Last Night!

Here it is--my very last post from Ireland (excepting possible extreme boredom later tonight). I leave for home in about 10 hours to embark on the longest day of travel that ever existed. But it will all be worth it when I get home to family and snow just in time for Christmas! I am very excited to go home, but I absolutely love Ireland, and I hope to someday come back to Cork. If any of you ever get the chance to go there, you should defnitely take it!

What have I been doing for the past few weeks? Surprisingly enough, mostly schoolwork. I had tons of essays to write, and I just finished up the last one yesterday. Two weekends ago, Stephanie came to visit me and we went to Kinsale, which is a very pretty town on the coast. Also, it is supposed to have excellent seafood. I tried some fish, but honestly, it all tastes the same to me.

Last weekend Andrea^2 came to visit, and we had tons of fun. We went shopping around Cork one day, and the next day I made my third trip to Blarney, which was as pretty as usual. Luckily, we visited Blarney on the day that they had their Christmas festival, so we got our picture taken with a terrifyingly huge snowman, drank mulled wine and ate mince pies, and got to hear some quality Christmas music. It was a very good last weekend for me.

Merry Christmas and happy holidays everyone! I am looking forward to seeing most of you in a few weeks at Gonzaga, and for those that I won't see, continue tearing up the globe and come back with some great stories for us!

Much love,
Anna

Ta barbarone gar doula panta plen enos

Hopefully all of you who are interested have had a chance to read what happened to me in Paris. If not, it's the next post down, and you might want to start with that one for some context. From Paris, though, I hopped on a train headed to Strasbourg, which I found absolutely marvelous. It was a beautiful city, filled with lights that I admired during my stroll by the river. It seemed like most of the town was out, walking around and talking despite the cold. I had a strange idea that this was the kind of place I would like to retire to, though I'm not sure what prompted that idea. I spent a good three or four hours just wandering and looking around, before settling down on a bench in the station where I started memorizing my first declension in Greek. This was, though I didn't know it, one of the last tranquil moments of the next few days.

The real story begins, as such stories often do, with a drunk German in the Strasbourg train station.

I was on the platform, trying to get on the train to Vienna, when this big, drunk guy starts ambling into my path. I instinctively try to maneuver out of his way, but with that amazing drunk sense, he manages to run right into me. He instantly starts to lean on me, shifting his weight so that I'm suddenly supporting most of it. He mumbles at me in German while I try to get him to sit down, lay down, or something so that he's no longer on top of me. He, however takes this as an attack. He suddenly goes from eloquent drunk to angry drunk, marking the occasion by punching me right in the gut. It hurt; it hurt a lot, but I did have the satisfaction of seeing him shake off his hand in pain. Anyway, he decides not to mess with me anymore and I make it onto the train.

I was reeling somewhat in pain from being punched, but I at least had a good night's sleep to look forward to. Given the pain caused by the guy's rings, I figured it would be a little difficult for me to just drop off to sleep, but I thought I could make it work. I made it to my compartment, and found I was sharing it with two other men. One, I found out instantly, spoke English and German. The other seemed to speak a little German, but later I heard him talking on a cell phone in what I guessed was Hindi. The first man was very enthusiastic about the trip and was telling both of us all about it. To make sure both of us got the gist of his stories, he translated every sentence between English and German. The other man and I, who couldn't communicate at all, shared a look at one point which clearly said, "Why won't this schmuck just be quiet?" So, both of us, in our respective tongues, told him politely that we needed to sleep. "Sure" he says. "I have some work I have to get done anyway." And he pulls out his laptop. I figure that I've slept next to people typing before, so I relax as much as my bruised stomach will let me. However, I immediately find out that this man is completely insane, as he narrates what he is writing the whole time! I asked him three times to quit talking while typing; each time he apologized and agreed to stop, and each time a moment later he would start it up again. When he got off, the other man and I shared another glance that transcended languages.

The train was late to Vienna. This was bad for many reasons. First, it was bad because I wanted to look around the city, but only had twenty five minutes at the station. It was also bad because this was where I had been planning on withdrawing some Euros to pay for the visa into Turkey, something which I neglected to do, which will cause unfortunate consequences later. Anyway, instead of being able to walk around the city, I rush to reserve a seat on the train to Budapest, and get on without much trouble.

The ride between Vienna and Budapest had no problems. I mention this now because I realize that unique aspect after the fact.

Hungary, I noticed somewhat to my surprise, did not use the Euro. This kept me from simply withdrawing a good amount from an ATM to use in anticipation of the visa for Turkey. No big deal, I thought. I'll just withdraw a certain amount in the local currency and change it. First, though, I decide to take a walk around the city to stretch my legs; given the two train rides and the delay on the first, I had been sitting pretty much for the past fifteen hours.

For the most part, Budapest wasn't bad. I got some food at a very American-like mall. Budapest reminded me, in fact, of an American city more than any European city I have seen. Partly this is because many of the buildings are brand new, while others are falling into disrepair around them. Also, it seemed like there were advertisements for Western products everywhere. I kept seeing advertisements for a Disney movie in Magyar, which is incredibly surreal. I was heartily enjoying myself for a couple of hours, and my stomach wasn't hurting nearly as much, but problems were ahead. I was searching for a certain cathedral I had seen on a map when I was confronted by some guy who was blind in one eye. I'm not sure if that's an important detail about his life, but he was certainly using it to try to intimidate me. He talked at me rapidly in Hungarian, so I just said "no" noncommittally, trying to walk away without even noticing him. He doesn't accept this. He starts to follow me, asking, "English? Deutsch?" and I keep saying no, and am now looking for a place to walk to away from him. I notice, incidentally, that there is a bulge in one of his tight sleeves which looks to me suspiciously like a large knife. So, in a fit of rather desperate genius, I say, "hablo espanol, tu hablas?" which seemed to stop him in his tracks and gave me an exit.

I continued to head around the city, thinking that my problems in Budapest were over. At one crosswalk, though, I saw a reflection in a passing bus: I noticed that the same guy was now following me around. At this point I was slightly worried, so I made my way back to the train station, only stopping to note that the Bureau de Change was closed, and in a creepy area outside the station to boot. I was tired, and figured I'd be better prepared to deal with it in Bucharest. Since I didn't want to go out of the train station, and since Hungary has seemingly not invented public benches, I waited for three hours standing, half asleep, in that cold station because some crazy nut in Budapest disliked me at first sight. I made it onto the train, found my seat, and practically collapsed.

I thought, reasonably, that I would at least get some sleep on this train ride. Not so. For the first five hours some Russians decided they were going to throw a party in their compartment, with music blaring and people conversing loudly in machine gun Russian. I think I could have slept through the noise, but the fact that they came to my compartment every ten minutes or so inviting me to have some cocaine with them was a little distracting. This was especially true because it was the same guy every time; he must have been so high that he forgot that he had just asked me the same thing. At about one in the morning they passed out, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

About this same time a Romanian family came on board and decided to share my compartment. When they came in, I cursed silently, but I figured that this man, woman, and child would want to sleep immediately. What I found out, though, is that Romanians don't sleep. All of them, including the seven (ish) year old kid spent the whole night talking as if I wasn't there. As soon as they found out I couldn't speak any Romanian, they kept chatting away as if they were the only ones in the compartment. They did drop off eventually, around seven in the morning or so, so at least I got some sleep.

Also, my good luck when it comes to weather decided to play its part. While I have hit heavy rain or snow in Ireland, Germany and France, apparently that is not enough to satisfy whoever doesn't like me upstairs. The main route to Bucharest was snowed in, so they had to go around. This meant I would be late, again.

Here comes the good part of my story. I make it to Bucharest station. I find that, being late and with the time zone change, I have fifteen minutes before the train to Istanbul leaves. I've slept three hours maybe in two nights. I don't speak a word of the language. I still need Euros for the visa. I take a deep breath and plan a course of action. First, I get money from the ATM, and change it for Euros. I ran into the Change, pretty much thrust the money in the womans face saying, "Euro. Euro." She looked at me like I was insane, and very casually started the transaction. I felt every second tick by, as she took her time to make sure I received the right amount. Turns out the Romanian currency is worth more than the Hungarian: I pulled out nearly two hundred Euro. Running out of there left me about ten minutes, so I ran to the ticket counters. When I got there I nearly despaired. There were massive lines, no discernible order, no handy sign saying "International Tickets" or its translation, and, if my experience with my fellow passengers and the lady at the Change was correct, no desire to engage in communication with anyone who didn't speak Romanian. Alright, I thought. The train to Istanbul couldn't be very crowded, and I had seen a man on the train to Vienna buy a ticket on the train itself. I figured, I already had a ticket, all I needed to do was pay for a reservation. If anything, they were so lax in these Eastern European countries, they wouldn't care at all. So, I got on board and relaxed thinking that all my problems were over with. I had a ticket, I had money for a reservation and the visa, I didn't have any reason not to sleep; in something like eighteen hours I'd be in Istanbul and would at least have a friend who knew her way around.

The conductor comes nearly immediately. I give him my ticket. He accepts it, but obviously wants more. I offer him money. I believe he thinks I'm offering him a bribe, which I would have done if I thought it would help. He decides, though, to use me as an example to other passengers who want to the bend the rules, and literally pulls me out of my seat (luckily I had the foresight to grab my luggage) and pulls me to the door. I think for a moment that he will just push me out of the train while it is moving, but he kindly waits until the train stops at the next station before pushing me out.

Here I am, then, alone, tired, starving (I didn't have a chance to get breakfast, or indeed much of a dinner) with no reception on my cell phone and still no perceivable language skills in the middle of nowhere, Romania.

I think, as best I can, of what my options are. There is nothing around the station for as far as I could see. The old men sitting on the bench look decidedly sketchy, and since there wasn't a schedule saying when the next train back would be, I decided I was probably better off just walking back to the only place in Romania I knew, following the tracks. My best guess, by how fast I walk, was that it was about three miles. By the time I got there, I made an accounting of what my options were. I could try to find a hostel, food, and a reservation for the next train to Istanbul, but in my condition, I didn't think it was very likely I would succeed at doing any of those things.

Anyway, I called it quits. I grabbed a taxi, got to the airport, noticed that the flight to London Heathrow had been delayed, bought a ticket and the rest, well, you know what they say.

Needless to say, I made it back to Oxford with no problems. By now, I've pretty much recovered, and I've begun second guessing myself. The lines were long at the ticket counter, yes; but they were moving pretty quickly and I probably could have made it back in time. Or maybe finding accommodation wouldn't be hard at all; after all, most places have hostels right near the stations, and from there it wouldn't be that hard to get food, etc...

The gist of this is, I'm really disappointed I didn't make it. On the other hand, despite getting punched in the stomach, being stalked by a crazy guy with a knife, being kept up all night by three sets of crazy people, and getting into a tussle with a railway conductor, I think I made it out of there relatively undamaged. Maybe next time.

The Haunt of Ultime Fauchelevant

This post is admittedly ill-conceived. First, it is late in coming, since it's been nearly two weeks since I first arrived in France. Secondly, Chris has already written about what we did, so this will be derivative at best. Still, since I was there for some time after Chris left, I still think it will be worthwhile to talk about what happened then. Also, as some of you may know, I ran into some adventure on my way to Istanbul, and in the spirit of a good action novel, I'm not going to tell you about it in this post, since I have enough to say about the old home of Fauchelvant and Pontmercy.

Paris, I found after a few days of touring it, is very similar to London. This realization did not hit me all at once; it came upon me slowly as Chris and I saw the various highlights Paris has to offer. I found I kept comparing them to places in London, and as I have a certain affinity for that city, I usually found myself arguing for London's superiority. The metro is nice, I would think, but the Tube is far better; cleaner, more efficient, and more navigable. The Louvre is incomparable, yes, but really, it shouldn't be compared to any one of London's museums; the way it was conceived, it should really be matched by both the National Gallery and the British Museum. So I thought, until I realized London could take care of itself. If the Notre Dame is more grand than St. Paul's Cathedral, so be it; and if the Arc de Triomphe is superior to Nelson's column, well, look who won in the end!

On my first day without Chris, I began by walking from the hostel to Notre Dame. To say I was blown away was an understatement. I knew going in that Gothic architecture was designed to draw one's eyes to the ceiling, the better to draw one's mind to God, but I had no idea that anyone had pulled it off so effectively. Besides, there is a grand difference between knowing that and actually feeling your eyes drawn higher, until your gaze rests upon a magnificent stained glass window, and while your body is cold you find that your mind has just become frozen, and you can only catch your breath and gaze in wonder. Everything about the cathedral, the size, the architecture, inspired to me to be quiet and be still in the same way St Paul's inspired me to want to sing. It was, to be grossly literal, impressive.

From Notre Dame, I wandered. I noticed something interesting, if not fairly obvious: the farther I got from the Notre Dame and the other attractions the shabbier the shops and houses became. I was still in a commercial district, but I thought it showed how reliant Paris is on tourism. I haven't really noticed whether or not this is true in London.

Eventually, my wanderings led me to the Jewish quarter and the Latin quarter, the latter being mainly comprised of students. The surprise I got was not that these two areas so close to each other were so different but that both places could be so intricate and self-absorbed. The fact that I could see three ancient rabbis discussing (I think) Leviticus in Hebrew and not ten minutes later see some students sitting in front of the Pantheon talking about a date one of them had had made me realize that these two groups probably had no need to interact with each other at any moment in their lives.

I considered this at some length while I walked back to my hostel from the quartier latin. On the way, I realized that this was the real similarity between London and Paris; their eclectic giganticism. One cannot really think of either London or Paris as being a single city, but only as a set of unconnected districts within spitting distance of each other. I would grow tired of this quickly, I thought as I passed a random and tourist filled department store. It would be the worst of both worlds: of being in a self-involved small town and being in an anonymous big city filled with tourists that would me feel like an animal in a zoo.

Past the department store, my surroundings gradually changed. I passed out of the (very) commercial district and came into a more residential area. Mothers shepherding children replaced people struggling with shopping bags. It was getting dark, but I could see children walking home in groups of twos and threes. Everyone around me was speaking French rather than German or Japanese or English. I stopped in a grocery store, and I realized that there is something a little strange with speaking a foreign language in such a place. If I had heard someone speak English in that grocery store I would have noticed; I would have raised my head to look at the speaker and we probably would have shared a connection: we don't belong here. Where I was walking, there was none of this.

Turning the corner after the grocery store, I found a main street lit up with Christmas decorations. As I looked at a giant snowflake, I thought to myself, I could live here. This is the true heart of Paris. This place, where children walked at night without fear, with grocery stores and real Christmas decorations twenty minutes and a lifetime outside the Paris of tourists, this could be a place to live. I felt like, if not for me, then for someone, this place could be a home.

Ein Wochenende in Paris, während dessen es viel geregnet hat

Got back to Munich from a weekend in Paris this morning. Almost made class too, but the airport bus took twice as long as normal to get into the city because of morning traffic. Scooting into class a half hour late is not really acceptable, so I had to visit the doctor and make some vague complaints to get a valid excuse for missing class. Kind of pathetic. But this post is not about that. It is about the trip.

Paris is beautiful, and I am not simply speaking of the monuments that get so much (deserved) play on the postcards. Yes, there is a fair amount of graffiti and street cleaners do not manage to keep everything so tidy as those in Munich (though I find it hard to believe any could manage that), but within the central city at least, I do not know where one could find anything ugly, much less plain. There just seems to be this pride in not allowing anything to be common. Every apartment building has wrought iron fences on the balconies or stone designs running along the sides. It is something else and wonderful to walk through.

Only managed to hit up the Louvre this trip, but the four odd hours spent in there were not enough. First was by myself on the free Friday, and the second was with Emmett, just kicking off his Continental Train Tour by arriving in Paris on Saturday evening, on Sunday (first Sunday of the month means free access to all museums). At first we attempted to visit the Musee d'Orsay, but the line was insane and dedicated line workers were trying to organize it a little bit. Popularity probably has something to do with fewer free days than the Louvre, which is always open to those under 18 and the unemployed. Fun fact. Saw the triad of biggies in the Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo and the Winged Victory of Samothrace. Was more impressed, me at least, by two interpretations of Cupid and Psyche and one marble statue called "Veiled Woman."

Other highlights: walking down the Champs Elysees when all the Christmas lights were on, visiting the Sacré Coeur for the view both inside and out, seeing the Eiffel Tower sparkle, strolling along the quai and considering the best way to break into various wedding parties, working our way past numerous sex shops and live shows to pass the Moulin Rouge, and crossing Pont Neuf, like Jason Bourne at the end of the first movie.

Not sure how many of you know this, but this was not my first trip to Paris. Just after graduating from high school, I went with my French class. Also, the fact that I have four years of high school might be a surprise. What was a surprise to me though was that I actually remembered enough French and could speak with enough of an accent that I did not immediately come off as some idiot tourist. For example, when the doorman at the very nice hotel came to kick Emmett and me out from underneath the awning and back into the torrent, he did not reply in English when I asked "Oú est le Métro?" Until I just stared blankly at his French, that is. Quick point, weather was insane. Constant rain in the evenings, and some major wind gusts that took out more than a few umbrellas. Weather has actually bad enough to deter us from walking back to our hostel and just using the Métro instead.

Now all there is to do is anticipate visits from Stephanie and Sara and plan my Christmas vacation.

Tschüß.