Galavanted Globally

The day has finally arrived; we are officially back in the motherland.  Though this might sound counterintuitive, after a year abroad, returning has been a complete culture shock thus far.  Understanding everything everyone is saying is simultaneously awesome and heinous.  You get to eavesdrop on everyones' phone conversations, though I can't say that I  particularly care to hear about the results of your uncle's colonoscopy.  Now that I'm back though, I figured I should leave you with a bit of a summarization.  After all, we've been on this journey together for a year and I feel like we need some closure.  Now, some of my friends hate it when travel writers quantify their statistics as if going to fifty countries in year makes you a better traveler than someone who lived in Russia for six months.  In general, I don't think it makes anyone an expert either way, but I happen to like numbers and stats so I guess you'll have to suffer through this one (plus it makes me look super cool):

- Number of countries visited on this trip; 24  
- Number countries I've visited in my lifetime; 33 (a lot of people want to know if I count Canada; yes, of course)
- Number of weekly-ish blogs I've posted; 53 (that's an average of 1.01923076923077 per week; you lucky dogs I've spoiled you).
- Number of books read; 41 (while not that impressive, if you consider the amount of time not reading do to debauchery and hangovers, it's a god damn miracle)
- Travel buddies that are still my friend despite spending every waking hour together for the 12 months; 1 (success!) 


Unfortunately not all statistics are quite so awesome:

- Number of time's I've packed up my backpack; 109 (yes, I actually kept track)
- Number of times we've been robbed (not including general swindlement which is to be expected on this kind of trip); 4
- Times I've pooped the bed; 1 (though this may have turned out to be a success story in the long run)
- Pounds gained; 20 (ouch)
- Debt accrued; too, too much (but it was worth it)


Since I don't have any entertaining stories from this week, unless you count the awesome 22 hour layover in Helsinki, I'd now like to impart on you some enlightening nuggets of wisdom that I've discovered on my year journey.  Oh wait, that concept is a total sham.  I still haven't even figured out the answers to the questions that I thought I'd have all the time in the world to analyze this year while I was supposed to be finding myself or whatever.  Such as, "what kind of job do I want?", "should I go back to school?" and "should I first get Pizza or Mexican food when I get back into the country?".  The solitary life skill I've picked up is how to defuse the self-important rants from other travelers when they are talking trash about the United States.  This actually happens quite frequently, especially in hostels where young, know-it-all 20 year-olds from every corner of the earth come to congregate over booze (plus, we have some shit to answer for).  To mitigate this situation, as the American all you need to do is simply challenge the person who is talking smack to a teeth competition.  Not a "smile" competition, but a contest focusing on the actual teeth.  In my experience, The United States has the best orthodontia in the world by far, because as a full blooded American, my record in this area is unblemished.  Nobody can even dispute this fact because a foreigner so rarely even comes close to having perfect teeth.  Not that this is something to hang our hats on, but it certainly does the trick to put everyone back in their places.  So the trip was not without at least some lessons.  

A lot of you (about five or so) want to know if I'm going to continue my blog now that I'm now home.  Oh hell no.  I need to get an actual paying job.  And you guys frankly need to get a life or a hobby or someone new to stalk.  I promise my normal life is seriously less entertaining, "so this really cool thing happened in my cubicle today".  Yeah, let me know if you ever want to hear about deductibles or umbrella liability and I'll send you a personal email for you to gouge your eyes out to, but I won't be subjecting the masses to that kind of punishment.  Perhaps after I secure employment I might even get a phone again.  The transition from the hobo life is a gradual process, but when that happens call me, maybe.  

What fresh faced travelers looked like a year ago

Spain in My Ass

Since leaving France, Kelly and I have spent our remaining days of freedom (aka unemployment) in Spain between San Sebastian, Bilbao and Valencia.  This dwindling time has been spent on sandy beaches, drinking sangria and mostly doing nothing in general.  I was surprised, however, at the varying ideas of what 'Sangria' is, even in Spain.  In one bar you'd simply get fruit filled wine, while at the very next bar the bartender would mix a bottle of Smirnoff Ice, some orange Fanta and top it off with a splash of red wine.  Sick.  I'm not even ashamed to say I drank it.  Certainly it will not be the worst thing I've put in my mouth this year (insert dirty joke here...pervs).  Plus, at the end of a long unemployed year you won't find me throwing away a drink, especially when paying with the Euro.  

All of this inactivity has all been in preparation for the crescendo of this trip: La Tomatina.  Tomatina has been on my bucket list since before I even knew what a bucket list was.  To give you an abreviated description of the festival (you won't be getting any historical facts here), a bunch of drunk assholes (see above picture) put on their best all white outfit (not the flattering number I imagined it would be) and head to Bunol, Spain.  The festivities comence at 9:00 AM where anyone who is brave enough attempts to scratch and claw their way up a very tall and greased pole (apparently there is no official height requirement for this, any old log will do) in hopes of seizing the coveted grand prize topping this slippery log: a ham.  The obvious choice for a tomato festival.  This moment of glory with ham in hand, heralds the start of the biggest food fight in the world.  120 TONS of tomatoes are trucked into the city for this annual, hour long, free-for-all.  The only rule being you are required to crush the tomatoes for safety reasons before hurling them at a fellow festival participants.  Sometimes I forgot.

The following is how Tomatina played out for me.  First off, staying anywhere close to the village is near impossible this time of year.  This means that Kelly and I had to wake up at 6:30 AM to get ready and start drinking.  I don't necessarily recommend boxed wine for breakfast, but that's what happened whether we liked it or not.  We then were whisked away on a bus full of other early risers/boozers/assholes to find the mystical greased pole.  In a town teeming with drunk tourists, asking for directions to the greased pig pole was a bit of a challenge.  Though I was prepared with my trusty translator Kelly, "greased pig pole" even escaped her Spanish vocabulary after living in Mexico for a year.  I guess the Mexicans aren't as versed as the Spaniards when it comes to lubing up swine festooned timber.  When the pig is finally liberated, truck load upon truck load of tomatoes are dumped into the streets of Bunol where the culinary combat kicked off.  It was just as exciting as an adult food fight sounds...times a million.  

I couldn't stop smiling if I wanted to, which was a disadvantage when the tomatoes were being chucked directly into my grill.  At a time like this  it was best not to think about the contents of the produce that had just been scraped off dirty city streets, especially since I too had just relieved myself around the corner.  (Don't judge me, the boxed wine made me do it.)  Tomatoes ended up in every fucking crevasse.  Literally.  I'd be upset about the copious amounts of tomato paste produced in my ass crack that day if I hadn't spent about half the fight strategically shoving tomatoes down other peoples' pants.  Hey, sometimes my throwing arm got tired and things got creative.  

Another fun fact about tomatoes: the acidity will take off any waterproof sunscreen you lathered on your body and face that morning.  Not that Coppertone should have specified that "tomato juice" does not count as water, I just wished I would have taken that into consideration before crisping in the sun for several hours.  Damn.  All that time spent getting rid of  tan lines on that nude beach in San Sebastian was all for naught.  Someone please tell me sports bra tans have come into fashion stateside since we've been gone.  

I even sacrificed my fancy camera for this momentous life event.  Yes, extra money was paid for the shock-proof, water-proof  and all around Krista-proof camera, but I never underestimate my ability to fuck shit up.  So I gambled with my camera's life in order to document this glorious event for you (yes, you Ramey P. Marshall).  My rationale being that should my camera go to Kodak Heaven, then at least it had made it through an epic year-long around the world trip and had seen more things than most cameras do, documenting inconsequential birthday parties and such.  In all my excitement, I did however think to buy a new memory card and leave the precious memories of this year safely in the hotel room (not to toot my own horn, but Beep-Beep!).  I'll risk the camera, but that memory card is pure gold.  Pray to god I like you enough to show you the uncensored slide show when I get home.  Highly unlikely, I don't even want to remind myself about some of my recent shenanigans.

Well a day that starts early, ends early and the nice thing (terrible, awful thing) about starting a drinking bender before 7:00 AM is that the hangover is at full force just before dinnertime.  The trouble is that while I would normally be asleep during the eye of the hangover storm,  I was actually fully awake for the hangover of a lifetime; a pounding headache, being sunburned beyond recognition and after three showers, I was still crusted in tiny bits of tomato shrapnel.  Luckily, the extra recovery hours made sleeping it off a snap and I felt fleet footed and fancy free the next day for the bus ride out of town.  Here's to ending things with a bang...or a SMASH!

The camera lives!!!

Gay Paris

Perhaps not as gay as our recent journey to Amsterdam Gay Pride, but gay nonetheless.  Or perhaps it's just that all the men in this country yeild that impression due to their liberal use of capris pants, v-neck sweaters and their toy poodle companions.  Surely it's the reason I didn't find a French husband.  Other stereotypes shockingly held true in Paris as well.  Most obviously was that every man, woman and child does indeed carry a baguette with them everywhere and at all times.  Another factual convention being that all the women here are actually supermodel thin.  How these two seemingly contradictory customs can simultaneously exist might only be explained in the other underlying messages in Dan Brown's "The Da Vinci Code".  

Since we're on the topic of France and bread products I should mention that I am allergic to gluten (and dairy to make everything extra stupid) and being in Paris is like being repeatedly slapped in the face since you have to pass a patisserie every 10 feet.  The onslaught of fresh baked aromas was more than my poor olfactory system could handle.   Kelly also happens to be a fellow glutard, so at least we could bitch about it together.  However, after 10 brutal days of this French torture it was time to put an end to Paris's confection oppression.  We researched the best god damn bakery in Paris and marched ourselves down there early one morning to catch the chocolate croissants straight out of the oven.  After saying a prayer to the gastrointestinal gods I proceeded to have a brief and intense love affair with said baked good.  For the other victim's  protection, I won't disclose the details of Kelly's own personal experience.  Was it worth it?  Ask me when my bowel movements have returned to a state of semi-soundness.    

Enough about me, let's talk about Kelly's family.  Oh I wish I had some good gossip to indulge you, but unfortunately they are lovely.  We stayed with Kelly's dad who is spending a few months in France.  He was nicer to me than any sane person should be to a complete hobo.  He let us monopolize the washing machine, eat his groceries and invade his personal space in general.  He continued to spoil us by taking us to every museum I'd ever dreamed of going to in Paris.  It was the first time I've lived the high life since we started this trip (as if I normally live a extravagant lifestyle when I'm back home).  It was also just nice to get to know Jeff.  Kelly and I have been friends for 11 years, but the most time I've spent with him prior to Paris is when he dropped us off at the airport last September.  And dare I say he got to know me too.  Perhaps more that he wanted, but I'd to think we are close now.  Especially after the day he came home and I was doubled over in pain from a failed high kick attempt.  Jeff walked in the door to us blasting pop music at an inappropriate volume for an old French apartment building at the end of an epic high kicking competition (which I obviously lost) thus my usual colorful language spilling forth as you readers might have come to expect.  Hopefully he liked getting to know me too.  Maybe?

I'd like to think France was where my true tourist spirit shined (this primarily made possible by Jeff Brittan).  Eiffel Tower; check.  The Louvre; check.  Arch de Triomphe; check.  Drinking before noon; double check.  We even got to see the Notre Dame Cathedral, which I've been lusting to see for ages now for it's Gothic architecture, flying buttresses and grand scale stained glass.  Plus, who doesn't want to get a picture of their best friend posing as the Hunchback of Notre Dame in front of THE Notre Dame?  A group of Italian tourists were highly impressed as I helped Kelly position her bag under her shirt for the perfect hump effect.  I can go home now feeling like I've properly done France.  

Just hanging with my new buddy Jeff

Fly Like an Eagle

This week marked a momentous event in this trip; Kelly and I traveled separately for the first time in 11 months.  Hold the phone, nobody call People Magazine just yet.  We're absolutely fine, you can get an official statement from our publicists this afternoon.  Kelly's dad is currently on holiday in France and she took off to Paris, where I'd meet her later, for some quality family time.  Plus, Ramey still had another week of vacation so we had some extra time to galavant about a bit.  I'll admit it felt a bit strange ("a bit" = there may some serious codependency issues to deal with at a later date) being separated from my constant companion.  In the End, I think we managed swimmingly.   

There were six days to kill and 380,820 square miles of Western Europe to consider.  Neither Ramey or I had been to Switzerland, so in a very complex desicion making process that took us precious seconds to decide, we concluded it was Switzerland ahoy!  To save save time (and oddly money as it worked out) we rented a car for the travel flexibility necessitated when you are traveling several thousand kilometers in a short amount of time.  In order to start our adventure we had to hop on the German Autobahn...THE Autobahn.  The autobahn's fast and furious reputation nearly slipped my mind.  Frankly, the autobahn itself seemed like a mythical creature, something I dreamed about speeding down as a child (I was a weird kid).  The difference being I always dreamed I was ripping down the freeway in a Lamborghini Diablo instead of a Opel Astra that ended up pooping out at 160 kmh (calm down parentals, that's only kilometers).  The Ford Escort that I drove in high school (and admittedly most of my adult life) went faster than that.  Still it felt kind of invigorating and free.  These sensations usually only felt when I wasn't getting passed by a BMW going thrice my speed. 

In a few short days we rallied through Zurich; Lake Geneva; Mont Blanc in the French Alps and Chablis, France.  I won't bore you with flowery words describing how gorgeous the country side is in this part of the world.  You know it was fucking beautiful.  After spending an interesting night couchsurfing in Zurich with a bunch of college boys who were obsessed, in a serious way, with David Hasslehoff (and I thought the Germans only had the weird fascination with the Hoff), we gradually made our way to the French Alps.  We spent the day hiking to Bossons Glacier, a severely vertical climb that threatened cat-size capacity of my lungs in their current state (god knows if I'll ever fully recover from Gay Pride in Amsterdam), however, our labors turned out to be fruitful.  The view was one in a billion and the sweet, ice-cold, delicious glacier water was a nice reward in the end.  At one point, as we were standing at the glacier overlooking the world, we had to laugh thinking about all the people (yes, you) who were slaving away at work that day.  Laugh it up we did.  Imagine us on top of the picturesque French Alps manically laughing, imagining all of you at work, our voices echoing out over the pristine, snow capped mountains.  Said it just to be a dick.  Though this statement was made with the horrifying realization that I will be home in a short month frantically searching for one of those so-called "jobs".  

After our alpine adventure we searched for accommodation in a little town nestled in the foothills of Mont Blanc.  Someone forgot to tell them that the hobos were coming to town.  A bustling ski resort town in the winter, Chamonix looks like every other posh resort town you've ever seen in the movies (or in real life for you non-hobo types).  The lady at information was caught off guard when we inquired about a youth hostel.  She told us there was indeed a hostel but it was way out of town and, "you know you have to sleep in a dorm...with other people".  Well, the "out of town" hostel ended up being a seven minute walk from the city center and was nicer than a lot of places I've rested my head this year.  The other problem with these resort towns is that they seem to offer an endless number of extreme sports.  Somehow these towns also make these elite-priced activities seem like a wise investment in highly valued vacation memories.  I guess the market valuation for paragliding must be very attractive right now because I soon found myself running off the side of a mountain.

Oddly, throwing myself off the mountainside in the French Alps wasn't even slightly scary.  I had expected the same mounting anxiety and subsequent freakout I had experienced when I went skydiving.  Paragliding was a much more peaceful encounter and it mostly felt like I was a soaring eagle (that is if eagles wore huge, ridiculous looking smiles on their faces while they were flying).  The half hour of floating over France, including the very same glacier we had hiked the day before, was over much too soon.  I could have stayed up there all day.  The only way to recover from the devastating adrenaline withdrawal was, obviously, to drown our sorrows in several bottles of Chablis...in Chablis, France.  Sorry, just have to squeeze in the dick comments while I can.  

Look Ma, I'm flying!

Shimmer, Sparkle and Shine

I have a secret.  Kelly and I are not actually the great hobos we make ourselves out to be.  All this time I have strategically kept from you that we have spent the last several months preparing for one of our favorite holidays; Gay Pride.  I may be a dress wearing, lumberjack chasing, straight female (pay no attention to my previous references to my rugby career), but I LOVE me a shiny, slutty gay pride parade.  Kelly and I have sacrificed too many precious cubic inches and kilograms of backpack capacity (a cardinal vagabond sin) in order to collect the finest spandex, false eyelashes, fish nets, glitter and more glitter.  We have amassed an impressively eclectic collection of flare from around the world for a mere three day celebration.  Yes, it is by all means necessary, and probably a rule, to have a different outfit everyday.  Reservations were made way back when we were in Vietnam (whoa, remember Vietnam way back in February?) and finally the week was upon us.  We had one last stop this week before the festivities began; lovely Hamburg, Germany (or so we were told).

Poor, poor Hamburg.  I am sorely sorry I neglected it, but it was a busy week of working out, completing the finishing touches on our costumes and watching The Olympics!  I know people disagree about the importance placed on The Games.  Some people could care less and others think they're a waste of time (this includes most Swedes I've met).  Well, they're wrong.  The Olympics might be my favorite thing in the world (behind a warm chocolate chip cookie, obviously) and our hostel was playing the adrenaline spiking competitions non-stop.  This made out to be the perfect background (and often foreground) for costume crafting.  Further in our defense, the weather totally sucked that week.  So really Hamburg needs to take some of the blame here too.

Enough blabbering about Hamburg, the city I virtually know nothing about, and fast forward to Amsterdam Pride 2012; reportedly one of the best parties in the world.  This was about to be the best party of the year and sure to be our sparkle Mecca.  And then things got even better.  Gasp!  Better than gays and glitter?  Gays, glitter and my best friend Ramey!  Ramey, being one of my more organizationally challenged (also see disaster) friends had been suggesting that she was going to try to meet me in Amsterdam.  My expectations were low considering she is in grad school, working, taking care of her sick grandmother and, well, see my previous comment.  My low expectations, however, were advantageous because my friend the disaster made it happen!  (This may be the most exclamation points I have ever used in a paragraph).  I haven't seen my best friend in 11 months and it was an airport reunion to rival all airport reunions (and I didn't even have flowers)...and then things got even better!  Gays, glitter, Ramey and San Juanita.  San Juanita (AKA San J - she totally loves this nickname) is significantly more delinquent than Ramey when it comes to getting it together (really) and one of my other favorite people in the world.  How Ramey convinced AND then got San J to buy a plane ticket across the world a mere two weeks before departing is beyond my comprehension.  It is something that can only be described as a Gay Pride miracle.

Amid all the excitement I failed to mention that we had also convinced Weird Kate and some of her other recently released Peace Corps cronies to join us.  So, the eight of us squeezed into a rental apartment reserved for four people.  Cozy and sparkly.  It wasn't the occupancy the renters should have worried about.  Not many people think to enforce a No Glitter rule.  At least that apartment will never be dull again.  Unfortunately for them we were prepared for the second coming of the Dark Ages with the armory of glitter we were packing.  This is in addition to our shimmering clothing, metallic hair extensions, glimmering eyeshadows and shinning personalities.  Of course we cleaned, but it is a fact that glitter is the herpes of the costume world.  You can never get rid of it.  I do like to think that we left a permanent mark on Amsterdam though.

Yay Gays!

History Week

In the past I've had superbly few motivations to visit Poland, the one very important exception, however, has been the chance to see Auschwitz.  So when we decided to spend some time in Krakow as means to visit the old concentration camp, I was pleasantly surprised at just how charming this country is.  Krakow is reminiscent of Prague with it's old, stately architecture but lacks the sheer multitude of tourists (and drug dealers) this time of year.  There were local artisan markets, outdoor cafes and mouth watering sausage vendors everywhere you looked.  What else could a girl ask for?  Besides an ex-Nazi concentration camp that is.

Auschwitz is about what you would expect.  We all know the horrible story; hundreds of thousands of Jews enslaved, tortured and killed.  It's where the Nazis first experimented with Cyclone B in those infamous showers.  It's depressing and sad, just like it should be.  It's also an important part of history to learn from and a humbling place to visit.  No one was expecting a trip to Disneyland.  Unless you count several of the other tourists in our tour group.

At Auschwitz it is compulsory to have an official tourist guide take you through the complex.  In addition to the valuable information, it is also for another very good reason; your average tourist is a douche bag.  The kind of insensitive moron that will still take pictures even when the free guide explicitly instructs them not to.  I felt weird enough joining the masses of tourists to be herded around what is now a memorial site, but how else do you get a chance to see this monumental part of history?  Then you get there and your fears are confirmed in the form of those camera toting sons-of-bitches who take prohibited pictures of the human remains.  It's such a intense mix of emotions, it's hard to know where to draw the line.  At least the museum had enough tact to not call the souvenir shop a "souvenir shop".  Rather the building just listed all the things you could normally find in a gift shop, "Information, Videos and More!"  Ok, I exaggerated with the exclamation point, but that doesn't make it any less true.  I personally had my eye on the "I Survived Auschwitz" t-shirt, but it only came in an XL.  Ok, ok, there's the line, I see it way back there now.

Donning our new t-shirts (I kid, I kid) we headed for a pick me up in Berlin, Germany.  Berlin is just a (Pacific Northwesters you should cover your ears here) bigger, cooler version of Portland, Oregon.  This is with the brief exception of the blatant racism that exists here (Portland at least hides it better).  Apparently Berlin recovered from their jewish prejudices and turned around and redirected them to the black and middle eastern population.  We saw and heard too many stories of minorities being denied entry into local bars and clubs on the basis of their race.  This was a disheartening discovery after I had already decided I loved this city so full of art, thriving coffee shops and hipsters (side note:  Kelly and I were devastated to find out that we had missed the Berlin Hipster Olympics by a mere two days...you know we would have killed it in the Beer Crate Racing event).

We did get to see the remaining sections of the Berlin Wall though and I even got my official piece of scrap concrete that was once part of the wall (look what good tourists we've become!).  This chunk of cement was an actual souvenir I could get on board with some how.  Well, besides that t-shirt (that's the last one I swear!).  The art on the remaining part of the Berlin Wall combined with the massive amounts of really interesting, quality street art is so fascinating that we found ourselves walking for many, many hours each day.  I left my legs somewhere in East Berlin last week and have yet to recover them.  So, in conclusion, I think I love Berlin...I'm pretty sure...I like it at least more than a friend.

International Rendezvous

I've officially named this phase of the trip European Rendezvous.  It all started with meeting Weird Kate in Moldova in May, followed by Maggie in Hungary and then, good god, the remaining mass of our friends since then.  After a few brief days of solitude in Salzburg, we traveled to Munich only to immediately delve back into the life of an international socialite.  

If you can remember way back to New Zealand, where this crazy trip all started, you will recall that we spent quite a bit of time on an amazing farm on the north island.  That's where we fell in love with our friend Anna who showed us how making dinner could be a five hour event in which four of those is actually spent gossiping over several bottles of wine.  You might also remember that it was her son of a bitch roommate (I say that with much love) who duped us into kissing those famous goat balls.  As fate would have it, Anna was in Germany visiting her German boyfriend, Joschi (who also worked on the farm while we were there) and we got to hang out with them in Munich for a couple days.  Having a personal translator is not overrated.  

The last (and only) time I was in Germany I spent three days in Munich and I never actually saw Munich.  This requires and you deserve a thorough explanation - Oktoberfest 2005.  On my last day in the city I woke up with a traditional German beer stein, a technicolor Oktoberfest commemorative t-shirt and a hangover on which to compare all future hangovers.  So, yeah, I've been to Germany before, but I'm sure glad I had a chance to redeem myself.  

Upon meeting up with Anna and Joschi they wasted no time sweeping us off to the nearest German beer garden where they sell those famous kiddy pool sized beers (this stereotype turns out to be true...along with the unbridled wearing of lederhosen).  And all these years I thought that kind of consumption was reserved only for Oktoberfest.  Turns out the germans prefer Paul Bunyan scaled beverages year round.  After a few goliath steins, it was comforting to see that our friends haven't changed that much.  The conversation turned for the worse (better?) when Anna and Joschi started having an argument over whether "Robin" or "Thor" is a gayer name for your first born son.  This all brought on my Joschi who insists that his first child will bear the unfortunate and beating inspiring name, Robin.  I guess you could say that I'm on Team Thor.  

Anna's other hot international relationship is with her credit card.  If you turn your back on them for one second you will find yourself with five fresh drinks and a heaping basket of fried food.  I love/hate it when she does that.  When Anna found out the pub we were at had a credit card minimum, poor Kelly fell victim by proximity (within shouting distance of Anna) and ended up taking the two tequila shots Anna had to order to fulfill the required minimum.  So it will come as no surprise when I tell you that we found ourselves at three o'clock in the morning sprinting through Munich's massive fountain in the main square.  Making for a long, soaking wet, freezing cold walk home.  No amount of liquid long johns (even tequila) could have negated this cold.  Which is actually not so bad  when compared to the next day when I remembered that I am a hobo living out of a backpack and those are my ONLY pair of shoes.  I begrudgingly put them on anyway so I could go get a lifesaving German sausage and cup of coffee the next morning.  Squish, squish, squish.

Thank god (or not) our next stop this week was to the city of the green fairy; the city of Absinth; Prauge.  While Prague might be famous for it's hallucinogenic liquors, we were in no shape to partake after our fountain fun in Munich...mostly.  Well, what kind of friend would I be if I didn't a least help Kelly take her first ever shot of Absinthe?  In reality we spent most of our time sightseeing, working out and enjoying sobriety.  I know, I know, you want a better story than the We-Went-Home-Early-and-Knitted-by-the-Fire kind of a story, but my liver respectfully says, "suck it".  Therefore you'll have to imagine us traipsing through the city viewing the ornate architecture, listening to classical music and sipping espresso by the picturesque river that runs through the city.  Oh yeah, after all this time, that still IS an awesome story.  

"The Fountain"

Then There Were Two...Again

Four happens to be my favorite number, that is until this week when our brood was knocked down to a mere quartet.  Not to say that amazing things haven't been accomplished by groups of four, just look at The Beatles, The Spice Girls and quite possibly the most impacting foursome of our time: The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.  It's just that is was amazing how quickly I got used to traveling with an entourage that would put 50 Cent's posse to shame.  With less than half our original man power, we still did our best to make our "four-fathers" proud. 

We ditched the hubbub of Slovenia's capital city for some R&R at Lake Bled.  Lake Bled is a glacial lake nestled in the Julian Alps.  It's reminiscent of the home in the Pacific North West mainly due to the relaxing atmosphere, affinity for outdoor activities and down right adorableness (that's right PNW, I think you're adorable too).  Since the majority of our nature activities lately have consisted of drinking outside as opposed to inside, we decided to shell out some Euro to have a someone else reacquaint us with Mother Nature by going white water rafting.  

When we get to the rafting launch site with 50 other nature challenged tourists the rafting company is dividing everyone up into various raft groups.  I'm praying in my head, "please no fucking children, please no fucking children, please no fucking children".  I feel this way for several reasons. First off, children are useless as part of a rowing team with their spindly, undeveloped muscles and general lack of work ethic (thanks a lot Xbox).  Secondly, they are constantly falling out of the rafts and most of society still believes you should interrupt your fun to save them from drowning.  Third of all, I may have one of the worst cases of turrets and no parent wants to subject their child to my colorful sailor's vocabulary.  Nor do I want to sensor myself while being thrown around in a glorified pool floaty.  In the end, my faithful praying payed off and zero children were assigned to our vessel.  Instead of useless children, we were assigned three useless young adults.  The one "man" of the group was positioned at the front of the raft where you need your strongest rowers.  Our guide incorrectly assumed that the lone male of the group would be up for the job.  The poor fella had probably never seen a gym in his life and looked like he had a serious phobia of eating.  So our group of four ex-rugby players were put on one side of the raft and Team Beanpole on the other side.  This all causing a noticeable and consistent drift to one side.  One of the gangly girls just stopped rowing at some point as well, enhancing the already embarrassing deficit.  The trip was actually incredibly fun and gorgeous out on the river.  Not to mention the ego stoking brought on from our superior rowing strength.  And luckily only one child fell out in the end; Kelly Brittan.

Then there were two.  Kelly and I on our own again.  So we went to where any rational person would go to ease the pain.  That is the home of The Sound of Music; Salzburg, Austria (also the country that brought us Arnold Schwarzenegger, but that fact is not nearly as uplifting and certainly less musical).  We weren't able/refused to pay for the official Sound of Music tour.  I shamefully have to admit here, and don't tell my mother, I don't particularly even like The Sound of Music.  Never mind that I can sing every single song.  It's just that no family actually talks to each other that civilly/sappily/cornily.   Then the movie tries to imply that all seven kids actually get along long enough to coordinate enough song and dance to fill the THREE overdrawn hours of that movie.  I hardly think so.  Growing up I remember stabbing my sister with a fork the first day into our summer vacation (which was all evened out when she hit me in the face with a shovel sometime later).  If you were to contain seven Gust children (thank god there were only two of us) in the Austrian countryside with no other friends, you better believe someone would have contracted a permanent limp and nobody would be singing about it.  "Bright swollen bruises and fresh sewn stitches.  Lopsided ankles and new gleaming crutches.  Internal bleeding from repeated beatings.  These are a few of my favorite things!".  Yet, Kelly still made me watch in anyway.  As they say; when in Salzburg, do as the Schwarzeneggers do...minus the whole cheating on your wife and having a secret love child part.  

Salzburg's Horsewash!

The United States of Slovenia

Typically there is a week delay on most of my posts.  For example, when I wrote about Croatia I was already well into Bosnia.  You may have been keen enough to see through my masterful illusions, but I think it warrants mention since I am belated in wishing the United States of America a very happy birthday.  

When I studied abroad in Italy in 2005, Ljubljana, Slovenia, was a big hot spot to visit on the weekends.  It's close proximity to Italy, it's charming character and probably what was most attractive to me when I was 21, the 5-star night life.  I'd been boasting about Ljubljana to all of my friends for years now and was excited to get a chance to show her off as a city and a country that doesn't necessarily get a lot of attention from US travelers.  Then I got really nervous that it wouldn't live up to my hype.  Good god, I was only a 21 year old drunkard.  Did I even do anything else besides sample that famous night life?  

It was a huge sigh of relief when we got to Ljubljana and found that the city had improved since I'd been here (with the slight exception that they have converted to the Euro since my last visit and the used-to-be cheap prices have been Euro-fied).  The adorable city has a new bike share program where you can rent cute, basket equipped cruisers by the hour.  There are genius bike "parking lots" all over the city where you can acquire a bike through an automated machine similar to, but less frustrating than the automated parking meter.  Bike rental is even free if you use it for under an hour!  For years I lived in Portland, Oregon; the mecca of biking.  A town that is so bikable and full of earth conscious hippies that it is becoming uncool to even look at a car.  Frankly, Ljubljana is kicking Portland's cycling ass.  Needless to say, our group of five spent many afternoons singing the entire score from the Sound of Music while riding along the cobblestone streets on our family bike ride.  I'm sure the locals thought it was just as adorable as I am describing it.  

Ljubljana, of course, also proved to be the perfect location for Independence Day.  My friend, Kyle, has thrown an annual 4th of July 4Beer-4K for the past 11 years and being in another country was not going to stop her from celebrating our freedom properly.  Kyle's god given talent for creating elaborate scavenger hunts is rivaled by no one else.  No one.  In one morning, and in an unfamiliar city no less, she threw together an elaborate four hour adventure that would put Toby Keith's patriotism to shame.  Donning our best American flag attire we unscrambled clues, found important American landmarks (yes, even in Slovenia) and sang patriotic songs in front of the embassy.  It is measure of my commitment to a costume when I tell you that I found and have been carrying my 4 of July outfit since Thailand.  No, I didn't use that precious space in my backpack for a useful pair of underwear or a practical pair of pants.  No, no, my friends, a sequined American flag mini dress took obvious priority.  The biggest surprise was that many of the locals not only knew it was our independence day, but also were overly excited about our choice of attire (the one exception being a angsty teenager who made loud, animated barfing noises at us).  We ended the escapade at the hilltop castle overlooking the city where the waiter was so elated he brought us free wine, free shots AND free dessert.  Who says freedom ain't free?

Kelly and I, feeling like hot garbage juice after the hearty celebrating, decided we were overdue for some proper exercise.  We went to the local gym to sweat off the booze in a Zumba class.  Zumba is probably the most ridiculous form of exercise (don't get me wrong, I love this shit) as it is just dancing, or flailing about in my case, to awesome pop and hip-hop music.  There are definitely legitimate aerobic advantages to this class, but no one is trying to claim that this is any sort of Olympic lifting program here.  Our instructor was a freakishly fit, energetic and down right hot lady who preceded to kick my ass.  She did compliment(?) Kelly and I though by telling us that we danced like ho-bags.  Only after the class do we find out that Miss Fitness holds the coveted designation as Slovenia's Playmate of the Year.  A playmate calling us hos?  If mom's not proud of that, well I at least know several friends who will be jealous.  Especially now that I'm about to mention that we also saw her naked in the showers and didn't even have to pay the $4.95 for the magazine.  God bless Slovenia, let freedom ring!  

Two Names, Two Faces

It's been hard to muster up the energy to write these last few posts when half (most?) of the readers have been in my actual company these last few weeks.  Plus, I'll type up a post and then they just want me to read it to them!  I just spent hours, hours I tell you, typing this up and now I have to be the kindergarden librarian too?  These guys were all there, they know the stories already, but being the generous person that I am, I'll go ahead and put this in writing for the few others of you.

Our massive group of vagabonds had the opportunity move to yet another gorgeous city in Croatia since the country is teeming with blue seas, relaxing cafes and sun.  But all that fun, sun and water comes with a beach front price.  We'd been hearing about many other wonderful little Eastern Europe countries.  The group consensus landed us in a country that I had never initially considered, but along the road I've heard that it was amazing, warm and fun.  I also heard it was cheap.  So when the decision was made, we changed course for Bosnia and Herzegovina.

Bosnia and Herzegovina is indeed cheap, but also amazingly cute...the parts amid the abandoned bombed buildings.  We hit Mostar and Sarajevo this last week and you can still see the fresh wreckage of bullet ridden buildings in-between all of the newly constructed hotels and cafes.  It is completely bazar to meet people my age and younger, who grew up in Bosnia and Herzegovina  during the fairly recent war.  A time I vaguely remember watching on TV, my peers remember spending their childhood scrambling across the streets avoiding gunfire.  A lot of them lost their parents or siblings or both.  It's easy to be on this no-rules, no-responsibility trip and forget about just how ravaged many of these countries are from very recent and very real times of violence.  

I'm glad to say, however, it seems that Bosnia and Herzegovina is bouncing back.  I realize the conflicting gramalitical "is" when combined with the deul names, Bosnia and Herzegovina, but afterall it is just the one country with aparent naming conflicts.  Plus, I'm no english major and don't pretend to know the proper way to handle this situation; I can barely spell my own name as it is.  The good news is that the shopping districts are bustling, there is an abundance of new construction and there are thriving ice-cream stands on every single corner.  Ice-cream to my outsider's perspective is a staple in Bosnia and Herzegovina for breakfast, lunch, dinner and where I commonly associate it- dessert.  No judgement.  Hell, after all those years of war you deserve to have ice-cream as one of your major food groups.

We were also lucky enough to be in Sarajevo during a major cultural event.  You guessed it, the annual Streetdancing Competition.  It was a real life breakdancing battle with professional judges in the city center.  Talk about age innapropriate events, we were surrounded by hordes of teenagers who were almost as excited as we were to be there.  I wasn't expecting much, but the break dancers were phenominal.  I should mention that it is no longer cool to be called a "break dancer" and you should refer to them as "b-boys" and "b-girls"; yet another distinction that shows our age in this event.  It is somewhat inspirational in that it made me want to take classes so I could throw my body around in a way that makes it look amazingly agile and awesome.  And mostly because I'd just like to have a solid party trick.  Then I realized that I'm almost 30, have had two knee surgeries and am simply not that cool.  My short lived dreams of being a b-girl have been crushed.  At least the music was good and none of the local teenagers could tell how much we were dorking out since they didn't speak english.  My cool facade is intact for now.  

As we reached the end of our time in Bosnia and Herzegovina our gang of loud Americans continued to decline.  We went from nine down to six this week; a flock to a mere six-pack.  I know I previously referenced traveling with that many people as a complete shit show, but now that the group is dwindling, it's pretty sad.  This must be what it feels like to be on a season of Survivor.  With the exception that I actually like these people, nobody has to eat bugs in order to stay on the island and my only alliances are based on who wants to go get ice-cream now or later.    

Adorable!

And ravaged.

Croatia You Crazy

I previously alluded to my plans to meet up with a gaggle of my friends this month.  Well, it all came to a big festering head when eight of my closest friends and myself met up in Croatia this week.  The mass reunion took place on Vis Island in one of the most darling villas I've ever seen (not that I've actually stayed in a proper villa before, especially on this hobo trip).  The house is literally five steps away from the turquoise Adriatic Sea, which happens to be extremely convenient when you go late night skinny dipping and you have the kind of friends that will steal your towel.

It has certainly been different traveling with nine people when compared to our meager duo.  It's something akin to herding a bunch of drunk, ferrel cats.  Also, nine loud American girls shockingly draws even more attention than Kelly and I are used to.  After a few days of the villa and convenience beach lifestyle we finally managed to get the whole group out of the house for drinks one night (again, see above cat herding reference).  We were caught off guard when an even larger and louder english speaking group sidled up to the tables adjacent to us.  How dare they out-tourist us.  The group of hooligans turned out to be a cricket team from England who were on the island for a game.  I wouldn't have imagined the tiny island of Vis having a cricket team, but there you go.  Not to be outdone, we were quick to tell them that we all played rugby, a far superior sport.  Nevertheless they invited us to watch the could-be all day long game the next day.  Despite our feelings of sport superiority, we accepted the invite with the stipulation that it did not interfere with our packed schedule of beach time.   

The next day on the way to a beach on the other side of the island, we ran into the cricket field by sheer chance.  They were already hours into the match and were about to stop for tea (this sport is excruciating long like baseball, but with added boringness of being a gentlemen's sport).  They humored us enough to let the rowdy rugby ladies play with their equipment during their tea break.  When they took the field again, we heckled and harassed the other team like good old sport-loving Americans (though I'm not sure who we were yelling at half the time since both teams wear white).  To be culturally sensitive though, we yelled things like "wanker" and "parky".  We stayed for as much cricket as we could handle before we finally "had" to leave for our original destination.  The beach wasn't going to wait all day for us.  

We ended up at an adorable remote beach in a small inlet.  We lucked out in that one of the residences ran a restaurant out of their cliff side house.  This was not the kind of restaurant with menus or timetables or pants.  In fact, the chef was lounging in his speedo out front when we first arrived.  This was explained as a "slow-dining" experience and the crazy-eyed, bearded chef simply told us he would cook us something that was caught fresh and would just bring out dishes as they were ready.  How could we say no to a traditional sea-side dining experience?  Awesome homemade cheeses, olives, smoked fishes and capers...for starters.  And the food just kept coming in-between the bottles of wine.  At one point there was time for a mid-dinner swim and then back to eating once again.  This was simultaneously the fanciest and most casual dinner I've ever been apart of.  After dinner the chef and owner insisted we have some of their homemade brandy followed by some of their homemade grappa and then another round of some other homemade liquor.  At one point during our after dinner swim (if there's a mid-dinner swim, surely there has to be an after dinner swim) they sent shots of grappa out on a floating tray to the swimmers.  I kept having to remind our generous hosts that I was the driver.  Their solution was to give me a "driver" size shot instead.  Croatians, the booze pushers of Europe.

And if there weren't enough reasons to booze on this trip...my birthday was this week.  Like we just learned, the Croatians are booze pushers and the locals were more than willing to buy celebratory drinks.  Come to find out the Czechs are also part of the enable ring category.  A group of guys from the Czech Republic had sailed into Vis Island that day and happened upon the same bar.  After Maggie broke the ice by commandeering one of the guy's wheelchairs and showing off her mad wheelchair skills (no joke, Maggie is actually a pro in a wheelchair and can dance, spin and pop wheelies, much to the crowd's enjoyment).  Like all good birthdays, we closed the bar down and promptly continued the party on the Czech sailboat.  So at 3:00 am we found ourselves drinking boxed wine and listening to a bunch of drunk sailors singing "Happy Birthday" about 527 times in their Czech accent.  The first few hundred times it came out as, "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear I-don't-remember-your-naaaaaaammme, happy birthday to you".  Eventually (and impressively considering the level of inebriation on everyones' part) they got my name right in the end.  I'm sure I can safely say that will be my only birthday I spend on a Croatian island cocktailing on a sailboat with a group of rowdy Czechs.  Now I can die happy.  Coincidentally that is exactly what I felt like doing the next day.  The extra year was acutely evident as I was too hungover to even make it the five steps to the beach the next day.  O.U.C.H.

Shots!

Just a Little Place I Like to Call Croatia

I've been itching to go to Croatia for years and this week my dreams were finally realized.  Maggie, Kelly and I rented a car and zipped (aka made one wrong turn causing the GPS to send us on the most ridiculous two hour detour through the winding, vomit-indusing back roads of Croatia) to the Plitvice Lakes.  We stayed at a super delightful home-stay in the country complete with a small farm, adorable grandparent-like hosts and roaming chickens.  The poor chickens fell victim to our drunk antics one night when we decided to chase them around the yard in attempts to catch them.  I have high hopes that one day in the near future I can tell you a good story that doesn't start with "this one time I was drunk".  This, however, is not one of those days and we did, in fact, get wasted and, to my surprise, successfully catch some of them for an impromptu photo shoot.  

Aside from the chickens, the actual Plitvice Lakes are breathtakingly stunning.  I have seen a lot of amazing and rare and beautiful things on this trip.  After everything, I am going to go on record and say that the Plitvice Lakes are the most beautiful thing I've seen thus far.  Yes, thus far.  It is pristine lake after pristine waterfall after pristine natural pool.  I severely lack the writing skills to paint an impressive enough picture for you here, so just look at the pictures and know that the camera and I also lack the artistic skills to capture just how impressive this place is.  There are literally hundreds of shinning, shimmering waterfalls that pour into the equally impressive lakes and natural pools (If someone can differentiate between a lake and pool then I'd be super impressed.  All I know is that they only categorize 16 of these bodies of water as true lakes and the hundreds of others get the less distinctive categorization as pools though they seem just as impressive to me.  Poor pools.).  The water is so clear, clean and a devastating color of aqua that Croatia actually prevents you from putting your body in the water.  It is incredibly hard to comply with the no-swimming rule after you've been hiking for four hours and the water is refreshingly perfect, clean and kid-free.  I suppose this is ultimately how they keep their national park so beautiful, but that didn't prevent us from scheming ways to get our bodies into that crystal-blue water.  "What if Kelly slipped and fell in, then I had to jump in to rescue her?  They surely would understand that."  Nevermind that Kelly grew up in a beach town and could swim circles around most fish.  

Post the heavenly lakes, we all headed to the coastal town of Zadar, Croatia.  Maggie and I, in our dedication to get to know the city and people, set out to find the local H&M the other day.  It was supposed to be quite a ways outside of the city, although we couldn't seem to pry much more directions than those from all the people we asked.  We felt up to the task since we were armed with a couple of questionable rental bikes for the long haul.  After asking five different people directions and getting five different sets of directions, one reputable and confident sounding woman finally pointed us in the right direction.  We swiftly peddled through the main part of town and then were immediately faced with the hill of death.  It's not that this is the steepest hill in the world, but let me offer some excuses here; 1. Croatia is hot as balls, 2. I am just getting over a lung-rattling cold after Maggie exposed my Moldova ravaged lungs to her American germs, 3. Despite my best efforts to keep fit, somehow drunk dancing is just not cutting it as a proper work out regimen and I am embarrassingly out of shape.  

Nevertheless, this is a hill and it is a long-ass hill.  Neither of us wanting to be shown up by the other person (pride is everything among my slightly over-competitive friends), we wheeze all the way to the top.  And since there weren't any witnesses, I'm not going to admit to taking any breaks.  At the top of the K2 of the Croatian hillside, we see no H&M and no shopping centers and, frankly, very few buildings in general.  Actually all we see is a lone bar and deserted church.  I make Maggie go ask the bar owner for further directions while I "watched the bikes" (or secretly gasped for air in-between violently coughing up my lungs).  Wouldn't you know, the directions were precisely the exact opposite of the initial instructions we were given; go all the way back down the hill that almost just took your life.  Luckily biking up hills for no god damn reason is actually my hobby.  Jokes on you.  Now, not only are my lungs tore up, but my tender lady bits are now screaming from being on a bike all day.  The hill down is steep and rocky and bumpy and labia destroying.  The road eventually spits us out right into the parking lot of the huge, commercial shopping center.  Success!  Let the culture rich experience begin!  I spend the next hour perusing the clothing store and profusely sweating.  No matter how much I wiped my face on my shirt it just kept pouring.  Hi, I'd like to try on your new merchandise on my hot, sweaty body, thanks.  I figure it's retribution for the country's (and their GPS systems') complete lack of a sense of direction.  

 





The hunt...




...and the catch

Starving? No, Just Hungary

I've never had a bigger response than on my last post and oddly enough it had nothing to do with our near escape from Moldovan jail time.  Family and friends, no, I have not become a smoker.  I'm highly amused that over the last year I have made various references to drinking, drugs, wild animals and brushes with foreign police, yet I post a brief anecdote regarding cigarettes and so many of you came out of the woodwork to voice your concerns.  Who knew the likes of my acquaintances were so wholesome.  Let me assure you that waking up hungover with my mouth tasting like ten day-old smoked mackerel has deterred me from taking up a permanent habit, but it's nice to know you've been reading.

Moving on from the unhealthy life Moldova brings, I'm a bit worried that anything I write this week will severely pale in comparison to our detainment by the police and Moldovan shenanigans in general (my mom wrote me a note letting me know she'd at least had enough excitement for a while).  In attempts to reset your expectations I'm going to write possibly the most boring post of this trip.  Not because this week was not amazingly fun, but I think I need to lower your standards (maybe mine too) so that going forward you will find next week's blog at least slightly more interesting than this dud.  Self sabotage, always a good plan.

Kelly and I are at a strange junction in our journey.  After leaving our friend, Weird Kate, in Moldova we flew into Budapest, Hungary, and immediately met up with our friend Maggie who had just flown in from the good 'ol US of A.  From this point on we will have friends from back home meeting us almost all the way through the remainder of our trip.  Yeah, I'm really that good at peer pressuring.  Though I must admit, convincing your friends to meet you for a Euro-adventure is not that hard of a sale.  What will Kelly and I do now that our dynamic duo has started accepting more applicants?  I'm personally afraid they'll all start making actually participate in tourist activities and go out drinking all the time.  After all, their livers are rested and relaxed from having responsibilities, such as jobs, all these months.  Plus, their vacation stints are going to be much shorter to our trip in comparison, they are liable to want to pack in as much fun in their limited amount of time abroad.  

Most of my fears were confirmed when we saw Maggie.  Of course we have to go out!  I haven't seen her face in almost a year.  Nothing says catching-up like boozing and dancing in a loud Hungarian night club.  After getting "reacquainted" in Budapest for a few days (which we were actually good tourists and took the guided walking tour, but I'll save the uplifting genocide stories for later), Maggie suggests heading to Siofok, Hungary.  I'd never heard of it, but apparently back in the communist era when everyone got their one week of vacation each year they all went to the holiday town of Siofok (note: I'm taking Maggie's complete word for this, I have not actually confirmed that Siofok is the communist era Hamptons, but she's usually fairly trust worthy, so I think my integrity is solid as usual here).  Siofok sits on Europe's largest fresh water lake, Lake Balaton.  Admittedly Maggie didn't initially know a lot about this vacation hot spot either, but said, "I imagine it being just like the movie Dirty Dancing".  Sold.  

Lake Balaton did live up to Maggie's predictions in the end, sans Patrick Swayze.  The place is fully equipped with all expected lake holiday activities; water sports, parks galore, lake side markets with the typical carnival games and attractions including huge trampolines (which we tried for free on our way home from dinner after several glasses of wine, but we were quickly found out by the angry Hungarian man who yelled at us for trespassing).  In other non-noteworthy news, we even got adventurous and tried the local delicacies.  Mainly the crow stew is what caught our eye.  Turns out "crow" was just poorly translated from Hungarian on the English menu and what we got was a heaping pile of tripe.  I've still never had crow, but I bet it was better than that steaming bowl of slimy cow intestines.  I choked mine down out of embarrassment and Maggie found some very artistic ways to rearrange the guts into looking like she had consumed more than the actual two bites she managed.  On this trip I'd like to think I've taken the I'm-up-for-trying-anything attitude and have typically come out on top.  Mark this as a day that I came out on bottom.  




Maggie cutting loose on her vacation (yes, those trampolines in the background are the same ones that we abused later that night)




Train time

More Moldova Than I Can Handle

I officially feel a year and a half older after being in Moldova for two weeks.  Somewhere in my fermented mind I had convinced myself that it wasn't actually possible to drink for 15 straight days.  Then Moldova laughed at my naivety, handed me a bottle of wine and promptly stole my remaining dignity (yes, I still had some left besides what you may know of me from my college days).  Before this week I could count on one hand the number of cigarettes I've smoked in my lifetime, but once again, there's just something about this place that makes you need to abuse your body.  So, I also promptly took up chain smoking as a nice accessory to my new drinking problem.  Commitment is my middle name.  

In attempts to have a nice sober day (though you know how this is going to turn out...god damn Moldova) Weird Kate, after feeding the family goat, played tour guide and showed us around her home town Soroca.  There happens to be a rather large Gypsie population on the outskirts of her town, so we went to go see the infamous Gypsy houses.  On a side note, apparently it's no longer politically correct to call them Gypsies, but I'm fairly certain none of you would know what the hell I was talking about if I referred to them by their new (more respectable?) name; the Roma people.  So I will maintain my general asshole status by continuing to refer to them by their mystical name that conjures images of flowing scarf dresses, gold bangles, those little ankle bracelets that jingle when you dance and, of course, the TLC series "My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding" (if THE LEARNING CHANNEL doesn't have to be PC, I surely don't see why I should have to either).  I think we can all agree, Gypsies it is.  Anyone who still feels offended can take it up with my editor (kelly.brittan@gmail.com).  

Unlike their caravanning cousins in the UK, the Moldovan Gypsies build these gigantic, gaudy monstrosities that take 50 years and several generations to complete since the family member who commences construction certainly does not have the money to complete the over-the-top mansion.  And if you've ever seen the show, "My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding" then you know "over-the-top" should never be taken lightly.  These are people who thrive on outdoing one another and if that means putting a Pantheon sized gold dome on the top of your house, then you better have the shiniest damn dome on the block.  

So while enjoying the sites, one of the local Gypsies noticed us appreciating/snooping around the neighborhood.  When she called out to Weird Kate in Romanian, I thought she'd put a curse on us.  Ok, I'm not that thick, but I thought we were going to get chewed out for our voyeurism for sure.  Instead of a tongue lashing, we got the best surprise I could have hoped for when she asked us if we'd like to see the inside of her house.  Um, yes.  If we thought the outsides of the houses were ridiculous then the inside was even crazier (and this was one of the more "modest" houses on the block).  If RuPaul was a house, this is exactly what her/his insides would look like.  Theatrical window dressings, bright pink formal dinning room, chandeliers bigger than the couch and gold accented everything.  Liberace couldn't have asked for a better.  We thanked the woman profusely and were about to leave when she insisted we stay for a shot of vodka (oh here we go again).  How could we say no when she had graciously satiated our curiosity?  After hydrating us, she insisted that her daughter would heat us up some food and bring us fresh vegetables from their garden.  Then the house wine came out and then more vodka and then there went my sobriety before noon again.  

You can start to see how this lapse into alcoholism is not my fault, though Weird Kate has her doubts as to our innocence.  While Moldova does tend to have a semi-corrupt police system, Weird Kate luckily has never had a run in with the police in the two years she's been in this country.   Within a week and a half of our visit, we've already been detained...twice.  In both cases it was minor and there were never any official arrests nor did they even check our papers (mostly because we never had them on us, but that's not the point).  It seemed just to be a case of bored cops wanting to talk to the pretty ladies, but then again, I don't speak Romanian, so you'll just have to trust Weird Kate on this one.  

The second run-in with the policia was simply a misunderstanding.  Weird Kate, another Peace Corps volunteer named Raymond, Kelly and myself had all gone out for some afternoon drinks and realized (after several bottles of champagne) that we should probably have had dinner hours ago.  The responsible people that we are, we cut ourselves off and headed out to conquer the drunk munchies.  Out of no where a police wagon screams up to the side walk and four cops pile out like a god damn clown car and demand we get in the car.  Our translator, Weird Kate, advised us to stay the hell away from the vehicle.  No problem.  Knowing how things work in that country, she told them that they were required to give us a reason for picking us up.  The police unconvincingly told her it was because we were being loud and drunk.  Us?  Hardly!  So, while Weird Kate is working her magic, Raymond just jumps into the police car and they take off with him in tow.  Fucking Raymond.  So now we have to go down to the police station just to pick him up.  Sure enough, when we show up, the cops are waiting outside for us.  After some arguing, they are able to convince Weird that it is necessary to come inside the station to collect Raymond.  The police usher us up to an office where it becomes clear that Raymond has already been released and now we are going to be held for questioning.  This would be easier information to swallow if I hadn't just drank two bottles of champagne and if we weren't in a completely foreign, non-english speaking country.  I am not prepared to be a part of Broke Down Palace Part 2.  

The police station is in an old soviet union building.  In the drab room we are taken to, the walls are yellowed from years of smoking indoors and tonight is no exception.  The typical interrogation style lamp dimly illuminates the room through the cigarette smoke coming from all five officers who have accompanied us.  I guess us three girls must have been a huge international threat to ward a 5:3 officer to detainee ratio.  Kelly and I try to keep the giggles in check while Weird Kate argues with our captors in Romanian.  After half an hour of arguing the officer behind the desk finally offers Kate a cigarette and I can't help but feel a swelling pride as my friend continues to go toe to toe with with these police men, yelling in Romanian and jabbing her lit cigarette at them to punctuate each insult.  In the end, Weird Kate's winning line was to shame them by asking them how dare they treat guests this way in their country; a country that might possibly have the lowest tourism rate.  The officers conceded that they only thought we were pretty and were just hoping to talk to us.  By detaining us?  Good fucking move.  I wonder how many of them have found their wives that way.  I can now see that it doesn't matter what country men are from, they all have bad game.  Needless to say we were finally released (more like walked the hell out of there while they continued to protest) and, the worst part of all, we went home without dinner.  










Ok, not a professional smoker yet

The New Blog Drinking Game: Take a Drink Every Time You Read a Version of the Word "Drink"

First off, I'd like to officially thank Ireland and Scotland.  If it weren't for the ample drinking opportunities in those countries I would have been seriously unprepared for the shit show that is Moldova.  "Why Moldova?" you might ask (or more appropriately, "Where the hell is Moldova?").  One of my favorite people, lovingly referred to as Weird Kate, has spent the last two years in the small, former Soviet Union country in Eastern Europe serving in the Peace Corps.  We caught her at the tail end of her stint and were barely able to down the drinks fast enough keep up with her and the other volunteers.  In addition the two years of intense liver conditioning by homemade moonshine, Weird Kate and the others are in serious celebration mode in anticipation of their impending release ("completion of service" if you're being unrealistic).  After being here, I'm not sure how any of the Peace Corps Volunteers will leave without a drinking problem.  If the volunteering pressures and being away from your family for two years isn't enough, Moldova drinks more per capita than any other country, the winters are unbearably harsh (to the point that most of the volunteers keep a pee cup in their bedrooms so they don't have brave the cold just to go to the bathroom) and in a recent survey, Moldovans were rated the most unhappy (unhappiest of) people...in the world.  And let's not forget the fact that vodka is cheaper than water.  I don't think you can afford not to have a drinking problem here.

From what else I can deduce, Moldova's national holidays, sports and crimes are all derived directly from drinking.  I have spent exactly zero sober days in Moldova and I don't think I'm setting any records here.  Oh sure, there were days I planned on not drinking.  Inevitably her neighbors would wave us over to introduce themselves and three hours later we'd leave their house fed and thoroughly wasted.  Just the other morning we went to the local corner store from her house on the way to the bus and the store owner, delighted to see W. Kate, ushered us in and told us to quickly shut the shop door behind us.  He then set out to pouring us all shots vodka and then sent us on our way with a candy bar and a cookie.  Milky Ways and vodka are apparently the scone and coffee of the on-the-go breakfast in Moldova.   

The volunteers have even developed a little drinking game to keep their spirits up (or to further rationalize their binge drinking).  They have a popular bottled beverage here called Festival (very festive indeed).  It looks, smells and tastes exactly like an orange soda.  So much so that one of the volunteers was actually drinking them at work everyday unaware of the 6% alcohol content.  I can only image what the locals thought of the American teacher drinking cocktails on the way to school everyday.  The aforementioned game is based off the fraternity house shenanigans where someone hides a Smirnof Ice (an equally disgusting sweet bottled beverage) and anyone who unsuspectingly finds it must immediately get on one knee and chug the entire drink.  Kelly and I, being the new victims of this game, were targeted mercilessly the first few days in Moldova.  We'd stumble upon them in our toiletry cases, under our pillows and in bathroom stalls, where our new friends would be waiting just outside to witness our most recent Festivalling.  Little did they know, Kelly and I would end up being such quick learners that people started falling at our hand regularly.  We shoved them in people's sleeping bags for them to find at the end of the night and then placed them in the showers to be found the next morning.  They may have regretted enlisting us in the Great Festival War of 2012 afterall.  

We were also lucky enough to catch a major drinking holiday this past week (by the way, there is a holiday about every other day in this country).  Hrom (spelling to be verified, it is at least pronounced with a big phlegm inducing "H" at the beginning) is a big to-do in the city of Balti.  Hrom kicks off with a big wrestling tournament in the square, the coveted prize being the big brown sheep that is bleating just outside the ring.  After the victor has claimed his sheep the main festivities begin and, from what I can tell, that simply means you start your all-day drinking binge.  We met up with a bunch of volunteers at the celebration, posted up under one of the bar tents and promptly began ordering bottle after bottle of vodka.  The next day we were excited/obligated to help Weird Kate with a local school event where we were supposed to bring 130 ice cream cones to the kids.  We drug our post-Hrom asses out of bed and struggled through the three hour bus ride to the school.  Arriving only 15-20 minutes late, we strolled in to swiftly complete our duty and leave being the awesome Americans who brought everyone ice cream.  Little did we know, the teachers had waited for us so we wouldn't miss the big performance.  Hungover and unshowered, the director ushered us to the front of the auditorium as the esteemed guests where we then had to sit through an hour of children singing/wailing in a language I can't even understand.  In the end, the ice cream was severely melted by the time the performance ended resulting in my least favorite thing (especially after a night of drinking my weight in vodka); sticky children.  That alone was enough to almost cure my Moldovan drinking problem.  Almost.  










If you can guess what we're doing in this picture I'll give you a prize (hint: Kelly and I don't know either)