Gaudi's Barcelona

By Megan

My first visit to Barcelona was only a few short days, but Gaudí’s work inspired me so much that it pulled me back to the city to live amidst its wonder four years later.  Today, I’m going to tour Barcelona through the eyes of three of Antoni Gaudí’s masterworks.  And I refuse to apologize for all of the wonderful photos I was forced by sheer necessity to include.

1. PARC GÜELL
- The park was originally designed as a private, exclusive community and boasted access to fresh air.  The architecture of the space encourages exploration and imagination with colored tiles accenting curves and supporting beams designed to look like palm trees.  The entire community (that includes only two homes, neither designed by Gaudi) is set on a hillside overlooking the city, so as you stand in the whimsical central plaza you can see the mountains rise up behind you and the water beyond the city.  The central plaza is lined with benches that curve like a slithering snake around the primeter of the plaza that is set upon a platform.  These curves create private spaces even though they are open to the public and they are covered in the colorful tiles for which Gaudí is famous.  Street performers try to grab your attention, while “artisans” hawk their jewelry and trinkets, yet you still cannot help feeling that the sun-warmed cement space where you sit and gather your thought belongs to anyone but you, even if only for a moment.


If you go and visit, be ready for tourists.  Prepare yourself to look around the mass of people and mentally push aside the nearly constant camera flashes.  It does not cost anything to walk around the park, but admission is charged to enter the two buildings (one of which Gaudí lived in) on the property.  Tip:  Walk up the hill side on on the side path and sit underneath the cross, Gaudí’s holiest spot in the park, and enjoy views of the Sagrada Familia, the very masculine looking Torre Agbar, and Montjüic.




2. LA SAGRADA FAMILIA
- This massive church has been under construction since 1882 and will take at least 16 more years to finish.  Gaudí devoted over 50 years of his life working on this project and spent his last  twelve years living inside of the building, sleeping there overnight.  The entire structure is dripping with religious symbolism from the 18 towers representing apostles, evangelists, the Virgin Mary, and Jesus Christ as the tallest tower.  There are three facades depicting the Nativity, the Glory (yet to be finished), and the Passion.
Something else that I absolutely love about this structure are the playful geometric details, that were supposed to reflect natural elements, included as part of the physical structure of the building, the furniture for the space, and in the decoration that covers the structure.  It’s nearly impossible to imagine the detail that went into this project unless you visit for yourself.  Tip: GO INSIDE.  Get an audio tour and learn more about the project.  It’s worth the euros.



3. CASA MILÀ aka LA PEDRERA
- This building is located very near the center of the city and sticks out like a zebra-striped piggy bank on a Christmas day parade.  You cannot help but notice the unique outer structure of the work when you walk down the Passeig de Grácia (the ‘Funny’ Street, in English).  It has a similar curve as that of the benches in Parc Güell, but it is five stories tall and is still used as a residential facility.  You can walk into the building and wonder at the colors used in the atrium, and then head up into the first floor to view some of the architectural details on display along with free art displays.

This is another place where the cost is worth the tour.  GO ON THE TOUR!  Your ticket will grant you access to one of the apartments, still decorated with furniture designed by Gaudí.  Check out the unique handles on the doors and don’t forget to look up.  When you take the elevator to the roof, you might imagine that you are in some sort of skate boarders dream/nightmare, as the roof curves and drops in an almost unimaginable fashion.  Then enjoy in exhibit indoors of Gaudí’s furniture and designs.

4. LAMPOSTS AND SIDEWALKS
- Okay, I know I said three, but I cannot help but mention the designs in the pavement on Passeig de Grácia and the lamposts in Plaça Reial, Gaudí’s first project in Barcelona.  Keep your eyes peeled while in the city because his work and inspiration are everywhere.

(Photos by Me, Ana Aebi (Mom!), and Amy John)

Vienna Art

By Megan

The train took two hours longer than expected and really would not have been that bad if we understood what was going on.  And maybe it would have been nice if we had remembered to bring snacks other than our 'Orbit' gum.  But honestly, I did not care a bit that we were drenched in sweat and sleepy, because our train for Wien (Vienna) and I was ready for regal beauty in Mozart's old stomping grounds.

Our first morning in the city- after a night of freak hail storms- was spent in the traditional Viennese style; at brunch.  It was a simple meal with to die for coffee, that was nestled in an adorable vine-covered courtyard.  Young families passed babies off to friends, and older couple read bits of the local paper aloud to each other.

A night at the museum

For some unknown reason, this had become the city of museum visits extraordinaire for me:  I had been to the Prado, enjoyed the best in the mid-west (thank you, Chicago), and fell for Paris.  Wien had become my museum mecca.  I was on a mission to find the Klimt mother load and I was not going to leave the city disappointed.

Step 1:  The Leopold Museum, post-brunch.  The building itself was imposing, let alone their collection.  Room after room was filled with stunning works and tourists from all over the world.  But alas, there were fewer Klimt works than I had been lead to believe.  After the amazing beauty we enjoyed indoors, we took in the sunshine outdoors in the garden, and tried not to be too mischievous.

Outside of the Albertina Palais Museum

We both wanted to visit the opera or potentially the Vienna Boys Choir, but decided that our shabby-chic looks would not quite make the cut, so I instead inquired about common past times in Wien for early June and found out that swimming in the river was quite popular.  So off to the 'beach' we went, bathing suit already on.  The train let us off right near a bank of the river and did not take me long to jump into the river with my travel buddy looking on.  As I swam in the water with the other older gentlemen, I realized where I was-- I was SWIMMING in the Strauss' BLUE DANUBE!  I dried in the sun and thought that my music teachers would be proud.

Step 2: The Albertina Palais Museum.  While my travel partner rested, I went to the Albertina which was beautifully situated in the center of town.  I also remembered enjoying the reduced ticket price for students and the pistachio/nutella gelato I had as a snack.  No Klimts in sight.

A dip in the Danube

Step 3:  The Belvedere Palace.  Finally, I got to see some of Gustav Klimt's expressive works and they did not let me down.  I must have spent 15 minutes enjoying each piece the museum featured until we were both so exhausted that we needed another ice cream, just to keep on going.

Our time in UpEurope was coming to an end, and we were heading back home to Barcelona.  I was even excited to take my exams and finish my time at the university.  Come on paper writing- give me your worst!  Barcelona even smelled better, but I still long for swims in Wien, long walks in Prague, and rhinos in Berlin.

Silver and Bones

By Megan

I don't know how we figured out the ticket situation at the bus station in Prague, but we ended up on the right bus towards Kutná Hora... without seats.  So my new friend and I sat on the floor and talked like old friends about music, travel and food.  Feet numb from the two hour ride, we made our way to the Sedlec Ossuary, ie. the bone church, after grabbing a quick lunch.
I knew that it would be interesting to visit the church where an estimated 40,000 to 70,000 human remains had been artistically arranged in piles, chandeliers and wall decorations, but I honestly thought it would be more creepy than it was.  To be honest, it was devoid of any energy or emotion.  The Ossuary was creepy because of the sterility of the space and besides, it was really difficult to believe that 40,000+ human remains were stacked around us.
We hiked back into the city center to visit with St. Barbara's gothic church; St. Barbara is the patron saint of miners, apt for this town established on the discovery of silver.  Construction began in 1388, but was not complete until the 1905 (reminds me a bit of a certain Catalan structure, cough Gaudi, cough Sagrada Familia).  The double arched flying buttresses were stunning (flash backs to that middle school architecture class, thank you Mrs. Crumm).
We had a few more hours to kill before the bus picked us up, and as it just so happened, an English language tour of the silver mine was just picking up.  So we joined a group of students traveling with their college professor and donned a plastic helmet and cloth coat.  Playing with our head lamps, we listened hard to decipher our wonderful guide.  She told us that the mine was of 14th century origin and that we would only be on level 1 of 10-12 stories of the mine.  I could hardly keep from laughing when our guide warned us that the tunnel would begin to get much smaller and then we nearly had to crouch through the tiny tunnel- the helmet came in very handy.  She also had all of us turn off our headlamps to simulate what light would have looked like for a minor in the 14-16th century and it was barely enough to see your hand in front of your face.  Yikes!
We casually caught the bus back to the city after the tour to find my travel partner waiting for me at Sir Toby's.  The day ended with a good meal and lots of conversation about our day.  The last leg of our trip, Vienna, loomed just in front of us and we were starting to miss Barcelona.

City Crush- Prague

By Megan

We were in the middle of our 'northern' European trip, enjoying a white peony tea in a shop near Wenceslas Square when I knew- I was in love.  It was as if I had fallen into an Audrey Tautou movie, except my hair was convinced on growing dreadlocks and looking quite wild.  I braided my hair and opened my arms wide ready for an adventure.
Our hostel was adorable (SIR TOBY'S; see my favorites at http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/11/18/a-go-girls-guide-to-hosteling/) and filled with several interesting characters.  There was a father introducing his two young sons to hosteling and the charms of Prague, a boy from Singapore who had been backpacking for several weeks, and of course, my new friend Anton from Sweden.  The lady at the DELICIOUS homemade granola breakfast bar giggled when I informed her that the jug of agua was empty.  A helpful guy making pancakes translated my vocabulary slip-up for me with a thumbs up, as a refilled my cup of water.
Prague itself was warm and the tank tops finally started to pull their weight, especially on a walk across Charles Bridge towards the Prague Castle.  I still remember the torture chamber and tiny shop doors of the castle ground, but walking up the stairs to the castle was half of the fun.
The next evening, I went back to the castle with my new friends at night and hiked the stairs with the city lights in the background.  Prague had me swooning in the palm of its hand; romantic vistas, a bohemian style that didn't feel forced, and a music/arts scene so diverse that admirers still enjoy Mucha's art nouveau advertisements.  Speaking to the diversity of the city's arts, my friend and I enjoyed a concert through the Fringe Festival, in a small basement bar, by a Scottish singer/songwriter before walking through the historic Jewish quarters in search of dinner.
Later that night, with a so-so gelato in hand, I watched as the famous astronomical clock let 'death' chime in nine o'clock.  It wasn't too exciting to see, until I learned that it was built in the 1400s and nearly destroyed in WWII.  (Quite the commentary that 'death', represented by a skeleton, ticks away the time especially considering the new year...)

Our next day, we climbed the 'Eiffel' tower, which gave us fantastic views of the city and has very cool double helix stairs.  Then, we went across the city to view a most confusing t.v. tower covered in giant crawling babies.  I still don't get it.  It was decided that one more night in the country was necessary, so my travel partner decided to tour a concentration camp ,while I went with my new bud to Kutná Hora for a day trip.  The next day (and next week's entry) promised to be interesting...

Dresden Surprise

By Megan
The train ride from Berlin to Dresden was a snap; we arrived at the station and followed our hand drawn map to a hostel that we thought would have plenty of space.  I remember that it was early evening (the train was a tad late) and we walked down a street that ran parallel to the tracks and gave both of us the creeps.  Needless to say, we high tailed it, pretending to understand the German street signs.
Just our luck, the hostel was packed.  A large group had descended upon the building, and my travel bud and I started to formulate another plan.  Suddenly, as if out of some weird dream (or a horror movie) the hostel owner offered us a room in a recently renovated two-bedroom apartment down the street.  THE CATCH: We would have to share a bed as, the other room was occupied by two very quiet chaps from down under.  It was cheap enough, and since it was late, we took his offer.  He handed me the key and gave us directions.
We came upon the building, and alarm one went off; the front door was propped up against the wall and a cat came flying through the hall as if escaping from some hidden evil.  Alarm two might have been the general abandoned nature of the complex, but I shrugged it off, ignored the cobwebs and hit the stairs.  We came to the door and tried the key.  The door opened up an IKEA wonderland of brand new everything sat directly before our eyes.  It was such a stark contrast to the building that the Kiwi and Aussie might have actually said something (but I don't think they actually did).
We put our bags down and headed out for a good meal paired with a Riesling.  The next day was filled with sight seeing; all we really knew about Dresden was that it had been destroyed by the Allies in WWII (I knew more about Dresden, Ohio, "Basket Village USA") .  Everything that we were about to see had been reconstructed.  We paid to take the stairs to the top of the Lutheran Dresdner Frauenkirche, the Church of Our Lady, which had only  been rebuilt, in the past ten years or so, as an exact replica of the structure that was destroyed during WWII.

The view was gorgeous.  The church was impressive, and yet odd to sit inside of a structure that was a replica of something lost.  In fact, most of Dresden seemed haunted by the past.
A visit to the Grünes Gewölbe (the Green Vault) was sparkly and enchanting- it is a museum of with the largest collection of gold, silver, jeweled and other ridiculously expensive looking treasures in Europe.
(For a good article with pictures and an overview of the sparkly treasures, head here --> http://www.theepochtimes.com/n2/content/view/25312/). Who knew that such intricacy and detail was possible?  I've never been so scared of breaking anything so sparkly in my entire life.
On our final day, we visited the VW plant and enjoyed soggy weather before catching a train into Prague.  Dresden was a city filled with surprises- the hostel, the view from the church, and the Green Vault.  I may never be back for a second visit, but I surely enjoyed my time there more than I ever expected.  More stories on Prague coming next year!  Don't worry- 2010 is almost here.  You won't have to wait that long.

Divine Intervention

By Ariana 

Travel journalists and bloggers spend a fair amount of time and detail describing the exotic places we’ve gone and the exciting adventures we had while we were there but we all too often overlook everything that comes between our place of origin and our final destination.  We assume that the airport, the plane, the boat, the train, and the bus are places of little or no consequence.  They are the places that should be hurried through on the way to our next adventure, an adventure which we can all be sure will occur in a place that is far more exciting than a bus terminal.  That is not to say, however, that these places of transition and modes of transportation completely lack any interest whatsoever.  In fact, one of my most formative travel experiences occurred in an airport.

Directly following graduation from college I went on a trip to visit Europe with my friend Elise and stay with her relatives in Italy and in France.  We were supposed to meet in the Washington Dulles Airport and fly to Italy together, unfortunately, all did not go according to plan.  Elise caught the flight to Italy but I got stuck in the Dulles airport because of a tornado (yes a tornado, I had previously thought that much like the rain in Spain tornados kept mainly to the plain, but I was, apparently very wrong).

I convinced myself that it was fate that I was stuck all alone overnight in Washington DC because of the flight that Elise made and I missed.  I decided that the obese middle-aged man sitting next to me on the flight to Dulles, the one who spent the entire flight edging closer to me (on the pretext that he was trying to move away from the stench emanating off of the man sitting in the window seat), might just be my soul mate.  He had, after all, offered to buy me dinner when we got off the plane, perhaps this was a sign.  But he was not my soul mate because the customer service line beckoned and, irrationally, I decided to turn down free dinner and drinks with my "soul mate" because somewhere in the masochistic region of my brain I decided that waiting in a line that spanned several terminals of the Dulles airport was, actually, preferable to a free dinner.

It was just as well, because while I was waiting in this aforementioned line I met God.  I suppose that was a very imprecise way of saying it.  Now you are probably expecting me to go into some epic conversion story along the lines of Emperor Constantine.  Or you will argue with the phrasing and try to convince me that it was not God who waited in line with me but rather one of his messengers.  Or if you are a skeptic you will try to convince me that it was merely a coincidence and that I attributed his presence to a divine power.  Or if you are particularly religious you might tell me it was nothing of the sort and that even thinking that I had met God let alone telling everybody about it is irreverent and disrespectful and I will probably rot in hell.  And you may be right and you can call it what you will but I will call it my meeting with God and it occurred at approximately 6pm on the 4th of June in the year 2008 in the United International Flights customer service line at the Washington Dulles Airport.
God was of medium build and he had a mustache (but not a beard). He was middle-aged and if you are the sort to care about

Sitting on Elise's grandmother's bed in Marina di Pisa, Italy, wearing one of her grandmother's classy 80s-style puff paint shirts

ethnicity then I will inform you that God was Sri Lankan.  God and his wife and two daughters had missed their flight to India, which meant that they also missed their flight to Sri Lanka. God was (as you would very well expect him to be) incredibly profound. He was very calm.  God was (also as you might expect) the only person in the line who wasn't bitching and moaning.

His argument was that he would get there eventually, but there wasn't anything he could do to make himself get there faster so why bother getting all worked up about it.  I felt like God definitely had a point there.  As I stood next to him in line I had this strong desire to be more like him.  I decided that from then on I wasn't going to try to fight the divine will, or luck, or fate, or whatever you may call it for control. I was just going to float and see what happened and just have faith that things would turn out all right in the end (which is not really a departure from my previous belief, but this God in the customer service line just sort of reaffirmed it.)

When I finally arrived at Elise's grandparents' house in Italy without my baggage, I heeded the lesson that I had learned fromthis travel God.  I didn’t allow my lack of luggage spoil my trip.  I merely wore Elise’s grandmother's clothes (which were frightful in a hilarious sort of way) all around Pisa.

The Catalan Coincidence

By Megan

It's been 16 months since I left Barcelona.  I was pulled back into the US to finish my college degree and by a curiosity for the adventure that would be the year following graduation.  I had accomplished my goal of having dreams in Spanish and traveling to wherever my feet felt like taking me.  It was a glorious year of discovery and exploration that had to end, but there is still one connection that keeps me part of Catalunya- let's call it, "The Catalan Coincidence".  Whenever you least expect, a Catalan encounter will take place. (Below photo by Alejandro Gamboa).

For example, this past week alone, I had three people ask me if I spoke Catalan- una mica.  And in a choir rehearsal, I had to read aloud the pronunciation of a Catalan piece so that the aquesta's, nit's, and deu's were in order.  In Berlin, a bike tour I took in Spanish was lead by a Valenciana (a woman from the region of Spain where they speak a Valencian dialect of Catalan).  But the most clandestine 'Catalan Coincidence' I've ever come across was in Milan, Italy.
My travel bud and I arrived in Milan late on a Thursday evening- the plane tickets were a steal, even though it was a late arrival flight.  We soon realized that the bus we planned on taking into the city was going to drop us off in a part of town we had not researched; this meant that all of the hostels we had looked into were on the other side of town.  We didn't have a proper map, it was past midnight, and our knowledge of Italian was limited, to say the least.  A familiar, uncomfortable feeling of doom started to roll over us as the bus made it's way into the city.
Suddenly, through the waves of anxiety, came a sound familiar to any well-immersed Barcelona study-abroad student: Four catalan women gabbing loudly, while on vacation.  The strong t's and squished together ll's sounds like a lullaby, especially when they graciously lead us through the streets of Milan to a relatively inexpensive hotel where they had rooms booked.  It was a god-send at 1-am in the Italian morning to two lost travelers.  Without our Catalan guides, we would have had no idea where to go- but fear not, the Catalan Coincidence brought forth four beaming rays of light.  Bona nit's and gràcies'  later, we had been saved.
Il Duomo and gnocchi made for a fine day in Milan before we said 'adéu' to the city and our Catalan guides, and headed for Venice.  In short, Catalan will find you no matter where you are or what you are doing.  It might come in the form of petons from a friend, or a protest that throws your thoughts back to fellow students from the universitat.  Embrace it and it will ignore you with love.

Next week:  A Go-Girl Guide to Hostels

Piadina in Ferrara

By Megan
 
Earlier in my trip to Italy, my travel buddy and I met up with her Italian friend she had met in the USA.  He picked us up at the train station, and spent the day showing us around his home town, Ferrara.  I thought my home town was lovely, but his has a castle.  According to our host, the Castello Estense is the oldest castle in Europe still surround by water- quite the moat, if I do say so.  Another fantastic building is the Palazzo dei Diamanti- a villa covered by an exterior of patterned diamond shapes, one rumored to be a real, gigantic diamond.
It is also known as a city of bicycles, with 3.5 bikes for every one person.  Other highlights include the impressive medieval walls, the church turned porno movie theatre, and the longest street in Italy with out any shops.  Oh, and how could I forget- the PIADINA!
In Spain, it was pretty easy to explain that I just didn't eat meat because I didn't like it.  But Italy was another matter entirely, and it wasn't just because of the language barrier.  "How can you not eat meat? Don't you get sick?"  or my personal favorite, "What's wrong with you?  Meat is so good."  Well guys, I still don't eat meat, and although some may beg to differ, there is nothing 'wrong' with my habit.

Our lovely host (featured in last week's article- The Five People You'll Meet in Barcelona)

Anyway, our kind host took us to his favorite bar to get a necessary bite to eat before continuing on our tour of the region.  He repeatedly reminded us of the importance of these lovely sandwiches, which sounded better and better the hungrier we became.  The 'chef' extraordinaire repeatedly told me that he didn't know how to make a piadina without meat, and then reluctantly served me a veggie filled, sauce drowning wonder, which I ate reassuring him that it was perfect (although thoughts may have gone to more tasty wonderlands...).  Vegetarianism in Europe garners some interesting reactions.

The rest of the visit was spent driving to and walking around in Bologna, a city with quite the sense of humor (see photo to the right) and a nutella themed cafe.  Heaven?  Maybe, maybe not, but it made me miss Barcelona all the more.  However, on the train ride back to our hostel outside of Venice, I realized that regardless of the apparent confusion over a meatless existence, Italy was a magical place.
Next Week: Another late night in Italy- Catalan Angels in Milan

Dear Diary

Musings by Erica
10.11.2009
Dear Diary,
My partner left last week to begin a contracting job of indeterminate duration with the US Army. The decision to contract was one we'd made several months ago, but it wasn't until last weekend that we knew where he was going and how long we had before he was expected to board a plane out of Philadelphia International Airport. When the word arrived on Friday afternoon, the answers were "Kaiserslautern, Germany" and "Monday morning."
Emotional trauma at the short notice and sudden physical absence of my partner aside, the whole affair marks the beginning of a strange period of transition and travel in my day-to-day life. Contracting jobs are interesting creatures: they have a minimum lifespan of one year, and are subject to renewal or cancellation at what often appears to be the whim of mysterious government forces. As such, Nick will be employed in Germany until the end of next September and, unless the mysterious forces change their minds, will continue to be so until the force is no longer with us. As I'm planning to finish my master's degrees in May, the plan is to pack up, send as many resumes as possible to the Kaiserslautern-area Air Force base sexual assault counseling team as possible, and move myself, my cat, and my giant pile of textbooks to Germany.
Here's the thing, diary. There's quite a bit of paperwork to be done between now and then, since not only do I need all kinds of permission slips and special licenses to move to Germany for any amount of time, but I need to learn the local language and customs. Oh, and I will be bringing a cat with me.

She prefers to travel by basket, or not at all.

That's right, a cat. A fuzzy, sweet little thing with sharp claws and a strong, well-verbalized dislike for her carrier, moving, and anything associated with removing her from her current home.
Travel, for me, is a force of habit. I didn't have to think twice when TSA started setting up security lanes that were intended to sort experienced from inexperienced travelers- I already knew I was an expert. It's instinctive for me to pack necessary items- clean underwear, contact lens fluid, toothbrush- in my carry-on bag, because at this point I'm way too familiar with the "lost baggage" phenomenon (ask me about my 30 hours in Atlanta sometime. Go on, I dare you). I can handle layovers, terminal transfers, customs, lugging bags around endlessly, and last-minute changes to departure gates.
But flying with a pet? This one's entirely new to me, and the fact that I'm flying her across the Atlantic Ocean and planning to leave her in a foreign country makes it all the more challenging to learn what I gotta do. So far I've called the embassy, two different airline companies, the vet-in-charge (of what? no idea) in Harrisburg, and the nearest Air Force base, and still no one has been able to give me a solid story. It sounds like there will be paperwork. And blood work. And much ado about ground air temperatures and microchips. And, if the airline companies are right, there will be no sedatives. For either of us.
So, diary, this is going to be one hell of an adventure. Already I can tell that the cat's needs will be the most challenging to meet, and will require the most preparation- nobody wants rabies, and they want to keep it out with extended-release rabies vaccines. Next time I write, I hope to be able to shed some light on what international pet travel will demand, just in case anyone else is ever crazy enough to try this. Eight months from now, I hope to be sitting in Kaiserslautern with Nick, drinking German beer, watching the cat relax in the window of our German apartment, and discussing the day's events in passable German parlance. At the very least, I hope to be in Germany with the cat, not lost and not starving. We'll see which of these goals I'm able to attain.
Let the preparations for international household moving begin!
-Erica

Aeroflot to Russia: Where Time Flies and Anything Goes

By Linda Smolkin, Guest Contributor

When I was planning my first trip to the former Soviet Union, I needed the advice of an Eastern European specialist. “What’s more important – cost or comfort?” the travel agent asked. When I told her cost, she quickly answered, “Aeroflot is the way to go. It’s much cheaper than flying with other airlines.”

For no good reason, I wasn’t crazy about flying the Russian airline. But, as long as I didn’t have to stand up or fly the plane, I was willing to try something new. Anyways, if something did happen to me, my mother would never have to work another full-time job in her life – I mean, that’s what life insurance is all about, right? I confirmed the trip and mentally prepared myself. What I could never prepare for, though, was an unusual, unforgettable adventure.

I called my friend Diane, who had visited Russia several times. I told her about my dream becoming a reality – I was finally going to Russia. She threw in some advice about where to go, but when I told her about flying with Aeroflot, suddenly there was silence. I could practically hear blini, Russian pancakes, drop. Finally Diane said, “Aeroflot? Don’t you mean Scare-a lot? I wondered about her comment, but then I thought, how many times had I read anything bad about Aeroflot? Not once. In reality, I had more chances of being struck by a car or by lightening. Or, being stabbed in the heart by future ex-boyfriends.

I received my ticket about two weeks before my departure. That was when I learned – or forgot to ask – about my seven-hour layover in Ireland from 3 a.m. to 10 a.m. I decided to stay positive. It wouldn’t be so bad. For seven hours I would entertain myself. I would read, people watch, drink Irish whiskey, and reapply my makeup 25 times.

My departure date arrived and when I walked onto the plane, I was warmly greeted by the flight attendant. At first, I couldn’t find the numbers, so I just picked an empty seat. Trying to sit down was almost impossible. I squeezed through a row of men and flinging limbs. “I’m not in the mood to play twister right now,” I mumbled under my breath. My carry-on bag fit halfway underneath the seat and my legs were packed to the side. Perhaps I could hang my legs outside the window. This would not only be more accommodating, but it could come in handy in the event of an emergency landing. I finally got situated, put my head back to relax, and finally found seat numbers. Of course, they were in plain view – on the ceiling about two feet above eye level. But, I hit my lucky number; I sat in the right seat.

When we were in the air, things started to really look up. As soon as the no-smoking and fasten-seat-belt lights went off, the passengers let loose. Forget the usual passenger-sized liquor bottles. The Russians were prepared to party. The man in front of me took out his own bottle of vodka and started pouring drinks for everyone around him. They toasted every shot and continued the camaraderie with friends and casual acquaintances. It was definitely a mix and mingle, but without the chasers. The flight attendants served dinner about an hour and a half after takeoff. They poured wine and then served a huge dinner with beef, potatoes, salad and a dessert that could trigger a sugar-induced coma. Not only do the Russians know how to drink. They know how to eat. After dinner, I slept for a few hours and awoke with only minutes to my first touchdown in Shannon, Ireland.

Everyone, except for me, continued to Moscow on the same plane. I had the dreaded seven-hour layover in Ireland. Time passed slowly as I started reading and people watching. With only three other people in the airport, my favorite pastime drew to an early close. I dove into a deep sleep and after awakening, I aired out my makeshift pillow and boarded my next flight to Minsk, Belarus. The second plane was much smaller, only able to hold about 50 passengers. But, I had no complaints; I was one of the seven passengers on the plane, including the pilot, co-pilot and two flight attendants. Russian music blared and I was getting really excited about my trip. I wanted to sing and dance up and down the aisle. I was ready to party Russkie style. They played great Russian dance music and served more food during throughout the three-hour flight. The best part of all – we landed in Minsk exactly on time.

After spending ten incredible days in the former Soviet Union with a last stop in St. Petersburg, I boarded my plane back home. I lucked out this time with an excellent seating arrangement, with my seat in the first row. Finally I could stretch out for a long flight. Once the plane took off, people began to party as no surprise. The vodka flowed, the food was served and the crowd was caught in a deep cloud … of cigarette smoke. What really caught my eye, though, was a man carrying a big bundle of joy. The bundle, which was at least 35 pounds and quite hairy, was no frequent flyer. The man was carrying his dog up and down the aisle while chatting with several people. Definitely not a lap warmer, the pooch was large enough to have her own seat and a Russian meal for two. But, nobody seemed to care. They were too busy enjoying life and having lively conversations.

Before I had time to miss all my new Russian acquaintances, we touched ground. As I walked through the terminal, I started to think about all the stories I’d tell my family and friends about my adventures – which included Aeroflot. I would tell them how the flight attendants had more personality than any others I’d seen. I would tell them how they offered tons of food, served free wine, and how the bathrooms were incredibly clean. The flight was unlike any other I’d encountered and was a trip I’d remember with a smile. That is, until I said those famous last words at the baggage carousel: where’s my luggage?

Just Looking for Love

By Beth


It was raining.

I remember the rain the most, because I had been determined to go even despite the foul weather. It had stopped everyone but me.

That's right: me, it would not stop. So I went on my adventure alone.

The town was called Montemor-o-Velho, roughly translated to something that what was derived from “The Old Mountain and Wall.” And that's what it was, a few houses skirting a hill with a castle on top. The stone wall on the old mountain. A speck in the distance from Coimbra, Portugal, where I had been living over the past year. Where Coimbra had cell phone stores and shopping malls, this town had rice fields and wandering farm animals. Everyone knew everyone else. There were few visitors.

The nearest train station: perhaps a two hour walk away. But I hadn't quite had enough of castles yet, and the whole day was in front of me. I hadn't minded the idea of walking two hours for an adventure.
I was lucky on my way there. Two women in a car picked me up along the route, displaying sympathy for my wet walk and explaining the pride they had for their little town far from any sort of urban development. I spent the afternoon exploring the storm-soaked castle grounds, watching old fountains overflow, a haze sweeping over countless fields and unoccupied houses. It was a safe town, that was for sure. Quiet, to say the least.

Until I began my trek home.

I had walked for nearly an hour, splashing in puddles, dreaming up romantic stories about the people who lived in the houses far across the foggy meadows. A few cars passed, but not many. Until one pulled up.

Inside was an old man. He was small and wrinkled, not younger than 70. He rolled down the window and signaled to me. “Come in,” he shouted. “I'll take you the rest of the way.”

Remembering the kindness of the two women just hours ago, I didn't think twice to hop in. Inside, the car was warm and cozy. I felt my body thawing through the heat vents, reaching dry satisfaction just one bit at a time.

The man looked at me. “So cold,” he said, with worry on his face. He touched my hand. “Your hands are so cold.”

I smiled and told him I was fine, but he turned up the heat so that it blasted in my face and on my hands. He let his hand linger on the heat knob. Then he slowly returned to my hand again. Then my knee.

He held it there for a moment. I brushed it off, and it returned. It always returned.

His face was calm. He began to ask me where I was from and where I was going. I was familiar with the flirtatiousness of Portuguese men, even older Portuguese men, and tried to wave the gesture as a cultural difference while I focused on his question. I explained how I was studying at the University of Coimbra, and he said he was very familiar with the town and its university. In fact, he used to work in Coimbra, and knew the drive from Montemor quite well. He also was familiar with the train station I was heading to. I listened to him with the acute concentration of a foreigner, but it was hard to ignore the movements of his fingers. The way I felt them pulse on my knee.

He looked at me. He looked at me for longer than he needed to. I told him to keep his eyes on the road.
“You are so beautiful,” he said to me. “I'm just a young boy, you know. A young boy, looking for love.”

I could have smiled...but I was busy trying to figure out how I could communicate to him that I wanted to walk from here.

But he insisted to take me the rest of the way. The train station was not a far drive, and it was too rainy for me to be outside. And the car was so warm...

He kept looking back at me, these long gazes. He held my knee and rubbed it. He offered me a ride all the way back to Coimbra in exchange for a kiss. I told him the train station would be just fine.

When we approached the station, I let out a long breath. I knew the ride was almost over. I didn't feel endangered, per se. There was little he could do to harm me- he was too feeble, and anyway, Portugal was not known to be a dangerous country. Yet I was still pretty...grossed out. He smelled like my grandfather. I imagined my grandfather hitting on me in a small car in the middle of Portugal. I withheld a gag reflex and tried to maintain my composure.

At the station he continued driving at a steady pace. In fact, he passed it.

“Did you want to get off here?” He asked.

“Yes,” I told him.

“Okay. Then give me a kiss and I'll let you out.”

I wasn't sure if there was a way to avoid this. Either I gave him a kiss, or we drove around with his hand on my knee for what seemed like it could be the rest of my life. I weighed my options. Would I see this man again? No. Would I make his day, a young girl giving him a little peck on the cheek? Maybe. Could it be some form of payment for the free ride he just gave me, saving me from a long, cold walk outside? Okay, probably so.

I turned to kiss him, his cheek stubble in my line of vision. His agility surprised me. At the last minute he shifted his head, and I kissed him smack-dab on the lips. SMOOCHHHHHHH. It was about as wet and as delicious as you can imagine, sweet, juicy apples on a crisp September morning. Crunch. Slurp. Smack. Gulp.

I looked at him in horror, jumped out of the car and ran to the train station. The ride back went much faster than I had expected. I laughed nearly the entire way home.

Lost in Paris

By Emily

I was in Paris for the first time ever, staying with a host family in a little suburb called Le Vesinet. Each day I was to take a train to Paris where I would attend classes and visit cultural sites. Our host families were instructed to walk us to the train station our first morning in France so we’d know the correct path, but my host mother was in a rush,  so she drove me and my roommate instead, verbally explaining how the path would be a little different if we were walking. Still, everything was okay that first day. I stuck with my roommate, and a couple of male students who were staying in a nearby house helped us find our way back when we weren’t sure where to go. But the next day I got separated from my roommate. We were sharing a cell phone, and she had it on her, but somehow all the other students I was with didn’t have cell phones with them – their roommates did. I knew the train stops well enough that I made it to my stop okay. A friend who was living on the other side of the same town asked if I wanted to walk back to her host mother’s place. She was sure her host mother wouldn’t mind driving me home, especially since it was getting dark. But I was sure I’d be able to find my way home, no problem. And if I couldn’t… well, that would be hard to admit.I didn’t know if I could give driving directions to anyone.

As luck would have it, the male students who were staying nearby were heading back into the city when I got home, and we crossed paths. My roommate had called them to find out if they’d seen me, and they were planning on looking for me if I didn’t show up soon. I would have asked for directions, but I was pretty certain I knew the way, so they called my roommate and told her not to worry. This is where the story turns scary. It turns out I had no idea where I was going. What’s more, all the contact info I had for everyone I knew in France was on one sheet of paper, sitting on the desk in my bedroom.
I began walking in circles. I figured if I walked up and down the streets I’d find the house eventually. After all, this town was pretty small, and I knew the general area my host family lived in. The town had helpfully put up a map on one of the streets, and I looked over it, trying to recall which streets I’d gone up and down. I felt like I’d covered all of them, but I still couldn’t find the house. I remembered the security code to get in the gate, I remembered what the gate looked like, and I was certain I’d recognize the gate when I saw it. I kept expecting my host family to appear, driving around in search of me. I knew they had to be concerned, since it had been 4 hours since Joe had told my roommate I was back in town. But I couldn’t see or hear anyone else out on the streets. The only other option I could think of at this point was to return to the strain station and wait till the male students I’d seen heading into the city came back. The last train ran at 2am, so they had to come back by then.

I was staring forlornly at the town map, when a young business woman approached me and asked if I needed any help. When she heard my American accent, she insisted we talk in English, for my benefit. She offered to call information to try to find my host family’s info. I gave her their name, but there was no listing for a de Chabot in Le Vesinet. Curious indeed. I insisted it was on one of three streets, though, and she said she’d walk up and down those streets with me, to make sure I was ok. After an hour of fruitless searching, I was once again at my wit’s end, and completely bewildered. Why wasn’t anyone looking for me? Did they assume I’d gone back into the city? It was about 11:45pm in Paris, and I didn’t know what to do. I could go wait for my friends at the train station, but what if they’d returned to Le Vesinet while I was wandering down a different road?

Despairing of all hope, I finally asked if she knew of somewhere I could access the internet. I knew I’d be able to find the contact info for my professor online, one way or another.

She offered to take me back to her apartment. Crazy, I know, but I suspect she was taking the bigger risk. She’d been wandering up and down the road with me for an hour before suggesting I go to her apartment, which I figured offered some pretty promising evidence about her intentions. She offered me some juice while she got her computer set up, and then we began looking up people I knew through yellowpages.com. But we couldn’t find my professor or my host family. In fact, we couldn’t find any de Chabots. She’d said earlier that it would be okay if I needed to call the USA on her cell phone, so I looked up the information for my school’s French Department and called them. It was 5 minutes before their office was going to close for the day. They were shocked by my story about being lost in France and calling on a stranger’s phone, but they had my professor’s phone number for while he was in Paris.

I called him, and he sounded horrified, annoyed, and shocked. He asked who my host family was, and when I said it was “Madame and Monsieur de Chabot,” he said, “do you mean  de Chambod??” We had been searching for the wrong name on yellowpages.com. He gave us their address, and then added “make sure you tell your friend thank you for me.” She walked me to my host family’s house, and waited to make sure I got through the gate. I think she might have even watched from the gate to make sure I successfully unlocked the door. The whole evening she just kept saying, “I was in London last year, and everyone was very helpful and patient with my French accent, so I should help other people too.”

My host mother woke up when she heard my key in the lock, and I told her the whole story. She kept saying how she couldn’t imagine what she’d have told my mother if anything had happened to me. Apparently my roommate fell asleep after learning I was in the neighborhood, but her bedroom light was still on. My host mother saw that her light was on and mine was off, and assumed I was in her room with her, chatting. When the two students who saw me walking home didn’t hear from my roommate again, they also assumed I’d made it home. If not for the stranger who took me to her apartment and let me call the US on her cell phone, I would have spent that night outside and alone.
Later, all my teacher had to say was. “I remember that night well. The phone rang, and the clock read twelve am.” All the other students in my program acted like I was lucky I hadn’t been sold into white slavery, or mugged at the least. I’m sure they were right, and I was much more careful for the rest of my stay in Europe. But it’s good to know there are kind, helpful people out there. Whatever anyone may say about the French, they can be some of the most hospitable people on Earth.