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.