Post-Travel Blues

A photo shoot near the Eiffel Tower, April 2012. Photo by Brittany Petersen.

I've been back in Chicago for almost two months now, and there are still days I wake up and smack myself because I'm not in Paris. What was I thinking, leaving? Why didn't I stay forever?

I have to remind myself how much I missed Chicago, my friends, my cat, my full wardrobe, my day-to-day tasks. The first few days back were glorious; my bed had never been more comfortable, my roommates more doting, my cat more soft and affectionate. (My pants were snug, but I prefer to gloss over that.) In fact, the first few weeks home were pure contentment. It made me feel like Chicago really is my home, the place I feel at rest, despite the fact that none of my biological family is here.

But now, seven weeks after returning to the reality of my life, I'm torn. I left pieces of myself in every place I went, but especially in Paris. Never before had I had such a clear and unambiguous chance to chase my dreams -- like, I'd dreamed of seeing the Louvre my whole life and then there it was, waiting for me to conquer it. (The French are consistent in that way.) I lived my days with enthusiasm -- even the difficult ones, like the night I went to French Pizza Hut and then sat alone in my hostel, watching Cinderella on YouTube.

Of course, people who live in Paris probably dream of waking up in Moscow or Beijing or Milan or Melbourne or Honolulu or Atlanta. We are never satisfied, even with what makes us happy.

So now, to combat the post-travel blues, I must remind myself that enthusiasm is internally produced. Luckily, there is no place like Chicago in the summer, so there's plenty to keep me occupied, from outdoor sports to bar trivia nights to reservations at Girl & the Goat.

Still, my dreams have forever been altered by the few weeks I was allowed to wander free and unfettered through foreign lands. Innocence may have been bliss, but I much prefer knowing exactly what I'm missing -- because it ensures that I'll fight to go back.

A New Blog! This One's About Running!

I started a new blog last week, and today I wrote the first significant post. It's a blog about running, structured around my training for my first-ever marathon, which is easily the scariest thing I've ever assumed I could survive. The blog is called Quit Whining and Run, after the advice I give myself every day.

I'm still blogging about music (almost) daily at Daijams, in addition to working on longer essays for this (my "main") blog. Thanks in advance for your page views, comments, and support!

No Wonder the Swiss are Neutral

What could they possibly be mad about, with this outside their window?

Montreux, Switzerland, overlooking Lake Geneva. Photo by Brittany Petersen

Tomorrow I board a plane back to America, ending my five-week, once-in-a-lifetime European journey. But I have many more stories to share, which I'll be working on over the coming months, so stay tuned!

Also be sure to check out my music blog, Daijams, which returns to daily production on Monday.

Auf wiedersehen -- for now!

--

"Day by day we lose some of our restlessness and absorb some of the spirit of quietude and ease that is in the tranquil atmosphere about us and in the demeanor of the people. We grow wise apace. We begin to comprehend what life is for." -- Mark Twain, The Innocents Abroad

The binkie and the pickpocket

"How the fatigues and annoyances of travel fill one with bitter prejudices sometimes! I might enter Florence under happier auspices a month hence and find it all beautiful, all attractive. But I do not care to think of it now, at all..." -- Mark Twain, The Innocents Abroad

There was a baby's binkie lying in the middle of the floor. I keep flashing back to the moment when I first saw it. I knew something was wrong. Why wasn't anyone picking it up? There had to be five, six, ten people crammed into the entry corridor to this train car -- two of them women with babies -- but no one was picking up the dropped binkie. I pointed at it, but no one noticed. They were too busy helping another tourist get his bag onto the luggage rack. I was irked, so I ignored it too and waited for the chaos to clear so I could put my damn bag in the damn luggage rack and move to my damn train seat.

I was already annoyed. I'd arrived at the Rome Termini train station with my grandparents in tow. We'd had no trouble getting there via the subway from the hotel, my grandparents each carrying two bags, me carrying my own luggage and running ahead to make sure we were headed in the correct direction. We needed to find the main terminal so we could catch a train to Florence, our next destination. After huffing up three or four flights of stairs, we finally found the correct escalator, and I led them to the self-service ticket booths.

"Okay, Florence," I said. I started punching buttons. "Do we want a direct train or a local train?"

"The direct train would be half the time," my grandma pointed out. My grandpa considered this.

"Yes, but it's also more than twice the money," I said. I looked at my grandpa. "If this were me traveling alone, I'd do the local train. I don't mind the extra time." I shrugged. "But you guys are paying, so it's up to you."

At this point, a short Italian man approached from behind, and pointed at our screen.

"That's the direct train, you want that one," he said.

I shot him a look. "Thank you, I got it," I said. I knew what he was up to. He'd aid the helpless American tourists, then ask for a tip. I wasn't having it.

My rudeness didn't deter him.

"Here, push this, three tickets." He reached over my shoulder and touched the screen.

"Thank you, I got it," I shouldered him out of the way, but he continued giving direction from behind me, and my grandparents were listening to him.

"Let's do the direct train. It's faster," my grandma said.

I sighed -- so much for saving a little money -- and punched it in, trying to ignore the advice of the guy behind me, who was telling me how to choose seats.

"Okay, cash or credit?" I asked.

"Credit," my grandpa said, handing me his card.

"This machine may not take your card," I said. "Is it a chip-and-pin?"

"What?"

"A chip-and-pin. Does it have a pin number? European card readers are finicky, it might not take the card unless it has a pin number."

"No, this one doesn't have a pin," Grandpa said.

"Here, this one has a pin number." Grandma handed me another card, but we'd already tried to slide the first card, so we had to cancel the transaction and start over. The guy behind me huffed and tried to lean in. I turned to him.

"I got it," I said, seething. I turned back to the screen and hurriedly punched the buttons, making no mistakes. The guy slipped away as we were paying, finally convinced I would not allow him to help.

"Alright, we've got more than an hour until the train. Should we grab a coffee?" I asked.

"Sure." Grandma and I led the way up another escalator to a coffee shop. We sent Grandpa to sit with the bags while we ordered a round of caffeine.

I'd intended to pay for the treat, since my grandparents had been paying for every meal and train ticket since they joined me on my travels a few days prior, but Grandma had her wallet out.

"How much?" she asked the barista, waving two 50-euro bills.

He waved his hand at her and took one. I made sure he gave her the right change.

"Grandma," I hissed as we brought the coffee back to the table. "You shouldn't flash money around like that. Not here."

She looked struck for a moment. "You're right," she conceded. A small victory for me.

I wasn't sure why I was counting victories.

We sat down with the coffee, looking down at the floor below, the chaos of the terminal. A large woman with stringy, greasy hair was walking from tourist to tourist, holding a paper cup, begging for money. I didn't see the guy by the ticket booth anymore; he must have moved on to a different terminal. Or maybe he was just trying to be helpful.

Whatever, we got our tickets.

"What time did you say the train was?" Grandma asked me, sipping her caffe americano.

"It's at 13:15, which is..." I realized I'd figured the time conversion wrong. Damn you, 24-hour clock. "Oh crap, that's in 15 minutes. We need to go."

We gulped down our coffee, and I felt particularly sheepish as I followed my grandparents toward the escalator...the escalator that only went up. There was no down escalator. We couldn't find a way down, so we walked the length of the floor, to the other side of the station, losing precious minutes, until we found a stairwell. We huffed with our luggage down the stairs and landed at the base of the giant timetable. I stopped to examine our ticket.

"Which platform?" Grandma asked me, a note of panic in her voice.

I glanced up and down to be sure, and I opened my mouth to answer. But my grandparents weren't listening; they were talking to another man, another helpful local, who'd approached us, the lost Americans.

Ugh. We must scream "tourist." I gritted my teeth as he waved at me, signaling to hand over the ticket so he could look at our train number. He glanced at the board.

"Platform 11. Follow me," he said, handing me back the ticket. He set off, my grandparents in hot pursuit.

"I knew that," I grumbled. "If you'd have just given me two more seconds..." I trudged behind the three of them.

He led us to Platform 11, then motioned for me to hand the ticket over again.

"I know we need to validate it," I said, waving the ticket under the machine like I'd done in England. Nothing happened.

He scoffed and grabbed the ticket from me and stuck it in a slot I hadn't seen. He rolled his eyes and clucked at me as he handed it back. Stupid tourist.

I was boiling. The guy started off down the platform to show us the correct car. I looked back to make sure my grandparents were following, but they were fumbling for change. They knew this guy expected a tip, so they were getting it ready.

I turned on my heel and left. I found the correct door, refusing to make eye contact with our guide as he waited for my grandparents to catch up. There were a bunch of people packed into the doorway, so I waited. A woman stood in the door of the train, looking down at me, and I swept my hand to the side in a gesture of, "Are you getting off the train?"

She shook her head. "Here," she said, grabbing my suitcase and lifting it up onto the train steps.

Oh no you don't, I thought. I'm not tipping you for helping me with my bag. I put my foot on the first step of the train, grabbed my bag handle from her, and waited.

That's when I noticed the binkie. Also a guy holding a food basket, but -- I didn't think they sold food in baskets on these trains. They sell food in more airline-like, rolling carts. He must be a local vendor. What's he doing just standing there, next to the woman with the baby?

This tourist struggling with his bag was taking forever. No one was picking up the binkie. I shoved my way in, threw my bag to the right of the luggage rack, and stepped into the seating area. I was so angry with my grandparents, I didn't look back to make sure they found the right car. I figured they were busy tipping the guy -- wasting more money -- and would find their way onto the train after the haze of people cleared.

I walked to the end of the car, found my seat, and sat down. I crossed my arms, like a toddler having a tantrum, and waited.

A couple minutes went by before I spotted my grandma sauntering down the train with her bags. She made eye contact with me from a few rows away.

"Grandpa got pickpocketed," she said.

My heart dropped. "What? What did he lose?"

"Nothing," she said, maneuvering her bags around a woman in the aisle. "She got his wallet, but then she dropped it."

I got up to help her, lifting her bag to the rack above the seats. "What? She dropped it?"

"Yeah. She dropped the wallet on the ground and he got it back." She sat down and rolled the other bag under her legs.

My grandpa walked up the aisle behind her, his bags in tow, his face dazed.

"You got pickpocketed?" I asked him for confirmation.

"Yeah, but I got it back," he said.

A man behind me wearing a black sweater spoke up.

"She thought I was a police officer," he said. "I saw her do it, and she dropped it and left."

My grandparents thanked the man profusely. My grandpa put his luggage away and slumped into his seat. We sat in silence for a minute.

I couldn't help myself.

"I'm really pissed about the whole last 15 minutes," I told them. "I knew where we needed to go. You should not have let that guy help us."

My grandma looked at her hands in her lap. "You're right," she said for the second time that day.

My grandpa didn't say anything. After a minute, I patted him on the shoulder.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Yeah." A minute later, "I gotta check my pack."

He took his backpack down and checked to make sure his camera was still there. It was. They hadn't gotten anything. But he'd had his wallet in his front pocket -- like Rick Steves says you should -- and still he hadn't noticed when they lifted it.

It was a miracle he'd gotten it back. I tried to feel thankful, but I just felt angry. Not with my grandparents anymore, but with the pickpockets, the poverty in Italy, all of Italy.

The train ride to Florence was mostly silent. I couldn't think of anything else but what had just happened. I knew my grandpa was going over it in his head too. I asked him a few more times, "You okay?"

"Yeah," he replied each time.

But I wasn't. I couldn't look at Italy the same way anymore. It's like Mark Twain said -- under other circumstances, I may have seen Florence, and then Venice and Verona and especially Lake Garda, as the most beautiful places I'd ever been. The places were beautiful. We did recover, and we had a wonderful time, me and my grandparents, touring Italy.

But I kept seeing that binkie, and thinking about the people that would target my grandparents -- two of the most wonderful people on Earth -- to con. Luckily the Termini station pickpockets are not Italy's ambassadors to the rest of the world...but in a way, they are. When I think back on my time in Italy, that five seconds of apprehension -- that binkie -- is the first image that comes to mind. It's a rotten fact, and under any other circumstances, it wouldn't be the case. The majority of the people we met in Italy were kind and welcoming and wanted nothing more than for us to enjoy our time in their beloved country.

But I keep seeing that binkie, and I can't look at Italy the same way anymore.

All was not lost! Here we are, thoroughly enjoying a bike tour of Florence.

There are lots of moments in Italy I do remember fondly, immortalized in this letter to myself.

Last Night in Italy

Dear Future Self,

Remember what it felt like to be here. Remember how much you wanted to come, how excited you were, how hard you worked to make it happen. Remember the moment your breath caught in your throat when you saw the mountains, when you heard the birds chattering, when you walked by the lake and found a patch of sunlight to bathe in, the one day it didn't rain.

Venice

Remember how you kept accidentally speaking French when you meant to speak Italian, and how that made you friends in every city. Remember the guy you met at Notte Bianca in Florence, how amused he was when, after he picked you up so you could see the band over the crowd, you insisted on returning the favor. Remember how you walked the city for hours, neither of you wanting the night to end.

Florence

Remember what Rome looked like from the top of St. Peter's Basilica, what Florence looked like from the top of your hotel roof, what Venice looked like from the busboat sailing along the Grand Canal, and what Verona looked like after you huffed your way up a mile of steep hill just to say you'd done it.

Verona

Remember also how you felt when your grandfather got pickpocketed in the Rome train station, how too much wine at dinner made you useless in the mornings, how you spent an entire day in bed, watching Disney movies on YouTube. Remember what it felt like to be alone in a faraway place -- both the good and the bitter, the freedom and the homesickness. Remember how much you missed Chicago, and how the mere sight of your mother on Skype made you cry.

Remember how proud you were of your grandparents for striking out to a new country, and what it felt like to watch them struggle in a way you'd never seen before. Remember the mix of tenderness and agony you felt, and the love.

 Vatican City & Rome

Remember the delicious meals and the disappointing ones, the days you tried to connect and the days you didn't, the wine and the pasta and the pistachio desserts and the espresso (oh dear Lord, the wonderful espresso). Remember feeling listless one moment and energized the next, and realizing that how you felt was completely in your control, no matter where you were in the world.

Remember Italy.

Lake Garda

Conquering Paris, Part II

 The Paris Metro, a wonder of efficiency. Photo by Brittany Petersen.

After my walking tour debacle, and realizing that I had more than a week to spend navigating Paris, I was happy to hand over responsibility for getting me around the city to the public transit system, known as the Metro. The trains are clean, fast, efficient, and they run every 2-10 minutes -- a vast improvement over the Chicago el ("elevated train") system, which may leave you stranded at the Howard el stop for the better part of an hour. The Paris Metro was a breeze, to the point that after just two days, I helped a woman punch in the correct ticket purchase on the automated Metro machine -- speaking nothing but French.

Now, I should qualify that I took seven years of French -- from seventh grade through my freshman year of college -- but I do not actually speak French. I'm lucky to recognize commonly used verbs. I've got "Je parle anglais" and "J'ai faim" ("I speak English" and "I'm hungry"), but more complex compositions leave me feeling sheepish and stupid.

But somehow, using enthusiastic gesticulations and a few key words like "oui" and "ici" ("yes" and "here"), I helped this woman buy a ticket from a Metro machine on my third day there. Whether or not she arrived at her intended destination is none of my concern; as far as I know, she's wandering Romania right now.

So I was doing really well. And after a couple days in Paris, I realized I was making no friends at my hostel, which was chock full of snorers and high school students, so I decided to strike out on my own, and on the suggestion of a friend I checked out www.meetup.com, a website to encourage social interaction in various places, including Paris. I wanted to see some live music, I decided, and I punched in a search for live music in Paris on a Tuesday night.

Lo and behold, one music event was being held in Paris that evening -- a viewing of "gypsy jazz" at a bar on the north side of the river, an easy 30 minutes on the Metro from my hostel. It started at 8pm. I looked at the clock -- 7:45pm. I considered for a few seconds, then snapped my laptop shut and picked up my purse. Let's have an adventure, I thought.

I boarded the Metro using one of my pack that I'd bought that day, after helping the other woman. As I descended to the train, I tossed the ticket in the waste bin -- no need for it now -- and checked the clock. Two minutes to the next train. My God, I love the Paris Metro.

My route required that I change trains after a few stops, so I disembarked and, practically humming a happy tune, followed the signs toward my train exchange. That's when I spotted the police.

They were checking tickets. Apparently jumping the turnstile is a rampant problem in Paris, and so every once in awhile the police set up a cross-city sting to make sure riders have either a validated ticket or an unlimited pass. I had neither. I started to panic.

I approached one of the policewomen, who asked to see my ticket. Or at least, I think that's what she asked, since she was speaking French, and my French remains at the level of a 9th grader who hasn't paid attention in French class for the past two weeks. I asked her to repeat in English.

"Where's your ticket?" she said.

"I don't have it. I threw it away. I'm sorry, I didn't know I needed it," I answered, confident she'd take pity on me, a poor, uninformed tourist.

She said something in French. It involved the words "25 euros." She pointed at her clipboard, which indicated I owed her a fine for not having my ticket. Twenty-five euros is the equivalent of a night in a hostel, which is a lot of money to me at this point.

I looked at her pleadingly and tried to haggle. "I'm sorry, I had a ticket but I threw it away. Here, here's a new one. I'm sorry, I didn't know."

She said some more things in French, and checked with her colleague. It added up to, "No. You need to pay 25 euros."

I looked at two guys standing next to me, who were watching this unfold, and who attempted to translate for me.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand, I didn't know I needed to keep my ticket," I kept saying. "I promise I had one."

Apparently my word is no good in France. I started to cry, and so to save face, I pulled 25 euros out of my wallet -- the last cash I had -- and gave it to the woman before pushing past her and on to my train.

The nerve. I was a legitimate rider. I had paid for my ticket. I was just too uniformed to know I had to keep my ticket. I wallowed. I cried harder. A man on my next train handed me a tissue and asked what was wrong, but I responded that I didn't speak French, and he left me alone.

I'm still not sure why I got so upset, except that I was in a different country and I'd been disciplined for a crime I hadn't actually committed. The injustice drew tears.

I reached my stop, and I went up to ground level to cry a little more in the park. I tried to call my grandparents, because it was too early in the morning in my parent's time zone to call them, but I got no answer. I heaved a bit, slowed down my breathing, and tried to focus on the mission at hand. I was here to make friends. I didn't want to show up to this random meet-up -- that I'd informed no one I was attending -- with tears streaming down my cheeks. I located what was left of my cool, stood up, wiped off my face, and walked the two blocks to the bar with the gypsy jazz.

I had a fantastic night. The people I met -- half a dozen from America, France, and England, all English-speakers -- were wonderfully friendly and interesting. After the gypsy jazz was over, a few of us wandered to a nearby hookah bar, where we continued chatting until after the Metro had closed for the night. (The one major drawback of the system, in my opinion.) I had to catch an expensive cab back to my hostel, but I didn't mind because I had managed to salvage an evening that had begun with tears and what I considered a waste of my money.

I continued riding the Metro throughout my stay in Paris, though I joked that I'd learned the hard way to keep my ticket on me until I'd actually left the station.

I wouldn't be telling this story if there wasn't a happy, triumphant ending.

The day before I left Paris, I was heading into the city with my friend Alexandra when we got stopped by police checking for Metro tickets. I had mine, of course -- like I said, I'd learned the hard way -- and I flashed it proudly and sashayed by their barricade with my head held high. As we walked up the steps, I turned to Alexandra.

"I win," I said. "I win at the Paris Metro."

She laughed and shook her head. Silly tourist.

Paris, consider yourself conquered.

An afternoon abroad

The day after we arrived in Rome, my grandparents and I traveled abroad for the afternoon, wandering into the 110-acre Vatican City, the world's smallest independent state.

Aren't my grandparents adorable?

In front of Saint Peter's Basilica, the focal point of global Catholicism.

After eating delicious sandwiches filled with strange (to us) Italian meats (we avoided the menu item that translated roughly into "lard"), we wandered the basilica, which was built in the 16th and 17th centuries on the site of the tomb of Saint Peter, one of Christ's apostles and the first Pope. After all the churches I've seen in Ireland, France, and the Czech Republic, it was incredible to walk around the one that every other is modeled after.

Saint Peter's, setting the standard high for Catholic places of worship.

There's been a church on this site since the 4th century, and a bunch of Popes are entombed in the downstairs grotto (no photos allowed). We also climbed to the top of the cupola, which has the highest view of both Vatican City and Rome. We wondered whether the Pope went up there with his buddies and hit golf balls into the city. At least, that's what I'd do.

Enjoying the view of Rome from the cupola of Saint Peter's.

Praha in 48 hours

In Prague's Old Town Square. Photos by Brittany Petersen

I spent a total of less than 48 hours in the Czech Republic, and it was AWESOME! I ate a fish that was delivered to my table with the head still attached; drank beer for lunch, dinner, and almost breakfast; attended both classic opera and modern dance (blacklight theater!) performances; and saw a large chunk of an ancient city in a matter of hours. Above is my favorite shot from my first trip to the Motherland. I'm SO glad I brought the nice camera (Nikon DSLR) on the trip, though I curse its weight whenever I have to lug it around airports and train stations.

I'm realizing that, as much as I'd like to liveblog my entire five-week journey, there are a lot of stories that I'll simply need to tell after I get home. The experiences themselves are somewhat distracting, as you might imagine. (Don't feel bad for me. I certainly wouldn't.)

Soon I'll post the conclusion of the "Conquering Paris" story, but be assured that I have many more stories from France, the Czech Republic, Ireland, England and -- as I arrive today! -- Italy to come! And now I'm traveling with my grandparents, who met me in Prague and will be traversing most of Italy with me, so that's a whole new realm of fun. (No seriously, they're hilarious.)

Ahoj!

With my Grandma on the St. Charles Bridge in Prague.

Conquering Paris, Part I

Yeah. Good luck with that. Paris street map photo via Etsy. All other photos by Brittany Petersen.

I was more excited about Paris than any other city on my itinerary. I purposefully sprinted through London so that I could spend a full nine days in France -- the food, the language, the Eiffel Tower, it all called to me.

I bought a "Paris Step by Step" book in the London train station and read it cover-to-cover on the Eurostar to Paris. (Note: The chunnel is cool, but if you've ever ridden a train before, you probably won't be wowed. It's fast and dark.) I prepared myself by learning the difference between a cafe, a bistro, a brasserie, and a restaurant; the ins and outs of wine and coffee consumption; and where to find the best baguettes. (Answer: everywhere.) I studied the Paris street map, identified the location of my hostel in the 15th arrondissement, then looked up what "arrondissement" meant. I was prepared.

Or, you know, I thought I was.

On my first full day in Paris, I set off from my hostel forty minutes early to join a walking tour of the city. I took my map of Paris and a general idea of the direction I was heading, toward Place St. Michel, and set off heading northeast up Rue de Vaurigard. I made a right at Blvd Pasteur, a left back onto Rue de Vaurigard, a right onto Blvd Montparnasse...or was it a left? And at this six-way intersection, off which shoot five streets, which one is my street? The street signs are on the sides of buildings, so you need to walk across the street to read where you are. Half the streets only run for a block, and then are renamed. Also, whereas in Chicago the streets all run north-south or east-west, with a few rebellious slanted connectors, in Paris everything is laid out on some sort of ingenious circle. If by ingenious, you mean completely batshit insane. Apparently that's why so many people live in Paris; they wandered in, couldn't find their way out, and decided it was easier to stay put.

Needless to say, I got very, very lost.

I glanced at the clock; ten minutes until the tour started at 11am, and if my map was any indication, I was still 20 minutes away. I started running. I tiptoed by walkers, yelling "Pardonne!" over my shoulder as I ran by, a frantic blur of American. Others were wearing peacoats and thick sweaters, but I was soon down to my tank top, still running, and getting even more lost.

At 11:05, I came to another five- or six-way intersection (it's hard to tell), found a bus map, and regained my bearings. I'd been running in the completely wrong direction. I swore loudly in English, then in French (for good measure), turned around, and ran back the other way.

At 11:20, I gave up completely. I put my back coat on and glanced listlessly down each street as I passed it. At 11:30, I found the street I'd been looking for since I left Rue de Vaurigard. I trudged toward Place St. Michel, certain that if I'd missed the tour today, I was going to make damn sure I knew where to go the next day. With the help of bus maps and a few lucky guesses, I finally found it.

The fountain at Place St. Michel, a sight for sore eyes and winded lungs.

I'd wanted to start out my trip in one of the world's most beautiful cities with a walking tour, to learn the lay of the land. Obviously I needed that tour before I even left my hostel; all I'd done so far was run around Paris like a half-dressed maniac, and I still barely knew where I was. I'd been in Paris for 24 hours, and already I was grumpy.

I felt better once I found the Seine, Paris' main topographical landmark.

My day improved as I wandered around, found a cafe, and remembered from my "Step by Step" book that the French (often) drink wine with lunch. An hour later, I was satiated, rouge-lipped, and feeling a lot better. I made a dot on my map of where I'd had lunch, found the nearest really old churches, and proceeded to prance around the St. Germain neighborhood, taking pictures and regaining my awe for the city.

Inside the medieval Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés

Outside Église Saint-Sulpice

 Inside Église Saint-Sulpice

 

This obelisk in Saint-Sulpice was accompanied by a sign: "Contrary to fanciful allegations in a recent best-selling novel, this is not a vestige of pagan temple." Dan Brown, you just got told.

That afternoon I took the Metro back to my hostel and quickly decided it was a vastly superior method of getting around Paris. I pushed my street map into my purse and bought a pack of ten transit tickets. If I couldn't make it in the streets, then fine, I'd go underground. I felt accomplished; I'd figured out Paris!

Alas, the Metro had its own cruel and unusual tortures in store.

To be continued...read Part II here

The French and Nudity

Statue striptease (Louvre). All photos by Brittany Petersen.

The French feel differently about nudity, and I think I know why: It’s the art. Naked men and women grace the outside of museums and monuments nonchalantly. They've been there for decades, centuries, and the world hasn't collapsed, so why make a big deal about it? Magazine stands sell Playboy next to People, without the protection of a black sleeve (though a few stickers may cover the particularly naughty bits). One need only spend ten minutes wandering the Denon wing of the Louvre, with its Greek and Roman and French and Italian statues, to get a full lesson in the art of finely crafted, flaccid male genitalia.

I don't need pants to cut off your other hand, child, so watch it. (Louvre)

It's not just inside museums; male penises are on full display in public, as well.

Apparently clothes were optional when heading into battle. (l'Arc de Triomphe)

 
Seriously, they're everywhere.

 Hey guys, how's it hanging? (Louvre)

It's desensitizing, to say the least.

But while sculptors spent a lot of time studying and perfecting their recreation of the male member, they got lazy when it came to the women. Girls and goddesses alike are portrayed in incredible detail, with fully erect nipples and an ass Beyonce would kill for -- but their crotches are left strangely blank.

Sorry, Venus, but you're going to have to hold your bladder for eternity (Louvre).

In the dozens of statues I saw portraying women naked from the waist down, only one (of the Biblical Eve, that minx!) offered any hint of definition. The rest were blank triangles.

Also, apparently everyone shaved.

Is it weird that I'm a little offended? Why go to the trouble of a life-size statue of your favorite goddess, and then condemn her to a life of a Ken doll? It made me wonder whether little girls get confused when they visit the art museum and see these otherwise impressive and accurate human portrayals.

Well, mostly accurate portrayals. If we are to learn about human history through our art, it seems that anyone worth their weight in marble was a devotee of a rigorous ab workout. It took me two hours to locate a statue with any fat rolls, but it was a satisfying find.

This is sort of the equivalent of sinking your head into your neck to create chin rolls, but I'll take it. (Louvre)

Body image issues aside, nudity is alive and well in Paris, as are public displays of affection. (If I can see your tonsils from across the train, maybe it's time to get a room?) But every time I stop, startled by the nudity or affection, I felt silly. What an American reaction, I think. The French don't make a big deal of it, so why should I?

Strangely, even with all this freedom of bare skin, the en vogue Paris fashion is actually quite buttoned-up. On a Friday night, you're more likely to see short skirts and low necklines slinking through the Lincoln Park neighborhood of Chicago than around the bars of le Quartier Latin in Paris. What does that say about the taboos of our two cultures?

I guess that, when you walk past seven sets of nipples just on your commute to work, it loses a bit of the mystery.

I'm in Paris, and I'm in Love!

With the Eiffel Tower.

We're registered at Bed, Bath & Beyond. Photo by Brittany Petersen's purse and self-timed Nikon.

On Taking Pictures from the Top of a Bus

"A tourist doesn't know where they've been; a traveler doesn't know where they're going." -- Paul Theroux, travel writer*

I spent this past weekend in London.

Oh hey Parliament! Photos by Brittany Petersen

When I say "I spent this past weekend," I mean I arrived on Friday afternoon and left early Sunday morning, so I really didn't have much time to soak in one of the world's most famous cities. I had essentially one day to get all my touring in, so I did what any self-respecting tourist would do: I bought a doubledecker bus tour ticket, grabbed my camera, and prepared to be wowed.

And I was! There is an incredible amount of history in London, as in the rest of the "Old World." I marveled at churches and seats of government that were built before my grandma's grandma's grandma's grandma was a twinkle in her father's eye. I frolicked around St. James Park in front of Buckingham Palace; was driven down the famous Fleet Street and across Tower Bridge; toured Shakespeare's Globe Theatre (the 1990's reproduction, not the 16th century original); and ate my first meat pie (but not on Fleet Street). I got as good a look at London as I could in my one day tour, and I was lucky to have a wonderful guide, my friend Kathryn, to take me around in the afternoon (and insist on the meat pie, despite my misgivings and insistence that only fruit belongs in pies).

It was a mad dash around the city, and with the exception of the Globe tour, it was really about laying eyes on these famous buildings and monuments, snapping a picture, and moving on. With so little time, and with so much to see, it was the best I could do.

My Northwestern flag made appearances all over England's capitol city, including in front of Westminster Abbey.

Still, I couldn't help feeling like I was gipping myself somehow. Here I am in a city with centuries of history, and I'm viewing it all as a drive-by. I watched the throngs of tourists huddle in front of monuments, snapping pictures, posing so it looked like they were leaning on Big Ben or about to swallow the London Eye. I make no judgements -- I was doing these things myself -- but it was clear this was tourism, not traveling. That's fine, especially because I know someday I'll be back, and I will take the time to make something meaningful out of each of my stops.

Besides running around and having fun with Kathryn, the best part of my 36 hours in London had nothing to do with the monarchy or the history or the checklist of monuments. I arrived by bus into Victoria Coach Station and decided to walk to my first destination, Brown's Hotel, where I had reservations for afternoon tea. Thanks to the maps on most street corners, I managed to find my way from the station with very little problem -- though I was supremely annoyed that this giant obstruction sat right in my way. It was a long wall with barbed wire around it, and it stretched smack in the path between the station and the hotel, so I had to walk all the way around it. But I managed it without getting lost, and so, feeling quite proud of myself, I sauntered into Brown's Hotel, checked my bag with the porter (I was staying in a hostel, not the swank hotel, so it was temporary storage), and sat down to a proper English tea, complete with five kinds of finger sandwich, scones with clotted cream and raspberry jam, and a dessert plate featuring delicacies like a passionfruit tart, mango macaroon, and coconut pudding.

Putting on my finest airs in Brown's Hotel, the oldest in London.

It was perfect -- I relaxed into my cushy pillow, sipped my tea, ate my finger foods, and had an experience. (Thanks again, Dennis!) It girded me for my quick tourist jaunt around town the next day, and it reminded me to slow down when I get a chance.

Now I'm in Paris, and that's exactly what I plan on doing -- I've got more than a week to see the sights, sleep (an undervalued aspect of travel, if you ask me), and read & write in the shadow of yet more monuments and museums and landmarks. I've seen some doubledecker tour buses meandering through the streets, but I feel no temptation to climb aboard. In this city, I'll find my own route.

Oh, and that annoying obstruction in the way of my walk to Brown's? I found out the next day, from the top of my bus, that it's the grounds of Buckingham Palace. My apologies, your Majesty!


* This quote was written on the wall of my London hostel, unattributed. An Internet search tells me this guy said it in approximately these words, but don't quote me on it. It's about the sentiment.

Galway

 Photos by Brittany Petersen

At 12:01 p.m. on Easter Sunday, I find myself sitting alone on a bench overlooking Galway Bay. The church bells just finished tolling the noon hour. The air smells of smoke -- I don't know why -- and rain has been spitting and drizzling since I got off the bus half an hour ago. It's cold, and damp, and I wrap my coat tightly around me, pull my wool cap down over my forehead, and take out my notebook and pen. What am I doing here?

I don't know anyone in this city; on a whim, and with a desire to see something of Ireland other than Dublin, I bought a round-trip bus ticket for the day. I could have gone on a tourist guided bus to see castles or cliffs, two things I love. But my success in my first few days of solo travel bolstered me to the point that I dared strike out on my own to experience the real Ireland -- whatever that means.

I had intended get on the first bus of the morning, but it failed to stop as I chased it down the street, so I waited an hour for the next one. I had also intended to spend the bus ride reading and gazing out at the central Irish countryside, then hire a bicycle in Galway to ride along the western coast. Fatigue (thanks to a pub crawl the night before) ensured the bus ride was little more than an uncomfortable nap, and the rain and my failure to ensure the bike shop is open on Sundays led me here, to this bench on Galway Bay, where I'm writing down my thoughts and trying to figure out what to do next. There's no tour guide to gently nudge me on to the next site, no travel companions to either complain or provide cheer.

I realize I have no plan. I don't know anything about Galway, except that it has a bay. It's a lovely bay, and the tide is out, revealing rocks reminiscent of Hawaiian lava rock. But now I'm not sure where to go. I curse myself; maybe I should have just done the guided bus tour. At least I would have known what I was looking at.

My fingertips are getting cold, gripping the pen. I scribble some notes, glancing up at the bay, and the longer I sit, the more I write, the better I feel. I remind myself that I'm in Ireland, a place I've been dying to visit my whole life. I'm really here, by myself, sitting on Galway Bay with a notebook. It's like I've been imagining the movie of my life, and this was an important scene. I wanted to feel completely out of my comfort zone. And here I am, uncomfortable. I decide to stop feeling sorry for myself and find some lunch.

As I'm recovering my cool and formulating my next move, a man walks up to my bench. He asks if I'm sketching, and when I reply that no, I'm writing, he asks what part of America I'm from. We chat for awhile about the Irish people and the American people. He says the Irish don't talk about themselves. Even the fact that, when he asked if I was a student, I said I'd just graduated with my master's degree, was evidence to him of American over-sharing. He likens it to bragging, and I realize my role in this conversation is to nod and smile and accept his wisdom on the people of the world.

After he rattles on about the musicians in Galway -- in a town of about 50,000 people, there are 200-300 professional musicians, he says -- I ask whether there's anywhere in town I can eat lunch and see live music. He considers my request and suggests a hole in the wall called Crane Bar, which he says features live music every Sunday. I thank him and wander into Galway City in the general direction he pointed. With nothing else to do, why not? After just 10 minutes, I find it.

Crane Bar in Galway

I enter through the front door and take it in: dark wood, low benches, walls lined with photos and posters of musicians. It's empty save for two barkeep (I assume they're a married couple) and a man on a bar stool. He sits staring into his pint of Carlsberg, his long ragged hair stuffed under a wool cap, his back hunched under two or three coats. The bar advertises no food, but I decide that walking in the front door committed me to at least a drink, so I order a cider and settle onto one of the benches to warm up and write a bit more.

Halfway through my bottle of Bulmer's, I'm starting to feel a little silly. The barkeep owners seem friendly enough, but not very chatty, and I'm not about to get into it with the guy on the stool, who hasn't said a word since I arrived. I'm not even sure he's moved. I use my notebook to hide in plain sight, and no one bothers me, to the detriment of my social receptivity.

Finally a man walks in with what appears to be instrument cases. He orders a Guinness and sits on a bench near me, readying his instruments, a mandola and an Irish drum and a tin whistle. I'm excited for a few minutes, but it wanes as we sit there, each sipping our drinks, and he makes no moves to start the jam session alone. We chat a bit, but I'm acting withdrawn and shy, and he seems content to sit in silence. I'm encouraged enough to buy a Guinness and stick around long enough to see whether anyone else shows up.

They do. After an hour, the bar is filling with people. They're mostly locals speaking in thick brogues. Half a dozen musicians situate themselves on the bench I'm sharing with the first musician. Two girls from Sweden sit behind me, and we strike up a conversation. One of them carries a fiddle, and they inform me they'd met the husband barkeep (who is also the owner and an Irish tin whistle player) the day before, and he invited them to the bar to listen and play along. We talk and laugh and then the music starts, and it's stunning. There's no ceremony to it; one of the musicians picks a tune and starts on the melody, and they're joined by the rest -- the mandola and drum, two tin whistles, a guitar, a rotating cast of violinists and even, after awhile, an arm bagpipe, which I later learn is called the uilleann pipes. In between songs, they chat and sip Guinness and Heineken and red wine.

By 15:00, the bar is packed and the music is lively. From my place in the middle of the action, on the musician's bench, I record a few of the songs* on my handheld voice recorder and order another half-pint of Guinness, wary that I hadn't eaten lunch but not wanting to leave what appears to be the best party in Galway.

At one point, the scruffy patron on the bar stool stands and bellows that he'd like to read a poem. The bar hushes, and he stands, holding a small black book in front of him, and reads. His words slur together, and at the conclusion of each line there's an exchanging of glances between the rest of the bar's patrons, hands covering smiles. But we listen respectfully, and when he's done, we nod and smile.

Finally I uproot myself to find lunch, but not before exchanging contact information with one of the Swedes. I step carefully around stools and bodies on the way to the back, but the scruffy patron stops me and looks slightly to the right of my eyes.

"You get prettier every time I see you," he slurs.

A man behind him laughs, and I smile and thank him. Then I slip out the back door, like the locals do.

* I didn't bring the cord to connect my equipment to my computer, so I'll post the recordings when I get back to the States.

First Transmission: Dublin

Dublin graffiti invoking Bart Simpson. Photo by Brittany Petersen.

I've been in Dublin for almost 12 hours now. I got in at 8 this morning (2am Chicago time), made it through customs, bought a bus ticket, rode into the city centre, found my hostel, dropped my stuff off, and commenced walking. I showed myself around the city, wandering through the touristy bits until I heard more Irish accents than foreign tongues. I found a park and sat in it and talked to a local about where to find good live blues. I gathered my strength to eat lunch -- a scrumptious selection of Irish meats and cheeses -- and tour the Dublin Writer's Museum (two hands up for James Joyce!), but by 1pm, jet lag reminded me who's boss, and I about passed out on my feet. I gave in and napped.

I've met a few of my fellow hostelers -- it helps to share a bedroom with 11 other people -- but I think my zombie eyes gave them the wrong impression, so the search is still on for travel friends.

Next task: Find a pub that isn't closed on Good Friday.

Photo of the Day: Paris

 via Pinterest

I'm excited for every aspect of this trip, but I'm most excited about April in Paris. I've dreamed of visiting France since I was a kid. That dream was enhanced by eight years of French lessons that have left me with a very loose grip on the language. I know how to introduce myself, ask someone to pass the strawberries (or the cheese), and direct people to the library, among other practical actions.

Plan: Find this bench and sit on it and watch Parisians and listen to them talk. Maybe I'll pick up the bits of language I've been dropping all over the floor.

If not, oh well. It'll be April, and I'll be in Paris.

Coming Soon: A New Look!

Friends! I apologize for the long absence; apparently finishing grad school was, like, hard work or something. But with that silliness out of the way, we can focus on the future!

And what a bright future it is! Two weeks from today I fly to Dublin to begin a whirlwind, five-week tour of the European continent. I will traverse Ireland, England, France, the Czech Republic, Italy, and Switzerland, and you'll be able to read all about it right here on my blog. Hopefully it'll go a little better than it went for the Griswalds in National Lampoon's European Vacation.

Either way, stay tuned for exciting adventures, starting with a revamp of this blog as well as a few posts on travel prep in the next week. And feel free to leave advice for the must-see (or must-avoid) tourist traps at my various destinations. This is my first ever trip abroad -- not to mention my first month-long (mostly) solo trip -- so I'm open to any and all suggestions.

In the meantime, I'm daydreaming over on Pinterest. My favorite shot of the day comes from Antrim, in northern Ireland. I think I could hang out here for awhile.

Oh hey also! If you know anyone looking to sublet an awesome bedroom (mine) in Chicago for five weeks or less, show them this Craigslist ad. Kthnxbai.