well i’m on my way…

Arrived via bus in Alicante around 430.  I went to the info center in the bus station and asked ‘Tiene una mapa?’  The guy smiled and handed me a map.  I located the street my hostel was on and went on my way.  I ignored the sweat pouring down my back and took notice of all the ‘Se Vende’ signs (guess the ‘crisis’ has hit hard here) and that pretty much nothing was open, it being Sunday and mid afternoon…

The hostel, Hostel de Sal, is brand spanking new.  I can smell the newness, plus the scuff free white walls give it away to the non-constructionally enlightened.  I wandered and wished I had a camera.  I´m so uninterested without it, not being able to document things or just to capture things at wierd angles, which I love doing.  It´s so beautiful here, and in Spain in general.  At least the little bit I´ve seen.  I saw some massively old trees, with the roots way above the ground and lots and lots of marble and colored tiles.  

I realized that my lack of enthusiam has a bit to do that I´m at my last destination before I head home.  Yikes!  My brain has switched to home mode, and I´m kind of wishing I could put on my ruby slippers, click them together three times, and be instantly transported home! 

I went to bed earlish and woke up at 930, when most of the room was coming in.  It´s a party town, and I´m completely uninterested.  Oh well, next time.  I´m done.  Laid on the beach until I got antsy lying there, the water was a bit dirty and a bit warm-not as refreshing as I would like, but it´s still the sea and I do love the taste of saltwater.  I don´t drink it though, in case you were wondering.  

Showered and headed out for a walk.  Walked along the pier and watched fancy people eating expensive dinners, walked down the pier and looked at the sea, stumbled across a tiny international fair they have going on and looked at what they were selling and noticed an empty stage and dance floor (it was still early), and walked along the beach.  At 9/10 pm there were still people on the beach and swimming in the water.  I didn´t mind being alone, I actually kind of welcomed it, even though I was wandering through couples linked arm in arm and making out.  I headed back to the hostel once I started feeling tired and read until I fell asleep.

This brings me to here, in a ridicously overpriced internet cafe at 6 pm on my last day in Alicante.  I lied on the beach today, and ensured an all over sunburn before I head home.  I´ve never been so emotionally unattached to a place I´ve traveled to, and I feel bad that  I didn´t really give Alicante a chance.  I don´t hate it, there´s nothing to hate, actually, but I´m done.  Stick a fork in me.  I´m looking forward to a time when I can go to sleep so I will know that the next thing I´m doing is waking up and heading to the airport.  It will begin my 35 hours of airports and airplanes-the hell I will have to endure before I go home.  But there´s a light at the end of the tunnel.  And I will take a long long nap once I get there.

We got out of our 60 Euro a night fancy hotel and booked into Hostal de Palma, near the thick of things in Malaga for less than half the price a night.  Combined.  There was no air con and we had a shared bathroom, but otherwise it was fine.  Who needs luxury? 

We unloaded, quickly put on our suits, and headed for the beach.  It was a bit pebbly, but the water was blue and clear even though the port was visible and so close that you could hear the mechanisms of what was going on.  The European way to go on the beach for all ages is topless, so I willingly joined in.  Silly me, I didnt´put sunscreen and I got really burnt.  This seems to be a common theme throughout this blog:  Laura is Sunburnt.  Maybe I should change my blog title?   Whaddya think?  

We took a nap and when we woke up and showered, tried to go for tapas.  The place was packed and there was a wait, and we were weak from hunger so we had Chinese instead.  We walked around, trying to decipher signs and street names, before we would let tiredness win.  There was no way we could drink, it still being at least 85 F and it was 11 at night!  and we were feeling the effects from the sun still.  I don´t know if i was because we just left Morocco, or the fact that I know a bit of the language, or something else, but I feel very comfortable in Spain.

Next day we went to the post office, which was interesting.  No one spoke English, so I resorted to Spanish.  No problem.  I even had to act as a translator for a man, who was struggling to communicate in English.  Wow.  Must be hard.  I thought that in Europe students are taught English, and people who work in fields that come into contact with tourists speak English…not in Spain.  That´s cool.  I guess when you´re the second or third most spoken language in the world, you don´t need to speak any others.  (I wonder where France is on that list??)   Ryan was using the phone, so I waited and drooled over the Spanish men.  Most are dark skinned, muscular, have longish hair, and light eyes.  Kind of Greeklike, but a little more fashion conscious.  Yum!

Since Malaga is the birthplace of Pablo Picasso, we had to see the museum.  It was basically a gallery in a beautiful old building-an air conditioned building.  (I´ve forgotten to mention the weather here in Malaga:  hot, humid, and relentless.  I understand now how the Spanish have mastered the art of the siesta.)   The gallery was really good, with sketches and some of his paintings, but only one I recognized.  Most of his famous stuff must be elsewhere…I love his contrasting colors and his accidental impasto style of overloading the paint on the brush, then onto the canvas.  I love looking at where artists thought they made mistakes, loading up on paint, seeing what they did when–my skill as a painter has allowed me to view painting differently than most.

Took a siesta since Ryan wasn´t feeling well.  We woke up at nine and stuck our heads out the window.  It didn´t seem that the temperature had changed, even thought the sun had gone down.  We decided to brave it, since both our stomachs were rumbling, and went in search of a restaurant I spotted earlier advertising marinated artichoke salad, only to learn that they used it in a lot of dishes, but ruined it in every one by pairing it with meat.  Ugh.  So I (thought I) settled for grilled vegetables:  eggplant, zucchini, tomato, mushroom, artichoke, and asparagus all drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with real sea salt.  Yum! 

When I went to reception before we went out for the day to pay for my last night alone in Malaga, the woman who ran the place wasn´t there, but her Spanish only speaking mother was.  I tried in my broken Spanish to explain that I wanted to pay for the night, asking for ‘la mujer’ and ‘solo habitacion’…The woman replied with ‘la mujer esta trabajando’ (the woman is working) and then rattled off a bunch more that I did not understand.  I told her that my Spanish was bad, that I only know a little.  She had us come in and to ‘Setante’, so we sat, and she told me multiple times ‘hablar ayuda’ something or other, basically telling me that if I spoke it, I would learn it.  She didn´t smile, and that was what turned me off about her.  If she had, I might have stuck around to learn some Spanish.  She finally called her daughter and let me talk to her.  I gave the woman 20 Euros, without her knowing what it was for, and left.  I felt bad that I couldn´t communicate, but I tried. 

We had an early dinner of tapas as it was our last night together: Ryan was moving on to Barcelona later that night, via night bus, and I was heading to Alicante the next morning.  We had a dip of tomoto pasty-peppery garlicy sauce garnished with fried egg, tomatoes, and olive oil; fried mozzarella and tomato pesto on a flaky tostada type thing with lots of ciabatta bread.  I don´t know what Ryan ordered since he´s a carnivore.  We splurged on dessert: Ryan ordered flan that came with a big blob of caramel next to it (I don´t like the consistency of flan) and I ordered a thin pancake (not crepe) filled with caramel drizzled with chocoal with a scoop of each vanilla nd chocolate.  Delish!

Ryan was still feeling sick, and I wasn´t sure if he was going to make his bus.  I gave him ibuprofin and all my anti-diarrhea pills, and sent him on his way.  I realized that night why I stay in hostels, dorm rooms particularly, since I´m not that more comfortable staying ina room alone. With Ryan there, I didn´t hear any of the noises of the building, but without him, they were all magnified times 100.  I had to read until I started dozing off before I could turn out the light and fall asleep.  I ended up sleeping like a rock all night. 

Leaving El Jadida was a bit hectic- I think because both of us were done with Morocco mentally and we were sick of the crazyness.  We witnessed many near fights today.  I almost got in a few when little men would work their way through lines to ensure they weren´t left behind. 

Bus from El Jadida to Casablanca was eh, we coudln´t get a seat until the CTM (Moroccan bus company) guy started taking order.  Got to Casa and my bag wasn´t in the pile, just sitting on the bus, I was afraid someone was going to take it, or plant something in it, I got yelled at by the baggage handler.  The people around had to translate for me:  I´m only one person, blablabla. 

The ride from Casa to Tangier wasn´t that bad.  We got dropped off at the port, which was unexpected, but we had a bit of a hard time finding tickets.  We purchased tickets for a ferry leaving a half hour later, had to wait at border patrol and got pushed by more little men sneaking through!  Stamped, got through security, headed down a portish runway, some man tried making us run, took Ryan´s backpack, tried to take my purse (no way!), showed us to a bus, I wanted to know if it was GRATIS?!  We got on, and he wanted a Euro for carrying Ryan´s bag.  Ryan said no, the busdriver and tout got into it; I seriously thought someone was going to pull out a gun.  The bus filled up, we got on the ferry, and we instantly felt relieved.  We sat, ate crap food, and exchanged our money. 

We arrived in Tarifa Spain for the easiest border crossing I´ve ever experienced,  after getting mad at a Moroccan woman for cutting the line.  I wanted to kiss the ground once we got off the ferry, but with my top-heavy backpack, I would have never gotten up.  I got to practice my Spanish, got on the free bus to Algecerias to get a bus to Malaga, bought ticket, went online, left for bus station at 1015, realized the bus was for 10, thankfully it was still there, got on, dozed in and out of sleep. 

When we arrived in Malaga we were in the middle of a commercial hub.  Great.  We found a taxi, who took us to the cheap hotel, it was full, went to another one, they were full as well, but their sister hotel wasn´t, went there, thanked the taxi driver.  All in Spanish.  Good thing I took a year of it before I left, otherwise it would have been a long rough ride.  Once we checked into the nicest room we´ve stayed in yet, we passed out.  Welcome to Spain.

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.

While walking through Wroclaw (pronounced Vrots laff) to our hostel, Ryan and I both were picking up a good vibe.  Krakow didnt do much for Ryan, and I was excited to be somewhere new.  Ive just begun realizing that most of this trip has been repeats for me, and that could be the reason for my lack of enthusiasm.  But exciting places are on the horizon…

Since it was pretty late when we checked in, we instantly dropped our bags and headed for the main square.  The different styles of architecture and myraid of colours chosen for the buildings kind of reminded me of Bruges, Belgium.  But it was still pretty in its own way.  We stumbled across a bookshop and I had to go in-the Kafka book I purchased in Prague was boring me…We got kicked out when the place was closing and I had two books in hand, debating.  Screw it, I thought, Ill get both of them.  The book Im reading now is called Two Caravans, about Eastern European immigrants in England and Ryan is reading Love in the Time of Cholera.  We went back to the hostel after wandering and chatted with our roommates.  I read myself to sleep-something I havent done in a while.  I didnt realize how much I missed it.

Next morning Ryan, our roommate Gail, and I decided to brave the rain and head out to see the Panaroma Raclawicka, Wroclaws pride and joy, and all the guidebooks and maps cant miss of the city.  The painting was massive, in a building built especially for it, and was very lifelike.  The foreground between us and the painting was constructed to look like the foreground of the painting, with dirt, branches, rotting wood, and garbage.  Soemtimes I coudlnt tell which was which.  We got a narrative of what was going on, but basically it was depicting a battle between the Poles and the Russians. 

Ducking the raindrops, we ran from church to church, admiring their beauty.  Some of them were plain compared to European standards, with cream coloured ceilings and walls and plain stained glass windows.  The Church of the Blessed Name of Jesus however, was spectacular.  Of course it was the one that was locked, and we could only look through a window. 

We headed back to the hostel and chatted some more with the roomies.  Somehow everyone in our room spent most of the day in the room.  I know it was raining, but even on the one day we saw sun, they were all in there.  Whatever.  We started talking about our individual travels, and Ryan fell asleep.  I asked him later if he was bored and he said that he noticed that travelers kind of try to one up eachother with places theyve been and who had the more authentic travel experience.  I dont see it as one upping eachother, though, because I think most of us get off on it.  I know I do.  Hearing about others travels just makes me want to do it more.  Its addictive.  Its a healthier drug than most, but Im sure just as expensive. 

Ryan wanted to go out, I wanst too keen on the idea, but once I had a pregame beer in the room, I was ready.  Ryan googled the gaybars in Wroclaw and he found two-one of them was called Pink Inside.  We giggled over the grossness of the name, but left in search of it.  We didnt find it, but on our way back we came across a woman trying to light what we thought was a cigarette.  Knowing how frustrating that is, I offered here my matches.  When she turned around to take the matchbox, she revealed that what she was trying to light wasnt a cigarette, but a crackpipe!  We looked around to make sure there werent any police in the area, and hurried her up so I could get my matches back and get the hell out of there.  We laughed as we trotted away, although Im sure the situation isnt that funny.

We found this bar back off the street and noticed people outside singing.  It looked like two guys dancing together and they were singing Madonnas Rain.  Two other guys walked outside and we knew we were in the right place.  The building was built into a hill, so we descended the steps and went inside.  A cloud of smoke attacked us when we went in, and we had to adjust our eyes to the red light.  Not only was everyone smoking, but a smoke machine kept on depositing smoke onto the dance floor.  We watched shadows dancing for a while until the smoke machine stopped.  Thank you! 

So while we were drinking our Italian beers, we laughed at the music playing-Ricky Martins She Bang, Spice Girls Wannabe, Moulin Rouge, the YMCA, and the early nineties song Show Me Love.  Everyone went crazy for these songs, but the people were dressed comparitively to the music.  It seems to be a trend in Eastern Europe, and after looking at some maps, these :behind: countries fashionwise were all on the east side of the Iron Curtain.  Hm…  Midriffs are so disgusting popular here, as are sholder pads and the tucking in of shirts.

After a while the smoke was getting to us so Ryan and I went outside.  We were talking about dimensions and predestination when the bar closed and people started streaming out.  The three guys (well one was dressed as a woman) we noticed at the table next to us came up and asked us where we were from and what we were doing here.  We ended up going to an after hours bar with them.  Ryan tried telling them Polish jokes from home, but the humour was lost on them.  When we left there, we made plans to meet them the next day.  Ryan and I slept all day, and didnt meet up with them.  We sent an apologetic email, and got facebook friend requests in return.  They probably didnt want to get out of bed either, as we got back at 6, and they Im sure even later.

Ooh-I almost forgot to tell you about the gnomes!  In the 80s an anti communist group called The Orange Movement dressed up as gnomes and ran through the city.  What that accomplished, if anything, I dont know.  But in memoriam of this, there are over 50 little sculptures of different gnomes all over the city.  They each have names and personalities.  Of course I had to go on a search for these littte guys, and kept my eyes glued to the ground pretty much every time we walked around.  I think I found 12. 

The day after our hangover we went to an exhibit recommended by one of our roomates-Europa.  Its an exhibit of Europe after WWII and basically of how the EU started.  It started out by explaining how each treaty signed wasnt necessarily for peace, but a set up for the next war.  Interesting point.  There was one exhibit that listed all of the things lost during the war, with statistics (of course I forgot exact numbers) of numbers of people dead, homeless, without food, number of bridges destroyed in Germany (well over half), and other random scary stats.  Just when it was starting to get humbling, it turned to how Europe rebuilt itself (with much aid from the States under the Marshall Plan) and how an agreement between the Netherlands, Belguim and Luxembourg turned into this massive thing we know as the European Union.  We learned how the EU works.  It was pretty informative and I liked it.  Ryan thought he was being brainwashed. 

On the way back from Europa we found ourselves in front of the redundant named church-The Church of the Blessed Name of Jesus.  The doors were open and a cool air was coming from inside.  The church was breathtaking, with marble everything, marble and wooden sculptures, ornate decorations, and magical stained glass windows.  Wroclaw is definately a relgious town, which is also depicted by an abundance of nuns.  Ryan couldnt believe all the nuns we were seeing, and stated that he had never seen so many nuns in one place.  I told him to come to a family reunion on my fathers side. 

I got WrocLOVE from a poster for an upcoming festival.  I also think Ive heard people call it that.  Anyways, I like it.  It has a cute ring to it. 

We took the six am train to Prague which we tried to sleep on, but sleep was impossible.  Conductors checked our tickets seven different times, and we got stopped at the border between Poland and the Czech Republic.  Even though we were both half awake, we questioned eachother why we were being stopped and asked for our passports; we had learned only the day before about the Shengen Area-which means that one can travel freely between countries included in it.  Both countries we were traveling between were part of it…There was a very wet German shepherd present with the border control, so we assumed that someone had been tipped off about a smuggling…Who knows.  We got as much sleep as possible.

We both arrived crabby in Prague, and we had to wait to check in to our hostel.  We headed for the kitchen to make more PBJ and there was a TV blaring the headlines over and over: Michael Jackson is dead.  Geez.  Ive been traveling for six months, and havent really gotten any news until this.  The media sure is something.  We wasted the day in Prague and that night Ryan went out with our roommates.  Ryan and I have different sleep schedules; when I wake up in the morning hes usually just getting to bed.  So I slept while he got drunk.  It was fun waking him up this morning, but he has good incentive to get up:  we fly to Amsterdam today!!!!