expat folk singers in Europe, like Joni Mitchell and James Taylor, singing of their states when they were feeling lost in France and Spain. I think the nostalgia is a product of the impending Christmas decorations you already see everywhere, but also of just being out a little too long. And tomorrow I'm going to Paris. I've been in four countries this week, but it's not as exciting as it used to be.

I sing a lot of the time, even often without realizing it, but that doesn't mean I'm not ever homesick. I feel like I have to hide it - I have well-rehearsed scripts to respond to questions, such as why In God's Name I Would Ever Leave A Tropical Paradise. It annoys me when people make assumptions that one place is better to live in than another without having tried it themselves --- but on the other hand, experience hasn't been that much of a guide to me either.

In 5 weeks, I'll be in Florida for the first time in 18 months. That's a hell of a long time to be off your continent. And I'm nervous about the measurements that I will have to make. What has changed? Who has changed? Will I hate it and rush back across Atlantic shores? Or will I relish the anonymity of no longer being the American Girl?

Will you take me as I am?

Spotted in Antwerp

2009-10-16T21:24:00.003+02:00

5:45 p.m., Keyserlei, in front of Media Mart: a tall, grey haired, frowning middle-eastern man skips down the street. At full speed. And somehow manages to smoke a cigarette at the same time. Heads turn, incredulous at how it is possible to skip so joylessly.

6:09 p.m., intersection of Astridplein and Carnotstraat: a businessman's bike gets caught in the tram tracks. It wheels around and smacks right into another bike. Both riders flail their arms uselessly and the tram track man is launched head over handlebars in slow motion, his briefcase flung into the air. Five people, all different ages and races, immediately rush to his aid - no losing faith in humanity in this town.

LEKKERRRR

2009-10-12T21:44:00.003+02:00

There is nothing like the sound of chainsaws and blood curdling screams to remind me of home. Changing leaves, ripening pumpkins, fake blood: you know it must be fall!

I spent this weekend hanging with this dude, and others like him. The undead brides. The axe murderers. The rando monsters with extra eyeballs for no apparent reason. Also a carful of Canadians I came with, who were joyful with anticipation of the horror yet to come. So was I, despite my German friend Uli assuring me that they don't actually celebrate Halloween in Germany.

I have to admit that the production value is far superior at Universal Orlando's Halloween Horror Nights - it's more about the entertainment than fear, and I'm guessing this is only because they have a larger budget. They have a new theme or character every year - there are even entire backstories written about them. I remember "the Director" from when I went in high school - he's a crazy snuff film director and his next victim is YOU.

But low budget or no, I really have to hand it to Movie Park. They may have been smaller than Universal, with fewer roller coasters, but it was a hell of a lot creepier. When push comes to shove, Germans can just pull off scary monster better than the average family-friendly American "cast member". Plus, with the amount of punk- and gothic- dressed locals it was sometimes hard to tell apart the mortal souls and the vengeful undead. In any case they had one thing in common: when there was a sudden downpour of rain, both ran for cover to prevent their makeup from running.

Here's the real reason the Movie Park monsters are scarier: they are allowed to touch you. In one of the haunted houses, an undead bride even pulled my hair, moaning "lekkerrrrrrr" [tasty] in a scary ghost voice. At Halloween Horror Nights, I guess you could probably sue them if they touched you. Or maybe they are more afraid of people attacking the characters and them suing the park.

Well, no matter. Germany was still way scarier.

harvest

2009-10-04T20:08:00.008+02:00

Just like spring is a season of colors, fall is all about smells and tastes. For those of you like myself whose lives already revolve around food, fall is perfect. And since I never got to experience this season growing up in a swamp, there isn't a crunchy leaf I leave untrod.

In Antwerp, I like fall because the cozy pubs finally fit in with the nasty weather (it was annoyingly perfect all summer). Because of the wind, rain and cold, Petra and I have declared winter already here and have started making hot wine for ourselves. More importantly, we buy bushels of exotic (at least to me) fruit at the weekend market...plums, dates, pomegranates, figs, and these giant Belgian nuts that I think are some kind of pecans. Not only that, I have eaten at least two proper steaks in the past week.

Other than eating as usual here, I was lucky enough to spend some time of the turn of season in Madrid, which this time of year is not as tropical as you might expect. But it is definitely more awesome than you might expect - thanks mostly to the company. But you know me - I'm going to talk about the food.

One distinctive taste of Madrid was that of Andres' dinosaur cookies (best when dipped into coffee). I hadn't tasted them since my childhood. Although I'm pretty sure it's a different brand in Spain, they are still the Best. Cookies. Ever. I was sad to learn that apparently in the US they are apparently now extinct!

My taste buds also remember the never ending plates of finger food - sausages, salami, cheese, croquettes and mini-hot dogs - from the standing only, working-class bar in the outskirts of the city. The amazing thing about this place was that if you buy a beer, the food is completely free. And it just keeps comin'. The catch? There wasn't one.

Andres told me that the owners were four childhood friends (now about 60) who had worked every day in shifts for the last twenty years as barmen together. Any time any one of them got a tip, a cheer went up from the crowd, the barman rang a bell and a stuffed parakeet started chirping. The mood was so loud and frenetic that I forgot to stop eating and gave myself a stomachache. Maybe that was the catch...

OK, I'm off now because...um. This post is making me kinda hungry.

quarantine

2009-09-03T20:40:00.005+02:00

Being sick is no fun. The coughing, sneezing and low grade fever are small potatoes compared to the excruciating boredom. Hell, today I even did the dishes before they got disgusting! With my nonexistent attention span nowadays, cooped up at home, sniffling, with nothing but rain and wind outside, I had to find some way to entertain myself....

So I spent long minutes in considerably deep thought about where - no - when would be the best time to be a time travel tourist. After much deliberation, I think it would be really cool to live in 16th century Japan and be a samurai (yes, girls were samurai too back then. With sword skills and everything. Plus they practiced basic hygeine and didn't have the plague like in Europe).

Then I tried to spy on our scandalously dressed neighbor who likes to parade around (no luck). Maybe witnessing a murder, Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window style, would be more realistic in my neighborhood.

After that, I started to wonder if sometimes God really can pick a side (just ask Tim Tebow)! I mean, if I were God, I would certainly reward people who believed in me. But maybe it's exactly this sort of nepotism that makes me not God.

Later, I started on my game plan for becoming a supercool Asian lady novelist when I grow up. After watching Amy Tan's talk, I think that my writerly dreams might eventually falter because I had too happy of a childhood.

Upon this thought, I gave up my dreams for the time being and ate a shameful amount of squares of Cote d'Or Noir Mousse Intense. It's dark chocolate with this truffley mousse inside, and since it's from the grocery store it only costs two euros!

Pray for my speedy recovery, y'all. Because soon enough, I will have watched every single talk on Ted.com and won't be able to fit into my jeans any more.

battle of the aRRdennes

2009-08-25T22:35:00.007+02:00

I know pirates aren't cool anymore. They are sooooo 2003. I mean, I made pirate movies with friends back in high school, which was the last time it was cool. We rode around with a hobie cat attached to a jeep and marooned ourselves on the island in the middle of Lake Maitland. It was epic, not to mention Oscar worthy. Now, one of the original land pirates of the Pirates of Edgewater is currently in the US Navy. About as anti-pirate as you can get.

But avast! I digress.

Last weekend, 13 lucky landlubbers voyaged to the rough seas of the Ardennes, and dressed up as pirates anyway. And here lies the Tale of the 13 Pirates of the Ardennes.

Yo ho, yo ho....abandon all hope, ye who read this...

It all began on a beautiful, not dark, not stormy night. The pirates had been merrily kayaking along a river, accompanied by their pet crocodile. They already had found some treasure, but were quickly running out because they kept stealing it from one another.

This caused a mutiny, which happened when the pirates had docked their boats and were busy drinking some more of their treasure. The mutiny started because all of a sudden, random pirates started dying, one by one! Shiver me timbers, what's a pirate captain to do?

Why, accuse Jing the superdeadly Chinese pirate of murder and make her walk the plank, of course! I mean, she just looked guilty, come on, everyone knew it. The only problem was, she wasn't.

Before Jing could come back from the dead and get her otherworldly revenge, the pirates saw a ghost!

They were surprised because dead men, as it turns out, do tell tales. Really long ones, in fact. But only in French. Also, dead men can't do very much - mostly they just raise their arms on different parts of a castle. And look vaguely like Klansmen.

The pirates were pretty disappointed because they had already hoisted the colors, savvy? They had gotten all ready for an epic pirate battle with the ghost of a Klansman just to see him disappear in a cloud of smoke and fireworks...

"What a no good lily livered scalawag!" the 13 pirates said, vowing to return to the ghostly forest some other weekend and get the vengeance that was rightfully theirs. And drink some more grog. Because it was a pretty sweet weekend.

To be continued?

Illegal!

2009-08-17T17:51:00.005+02:00

This post is for all of you back home who imagine my life on the continent as a carefree blur of sitting in cafes looking European, smoking cigarettes with a gold cigarette holder, spending a few hours pretending to work, drinking some wine, reading some Sartre, eating some stinky cheese, and then treating myself to some Belgian beer to celebrate a long day of work accomplished.

Well. I have some news for you.

So, I've now officially been an illegal immigrant in Belgium for a full week. (I feel for you, Elian.)

It's not that I dislike living on the edge - in fact, I love it! Just ask those of you in the know about my semi-legal status in Poland. But this time, I am not illegal by choice and convenience. I am illegal because the Antwerp registration office has lost all of my paperwork not once, but twice.

Here's the deal for newbies to the Alice-in-Wonderland rabbit hole that is European immigration policy. Everyone gets a three month visa when they arrive, which is supposed to be plenty of time to get a residence card. This card is important because it allows you to travel outside of the country (the visas are single entry).

I applied for the card within hours of my arrival on May 11th. The registration office assures me that "it's normal" that my paperwork was lost and that I will have to wait until October to be registered because "we are on vacation."

Unfortunately, I can't use my normal tactics from America to get what I want - that is, asking to speak to the manager and yelling at someone until I get free stuff. (Customer service, baby.)

So, I'm trying to be creative with some alternative solutions. Any other bright ideas y'all can think of?

- Kidnap the mean registration lady's bicycle (Belgians LOVE bicycles). Cut out magazine letters and make a ransom note. Price for return: one registration card.

- Call them using a disguised voice machine and tell them "Mijn noncle Salvatore langskommen met en paar zware jongens" if they don't give me my card.

- Call up my BFF Jean Claude, better known as "The muscles from Brussels", to show 'em what's up. It might involve a roundhouse kick to the face, but that's just guessin'.

Give me the splendid silent sun

2009-08-02T22:58:00.003+02:00

Do you ever feel like you spend all day waiting for something interesting to come into your inbox? I don't have a crackberry or another one of those newfangled creations that makes you take your work home with you and allows your boss to email you while you're asleep at night, but I still sometimes find myself compulsively checking my devices to see if something new came in. And then neglecting other things that aren't new, just because they have already been read.

I read recently that something like 70% of people admit that they connect to work using their PDAs or laptops while they are on vacation. What do we expect, an email saying we won the lottery? A call from the big boss that he will give us a raise if we do a task during our vacations? A text telling us that our secret true love has felt the same way, all this time?

I don't know. But I do know that the whole thing really makes me want to unplug myself before facebook figures out how to put a chip in our heads. Or before google installs ads that pop up when I open my refrigerator. Last Friday, I unplugged myself by going to a concert in the middle of the Rivierenhof park right outside of Antwerp. If I could always hear some tasty funksoul music out in nature with 30 foot tall trees all around me, I would move to the countryside tomorrow. (check out Moiano)

It does make me wonder, though, if there will ever be a backlash from all this technologizin' that seems to rule people's lives. A former coworker once told me I had socialist tendencies because my ideas to improve the workplace involved a vegetable garden and a bike rack. The ideas might have been a little facetious at the time, but he's right: I could see myself doing just like Ryan Adams in this video, moving to Jamaica, playing bongo drums all day and feeding rum to my donkey.

And Ryan Adams himself wouldn't be too bad of an addition either...

it's that time of year again

2009-07-27T22:13:00.003+02:00

Nope, I don't mean Christmas in July (a holiday celebrated solely by car dealerships in America). It's festival time in Europe and in Belgium, so I thought I would outline my as-yet favorite: the colossal Geentse Feesten (Ghent Festival).

This festival is so awesome that it is made up of not one but four actual festivals, making it the largest open air cultural festival in Europe. The entire city center is taken over by music, food, performers and hippie clothing stalls for what is called the "10 Days Off", when most of the festivals happen to overlap.

One of them is the International Puppet Busker festival, where these local kids were occupying some prime real estate. There were also a ton of regular buskers, such as a guy who was making animal balloons, and then proceeded to eat a blown up balloon. He was also wearing an inflatable glove on his head for no discernable reason. Luckily, there were also many other better acts there.

Unlike the puppet guys, who seemed to cater mainly to Flemish kids, the regular buskers almost all seemed to be from the UK. I can't say I'm too surprised, since I have never seen anyone give a street musician or performer money in Belgium. Not even the very clever guy who dresses himself like a statue and hides among the other statues on the side of the cathedral in Antwerp. I'm always slightly disappointed when I don't see him there, freaking out the tourists by jumping out at them.

There's also the world renowned Gent Jazz Festival, this year headlined by B.B. King. I didn't get to see the master play on Lucille this year, but I did get to see American jazz pianist Brad Mehldau. It was some of the best live jazz I've ever seen, and somehow even though he is a Florida native like me, Brad did his entire introduction in Dutch. People like that make me feel like a language retard, but then I looked it up and he's married to a Dutch woman (clearly cheating).

Today's the closing day of the festival, so if you didn't get a chance to check it out this year, tough cookies. Anyone want to come back with me next year?

only in lille

2009-07-13T22:02:00.006+02:00

Searching for the true authentic French experience, and also because we could, a few friends and I decided to go to another country for the day; namely, the French town of Lille, about 10 minutes' drive past the French "border".

We wandered around the town, eating and drinking in cafes, checking out vintage bookstalls, and trying our best to look French and chic and nothing at all like tourists, anything but that. I even practiced my French....sort of. If asking for a scoop of ice cream to go on my hunk o' cake counts as practice. Miming it in the process.

In the true style of broke tourists in Europe in the summer, we did the obvious thing: took a peaceful nap in a green park located in vieux Lille. Ahhh, life was good.

But.

Something still didn't seem right...

AuuuuUGHHHHH!! Giant 25 foot tall demonic bat babies are taking over the French countryside!

Not only that, there was even a demon baby riding a dinosaur, which according to the plaque, was supposed to symbolize the past riding the future. But also vice versa.

I don't know what that's supposed to mean, but I do know that it's SCARY.

So, in such a horrific situation, what's a girl to do?

Go to Carrefour, bien sur!

Ahh, France. I already miss thee.

independence (part dos)

2009-06-30T18:11:00.010+02:00

It's not all 4am grocery store runs and sipping margaritas on the beach...so as promised, here is the second half of my inventory: the top 10 things America can keep.

Starbucks coffee. Blechhh. Only for emergencies. (This one is a superspecial shout out to the person who told me that I would get "lynched" by Europeans because I preferred an American brand of coffee.)

99.9% of American TV. Especially anything that tries to put the words "Entertainment" and "News" together in its title. Exceptions: Weeds, Flight of the Conchords, the Colbert Report, and NCAA basketball.

Workaholics. It will be hard to return to American “vacation” days and American lunch “break”.

American health care system. Or lack thereof – I will even have to buy travel insurance when I go home for Christmas this year because I won't be covered. In Belgium, I pay less than 10 euros per month (that’s about $13) and I am covered for 75% of my doctor’s appointment fees and prescriptions, dental care, and my contact lenses. And if I can get a doctor to approve it, even a chiropractor and acupuncturist! Hooray welfare states.

Driving half a mile to the grocery store. I now find it absurd that I actually used to do this constantly, even when it was nice outside. In high school, I drove literally two blocks to get to school in the morning, and because of traffic, I probably could have gotten there faster walking.

Fat People. If you've ever taken any flights wedged between two guys who had to get the "lap belt extenders" because they were too big, you know what I mean. Oh, you're European? I guess you don't...

Open container laws. Last week, I spent an evening with a few coworkers in the park in the middle of the city with some burgers, wine and beer (an unlikely yet winning combination). We drank in the park until the sun set at about 10 pm and watched little kids chase around bunny rabbits. And it wasn't even creepy! Or illegal.

Values. I'm not talking about real concepts by which any thoughtful person would abide to help guide his or her life. I'm talking about the ones that Christian evangelicals pronounce like this (usually in some sort of southern accent): vaaaaal yoooooooouz. (But maybe vaaaal yooooouz don't exist in America any more with a liberal in the White House?)

Apathy toward the English language. People here have actually told me "thank you" for correcting their grammar. In the US, if I corrected someone using the wrong "it's" I would probably be called a jackass.

Geographic blandness. I could drive the whole 10 hour stretch between my hometown and my college town on I-95 and mile 1 looked no different than mile 451. Usually, it involved a Texaco and a stripmall. Here, if I take a train for 2 hours in any direction, I am in a completely different country, with a different language, different architecture, different cuisine, and different culture.

But really, I do love America - which I why I reserve the right to criticize it, any time I want, with an uppity voice of authority. So anyone who's at home this weekend, please eat some pulled pork and watermelon (not together) and set off some illegal fireworks from South Carolina for me (watch your fingers). Happy 4th!

independence

2009-06-23T20:29:00.011+02:00

It's really weird to think about this time last year... I was sitting on a plane taking off from Chicago, watching the independence day fireworks go off over the city. Poland? Umm....why not? The crazy ecstatic feeling of being free from responsibility faded as soon as I settled in to my corporate job, but somehow, I am still here. It's getting to the point where my friends stateside are asking me half-jokingly, "are you never coming back?"

So, a week early, before the next independence day I'll miss out on, here's to you, America: in no particular order, the top 10 things that still bring a tear to my eye even after getting stockholm syndrome in Europe.

Cuban sandwiches from the Black Bean Deli. This is the first thing I eat anytime I return from abroad. Grilled to perfection, spicy mustard slathered on top, just the way Fidel likes it.

My white VW beetle. Her name is Daisy and she turns on a dime.

Dunkin Donuts coffee. I remember days in college when my roommate and I would make bets about who would drive for an hour just to get a cup. Yes, it’s that good.

Trader Joe’s. The best grocery store known to man.

St Augustine beach. For most of my childhood and adult life, I went there every July with my family, my childhood friends from Atlanta, and a giant, loud, fantastic clan of Cubans. I wish I could be on the gazebo near the water, drinking goombay smashes and watching the dolphins a few dozen feet away jump out of the water.

Clothes dryers and 24 hour stores. Inconvenience is part of the daily routine when your duvet cover is still wet after washing it two days ago and the grocery store closes at 6.

Texas sized pitchers of margaritas. Split with friends of course…

Wearing my PJs in public. Well, truth be told, I have started doing this anyway. But I'm the only one.

Fresh fruit. And when I say fresh, I mean: oranges, limes, lemons and grapefruit by the crateful from my uncle’s citrus groves, and the tangerines and oranges my Mom catches as they drop off the trees in our backyard. She juices them or makes them into orange cake with glazed frosting.

Bubba. ‘Nuff said.

Next week: the things America can keep for all I care.

my castle

2009-06-15T21:35:00.006+02:00

The windows have a constant layer of grime from the stream of trams and cars from the street below. The hot pipes in my closet should probably not be exposed. Someone has written the word "scream" on the wall of our living room in pencil (but I'm too afraid of what will happen if I erase it). One of our kitchen counters is held up by a single, sturdy Jupiler beer can.

Our elevator is circa 1958, and its floor was completely covered in water the other day when we had a particularly strong Belgian rainstorm. I am far too afraid to use our potentially lethal gas oven.

The saving grace of our apartment with character, the beautiful Moroccan lamps, are now sold.

And I think I'm in love.

After two days spent google translating a Dutch newspaper, it really seemed too good to be true. When we came to see the flat for the first time, Nacho and Laura, the previous tenants, ended up drinking wine with us and cooking us dinner. A supposed 15-minute visit turned into five hours. Their curly haired four year old rode her bike around the living room wearing a tutu and twirled in circles to Flemish singer Ann Christy's "Bla Bla Bla".

What I'm trying to say is that my couch is now officially open for business. Who wants to be the first to crash on it?

(Not counting almost me, the night of our housewarming party, when my bed was occupied by two very sleepy Belgian boys.)

Et moi, vraiment je t'aime....

Getting out of the vote

2009-06-07T14:22:00.004+02:00

It's Election Day in Europe, and the streets are not filled with canvassers. I haven't gotten any recorded messages from candidates on my cell phone or mudslinging junk mail. Nobody is honking if they love a candidate.

Instead, on Friday, there was one man wearing a clown nose standing outside of my workplace and handing out "stop het politieke circus" flyers. The dour looking man in the middle of the poster is Prime Minister Herman Van Rompuy, who has been in control since 2008.

There was at least one guy other than lone clown man trying to encourage voters: Frank de Winne, Belgium's second ever astronaut. He used the coincidence of European election day and a trip to space for a PR opportunity:

"Europe looks united and great from up here! I have arranged to vote by proxy, so I will not miss out of the next European elections while I am up here," he said.

Actually, Frank is not just a nice guy doing his civic duty, he has arranged to vote from space because voting is compulsory in Belgium.

Belgium was one of the first countries to make voting mandatory, all the way back in 1892. Since then, there has been a voter turnout of something like 90%, because of what happens if you don't:

- a fine of up to 55 euro on your first offense
- a fine of up to 137.5 euro for repeat offenders
- losing your right to vote if you don't vote at least 4 times in 15 years
- being excluded from getting a job in the public sector

Of course, as a coworker suggested to me, you can just get a doctor's note. Unfortunately, being an immigrant from Morocco or Turkey and not speaking a word of Dutch is not enough to get you a doctor's note. You can show up at the voting booth and just not fill out the ballot, but if you're all the way there, heck, you might as well Christmas tree the thing.

Coming from the land of the hanging chad, I'm hardly the best person to comment, but it seems to me that forcing apathetic and Christmas Tree citizens to vote ensures that incumbents stay in power, corrupt or not. Psychologically for voters, it negates the idea that Every Vote Counts. Is it really a good idea to force people who don't care about the democratic process to make a choice?

Wherever you are, your vote should matter: this past week, I heard about friends in Poland celebrating 20 years of free voting after the fall of communism. There, voting is a precious right - and many people remember a time when they couldn't exercise it at all. As for me, every time November rolls around, I vote from overseas. Why? Because you never know when there will be another margin of 537...

Dutch speakers are going to kill me for this one

2009-05-27T18:22:00.007+02:00

As a girl who likes to pick up notoriously difficult, rarely spoken and/or illogical languages in her spare time, I thought Dutch to be the next obvious choice.

One website describes it this way: [Flemish] Dutch is "A strange language spoken in Flanders and consisting largely of the consonants v,s,c,h,r and k. Dutch is surprisingly easy to learn. Simply fill your mouth with crisps and then speak English and German simultaneously without breathing."

Another friend describes it as English spoken backwards and underwater. And possibly upside down. I agree, because sometimes I feel like if I accidentally hit my head in the right place, I could understand Dutch completely (don't worry, I'm not trying that hard).

Actually, I'm not alone in my thinking: English borrows many words from Dutch, such as "pickle" and the much funnier "gherkin" (where were the Poles with this one?). Umm....there are more, I just wanted to include that because of "gherkin".

I have another theory: Dutch is English spoken by lolcatz.

Question:
Dutch/lolcat answer (from a sign I saw at my bank): "Wij helpen u!"

Unlike American expats, Dutch speakers (or at least some of them) take their language quite seriously. Almost as bad as in France, language is politics is this part of the world: in het Groene Boekje (you guessed it, "the green book"), Dutch and Flemish people battle it out for how things should be spelled in nederlands. An example of one of the changes made in the last edition, published every 10 years: anti-Amerikanisme is now antiamerikanisme.

Should I be worried (after all, "Yankee" is also Dutch in origin)? Nah, I think I'll be alright, as long as I start my Dutch lessons soon and stop cracking up at street signs...

Cause there ain't no doubt I love this land

2009-05-23T15:32:00.007+02:00

Honesty time.

I admit it. I was a little nervous about coming to Belgium because I heard it was "boring" and "full of Eurocrats" (whatever that means). So it's chilled out, I rationalized. Grown up. I can deal with that after living for a year in a city full of 20-year-olds wearing stiletto heels and a pound of makeup. And I merrily went about my business.

But I was really taken aback when someone said to me the other day: "You are from Florida? Why, in the name of God, did you decide to come here?"

So, it's not just a Polish thing! (I heard that all the time.) It's a European thing. And it wasn't even raining.

I'm not exactly out on the street singing "Proud to be an American" at the top of my lungs, since it's not that nice living in suburban Florida, but really! Come on, Europeans. Have some pride.

I am not going to cop out and say that I like Belgium because it's close to other cities that are cool (i.e. it is not cool in itself). Check out these pictures of Ghent, where I went the other day:

See? Belgium is pretty. And the people are nice! Within 30 seconds of me or one of my friends opening a map, someone always comes up to us and says "OK, let me help you" and then sometimes even shows us the way.

Today, the weather is fine, not a cloud in the sky, and I am going to a barbecue.

Yeah, pretty bad...

Do as the Flemish do

2009-05-17T15:01:00.004+02:00

One of the greatest pleasures about moving to a new place is learning about it through lots of eating and drinking. Visions of waffles dripping in chocolate, fries dripping in mayonaise, and French-accented chefs with voices dripping in sarcasm disappeared soon after my arrival when I found out that....

Belgium has.... Food Lion?

Check out the bag, I'm not lying. After a little research (er...wikipedia) I learned that Del is Flemish for "food" and Haize is Flemish for "lion."

OK, what I really learned was that Food Lion is actually owned by Belgians! Also, they own another grocery store in the US with the unfortunate name of "Bottom Dollar Food." Ick.

The difference between Food Lion in Belgium and Food Lion in the US is that here they have non-scary produce, a decent wine selection, and a much smaller proportion of crazy people wandering around the aisles. Also, it is easily navigable even after you decide to sample Belgian beer and jenever at 3 in the afternoon (possibly making me count as one of the crazy people wandering around the aisles). For the uninitiated, jenever is the local juniper-flavored liquor, but you can also find it in many other creamy or fruity flavors.

After the shock of the few American chains that I saw in Antwerp (they have Ben & Jerry's and Urban Outfitters too) I decided I needed some fries, stat!

My future roommate Petra and I went to a place a local had told us had the Best Fries In Antwerp. The name of the place was Best Fries (creative, guys). There were many imitators who were clearly trying to fool us (#1 fries, McDonald's next door) but we found it because of the huge line of people getting their fry fix. Best Fries takes its work seriously: it is known for having Fry Inspectors who regularly test the oil and the fryer to make sure they are up to standard. Yes, I forced myself to put mayo on my fries to fit in with the locals, and it was actually pretty good.

I would write more, but think it's time for my waffle. Daag!

Get in line, folks...

2009-04-28T20:24:00.003+02:00

There's been a lot of water under the bridge since my last post, but let's go straight to the good stuff: last weekend, I had the privilege to attend a Real Polish Wedding.

My first wish was that it would turn out just like the Deer Hunter wedding, except I think that was supposed to be Ukranian, not Polish. Mostly I just like to think of myself as a young Meryl Streep in this scenario, dancing in the middle of a huge crowd to the sounds of a traditional Polish wedding band. And did I mention there was vodka involved?

Being a Florida native, I tend to associate weddings with pulled pork drenched in barbecue sauce and beaches at sunset, so finding a new meal in front of me every 30 minutes and being obligated to do shots with the bride were completely new for me. They were experiences in which I gladly participated until about 2am, when I realized that even after almost a year of practice in Poland, I am still a lightweight compared to 25 out of 26 of my friend Marek's first cousins. I'm not counting the little blond boy who I spotted with an empty champagne glass... I hope he was holding it for his mom!

Compared to other typical Polish weddings, this one was definitely more modern - usually, everyone has to bring flowers to give to the bride and groom when meeting them in the receiving line. This couple, being practical, realized that nobody knows what to do with hundreds of bouquets of flowers, so they cut that part out. In the countryside, wedding parties last two or three days, with an afterparty being held the day after the reception. The rule: you must finish all the leftover food and drink from the night before. And no, there is no other drink except for vodka.

The wedding and having Easter in my flatmate's village in Silesia were the jewels in the crown of my Polish experience this year, which is now unbelievably coming to an end. That's Kasia to the left, crossing a stream near her village.

During that weekend, yes, I went to church multiple times, but mostly spent my time riding bikes around the lakes and forests with Kasia and her sisters. And also running away from six year old boys.

For you folks back home: Easter Monday in Poland is called "Wet Monday" because girls get doused with water for "good luck." I must be really lucky, because four 15 year olds in a maly fiat thought it was a cool idea to pour an entire bucket of water on me on the way to the train station. It was a pretty cold three-hour journey in wet jeans, but I think it was worth it just to see Kasia's mom yell at the offenders.

I don't want to get too sappy, but I am having a hard time getting excited about my next destination because it involves leaving this one. So if any of you boys and girls are around Krakow, let's hang out - I don't have a clue how it happened, but I am at two weeks and counting.

Scatter chart of Krakow

2009-03-22T18:01:00.004+01:00

If you know me well, you'll know that I have many theories. My latest?

A theory of convergence. Case in point: enough people complain that I don't update my blog enough within the space of the last 48 hours - and here you and I are together.

This was a week full of friends' birthdays - how did the stars converge in June 1984? Somehow all that comes to mind is a surreal image: George Orwell's novel set to the tune of "Wake me up before you go go" by WHAM!

So on Saturday, I decided to be the liminal force to merge two of the birthday parties, WHAM! The result? We found ourselves forced into a VIP room not exactly against our will, playing a waiting for Godot game for the actual hosts. Sometimes convergence takes patience...or the luck of having very few choices of first names in Poland. Next week, my imaginary friend Ania is also having a birthday party...

Places as well as people converge. After months of escaping Poland to see Scotland, Germany and Italy, I've traveled to Poznan and Wroclaw, taking two trips in two weeks. They are two cities with the same face as Krakow but different hairstyles. Intense rivalries build between those who are mostly similar, or close to one another, like bickering siblings. For those of you currently gambling large amounts of money on bracketology, just look at the ideological divide that makes up the stretch of I-40 between Dook and UNC.

In Wroclaw last week as I was working the targi pracy (career fair), the main concern students had was not about the financial crisis or controversy with UBS but with the prospect of relocating to Krakow for a job. That being said, both cities were lovely, filled with funky cafes and far less populated with superman costume-clad British tourons than Krakow is. It's getting to the time of year where as soon as twilight hits, you start to hear the howl across the city...

The only problem with my theory is that it is supposed to be working out the kinks in the universe toward a state of equilibrium. Instead, three of my friends are leaving Krakow in the next week - it won't be the same. Not only that, I'm facing a countdown clock of my own - less than seven weeks left before my visa expires and I'm jettisoned off.

Maybe some states of equilibrium are more equal than others...

Can't fight the runnin' blues

2009-02-18T20:39:00.004+01:00

There are some times you just want to run away.

I reached my breaking point when for the first time I saw on the way home from work a sight I found incredible. Tiny bits of crystalized water vapor were freezing in the air right before my eyes. All of Krakow was glittering.

And I couldn't feel my face.

When it comes to being inspired to travel, deus ex machina will drop in without fail, usually in the form of a friend who knows of a cheap flight. So less than 24 hours after I heard about the deal on Wizz Air, my favorite Hungarian airline, I had booked myself on a trip to Rome with four of my closest friends.

Now my preconceptions of Italy were chiefly based on two things: stereotypes I had heard from coeds who went on party abroad there, and the menu of the Olive Garden. I was happy to discover that Rome in the real world was lovely, relaxed and (forgive the maudlin description) renewing of my soul. Not only that, Rome was....different.

The locals broke the mold - an Italian family sitting next to us at dinner may have made lots of gestures, but they were actually laughing at how loud we were. Out of the five of us, only two were Americans, so that's saying something. The nightlife was as vibrant as the city - after chatting up various bartenders and taxi drivers, somehow we found ourselves in a Caribbean bar in the middle of Roma, a Cuban rap group on stage, the best mojitos this side of the pond in hand. And the best Italian food I ate when I was there? Creamy, melt in your mouth lasagna from a trattoria owned by Indians.

How do you hit the refresh button on your life? You don't have to go to Italy, although I highly recommend it. (In fact, I highly encourage everyone reading this to move there so I can come visit.)

Maybe all it takes are a good pair of Italian leather boots and having an adventure with friends who give you the freedom to be yourself.

To all of Europe

2009-01-06T19:22:00.006+01:00

Christmas in Poland will be a memorable one for me for many reasons, and it's not just because it was my first white Christmas - or even the first Christmas where I wasn't wearing shorts and flip flops. No, it wasn't even the joy of falling down a mountain on skis or soaking in a hot tub at the "Terma" water park down the road from our hotel in the mountains. Nor was it the insanity of Sylwester (Polish New Year's Eve), popping bottles of champagne on the Rynek with my brother and thousands of our closest friends.

So what was it? Rather than bore you with a story of my Christmas vacation, here are the memorable moments spoken by those who said it best:

"No, we do not have a wine list. So, what country do you want your wine from?"
-A waitress at a Krakow restaurant called Kuchnia i Wino (translation: Kitchen and Wine).

"No, Eric, don't drink the water! And no, I can't tell you why!"
-A well meaning Polish friend.

"To your health, and all of Europe!"
-A Polish gentleman, who after hearing my family speak English, kissed my hand and wished me luck as according to the Polish Wigilia tradition by breaking off a piece of my Christmas wafer. Wigilia is Christmas Eve dinner that has 12 courses, centered around carp. Ours also featured a traditional highlander band and a very underfed Santa Claus giving out presents.

"And I thought it was going to be Russia!"
-My culture shocked father, who even after being impressed by how un-Soviet Poland was, could still not understand the continuing fatherly presence of the one-man voiceover for foreign sitcoms on TV Polonia.

It's not Russia - it's home.

For now.

Krakow doppleganger theory

2008-11-12T21:14:00.003+01:00

I've been thinking a lot recently about second chances. Does fortune favor the brave or does it favor the rational?

Rather than spending endless weeks pondering philosophical dilemmas, I decided it was a much better idea to take off for Scotland for a long Halloween weekend. It was a chance to reconnect with my past in the form of UNC roommate Miss Katie Burns and besides, I couldn't deal with the depressing thought of Halloween with no trick or treaters. Krakow may have a dragon for a mascot, yet ghouls and ghosts roam its streets in other manifestations...

In Poland, All Saint's Day is celebrated in a way much closer to the actual roots of the holiday: lit candles are placed on ancestors' tombstones as a token of remembrance. It makes for an eerie yet beautiful sight and is taken quite seriously.

As I scarfed down haggis and staged Loch Ness photos involving sea-monster-shaped logs, being serious was the last thing on my mind. Nonetheless, Scotland helped me remember and appreciate forgotten small pleasures such as eavesdropping, speaking in slang, inside jokes, and friendly conversations with shopkeepers. Even getting lost, which should have been an inconvenience, became a pleasure in finding more and more perfect Scottish vistas and hiking trails.

By the time I returned to Krakow, bravery had won: I was moving into a new place in the city centre. Rationality helped: I would be saving 300 PLN per month. Coincidence was there too: as I returned from visiting my old roommate with my same name, I moved in with another one with my same first and middle names (in Polish, Katarzyna Anna). My favorite benefit, though, was one I hadn't expected:

I get to experience Krakow's most beautiful moment: the main market square misty and deserted at 7:00 a.m. as my heels click on the cobblestones, making my way to the train station every morning. I have even started waking up five minutes earlier every day just so I don't have to rush through it. And I'm a girl who eats breakfast at work to save even ten minutes of precious sleep time.

The almost comically consonant-filled name of my new street?

Wszystkich Swietych.

All Saints.

Do widzenia to summer

2008-09-21T22:02:00.005+02:00

There have been some frightening rumors going around recently, and I'm not just talking about those related to the future of unstable financial markets.

Somehow, I'm not considered a newbie in Krakow anymore. I'm even showing other people around, and some Polish people have admitted that I actually understand some of their language. Once a gringa, always a gringa? I'm doing my best to avoid it, but you know what, sometimes I like to cook my pierogis with extra hot tabasco sauce. Maybe I can live with being the eternal American if it means not needing a reason to smile and enjoying heavily spiced cuisine.

In any case, I have bigger fish to fry. Such as buying my first pair of snow boots as well as an outer layer that looks more like a sleeping bag than an actual item of clothing. That's right, there will be no more jaunts through the wooded mountains of the Tatras to pick fresh raspberries straight off the bush, because Zakopane has already had their first snowfall. The good news is, Krakow has plenty of activities to do indoors, and here are some of my favorites of the past few weeks:

- A sea shanty concert at a bar called Stary Port, with corresponding nautical theme (stuffed parrot included). It sounded exactly like Irish folk music, including a Polish version of "Whiskey in the Jar." But my favorite act was the opener, where two small Polish boys dressed in matching nautical striped shirts sung a raucous song where the chorus went (in Polish) "I am a little Pirate!"
- Drinking hot chocolate at Nowy Prowincia that is actually a melted Hershey bar. You eat it with a spoon.
- A random jazz concert at Alchemia, a very bohemian bar complete with a Johnny Depp lookalike as bartender. I felt like I was in Paris circa 1900. Needless to say I'll be going back.
- A conversation with a taxi driver in which my pronounciation was good enough to fool him for the first 30 seconds of the conversation. Then he told me my Polish wasn't that bad, and I actually don't think he was saying it out of pity. He told me to keep learning, and that he wished he had learned more English.

In order to make it through a week straight of 46 degrees rain (8 Celsius if you are Euro), it's all about the small victories.

But mostly the melted chocolate.

I cannot be dictated by a watch

2008-08-09T13:15:00.007+02:00

Time in Krakow rushes by like it's on amphetamines... it's hard to believe that I've already been here for a month. But the big picture eludes me.

Does it feel like home? Will it ever?

Having a network is not the same as belonging, as I'm finding out. It doesn't help that the nine hour work days and my attempts to go to as many activities possible - or an inability to say no to said activities - have meant that I've fallen asleep in front of BBC World News more times than I would like.

There have been some ups - Polish style barbecues, impromptu concerts, fireworks festivals....and some downs - a full train to Gdansk (meaning I can't go on my long weekend coming up), a language even some Poles tell me not to bother with, and that fact that I've somehow managed not to travel at all during my time here. Luckily I can work around most of those. Case in point: this week I had my first Polish language lesson - with a woman who doesn't speak English, a blessing in disguise for me because my native tongue is like a crutch around here. I feel like one of my former Thai students, only with a slightly less sponge-like brain.

Time in Krakow always seems to move too fast or too slow. I can only hope the saying is true that an ounce of patience is worth more than a pound of brains...

Engineering the human soul

2008-08-02T14:09:00.004+02:00

I have a new favorite place in Krakow. Nowa Huta was ordered by Stalin to be built as a model communist town, unsurprisingly built around a steel mill. It was to serve as an example to bourgeois Krakow, former home of Polish royalty. Today, it's home to milk bars, skinheads, and bangin' thrift shops. The grey communist block buildings are now occupied by Stylish Restaurants, and the lake where steel mill chemicals used to be dumped now has a fishing club...but no word about how edible the catch really is. The one major church in Nowa Huta is shaped like Noah's ark, which symbolizes carrying the masses out of the oppression of communism. Hometown hero John Paul II gave a moonrock brought back from Neil Armstrong to the church as a special blessing.

Space, chemicals, subcultures, propaganda, perception...it takes time really to know a place and a people. But I've learned that having your eyes wide open is not enough. I've been asking more and more questions that previously I was afraid to ask, thinking it would make me look like an ignorant American. Here are some things I have learned:

- The deal with packs of young guys walking around town in capes singing the Polish version of "Guantanamera" is that they have just left the compulsory military service. They are now free to party whenever they want. That's what the lyrics of the song are about - freedom.
- The goofy Polish rapper on TV is their version of Stephen Colbert, not their version of 50 cent.
- "W" and "Z" are actual words in Poland, not letters or abbreviations (they mean "in" and "from").
- Nobody understands me when I use idioms like "sticking around" or "what the dilly yo?"

Just like the Nowa Huta builders, I have to take it one brick at a time.

Curiouser and curiouser

2008-07-20T21:03:00.009+02:00

Blinking in the sunlight at 6:30 a.m. this morning, I had a revelation. Other than being an all-too-obvious sign of my indoctrination as a former English major, it really did seem as if I had crossed a threshold.

All too literally, I had emerged from the innermost cave.

The Bochnia salt mines are compacted by the shifting of continents by one centimeter a month. They have been doing this since their creation in the 13th century. Some people could have sworn it was difficult to breathe down there...and yet a cold wind constantly blew down the corridors. Where does the wind come from at 200 meters under the earth?

My sinus cavities throbbed because of the pressure change, but I could have sworn the whole time that if I opened some sort of locked mine shaft door, I would have found out we had been on ground level the whole time. Or I would have found myself having to choose between two vials, sitting at a tea party with the March Hare.

I'm not sure how, but I have begun to accept my life here. In other words, I'm not going to try so hard to find soy milk, nor am I going to expect bureaucracy to be easy in a former communist country. I am trying to break my bad habit of constant comparisons between here and home - a tall order because unlike during my previous travels, this time feels like it's for real.

That feeling has nothing to do with Poland, or even the fact that I will be here for a year. It's because whether I like it or not, my running off to Europe doesn't change the fact that I'm technically an adult now, whatever that means.

So then, if I'm not the same, the next question is "Who in the world am I?"

Ah, that's the great puzzle!

Like a welcome summer rain, humor may suddenly cleanse and cool the earth, the air and you

2008-07-12T10:21:00.006+02:00

This past week has been a good example of how reality rarely meets expectations.

Of course it's not always a bad thing - to my pleasant surprise, my work days at a corporate job (who would have thunk?) seem to fly by. People here have great senses of humor and are some of the friendliest I've met anywhere. The amount of random acts of kindness I've received since being here are astounding. Polish people will say they have more in common with Spanish or Italians culturally than their German neighbors, and I can see their point. In terms of living, my flat is nothing like what Americans think of European apartments - it's spacious, new and has a balcony.

On the flip side, you really can't find everything here you would at home...health food, for example. Or perhaps this is just an example of how I haven't figured things out here yet (until then, I'll eat kielbasa). Although if I hang out with the (many!) other trainees, I'll speak English, language has been much harder than I expected. Because of the way I look, I constantly find myself in need of a Polish decoder ring. Polish people are so friendly and jovial, too, so it's hard to avoid awkward non-Polish speaking interactions. So far I've learned the Polish words for "sandwich lady" (the exciting daily office announcement) and how to order a beer. So worst case scenario, at least I know I won't starve.

Krakow is hardly as cheap here as I had heard - something, I've learned after speaking to one of my flatmates, that has changed drastically in the past five years. It's not just the weakness of the dollar but the vast amount of growth the economy is experiencing here - i.e., a lot of Polish immigrants to places like the UK and Ireland are starting to come back.

If I could make a comparison between Krakow and anywhere a little more familiar, it would be Harlem: you have the jazz clubs, the "renaissance" and the new gentrification, and with festivals going on nearly every day of the summer, Krakow is certainly not short on culture. It even looks the same as its New York cousin - crumbling apartment buildings with parks in between them with children playing, weathered grandmothers looking on.

If I ever get a chance to catch up on my sleep, I'll remember to hold fast to dreams...

When the mountain takes your shoes, take the mountain

2008-06-24T16:33:00.003+02:00

Vietnam is one of the most fascinating places I've been, and not easy to figure out. Even on the flight over from Luang Prabang, the confusion began (Lao Air motto, I am not kidding: "You Are Safe With Us"). The captain made announcements like, "There is some turbulence, you should fasten your seatbelt, I don't know, for your safety."

Hanoi is a perfect example of how bipolar Vietnam is. It's a city chock-full of art stores and boutiques where people will (and do) eat anything and everything in order to survive. The baguettes are fresh....but so is the dog meat.

The people you meet fall into one of two extremes: the nicest people you have ever met or some of the angriest. Within hours of arriving, we met two Vietnamese restaurant owners in the street who took us to a beer hoi joint (fresh microbrewed beer that is found everywhere in Vietnam. It's watery but the tastiest beer in Southeast Asia). One adorable waitress passed me notes saying "peanut?" or "coca?" because she was shy but wanted to practice her English.

On the other hand, when one of the three Israeli career army men (good choice for someone to mess with, right?) broke an obviously previously defective kayak paddle on Halong Bay, a Vietnamese man and wife both tried to push him and Nate around because they wouldn't pay the US$30 demanded as a replacement fee. It wasn't just resentment of the West, either...we witnessed more than a few shouting matches between two Vietnamese. Unlike in Thailand, saving face wasn't a priority here.

I never felt uncomfortable being American in Vietnam, and probably got more flak from Canadians than anyone else about politics. This is despite the anti-American propaganda I saw at the Vietnamese Army Museum and the pictures of John McCain being "rescued" that were posted in the Hanoi Hilton.

Sadly, my time in Vietnam was cut short and I had to make the arduous journey back to Orlando, which as it turned out was 60 hours door to door. But I wasn't about to leave Asia without one more night (or a few hours) in Bangkok.

Rather than sleeping in the airport, I went to a Bangkok bar to watch the Russia v. Netherlands Euro Cup game with a few people I had met on the plane who had never been to Thailand before. I felt like a wizened old ex-pat, even knowing that I had to leave at 5am to catch my flight back to the states. There were some drunk and happy Polish men in the bar who were cheering for Russia - I gleefully told them that I was moving to their country in two weeks. All night, they had been substituting their own lyrics to "Guantanamera" and in my honor began singing, "Orlando, Flor-EEE-da!!"

It was one of those moments where I felt the ground shifting under my feet. It was time for a new continent...

Into the burning ring of fire...

2008-06-13T05:19:00.004+02:00

You really can't appreciate Asia without having the long bus ride experience. Asian buses are microcosms of human experience, if that isn't me waxing overly philosophical.

I'll give an example. Reactions and saving face are important in Asia, especially when a Lao man decides to sit next to you when there are plenty of open seats and you are trying to sprawl out and try to sleep on the ten hour ride. Being passive aggressive does little to help the situation - loud conversations, surreptitiously jostling the seat and sighing will do little to make the little man move. But without that minor annoyance, I might have missed some of the most beautiful scenery I've ever seen out of a moving vehicle in my entire life. Think: the blue ridge parkway, but with higher mountains, precarious turns with no railing, and entire villages built on steep hillsides. And pineapple farms everywhere. I love pineapples.

Northern Laos is an outdoorsy kind of place, even Vangvieng, which is essentially a backpacker party city. In it, you can go tubing down the river and stop at bars along the way, jumping off rope swings and generally making a fool of yourself because of the free Lao Lao. Unsurprisingly, there is a good reason why it is free. While you are floating, small children (who presumably are skipping school) pull you in from the rapids to your watering hole of choice and ask for money. It's the kind of place where you feel guilty even supporting the economy by having a beer because the average Lao makes less than the cost of a Beer Lao in a single day. But despite Laos being relatively undeveloped, it's got a friendlier spirit than most of the tourist spots in Thailand, where tuk tuk drivers will tell you to walk if you won't pay ten times the normal fare.

Since trekking is so expensive here, our next stop is Vietnam, which...wait for it...involves something like 30 hours of bus riding. Until next time!

Truly Asia?

2008-06-03T15:57:00.005+02:00

Krabi may have been expensive, but it certainly was relaxing. After the exhilarating experience rock climbing in which I self-induced a limp due to banging my knee on rocks, we decided that a big city was in order. Also, I needed to be in a country capital in order to work on a long term visa, because, it would appear, I am moving to Poland in early July.

Malaysia is truly a learning experience...such that on the bus ride down, I thought I was in Ft. Lauderdale. There were swan boats, and golf courses, and toll roads, and even a monorail.

Where in the world am I?

I have found out that in Kuala Lumpur, the surreal Muslim tomorrowland of Asia, some things are easy and some are difficult.

Easy Things:

Watching an IMAX movie for US$3
Getting food poisoning
Eating dinner at California Pizza Kitchen
Purchasing counterfeit Tiffany's jewelry
Going for a roller coaster ride in a shopping mall
Finding cheap gas (what do you think paid for the Petronas towers?)

Difficult Things:

Finding a travel agency
Finding the Poland Embassy
Getting past the toothless border guard at the Poland Embassy
Reuniting with the boys, or hearing from them at all
Changing a Delta flight from Malaysia to come home a week earlier so I can see my family

Hmm, perhaps it's for the best that we are headed out for Laos via Bangkok tomorrow...

Live your life every day, never waver from your path, and cause no cruelty

2008-05-28T14:23:00.005+02:00

That inscription was the tattoo on the back of our spiritual guide to Krabi, an as-yet-unnamed man from Gibraltar who straddled the front of our Thai longboat like Neptune commanding the sea with his trident. He punched his fists in the air with each pounding wave, chanting "Raylay Beach" like a mantra. Today I finally sat on a peaceful, mostly deserted beach watching a sunset over one of the most beautiful bays I've ever seen, with cliffs hundreds of feet tall surrounding me on all sides. But it's been a long time getting here.

I'm not a fan of sleeping in airports, because as a rule, I don't. However, this time it was convenient to leave for Phuket at the same time as picking up Ryan, our fifth hardy traveler after Mr. Alberto Lugo's sad and tragic departure. Once we got to Phuket, our experience was filled with sleeplessness, overly aggressive taxi drivers who are used to nonbargaining Eurotrash, and some surprisingly good Chinese food. As soon as we rolled, scuffled, and hauled ass off the ferry at Ko Phi Phi, the group consensus seemed to be that we would never leave. Much to my dismay, even considering it is the low season, we didn't. At least not soon enough.

It's not so bad. Really. Ever seen the excuse for a movie called "The Beach" with Leonardo DiCaprio during his floppy haired days? This is where it was filmed. Only in real life, it's overrun with Swedes who give you an insecurity complex with all the tanning in bikinis they do all day. It's a rough life traveling on the kroner.

As for us mere mortals, we sat at the Sunset Bar and read and swam during the day and drank there at night, watching the fireshow put on for benefit of hippie tourists. To add insult to injury, we paid three times as much as we would in Bangkok for the much beloved banana pancake (beloved by farangs anyway). One night I was awakened at 3am by Canadians in the hallway of our guesthouse who were arguing about American politics.

OK, sarcasm aside, we did do a day trip to little Phi Phi that was amazing. It wasn't even as crowded as I expected it would be. We jumped off rope swings into the ocean as our friendly longboat man tooled us around the island, finding inlets that were beautiful if not deserted. We also met gap year Brits who we hung out with for most of our time there.

I may have become a beach snob, but I personally thanked God for having created Krabi when I first saw it. Finally. I am in my happy place.

Whatever you do, don't fall in the river

2008-05-21T10:42:00.003+02:00

We're back today from a two-day trek through Konchanaburi, about 2 1/2 hours to the west of Bangkok. It was jam packed with the bread and butter of farang behavior in Thailand: riding elephants, swimming in waterfalls, and partying with other backpackers. My elephant's name meant "Pig" in Thai, which made sense since when he wanted a snack he destroyed most of a tree, carrying it off in his mouth like a dog to save it for later. The waterfalls were pretty spectacular as well, and less packed with tourists than the ones near Chiang Mai, which has a pretty similar landscape.

Konchanaburi is famous for being the home of the bridge on the river Kwai and other WWII memorial sites. Most of the monuments and museums had very apologetic and occasionally humorously worded/gramatically dubious displays about the Allied forces that were in POW camps in Thailand, which had sided with the Japanese. Konchanaburi is pretty close to Burma and therefore was pivotal in the transportation of supplies for the Japanese to fight the British. The sites, especially Hellfire Pass (a museum funded by Australian ex-POW veterans), were disturbing but very interesting. Since there were not very many Americans in Thailand during WWII, it's not something you generally would read about in a US history textbook.

Although the history was interesting, what made me happiest was the floating guesthouse we stayed on in the river. There was, of course, the requisite United Nations of Alberto's 20th birthday party. He got a better deal than when I had my 20th in Thailand: all I got was a Christmas decorated birthday cake (my birthday is in October) while he got to hang out on a party boat with cool travelers from all over the world (Sri Lanka, England, France, Germany, the list goes on). After that, coming back to Bangkok was a bit of a letdown, rife with dehydration, downpours and the first man down with food poisoning. Although the honeymoon period of Thailand may have worn off, at least we are headed to the islands this weekend!

Does this city never sleep, or is it just me?

2008-05-18T04:08:00.003+02:00

Now I remember why we left Bangkok after only two days last time I was here...this place is overwhelming. I am loving every second of it.

My first day in the city began with Nate's loud knocking on the door at 6am. All of us were massively thrown off because of jetlag, but we weren't about to let that stop us from an early morning jaunt around Banglamphu. Thailand accosted us immediately: the hilarity of the ladyboy guesthouse receptionist, the unforgotten tastiness of Fun-Os, the random strangers who try to help us, or help us relieve ourselves of our bahts...it all came back in a rush of feeling. I got a whiff of the smells emanating from the market stalls, and wondered why I ever left. The stupid grin on my face may have labeled me as a naive farang, but I'm remembering more and more Thai words the longer I stay. Watch out, kon Thai.

That being said, it is much hotter here than it was last time, and the pollution is hurting my eyes almost as much as Delhi's did. Per Emily's request we finagled ourselves an upgrade into an A/C room, but alas, we leave today for a much cheaper guesthouse - one, weirdly enough, I recognized from two and a half years ago. With six weeks of travel ahead of me and no particular plans, its price is comforting, especially since I am still unemployed. Thailand has become a sort of place of limbo for my life...but at least it's cheap limbo:

Guesthouse: $3
Noodles from a stand for lunch: 50 cents
Taxi to the other side of town: $2
Hourlong Thai massage: $6
Triumphant return to my second home: priceless

not just any gypsy, he's the king

2007-06-23T11:49:00.001+02:00

Jaipur is easily my favorite city so far in India (other than Rishikesh, but that was more of a small hill town than a city). Within hours of arriving, a bunch of us run into gypsies- one with an amazing mullet and one (his brother) who called himself the King of the Gypsies. Although the King had been long banned from the premises of the hotel, he wasn't discouraged from pouncing upon unsuspecting goris and gores and trying to get them back to his camp. Although I was constantly afraid someone was going to try to throw a baby at me and then take my wallet, they were really interesting people. They showed us a photo album of puppet shows they had done in France, and had a grasp of a ton of different languages. Actually, that seems to be the case for a lot of people in Jaipur - I was even speaking Thai with a jewelry salesman yesterday.

Speaking of, the shopping here is amazing. I've been kind of disappointed so far the amount people refuse to bargain because of the color of my skin- but here, there's so much competition that salesmen will chase you down the street before you even start bargaining with them. Then they give you free cokes while you look around.

We went to this veritable Disneyworld of Rajasthani attractions the other day, called Choki Dhani. It was an "authentic" village setting, complete with mechanical dinosaurs, harsh hookahs, an especially abusive massage man, and camel rides. It was the first time I had seen Japanese tourists on this whole trip, even including the Taj Mahal, and it made me sad (despite the dinosaur). Anyway, there may not be too many more cultural updates left in me because there's only a week left, which is back to Delhi. If there's any last minute shopping/legal things you would like from India let me know!

aligarh and family life

2007-06-16T15:33:00.001+02:00

After being in a homestay for the last week, I can say now I have a much better idea of what (so-called) authentic Indian culture is like. Interestingly, the caste system and constant hierarchies in every aspect of Indian life are what stand out. When a woman, such as my host family's daughter in law, Neha, married the son of the family, Anshuman, she became the lowest on the totem pole of the family, and was always being ordered around by the other family members. Part of it is the female deference to males (women stand up for men when there are not enough seats), and part of it is an age hierarchy (Neha was the youngest member of the household). I'm not sure how much her not being a "real" member of the family played into it. Although she was sweet by nature, her only way of exerting power was through passive-agressive means, since she couldn't defy the authority of anyone else in the family. Servants, however, were fair game for her to order around. It's odd to think that she must look forward to the time when she is the mother-in-law ordering around her son's wife. She struck a particular chord with me because she's my same age (21) and has already finished her MBA but plans to do nothing with it. It's a pretty common thing in India, where degrees for women are procured in order to make them better marriage material (it's one of the first thing listed in personal ads here for both sexes). It's funny to think that at my age, if I had been born in India, I could already be in an arranged marriage with a degree collecting dust. On the other hand, her husband is a really sweet guy, and they seem to like each other. Arranged marriage is one of those things that I feel like no matter how hard I try, I won't be able to understand it completely.

This was sort of the culture shock part of the homestay, but in general I was sad to go. I will miss the food, Anuja's sweetness, and the humorous and frustrating constant introductions to extended family. I won't miss the no-AC power outages or sleeping in a living room and being awakened at 6 am by what seemed to be intentionally loud dishwashing. I still feel like it wasn't the "real" India though: my family kept their life savings in kilo gold bars, for pete's sake! They let me hold one, and it was surprisingly heavy. Time has gone so fast in the past two weeks, it's hard to believe that was almost a week ago! I'm off to Jaipur tomorrow - the riots have ended luckily - and I'll update again from there. I do want to mention though about the monsoon starting yesterday, so don't expect much more whining about the heat. The storm clouds were some of the most ominous I've ever seen (and I've been through hurricanes) - a yellowish brownish color from the dust of the desert. It was one of those rainstorms that everyone goes outside and watches. From now on it'll be raining on and off for the next few months, more humid but much cooler. Til next time...

the hidden treasures of Old Delhi

2007-06-02T14:03:00.002+02:00

I feel like I've reached a new stage of culture shock. Most of Thursday we spent in Old Delhi, a place where Westerners rarely go - even taxi drivers won't normally take non-Indians there. I didn't think it was possible for anywhere to be more chaotic than what I had already seen of Delhi, but I was wrong. Old Delhi was like walking straight into the middle ages. The winding labyrinth of streets, markets that have probably been there for centuries, and the historic Red Fort and temples in the area made "normal" tourist attractions (ie. anything in Paris, New York or London) seem like Disney World. Old Delhi has its own culture that is completely separate from the rest of the city: I mused that there might be people there that had never left the maze of alleyways to see the rest of the city in their whole lives. Pastimes there are those of the genteel Urdu ways of yore; kite flying and pigeon training especially. Every so often you'd see flocks of pigeons flying in formation, directed by some invisible trainer. I feel like a lot of Delhi is that way - this city is not overrun with tourists, and one of our guest speakers told us that there are so many hidden or decrepit historical sites of interest that the Preservation Society can't keep up with them. Is it a lack of interest in history in favor of pure survival? Has Delhi just been relatively undiscovered because it is so intimidating? (save the sections of the city that were razed and remade by the British of course). It's a fairly difficult culture to break into or go unnoticed anyway - and the resentment toward anything English is still here. I feel like it takes a lot of work even to begin to understand the culture, and many times more work to feel a part of it. But as the excursion to Old Delhi exhibits, the rewards are very much worth the catcalls, dehydration and chaos involved in getting there. I hope that I'll start to get even the first hint of that by the time I leave.

In other news, the heat has been unbearable the last few days - 41 degrees celsius or higher (that's 112 to those of you stateside). The car hiring companies that get us around town keep running out of cars with AC because they're so in demand. Beggars have stopped asking for money and started asking for a drink from my water bottle. There's this wind that blows in from the desert this time of year and it feels like you're sticking your head in a furnace (a really dusty furnace). We're not even in the desert yet, either - where actually, they are having caste riots at the moment. Stay tuned for more on that...

ringo left because he hated the bugs

2007-05-30T16:10:00.001+02:00

And now the story of my excursion in Haridwar and Rishikesh, the second of which is the place where the Beatles went all transcendental meditation in the 60's. It was full of ups and downs, the highest of which was the coolest scam artist ever and the lowest was the bed bugs.

The scam artist (...or was he?) was this ascetic with perfect British accented English who said he had been a secretary for the Indira Gandhi administration and then later renounced all his possessions. He also said he had a granddaughter in Alabama going to college and he himself had gone to horoscope "school" in New York. Then he gave us some delicious chai in dirty glasses (he told us not to take any drinks from holy men since they would be roofied. I drank his chai anyway.) After that he told our fortunes - this is what he said about me:

I am ruled by Saturn, and I should wear a lot of black. I would have one marriage, but not until after many lovers. I would die at 65 UNLESS I changed my name at age 60 (then I would live to 100!). I should be an actress - and this was an ingenious plan if I say so myself - I should start in Bollywood and go to Hollywood. Like Aishwari Rai.

The other cool part of the trip was bathing in the Ganges, which was not as dirty where we were (the foothills of the Himalaya) as it is in other places. I'm actually pretty glad to be back in Delhi, something I thought I would never say. They don't take as many photos of me as a tourist attraction here.

not in kansas anymore

2007-05-26T17:37:00.001+02:00

This is going to sound weird.

Never in my life have I felt so aware of being female. It's not just the stares or the fact that people want to take pictures of me with their families for the sheer novelty of it. It's to be expected especially in an area relatively free of tourists- to them I look weird (especially my eyes which scared a small boy away today). I think I underestimated the Muslim influence here, for one. At the Sufi temple earlier this week and today at another mosque there were places women were simply not allowed to go (men could go anywhere).

At the Sufi temple, it was because of the incidences of women being pinched and harrassed inside Nazamuldeen (spelling?)'s tomb, which was very small and packed with people. That really sounds like an excuse to me, since the women were not doing anything wrong and should not be excluded for something that wasn't their fault. The other mosque, which encompassed the tomb of one of the Sufi poet's predecessors, had the same rule. But I really can't say this sort of discrimination is solely religion based, because most major religions have misogynist tendencies. Also the Hindi and Muslim cultures here in India anyway are relatively close; the sexism is simply part of the culture. Of course I expected to have to adapt somewhat, but it's harder than it seems to stop smiling at people because they will take such a simple gesture the wrong way. But it's better than being harrassed; I've learned to scowl.

I certainly don't mean to paint a negative picture of the country. It's full of life, smells, sights, sounds to the point of being overwhelmed, usually in a good way. But this issue, especially coming from a Western background, is something that is much harder to deal with when you're not in your own culture. Actually seeing women on the street with only their eyes showing through a veil is not nearly the same as reading an article about burkas in Newsweek. I find myself, to my surprise, being much less accepting of cultural relativism than I was at home. But at the very least, I now can truly appreciate my upbringing in the global context.

On a lighter note! (I swear I will stop whining)

The traffic in Delhi is sort of like going on a rollercoaster ride. Three lanes of traffic take up the space for two, and there are mere inches in between cars. A honk means: "move or I'm running you down. I might anyway." For the constant craziness, the drivers here are all so skilled. Even when they run red lights and drive on the sidewalk, they drive like they mean it. I mean, I did see a teenage girl get run over. But she was standing in the middle of a road with no median. The roads here are pretty Darwinian in that sense. It's certainly not like Bangkok where motorcycle drivers show off and weave in traffic - here they get out of the way or will probably get hurt.

My favorite foods here so far: Chai, these hand made donuts they serve with ice cream, samosas. Everything is so sugary, I'm not surprised I heard the other day that middle class Indians have a huge rate of diabetes.

the road out of orlando...may it come quickly

2007-05-19T06:47:00.001+02:00

I leave in two days. That's a kind of scary thought and something I am not ready for (sleep catching up wise. I'm always mentally ready).

This is what I was doing this time last year! (That's my brother and me in front of the Sydney Harbour Bridge). More's changed than just my hair color...but I've still got my expensive travel habit to support.