A Nightmare on Spanish Streets

I know that catching a cold is really just a part of life, but life has a tendency of getting in the way sometimes and when you’re traveling it can really complicate matters. For example, getting medicine or going to the doctor in a city where you don’t speak the language is a nightmare. A real, honest to God, nightmare! If you think medical terms can be difficult to say in English, try looking them up in French or in Spanish and then repeating what you read to a nurse. I learned this the hard way in Spain when I went to the nurse to get something for my runny nose, headache, and chest cough. Rough spanish meets rough english meets Charades and thirty minutes later, she gave me fifty pills and advised me to take one every eight hours. I couldn’t read the labels and was slightly unsure of her verbal directions, but figured that anything was better than nothing and I needed help if I was going to get through Spain.

Oh, Spain…

At La Boqueria

I love Barcelona, but will definitely have to return someday and do it right. The architecture, the people, the language, and the food are all so divine and so vast that you need time to really explore it. I, unfortunately, was being a tourist while simultaneously fighting a nasty cold. So I spent the first few days alternating between bed and the Barri Gotic, the Gothic city center. There I visited the Market of la Boqueria, where I was amazed by the food presented, and La Plaça Catalunya, where I sat for hours with a box of tissue watching street performers and tourists. The highlight of my time in the Gothic Center was visiting the World Press Photography exhibition at Centre de Cultura Contemporània de Barcelona. The photos were mind blowing and I will definitely be on the lookout for this exhibition for years to come.

 Gustavo Cuevas' photograph of the goring of bullfighter Julio Aparicio from the exhibition

Like I said before, Barcelona is huge and although I visited a few places I hadn’t even scratched the surface. Unfortunately, any attempt to explore further outside of the city center was complicated by my cold. I missed two walking tours and repeatedly got lost having fallen asleep on the train. As a result, I spent the very last day sprinting around the city trying to see Barcelona’s main sites from a 2 ½ hour hop on- hop off bus tour. Nightmare! Thankfully, I did get a chance to see the works of famous Spanish architect, Antonio Gaudi, which includes La Pedrera and my favorite Casa Batllo, with its tiled roof made to look like dragon scales. From the tour I also saw the Caixa Forum, Barcelona Palace and the Olympic Village. What I didn’t get to explore at length were Frank O’ Gehry's Peix (Fish) sculpture and Gaudi's La Sagrada Familia, which are the two main attractions I wanted to see. Sigh…

 La Pedrera

Staying on schedule, I left Barcelona and took the train to Bilbao. I came to Bilbao for two reasons. The first was to meet up with my friend Santiago who had just finished his Master’s program in Bilbao. I met Santiago in Venice and he offered to be my Basque Country guide before heading back to Columbia to resume work with the U.N. The second reason I wanted to go to Bilbao was because there are only five Guggenheim Museums in the world and Bilbao, a city of roughly 400,000 people, plays host to one of them; completely unusual. Not only do they have a Guggenheim, but, as mentioned before, the museum was designed by architect Frank O. Gehry. This building is considered one of his best works and the fact that it’s in Bilbao says more about the quality of life there than anything else.


My train to Bilbao arrived late in the evening and Santiago and his friend picked me up and took me to my hotel. I was still feeling sick, but I was determined to get through the last days of my trip in good spirits. So, I popped my last pill for the day and headed out.

Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao

“Where are we going tonight,” I asked, trying to sound chipper and up for the night’s events.


“We are taking you to a weekend Basque tradition,” they answered and we walked.



Bilbao is absolutely lovely, especially at night, and it’s very walkable. As we headed to our destination, walking along the riverfront, passing little shops and quaint squares, I couldn’t help to notice how into Christmas the Bilbotarras (people of Bilbao) were. Everywhere you looked, shops, streetlights and anything not moving was decorated to the hilt and heaped with lights, trees and bows. Apparently the decorations had been streamlined this year due to the economic crisis, which is actually a scary thought because the display was already amazing.

City Hall, Bilbao

We continued down narrow, cobbled streets until we arrived at a long corridor of bars packed with people mingling and drinking everywhere. Santiago’s friend explained that the area we were walking through was Bilbao’s historical old town district known for its seven streets, Zazpikaleak or Las Siete Calles it’s called. This particular street is where the traditional tavern crawl is done on the weekends. Jokingly, he explained the rules saying, “You start at one bar at one end of the street, have a drink, talk and then head to the next bar. You do this all night until you get to the other end of the street and can’t walk anymore.” The length of the street and the number of bars, not to mention the number of people, suggested that this was going to be a very long night.


“I’m on meds, so I’m not drinking alcohol. I’m sticking to tea,” I informed them.

The Riverfront, Bilbao

This sounded like a great plan, but the very first bar didn’t serve tea or coffee, so I had to be content to just hang out listening to the Spanish conversations flowing all around me and occasionally be pulled this way or that way to meet this or that person. Still serving as my Basque country guide, Santiago introduced me to a wine only made in Bilbao. “This is the Basque National drink.” Santiago said. “It’s light; I think you would like it. Here take a sip of mine.” It’s just a sip, I thought to myself as I tasted the sweet, smooth, drink with ridiculously high alcohol content.


This is when the real nightmare began…

Ten minutes after my sip, my mouth started to water, my internal organs felt like they were congealing, and suddenly I was dizzy. I thought it would pass, so I waited it out swallowing my spit to quell the uneasiness and pretending to understand the woman speaking to me. Five minutes more and it got violent; the way in which it attacked my stomach suggested I was in trouble. “Where are the restrooms,” I blurted, loudly in English, interrupting several conversations around me. “Towards the back,” Santiago offered, pointing in the distance.


I made my way back there, soundlessly berating myself for mixing alcohol and prescription drugs. I’m not eleven, I know better than this!Unfortunately, hindsight was of no help, as the line to the bathroom was ten people deep! “I cannot be that chick that throws up in the club,” I thought to myself trying to muster up my fleeting pride. Two minutes later, the line hadn’t moved and realizing that I just might be that chick, I high-tailed it for the streets. Pushing my way through a mass of people, I said “pardon me” in English, Japanese, and Croatian, but could not, for the life of me, remember how to say it in Spanish, which is the easiest!


Desperately, I ran down the corridor, sweating, stumbling and searching for a quiet place, an alley off the main stretch, a port-a-potty, ANYTHING!! I finally found an empty side street and ducked down it, spilling the contents of my stomach all over a shopkeeper’s steps and dropping to the ground in exhaustion. Nightmare! In the distance I could hear people coming down the street and not wanting to appear like the drunken, black, lady in the alley, I slowly picked myself up and leaned against a building hiding my face. Pride…


“Thank God that that is over,” I thought as I collected myself. The people passed and I gently made my way back to the bar. Mid way down the corridor, the viciousness that attacked my body earlier and moved north suddenly reappeared, this time moving south and FAST. WTF?!!! I raced back into the bar, really shoving people this time and not apologizing for it, and quickly told Santiago and his friends that I was ill and was leaving. Then I turned around and ran back out before he could offer to take me back to the hotel. I cannot have witnesses to the events of this evening! Pride…


Trying to remember the directions from which we came, I prayed HARD while awkwardly swaying down streets lit by f’ing Christmas lights that were once beautiful, but were now only making me dizzier. “Heavenly Father. Jesus. Mercy. Oh my God.” Taking my passport and credit cards out of my purse and putting them in the back of my pants like a gun, I was mindful enough to know that anyone could rob me at this point and I wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it! “Oh, Christ the Lord. Jesus. Please God.” It’s one thing to puke in public, but there’s absolutely no excuse for anyone between the ages of seven and seventy to shit their pants in public. “Father. Christ the King. Help me, Jesus.” I came to a busy intersection and God must have heard me because out of nowhere appeared a taxi stand I hadn’t seen before. Of course there was a line…


If anyone or anything was going to go in the streets of Bilbao, it was going to be my pride first; Pride definitely goeth before the fall! I jumped the short taxi line, hopped into the first taxi, threw my hotel key card into the driver’s lap and pleaded, “Rapido, Por Favor. Emergencia! Andale, arriba, arriba,” like a crazy woman. He took one look at my face, one look at my key card, put the car in gear and ran two lights getting to my hotel in record time. Not waiting for change, I overpaid him, and raced through the lobby like Freddie Kruger was chasing me. Riding to the seventh floor in that slow ass elevator I started crying! “I’m not going to make it! I’m really not going to make it! Oh, my God! Why did I put my passport back there?!”

I made it and twenty minutes later, I sat in a bath tub calling my mother. “I think I should go to the hospital,” I told her. “What happened? Are you okay? Where are you? Do we need to come out there?” She asked, panicking and shooting off questions before I could answer. Finally, I recounted the events of the evening and once I finished, all I could hear was hysterical laughter on the other end of the phone. “It’s out of your system now,” she said in between big guffaws. Parents can be so cold sometimes… This was literally the worst night of my life and here she is dying of laughter.

Pintxos!

The next day I woke up late, threw out the remaining pills, and contacted Santiago to apologize for deucing out on him and his friends. His only gripe was that I hadn’t called once I made it back safely and since I didn’t want to explain what happened, I just apologized again and let it ride. We met up later for a trip to the Guggenheim and a mini tour of the rest of Bilbao, which included the Alhóndiga a new uber-modern, interactive, community, exhibition hall and media center built in the center of Bilbao. Since Bilbao is also known as a gastronomy epic center in Spain, we also went to dinner and ate Pintxos, which are Bilbaoan tapas consisting of really elaborate toppings on toasted French bread. Over dinner, Santiago said, “So what happened last night? By the look on your face, I knew it wasn’t good.”

I responded, "It wasn’t and I honestly don’t know if I’m even going to tell people about it.” Thinking it over and still trying to revive the last of my dying pride, I added, “If I do decide to write about it and you read it, can we please act like it never happened?”

“Wow. That bad, huh?”

Nodding my head in disgust, I replied, “A nightmare! I’ll never forget Spain, that’s for sure.”

Supermarket Vending Machine in Train Station

Casa Batllo

Réveillera (Wake up): France

This is the second time I’ve been to Paris and I’m happy I returned.  The first time I was able to do all of the touristy stuff like Euro Disney, the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame and the Louvre. This time, however, I was able to just wake up and walk! You really can see the city with new eyes when you have no agenda and you can simply go wherever captures your eye. Sometimes I woke up and wandered along the banks of the Seine. Sometimes I woke up and purposely got lost on the train, getting off wherever it took me. And sometimes I woke up and sat on a park bench and people watched for hours while eating French pastries and sipping chai.

It sounds cliché, but watching regular people do regular things amongst a backdrop so saturated in beauty is surreal. At times I wanted to stop the lady playing catch with her dog and say, “Do you realize that you’re playing in front of the Eiffel Tower?” Or tap the man screaming at his children and say, “Hey, you’re in the Louvre!” The reality of the situation is that many of us can get so caught up in everyday life that we don’t get the opportunity to simply wake up and be. Wake up and appreciate.

I have no story to tell of Parisian wonders or traveling mishaps, but it’s Christmas Eve and I wanted to first say Happy Holidays to all those who read this mess of a blog. I have three countries left and my trip is winding down, so I may be feeling sentimental. Nevertheless, while you’re rushing around the house cleaning, cooking, and opening presents, I wanted to encourage you to take a moment, breathe, and enjoy.

Here’s to waking up!

Sex, Drugs, Rock N' Roll: Netherlands



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When I was little, the mothers of the church forbade us to cross our legs in church. Till this day I’m not sure what God and crossed legs have in common, but like wearing red lipstick or short skirts, it was one of those church rules we were supposed to follow. I, on the other hand, mentally added it to my list of rebellious acts to perform. My mom use to say that a “hard head, makes a soft butt”, but I figured that that only applied if you got caught. So, whenever I got a chance, I dangled my bobby socked foot like a grown woman, crossing chubby thighs, slick with Vaseline and glistening to Sunday perfection.

Breaking the rules carried with it a sense of manifest destiny, a rush of living on your terms. However, let something bad happen later, like a fall off a bike or a Nintendo game that won’t play even after blowing on the cartridge a thousand times,  and the first thought that would come to mind is, “I shouldn’t have crossed my legs in church!”  Interestingly enough, it doesn’t matter how old you get, the initial freedom and subsequent guilt associated with doing something “wrong” can rear its nasty, little, head in just about any old place. I use to think that this cycle of freedom and guilt was a universal truth that everyone experience; I’ve since learned that this may just be cultural.

Old Gates of the City, now a restuarant.

So I’m in the Netherlands, Holland, home of windmills, pointy hats, and clogs. However, I’m specifically in Amsterdam, home of sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll, so all the other cliché landmarks can be placed on the back burner. This is a trip of exploration and I have every intention of exploring all the legal avenues placed before me or so I think.

National Monument

The first day, I took a massive three and a half hour walking tour of Amsterdam.  We met at the National Monument in Dam Square and then headed all over the city seeing the Amsterdam's Royal Palace, The House of Anne Frank and Descartes, Rembrandts Home, and the Old city gates of Amsterdam. The guide on this tour was excellent and really funny, so people asked a lot of questions. While touring the canals, one of the ladies in the group asked why there were no railings and warning signs along the banks. “This is really dangerous! People could fall in if they were drunk or something,” she commented. The tour guide responded, “Of course they could and they do fall in all the time! They just have to swim and get out.  Railings and warnings aren’t needed because this is Amsterdam, where personal responsibility is paramount. The state shouldn’t have to help you protect yourself from your own poor decision making.” 

“Well, that’s a new concept,” I thought to myself as we proceeded along the way.

Towards the end of the tour, I’m talking to the guide and he asks, “So, what are you going to get into tonight?” I respond, “Well, I was thinking about going to a live sex show.” He starts coughing, nearly choking on his spit. “Sorry about that,” he says looking slightly sheepish, “I didn’t expect you to say that. You don’t look like the type.” Now, I’m not sure if this is a compliment or an insult and I’m left wondering what my type looks like; nevertheless, I just nod and say, “No problem.”

The houses lean and are built pitched forward....

“If you really want to go to a show tonight, then I have some suggestions,” he continues. I know that I’ve seen some things, but a live sex show is wading into new waters for me, so I’m all ears. He begins advising which theaters I should stay away from. “They are cheap, but a little seedy and they don’t care what the performers look like,” his says. Levels of seediness? Ok.  Finally, he determines that I should go to Casa Rosa.” The theater is bright, there are a lot of tourists there, and you should feel fine going alone,” he says with finality.  It’s legal, it’s Amsterdam, and it’s on my bucket list. I’m there.

After explaining how to get there, he scrunches up his face and asks if I’ve even gone into the red light district yet. The way in which he is asking me this, makes me think that he sees a Burqa, instead of the jeans and sweater I have on. Nevertheless, I feel the need to show him my “rebel persona”, so I tell him that my hostel is actually in the red light district. Thank you very much! I began recounting the previous night’s tale of arrival. Walking past S&M shops, condom stores, and clubs with a ‘shoes only’ dress code, I was initially shocked that I hadn’t read the directions to the hostel more clearly before booking, but more excited that I was actually in the famous red light district.  “Yea, but have you seen the windows yet?” he asks. I hadn’t, so he suggested that I take an evening tour with the guide first.  It’s an upsell. I recognize it a mile away, but I sign up anyhow.

During the evening Red Light District tour we visited the World’s first Stock Exchange, China Town, The Condomerie, Warmoesstraat: the hardcore leather neighborhood, and The Old Church, a massive church directly in the middle of the red light district. The tour would have been great, but our guide, a fifty plus, American, male, kept using popular slang for genitalia, instead of the proper names (which drives me crazy), and he kept commenting on the girls he wanted to “come back and bang later.” With these types of comments and a tour group of nearly all female, solo, travelers, the tour quickly became kind of creepy, instead of informative. So, I cut out early because I had an appointment with Casa Rosa; the oldest erotic theater in Amsterdam.

How do I explain a live sex show without placing a warning on this post?

Let’s start with a story…

During my sophomore year in high school, students were required to watch a slide show of sexually transmitted diseases as a part of our Biology course. This was such a big deal that we had to get permission from our parents and the upper classmen had been hyping us up about this since freshmen year. The day of “The Event” everyone was on time for class and excited about seeing something consider so taboo. The first slide went up and there was a noticeable shocked silence in the room, followed by a chorus of uneasy laughter. I recall looking at the teacher and thinking, “You guys are not playing around!” After viewing slide after slide of mangled penises and putrefied vaginas, towards the end it just started looking like… Biology.

This is exactly how I felt in the show…

Every ten minutes performers went on stage in a choreographed and thematic display of sexual intercourse done to music: the emo couple, the urban couple, the punk rockers, the country western couple, the Latinos etc. After the initial shock, uneasy laughter, and thinking “You guys are not playing around”, it just became… Biology. It initially felt “wrong” to be watching something so taboo, but in the end I could have been watching the mating rituals of bovine on the Animal Planet and it would have had the same outcome: no big deal at all. Between the red light district tour and the live sex show, I felt like I had sufficiently explored the Sex clichés of Amsterdam. So I checked it off my list and moved on to drugs.

Now, coffee houses are abundant in Amsterdam and the opportunity to get high on marijuana is as easy as ordering a Starbucks latte. With that said, I don’t live in Amsterdam; I live in “New Amsterdam” where the usage of marijuana is not looked upon highly, especially in the job market and I have to get back to work. So, I made a grown folks decision to opt out of this experimentation and settled for a different type of “higher education” – Cannabis College.

According to their website, The Cannabis College Foundation is “a non-profit information centre based in the heart of Amsterdam. [They] strive to provide visitors from across the globe with correct, objective, and honest information regarding every aspect of the Cannabis sativa L. plant.” The College has several experts on hand to answer visitor’s questions regarding marijuana and hemp. They also have literature, displays and movies about hemp and its usage. Lastly, they have an organic, public Cannabis garden growing in there basement. Which I had to see…

I went to Cannabis College the next morning and walked in feeling like I was breaking the law, but prepared to learn something. The moment I stepped through the door, I walked up on a man taking a hit off of the Vaporizer, which looks like a blender with a sandwich bag attached to it. He was coughing like crazy and in a Katt Williams voice I wanted to say, “Do you know that I can see you?” Unconsciously, I kept looking over my shoulder and waiting for the police to come in and raid the place. I was so uncomfortable in there that I didn’t ask a single question. I didn’t view the marijuana garden and I didn’t even stay long. One lap around and I immediately left. In my head, I still associate marijuana usage with people sneaking around red light parties or rolling at home in privacy, so I realized that I wasn’t really comfortable with pubic drug use. It still felt “wrong.”

In order to actually get my higher education, I went to the Hash Marijuana Hemp Museum not too far from Cannabis College and was rewarded by a wealth of things I didn’t know.  Hemp can be used for just about everything from building materials to medicine to clothing to soap and beauty products. When I finished touring the museum my view on the plant, in general, had changed. I now had more respect for its properties and didn’t see it simply as a 420 point of celebration. The museum also has a display about how marijuana is viewed in many cultures around the world. Seeing many of the old, propaganda films out of the U.S gave me greater insight into my own psyche and made the experience that much more profound.



Hemp Guitar



So, here’s what I really like about Amsterdam. When you’re a kid and someone tells you that you can’t do something, you immediately start looking for ways to get around it. If you were like me, then you did it when no one was looking.  You crave the opportunity to rebel, break the rules, and live life on your terms. In Amsterdam, many of the things we consider taboo in the U.S are actually accepted (hard drugs not included). Since nothing is off limits, you would think that there would be high addiction rates, crime, and pimps beating up prostitutes on the corner. Yet, it’s the exact opposite; lower drug related crimes, lower rates of STDs, etc. So, instead of creating a culture perpetuated by a craving for rebellion followed by feelings of guilt, they’ve created a culture of self-awareness and personal responsibility. A culture where, like I did, people can determine their own limits, what’s right and what’s wrong for them, and then act accordingly. Hmm…Brilliant!

Stranger Danger: Germany

They say that the people you surround yourself with are in many ways a reflection of you. I can only hope that that is true.

Grafitti painted on the wall in Old Town

My friends back home in New York are God fearing, highly educated, and equally intelligent women who are quick to laugh and even quicker to handle their business. They hold themselves to a high standard, yet it’s not so high that they can’t recall from whence they came. Their eyes still twitch and they still feel this pull to spit a blade at the first person that threatens their family and friends. These people are fierce…

My friends back home in Colorado are deep. Deep like they’ve been there through all my crap, yet still manage to plant roots. They keep me grounded by calling me on my bad behavior, my out of character actions, and my straight tom foolery.  You’re acting crazy and I don’t like it. Pull it together. We don’t roll like that!” These people are solid…

My friends back home in California are family. They are going to claim me come hell or high water. They are a strong, highly prayerful, tight knit group of people and if I fall, their loving arms will always be the last barrier I fall through before I reach the hands of God. They are me and I am them. These people are not to be played with…

Friendships like these take years to develop. Yet, sometimes you are fortunate enough to know from the onset of meeting someone that you will gladly put in the time required.

While in Germany I met up with Christian and Richard from my Indonesian leg of the trip. I had already fallen in love with both of them after leaving Indonesia and knew that once I reached Germany I would make it a point to spend the majority of my time with them. So I rushed through Berlin attempting to see what I could during my one night there and boarded the train the next day. Richard and Christian opened their homes, dragged me around their city, introduced me to family and friends, and made sure that I felt at home. I would do no less for them, so I was thoroughly pleased by their display of friendship. 

Christmas Markets in Cologne

Fortunately, we were also joined by Dalia, Yusur, and Dalia’s sister Rasha. We met Dalia and Yusur in Indonesia; they were two parts of group of friends traveling around Bali. When the bus company over booked the bus ride into Denpasar and they were asked to sit on milk crates in the aisle, they threw a fit.  I vividly recall Dalia arguing with the bus driver and Richard leaning over and whispering, “I like her. She’s pretty.” I responded, “I like her! She’s got balls.” To which Richard, in confusion, scrunched up his face and said, “Testiculos?! Did you mean to say this?”  Side Note: We laugh about this now, but I swear I spend a lot of time trying to explain American colloquialisms and slang to these guys; including Christian’s roommate who asked me what a “baller” was.  Learning from each other is the best part of our relationship. We literally only spent maybe seven hours with these girls on a bus from Mt. Bromo to Bali, but during those hours no one slept. It was one of those moments when you knew you were making good friends.  

While in Cologne our little crew went to some of the most magical Christmas markets where we drank Glühwein. Glühwein is a traditional German drink made from mulled/warm wine. It packs a punch and Christmas markets in Germany are equally amazing. We also went dancing all night. Literally… all night. Salsa dancing is Richard’s choice and hip hop is Christian’s, so we clubbed hopped and were able to see all the diversity available in Cologne. The highlight of the night was watching the faces of the people in the club when Dalia, in her hijab, jumped up to guy dancing and started battling him. OMG…  Talk about shattering stereotypes.

Cologne is a city with a small town feel and overall I really enjoyed it. The Cologne Cathedral near the main train station cannot be missed. It is extremely impressive and it is the largest Gothic styled church in Northern Europe, not to mention the tallest Roman Catholic cathedral in the world. The stained glass windows in the church are also unique in that they include a lot of black people in them. The visit there was lovely; my only wish is that I were taller so that I could get better pictures.

In Cologne I also enjoyed simply walking around the city as well. There are random surprises everywhere you look. For example, there are gold bricks inlaind in the pavement in front of various buildings. It's called the Stolpersteine, "the stumbling blocks, and the project was created by artist, Gunter Demnig, as a means of memorializing the jews who lived in those buildings and died as a result of Nazi actions. Quite humbing, yet beautiful. Walking around the city, you may also come across the love locks on the Hohenzollern Bridge as well. I've written about these locks before, in other cities, but Cologne wins the prize for their massive display of locks. Most cities remove them after a while so they don't become a hazzard, in Cologne they've become a tourist attraction!

Aside from Cologne, we also spent the day in Düsseldorf walking along the Media Harbour and admiring the Rhine Tower, the markets in Old Town, and the architecture along the Rhine.  Dusseldorf is worth going to just to see the architecture in the Media Harbour area.  Internationally acclaimed architect, Frank O. Gehry, has helped revive this area by creating some of the most astounding buildings. I’m not a knowledgeable architecture fan, but I like what I like and I’ve noticed a lot of Gehry buildings throughout my travels. The IAC Building and the Eight Spruce Street tower in NY , the Dancing House in Prague (which I didn’t write about… sorry), the Guggenheim in Bilbao and the Olympic Fish in Barcelona (both of which I will be seeing shortly when I arrive to Spain) are a few of my favorites. I’m floored each time I see his buildings and Dusseldorf’s Media Harbour area is basically his playground.  After spending an inordinate amount of time chit chatting and admiring the area, we ended our time with the girls by having proper tea at Pebble's Champagne Lounge, an uber modern, pebble shaped building overlooking the River and completely constructed of mirrors.

While in Germany, I was also able to experience a really unique event.  One evening, Richard invited me to an “open house.” When he first brought up the idea I immediately thought real estate, but he explained that once a year his friends, this cute, young, German couple, open up their home for 72 hours and invite friends and family to use it as their own. For three days, people can come into their home and cook, clean, do laundry, sleep, take a bath or whatever else they’d like to do. Mi casa es su casa, FOR REAL! This sounds really strange, so of course I agree to go and off we went with his cute, little, cousin Rodrigo.

 

While there the two men baked a cake and since I’m not much of a cook, I became the impromptu deejay for the evening. Eventually others joined in the kitchen and dinner was whipped up. Singing along to Richard’s guitar, drinking wine and eating entirely too much was how the night progressed. We literally had to leave before we passed out on the couch; just like home.

Reflecting back, I realize how fantastic is was to hear all of the languages being spoken throughout the house that evening: Italian, English, Spanish, German, and I think French as well. The entire evening was borderline hippie, but it reminded of my time in Italy picking olives; a lot of diversity, yet camaraderie amongst strangers. This is hilarious to me because at no time during my stay in Cologne had it escaped me that I was spending time with people from South America, Europe, the Middle East, and Africa and not only were we spending time, but we were really digging deep and we only met four months ago. Our associations are so lose, yet I know without a shadow of a doubt that someday I will meet their children. Someday they will crash on my couch, will dine with my family, and occupy my space. Sometimes the only danger when befriending strangers is that you'll make great friends.

If the people you surround yourself with are truly a reflection of you, then I have been blessed to have met some amazing people throughout my journey. Even better, now I can say:

My friends back home in Germany and a number of other countries are new. They have taught me the true meaning of an open home, an open heart, and an open mind. These people are all strangers who have become family…

No Words: Poland

When a few travelers I met on the road convinced me that I had to go to Krakow and ‘do’ Auschwitz, I was initially skeptical. It's funny, but when travelers get together in a hostel or on some form of transportation, the conversation will always come around to the places you’ve been and where you plan to go. “Have you ‘done’ Greece yet?” “You have to‘do’ Mt. Kilimanjaro at some point!” “We are going to ‘do’ Peru in the fall!”It's a bit of a pissing contest at times, so I'm always skeptical of how "great" the experience really is.

St. Mary's

Further, traveling as quickly as I am, I’m always mindful of when I’ve drifted into the “country done” mindset, where countries are checked off a list, rather than experienced. As such, I look for unique experiences, rather than places, that will endear that country to me. Nevertheless, every traveler I met who had ‘done’ Auschwitz had a thousand adjectives to describe it: amazing, sad, depressing, wretched, startling, astounding and on and on, so I knew it would be something special and I needed to go.

So, I ‘did’ it...

Krakow is a really lovely city chocked full of ancient castles and churches. The Old Market Square in the center of Old Town feels like the heart of the city and St. Mary’s, where the bugle player plays the Heynal every hour from its tower, is its rhythm. The aggressive assed pigeons that fly around the square are scary and should be avoided at best, but the Polish people who are witty and full of self-deprecating humor should be embraced fully. Walking the Royal Way, from St. Florian's Gate and over to the Wawel castle and cathedral, can give you a broad view of the historical charm of the city. While sitting in the Planty, which is the park that surrounds Old Town, and people watching really gives you a glimpse into modern Poland. Even though Krakow could be its own tourist destination; you’ll find that many of the people who come there are headed to Auschwitz, which is approximately two hours outside of Krakow.

Auschwitz is a group of concentration camps, also known as death camps, located in the Polish suburb of Oswiecim. Oswiecim’s proximity to the railway and relative obscurity from the major cities made it an ideal location for the Nazis to carry out their extermination of Jews, Poles, Gays, Gypsies, Jehovah Witnesses, Soviet POW’s,  and anyone else the Nazi’s deemed worthy of their hate. Over the course of roughly three years, the Nazis killed an estimated 1.1 million people. Many of these people arrived by train to the camps and since the voyage was long and no food or water provided, many of the children and elderly died in transport. Upon arrival, those who survived were split into two groups: those who could work and those who couldn’t. The group that couldn’t work was promised a shower, lead to a room, and gassed to death in massive numbers. The other group was put to work, where many died from starvation, disease, executions, and medical experimentation.

After visiting the concentration camps and taking the self-guided tour through the exhibits and actual buildings where many of the atrocities occurred, I’m not convinced that, as a tourist, Auschwitz is something that you “do." I almost feel as if there are no words that can truly convey all the thoughts and emotions that overwhelm you as you move from one building; however, I know that the experience can’t fully be summed up as something ‘done.’ Auschwitz is a memorial searching for a verb that encompasses its gravity.

Piles of glasses

For example, I “grieved” Auschwitz as I viewed all the pictures lining the halls of people who had died there. Their name, occupation, date of birth, arrival and death printed on a black and white photo hinted at the horrors experienced during their one month, two month, or three day stay. I grieved as I searched hard for someone who had lived for at least one year after arrival at Auschwitz. I grieved Auschwitz when I walked through the cells that held the priests who were left to starve to death after sacrificing their lives for other prisoners by taking the blame for something or going in their place.

I “imagined” Auschwitz when I walked into rooms where thousands of people’s hair, bowls, prayer shawls, eye glasses, and leg braces were piled high in exhibits showing the items collected and left behind by the Nazis. I imagined the initial relief and then absolute terror that must have been felt after traveling days without water or food and finally being lead to a shower only to be gassed and slowly die from affixation. I imagined the hope, suffocated by doubt and grief, experienced when seperated from family members, never knowing how, where, or whether they died or will be seen again.

I even “cheered” Auschwitz when learning about the counter movements occurring inside the camp. I cheered for the ingenuity of passing notes by way of a carved out space in a baking pin roller. I cheered for the souls that pushed through adversity and still managed to stick it to the man, in spite of being broken in body. I cheered Auschwitz for the spirit of perserverance and rebellion that stood taller than the barbed wire fences that surrounded the camp. And I “dragged” Auschwitz around with me for days and days, not quite able to erase the faces from my mind.

A thousand adjectives cannot adequately describe all the emotions you feel walking around the camp and a thousand verbs will never stack up to those who “lived” Auschwitz. However, this is a tragedy never to be forgotten and an experience not to be missed if you visit Poland. Auschwitz is all parts of a sentence that should never be repeated.

Bathroom facilities... cleaned up for the exhibit.

A room of leg braces, crutches and other things collected from the handicapped captives after they were killed.

Sleeping quarters at the camp. Three to four people slept on each level.

Playing traditional music at the old wall of the city.

Public Art?

Wawel cathedral