well i’m on my way…

I am a self-proclaimed museum person.  I like learning.  Which is one of the reasons I felt the need to visit the British Museum.  I also had to go in order to complete my Egypt experience that’s been left open from a year and a half ago.  I heard that all the good Egyptian artifacts are in England.  And from what I’ve seen today, so are all the Greek ones; from what I’ve heard the China and Indian exhibits are excellent too.  I was burnt out before I could get to them.

The museum itself is overwhelming.  There’s so much to see, too much, in my opinion.  I grabbed a map of the place before I even got in and poured over it to see what I absolutely had to see.  I don’t know how many museums I’ve gone to in the last six months (too many), and I’ve learned through experience that if I don’t prioritize, I’ll read every single thing I see until my brain hits overload.  I knew that this was not the time or the place for this kind of immersion.  I circled the rooms that I watned to see, taking into consideration the ‘Museum Highlights’, like the Rosetta Stone, Parthenon sculptures, and the possible origin of Noah’s Ark.   

The first exhibit I saw was an Easter Island statue.  He wasn’t as big as I thought he would be, but I don’t think he was from the many that look out at the Pacific.  Off the room he was housed in was a North America room-funded by the one and only JP Morgan Chase.  The exhibit, I thought, was lacking, as there was minimal information and artifacts about the different indigenous peoples from the different areas from North America.  Back in the Easter Island guy room, that was themed ‘Health and Death’-I guess on how different cultures deal with it, there was an interpretive artwork piece.  It was of thousands of pills-each in a little pouch made of netting, to represent health of people in Britian.  It gave some stats, like people will take more pills in the last ten years of their life than the rest of their life combined.  Just take a pill…

I hit the Egyptian room next.  I knew I was near the Rosetta Stone before I could see it, due to the hordes of people pushing and snapping photographs.  I was amazed that photography was allowed here, since most aritfacts, no matter how old are susceptible to light.  The stone is a significant clue to ancient history, since it allowed people to translate hyrogliphics (sp?).  What amazed me is that each word is phonetically spelled (like English for example), but then after the symbols for sound, there’s a picture of the object it’s describing.  The example they used was for a cat: three symbols sounding out ‘meow’, then a picture of a cat afterwards.  Seemed a bit redundant to me, but hey whatever works. 

I walked through the rest of the Egyptian exhibit, which was massive and well preserved.  Amazingly well preserved espeically compared to what I saw at the Egyptian Museum in Cairo.  I wondered if Britain took all the good stuff, or if they’re just more into the whole preservation thing.  Could be a mixture of both…  Upstairs there were mummy rooms.  I had never seen so many mummies and their casings.  There were so many more than I had seen in Cairo.  There were even mummified cats-mummified into the same shape as the humans!  I’ll bet if there was a way to somehow get the Pyramids of Giza in this museum, they’d be here.   

 There was a sign about Iraq, and how since occupation in 2003 the main museum in Baghdad has been looted and robbed and most of their important stuff is gone.  The sign told how the British Museum has extended their help in conservation and any other ways they can assist in preserving the culture and artifacts from Iraq.  Sounds like a way to get an Iraq exhibit in the BM…I mean, it is important to document history and study things from the past, but keep the stuff where it’s from.  After seeing the Egyptian exhibit here in London, I wonder why I wasted my time at the one in Cairo…

The Ancient Greek rooms were just behind the Egypt ones, and I had to see them, although I started just walking though, turning my head back and fourth until I saw something that caught my eye, since it has only been a month and a half since I was there.  The Anthropology Musuem in Athens was excellent-massive and a bit redundant-but excellent.  After being overwhelmed by all the trinkets and jewellry, my sister and I and everyone else we met that had been there, no one seemed to be able to check out the entirety of the museum.  Well, now I see why.  All the cool stuff is here, in London.  The statues and sculpture were beautiful (but no Antinoos). 

I came across a room that was a re-creation of the Parthenon, which was under rehabilitation construction when we were there.  We had no access inside it, and there was scaffolding covering a good half of it.  Sooo…The British Museum is holding on to all the beautiful headless sculptures and marble murals while they restore it…?  Doubtful.

I came across some massive bull-like sculptures that made me stop and I held my breath.  (Unfortunately that doesn’t happen much anymore.)  They were so huge and ornate and beautiful.  I found the sign that explained what they were, and felt sad.  The sign said ‘The pair of human-headed winged bulls stood originally at one of the gates of the citadel, as magic guardians against misfortune.’  What a bad day for the Palace of Khorsabad–I wonder if the robbery of these gates was the misfortune, or only the beginning of many.  What came first, the chicken or the egg?    

So after my anti-globalization thoughts, I wandered to check out the rest of the museum.  I saw the oldest known chess pieces, call the Lewis Chessmen.  Walked through the Ancient European Exhibit:  trinkets, pottery, spears and other weapons, things that I find a bit boring.  They’re just…redundant.  What I like to see, which I was rewarded with soon after are tiles and housewares.  Other things I love looking at in museums are sculptures, carvings, mosiacs, bright colours…all things that the British Museum housed.        

We went to the Camden Markets the day after the Fourth.  Learned the markets was a couple rows of clothes, so we left quickly.  The streets past the markets looked worth checking out, so we headed down and stumbled across the Stables Markets, which was much more intesting.  It had lots of food stalls, including real Mexian food, clothing, antiques, books, toys, jewellry, art, and furniture.  Awesome awesome market.  We spent a lot of time there and bought some souvenirs to take home.

Went out for Indian that night, since we are in Enland, and curry is now the national dish-move over fish and chips!  It was my first Indian food, and boy was it amazing.  We had an appitizer of potatoes and veg in a flaky pastry with a yogurt sauce over it.  (I can’t remember any of the names of the dishes!)  I had a spicy vegetable dish with naan while the boys had chicken dishes.  We had a dessert that looked like mini hot dogs but tasted more like a donut or a pancake that was warm and amazing tasting.  I got goosebumps in my mouth from it, but knew I would be sick if I ate a lot of it.  After dinner we went to a pub that was converted from an old tram station-hence the name: Tooting Tram.  It was very chill with an altenative vibe to it:  I felt like I was sitting in someone’s grandmother’s house with the comfy chair and couches and old paintings on the walls. 

The next day we moved out of “Hotel de Rules and Bland Food’ and checked into ‘BestHostel’ in the middle of the Lebanese neighborhood, which has flavorful food everywhere you look.  The rooms are a bit cramped, with bunkbeds three levels high but the mattresses are comfortable and the bathrooms are clean.  It’s pretty close to all the action in the city too.  We were just gettin settled when one of our roommates, Rachel walked in, and started talking my ear off.  I could see Ryan rolling his eyes behind her, but I felt her pain.  When I was on my own, and hadn’t talked to anyone in a while I got all chatty too.  I knew that all she needed was some decent conversation, but really, who doesn’t?  Within minutes of meeting her, she told me her life story, from the minute she was created-in a test tube because she has ‘two moms’.  Ryan then decided she was cool and got into the conversation.  I thought it was amazing-I’ve only heard about situations like hers, never met someone who actually was created this way.  She was a sweet girl, asked a lot of questions, but we both felt really comfortable around her.  Two more guys came in, 21 year old Americans who were hungry, and wanted to know if we were hungry?  We all went to one of the Lebanese restaurants and stuffed ourselves on delicious flavorful food.  We went back to the hostel and had a beer each-the bar closes at 11-kind of lame, but at the same time, it keeps the hostel relatively quiet.

Next day Ryan and I decided to go our seperate ways so I went with Rachel for the free tour.  We ended up losing interest quickly, so we left right after we saw the changing of the guards at Buckinham Palace.  Yay fuzzy hats!  We walked around, dodged raindrops and hail, drank coffe, and stumbled across the premier for the new Harry Potter film.  Didn’t see anyone though, besides the hordes of screaming fans. 

Next day I rose early to wander Notting Hill and find the Portobello Markets.  En route I somehow had “Wouldn’t it be Loverly” from My Fair Lady in my head, but once I saw signs for the markets, my brain suddenly turned to one of my favourite Disney movies-Bedknobs and Broomsticks-and the song about Portobello Road, which is why I wanted to go in the first place.  If only I could find the other half of the book that had the spell to make objects move…or at least a knob from a bedpost to instantly take me where ever I wanted…It was mostly antiques, which I love the smell of.  Discovered Little Morocco, but I left, not wanting to spoil what’s left of my trip.  So I wouldn’t take the same way back, I took residential streets, looking at all the massive houses, waiting to turn a corner to see a boat on the top of one shouting and preparing to set off cannons and Mary Poppins floating down in her umbrella.  I didn’t realize until I got here how many movies from my childhood take place in London…

Hung out in Hyde Park, no Obama here.  I still think my favourite Hyde Park is in Sydney.  Back to hostel, ran into Ryan, we went for Subway, only because we have coupons, and are scrimping on money here so we can do whatever in Morocco.  The trip is coming to an end, as are our funds…Had a few in the pub with our New Zealand roomie.  I’ve seen more NZ than he has, as most people who visit the states have seem more than I…

How ironic is this: spending The Fourth of July in London, Englad-the place we gained independece from so many years ago?  Yeah, I thought so.

Today also happened to be Pride, London’s GLBT (gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender) Parade and festival.  It took over the entire center of London.  They shut down a bunch of streets and paraded though the city to end at Trafalgar Square, where the largest of a few stages was set up.  A lot of local artists performed, none of which Ryan or I had heard of.  We sat, people watched, and drank warm cider.  Cider’s good, but it has to be cold.  We wandered around where the festival was being held, over many square blocks, drinking and people watching. 

The most interesting thing to see was all the men dressed as women.  At first it was funny, when I recognized the Wizard of Oz’s Glinda with a 5 o’clock shadow, and men with Adam’s apples dressed like hookers, but after a while, it got boring.  I was starting to question why men that dress like women wear less clothes than strippers?  Why is it that, if they want to be women, they have to dress like sluts?  They could still look cute and classy at the same time. 

There was an extremely unfit man wearing a Borat-Style leotard:  neon green ass floss that goes over his sholders and covers one thing: the most important one for walking around in public.  Gross. 

We sat outside in a coffeeshop and people watched all day, alternating cider and coffee, hoping to continue drinking all day and night.  It semi-worked.

Once it got dark it the streets started getting less crowded and the streets and sanitation crew came though, fighting the drunks off with their pushbrooms.  It seemed a bit unnecessary to be cleaning in the middle of a party, but after I noticed people walking barefoot through the garbage and broken glass, I realized that it was necessary.  A couple people were carried out on stretchers, passed out from too much partying. 

At one point a mini parade walked up and down one of the mian streets: a group of people, new ones every time except for the girl at the front carrying a boombox that was belting out some Michael Jackson’s Greatest Hits Album.  She meant business, knew the entire Thriller dance, was singing every word, even every “ooh eee”.  It was ridiculous, but touching. 

We went into a gay bar and I instantly felt out of place; I was the only girl in there!  I wanted to leave, but wanted to support my friend.  The guys were old and gross, the floor was sticky, and there was no Women’s Toilet.  I was directed to some janitor’s closet looking place, pushed my way though the more-feminine-than-me men, splashed through beer and urine to find a toilet that had a door on it.  There were guys making out with each other like crazy.  I was tired, and suddenly very tired of this scene.  I found Ryan and Alex, told them I’m never going to a gay bar again, and waited outside.  I told Ryan it’s straight bars from now on, it’s my turn to go out with “my people”. 

Our new friend Alex had told us to meet him at the Clapham Commons tube (read subway) station.  We got there and sat on the ground, waiting.  We waited for about half an hour, eating oranges and people watching.  Even though we were practically blocking the walkway, nobody paid any attention to us as they walked around us and our bags.  It felt great to be in a city again! 

After Alex gave us the grand tour of his parent’s house, he sat down and played some piano for us.  Ryan and I looked at eachother, not sure how to react.  Clearly this guy’s family had money, and Ryan and I instantly felt a bit uncomfortable with the properness of everything.  Alex was an excellent host, don’t get me wrong, but he was too polite, too gentlemanly, and a bit nervous, trying to be the ‘perfect host’.  Ryan and I kept on trying to tell us not to go through the trouble, but when that didn’t work, we just tried to be as gracious as guests as we possibly could. 

His parents had left for The South of France earlier that morning and Alex reheated leftovers from the previous night’s dinner for our lunch.  We weren’t used to such pampering; the last two places we stayed at we were handed the keys and hardly saw our hosts.  We did each get our own rooms to sleep in, which was great, especially for me since it’s been months since I had a room to myself.

After we got settled in, Alex took us to the central area, Trafalgar Square.  There was some Canada Day fest with people drinking beer, wearing red, and watching hockey.  It seemed that everyone was displaying the ever-prominent-whilst-traveling Maple Leaf flag.  Walked around and found a street performer that juggled a chainsaw.  I was not impressed.  Neither was Ryan.  Alex appeared to be. 

After walking around a bit, I started really digging London (sorry Dad).  There’s just so much history; our country’s history, admit it or not; left side driving, which reminded me of Oz and New Zealand, places I think about every day; and seeing the Queen on money again all made me feel very comfortable.  It’s all so remniscent of places I fell in love with months ago.  They came from here, of course I love it.  Except for one thing:  I was told there’d be Tim Tams here, and I still haven’t found them.  

I tried a Bendick’s Bittermint.  Like a York Peppermint Patty but more concentrated and more intense. 

I got a 20 pound (35 USD) haircut the next day.  It had been six months since I had gotten it cut last.  Tipped the girl 5 pounds and she was so extremely grateful; damnit!  they don’t tip here.  Ryan got a mohawk; it was off centered and super wavy in the back.  I decided where we got our haircuts was an extension of a school, since the girl’s hand was shaking everytime before she snipped some hair away.  I was a bit nervous, but figured that no matter what, my hair had to look better than it had for the last 5 months.  And it did, and it still does. 

Chilled and napped in Regent’s Park afterwards.  I was reminded of Australia-how everyone was just hanging out on the grass, walking around, enjoying the summer, and the heat. 

Everytime we got on the tube, announcements were warning people to carry water in this terrible heat.  Newspapers headlines were all about this ‘heatwave’ that was going on.  Ryan and I were a bit confused, being from Chicago what this ‘heatwave’ was all about.  To us, this is ideal summer weather!  Too hot for the poor Brits, I guess.  We were loving it, but knew it wouldn’t last.  England is notorious for rain.

Alex made us dinner-an English special-Toad in the Hole.  Interesting name, eh?  It’s basically sausage (veggie for me) surrounded by a mixture of flour, egg, and water in a 9×13 pan.  No sauce or anything.  Yum.  Ryan and I tried to scarf it down.  I told him it was good but Ryan couldn’t bring himself to tell such a lie.  We watched British TV and learned it was pretty much the same as American tv: all crap.  Alex kept on asking us what we wanted to watch, and couldn’t understand how we had no idea about all these television shows, even though they were all American.  We was baffled when we told him that neither of us own a tv; wanted to know what we did with our time.  He informed us that ‘the cleaner’ was coming the next morning so we should be up around eight so she wouldn’t wake us up.  I personally think it was his way of getting us out of the house early, since we had taken our time getting out to see the city that day.  It didn’t work; he didn’t even get up until 10… He kept on telling us things we had to see and do, things that cost a lot of money, things we didn’t care about.  Why should I go see the political buildings in London when I have no desire to see the American ones in Washington DC?  Around midnight he suggested we all go to bed.  Ryan and I looked at eachother; I followed Alex’s suggestion, but learned later that Ryan was up all night.  What a rebel, that Ryan!

We took Alex’s advice the next day and saw the touristy stuff: saw the mounted guards who wore Romanesque helmets (where are the tall black wolly ones?);  looked at the Parliament Building and Big Ben; checked out an exhibit in the Oxo building on wrongly executed prisoners, mostly from the states; walked around the Tate Modern, the Modern art museum.  I loved it, Ryan seemed to run through it.  He isn’t into museums like I am.  The museum housed a couple Picassos, a Dali, one of Monet’s Waterlillies, a few other artists I recalled from an art class I took a few years ago, lots of disturbing work; lots of nudity, lots of blood as a media.  I walked through a ‘scale room’ where there was an enlarged table and chair set.  The seats of the chairs reached my chin.  I felt like I was on the set for Alice and Wonderland.  The upper floors had more abstract art:  a bit of rope laid just so is art.  I could be an artist too! 

I had no idea we were in France when the border patrol gates loomed up at us, the only blinding light for ages.  We single-file shuffled out  of the bus wiping the sleep out of our eyes.  Ryan hissed at me from a few seats back, “What do I do?” referring to the sample of pot he still had on him.  I wanted nothing to do with it, so I shrugged my shoulders and stepped into the cool air.  Followed the rest of the Eurolines passengers to the flourescently-lit building.  There were six desks, most of the people sitting behind them as wide as the furniture they were resting their elbows on.

I filled out the white card: Name, Nationality, DOB, Place of Birth, Signature; those are the easy ones.  There was a line for address, and that is something I didn’t have.  (We were staying with a guy we met in Krakow; he offered us his house after only knowing him about an hour.  We were supposed to meet him at a tube station, only had his email address, and the directions to the station were in my bag on the bus.)  The last time I came to London, I didn’t write an address, though I had it, and got a lot of crap for it.  And since then I’ve always made sure I had one.  Until now, of course.

The woman kept repeating “I can’t let you in, what if something happens to you and we can’t find you…”  Please.  They do not collect address info for ‘in case of emergency’.  If anyone looks at it beyond border control I’m guessing no.  It’s probably something devised to make people squirm at border control.  Kind of like taking shoes off in airports in the States.  You don’t have to do that anywhere else…I bet there’s some guy sitting in front of camera screens laughing his ass off watching people dance around trying to take their shoes off…OK off topic, I’m sorry.

After giving me a tongue thrashing about my ‘no address’ information, she asked where I was going after my 12 days in England.  “Morocco for two weeks, back to London, then Ireland, then home.”  She seemed satisfied when I told her I have all these flights booked but thank god she didn’t ask for proof.  I have it all except for the flight home and that’s the most important one.  Oops.

She finally thumbed through my passport and asked me when I arrived in Europe.  Clearly she couldn’t make any sense of my nearly fully stamped pages.  She stamped one of the last pages, told me that next time I’ll need an address (right-that’s what they said last time), and passed me through the line out the door back to my bus.

I didn’t notice Ryan behind me, and I didn’t see his head in the window when I got to the bus.  My rattled nerves from the border crossing just intensified (I hate border crossings!) What if they found his pot?  What if they’re keeping him here?  Do I stay here, or continue on to London?  I told myself not to be silly and when he got on the bus he told me he’d binned it. Why bring it all this way then?  Oh well, whatever.  Not my problem.

The bus drove onto the ferry where we had to exit the bus.  So much for taking the night bus in order to get some sleep!  We were due to arrive in Dover…

I fell asleep once we arrived on dry land and I saw that we were driving on the left side of the road, which made me smile.  I passed out for a good couple hours until I heard the bus driver talking in my sleep “That’s Big Ben”  I opened my eyes to see a tannish looking clocktower and an ornate squarish building next to it.  I closed my eyes in hopes to get a few more minutes of sleep…

Leaving Prague was a bit of a nightmare as the girl at the hostel gave us absolutely WRONG directions to the airport.  (Don’t stay at Chili Hostel in Prague)  We finally made it and checked in to discover that Wizzair was promoting something and giving away free food and champagne.  Everything had meat on it, except for a slice of bread with strawberries and bree cheese on it.  Ryan sampled all the meaty sandwiches and downed three or four glasses of champage.  We checked in, waited around impatiently with the other Wizzair passengers to claim a seat.  These budget airlines don’t assign seats.  So its a big scramble when they let us on the plane.  We got a seat and we both fell asleep.  I woke up when we were about to ‘start the descent’ and Ryan was freaking out about the turbulance.  With our arrival in Eindhoven, a few hours away from Amsterdam, we were greeted with free bottles of Champagne.  Thank you Wizzair!

We got on the bus headed for the train station that would take us to Amsterdam a bit crabby, from the heat and the masses of people, although it was nice to see people of all colours (Poland seems to only be filled with, well, Polish) and speak to people in impeccable English.  Got on the train, had to switch trains due to whatever reason.  Sat next to a man from Iraq who wouldn’t talk to me but had a lot to say to Ryan.  Watching this exchange I could tell Ryan didn’t want to talk to him.

We switched trains and claimed seats across the aisle from eachother.  We both looked out the windows, silent.  I was thinking about how tired I was getting again, and how I didn’t want to go back to Poland again.  We had a return flight from Eindhoven Prague and then a flight from Warsaw to London on the twelfth…Since we were halfway to England, why not go there now?  We could settle for almost two weeks til our flight to Morocco, I could find a yoga class and Ryan could make some money (as a massage therapist).  I brought this up to Ryan and he broke into a huge grin.  London sounded promising and we both started to feel a little better about life.  We’d eat the tickets, the money was gone anyway, and as Ryan had put it, “Going back to Poland would be like beating a dead horse”.  One couldn’t have put it better.

When we got off the train in Central Station we were hit with a cloud of potsmoke.  Welcome to Amsterdam!  We found Tram number 9, the one that would take us to my cousins exboyfriends Bram’s house.  I emailed him about meeting for a drink a week before and he offered us his house.  Can’t turn down free accomodation!  We got to his house and was immediately offered some of “his beer”, Heineken.  We drank two and went for a walk to a bar called the Groene Oxlifant-The Green Elephant, sampled some beers and Bitterballen-veal deep fried dipped in Mustard.  Ryan loved it while I sampled on some cheese, which was delicious as well.  Bram was staying at his girlfriends that night so we got to sleep in his bed.  What a great host!

Next morning we headed into the city for a breakfast of fries.  Fries in Amsterdam come in a massive funnel shaped sleeve and smothered by a huge glob of sauce.  We both picked Americain, a semi spicy sauce.  I’ve been thinking about these fries since I’d left Amsterdam the last time.  Yum…

My goal for Amsterdam was to not get stoned.  This was my third time here, and this time I wanted to appreciate the city for what it has besides the things that are illegal in the rest of the world.  Which, I discovered later, isn’t much.  Ryan’s goal for Amsterdam was the exact opposite of mine.

Ryan purchased some pot and we found a park to chill in.  He smoked while I read and slept.  When we got back to Brams, a note was waiting for us: he was staying at his girlfriends and he’d see us in the morning.  Sweet!  We got to sleep in his bed again.

Had fries again for breakfast-this time I got ketchup.  How American.  The other sauce gave me heartburn the day before, so I fugured Id be safe with Ketchup.  Looking back, I think it was the greasyness of the fries that did it.

We took the New Europe’s Free Tour of Amsterdam and it was probably the best one we’d been on.  The girl was very enthusiastic and seemed to know a lot about the city and its history.  People were more inclined to ask questions here, since, well it is Amsterdam.  It’s every pot smoker’s dream to come here, and probably one of the more interesting stops along the way on a Eurotrip.

We learned a few things as well.  Like how much services cost in the Red Light District.  Prices start at 50 Euros and go up from there, anything beyond basic of the basic-est is an extra charge.  We also learned about the significance of a Catholic Church in the middle of the Red Light District.  Since what most people did in the RLD was immoral in some way shape of form, they could go to the chuch immediately after sinning and confess and along with a small fee, could basically get their ‘get out of hell free’ card.  If one also knew exactly what he wes going to do, he could also do it beforehand for a bit of a discount.  Pot is NOT legal in Amsterdam, but the laws are so lax they just look the other way. Too much money is to be made off of pot there.  The XXX displayed all over Amsterdam could mean two things, or both if you think about it.  the first theory is that it’s the symbol of Amsterdam, as many people couldn’t read or write in the seventeenth and eighteenth centruries, so XXX was the universal sign for Amsterdam.  More recently its been decided that each X stands for each of the things that can harm (or that has?) Amsterdam: plague, flood, and fire.  It’s also joked that the Dutch are the tallest white people in the world as a survival of the fittest; all the short people have drowned.

We went to a pub on Rembrandtplein with one of the guys from the tour, Joe.  The pub that’s called Three Sisters is a theif: 5 Euro twenty cents for a pint of Heineken!  That’s at least 7 USD a pint.  But it was good people watching and we hung out there a few hours, before Ryan and Joe decided they needed to visit a coffee shop.  I recalled of one on the other side of the square called Smokeys so we headed over there.  I ordered another beer while they smoked.  We sat outside and peoplewatched some more and I noticed a Looney Tunes Roadrunner shirt.  I thought it was cool so I looked at the person’s head who was wearing it: it turned out to be Tanner from Istanbul!  I jumped up, gave him a big hug, he introduced me to his new friends and told me about how stoned he was…we chatted a bit until I realized there was no conversing with him in the state he was in, so I went back to get my beer.  Both Ryan and Joe were stoned out of their minds so I had to navigate us back to Joe’s hostel, and then Ryan and I back to Brams.

Next day we walked the hour walk all the way to the center just for fries and then realized we had to go back and pack if we were going to make our bus to London.  Walked another hour back to Brams, packed, and headed out.  Walked way out of our way to find Amstel Station, due to the lack of street signs.  Yeah I’m blaming the street signs.  Finally found it, would have been a half hour walk instead of an hour and fifteen minutes.  Grrr.  Anyway.  We got on the bus and noticed the steering wheel was on the right side.  I thought to myself, if I loved Australia and New Zealand so much, I have to love England…

As as afterthought on Amsterdam, I’m done with it.  Everytime I come here, I realize I don’t like it.  I thought being in Amsterdam sober would change my idea of it, but no.  Sure, there’s history, and its seeped in it, but everyone seems to overlook that.  I love the architecture of it, how the buildings lean forward so people can move in.  There’s no way furniture would fit up the stairwells.  The city wants to slowly get rid of the coffeeshops and red light district.  They’d lose so much tourism by doing this.  The city is one big tourist attraction.  All the neon lights, red or not, ruin it.  So does the cheesyness of it.  Give me a city that is proud of its history.  Give me a city that has something to do that I’ll remember.