Yesterday was the last official day of the semester for DIS. To mark the occasion, there was a closing convocation at Kobenhavn Universitet where speeches were made, awards were handed out, and awkward photo montages were displayed. More importantly, the prize for best student blog was awarded, and -- no surprise here -- I didn't win.
Given my penchant for foul language, controversial subject matter, and occasional anti-Danish sentiment, I figured I was completely out of the running. I was fine with the little niche I had carved out for myself -- I've focused more on writing for laughs and entertainment than in the hope of winning some prize, so in some ways I had considered myself out of the running already. As it turns out, a few of the program interns came up to me later and said that they had really enjoyed my blog, and would have loved to have chosen it had it not been "too focused on drinking and partying for the DIS website." A completely fair assessment, I would say, although I do find it somewhat ironic that many of my longer entries were completed on quiet Friday nights during my self-imposed exile from socializing -- a time when, by all accounts, I should have been out getting plastered.
The winning blog was "A Broad" by Franni from Wesleyan, which I thought was a good choice. It is a little-mentioned but poorly-kept secret that all of the student bloggers ravenously read each other's posts, both in an attempt at entertainment and to keep up with the proverbial Joneses, and of the other student blogs, I enjoyed Franni's the most. While I set out to write the anti-blog for the DIS website (and succeeded), Franni managed to write with great sincerity without sacrificing the legitimate insight, occasional critique, and sheer entertainment value that was so conspicuously absent in many of the other blogs. Franni, as I'm sure you'll read this at one time or another, kudos. Although I still don't forgive you for losing that game of Taboo in our Health Care in Scandinavia class (I kiiiiid, I kiiiiiiiiid).
Once we were all suitably convocated, the deed was done, that was that, and we all made like a tree and got the fuck out of there. I spent another couple hours failing at Christmas shopping, and then I headed back to my home base to get ready for a last night out on the town. Despite the convocation's great pomp and circumstance, everyone knew that the real last hurrah for DIS students was the end of semester party, held last night at La Hacienda.
I had never been to La Hacienda, and most of my friends hadn't either, but it stood out in my mind for several reasons. First, it's close to DIS, so I pass it every day. Second, it's kind of trashy on the outside, which is only amplified when a drunk crowd gathers in front at say, 10:00 on a Sunday morning (I've seen it). And third, I've heard it's got a serious weather problem -- lots of snow, if you know what I mean.
As I discovered, the place wasn't actually that bad, as long as it's 9:30 on a Tuesday night and the place is packed with Americans. The beer was relatively cheap, which was nice, the dance floor was acceptably sketchy, which was entertaining, and I didn't see anyone doing any blow off of urinals in the men's room, which was a little disappointing. All in all, the makings of a good night, and a good night it was.
By 3 AM, a bunch of us were long gone from La Hacienda, having gotten a couple of casual beers elsewhere, and were presently stuffing our faces with shawarma, which may be what I will miss most about Copenhagen. By 4:00, we were waiting in the cold for our night bus, which at 4:00 in the morning comes once an hour or not at all. I checked all the time tables, figured out how long I had to wait, and that's what I did.
I found myself leaving this country much in the same way that I came into it -- standing alone in the idle 4 AM moonlight, drinks in my stomach, conversations in my head, and with plenty behind me, but much more to come. As I waited for my bus, I stopped at one last sausage stand, and when the time came, I hopped the bus and headed Home.
...except, meticulous timetable inspection be damned, I realized I was going in the wrong direction. So I got off the bus, hit an ATM, and hailed a taxi. At 5:11 on a Wednesday morning, I piled out of the cab, thankful to be back, one last time. It cost me thirty dollars.
Copenhagen, it's been enlightening.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Friday, December 12, 2008
Trend watch:
Today, we bring you the first installment in a one-part series: Trendwatch -- Denmark.
Trend 1) Over the past couple of weeks, as I've dutifully gone about my business and pulled long(ish) hours in the library and computer lab to finish up all my work, I've been privy to the most intimate secrets of many of my classmates -- and usually without their knowledge. Whilst typing away feverishly on some busywork that is even busier than the last, I'd often overhear conversations about sensitive subject matter. Perhaps "overhear" is the wrong word, as these conversations are so loud and conspicuous that it would be impossible not to hear -- "be subjected to" is probably a better term. Plus, we all know my hearing ain't always up to par, so I'm not really prone to auditory snooping into my peers' private lives.
Countless times, girls (it was usually girls) would walk in, talking on the phone or to a friend, and ramble on to the world about kicking a guy out of bed in the morning, breaking up with their boyfriends, or how many shots they ripped over the weekend. Now, I'm not condemning any of these activities, but perhaps I am somewhat Puritan in that I think they're probably best discussed in private. Or perhaps not even in private. Anyone who has read this blog faithfully over the past couple of months knows that I do not mince words when it comes to my own extracurricular activities or personal shortcomings, but I do it on my own terms. What I take issue with is blathering on in public with no thought to who might overhear and how one's discussion might poorly reflect on oneself.
Or maybe that's it -- that they are consciously broadcasting these things. Numerous commentators (and parents) have mentioned the exhibitionist tendencies of Generation Y, and how with our Facebook, MySpace, and other social media we make our private lives public to the world. Parents cringe with the thought of incriminating photos of their children appearing online, but in many cases, they are posted by the kids themselves. For whatever reason, Generation Y seems to have none of the qualms about privacy of previous generations, and we seem to make every attempt to cast ourselves into the pale-blue-limelight of our peers' computer screens. Whether this behavior springs from our obsession with celebrity or solely from the ubiquity of social networking technologies, I do not know, but for whatever reason, we have few fears about our personal information becoming public. In fact, we encourage it.
So perhaps these conversations about pillow talk and hangovers are less a result of ignorance of one's surroundings and more because of one's surroundings. I've often cynically wondered whether announcements of failed relationships and emotional anguish are actually just spoken personal ads, brilliantly placed to attract just the right mix of suitors. We all know that people often talk up their weekends in the hope of seeming cooler, more exciting, or more daring than they really are -- I fall victim to it myself from time to time -- so I guess it makes sense that the lines between what is normal public boasting and personal, private behaviors are being blurred. While it would be impossible to make a determination of whether idle banter in a random computer lab is intentional or not, I'm willing to wager that some is. I can only hope that my peers become a little more aware that others might overhear their discussion of last night's sexcapades, but if it is intentional, then a message to all you ladies out there: Single? Duly noted.
Trend 2) Two times in the past week, while waiting for the bus for the umpteenth time, I've been standing in the vicinity of a Muslim woman, speaking wildly in Arabic to no one in particular. At first I've been curious, then confused, and then uncomfortable, hoping the crazy person doesn't come sit next to me when the bus does arrive. But then, inevitably, they turn around to watch a biker pass or check the timetable, and I realize: they're talking on a cell phone. Obviously loud cell phone conversations are nothing new, and even those dorky headset phone are becoming more popular, so I shouldn't have been surprised to see someone talking loudly, apparently to no one.
The subtle difference in this situation was that the women weren't wearing headsets, but instead had snugly secured their phones up against their ears by shoving them in their headscarves. What a novel idea indeed. So while it might still seem odd, it is a purely functional wardrobe adaptation, and a definite trend.
The competing cultures in the equation make for a hilarious comparison, however. The cell phone -- one of the hallmarks of today's modern, western culture -- being enabled by a symbol of religion and conservatism that preaches against the very excesses that a cell phone represents. Now, in the hope of curtailing any perceived ignorance, of course I know that mainstream Muslims have no problem with the West, technology, etc. -- but still, it's the symbolism I'm getting at. It's just funny to see women who shun western fashion in favor of traditional religious dress choosing to integrate in other ways. One can only think that it won't be long before these cultures merge completely, as cell phone conversations are far more conducive to chatting than to reciting Koranic verse. But hey, maybe we're there already -- after all, I don't speak Arabic. For all I know, those animated cell phone conversations that I witnessed actually translated to, "Oh my Muhammed, you will not believe how many shots I ripped last night. And Ahmed is such a dick."
Author's note: After just writing in detail about how careless my generation seems to be in presenting itself, it must seem particularly ironic that I engage in such lazy, insensitive religious humor to an audience that consists of, in theory, the entire interconnected world. However, as I mentioned earlier, I do it on my own terms (plus, I qualify it afterwards with fun, official-sounding things like "author's notes"). But wouldn't it be funny -- and telling -- if I set off a religious uproar in the same country that infuriated the Muslim world by publishing cartoons of the prophet Muhammed? I know I'd get a kick out of that, followed by a fatwa, most likely.
Trend 1) Over the past couple of weeks, as I've dutifully gone about my business and pulled long(ish) hours in the library and computer lab to finish up all my work, I've been privy to the most intimate secrets of many of my classmates -- and usually without their knowledge. Whilst typing away feverishly on some busywork that is even busier than the last, I'd often overhear conversations about sensitive subject matter. Perhaps "overhear" is the wrong word, as these conversations are so loud and conspicuous that it would be impossible not to hear -- "be subjected to" is probably a better term. Plus, we all know my hearing ain't always up to par, so I'm not really prone to auditory snooping into my peers' private lives.
Countless times, girls (it was usually girls) would walk in, talking on the phone or to a friend, and ramble on to the world about kicking a guy out of bed in the morning, breaking up with their boyfriends, or how many shots they ripped over the weekend. Now, I'm not condemning any of these activities, but perhaps I am somewhat Puritan in that I think they're probably best discussed in private. Or perhaps not even in private. Anyone who has read this blog faithfully over the past couple of months knows that I do not mince words when it comes to my own extracurricular activities or personal shortcomings, but I do it on my own terms. What I take issue with is blathering on in public with no thought to who might overhear and how one's discussion might poorly reflect on oneself.
Or maybe that's it -- that they are consciously broadcasting these things. Numerous commentators (and parents) have mentioned the exhibitionist tendencies of Generation Y, and how with our Facebook, MySpace, and other social media we make our private lives public to the world. Parents cringe with the thought of incriminating photos of their children appearing online, but in many cases, they are posted by the kids themselves. For whatever reason, Generation Y seems to have none of the qualms about privacy of previous generations, and we seem to make every attempt to cast ourselves into the pale-blue-limelight of our peers' computer screens. Whether this behavior springs from our obsession with celebrity or solely from the ubiquity of social networking technologies, I do not know, but for whatever reason, we have few fears about our personal information becoming public. In fact, we encourage it.
So perhaps these conversations about pillow talk and hangovers are less a result of ignorance of one's surroundings and more because of one's surroundings. I've often cynically wondered whether announcements of failed relationships and emotional anguish are actually just spoken personal ads, brilliantly placed to attract just the right mix of suitors. We all know that people often talk up their weekends in the hope of seeming cooler, more exciting, or more daring than they really are -- I fall victim to it myself from time to time -- so I guess it makes sense that the lines between what is normal public boasting and personal, private behaviors are being blurred. While it would be impossible to make a determination of whether idle banter in a random computer lab is intentional or not, I'm willing to wager that some is. I can only hope that my peers become a little more aware that others might overhear their discussion of last night's sexcapades, but if it is intentional, then a message to all you ladies out there: Single? Duly noted.
Trend 2) Two times in the past week, while waiting for the bus for the umpteenth time, I've been standing in the vicinity of a Muslim woman, speaking wildly in Arabic to no one in particular. At first I've been curious, then confused, and then uncomfortable, hoping the crazy person doesn't come sit next to me when the bus does arrive. But then, inevitably, they turn around to watch a biker pass or check the timetable, and I realize: they're talking on a cell phone. Obviously loud cell phone conversations are nothing new, and even those dorky headset phone are becoming more popular, so I shouldn't have been surprised to see someone talking loudly, apparently to no one.
The subtle difference in this situation was that the women weren't wearing headsets, but instead had snugly secured their phones up against their ears by shoving them in their headscarves. What a novel idea indeed. So while it might still seem odd, it is a purely functional wardrobe adaptation, and a definite trend.
The competing cultures in the equation make for a hilarious comparison, however. The cell phone -- one of the hallmarks of today's modern, western culture -- being enabled by a symbol of religion and conservatism that preaches against the very excesses that a cell phone represents. Now, in the hope of curtailing any perceived ignorance, of course I know that mainstream Muslims have no problem with the West, technology, etc. -- but still, it's the symbolism I'm getting at. It's just funny to see women who shun western fashion in favor of traditional religious dress choosing to integrate in other ways. One can only think that it won't be long before these cultures merge completely, as cell phone conversations are far more conducive to chatting than to reciting Koranic verse. But hey, maybe we're there already -- after all, I don't speak Arabic. For all I know, those animated cell phone conversations that I witnessed actually translated to, "Oh my Muhammed, you will not believe how many shots I ripped last night. And Ahmed is such a dick."
Author's note: After just writing in detail about how careless my generation seems to be in presenting itself, it must seem particularly ironic that I engage in such lazy, insensitive religious humor to an audience that consists of, in theory, the entire interconnected world. However, as I mentioned earlier, I do it on my own terms (plus, I qualify it afterwards with fun, official-sounding things like "author's notes"). But wouldn't it be funny -- and telling -- if I set off a religious uproar in the same country that infuriated the Muslim world by publishing cartoons of the prophet Muhammed? I know I'd get a kick out of that, followed by a fatwa, most likely.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Madriddles:
I arrived in Madrid after two cramped Ryanair flights -- Prague to Dublin, Ireland, and then Dublin to Madrid. I know it seems far from logical to fly to Madrid via Dublin, but when traveling on a budget one often falls victim to these attacks on common sense. I spent the two flights trying to stave off any negative effects of my hangover (having woken up only a couple hours previous), which was not necessarily helped by the flight being full of drunken Irishmen who, upon, our successful landing in Dublin, started cheering and clapping wildly. I suppose it provided some in-flight entertainment of sorts on an otherwise sparsely equipped Ryanair plane.
Once in Madrid I gathered my things and set out to find a way to my friends' apartment. I had meant to write down the directions my friends had provided in email before leaving Prague, but as mentioned in the preceding post, I was strapped for time. After dropping a couple of Euros on an internet terminal that refused to function properly and enable me to access my email, I opted for the information desk. I handed my friends' address to the woman behind the desk, and she thankfully gave me a nice overview of Madrid and its metro system before providing me with two helpful maps (she even highlighted on what route I should travel). Afterwards, I finally got in touch with my friends via cell phone and let them know that I was on my way.
The metro system proved to be fairly efficient, although it did take a bit longer to get to my friends' apartment than original expected. So, about an hour later, I dragged my bag up the hill and deposited myself onto their doorstop. Again, it was nice to see some friendly faces, and their apartment was packed with people who were visiting along with those who actually lived there. Relieved that I had finally arrived, I briefly regaled them with my tale before retreating into the bathroom for a much needed shower. I was still wearing the clothes I went out in, slept in, and traveled in, after all.
A bit later, with my hygiene back on par with the rest of civilization, we took to some casual drinking and light banter. It was one of my friends' 21st birthdays, and I had specficially arrived in Madrid on that day in order to prevent-him-from / assist-him-in killing himself. So over time the casual drinking because heavy drinking, and the light banter became, well, more light banter. Around 11:00 we went out for dinner, which was the first taste of the authentic Spanish lifestyle, in a way. We had a small but tasty meal of tapas in a cozy restaurant before taking our ever-growing crew (probably about 15 people) off to another bar. We went to a hookah bar which was mostly empty, considering the fact that it was a Tuesday, but was a good time anyway as we provided more than enough people for entertainment. We spent a couple hours having a few drinks, smoking hookah, and enjoying ourselves before people started to drop off (many had class the next day, after all). Regardless, a couple of us stayed and were determined to have a typical Madrid night -- namely, one where we got to see the sun rise -- random Tuesday be damned. After leaving the hookah bar we wandered the empty streets of Madrid for quite a while (like, a seriously long time) in search of another good bar, but around 4:00 we realized the night was over. We took a cab back to the apartment, where we had a few more [unnecessary] drinks, talked a bit, and took turns writing in a journal in the hope that it would provide lots of entertainment in a few hours time (it did). Around 6:00 we finally decided to pack it in to bed, and I found a nice cozy spot on the floor and went to sleep.
We woke up the next afternoon in varying states of decay, and I was certain that we were living the Madrid good life. Only one of my friends had actually made it to her class that morning, as the birthday boy had slept through his first two and wasn't looking so good. We all woke up around 12:30 and spent a couple of hours licking our wounds before finally making it back outside around 3:00. We intended to accompany our friends to their class in one of Madrid's art msueums, but due to their varying levels of enthusiasm about class in general we realized it wasn't in the cards. Instead, we sated our hunger with some doner kebab, forumlated a game plan, and headed out for some sightseeing.
Since I knew I was only going to be in Madrid for about 36 hours before moving on to Morocco, I hadn't put much emphasis on checking out the sites. I figured that if I was going to see the city, I might as well take my time and really enjoy myself, so I didn't pay that much attention to the buildings we passed. Plus, I had all those Madriddles to think about. For some reason over the course of our two hour walking tour, we got on a riddles kick. We traded, pondered, and solved something like ten riddles over the course of our walk, and most of us got so wrapped up in whatever we were trying to solve at the time that we only paused and looked around for a minute at particularly eye-catching sights. We continued on this way until around 6:00, when we purchased some food and alcohol from a nearby grocery store and returned to the apartment, feeling like we had accomplished much more during the day than we possibly could have, considering we were only gone for three hours.
Back inside, we enlisted the internet in our search for more riddles (by that point given the corny term "Madriddles" by yours truly) and attempted to solve them for a couple of hours over cheese and beer. During the couple of hours we sat there, random European sporting events flickering away on the TV in the background, people filtered in and out and we slowly prepared ourselves for another night out on the town. On the late side of things, my friend Chris from Prague arrived (we all would be moving on to Morocco shortly) and we headed out for another late dinner. We went to a local cafe and ordered a "Yemen burger" and a beer each. A Yemem burger, apparently, is a hamburger topped with bacon, lettuce, tomato, onion, mayonnaise, and a fried egg, to top it all off. It is several types of protein in one burger. It was delicious but messy, and after we all had suitably befouled ourselves and our plates, we headed back to the apartment.
There, around 1:00 or so, we really took up the call of drinking in the hopes of rallying for another solid night in Madrid. As it turned out, two hours later our efforts had resulted in us just feeling disgustingly full from all the beer, meat, and Yemen, at which point some people had to excuse themselves outside. A couple of us soldiered on, not wanting to throw in the towel, and around 4:00 AM we decided to go out on the town -- mostly just to say that we had.
So at 4:00 there we were, a couple of us outside, hailing a cab to take us to a club our friends had heard about but not been to. Long story short, it ended up being a wild goose chase, and after almost an hour of searching, we decided to go into the next bar we found. So we did, to interesting results.
We entered a place called Rick's, and since we had been walking around for about an hour on full stomachs and fuller bladders, we all headed straight (interesting choice of words) for the restroom. The bathrooms were packed with people, and we each had to wait before being able to relieve ourselves. At some point in the minute or two we were waiting there, a man tried to pass by and his hand lingered uncomfortably long on my back. Looking around and noticing the men -- everywhere -- I realized: we were in a gay bar. Finally it was my turn, and I used the bathroom quickly before waiting outside for my friends. The guys came out (again, interesting choice of words) first, and I reported my findings. They had come to similar conclusions. So for the few awkward minutes we waited for the girls, we stood uncomfortably close to each other in an attempt to look like we were "involved" and off the market. At long last the girls reappeared, and with a look of bewilderment we all hightailed it to the exit. On the way out, I noticed guys flirting, grinding, and making out everywhere, and I wasn't sure how we had missed it all on the way in. The pink and black decor should have been another dead give away.
Outside, we laughed at our mistake before the girls told us they still hadn't managed to use the facilities. Apparently the girls were in a long line of guys (not too many women for a women's restroom in a gay bar) waiting for the bathroom, and when it was finally their turn to go into the one stall, FOUR GUYS spilled out. Taken aback but still needing to use the restroom, the girls were about to go inside when another two guys cut them off and told them to wait their turn. At this point they decided to leave.
So as we all laughed it off, we strolled into another half empty Madrid bar around 5:00 in the morning and got a few drinks. To mixed results, around 5:15 we tried to start a dance party with everyone else in the bar, but aside from that it was an uneventful time. Around 6:00 the bar closed, and we reluctantly headed back. The night was epic, indeed, but more because of its schedule than any actual goings-on.
Back at the apartment we talked for a while longer before dozing off one by one. Three of us fell asleep in the same bed. Briefly, for me, as around 7:30 I had to wake up so that Chris and I could catch our 9:50 flight to Morocco. I woke up in a daze, repeated the by then routine practice of tossing all my stuff in a bag, and we went out to catch a cab. I dozed off for a while in the cab, burned some Euros on food in the airport, and used our three hour flight to Marrakech, Morocco, to catch up on some more much-needed sleep. By the time Chris and I stepped onto the tarmac in sunny Marrakech, I was good to go and ready for one of the wilder times of my life.
(Unforunately due to my short time and nocturnal activities in Madrid, I don't have any pictures from my time there. Hope all the text didn't get too boring.)
Once in Madrid I gathered my things and set out to find a way to my friends' apartment. I had meant to write down the directions my friends had provided in email before leaving Prague, but as mentioned in the preceding post, I was strapped for time. After dropping a couple of Euros on an internet terminal that refused to function properly and enable me to access my email, I opted for the information desk. I handed my friends' address to the woman behind the desk, and she thankfully gave me a nice overview of Madrid and its metro system before providing me with two helpful maps (she even highlighted on what route I should travel). Afterwards, I finally got in touch with my friends via cell phone and let them know that I was on my way.
The metro system proved to be fairly efficient, although it did take a bit longer to get to my friends' apartment than original expected. So, about an hour later, I dragged my bag up the hill and deposited myself onto their doorstop. Again, it was nice to see some friendly faces, and their apartment was packed with people who were visiting along with those who actually lived there. Relieved that I had finally arrived, I briefly regaled them with my tale before retreating into the bathroom for a much needed shower. I was still wearing the clothes I went out in, slept in, and traveled in, after all.
A bit later, with my hygiene back on par with the rest of civilization, we took to some casual drinking and light banter. It was one of my friends' 21st birthdays, and I had specficially arrived in Madrid on that day in order to prevent-him-from / assist-him-in killing himself. So over time the casual drinking because heavy drinking, and the light banter became, well, more light banter. Around 11:00 we went out for dinner, which was the first taste of the authentic Spanish lifestyle, in a way. We had a small but tasty meal of tapas in a cozy restaurant before taking our ever-growing crew (probably about 15 people) off to another bar. We went to a hookah bar which was mostly empty, considering the fact that it was a Tuesday, but was a good time anyway as we provided more than enough people for entertainment. We spent a couple hours having a few drinks, smoking hookah, and enjoying ourselves before people started to drop off (many had class the next day, after all). Regardless, a couple of us stayed and were determined to have a typical Madrid night -- namely, one where we got to see the sun rise -- random Tuesday be damned. After leaving the hookah bar we wandered the empty streets of Madrid for quite a while (like, a seriously long time) in search of another good bar, but around 4:00 we realized the night was over. We took a cab back to the apartment, where we had a few more [unnecessary] drinks, talked a bit, and took turns writing in a journal in the hope that it would provide lots of entertainment in a few hours time (it did). Around 6:00 we finally decided to pack it in to bed, and I found a nice cozy spot on the floor and went to sleep.
We woke up the next afternoon in varying states of decay, and I was certain that we were living the Madrid good life. Only one of my friends had actually made it to her class that morning, as the birthday boy had slept through his first two and wasn't looking so good. We all woke up around 12:30 and spent a couple of hours licking our wounds before finally making it back outside around 3:00. We intended to accompany our friends to their class in one of Madrid's art msueums, but due to their varying levels of enthusiasm about class in general we realized it wasn't in the cards. Instead, we sated our hunger with some doner kebab, forumlated a game plan, and headed out for some sightseeing.
Since I knew I was only going to be in Madrid for about 36 hours before moving on to Morocco, I hadn't put much emphasis on checking out the sites. I figured that if I was going to see the city, I might as well take my time and really enjoy myself, so I didn't pay that much attention to the buildings we passed. Plus, I had all those Madriddles to think about. For some reason over the course of our two hour walking tour, we got on a riddles kick. We traded, pondered, and solved something like ten riddles over the course of our walk, and most of us got so wrapped up in whatever we were trying to solve at the time that we only paused and looked around for a minute at particularly eye-catching sights. We continued on this way until around 6:00, when we purchased some food and alcohol from a nearby grocery store and returned to the apartment, feeling like we had accomplished much more during the day than we possibly could have, considering we were only gone for three hours.
Back inside, we enlisted the internet in our search for more riddles (by that point given the corny term "Madriddles" by yours truly) and attempted to solve them for a couple of hours over cheese and beer. During the couple of hours we sat there, random European sporting events flickering away on the TV in the background, people filtered in and out and we slowly prepared ourselves for another night out on the town. On the late side of things, my friend Chris from Prague arrived (we all would be moving on to Morocco shortly) and we headed out for another late dinner. We went to a local cafe and ordered a "Yemen burger" and a beer each. A Yemem burger, apparently, is a hamburger topped with bacon, lettuce, tomato, onion, mayonnaise, and a fried egg, to top it all off. It is several types of protein in one burger. It was delicious but messy, and after we all had suitably befouled ourselves and our plates, we headed back to the apartment.
There, around 1:00 or so, we really took up the call of drinking in the hopes of rallying for another solid night in Madrid. As it turned out, two hours later our efforts had resulted in us just feeling disgustingly full from all the beer, meat, and Yemen, at which point some people had to excuse themselves outside. A couple of us soldiered on, not wanting to throw in the towel, and around 4:00 AM we decided to go out on the town -- mostly just to say that we had.
So at 4:00 there we were, a couple of us outside, hailing a cab to take us to a club our friends had heard about but not been to. Long story short, it ended up being a wild goose chase, and after almost an hour of searching, we decided to go into the next bar we found. So we did, to interesting results.
We entered a place called Rick's, and since we had been walking around for about an hour on full stomachs and fuller bladders, we all headed straight (interesting choice of words) for the restroom. The bathrooms were packed with people, and we each had to wait before being able to relieve ourselves. At some point in the minute or two we were waiting there, a man tried to pass by and his hand lingered uncomfortably long on my back. Looking around and noticing the men -- everywhere -- I realized: we were in a gay bar. Finally it was my turn, and I used the bathroom quickly before waiting outside for my friends. The guys came out (again, interesting choice of words) first, and I reported my findings. They had come to similar conclusions. So for the few awkward minutes we waited for the girls, we stood uncomfortably close to each other in an attempt to look like we were "involved" and off the market. At long last the girls reappeared, and with a look of bewilderment we all hightailed it to the exit. On the way out, I noticed guys flirting, grinding, and making out everywhere, and I wasn't sure how we had missed it all on the way in. The pink and black decor should have been another dead give away.
Outside, we laughed at our mistake before the girls told us they still hadn't managed to use the facilities. Apparently the girls were in a long line of guys (not too many women for a women's restroom in a gay bar) waiting for the bathroom, and when it was finally their turn to go into the one stall, FOUR GUYS spilled out. Taken aback but still needing to use the restroom, the girls were about to go inside when another two guys cut them off and told them to wait their turn. At this point they decided to leave.
So as we all laughed it off, we strolled into another half empty Madrid bar around 5:00 in the morning and got a few drinks. To mixed results, around 5:15 we tried to start a dance party with everyone else in the bar, but aside from that it was an uneventful time. Around 6:00 the bar closed, and we reluctantly headed back. The night was epic, indeed, but more because of its schedule than any actual goings-on.
Back at the apartment we talked for a while longer before dozing off one by one. Three of us fell asleep in the same bed. Briefly, for me, as around 7:30 I had to wake up so that Chris and I could catch our 9:50 flight to Morocco. I woke up in a daze, repeated the by then routine practice of tossing all my stuff in a bag, and we went out to catch a cab. I dozed off for a while in the cab, burned some Euros on food in the airport, and used our three hour flight to Marrakech, Morocco, to catch up on some more much-needed sleep. By the time Chris and I stepped onto the tarmac in sunny Marrakech, I was good to go and ready for one of the wilder times of my life.
(Unforunately due to my short time and nocturnal activities in Madrid, I don't have any pictures from my time there. Hope all the text didn't get too boring.)
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
For lack of a better title -- Prague:
I left Vienna in the early afternoon and took a train to Prague. I was enjoying myself, traveling alone -- albeit briefly -- as it afforded me the chance to look the part of the worldly intellectual I often pretend that I am. Boarding the train in Vienna, I happened to be sitting a couple of seats down from an American mother and son -- the boy in his early teens, judging from the sound of his annoyance -- who were arguing animatedly about what would happen if the boy was allowed to leave the train for a minute and it left without him. Bemused, I chuckled to myself, remembering those long-forgotten days when I, too, might have fussed with my parents over such a petty issue. Of course, now, being a worldly intellectual as mentioned previously, I looked out the window with an air of pensiveness before dramatically unfurling my newspaper and pondering the important issues of the day.Later, as the train approached the Czech border, in a display of even more self-aggrandizing sophistication, I took out my Moleskine and began to write. I've been writing with increasing frequency (though not, perhaps, with similar improvements in quality) over the past few weeks and months -- because of, for, and as easily seen on this blog -- with the hope of honing my limited abilities into some semblance of literary respectability. Mostly, this shift has consisted of my having to reframe my ability to spin words out of nothingness -- when in regards to essays or oral presentations, I frequently refer to this as my propensity to "bullshit" -- as, instead, my "craft." And with that, my transformation into the aforementioned pompus, worldly, intellectual asshole is complete.
But back to the train. I was writing:
"The Czech Republic looms like a cloud (literally, a wall of clouds is hovering over what I imagine to be the border) on the horizon, and then you cross over and everything is darker, dirtier, and vaguely Soviet. The sky is dark with what is indeterminably pollution or fog, or just remnants of Chernobyl. Outside of the windows of the train, there are small shacks the likes of which I had first seen in Sweden, and then again in Germany and Austria -- built as family garden plots during the second world war and lovingly maintained ever since. Except here, as we pass, I notice smoke, and then someone squatting over a cooking fire outside, and I realize: people live there. Instead of brightly-colored gingerbread sheds in cheerful hobby gardens, these are corrugated metal shanties, perched on a barren plot of earth in the formerly Soviet nowhere.
The Czech Republic and Prague is much as I imagine Nevada and Las Vegas to be: all resources are sucked towards one tourist center, while the rest of the area languishes in (in Nevada's case) meth labs, spoilt wilderness, and irrelevance. We pass a playground that is either for dogs or children -- a makeshift collection of old tires, scrap wood, and pieces of metal. Everything is covered in rust and graffiti, the remnants and hallmarks of many years of disuse and disrepair."
...So was my introduction to the Czech Republic. And while our approach to Prague wasn't heralded by soaring hotels or faux culture on the horizon, my eventual arrival in the city did bring more urbanity and modernity than the train ride would suggest. As the train pulled into the station, I closed my Moleskine, foled my newspaper, put on my beret, and commenced smelling my own farts. With a look of haughty contempt, I bid adieu to the mother and son pair and left them with a particularly pungent aroma.
Off the train I exchanged some money and went out to hail a cab. My friend had told me to only take a Triple A Cab, as all of the others would rip me off. I walked outside the station and, noticing the large group of cabbies standing and talking together, tried to get a glimpse of the company logo on each respective cab while giving off an impression that says, "No, I am not looking for a cab as I idly circle your group with my enormous suitcase and look of general befuddlement." Eventually, I caved, and asked the nearest driver how much a ride would be to my friend's address. "600 Koruna," he says to me.
My friend had told me it should be about 300 (roughly $15), so in a voice that expressed as little confidence as I felt, I said, "Oh, really? Well my friend told me it should be about 300." The guy said nothing, and for a minute I worried that he was tired of dealing with know-it-all travelers, but a couple seconds later another driver came over and took me to his car. It was a Triple A. "300?" I asked. "300," he said.
A couple minutes later we were driving down the cobblestone streets of Prague, and we arrived at my friend's apartment. A quick call upstairs on my cell phone (no comment on the phone bill I was slapped with after three weeks of international calling) and a couple seconds later, and I was immediately happy to be in a place of lodging with more than one room, an actual couch, and a direct link to American television stations. It was nice.
That night my friend and I went out to a couple of bars and clubs, where I got a good sense of the Prague nightlife. While the streets seemed generally less active than in Copenhagen, there were still plenty of good places to go to on any given night. We made the rounds of a few bars, where I confirmed that Czech women are on (or even above) the level of Danish women, in terms of attractiveness. For whatever reason, I was feeling confident in those Praha bars. Despite my complete lack of success (and admittedly, lack of effort) with women in Copenhagen, whom I've determined to be cold, reserved, and unwelcoming of strangers, I was willing to give Prague a shot. In one bar themed vaguely after Harley Davidsons, my friend and I struck up a conversation with two Czech women that we had absolutely no business talking to. And while in Copenhagen I sometimes feel sheepish about not knowing enough about the city (or even being able to pronounce many of the names of places), in Prague all of that shame was gone, and I used the, "I'm only here for the weekend, what's cool here?" line with complete abandon. I can't say it really worked, but the girls didn't walk away, either, and we ended up talking to them for quite a while. I also can't say we really made any inroads whatsoever (especially with the prettier of the two -- I've found that in non-English-speaking countries, the prettiest girls are the ones least likely to understand a foreign language, which makes depressing, Darwinistic sense), but they did invite us to take a round of shots with them. After one flaming-shot-sucked-through-a-straw (a B-52, by another name) each, we walked away as the girls struck up conversation with some of their friends. On the way out, my friend realized we were probably expected to pay for the shots. I had thought they were just friends with the bartender. We decided to make a quick exit.
The next morning I woke up on the couch, and both of us feeling the effects of the flaming shot (made with absinthe, as we later discovered) and the completely unnecessary cocktails my friend had made upon our arrival back at the apartment, we decided to take it easy. We spent the day getting food at a cheap local place (more or less everything is a "cheap, local" place in Prague) and then watching Donnie Darko (I had never seen it, if you'll believe that), followed by some good old American football. A busy day.
On Monday, my friend had class, so I spent a good portion of the day wandering around Prague to take in some of the non-bar or club sights. Prague really is a nice city, and melds the historicism of most European cities with this coarseness that is both medieval and Soviet. Prague seems afflicted by a more aggressive brand of tourism than many more western cities (noted by the number of people looking to rip you off), but is at the same time really charming, with great views both of and from the Prague castle on top of the hill.
After a few hours of mingling amongst the hordes in Prague, I returned to the apartment to meet my friend after class. The next day, Tuesday, was to be a national holiday of some sort in the Czech Republic (not sure what it was for), so our expectations were high for a fun night. We started the night with my friend's roommate (an American expat working in Prague) and a couple of his coworkers at a Mexican restaurant. A Mexican restaurant? In Prague? Seriously, Mike? Yes, I know a Mexican restaurant isn't exactly authentic European fare, but after a couple of months going without, nothing sounded better to us than some margaritas and burritos. We grabbed a table, and over the course of about two hours we each had our fill of Mexican food items washed down with the best in pseudo-Mexican margaritas, tequila shots, and beer. It was a fun time.Afterwards, we went to a club to meet up with some other Middlebury students who are studying in Prague, which was nice both because it was fun to see some friendly faces and because they had started the holiday early. People were in varying states of inebriation, but for some, few words come to mind other than, say, "shitshow." (A highly-provocative vocabulary is an essential part of my "craft," you see.) We spent a couple hours drinking and dancing before different groups wandered off to different clubs. We went to a couple different places, although it might just have been me going there, because at 4:00 I sent my friend the extremely-informative text message (again with the phone bill): "Are you still inside? I'm on the bench." One phone call later revealed that, no, he was not inside, or anywhere near me, and that no, he could not find his way back to his own apartment. So I started walking.
I walked for a couple of minutes, looking for things I might recognize, and eventually found a store I remembered from earlier. It was at an intersection, and I walked up and down each street in order, trying to remember which one was right. Process of elimination eventually completed, I managed to recognize some more landmarks and find my way back. All told, it was about a 45 minute affair. Upon reaching the apartment, I had the good fortune of discovering that someone had left the door to the building ajar, so I was able to walk right in, knock on my friend's door, and deliver myself back into familiar territory. That night I spent a couple more illuminating hours debating the differences between American and Czech politics with my friend's roommate and one of his Czech coworkers before going to sleep around 6:30 AM. I set an alarm to wake up about an hour later, a bit before I had scheduled for a cab to come pick me up and take me to the airport for my flight to Madrid, my next stop.
A while later I woke up to what I eventually realized was the sound of the cab honking outside. Panicked, I grabbed my things and threw them into my bag (including the still damp laundry I had been doing earlier), ran down the stairs with shoes untied, and hopped in the cab. It was off to the airport. On the way there, I amused myself with my own mis/good fortune and considered the fact that I finally had a somewhat exciting story to tell. My whole time abroad I had bemoaned the fact to my friends and family that, "Things are pretty good here, but I can't say I've got too many exciting stories to share..." "I'm sure in a couple of weeks," was always my eventual qualification.
So finally, I had a story that was somewhat exciting, and somewhat worth telling. At the time, I realized that of course I hadn't had any stories yet, because a story is inherently something that is outside of the norm. People don't tell stories about going to school or going grocery shopping (at least the kind that people listen to), because those stories are predictable and within the realm of human expectations. Stories, by definition, are something different, something unexpected, something that for a moment remove us from the rhythm and meter that is our daily lives. Satisfied with myself, I planned to be less predictable in the future (the irony is not lost on me) in the hope of enjoying myself more, and, in turn, having more to write home about.
Nursing my hangover with reheated pizza in the terminal of the Prague airport, I congratulated myself for my introspection before pulling my beret far down over my eyes and unleashing a particularly oppressive stench on all in the nearby area.
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