With her killer graces
And her secret places
That no boy can fill
With her hands on her hips
And that smile on her lips
Because she knows that it kills me
With her soft french cream
Standing in the doorway like a dream
I wish she'd just leave me alone
Because french cream won't soften them boots
Adn french kisses will not break that heart of stone
With her long hair falling
And her eyes that shine like the midnight sun
She's the one
She's the one
That thunder in your heart at night
when you kneeling in the dark
It says you're never gonna leave her
But there's this angel in her eyes
That tells such desperate lies
And all you want to do is believe her
And tonight you'll try
Just one more time
To leave it all behind
And to break on through
The Boss was in town Wednesday night, playing US Cellular Field (affectionately known as "The Cell" around here, mostly because of fan tendency to run onto the field during games). I did not have a ticket. I felt VERY deprived. I missed last September's concert because I had class (and did not feel I could ditch it at the time tix went on sale). This time I was in Europe when the tix went on sale, and accordingly had no hope of getting tix. Damn. Heard it was another awesome performance too.
Apartment Hunt = the adventure begins...
*Sigh*
This is definitely not going to be easy. I drove downtown Wednesday to look at some apartments, after meeting some ex-co-workers for a nice lunch. While perusing the ads, I noticed an ad for a one-bedroom right across the street from the law school! How fortunate could one be? Step out the door, cross the street, and - shazam! - you're there. Transportation costs? Nil. And the rent? Right up my alley, at $750 a month. Too good to be true, right? Right. I called. It was only 550 square feet, almost half of what I live in now. And the building didn't look so great either. I took a pass on their offer to show it to me.
I'd called earlier on another place, showing at 4:00. But when the guy on the other end told me the area, I became wary (plus his comment about how the owner wanted only a 'certain type' didn't help. Don't know exactly what he meant, but I didn't want to chance it). Turns out I was right; in a drive-by later the place was on the 'wrong side of the tracks' so to speak (I definitely got some 'what are you doing here?' looks), and the building was not in the best condition.
I took my first plunge in an apartment on Deming. After getting directions (just off Clark) and finding parking (a challenge in Lincoln Park), I walked in - and was less than thrilled. The place was 600 square feet (approximately) and going for $865 a month. For you math maniacs, that's $1.44 a square foot. Heck, I only pay $1.29 a foot here, and I think that's pricey. The next three places fared no better - one even had flaking paint and a hole in the ceiling where water had leaked through (the fact that the building manager dismissively pointed that out - "oh and there's where she had a leak, but it never really bothered her" - also bothered me, and dear old dad's opinion was that the paint was flaking because there was more moisture in the apartment that I couldn't see) - and not only were the apartments small, and in generally poor condition, the buildings were too. Oh, but from outside, they looked good. Too bad the inside didn't match.
So the search goes on. More to come next week...
Friday, August 15, 2003
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
And then, depression set in.....
Great. I got the email today. You know, that email. The one we all dread....
Hi, Greg
You are invited to the Shepard High School Class of 1983 Reunion!
When: October 10, 2003.
Where: Holiday Inn, Matteson
Cost: $65 pp...
Oh. My. God.
Two months to find a date. Can I do it? Should I go? Am I really that old?
*sigh*
Great. I got the email today. You know, that email. The one we all dread....
Hi, Greg
You are invited to the Shepard High School Class of 1983 Reunion!
When: October 10, 2003.
Where: Holiday Inn, Matteson
Cost: $65 pp...
Oh. My. God.
Two months to find a date. Can I do it? Should I go? Am I really that old?
*sigh*
Monday, August 11, 2003
More Photos
I got back the rest of the pictures from vacation.
Total developing cost (US): $150.
Total developing cost (Italy): approx $55.
Total film cost: approx $130
(due to fluctuation in value of Euro, it's impossible for me to be exact here).
That means my photos cost me a total of $385. Annika, in a comment a couple of weeks back, pointed out that I should have just went digital, and in retrospect, she's very much correct. But at that time $400 seemed like a lot of money, and since I'd been to both Oxford and Rome before, I didn't think I'd be snapping that many photos. And then Interlaken happened. And Paris. And Kassel. You get the point. Part of my developing costs included photo CDs, so I could post the pictures easily without having to bother someone to use their scanner, blah, blah, blah...
As I slowly get my life back in order (and settle arguments with Dell, and T-Mobile), I'm sure I'll post more about all the fun I'm not having trying to find an apartment, figure out school, etc.
Believe me, it's been exciting so far.
Best part of last weekend was the entire weekend: I went to Battle Creek, Michigan with my dad for our annual golf weekend. While there, I finally managed to break 100 - twice. Saturday afternoon, it looked like rain, so we decided to forgo the afternoon round for some other diversion, which at first looked like time in front of the TV back at the hotel room. But then we stumbled across Cruise the Gut, sponsored by the Battle Creek Police Department. What is it? A car show - and what a show. Cars from all over Michigan showed up, from a hand-crank start 1916 Ford (which still ran!) right up to mid-80's Hurst Olds 442s. There were T-Birds, Camaros, Firebirds, Mustangs and Corvettes galore, a few Studebakers and even a Nash. Dad and I were in seventh heaven as we spent almost three hours walking downtown looking at at least 1,000 cars. Or at least it seemed like 1,000. It might have been less, but there were cars everywhere - on the street, in parking lots, on the sidewalk - for blocks on end. And where there wasn't cars, there was people. At five o'clock or so, the cars began driving up and down the main drag. Needless to say, it was quite a sight. We thoroughly enjoyed every moment, and didn't get back to the hotel until after nine. And we'd first stopped to look at the cars around three-thirty...
I got back the rest of the pictures from vacation.
Total developing cost (US): $150.
Total developing cost (Italy): approx $55.
Total film cost: approx $130
(due to fluctuation in value of Euro, it's impossible for me to be exact here).
That means my photos cost me a total of $385. Annika, in a comment a couple of weeks back, pointed out that I should have just went digital, and in retrospect, she's very much correct. But at that time $400 seemed like a lot of money, and since I'd been to both Oxford and Rome before, I didn't think I'd be snapping that many photos. And then Interlaken happened. And Paris. And Kassel. You get the point. Part of my developing costs included photo CDs, so I could post the pictures easily without having to bother someone to use their scanner, blah, blah, blah...
As I slowly get my life back in order (and settle arguments with Dell, and T-Mobile), I'm sure I'll post more about all the fun I'm not having trying to find an apartment, figure out school, etc.
Believe me, it's been exciting so far.
Best part of last weekend was the entire weekend: I went to Battle Creek, Michigan with my dad for our annual golf weekend. While there, I finally managed to break 100 - twice. Saturday afternoon, it looked like rain, so we decided to forgo the afternoon round for some other diversion, which at first looked like time in front of the TV back at the hotel room. But then we stumbled across Cruise the Gut, sponsored by the Battle Creek Police Department. What is it? A car show - and what a show. Cars from all over Michigan showed up, from a hand-crank start 1916 Ford (which still ran!) right up to mid-80's Hurst Olds 442s. There were T-Birds, Camaros, Firebirds, Mustangs and Corvettes galore, a few Studebakers and even a Nash. Dad and I were in seventh heaven as we spent almost three hours walking downtown looking at at least 1,000 cars. Or at least it seemed like 1,000. It might have been less, but there were cars everywhere - on the street, in parking lots, on the sidewalk - for blocks on end. And where there wasn't cars, there was people. At five o'clock or so, the cars began driving up and down the main drag. Needless to say, it was quite a sight. We thoroughly enjoyed every moment, and didn't get back to the hotel until after nine. And we'd first stopped to look at the cars around three-thirty...
Thursday, August 07, 2003
While you were out....
The following people died:
Donald Regan
David Brinkley
Gregory Peck
Hume Cronyn
Larry Doby
Strom Thurmond
Katharine Hepburn
Buddy Hackett
Barry White
Buddy Ebsen
Tex Schramm
Bob Hope
Quite a list. The average age of it is 86; I should be so lucky to live so long. Two (Hope and Thurmond) made it all the way to 100; two more (Ebsen, at 95, and Hepburn, at 96) were within shouting distance. All of them (well, except for Regan - don't know him well enough to say this) had great accomplishments in their lifetime, and their passing is a loss to all of us.
The sad thing is, that of all of my classmates in law school, I'm afraid I'm one of a very few who could tell you what all of these people are known for without first looking them up in an encyclopedia. My traveling companion through Ireland could probably guess that Regan had a position in the Reagan administration (Secretary of the Treasury) and that Strom Thurmond was a member of Congress: He watches CNN enough to know that. But knowing that Larry Doby broke the color barrier in the American League, or that Tex Schramm was once the president of the Dallas Cowboys, or that Buddy Ebsen was the original Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz (before an allergy to the makeup forced him to quit)? No way. He wasn't even sure of who Barry White was.
The sad thing is, he made Moot Court, and I didn't. He's also on a journal, and I'm not. Supposedly, he likes someone in our class who made three journals, and Moot Court. Needless to say, they both had the time to invest in writing competitions (he's self-employed and can set his own schedule [he's also fairly well off] and she's not working at all), and I didn't. Why not? Because I was too busy working. Now that the fall recruiting season is near, I'm reviewing the OCI materials and - guess what? All that work I did? Doesn't mean squat now. All that matters is whether I'm in the top 10% of my class (I'm not - I'd be lucky to be in the top 40%) or if I'm on a journal.
And that's what really irks me. My school supposedly caters to evening students (of which I was one). But they don't, really. Most of the firms schedule things during the workday for evening students, and many of the presentations (both required and optional) begin at 5:00. I'm not the first to complain; many of my classmates are equally irked.
Maybe I'm being whiny, but I think there should be some measure of reward for sacrificing the huge amounts of time I dedicated to work and school. One of the day students (who shall remain nameless, since she obviously never worked) said that I knew what I was getting into, and if I wasn't willing to make the commitment to law school, then I shouldn't have signed up. I did know what I was getting into, but when I applied, my job description was different. It changed right before school started, and suddenly, I had more work on my hands, and I couldn't do anything about it. And, with the full knowledge that my grades would probably suffer (and they did), I put more effort into work than I did school, with the hope of stashing as much cash as I could for the long road ahead.
Now I'm beginning to wonder if I did the right thing. Should I have quit the job? Stuck with it? Dropped out of law school? Do I have a hope in hell of getting any job next summer? Or am I totally out of luck?
I feel that I have a lot to offer, and no one who's interested in buying. I sure hope I'm wrong.
I think I need to update that resume........
The following people died:
Donald Regan
David Brinkley
Gregory Peck
Hume Cronyn
Larry Doby
Strom Thurmond
Katharine Hepburn
Buddy Hackett
Barry White
Buddy Ebsen
Tex Schramm
Bob Hope
Quite a list. The average age of it is 86; I should be so lucky to live so long. Two (Hope and Thurmond) made it all the way to 100; two more (Ebsen, at 95, and Hepburn, at 96) were within shouting distance. All of them (well, except for Regan - don't know him well enough to say this) had great accomplishments in their lifetime, and their passing is a loss to all of us.
The sad thing is, that of all of my classmates in law school, I'm afraid I'm one of a very few who could tell you what all of these people are known for without first looking them up in an encyclopedia. My traveling companion through Ireland could probably guess that Regan had a position in the Reagan administration (Secretary of the Treasury) and that Strom Thurmond was a member of Congress: He watches CNN enough to know that. But knowing that Larry Doby broke the color barrier in the American League, or that Tex Schramm was once the president of the Dallas Cowboys, or that Buddy Ebsen was the original Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz (before an allergy to the makeup forced him to quit)? No way. He wasn't even sure of who Barry White was.
The sad thing is, he made Moot Court, and I didn't. He's also on a journal, and I'm not. Supposedly, he likes someone in our class who made three journals, and Moot Court. Needless to say, they both had the time to invest in writing competitions (he's self-employed and can set his own schedule [he's also fairly well off] and she's not working at all), and I didn't. Why not? Because I was too busy working. Now that the fall recruiting season is near, I'm reviewing the OCI materials and - guess what? All that work I did? Doesn't mean squat now. All that matters is whether I'm in the top 10% of my class (I'm not - I'd be lucky to be in the top 40%) or if I'm on a journal.
And that's what really irks me. My school supposedly caters to evening students (of which I was one). But they don't, really. Most of the firms schedule things during the workday for evening students, and many of the presentations (both required and optional) begin at 5:00. I'm not the first to complain; many of my classmates are equally irked.
Maybe I'm being whiny, but I think there should be some measure of reward for sacrificing the huge amounts of time I dedicated to work and school. One of the day students (who shall remain nameless, since she obviously never worked) said that I knew what I was getting into, and if I wasn't willing to make the commitment to law school, then I shouldn't have signed up. I did know what I was getting into, but when I applied, my job description was different. It changed right before school started, and suddenly, I had more work on my hands, and I couldn't do anything about it. And, with the full knowledge that my grades would probably suffer (and they did), I put more effort into work than I did school, with the hope of stashing as much cash as I could for the long road ahead.
Now I'm beginning to wonder if I did the right thing. Should I have quit the job? Stuck with it? Dropped out of law school? Do I have a hope in hell of getting any job next summer? Or am I totally out of luck?
I feel that I have a lot to offer, and no one who's interested in buying. I sure hope I'm wrong.
I think I need to update that resume........
A quickie post
Had some time today, so I decided to.....update my resume? get a haircut? No.....I downloaded some more photos.....this time of Interlaken. Oh, and I added more to the Paris folder, too. Enjoy.
Had some time today, so I decided to.....update my resume? get a haircut? No.....I downloaded some more photos.....this time of Interlaken. Oh, and I added more to the Paris folder, too. Enjoy.
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
I'm baaaaack...for a day
Man, I feel bushed. All I've been doing is traveling since May 23rd. I came home last Friday, and spend Saturday and Sunday unpacking and doing laundry, going through 10 weeks worth of mail, and trying to figure out who has been paid and who hasn't. In the interim, I have to also slog through 150 emails (99 percent junk, unfortunately; I don't get much in the way of real email) and try to figure out just how little money I have left.
In the meantime, I paid a visit to the local Jewel (a/k/a the grocery/drugstore near me) and had some pictures developed. Enjoy. And don't laugh at the cheesy sweater I'm wearing. First, I don't wear sweaters often. Second, due to Ryanair's weight restrictions, I couldn't fit the other sweaters I have (all two of them) in my luggage. I have tons, so I'll post more ASAP. But for now, I think I'm going to watch Austin Powers. Or maybe Dogma, since I was so rudely interrupted by undergrads when I tried to watch it in Rome....
Man, I feel bushed. All I've been doing is traveling since May 23rd. I came home last Friday, and spend Saturday and Sunday unpacking and doing laundry, going through 10 weeks worth of mail, and trying to figure out who has been paid and who hasn't. In the interim, I have to also slog through 150 emails (99 percent junk, unfortunately; I don't get much in the way of real email) and try to figure out just how little money I have left.
In the meantime, I paid a visit to the local Jewel (a/k/a the grocery/drugstore near me) and had some pictures developed. Enjoy. And don't laugh at the cheesy sweater I'm wearing. First, I don't wear sweaters often. Second, due to Ryanair's weight restrictions, I couldn't fit the other sweaters I have (all two of them) in my luggage. I have tons, so I'll post more ASAP. But for now, I think I'm going to watch Austin Powers. Or maybe Dogma, since I was so rudely interrupted by undergrads when I tried to watch it in Rome....
Wednesday, July 30, 2003
If it's Wednesday, this must be....Dublin?
Whew.........I've been in Ireland since Saturday with no Internet access to speak of, and so much to tell....
In two days, I'll be home. That's just weird to say, after being gone since May 23rd. It's been a long, fun, educational, and interesting trip. I've seen the beginning of the Tour de France (yea Lance!), the British Open (though in the UK it's just "The Open), and most fun of all, driven a left-hand-drive car around Ireland. Six Hundred miles of driving in five days. In a stick shift (or straight drive, if y'all is a Southerner), which I don't normally drive at home, and haven't driven for any length of time since 1987. Not bad.
Of course, I did have to put up with my traveling companion, who was very helpful at navigating, and of no help with stimulating conversation. Our discussions mostly centered around school - classes, Moot Court and who got in (he did, I have yet to hear and probably did not), class rank, on-campus interviewing (or OCI - and why he should participate, and how those who don't are basically out of luck - just what I wanted to hear after quitting a perfectly good job). What didn't center around school revolved mostly around his adventures, which I find mostly hard to believe. The funniest part occured in Wexford yesterday. Earlier in the week, he'd turned up the radio, saying "this is a good song." Of course, it was a song played over and over and over, and every time, they announced the artist - Beyonce's Crazy in Love. So yesterday, we walked into a music store in Wexford, and what did I see, but Beyonce's new CD. So I showed it to him, and what does he say?
"What's that?"
"Beyonce's new CD."
"Who?"
"The song you like."
"What song?"
"Crazy in love."
"What song is that?"
"Never mind."
The most interesting non-school/self related conversation we had dealt with the women on TV we thought were hot, which was prompted by an episode of Friends. Predictibly, he picked Jennifer Aniston, Courtney Cox and Lisa Kudrow in that order, then told me the hottest woman on Ally McBeal was Lucy Liu. He was shocked when I picked Lisa Kudrow over Jennifer, and said Lucy was only fifth hottest (after Portia di Rossi, Jane Krakowski, Calista Flockhart and Courtney Thorne-Smith). I tried to cover other shows, but.... he didn't know them. Oh well.
More when I get back to the US.....
Whew.........I've been in Ireland since Saturday with no Internet access to speak of, and so much to tell....
In two days, I'll be home. That's just weird to say, after being gone since May 23rd. It's been a long, fun, educational, and interesting trip. I've seen the beginning of the Tour de France (yea Lance!), the British Open (though in the UK it's just "The Open), and most fun of all, driven a left-hand-drive car around Ireland. Six Hundred miles of driving in five days. In a stick shift (or straight drive, if y'all is a Southerner), which I don't normally drive at home, and haven't driven for any length of time since 1987. Not bad.
Of course, I did have to put up with my traveling companion, who was very helpful at navigating, and of no help with stimulating conversation. Our discussions mostly centered around school - classes, Moot Court and who got in (he did, I have yet to hear and probably did not), class rank, on-campus interviewing (or OCI - and why he should participate, and how those who don't are basically out of luck - just what I wanted to hear after quitting a perfectly good job). What didn't center around school revolved mostly around his adventures, which I find mostly hard to believe. The funniest part occured in Wexford yesterday. Earlier in the week, he'd turned up the radio, saying "this is a good song." Of course, it was a song played over and over and over, and every time, they announced the artist - Beyonce's Crazy in Love. So yesterday, we walked into a music store in Wexford, and what did I see, but Beyonce's new CD. So I showed it to him, and what does he say?
"What's that?"
"Beyonce's new CD."
"Who?"
"The song you like."
"What song?"
"Crazy in love."
"What song is that?"
"Never mind."
The most interesting non-school/self related conversation we had dealt with the women on TV we thought were hot, which was prompted by an episode of Friends. Predictibly, he picked Jennifer Aniston, Courtney Cox and Lisa Kudrow in that order, then told me the hottest woman on Ally McBeal was Lucy Liu. He was shocked when I picked Lisa Kudrow over Jennifer, and said Lucy was only fifth hottest (after Portia di Rossi, Jane Krakowski, Calista Flockhart and Courtney Thorne-Smith). I tried to cover other shows, but.... he didn't know them. Oh well.
More when I get back to the US.....
Monday, July 21, 2003
It has now been 59 days since I left the United States. In that time, I've visited Rome, Florence, Milan, Sorrento, Capri, Interlachen (Switzerland), Bern, Strasbourg, Kassel (Germany), Paris, Luxembourg, Brussels, London, Oxford, and this weekend's entry, Salisbury and Stonehenge. For those of you who are counting, that's 6 capital cities and 7 countries. This coming weekend, I'll add one more to each of those, as John and I head to Shannon, and drive our way across Ireland to Dublin. I have 11 more days here, and four until my finals on Friday.
I managed to have dinner with my professor friend on Saturday. I gave him that list (and details of my once-in-a-lifetime visit to the British Open) at dinner, and his response was simply "My goodness, I just listened to that list and I'm tired." He's not the only one. The only thing suffering more than me right now is my bank account, which is beginning to resemble the Sahara desert. Going to the Open didn't help, as I dropped £160 buying stuff for the family back home (a shirt, a hat, and a green repair tool for dad, who's a big golf fan, a hat for each of my nephews, and stuff for me).
I've met some nice people along the way, learned more about people who I should be hanging out with back home, and met some people who I just can't stand. Of course, some of those in the latter category are people whom I hung out with over the last year, but most are people I'll be having class with come the fall. So that should be interesting.
All in all, I miss listening to my CDs most of all. And driving my car and my motorcycle. And, of course, I miss my family.......
But so far, I've managed to enjoy the whole trip. I've taken over 200 photographs, which will cost an enormous amount of money to develop. And I promise to post as many as I can for those of you who've been living vicariously through my these last - six? seven? - weeks. And I promise stories of this trip for a long time to come.....or until I get a more interesting life back home, which may not take long....
I managed to have dinner with my professor friend on Saturday. I gave him that list (and details of my once-in-a-lifetime visit to the British Open) at dinner, and his response was simply "My goodness, I just listened to that list and I'm tired." He's not the only one. The only thing suffering more than me right now is my bank account, which is beginning to resemble the Sahara desert. Going to the Open didn't help, as I dropped £160 buying stuff for the family back home (a shirt, a hat, and a green repair tool for dad, who's a big golf fan, a hat for each of my nephews, and stuff for me).
I've met some nice people along the way, learned more about people who I should be hanging out with back home, and met some people who I just can't stand. Of course, some of those in the latter category are people whom I hung out with over the last year, but most are people I'll be having class with come the fall. So that should be interesting.
All in all, I miss listening to my CDs most of all. And driving my car and my motorcycle. And, of course, I miss my family.......
But so far, I've managed to enjoy the whole trip. I've taken over 200 photographs, which will cost an enormous amount of money to develop. And I promise to post as many as I can for those of you who've been living vicariously through my these last - six? seven? - weeks. And I promise stories of this trip for a long time to come.....or until I get a more interesting life back home, which may not take long....
Thursday, July 17, 2003
Yeah, I'd like to go to Paris one day....maybe even France.....
Paris
Day One
Because big cities like London, Rome and Paris tend to be pretty pricey, and because money isn't infinite, I jumped at the opportunity to go on a one-day, thirty six hour excursion to Paris with the 'other' Greg and Blake. John M rode the train with us, but was planning on spending the entire weekend. Once there, we were to meet up with Bridget, Art, Kathy, and Tim, (who somehow managed to make getting to Paris via a direct train an adventure).
Our first challenge was finding our rooms. Blake and Greg had booked a room at the FIAP Jean Monnet, which was in the same 'system' as our wonderful accomodations at CIARUS. Fortunately, it turned out to be a little nicer and somewhat quieter, even if the hallway did reek of b.o. (I found out the next morning we were lucky; apparently, the small child problem was so bad at FIAP that the sixteen-year-olds were ready to kill.) John, on the other hand, was staying with Art in a hotel on the north end of Paris (ours was on the south end), near the Gare Nord (for those of you who haven't been there, Gare Nord is the north train station; it's one Metro stop west of Gare Est, the - you guessed it - eastern train station, into which our train pulled.) We agreed to meet in one hour at the Cathedral of Notre Dame.
We arrived at Notre Dame to find two things; one, there were a TON of people around, and two, we were going to have fun trying to find John. Fortunately, it didn't take long until Blake and Greg saw him. We flagged him down, and he joined up to tell us that - he'd just been mugged. Apparently, two men had cornered him in the Metro station after he'd taken a photograph with his digital camera and gotten €40. Now, I say apparently, because there is some doubt as to whether or not this actually occurred. According to John's story, the he surrendered the money only after the thieves brandished switchblades. But luckily, he was able to keep his digital camera, and he negotiated them down to the €40, even though they had seen his wallet and saw that he had more than that on him. You decide if you think it's true. Finally, he said he'd talked to a police officer, but they were unwilling to do anything, even to go into the Metro to see if his story was true.
After hearing the story (and offering support - it wasn't until later that people began to doubt the story), we went through the Cathedral. While it was nice, and fairly interesting, when compared to St. Peter's in Rome, or the Basilicas in Florences, well, it wasn't very exciting. From there, we wandered around, trying to find a water taxi that John had seen in a guidebook. We finally found it, and spent the €7.50 to go from Notre Dame to the Eiffel Tower. On the way, I burned off the rest of a roll of film.
We got to the Eiffel Tower around 6:15 or so. John wanted to take the stairs, but confusion over whether or not we'd be able to go all the way up from the second level (where they end) added to the fact that we were fairly certain that no one was admitted to the stairway after six (they aren't) let to us merely opting to take the elevators all the way up. This involves a two-step process; first, you take an elevator up one of two legs to the second level. Once there, you switch to another elevator which goes up a central shaft to the top, 860 feet up. At the top, you have the choice of staying inside, or going up one level to the outside view (which we picked). We hung out up there for a good hour, and I took about 30 more pictures.
After we left the Tower, we headed off to meet the others for dinner in Montmarte. For those of you who are art buffs, this is where Renior painted one of his more famous paintings (the name of which escapes me, but I believe it's Dancing in the Park on Sunday Afternoon, or something along those lines). Dinner was thoroughly enjoyable, and John got to tell his mugging story several times to an astonished Art, Kathy and Bridget. After dinner, we watched the light show on the Eiffel Tower, then Blake, Greg and I headed home.
Day Two
We woke up around 9, and headed over to meet up with everyone at John and Art's hotel. We all wanted to see the Tour de France start, but no one was sure when it started. Blake, Bridget and I wanted to go to the Louvre, which we thought we could do by 1:20 (when we thought the race would start), especially if we kept to a schedule. We breezed through the Louvre (yes, we saw the Mona Lisa) and headed toward the Champs-Elysees to try and catch the start. Instead, we wound up at the Place de Concorde, across the Seine from the National Assembly, where we found out three things: First, the race didn't start until 3:50; second, it was a time trial, so the riders would go off one at a time, a minute apart; third, since he won last year, Lance Armstrong would not go until last - at 7:05 pm. If we stayed for that, we'd miss the last train back to Strasbourg. So we decided to wait for the parade at 1:20. Afterward, we headed to the Musee d'Orsay, where we were supposed to meet Greg at 3:00. But he never made it; we found out later that he'd spent the whole day sitting with the others at the Eiffel Tower, waiting (in vain) for Lance.
We, however, did get to see the Museum, and I spent a good amount of time in the Impressionist section, soaking up all I could, and even eavesdropping on a tour here and there. We stayed until they started closing. At 5:15, Blake, Bridget and I headed back to Place de Concorde to watch some of the Tour. I had two, maybe three pictures left, and I wanted to get a picture of the first thing I'd seen when we'd arrived, but hadn't photographed - the Arc de Triomphe. We'd seen it as we emerged from the Metro on our way to the Tourist Bureau (which, ironically, would be featured the next evening on the news back home in Chicago), but I was carrying all my luggage at that point, and unwilling to dig out the camera. So, after snapping a photo up the Champs-Ellysees, we hopped on the Metro and got off at the Arc. I took a picture of the Arc by itself, and Blake once again bailed now-out-of-film me by taking a picture of me with the Arc in the background. He'd done the same in the Louvre when my camera developed a new habit of automatically rewinding the film after photo 31 of 40.
After the Arc, we headed back to John's hotel to get our luggage (where we'd dropped it after checking out of the FIAP). Greg finally made it at 6:45, and we began our long five hour journey back to Strasbourg.
Paris
Day One
Because big cities like London, Rome and Paris tend to be pretty pricey, and because money isn't infinite, I jumped at the opportunity to go on a one-day, thirty six hour excursion to Paris with the 'other' Greg and Blake. John M rode the train with us, but was planning on spending the entire weekend. Once there, we were to meet up with Bridget, Art, Kathy, and Tim, (who somehow managed to make getting to Paris via a direct train an adventure).
Our first challenge was finding our rooms. Blake and Greg had booked a room at the FIAP Jean Monnet, which was in the same 'system' as our wonderful accomodations at CIARUS. Fortunately, it turned out to be a little nicer and somewhat quieter, even if the hallway did reek of b.o. (I found out the next morning we were lucky; apparently, the small child problem was so bad at FIAP that the sixteen-year-olds were ready to kill.) John, on the other hand, was staying with Art in a hotel on the north end of Paris (ours was on the south end), near the Gare Nord (for those of you who haven't been there, Gare Nord is the north train station; it's one Metro stop west of Gare Est, the - you guessed it - eastern train station, into which our train pulled.) We agreed to meet in one hour at the Cathedral of Notre Dame.
We arrived at Notre Dame to find two things; one, there were a TON of people around, and two, we were going to have fun trying to find John. Fortunately, it didn't take long until Blake and Greg saw him. We flagged him down, and he joined up to tell us that - he'd just been mugged. Apparently, two men had cornered him in the Metro station after he'd taken a photograph with his digital camera and gotten €40. Now, I say apparently, because there is some doubt as to whether or not this actually occurred. According to John's story, the he surrendered the money only after the thieves brandished switchblades. But luckily, he was able to keep his digital camera, and he negotiated them down to the €40, even though they had seen his wallet and saw that he had more than that on him. You decide if you think it's true. Finally, he said he'd talked to a police officer, but they were unwilling to do anything, even to go into the Metro to see if his story was true.
After hearing the story (and offering support - it wasn't until later that people began to doubt the story), we went through the Cathedral. While it was nice, and fairly interesting, when compared to St. Peter's in Rome, or the Basilicas in Florences, well, it wasn't very exciting. From there, we wandered around, trying to find a water taxi that John had seen in a guidebook. We finally found it, and spent the €7.50 to go from Notre Dame to the Eiffel Tower. On the way, I burned off the rest of a roll of film.
We got to the Eiffel Tower around 6:15 or so. John wanted to take the stairs, but confusion over whether or not we'd be able to go all the way up from the second level (where they end) added to the fact that we were fairly certain that no one was admitted to the stairway after six (they aren't) let to us merely opting to take the elevators all the way up. This involves a two-step process; first, you take an elevator up one of two legs to the second level. Once there, you switch to another elevator which goes up a central shaft to the top, 860 feet up. At the top, you have the choice of staying inside, or going up one level to the outside view (which we picked). We hung out up there for a good hour, and I took about 30 more pictures.
After we left the Tower, we headed off to meet the others for dinner in Montmarte. For those of you who are art buffs, this is where Renior painted one of his more famous paintings (the name of which escapes me, but I believe it's Dancing in the Park on Sunday Afternoon, or something along those lines). Dinner was thoroughly enjoyable, and John got to tell his mugging story several times to an astonished Art, Kathy and Bridget. After dinner, we watched the light show on the Eiffel Tower, then Blake, Greg and I headed home.
Day Two
We woke up around 9, and headed over to meet up with everyone at John and Art's hotel. We all wanted to see the Tour de France start, but no one was sure when it started. Blake, Bridget and I wanted to go to the Louvre, which we thought we could do by 1:20 (when we thought the race would start), especially if we kept to a schedule. We breezed through the Louvre (yes, we saw the Mona Lisa) and headed toward the Champs-Elysees to try and catch the start. Instead, we wound up at the Place de Concorde, across the Seine from the National Assembly, where we found out three things: First, the race didn't start until 3:50; second, it was a time trial, so the riders would go off one at a time, a minute apart; third, since he won last year, Lance Armstrong would not go until last - at 7:05 pm. If we stayed for that, we'd miss the last train back to Strasbourg. So we decided to wait for the parade at 1:20. Afterward, we headed to the Musee d'Orsay, where we were supposed to meet Greg at 3:00. But he never made it; we found out later that he'd spent the whole day sitting with the others at the Eiffel Tower, waiting (in vain) for Lance.
We, however, did get to see the Museum, and I spent a good amount of time in the Impressionist section, soaking up all I could, and even eavesdropping on a tour here and there. We stayed until they started closing. At 5:15, Blake, Bridget and I headed back to Place de Concorde to watch some of the Tour. I had two, maybe three pictures left, and I wanted to get a picture of the first thing I'd seen when we'd arrived, but hadn't photographed - the Arc de Triomphe. We'd seen it as we emerged from the Metro on our way to the Tourist Bureau (which, ironically, would be featured the next evening on the news back home in Chicago), but I was carrying all my luggage at that point, and unwilling to dig out the camera. So, after snapping a photo up the Champs-Ellysees, we hopped on the Metro and got off at the Arc. I took a picture of the Arc by itself, and Blake once again bailed now-out-of-film me by taking a picture of me with the Arc in the background. He'd done the same in the Louvre when my camera developed a new habit of automatically rewinding the film after photo 31 of 40.
After the Arc, we headed back to John's hotel to get our luggage (where we'd dropped it after checking out of the FIAP). Greg finally made it at 6:45, and we began our long five hour journey back to Strasbourg.
Sunday, July 13, 2003
Day after day I'm more confused
And I look for the light through the pourin' rain
You know thats a game that I'd hate to loose
And I'm feelin' the strain
Ain't it a shame?
(Chrous)
Oh, gimme the Beach Boys and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock n' roll and drift away
Oh, gimme the Beach Boys and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock n' roll and drift away
Dobie Gray, Drift Away (recently covered by Uncle Kracker)
The last week in Strasbourg was a blur of classes, tours and - rain. Finally, after more than five weeks in Europe, we had rain. Somehow, it didn't dampen our spirits one whit. Instead, it lifted them, since the rain meant cooler temperatures, especially at night, and, given the fact that among CIARUS' many faults there was no air conditioning, that meant comfortable sleeping weather for all. Except Tim.
One of the planned 'events' was a picnic with the students of Nottingham Trent Law School. We met them in the large park across from the Council of Europe on Monday evening, 'round 7. It had spent the good part of the morning raining, to the extent that Dean Jean had made contingency plans should it continue to do so. But in the early afternoon, the rain stopped, even though it threatened to start up again all day. At around six-thirty, myself and about six others decided to walk to the park, even though it was quite a distance away. Sure enough, about two-thirds of the way there, the drizzling began anew. Fortunately, Dean Jean and the Nottingham faculty found a covered place from which to serve the food (cold cuts, bread, etc.) and we were all able to enjoy a simple meal, even if the beer was warm. Presently, a football/soccer match developed, with the Brits against the Americans (helped out by a couple of Brits who crossed over to balance the sides). During the match, the skies (which had stopped raining) opened up, and a downpour drenched us all. But that didn't dampen our spirits; we played on, with several of us (me included) going barefoot in the grass to maintain traction. Tim, the most athletic of the US guys, didn't; he played on with his crosstrainers. Eventually, the rain stopped, but the ground, now drenched, was still slick. And that's when it happened. An errant pass by a teammate sent the ball heading alone for the out-of-bounds. Willis, easily more liked by the Brits than his fellow American students, raced toward it for the British team. Tim raced toward it for ours. Tim easily outpaced Willis, and tried to stop to make the pass and.....slipped. He fell backwards, landing on both hands, but his left hit first, and the wrist snapped like a twig.
Needless to say, our match ended then and there, with Tim being driven to the hospital by Dean Jean. What happened next has become the stories of legend: first Dean Jean got lost on the way (thank God it wasn't serious!), then, once Tim had been seen at one hospital and sent to another for treatment, she nearly made things worse when she tried to take a comparison photo of Tim's wrists. Fortunately, Professor Geraghty stepped in and stopped her. Tim finally arrived back at CIARUS at 1:00a.m., with a cast up to his elbow that he still wears.
We spent the next four evenings partying with our newfound friends, and a couple of their girls (birds, if you will) fancied a couple of our guys (and vice versa, but not the same guys who were the object of the British girl's affections). It made for, as they would say, a jolly bit of fun, and several promised to come visit us in Oxford. We'll see.
Thursday saw our last class in Strasbourg, and Friday, July 4th, was ours to do with as we liked. I decided to head with Blake, Greg K, Tim, John, Bridget, Kathy and Art to a city nearby to which I'd never been (but have been wanting to visit for five years) and which would provide a lifetime of memories in forty-eight hours. Paris.
But you'll have to wait for that....
And I look for the light through the pourin' rain
You know thats a game that I'd hate to loose
And I'm feelin' the strain
Ain't it a shame?
(Chrous)
Oh, gimme the Beach Boys and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock n' roll and drift away
Oh, gimme the Beach Boys and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock n' roll and drift away
Dobie Gray, Drift Away (recently covered by Uncle Kracker)
The last week in Strasbourg was a blur of classes, tours and - rain. Finally, after more than five weeks in Europe, we had rain. Somehow, it didn't dampen our spirits one whit. Instead, it lifted them, since the rain meant cooler temperatures, especially at night, and, given the fact that among CIARUS' many faults there was no air conditioning, that meant comfortable sleeping weather for all. Except Tim.
One of the planned 'events' was a picnic with the students of Nottingham Trent Law School. We met them in the large park across from the Council of Europe on Monday evening, 'round 7. It had spent the good part of the morning raining, to the extent that Dean Jean had made contingency plans should it continue to do so. But in the early afternoon, the rain stopped, even though it threatened to start up again all day. At around six-thirty, myself and about six others decided to walk to the park, even though it was quite a distance away. Sure enough, about two-thirds of the way there, the drizzling began anew. Fortunately, Dean Jean and the Nottingham faculty found a covered place from which to serve the food (cold cuts, bread, etc.) and we were all able to enjoy a simple meal, even if the beer was warm. Presently, a football/soccer match developed, with the Brits against the Americans (helped out by a couple of Brits who crossed over to balance the sides). During the match, the skies (which had stopped raining) opened up, and a downpour drenched us all. But that didn't dampen our spirits; we played on, with several of us (me included) going barefoot in the grass to maintain traction. Tim, the most athletic of the US guys, didn't; he played on with his crosstrainers. Eventually, the rain stopped, but the ground, now drenched, was still slick. And that's when it happened. An errant pass by a teammate sent the ball heading alone for the out-of-bounds. Willis, easily more liked by the Brits than his fellow American students, raced toward it for the British team. Tim raced toward it for ours. Tim easily outpaced Willis, and tried to stop to make the pass and.....slipped. He fell backwards, landing on both hands, but his left hit first, and the wrist snapped like a twig.
Needless to say, our match ended then and there, with Tim being driven to the hospital by Dean Jean. What happened next has become the stories of legend: first Dean Jean got lost on the way (thank God it wasn't serious!), then, once Tim had been seen at one hospital and sent to another for treatment, she nearly made things worse when she tried to take a comparison photo of Tim's wrists. Fortunately, Professor Geraghty stepped in and stopped her. Tim finally arrived back at CIARUS at 1:00a.m., with a cast up to his elbow that he still wears.
We spent the next four evenings partying with our newfound friends, and a couple of their girls (birds, if you will) fancied a couple of our guys (and vice versa, but not the same guys who were the object of the British girl's affections). It made for, as they would say, a jolly bit of fun, and several promised to come visit us in Oxford. We'll see.
Thursday saw our last class in Strasbourg, and Friday, July 4th, was ours to do with as we liked. I decided to head with Blake, Greg K, Tim, John, Bridget, Kathy and Art to a city nearby to which I'd never been (but have been wanting to visit for five years) and which would provide a lifetime of memories in forty-eight hours. Paris.
But you'll have to wait for that....
Tuesday, July 08, 2003
Week two
I was disappointed to have to come back to the hole that was CIARUS. Having to put up with insolent twelve-year-olds was annoying enough for two days, but the thought of a whole week...........
Nevertheless, come back I did. And every night, the chaperones would tell the kids to go off to bed at 10, then retire for the evening, leaving us to suffer with children running the halls all night, kicking balls against the wall, jumping off beds, screaming and yelling, and throwing things on passersby below. Not once did a chaperone come up to look in on their kids. And more than a few people complained to no avail.
Classes were made somewhat better than Rome, in that the room in which classes were held was larger, more open, had more writing space, and, most importantly, was air-conditioned. Classes were pretty interesting, with some discussion centered around the field trips we took - to the European Parliament and the European Court of Human Rights - but the highlight was the opportunity to hear arguments before the court for a case in which 2 former KGB agents had been fired by the Lithuanian government for whom they'd worked for their KGB association - 8 years later. One of the most intriguing questions asked by the judges (the ECHR sits in panels of 7 or 9, depending on the circumstances of the case) was why it had taken Lithuania so long to fire the employees, when (a) the government had known of their KGB involvement from the beginning, and (b) at least one had taken an oath of loyalty to Lithuania. The decision comes out in September, and I'll be watching to see what happens.
We made it to the European Parliament shortly after the new head of the European Union, Silvio Berlusconi, had slighted a German representative. The representative had been speaking on a mundane topic when he had been interrupted by Berlusconi, who immediately commented the German representative would make a great candidate for concentration camp guard in a new movie being filmed in Italy. The resulting flap was the talk of the Parliament for the entire day, and the lead story on the news in three countries that night.
I was disappointed to have to come back to the hole that was CIARUS. Having to put up with insolent twelve-year-olds was annoying enough for two days, but the thought of a whole week...........
Nevertheless, come back I did. And every night, the chaperones would tell the kids to go off to bed at 10, then retire for the evening, leaving us to suffer with children running the halls all night, kicking balls against the wall, jumping off beds, screaming and yelling, and throwing things on passersby below. Not once did a chaperone come up to look in on their kids. And more than a few people complained to no avail.
Classes were made somewhat better than Rome, in that the room in which classes were held was larger, more open, had more writing space, and, most importantly, was air-conditioned. Classes were pretty interesting, with some discussion centered around the field trips we took - to the European Parliament and the European Court of Human Rights - but the highlight was the opportunity to hear arguments before the court for a case in which 2 former KGB agents had been fired by the Lithuanian government for whom they'd worked for their KGB association - 8 years later. One of the most intriguing questions asked by the judges (the ECHR sits in panels of 7 or 9, depending on the circumstances of the case) was why it had taken Lithuania so long to fire the employees, when (a) the government had known of their KGB involvement from the beginning, and (b) at least one had taken an oath of loyalty to Lithuania. The decision comes out in September, and I'll be watching to see what happens.
We made it to the European Parliament shortly after the new head of the European Union, Silvio Berlusconi, had slighted a German representative. The representative had been speaking on a mundane topic when he had been interrupted by Berlusconi, who immediately commented the German representative would make a great candidate for concentration camp guard in a new movie being filmed in Italy. The resulting flap was the talk of the Parliament for the entire day, and the lead story on the news in three countries that night.
Kassel (Part Deux)
Tun was an interesting guy. At first he thought I, being an American, only spoke English. Later (after a few drinks), he learned I spoke German, and proceeded to try to talk to me - at machine gun pace. I kept saying langsam, langsam (slower, slower) to no avail. He'd just talk faster. We got to Freierhagen, where Patty's family friend lived, and where we'd be spending the night, just after 8 - in time for a late dinner, which we declined; Patty, because she wasn't hungry, and me, because her mother had just fed me a delicious bratwurst and kartoffelsalat mit sampf (bratwurst and potato salad with dijon mustard).
When Tun failed to arrive as scheduled to pick us up, we walked the relatively short distance to the party location, where we found out why he'd never arrived. Old Tun was already hard at work pulling beers - for the three people who were there. Interestingly enough, shortly after our arrival, we met Rachel, an American and a freshman at Florida. She was gorgeous - long blonde hair, perfect tan, white teeth, pretty smile - and nice to boot. The three of us chatted for nearly two hours, with Rachel expressing frustration that no one her age in Freierhagen seemed to be very open toward her. Of course, once the teenagers started showing up (and show up they did, in droves) it was easy to see why. Poor Rachel, with her stunning good looks, was like a Ferrari in a Yugo shop. She got most of the men's attention, young and old, and the other girls got ignored. Not that the other girls were ugly - there were two or three really cute ones, the rest were average - but Patti and I speculated they must have been quite intimidated by the American girl.
The party itself was a blast. Everyone, including the teenagers (the drinking age for beer in Germany is 16) got pretty plowed. Several tried their English out on me, especially once Patty slipped behind the bar to help out as promised. A few bought me drinks, making sure that as soon as I put down an empty, it was immediately refilled. Others offered to buy me a mischung - a mix of cognac and beer - which I politely declined. They also sold meters, which is a meter-long (ingenious, eh?), fraternity paddle-shaped board capable of holding 11 beers, 10 of which you pay for, and one of which you get for free. Seeing several 16-year-olds down an entire meter was enough to convince me that the 'veteran' drinkers in our group had a long way to go to keep up with these guys. Patty and I finally left the party around 2:45a.m. and headed back to the apartment for the night. While Strasbourg had been swealteringly hot, Freierhagen was relatively cool - we had been given jackets as we left for the party, and walking home we made good use of them. The cool evening weather, and the pin-drop quiet of a small German town combined to give me the best nights sleep that I'd had in at least six weeks, if not longer.
In the morning, Patti's father picked us back up, and took us to the garden club. I spent the day doing basically nothing, just watching TV (some in English, most in German) and vegging out. For the first time in two years, I got to watch an entire F1 race (which Juan Montoya made exciting by spinning out Michael Schumacher), and for the first time ever, watched it live at a normal time (instead of having to set the VCR for 6:00a.m.). It was a nice respite from the constant bitching and sniping and the general where-are-we-eating-today nausea that this trip has sometimes delved into.
Tun was an interesting guy. At first he thought I, being an American, only spoke English. Later (after a few drinks), he learned I spoke German, and proceeded to try to talk to me - at machine gun pace. I kept saying langsam, langsam (slower, slower) to no avail. He'd just talk faster. We got to Freierhagen, where Patty's family friend lived, and where we'd be spending the night, just after 8 - in time for a late dinner, which we declined; Patty, because she wasn't hungry, and me, because her mother had just fed me a delicious bratwurst and kartoffelsalat mit sampf (bratwurst and potato salad with dijon mustard).
When Tun failed to arrive as scheduled to pick us up, we walked the relatively short distance to the party location, where we found out why he'd never arrived. Old Tun was already hard at work pulling beers - for the three people who were there. Interestingly enough, shortly after our arrival, we met Rachel, an American and a freshman at Florida. She was gorgeous - long blonde hair, perfect tan, white teeth, pretty smile - and nice to boot. The three of us chatted for nearly two hours, with Rachel expressing frustration that no one her age in Freierhagen seemed to be very open toward her. Of course, once the teenagers started showing up (and show up they did, in droves) it was easy to see why. Poor Rachel, with her stunning good looks, was like a Ferrari in a Yugo shop. She got most of the men's attention, young and old, and the other girls got ignored. Not that the other girls were ugly - there were two or three really cute ones, the rest were average - but Patti and I speculated they must have been quite intimidated by the American girl.
The party itself was a blast. Everyone, including the teenagers (the drinking age for beer in Germany is 16) got pretty plowed. Several tried their English out on me, especially once Patty slipped behind the bar to help out as promised. A few bought me drinks, making sure that as soon as I put down an empty, it was immediately refilled. Others offered to buy me a mischung - a mix of cognac and beer - which I politely declined. They also sold meters, which is a meter-long (ingenious, eh?), fraternity paddle-shaped board capable of holding 11 beers, 10 of which you pay for, and one of which you get for free. Seeing several 16-year-olds down an entire meter was enough to convince me that the 'veteran' drinkers in our group had a long way to go to keep up with these guys. Patty and I finally left the party around 2:45a.m. and headed back to the apartment for the night. While Strasbourg had been swealteringly hot, Freierhagen was relatively cool - we had been given jackets as we left for the party, and walking home we made good use of them. The cool evening weather, and the pin-drop quiet of a small German town combined to give me the best nights sleep that I'd had in at least six weeks, if not longer.
In the morning, Patti's father picked us back up, and took us to the garden club. I spent the day doing basically nothing, just watching TV (some in English, most in German) and vegging out. For the first time in two years, I got to watch an entire F1 race (which Juan Montoya made exciting by spinning out Michael Schumacher), and for the first time ever, watched it live at a normal time (instead of having to set the VCR for 6:00a.m.). It was a nice respite from the constant bitching and sniping and the general where-are-we-eating-today nausea that this trip has sometimes delved into.
Sunday, July 06, 2003
Strasbourg
Well, I've finally managed to re-configure a keyboard to US-style, and not get booted off the computer afterward. If it seems like forever since I last posted, it's because it has been.
So here we are, our last day in Strasbourg. It's been interesting, to say the least. Here's a little synopsis of the last 10 days....
Day 1 - Arrival
John C. and I arrived in Strasbourg expecting a short walk to our hotel. To be sure, I attempted to ask a female employee of the train station where our hotel was. Since I heard Willis talking to her in German, I was reasonably confident she could speak the language. She could. She just had no clue where our hotel was. According to her, it should be somewhere on the outskirts of town because "zat's where Hotel Etap is always at." Wonderful. Instead of a short walk, we'd have a cab ride. But to be sure, she said, check with the tourist office downstairs. So we headed downstairs.
The tourist office was located right beside the exit doors. Lo and behold, I looked out the exit, and what did I see across the plaza? Hotel Etap. So the lady was wrong. John and I made a beeline to the hotel. We walked in, and were greeted by an attractive girl of about 18, who acted as if we were interrupting her nap (it had to be her nap, because there were no other customers). After a brief exchange, we were told that our room was up one flight, and given the room access code. We got to our room, walked in and saw - two beds. For three people. And a note telling us to be at the other hotel (where everyone else was staying) at 6:00p.m. I looked at my watch. It was 6:05 already. Taking a shower and cleaning up was out. So was wearing my newly-acquired (in Interlachen) Swiss Military watch. We headed back downstairs to find out where to go.
Front-desk girl was equally unhelpful at getting us to Ciarus. She told us it was too far to walk, that we needed to get the number 10 bus from the train station, but not where at the train station. She did go into detailed explanation of where to get off, but since we didn't know the town, it didn't help. But fortunately, John had grabbed a map which clearly showed Ciarus. We decided to walk.
Of course, because I hadn't bothered to clean up, everyone else had. I looked sloppy in my t-shirt and jeans, as we went to a very nice restaurant for dinner. My slovenly looks, combined with the hotel clerk's indifference (I found out later that Art had, upon arriving, attempted to obtain a cot, or another mattress, to no avail. He'd flatly been told "no" to every question he'd been asked, without any further explanation) and the accomodations, served to put me in one foul mood. I hated France, and I had ten long days to brood over it.
Eventually, Dean Jean came by to take the photo of everyone at our table. I was thoroughly embarrassed by my clothes, and abjectly refused to be in the picture. Dean Jean thought that I was kidding, but Mary quickly told her that I was in a bad mood. Although I was mad at Mary for spilling the beans, it all worked out - somewhat. Dean Jean had an open room in Ciarus where I could spend the night. The next night, I had a room at another hotel (although that was nearly another fiasco), and finally, two days later, a room at the Ciarus, with Blake (whom I'd shared a room with in Interlachen) and.........Willis. Somehow, I was being repaid for all the bad karma I'd spread by being saddled with the most annoying person on the trip.
Few people like Willis, except of course, Mrs. Willis, who must be a saint for marrying someone like him. He's impossible to describe, but the most succinct version is that he's kind of like Rainman - he has thousands of totally useless facts in his head, and he doesn't hesitate to share them with you, whether or not they are relevant, or if you are interested in them. According to rumor, Mrs. Willis (whom he calls Boo on his frequent calls home, but not in a lovey-dovey voice, but a very flat, emotionless one) has lots of cash. Or at least her parents do. Either way, Willis must have some endearing quality, but no one on this trip can find it. Not only does Willis talk - a lot - but he also invites himself along if he likes the trip you're taking. Even if you tell him he's not welcome. Well, maybe if you were so direct it might work, but otherwise it won't. And when he speaks another language (he knows German fairly well, but not the rules of grammar, so when we went to Interlachen via Spiez {pronounced speerz}, he kept mispronouncing the name {calling it spitez}) he speaks it so poorly that the native speaker usually says "let's just speak English." No lie. It happened in the train station at Interlachen.
For now, I'm just trying to play nice.
Council of Europe
On about day 3 or 4 (it's all becoming a blur, but I do remember it was a Friday) we went to the Council of Europe for a tour. Supposedly, we were going to see the Council Parliament debate, but, as other things on this trip have turned out, it didn't happen. Instead, the Parliament went home, and we got to look at an empty chamber. Which was a good thing, since I got some nice pictures. But to be honest, while it was all very interesting, it wasn't very memorable.
Weekend 1 - Kassel
Patty's been dying to see what I'd write about my visit to Kassel, and I've been making her wait an entire week. But the first thing I'll say is that Patty and her parents were more than kind, and went out of their way to make me feel at home. Words cannot simply say how much I appreciated all their efforts, and how much I enjoyed the visit.
I'd been trying to get a hold of Patty for a couple of weeks, and on Thursday, I'd finally managed to get through. We made plans to meet on Friday, which became Saturday when laundry and other things (including a late class) intervened. Nevertheless, on Saturday I made my way via train (of course) into Germany. Patty couldn't meet me at the station; her mom had gone shooting, and Patty doesn't drive stick, so her father picked me up. We went back to the Garden Club, and I hung around while Patty worked, waiting for our ride for the evening to Frierhagen, where there was a party Patty was supposed to help out at.
Tun (I hope I'm spelling that right) picked us up about a half hour late. He made up for it on the Autobahn, where I had the pleasure of experiencing 230kph (sorry, I don't know the conversion).
Damn. My hour's up, and the gamers are waiting......more soon, but when I can't predict, since tomorrow we leave for Brussels, and on Wednesday we head to Luxembourg. But I will post again before the week's out.....
Well, I've finally managed to re-configure a keyboard to US-style, and not get booted off the computer afterward. If it seems like forever since I last posted, it's because it has been.
So here we are, our last day in Strasbourg. It's been interesting, to say the least. Here's a little synopsis of the last 10 days....
Day 1 - Arrival
John C. and I arrived in Strasbourg expecting a short walk to our hotel. To be sure, I attempted to ask a female employee of the train station where our hotel was. Since I heard Willis talking to her in German, I was reasonably confident she could speak the language. She could. She just had no clue where our hotel was. According to her, it should be somewhere on the outskirts of town because "zat's where Hotel Etap is always at." Wonderful. Instead of a short walk, we'd have a cab ride. But to be sure, she said, check with the tourist office downstairs. So we headed downstairs.
The tourist office was located right beside the exit doors. Lo and behold, I looked out the exit, and what did I see across the plaza? Hotel Etap. So the lady was wrong. John and I made a beeline to the hotel. We walked in, and were greeted by an attractive girl of about 18, who acted as if we were interrupting her nap (it had to be her nap, because there were no other customers). After a brief exchange, we were told that our room was up one flight, and given the room access code. We got to our room, walked in and saw - two beds. For three people. And a note telling us to be at the other hotel (where everyone else was staying) at 6:00p.m. I looked at my watch. It was 6:05 already. Taking a shower and cleaning up was out. So was wearing my newly-acquired (in Interlachen) Swiss Military watch. We headed back downstairs to find out where to go.
Front-desk girl was equally unhelpful at getting us to Ciarus. She told us it was too far to walk, that we needed to get the number 10 bus from the train station, but not where at the train station. She did go into detailed explanation of where to get off, but since we didn't know the town, it didn't help. But fortunately, John had grabbed a map which clearly showed Ciarus. We decided to walk.
Of course, because I hadn't bothered to clean up, everyone else had. I looked sloppy in my t-shirt and jeans, as we went to a very nice restaurant for dinner. My slovenly looks, combined with the hotel clerk's indifference (I found out later that Art had, upon arriving, attempted to obtain a cot, or another mattress, to no avail. He'd flatly been told "no" to every question he'd been asked, without any further explanation) and the accomodations, served to put me in one foul mood. I hated France, and I had ten long days to brood over it.
Eventually, Dean Jean came by to take the photo of everyone at our table. I was thoroughly embarrassed by my clothes, and abjectly refused to be in the picture. Dean Jean thought that I was kidding, but Mary quickly told her that I was in a bad mood. Although I was mad at Mary for spilling the beans, it all worked out - somewhat. Dean Jean had an open room in Ciarus where I could spend the night. The next night, I had a room at another hotel (although that was nearly another fiasco), and finally, two days later, a room at the Ciarus, with Blake (whom I'd shared a room with in Interlachen) and.........Willis. Somehow, I was being repaid for all the bad karma I'd spread by being saddled with the most annoying person on the trip.
Few people like Willis, except of course, Mrs. Willis, who must be a saint for marrying someone like him. He's impossible to describe, but the most succinct version is that he's kind of like Rainman - he has thousands of totally useless facts in his head, and he doesn't hesitate to share them with you, whether or not they are relevant, or if you are interested in them. According to rumor, Mrs. Willis (whom he calls Boo on his frequent calls home, but not in a lovey-dovey voice, but a very flat, emotionless one) has lots of cash. Or at least her parents do. Either way, Willis must have some endearing quality, but no one on this trip can find it. Not only does Willis talk - a lot - but he also invites himself along if he likes the trip you're taking. Even if you tell him he's not welcome. Well, maybe if you were so direct it might work, but otherwise it won't. And when he speaks another language (he knows German fairly well, but not the rules of grammar, so when we went to Interlachen via Spiez {pronounced speerz}, he kept mispronouncing the name {calling it spitez}) he speaks it so poorly that the native speaker usually says "let's just speak English." No lie. It happened in the train station at Interlachen.
For now, I'm just trying to play nice.
Council of Europe
On about day 3 or 4 (it's all becoming a blur, but I do remember it was a Friday) we went to the Council of Europe for a tour. Supposedly, we were going to see the Council Parliament debate, but, as other things on this trip have turned out, it didn't happen. Instead, the Parliament went home, and we got to look at an empty chamber. Which was a good thing, since I got some nice pictures. But to be honest, while it was all very interesting, it wasn't very memorable.
Weekend 1 - Kassel
Patty's been dying to see what I'd write about my visit to Kassel, and I've been making her wait an entire week. But the first thing I'll say is that Patty and her parents were more than kind, and went out of their way to make me feel at home. Words cannot simply say how much I appreciated all their efforts, and how much I enjoyed the visit.
I'd been trying to get a hold of Patty for a couple of weeks, and on Thursday, I'd finally managed to get through. We made plans to meet on Friday, which became Saturday when laundry and other things (including a late class) intervened. Nevertheless, on Saturday I made my way via train (of course) into Germany. Patty couldn't meet me at the station; her mom had gone shooting, and Patty doesn't drive stick, so her father picked me up. We went back to the Garden Club, and I hung around while Patty worked, waiting for our ride for the evening to Frierhagen, where there was a party Patty was supposed to help out at.
Tun (I hope I'm spelling that right) picked us up about a half hour late. He made up for it on the Autobahn, where I had the pleasure of experiencing 230kph (sorry, I don't know the conversion).
Damn. My hour's up, and the gamers are waiting......more soon, but when I can't predict, since tomorrow we leave for Brussels, and on Wednesday we head to Luxembourg. But I will post again before the week's out.....
Wednesday, June 25, 2003
I am now in Strasbourg, France, trying to get familiar with a new keyboard. How hard is it? Here's the same sentence, typed as if I were using a US-style keyboard:
I q, noz in Strqsbourg Frqnce; trying to get fq,iliqr zith q nez keyboqrd: Hoz bqd is it§ Hereùs the sq,e sentence; typed qs if I zere using q US)style keyboqrd:
So you can see, typing is at a glacial pace, with frequent mistakes. And typing a period involves the SHIFT key. Ah, the French.
Interlaken was great, as I mentioned. The barbeque was a clusterfuck, as I had suspected it would be. No one had bothered to find out how to get to the beach, or where to get food. Then the local self-appointed expert, Willis, decided he knew all (because that's the truth - he knows everything and never hesitates to remind you of that) and led everyone on a wild-goose chase. I bailed, as did all but three others (we began with 15).
Rock climbing was the bomb, baby. We started out at 9ish, held up by yours truly losing his ticket and forcing our guide Stef to get a reprint at the desk. Actually, I lost both the rock climbing and rafting tickets. But Stef was able to take care of things at base camp so I didn't miss out on anything. The scenery where we climbed was awesome, and there is a photo in existence of your truly giving the thumbs up from the top, about 60 feet up. I'll get it posted soon - I hope.
France is beautiful, though the girl at the front desk could use a lesson or six on customer service. We walked into what was supposed to be a trible, only to find it was a too-small double, and a bunk bed. We marched downstairs.
Front Desk Girl (in thick French accent); "Can I help you?"
Us: "Do you have a rollaway bed for the third person?"
FDG: "No."
Us: "Extra mattress?"
FDG: "No."
Us:"Another room, perhaps?"
FDG: "No."
So now I've shuttled between the Hotel ETAP (where that conversation took place), to CIARUS (where I spent the night) to a yet-to-be-named hotel for tonight, back to CIARUS tomorrow and the rest of the ten days we have here, except for..............well, you get the point.
We'll see how French people are, on the whole.
I q, noz in Strqsbourg Frqnce; trying to get fq,iliqr zith q nez keyboqrd: Hoz bqd is it§ Hereùs the sq,e sentence; typed qs if I zere using q US)style keyboqrd:
So you can see, typing is at a glacial pace, with frequent mistakes. And typing a period involves the SHIFT key. Ah, the French.
Interlaken was great, as I mentioned. The barbeque was a clusterfuck, as I had suspected it would be. No one had bothered to find out how to get to the beach, or where to get food. Then the local self-appointed expert, Willis, decided he knew all (because that's the truth - he knows everything and never hesitates to remind you of that) and led everyone on a wild-goose chase. I bailed, as did all but three others (we began with 15).
Rock climbing was the bomb, baby. We started out at 9ish, held up by yours truly losing his ticket and forcing our guide Stef to get a reprint at the desk. Actually, I lost both the rock climbing and rafting tickets. But Stef was able to take care of things at base camp so I didn't miss out on anything. The scenery where we climbed was awesome, and there is a photo in existence of your truly giving the thumbs up from the top, about 60 feet up. I'll get it posted soon - I hope.
France is beautiful, though the girl at the front desk could use a lesson or six on customer service. We walked into what was supposed to be a trible, only to find it was a too-small double, and a bunk bed. We marched downstairs.
Front Desk Girl (in thick French accent); "Can I help you?"
Us: "Do you have a rollaway bed for the third person?"
FDG: "No."
Us: "Extra mattress?"
FDG: "No."
Us:"Another room, perhaps?"
FDG: "No."
So now I've shuttled between the Hotel ETAP (where that conversation took place), to CIARUS (where I spent the night) to a yet-to-be-named hotel for tonight, back to CIARUS tomorrow and the rest of the ten days we have here, except for..............well, you get the point.
We'll see how French people are, on the whole.
Monday, June 23, 2003
Interlaken
Put on my blue suede shoes, and I boarded the plane
Touched down in the land of the delta blues, in the middle of the pouring rain
Marc Cohn, Walking in Memphis
Ok, I'm on a clock here (no free Internet access), so I'll be brief, and flesh it out later.
Interlaken? Wonderful. Switzerland? Mere words cannot tell you how beautiful and clean this country is. It is definitely #1 on the 'return to' list.
So what have I done here? Well, let's see.
Yesterday morning began with rock climbing. I'm afraid of heights, so it was a true accomplishment for me to climb up 60 feet, turn around and wave. Then, in the afternoon (because I haven't done enough for one day), we went whitewater rafting. Today, I merely went to a restaurant for lunch. Just because the restaurant was at the top of the Harder Kulm, 2,500 feet above Interlaken is a minor detail. We were quite proud that we annihlated the recommended time - 2 hours, 20 minutes - by 35 full minutes. Old, fat, out of shape me made it up pretty quickly.
Tonight's a barbeque. Then tomorrow we're off to Strasbourg. Oh, and the hostel? Very nice. It's called Balmers (look it up). Lots of pretty 22 year old girls, and dorky 22 year old guys. That aside, it's like everything else here - very clean. But much cheaper than a hotel.
Heard Marc Cohn's Walking in Memphis today. Haven't heard it in a while, but it made me think of being back in the US. I've been to Memphis, and liked it, so hearing the song was like a nostalgia trip.
Ok, that's it for now. I'll flesh it out later.....
Put on my blue suede shoes, and I boarded the plane
Touched down in the land of the delta blues, in the middle of the pouring rain
Marc Cohn, Walking in Memphis
Ok, I'm on a clock here (no free Internet access), so I'll be brief, and flesh it out later.
Interlaken? Wonderful. Switzerland? Mere words cannot tell you how beautiful and clean this country is. It is definitely #1 on the 'return to' list.
So what have I done here? Well, let's see.
Yesterday morning began with rock climbing. I'm afraid of heights, so it was a true accomplishment for me to climb up 60 feet, turn around and wave. Then, in the afternoon (because I haven't done enough for one day), we went whitewater rafting. Today, I merely went to a restaurant for lunch. Just because the restaurant was at the top of the Harder Kulm, 2,500 feet above Interlaken is a minor detail. We were quite proud that we annihlated the recommended time - 2 hours, 20 minutes - by 35 full minutes. Old, fat, out of shape me made it up pretty quickly.
Tonight's a barbeque. Then tomorrow we're off to Strasbourg. Oh, and the hostel? Very nice. It's called Balmers (look it up). Lots of pretty 22 year old girls, and dorky 22 year old guys. That aside, it's like everything else here - very clean. But much cheaper than a hotel.
Heard Marc Cohn's Walking in Memphis today. Haven't heard it in a while, but it made me think of being back in the US. I've been to Memphis, and liked it, so hearing the song was like a nostalgia trip.
Ok, that's it for now. I'll flesh it out later.....
Friday, June 20, 2003
Well, it's been fun, but it's time to move on. In a few minutes, we'll leave for Interlachen, then on Tuesday, we'll head up to Strasbourg for phase II, hopefully in much more temperate conditions.
I managed to get in a lot of last minute shopping yesterday, including the purchase of a blazer for our trip to the European courts in two (or is it three?) weeks. And lots of photos, which I can't share (yet) 'cause I don't have a digital camera.
See you soon....
I managed to get in a lot of last minute shopping yesterday, including the purchase of a blazer for our trip to the European courts in two (or is it three?) weeks. And lots of photos, which I can't share (yet) 'cause I don't have a digital camera.
See you soon....
Wednesday, June 18, 2003
It is 11:45 in the evening. The sun has long since gone to bed, and the temperature outside is now a quite comfortable seventy degrees or so. A soft breeze blows across your face. Above you, the rain clouds of this afternoon have long since gone. Behind you, traffic breezes by effortlessly, and, at times, nearly silently. Ahead of you, and to your right, a group of teenagers sits at the base of a tree, chatting. To your left, a young couple sits, arms around each other, enjoying the view. In front of you is the Arc of Constantine, but you're not looking at that. Instead, your looking at the same thing the couple is. Your head is cocked back, attempting to take it all in: the air, the traffic, the smell, the sound. Your friends are immediately to your right, engaged in a conversation you don't hear. You're in the moment. You think of a friend, someone you've traveled with before, someone you've known for fifteen years, but whom you haven't spoken with since the last day the two of you worked together, one week before you left. You have your cell phone with you, because a new friend said he might call and join you for dinner. You take it out and look at the time. It shows that the time back home is 4:48 pm. The only number you know offhand is your friend's office number, and he's probably long since left. You call anyway, and leave a message.
You tell him how beautiful the night is. You tell him what a lovely city Rome is, and how much you are enjoying being there, but how you wish he could be here too, enjoying a cocktail with you like when you both were in college, and the world was young. You describe the scene and then tell him what you are doing.
You're looking straight up at the Colusseum. And everything is all right in the world tonight.
You tell him how beautiful the night is. You tell him what a lovely city Rome is, and how much you are enjoying being there, but how you wish he could be here too, enjoying a cocktail with you like when you both were in college, and the world was young. You describe the scene and then tell him what you are doing.
You're looking straight up at the Colusseum. And everything is all right in the world tonight.
I will remember you
will you remember me?
don't let your life pass you by
weep not for the memories
Remember the good times that we had?
I let them slip away from us when things got bad
how clearly I first saw you smilin' in the sun
wanna feel your warmth upon me, I wanna be the one
I will remember you
will you remember me?
don't let your life pass you by
weep not for the memories
I'm so tired but I can't sleep
standin' on the edge of something much too deep
it's funny how we feel so much but we cannot say a word
we are screaming inside, but we can't be heard
but I will remember you
will you remember me?
don't let your life pass you by
weep not for the memories
I'm so afraid to love you, but more afraid to lose
clinging to a past that doesn't let me choose
once there was a darkness, deep and endless night
you gave me everything you had, oh you gave me light
And I will remember you
will you remember me?
don't let your life pass you by
weep not for the memories
And I will remember you...
will you remember me?
don't let your life pass you by
weep not for the memories
I Will Remember You, Sarah McLachlin
Last night was the going-away banquet. Around the dorm, there was a general buzz of excitement in the air. The banquet did not officially start until 7:30, but people (especially the girls, but some guys) were getting ready at 5:00. The fact that our wing was down a shower didn't help, as forty men and women attempted to wash off the sweat of the afternoon for the cologne of the evening.
I was pretty unfazed by all this. After all, it was my second going-away dinner at the restaurant we were going to, and my second dinner there this past month, so I knew what to expect. I spent the afternoon writing my paper on the prosecution of rape in Italy, and finally floated upstairs around 6 or so. The showers were full, so I wandered the floor, engaging different people in conversation. Motivated by people in the lounge ironing clothes, I decided that I, too, would iron the shirt of choice for the evening (no, I did not burn the shirt or otherwise destroy it - I can iron, you know).
Lisa stopped by my room as I was shaving to tell me that she and Laura and a few others were heading to the restaurant early so that they could get a table and would I care to join them? I said sure, why not. At around 7:20, Scott, Pat and I floated down to the restaurant with a majority of our classmates, who had properly prepared for the evening with a few 'warmup' bottles of vino.
We invaded the restaurant at 7:40. Chaos soon ensued. The restaurant sits on a hill in Monte Mario, overlooking most of the highlights of Rome (only the Vatican and St. Peters - San Pietro to the Italians - is not visible). People greeted each other enthusiastically, took dozens of pictures, drank copious amounts of wine (our table of nine had seven bottles alone), and, at one point, a large group of people joined voices with Freddie Mercury and sang Bohemian Rhapsody. Loudly. We were not the only people in the restaurant, and I can't imagine with the Italians seated near us thought of all these young, boisterous, loud Americans, some extremely drunk, who continuously shouted vongole! (the Italian word for clam - use your imagination as to what they really were referring to). The batteries on my camera crapped out, of course, so I only got about four or five pictures. I'll have to scam some from those with digital cameras. Speaking of which, I now want one. Badly.
At around 11:30, Dean Jean herded us out the door. About half of us went home, the rest went to Elliott's, the local "English Pub in Italy". Theo, my roommate, had to be cajoled out of his seat in the restaurant, and I thought for sure he'd head home and pass out. Instead, he beat me to Elliott's. He wasn't alone. There's one other Greg on this excursion, and he was so intoxicated he could barely walk. Somehow, with help, he managed to make it back. At one point, I looked at Jen (the one who went with to Sorrento) and asked her how she was doing. "Greg," she answered, "I can't see straight." Chip was babbling on incoherently, and Brad was chasing after any girl who'd listen. At 1:30, we got the closing time boot, and a nice, thirty minute walk back to the Rome Center.
Near the end of the evening, my classmate Erin came up to me.
"You ok?"
"Stone cold sober. Why?"
"Someone said Greg had gotten really wasted, and I couldn't believe that you would do that."
"It was the other Greg, the one down the hall," Brad interjected.
"Oh, good, I didn't think it was you, but you never know."
No, you don't. But everyone had fun. And most of them even made it to class this morning.
Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, a time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they're all that's left you
Bookends Theme, Simon & Garfunkel
will you remember me?
don't let your life pass you by
weep not for the memories
Remember the good times that we had?
I let them slip away from us when things got bad
how clearly I first saw you smilin' in the sun
wanna feel your warmth upon me, I wanna be the one
I will remember you
will you remember me?
don't let your life pass you by
weep not for the memories
I'm so tired but I can't sleep
standin' on the edge of something much too deep
it's funny how we feel so much but we cannot say a word
we are screaming inside, but we can't be heard
but I will remember you
will you remember me?
don't let your life pass you by
weep not for the memories
I'm so afraid to love you, but more afraid to lose
clinging to a past that doesn't let me choose
once there was a darkness, deep and endless night
you gave me everything you had, oh you gave me light
And I will remember you
will you remember me?
don't let your life pass you by
weep not for the memories
And I will remember you...
will you remember me?
don't let your life pass you by
weep not for the memories
I Will Remember You, Sarah McLachlin
Last night was the going-away banquet. Around the dorm, there was a general buzz of excitement in the air. The banquet did not officially start until 7:30, but people (especially the girls, but some guys) were getting ready at 5:00. The fact that our wing was down a shower didn't help, as forty men and women attempted to wash off the sweat of the afternoon for the cologne of the evening.
I was pretty unfazed by all this. After all, it was my second going-away dinner at the restaurant we were going to, and my second dinner there this past month, so I knew what to expect. I spent the afternoon writing my paper on the prosecution of rape in Italy, and finally floated upstairs around 6 or so. The showers were full, so I wandered the floor, engaging different people in conversation. Motivated by people in the lounge ironing clothes, I decided that I, too, would iron the shirt of choice for the evening (no, I did not burn the shirt or otherwise destroy it - I can iron, you know).
Lisa stopped by my room as I was shaving to tell me that she and Laura and a few others were heading to the restaurant early so that they could get a table and would I care to join them? I said sure, why not. At around 7:20, Scott, Pat and I floated down to the restaurant with a majority of our classmates, who had properly prepared for the evening with a few 'warmup' bottles of vino.
We invaded the restaurant at 7:40. Chaos soon ensued. The restaurant sits on a hill in Monte Mario, overlooking most of the highlights of Rome (only the Vatican and St. Peters - San Pietro to the Italians - is not visible). People greeted each other enthusiastically, took dozens of pictures, drank copious amounts of wine (our table of nine had seven bottles alone), and, at one point, a large group of people joined voices with Freddie Mercury and sang Bohemian Rhapsody. Loudly. We were not the only people in the restaurant, and I can't imagine with the Italians seated near us thought of all these young, boisterous, loud Americans, some extremely drunk, who continuously shouted vongole! (the Italian word for clam - use your imagination as to what they really were referring to). The batteries on my camera crapped out, of course, so I only got about four or five pictures. I'll have to scam some from those with digital cameras. Speaking of which, I now want one. Badly.
At around 11:30, Dean Jean herded us out the door. About half of us went home, the rest went to Elliott's, the local "English Pub in Italy". Theo, my roommate, had to be cajoled out of his seat in the restaurant, and I thought for sure he'd head home and pass out. Instead, he beat me to Elliott's. He wasn't alone. There's one other Greg on this excursion, and he was so intoxicated he could barely walk. Somehow, with help, he managed to make it back. At one point, I looked at Jen (the one who went with to Sorrento) and asked her how she was doing. "Greg," she answered, "I can't see straight." Chip was babbling on incoherently, and Brad was chasing after any girl who'd listen. At 1:30, we got the closing time boot, and a nice, thirty minute walk back to the Rome Center.
Near the end of the evening, my classmate Erin came up to me.
"You ok?"
"Stone cold sober. Why?"
"Someone said Greg had gotten really wasted, and I couldn't believe that you would do that."
"It was the other Greg, the one down the hall," Brad interjected.
"Oh, good, I didn't think it was you, but you never know."
No, you don't. But everyone had fun. And most of them even made it to class this morning.
Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, a time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they're all that's left you
Bookends Theme, Simon & Garfunkel
Tuesday, June 17, 2003
Scratching where it itches.....
In the interest of satisfying copyright law, and at the same time satisfying ev, one of my growing list of regular commenters, here's a rundown of the lyrics I've quoted recently...
June 2: Frozen, Madonna (Ray of Light); Sounds of Silence, Simon & Garfunkel
June 3: Running to Stand Still, U2 (Joshua Tree)
June 5: Killing Moon, Echo and the Bunnymen
June 9: Gold Dust Woman, Fleetwood Mac (Rumours)
June 11: American Pie, Don McLean; Empty Sky, Bruce Springsteen (The Rising); Letter to Elise, The Cure (Wish)
Those are the ones I could readily look up. For some reason, getting to my archives is not achievable right now, so I can't answer those right off, though I do know I quoted the Jayhawk's Save It For a Rainy Day (Don't look so sad Marina, there's another part to play), and of course, Norah Jones' Don't Know Why, but I did credit that one in the entry for the day (as I backhandedly did for Madonna as well). And finally, how could I forget the Clash classic London Calling.
Most of the time, the music I quote is what was on my mind at the moment, but sometimes it serves to comment on the rest of the post, or, in the case of Letter to Elise, a song I associate with a person (not that I'm madly in love with Elise, but I can't help but think of that song whenever I see her).
So there you have it. Hope that answers your question. And yes, I've been a little lax in posting, not because it's suddenly gotten boring here (it hasn't), but because the computer room here at the Rome Center is not air-conditioned and regularly is at least 10-15 degrees hotter than anywhere else. And when the outside temperature is 96 degrees, well, you can just imagine how comfortable it is to sit in front of a computer for an hour (which is how long it takes me to write the longer posts). Plus, I am supposed to be studying here, so I do occasionally have to do homework.
More later. I promise. Just as soon as I find a computer whose keys do not consistently stick.........and just as soon as I revise my paper on rape.
In the interest of satisfying copyright law, and at the same time satisfying ev, one of my growing list of regular commenters, here's a rundown of the lyrics I've quoted recently...
June 2: Frozen, Madonna (Ray of Light); Sounds of Silence, Simon & Garfunkel
June 3: Running to Stand Still, U2 (Joshua Tree)
June 5: Killing Moon, Echo and the Bunnymen
June 9: Gold Dust Woman, Fleetwood Mac (Rumours)
June 11: American Pie, Don McLean; Empty Sky, Bruce Springsteen (The Rising); Letter to Elise, The Cure (Wish)
Those are the ones I could readily look up. For some reason, getting to my archives is not achievable right now, so I can't answer those right off, though I do know I quoted the Jayhawk's Save It For a Rainy Day (Don't look so sad Marina, there's another part to play), and of course, Norah Jones' Don't Know Why, but I did credit that one in the entry for the day (as I backhandedly did for Madonna as well). And finally, how could I forget the Clash classic London Calling.
Most of the time, the music I quote is what was on my mind at the moment, but sometimes it serves to comment on the rest of the post, or, in the case of Letter to Elise, a song I associate with a person (not that I'm madly in love with Elise, but I can't help but think of that song whenever I see her).
So there you have it. Hope that answers your question. And yes, I've been a little lax in posting, not because it's suddenly gotten boring here (it hasn't), but because the computer room here at the Rome Center is not air-conditioned and regularly is at least 10-15 degrees hotter than anywhere else. And when the outside temperature is 96 degrees, well, you can just imagine how comfortable it is to sit in front of a computer for an hour (which is how long it takes me to write the longer posts). Plus, I am supposed to be studying here, so I do occasionally have to do homework.
More later. I promise. Just as soon as I find a computer whose keys do not consistently stick.........and just as soon as I revise my paper on rape.
Saturday, June 14, 2003
Lazy Day
A young couple stands at the bus stop, gently holding hands, and speaking softly to each other. I stand near them, in a lightweight Italian-made white polo shirt and gray Haggar pants. My shirt is drenched in sweat. I can feel it running down my back. It is the end of the week, the hottest second week in June since 1742. The temperature nudges ninety-five degrees, and the humidity is just as high. The sun is shining brightly overhead, and a warm breeze provides little comfort as it makes its way down Via Balduina.
Presently, the bus comes. Few people are on it; it's siesta time. There is an attractive woman sitting with her mother, and another sitting alone. The couple decides to stand near the front. I sit across from the woman and her mother. The ride is mostly silent, with an occasional soft word here and there. It's too hot to talk. It's too hot to even think.
The bus stops near the Vatican. I get off, and saunter toward Saint Peter's square. Around me, the symphony of languages has shifted to a mixture - here Italian, there German. I walk around the square, between the columns. The square is nearly empty, but the area between the columns is laden with people seeking refuge from the heat. To my right, boys and girls around 10 years old play, smacking each other with wet bandannas while babbling in Italian. On my left, children and adults gather round a seated nun, listening in rapture to her story. I wonder if it's Sunday school, or just conversation. Then I notice she is not alone - other nuns are doing the same, all while wearing the old black outfit and habit. Parents walk their children; families map out where they wish to go. As I near the basilica, a crowd is forming. Flags held high in the air represent tour guides attempting to gather their flocks. The crowd pushes slowly forward. Do I need a ticket? Is that the hold up? I don't remember needing one last time - I just walked in.
But that was May, 2001, and the world was a different place then. We all lived in safety - terrorism happened only in the third world. Then came September 11th, the worst birthday my friend Miguel has ever had. And now we wait at the basilica for the Polizia to pass over each of us with a metal detector.
Once inside, it's easy to find the Cupola entrance, but not so easy to tell where the line is. People mill about in groups, children run about rambunctiously. An American couple tells me yes, they are in line for the Cupola, and I can follow the chains back to the start. But there is no one behind them, and no one coming down the path, so why should I walk all the way back? The Dutch couple doesn't; they simply duck under the chain. I follow their lead. A French couple expresses surprise at the fact that it is not free.
°Does that mean we need tickets?° an American man asks me, as I stand under the sign proclaiming ticket prices.
°That would be my guess,° I reply.
The cost is four euro if you want to walk, five if you want to take the elevator. I wonder how to communicate that I want to walk, since I didn't take notice of the Italian word for lift, and I can't remember the German one, either. But then I notice most people just pointing to their selection on the sign by the cassa (cashier).
Behind bulletproof glass a man sits, collecting money and dispensing tickets. He wears a uniform, and the light blue color of his shirt is broken by dark rings of sweat. Beads of sweat dot his forehead, and run down his tanned face, stopping at his moustache, or rolling on down his neck. He looks hot and tired and annoyed. I pay him four euro and go inside.
The group in front of me waits at the entrance - there is not room for them on the elevator. I show my ticket, and they let me in. I start up the stairs. They are white, and wide. After about twenty, they are low, covered in reddish tile, and take two steps on the outside to cover, one-and-a-half on the inside. Just as I start to get dizzy, they end, revealing a small open-air area, perfect for photos. I snap a few.
Across the open area, the stairs continue, partially inside, and partially outside. I climb up them, and soon arrive inside. Before me is a sight to behold. Is this the cupola? It is magnificent. I look down, and the inside of the basilica lays before me in all it's beauty. Directly below me is the tomb of San Pietro - Saint Peter. I break out the camera and snap a few more photos. The light breeze by each doorway breaks the oppressive heat. No shorts here - you're not allowed in unless your shoulders and knees are covered. Everyone looks hot.
I take note of the exit, and head for it. As I go out the door, I see a sign - Cupola. It points up a narrow staircase to my right. It hadn't seemed like I'd climbed so many stairs, and I was right. Three hundred and twenty more awaited me. Up I went.
And went. And went. The staircases kept getting narrower and narrower. I could tell where the curve of the basilica roof was - I was forced to walk leaning to my right. Every time I thought I was there, I encountered another staircase. My calves and quads began to tighten, but I was not out of breath. Finally, only one staircase remained. Steep and narrow, a rope dangled from its center to provide a handhold. The stairway was barely wider than my shoulders. The people ahead of me gripped the rope for dear life, their strength at its end.
And then, suddenly, there I was - at the Cupola. Towering above Rome, I could see for miles. In front of me, the Vittorio Emmanuele II monument, called °the Wedding Cake° by Romans. It looked more like a wedding crumb. On my left, Monte Mario, distinguishable by the observation dome. On my right, an immense house (the Pope's?) surrounded by beautiful gardens. And all the while, a strong cool breeze blew. I snapped off the rest of the roll. Eventually, I started back down.
Halfway down was a souvenier stand. I walked through it, looking for a rosary for my sister. They had more than enough to choose from. I remembered that she used to love the color violet, but that was long ago when we were children. Of course, I did have my cell phone with me.......
I think I woke my sister up. She says I didn't, but I think I did. And she still liked violet. We chatted for a bit, and I went back inside. I looked for something else to buy, and finally settled on a nice shot glass for my father's collection. An American woman struggled to communicate with the nun at the cashier. The nun told her she'd take American money, but not American change. The woman stared blankly, not knowing what to do, and holding two dollars in her hand. I took the two dollars, and gave her two euro, eating the forty cent loss. She thanked me.
I paid for the rosary, and the shot glasses (I got one for me, too), and managed to do the whole transaction in Italian. That mini-lesson I'd given myself in Italian numbers back in Sorrento came in handy. I walked down the rest of the stairs, wandered through Saint Peter's for a bit, then dropped my pictures off for processing. Afterward, I went over to the Old Bridge Gelateria, and treated myself to a nice gelato.
A young couple stands at the bus stop, gently holding hands, and speaking softly to each other. I stand near them, in a lightweight Italian-made white polo shirt and gray Haggar pants. My shirt is drenched in sweat. I can feel it running down my back. It is the end of the week, the hottest second week in June since 1742. The temperature nudges ninety-five degrees, and the humidity is just as high. The sun is shining brightly overhead, and a warm breeze provides little comfort as it makes its way down Via Balduina.
Presently, the bus comes. Few people are on it; it's siesta time. There is an attractive woman sitting with her mother, and another sitting alone. The couple decides to stand near the front. I sit across from the woman and her mother. The ride is mostly silent, with an occasional soft word here and there. It's too hot to talk. It's too hot to even think.
The bus stops near the Vatican. I get off, and saunter toward Saint Peter's square. Around me, the symphony of languages has shifted to a mixture - here Italian, there German. I walk around the square, between the columns. The square is nearly empty, but the area between the columns is laden with people seeking refuge from the heat. To my right, boys and girls around 10 years old play, smacking each other with wet bandannas while babbling in Italian. On my left, children and adults gather round a seated nun, listening in rapture to her story. I wonder if it's Sunday school, or just conversation. Then I notice she is not alone - other nuns are doing the same, all while wearing the old black outfit and habit. Parents walk their children; families map out where they wish to go. As I near the basilica, a crowd is forming. Flags held high in the air represent tour guides attempting to gather their flocks. The crowd pushes slowly forward. Do I need a ticket? Is that the hold up? I don't remember needing one last time - I just walked in.
But that was May, 2001, and the world was a different place then. We all lived in safety - terrorism happened only in the third world. Then came September 11th, the worst birthday my friend Miguel has ever had. And now we wait at the basilica for the Polizia to pass over each of us with a metal detector.
Once inside, it's easy to find the Cupola entrance, but not so easy to tell where the line is. People mill about in groups, children run about rambunctiously. An American couple tells me yes, they are in line for the Cupola, and I can follow the chains back to the start. But there is no one behind them, and no one coming down the path, so why should I walk all the way back? The Dutch couple doesn't; they simply duck under the chain. I follow their lead. A French couple expresses surprise at the fact that it is not free.
°Does that mean we need tickets?° an American man asks me, as I stand under the sign proclaiming ticket prices.
°That would be my guess,° I reply.
The cost is four euro if you want to walk, five if you want to take the elevator. I wonder how to communicate that I want to walk, since I didn't take notice of the Italian word for lift, and I can't remember the German one, either. But then I notice most people just pointing to their selection on the sign by the cassa (cashier).
Behind bulletproof glass a man sits, collecting money and dispensing tickets. He wears a uniform, and the light blue color of his shirt is broken by dark rings of sweat. Beads of sweat dot his forehead, and run down his tanned face, stopping at his moustache, or rolling on down his neck. He looks hot and tired and annoyed. I pay him four euro and go inside.
The group in front of me waits at the entrance - there is not room for them on the elevator. I show my ticket, and they let me in. I start up the stairs. They are white, and wide. After about twenty, they are low, covered in reddish tile, and take two steps on the outside to cover, one-and-a-half on the inside. Just as I start to get dizzy, they end, revealing a small open-air area, perfect for photos. I snap a few.
Across the open area, the stairs continue, partially inside, and partially outside. I climb up them, and soon arrive inside. Before me is a sight to behold. Is this the cupola? It is magnificent. I look down, and the inside of the basilica lays before me in all it's beauty. Directly below me is the tomb of San Pietro - Saint Peter. I break out the camera and snap a few more photos. The light breeze by each doorway breaks the oppressive heat. No shorts here - you're not allowed in unless your shoulders and knees are covered. Everyone looks hot.
I take note of the exit, and head for it. As I go out the door, I see a sign - Cupola. It points up a narrow staircase to my right. It hadn't seemed like I'd climbed so many stairs, and I was right. Three hundred and twenty more awaited me. Up I went.
And went. And went. The staircases kept getting narrower and narrower. I could tell where the curve of the basilica roof was - I was forced to walk leaning to my right. Every time I thought I was there, I encountered another staircase. My calves and quads began to tighten, but I was not out of breath. Finally, only one staircase remained. Steep and narrow, a rope dangled from its center to provide a handhold. The stairway was barely wider than my shoulders. The people ahead of me gripped the rope for dear life, their strength at its end.
And then, suddenly, there I was - at the Cupola. Towering above Rome, I could see for miles. In front of me, the Vittorio Emmanuele II monument, called °the Wedding Cake° by Romans. It looked more like a wedding crumb. On my left, Monte Mario, distinguishable by the observation dome. On my right, an immense house (the Pope's?) surrounded by beautiful gardens. And all the while, a strong cool breeze blew. I snapped off the rest of the roll. Eventually, I started back down.
Halfway down was a souvenier stand. I walked through it, looking for a rosary for my sister. They had more than enough to choose from. I remembered that she used to love the color violet, but that was long ago when we were children. Of course, I did have my cell phone with me.......
I think I woke my sister up. She says I didn't, but I think I did. And she still liked violet. We chatted for a bit, and I went back inside. I looked for something else to buy, and finally settled on a nice shot glass for my father's collection. An American woman struggled to communicate with the nun at the cashier. The nun told her she'd take American money, but not American change. The woman stared blankly, not knowing what to do, and holding two dollars in her hand. I took the two dollars, and gave her two euro, eating the forty cent loss. She thanked me.
I paid for the rosary, and the shot glasses (I got one for me, too), and managed to do the whole transaction in Italian. That mini-lesson I'd given myself in Italian numbers back in Sorrento came in handy. I walked down the rest of the stairs, wandered through Saint Peter's for a bit, then dropped my pictures off for processing. Afterward, I went over to the Old Bridge Gelateria, and treated myself to a nice gelato.
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