This is it. The big one. Spring Break. Two weeks straight trekking through Europe with just a backpack. The most adventurous of all clichés.
So there will be a lack of blogging for the next two weeks as Internet connections will be spotty at best. So I will leave you with a little preview of what I'll be doing and what you can expect to read about when I get back. I'll be keeping a notebook with me the entire time, writing every chance I get, and then putting them on here when I get back. So all the adventures you get to read will be coming fresh from the source. So here's the low-down:
February 25th-28th:
Barcelona, Spain: Going to see a number of awesome sights and a few friends from GW!
February 28th-March 1st:
Marrakech, Morroco: Whoops, gonna go to Africa. We wanted to experience a place completely different from American/Western European culture and figured an African country considered a part of the Middle East was a good pick.
March 1st-March 5th:
Pisa and Florence, Italy: A quick stop in Pisa to take the quintessential picture holding up that Leaning Tower, then on to Florence to see where the cast of Jersey Shore partied it up in Season 4. Oh yeah and the history, culture, and stuff like that too.
March 5th-March 6th:
Cinque Terre, Italy: Taking on the Italian coast with a day-long hike along the Mediterranean Sea between 5 separate little seaside towns, finally ending in Riomaggiore, where we will stay the night in a little apartment overlooking the sea.
March 6th-March 10th:
Rome, Italy: The final stop in our two week whirlwind. Gonna take in the sights and meet up with some more GW friends.
So there you have it. My next two weeks. Wish me luck!
Friday, February 24, 2012
Monday, February 20, 2012
So I guess I'm kind of German now?
As my high-speed train whipped past scene after pastoral scene, I tried to anticipate what waited for me at my destination. I was on my way to Cologne, Germany for the celebration of Carnival, one huge weeklong party, coinciding with Mardi Gras celebrations and the final hoorah before Lent. Parades, reveling, eating, dancing, the works. This is at least what my friend Max was telling me as our train tore across the Belgian border into Germany faster than I’ve ever seen a train move. Max, being from Germany and Norway and fluent in German, seemed an expert on any German subject, so my curiosity was satisfied. Still, as I sat back in my seat, I couldn’t quell a small worry that I was trespassing on a cultural custom. Would the German revelers appreciate an American in their midst, without any knowledge of what was going on? I guess you think like this when you live with the French, who certainly don’t take too kindly to strangers unaware of their social customs. After nearly two months, I’ve finally gotten the hang of conducting my everyday life with minimal stares from my native Parisians. Now I was about to cannon ball into the deep end of a completely different culture in one of its most famous celebrations. Woof.
We were staying with Max’s godmother, a woman named Sabina who lived in the suburbs of Cologne with her husband and only daughter, 17-year-old Theresa or Thesi as she likes to be called (like Daisy but with a T). Sabina met us at the train station to take our luggage back to the family’s house, and drop off Thesi to join us for our first night out in Carnival. She gets out of the car dressed in chrome silver leggings, a bright purple sweatshirt, and a side ponytail tied with a multicolor hair band. As we made our way through the crowds on the streets of Cologne, passing other colorful characters in all kinds of crazy get-ups, me and my plain white t-shirt felt completely out of the loop. Luckily I had Max and Julia to share my feelings. Nope. Max managed to pull a bright orange jester hat out of his backpack. Super. But I managed to throw some of my insecurities away as Thesi began to explain to us (in great English) some of the little details of Carnival in Cologne. Some of the cheers people say, the songs that are played, the prevalence of the colors red and white. As she led us around a final corner to our destination, I had begun to feel somewhat competent. Repeating the cheers and traditions in my head, I barely took notice of the building into which we were entering. It wasn't until I was bowled over by a tidal wave of noise and commotion that I looked up to survey the scene. Sprawled out in the gigantic wood paneled hall were hundreds of tables weighed down by hundreds of glass pillars of beer. Live music blasted from a stage in the center of the hall as hordes of people laughed and yelled, sang and danced, toasted and drank. It was a scene straight out of the movie Beerfest. A smile immediately spread across my face.
Thesi brought us to a table of about a dozen German kids, all high school friends of hers. Introductions were made, and they soon learned we were from America. I immediately tensed up, waiting for the eye rolls or the judging stares. Instead we were greeted with cheers, pats on the back, and broken English from everyone asking us where in the States we’re from, what TV shows we watch, what we like about Germany so far. I was completely taken aback by these kinds of interactions with Europeans. As beer towers were ordered and pints began to be poured and quickly emptied, the three of us were welcomed into the group with open arms. One of the guys, Tim, held the title of best greeting. He came up to me, put his arm around my shoulders, and shouts “America yah?!?!” To which I replied with a very proud “YAH!” The next phrase left his mouth like he had heard it on TV and was so pumped to say it. “COOL! WHAAAAT’S UP DUUUUDE!” Everyone cheered and clinked their glasses shouting, “What’s up dude!” at the top of their lungs. It was hard to keep beer from coming out of my nose I was laughing so hard. Another notable moment? A kid named Yan dressed in a chicken suit asked me, “You watch South Park, yes?” “Of course I love South Park!” I said back to him. “HAHA YAH! TIM-MAAAAAY!!” I spit my beer out all over the table as I laughed hysterically at the South Park reference, which received raucous applause from our newfound German friends. We danced on tabletops, enjoyed some of the best tasting beer I’ve ever had, and I was taught the words to every song the band played. Before long, I was singing right along with them, mainly butchering the words, but getting the main point across. Still laughing from the earlier South Park reference, an occasional “TIM-MAAAAY” was shouted, arousing more laughter and applause. It was an incredible blend of cultures all brought on by the Carnival celebration (and maybe the German Kölsch beer that kept emptying from our group’s 5 liter glass pillar a little too quickly).
The welcoming and friendly nature of this group of German kids really struck a chord with me. It was just something I had yet to feel since coming abroad. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying the French are these evil people bent on spurning Americans with every pointed glare, exasperated scoff, or hushed insult. I’ve come to find the French to be a people who possess strictly defined social customs. If you don’t adhere to them, you are deemed an outsider. They’re a proud people. So either you get with their program or not. While that may seem abrasive, it’s sort of the vibe I get. So naturally if I’m going to spend 6 months in Paris, I had to adapt, which I believe I mostly have. However, it just felt so good to let loose, show that I’m American, and have it be embraced by a group of Europeans. Every cultural reference greeted with a laugh. Every one of my butchered shouts of “SEHR GUT!” (very good) or “KOLLE ALAAF!” (loosely translated to “Cologne is the best!”) with cheers and pats on the back. Couple this treatment with the amazing breakfast Max’s godmother Sabina made for us each morning, and I came to the conclusion that the Germans are some of the nicest people I have ever met. And the rest of the weekend (in which similar events ensued) did nothing but prove my conclusion true.
-Long overdue reunion with Max and Julia-
-Teaching Cologne how to celebrate Pi Kappa Phi style-
-Indulging in some fine German "cuisine"-
-Taking in the Carnival parade-
Alive, Alive, Oh!
*Let me first off just apologize for the lack of blogging over the last two weeks. Three countries have been conquered over the past 15 days, with Internet being a rare gift in each of them. Here's just a taste of what my adventures in Dublin, Ireland were like. Belgium and Germany will soon follow*
As I stepped up to the customs agent at the Dublin Airport, he looked at my passport, smiled, and read my obviously Irish name in a heavy brogue. “Ryan William Donovan.” I nodded. His reply? “Welcome home son.” Nearly pissed myself.
As I stepped up to the customs agent at the Dublin Airport, he looked at my passport, smiled, and read my obviously Irish name in a heavy brogue. “Ryan William Donovan.” I nodded. His reply? “Welcome home son.” Nearly pissed myself.
I couldn’t have asked for a better greeting for my weekend in Dublin. For those that don’t know, my family is 100% Irish. I grew up hearing about our family coming over to America from “the land of Éire,” eating my Nana’s Irish potatoes, and doing every elementary school family heritage project on Ireland. Not like the other kids who were 20% Italian, 40% Greek, 17.3% Guatemalan, etc. So I was excited to feel that connection to a homeland to which I’ve never been. Which I guess explained why I couldn’t stop smiling as our cab driver drove us to our hostel, pointing out all the sights and little places off the beaten tourist trail.
We got to the hostel and dropped off our stuff. Now for the last two weeks in Paris it hadn’t gotten above 20 degrees Fahrenheit, which caused us to curl up inside to stave off the cold. We were suffering intense cabin fever. But in Dublin it was a mild 45 degrees, which felt like a tropical paradise to us, so we immediately took to the streets of the Temple Bar area of the city.
Huge tourist trap, but we didn't care. Tons of very colorful characters were already filling up the bars, and it was only 4 o' clock in the afternoon. I needed to catch up. Enter: A pint of Guinness. We entered the closest restaurant, a spot called The Old Mill Inn Restaurant. Opened the menu. Saw pints of Guinness for 3 euro. Saw fish and chips. Decision made.
People have said the if you want the best tasting Guinness, you need to get one in Dublin. Never a truer word was uttered. The stuff was ten times better than any of the Guinness I've had back in the states, like a leprechaun came along and pulled an Emeril, throwing a fistful of Irish magic into a glass. BAM! What a taste. As to be expected, Devyn wasn't the biggest fan. But the place had pickles, and everyone spoke English, so she was overjoyed. The meal was capped off with some coffee and a slice of Bailey's Cheesecake that was so good, I was forced to lick every last crumb off the plate when no one was looking. Hey, the Irish aren't well known for their table manners.
The sun had begun to set as we left the restaurant. We set off around the city, walking across the bridge to the North end, where there was a ton of outdoor markets, still going strong despite the sun setting. As the last rays disappeared behind the horizon, the sky became a twilight blue, and the city began to light up. As we walked down the banks of the River Liffey, I found there to be too many great photo opportunities to take advantage of, which eventually separated me from the group. I had no complaints though. Managed to take in the views of a city that I just kind of felt in tune with.
Fast forward to 9 o'clock that night. I made it back to the hostel and we had showered and were ready to hit the bars. A few staff members at our hostel recommended a few good places to see some Irish music, so Kearney's was our destination. As we walked down Dame Street, we were greeted by a miraculous sight. A 24 hour diner. Something unheard of in Paris. The three of us immediately swore that we would be back there before the night was over. But the miraculous sights didn't end there. We walked into Kearney's, found a Jameson's Whiskey barrel to sit around, and went up to the bar to order. What miraculous sight was there waiting for me? Coors Light on draft. Another anomaly in Paris. I was a pretty happy guy.
The pint glasses were full, the music began to play, and before we knew it, people in their 20s all the way into their 70s were dancing around the bar, jumping around and treating each other like a big family that hadn't gotten together in a long time. An old Irishman, breath smelling intensely of Jameson, stumbled up to us and quizzed us for a solid 10 minutes on Irish trivia, most of which we didn't know. He finishes the trivia game with a slurred announcement that he has to go to the bathroom and off he went. 20 minutes later, when I needed to use the bathroom as well, I found the guy still standing there struggling to take care of his business. Poor guy. Well he couldn't empty his tank, but he sure drank like a tank, so I guess nobody's perfect. If you look in the picture below, the old guy in the middle left with the glasses and newsie cap on. That's our guy. What a champ.
The three of us continue to hop from bar to bar, having one of those nights where everybody seems like your friend. Just a whirlwind of random events. At one bar, we met Sheila, a woman in her 60s who was having a big retirement party. Way to go Sheila! After leaving Sheila's party, we snuck on a pub crawl with a bunch of British people. God save the queen! However, we were kicked out of a bar for not having the pub crawl wristbands, so our cover was blown. So we entered the closest bar and headed down some stairs, past a bouncer, and into a basement with smooth, marble walls. Great music, crazy lights. We started dancing when I felt Devyn pull on my arm, telling me it was time to leave. I started to protest, saying this place was awesome, when she ordered me to look around. I followed her instructions and as I scanned the room, I noticed that every single person in that basement was 4-5 years younger than me. Then I saw the decorations. Holy crap. We crashed a 16th birthday party. We were outta there before they could spot the grey hairs on our heads. We finished the night at another bar where a band was playing classic American hits like "Born to Run" and "Roxanne," to which we all raucously sang along.
This was the exact kind of night I hoped to have while abroad. A night where you leave the house without much of a plan, have a whirlwind of experiences, meet all kinds of great people, and laugh as hard as a person can laugh. Just as the lyrics to Dublins unofficial anthem "Molly Malone" says, we felt "alive, alive, oh!"
This was the exact kind of night I hoped to have while abroad. A night where you leave the house without much of a plan, have a whirlwind of experiences, meet all kinds of great people, and laugh as hard as a person can laugh. Just as the lyrics to Dublins unofficial anthem "Molly Malone" says, we felt "alive, alive, oh!"
Sunday, February 5, 2012
You know you feel at home when things don't smell weird anymore.
When I first walked into my apartment one roller coaster of a month ago, it smelled odd. Not odd in a bad way, just odd in a different way. The air in the city smelled different. Everything was different. I remember our first day running around the city with our half-awake, jetlagged brains concentrating so hard on finding a place to buy sheets because we didn't want to sleep on something that smelled so...different. I now find it funny how the smell was the first thing I picked up on.
But I woke up this morning and realized that nothing smelled different anymore. It smelled normal. It smelled like home. Over the course of the month, Paris had finally become a home to me.
This, however, was not an easy process. I'll be completely honest, the first two weeks, I was not overly happy about being abroad. The cultural differences were smacking me across the face left and right. How making eye contact with someone on the metro automatically gets you a dirty stare. A smile equals a death sentence. How servers at restaurants couldn't care less about giving you top notch customer service and attention. Things that were once so easily at my disposal back in America were almost impossible to find. A 24 hour convenience store that had everything I needed. A metro that stayed open until 3am. A 30 case of Coors Light. These all sound like trivial things, and looking back on it, they do seem idiotic, but it made me realize how much I took for granted back home.
It also forced me to go out and search for a new sense of normalcy. A new bar that would become a classic hangout. A new grocery store where I could find the things I need. A new group of friends that I could enjoy. Finding new things challenges you. For the first two weeks, I was incredibly homesick and would've given anything to be back at GW to just have a beer at Froggy, work out at HelWell, hang out in the Pi Kapp house. Places and activities that signify home to me.
Over the past month, however, I've come to find new places and activities that signify home to me. Hanging out between classes in Amex, our school bar and grill. Eating a baguette, cheese, and red wine for dinner at least twice a week. Exploring every corner of Paris we can before we get too cold to move. Slowly, new things have become normal. It's interesting how that works. So here's to 4 more months of new things becoming normal. And appreciating the normal I left behind.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to wait another 9 hours for the Super Bowl to start at 12:30 am. I may be all about new things, but old habits die hard.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
WHAT. A. WEEKEND. - Part 3: Sunday
Sunday 11:30 a.m.
I feel myself wake up but refuse to open my eyes. I just want to lay in this bed for the rest of my life. After the last two days I've had, this was an appropriate desire. But incredibly unrealistic. Ahh well, I'll have a nice quiet Sunday, I say to myself as I get out of bed and start the coffee maker. Just me, maybe a book, cup of coffee. Nice. Quiet. Relaxing. Boy was I wrong. But I'll get to that.
I go downstairs to find Lindsey's and Julie's bags all packed, and my mood drops. The weekend completely flew by. After saying our goodbyes, laughing a final time about some hilariously obnoxious stunts Lindsey pulled, we part ways. Okay good. I've said my goodbyes, Ariel's off with her friends, Devyn goes to the gym, and I'm left here to curl up on the couch on this freezing day and get lost in The Hunger Games, one helluva book.
Then my phone buzzes.
A few of my GW friends studying for the semester at Sciences Po have decided to brave the cold and explore the city and want to know if I want to join. My first thought? NOPE. It's warm in here and I want to be lazy. But a little nagging voice inside my head scoffs in disappointment at my apathy over exploring Paris. What did I tell myself before coming to Paris? Seize every opportunity. Even if it's in the 20s outside. My coat goes on and I'm out the door.
I journey to the Latin Quarter, pass the Pantheon where I saw all those tombs of dead philosophers and authors (See the "Dead Things" post) and meet my friends S.J., Cody, and Alex at their apartment. I find out that China Town is our destination. Being Chinese New Year, there was apparently a big parade and celebration going on. "So much for my quiet Sunday," I think to myself.
So much for my quiet Sunday indeed. We walk to the 13th arrondissement along a wide avenue lined with banners and signs wishing everyone a happy new year in both Chinese and French. People of all ethnicities and ages crowd the streets as a myriad of multi-colored dragons, costumed martial artists, and parade floats weave throughout the falling confetti. The sights are incredible. The colors vibrant against the gray, dreary sky.
A weird smell wafts across my nostrils like something burning. I look on my shoulder at some confetti that had fallen there. It was strange, ragged looking stuff.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
My left ear bursts inside my head as three deafening explosions go off next to me. As loud as cannon fire, more explosions go off around the streets. My mind instantly goes to the worst. Crowds. Bombs. Terrorists. That's where a D.C. mind is trained to go. But that notion only lasts an instant as I see people laughing and cheering. They're not bombs, but Chinese firecrackers. And what I thought was confetti was actually the ragged debris of fireworks falling gently back to Earth. Little Asian men, laughing maniacally, light the fuses of more fireworks hanging from trees, or throw little flaming balls on the ground and the blasts ring out like gunshots as adults cheer and young children cry on their parents shoulders, desperately trying to cover the ears to soften the apocalyptic noise.
I feel like I've plunged into some sort of warzone. I really can't emphasize how loud these bangs were and how they just enveloped the street in debris. I manage to take three pictures of the progression of one of the fireworks exploding that make it truly look like a scene out of a war film.
The firework is lit...
The fuse burns as curious gatherers begin to crowd around.
BAM.
All hell breaks loose.
S.J., Cody, Alex, and I weave throughout the crowd, dodging blasts from the fireworks, and taking in the incredible spectacle laid out before us. As I dash around people and manage to evade the explosions, I can't help but geek out and pretend to be in the middle of a Call of Duty level. We manage to make it to the end of the avenue where the parade ends and the sounds of fireworks exploding and the intense crowd subsides. But for some unknown and insane reason, we plunge back into the crowd, making our way back up the street through the wild celebration. The journey was a crazy one, better understood with this quick little video I made.
Never thought I'd learn this is Paris, but the Chinese know how to make a bang. Pun completely intended.
The day ends with a walk back to the Latin Quarter and an excellent Italian dinner of 4 Cheese Pasta and Chocolate Mousse. Can't forget the carafe of red wine. But it wouldn't be a weekend in Paris without making a tiny, yet fantastic discovery on our walk home through the streets. As we walk into Pantheon Square, we notice a set of steps that look oddly familiar. Turning around and looking down the street, a scene from one of the best movies I saw this past summer flashes across my mind's eye. An old car rumbling down the street. Owen Wilson getting into it and being whisked back in time to 1920s Paris.
Holy crap, these are the Midnight in Paris steps.
The steps where Owen Wilson waits in the movie each night for that car to take him back to an iconic time in Paris' history to meet the likes of Ernest Hemingway, Cole Porter, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Gertrude Stein. This movie is what sealed the deal for me to study abroad in Paris. And while no time traveling car picked us up and spun us back decades, a couple from New York did take our picture.
Again, I'll say it. WHAT. A. WEEKEND.
End of Part 3
I feel myself wake up but refuse to open my eyes. I just want to lay in this bed for the rest of my life. After the last two days I've had, this was an appropriate desire. But incredibly unrealistic. Ahh well, I'll have a nice quiet Sunday, I say to myself as I get out of bed and start the coffee maker. Just me, maybe a book, cup of coffee. Nice. Quiet. Relaxing. Boy was I wrong. But I'll get to that.
I go downstairs to find Lindsey's and Julie's bags all packed, and my mood drops. The weekend completely flew by. After saying our goodbyes, laughing a final time about some hilariously obnoxious stunts Lindsey pulled, we part ways. Okay good. I've said my goodbyes, Ariel's off with her friends, Devyn goes to the gym, and I'm left here to curl up on the couch on this freezing day and get lost in The Hunger Games, one helluva book.
Then my phone buzzes.
A few of my GW friends studying for the semester at Sciences Po have decided to brave the cold and explore the city and want to know if I want to join. My first thought? NOPE. It's warm in here and I want to be lazy. But a little nagging voice inside my head scoffs in disappointment at my apathy over exploring Paris. What did I tell myself before coming to Paris? Seize every opportunity. Even if it's in the 20s outside. My coat goes on and I'm out the door.
I journey to the Latin Quarter, pass the Pantheon where I saw all those tombs of dead philosophers and authors (See the "Dead Things" post) and meet my friends S.J., Cody, and Alex at their apartment. I find out that China Town is our destination. Being Chinese New Year, there was apparently a big parade and celebration going on. "So much for my quiet Sunday," I think to myself.
So much for my quiet Sunday indeed. We walk to the 13th arrondissement along a wide avenue lined with banners and signs wishing everyone a happy new year in both Chinese and French. People of all ethnicities and ages crowd the streets as a myriad of multi-colored dragons, costumed martial artists, and parade floats weave throughout the falling confetti. The sights are incredible. The colors vibrant against the gray, dreary sky.
A weird smell wafts across my nostrils like something burning. I look on my shoulder at some confetti that had fallen there. It was strange, ragged looking stuff.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
My left ear bursts inside my head as three deafening explosions go off next to me. As loud as cannon fire, more explosions go off around the streets. My mind instantly goes to the worst. Crowds. Bombs. Terrorists. That's where a D.C. mind is trained to go. But that notion only lasts an instant as I see people laughing and cheering. They're not bombs, but Chinese firecrackers. And what I thought was confetti was actually the ragged debris of fireworks falling gently back to Earth. Little Asian men, laughing maniacally, light the fuses of more fireworks hanging from trees, or throw little flaming balls on the ground and the blasts ring out like gunshots as adults cheer and young children cry on their parents shoulders, desperately trying to cover the ears to soften the apocalyptic noise.
I feel like I've plunged into some sort of warzone. I really can't emphasize how loud these bangs were and how they just enveloped the street in debris. I manage to take three pictures of the progression of one of the fireworks exploding that make it truly look like a scene out of a war film.
The firework is lit...
The fuse burns as curious gatherers begin to crowd around.
BAM.
All hell breaks loose.
S.J., Cody, Alex, and I weave throughout the crowd, dodging blasts from the fireworks, and taking in the incredible spectacle laid out before us. As I dash around people and manage to evade the explosions, I can't help but geek out and pretend to be in the middle of a Call of Duty level. We manage to make it to the end of the avenue where the parade ends and the sounds of fireworks exploding and the intense crowd subsides. But for some unknown and insane reason, we plunge back into the crowd, making our way back up the street through the wild celebration. The journey was a crazy one, better understood with this quick little video I made.
Never thought I'd learn this is Paris, but the Chinese know how to make a bang. Pun completely intended.
The day ends with a walk back to the Latin Quarter and an excellent Italian dinner of 4 Cheese Pasta and Chocolate Mousse. Can't forget the carafe of red wine. But it wouldn't be a weekend in Paris without making a tiny, yet fantastic discovery on our walk home through the streets. As we walk into Pantheon Square, we notice a set of steps that look oddly familiar. Turning around and looking down the street, a scene from one of the best movies I saw this past summer flashes across my mind's eye. An old car rumbling down the street. Owen Wilson getting into it and being whisked back in time to 1920s Paris.
Holy crap, these are the Midnight in Paris steps.
The steps where Owen Wilson waits in the movie each night for that car to take him back to an iconic time in Paris' history to meet the likes of Ernest Hemingway, Cole Porter, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Gertrude Stein. This movie is what sealed the deal for me to study abroad in Paris. And while no time traveling car picked us up and spun us back decades, a couple from New York did take our picture.
Again, I'll say it. WHAT. A. WEEKEND.
End of Part 3
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)