The Art of Awkward

My posts are completely out of order at this point. Here are the places I’ve visited in order: Reykjavik, Oslo, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Istanbul, Athens, Barcelona, Vienna, Salzburg, Munich, Interlaken, Bern, Milan, Venice, Florence, Siena, Rome, Privas, Paris, London, Edinburgh, Amsterdam, Dublin, Killarney, Galway, London and back to Reykjavik. (Bonus: New York City!)

I did not see this painting. I do not care.

People warned me about it. They said it was a pitfall of traveling so long. Culture-it-is. When you simply can’t stand to see another painting, courtyard or cathedral.

I swore I wouldn’t get it. I thought those who got it had less cultural stamina. I mean, I was a card carrying member of the Denver Art Museum. I dedicated my entire month of August to culture. I may be the least outdoorsy person in the entire state of Colorado, but my culture stamina is equivalent to a triathlete.

But by the time Munich rolls around, I don’t want to see a painting. Any kind. I don’t care how famous the painting is. I totally skipped Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss in Vienna. I even skip Neuschwanstein Castle in Munich. Meh.

My first part of the trip was very planned out. I knew the top sights. And I saw them. By the time

I would use this car to pick up men. Bond Boys, specifically.

Munich rolls around, I have thrown out my guidebook because it was dead weight. By Munich, I have mastered a better technique. I find someone with an agenda and let them stress the details.

After a walking tour, I end up tacking onto an Australian named Manning to the BMW Museum. And with two Koreans with the best names of all time – Commodore and Henne. I may just change my name to Commodore. Commodore Elinor Ellis.

I like cars. I’ve seen Fast & The Furious 1, 2 and 3. I still one day would like to own Dylan McKay’s 1961 Porsche 356 Speedster. But I drive a Civic that I couldn’t care less about. In fact, my sister calls it “the Terminator” because every time she sees me it is missing a piece.

So I’m surprised with what total abandon I love a museum dedicated to cars that I would probably destroy with my indelicate driving hands. It was honestly one of my favorite days in Europe. Context is everything in travel. I would recommend the BMW Museum to anyone who visits Munich. But if I wasn’t suffering from an extreme case of Culture-it-is while in the company of three really fun guys, I doubt it would have been such an adventure.

I also had one of the worst colds of my life but am presented with the modern-day miracle that is the German pharmacy. I tell them I have a cold, and they hand me a box. With all instructions and ingredients in Germany. It is really scary to not know that. I mean really, you have no idea if you can drink or not in one of the European capitals of beer. But I handed it to an Australian and medical school, and he gave me the medical go-ahead. This despite German cold medicine being chock full of Codeine.

The best part of Munich is that a central part of this city is bratwursts and beer. It’s like my two favorite components of sporting events, but I don’t even have to watch any sports to get them. Munich is a miraculous city. Beer, Brats and BMWs.

My posts are completely out of order at this point. Here are the places I’ve visited in order: Reykjavik, Oslo, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Istanbul, Athens, Barcelona, Vienna, Salzburg, Munich, Interlaken, Bern, Milan, Venice, Florence, Siena, Rome, Privas, Paris, London, Edinburgh, Amsterdam, Dublin, Killarney, Galway, London and back to Reykjavik. (Bonus: New York City!)

The City character: Olivia Palermo

As I mentioned earlier on my blog, I was dying to attend a fashion show while in New York as one of my life list items. But it looked like it wasn’t going to happen. Then I got the best news of my life. I mean even better news than the time I won a case of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese in college. I was going to attend the Marc by Marc Jacobs fashion show! Sure, it’s unfortunate that my life has peaked at this stage in life, but what can you do?

Foursquare was running a promotion with Marc Jacobs. Those who friended Marc Jacobs on Foursquare received the fashion victim badge, and four were selected to attend the show. God Bless the people at Foursquare and Marc Jacobs because it really was one of the coolest experiences of my life.

The front row of the show was the Vogue masthead brought to life. Carine Roitfeld, Hamish Bowles and Grace Coddington. Grace Coddington!!! As I’ve written previously, she is the Gold Medal winner of Vogue editors. Afterwards, I walked by her, and she gave me a once over with a clear look of disdain. I am not a squeeing person, but even her cold look of acknowledgment was a highlight. I dress like I fell into the Gap, and my outfit was chosen from backpacking clothes. (Hint: It wasn’t pretty)

Models Are Fast!

I was surprised at how fast the show moved. Then again, as tall as those models are, it is not surprising they walked at a fast clip. It is good to know if modeling doesn’t work out for them, they have a Plan B with speed walking. I felt I could barely take it all in. Carine Roitfeld’s eyebrows, the clothes, Karlie Kloss, the 2,336 photographers, Marc Jacobs at the end of the show. Ruby Aldridge opened the show, which is a big deal for a model. Like getting to carry the torch into the stadium for the opening ceremony. (But this time Canada isn’t there to ruin the show.) I think I learned more about fashion in one hour than I have in my previous life on the planet.

I was in adoration with Foursquare before, but now I am completely in love. Thanks for helping me cross of at item off my life’s to-do list.

(You can check out pictures and a review of the clothes on Style.com.)

My posts are completely out of order at this point. Here are the places I’ve visited in order: Reykjavik, Oslo, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Istanbul, Athens, Barcelona, Vienna, Salzburg, Munich, Interlaken, Bern , Milan, Venice, Florence, Siena, Rome, Privas, Paris, London, Edinburgh, Amsterdam, Dublin, Killarney, Galway, London and back to Reykjavik.

My friend Lauren was leaving for Paris as I was arriving, so we were ships passing in the night. So I

Singing in the Subway

spent my limited time in London doing some of the touristy spots and heading back to the wonder that is the Borough Market. Seriously, if you go to London and skip this, you are missing one of the best food markets I’ve ever seen. I repeated my visit this time as my mouth watered from memories of a farm-to-plate hamburger with veined blue cheese, burnt sugar fudge and organic pear cider with nutmeg and cinnamon spices.

Marie Claire

While on the subway, post fashion exhibition at Albert & Victoria museum and pre-Twinings tea shop visit, the subway was flooded with people in costume. I happened to be on the subway for Waitangi Day, which is essentially New Zealand day. If you were wondering how Kiwis celebrate this day, and were hypothesizing that it involved a pub crawl on the Metro, wearing costumes, drinking inordinate amounts of alcohol and ultimately gathering on Parliament Square to chant, you would be right.

I was asking one girl what was going on, and she invited me to come with her and her friends. Pre-trip, I would have politely declined. But really in life, if your entire subway car is singing along, then why not join in? If a native Londoner is willing to let you tag along, then join. Plus, as my Kiwi friend Jonathan points out, try to cram in as much living as possible.

So I embarked on a mini adventure with Marie Claire. Everyone seemed to be in costume but me. But! I’m the type of women who carries around a sheep around in her handbag, and was thus prepared for such an occasion.

Seamus, my spare sheep. You should see what else is in my purse.

I pointed out that one of Marie’s friends was not wearing a costume, and asked what kind of Kiwi didn’t show his pride by wearing a costume. He retorted by asking me what kind of American was I, not taking over anyone’s country. Well played, Kiwi. Well played.

A short adventure with new friends. Life is pretty awesome if you let it be.

Important Side Note: My friend Eric mentioned to me that I forgot to mention in my last London post that not only was Blonde Jackie part of my college trip, but Eric, Adam, Brown Jackie and Ryan were part of the madness that was the week in London. Plus, we were visiting the incredible peeps that are Keith, John and Jeanna. Speaking of Ryan, I recently saw his wedding announcement made The New York Times. Congrats!

My posts are completely out of order at this point. Here are the places I’ve visited in order: Reykjavik, Oslo, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Istanbul, Athens, Barcelona, Vienna, Salzburg, Munich, Interlaken, Bern, Milan, Venice, Florence, Siena, Rome, Privas, Paris, London, Edinburgh, Amsterdam, Dublin, Killarney, Galway, London and back to Reykjavik.

My first and foremost memory of Rome will be the fact that I was flashed. For the third time in my life. As my friend Christina told me, “If I had a nickel for every time you were flashed, I could afford to replace your stolen wallet.” Or as my friend Kristy asked, “What is it about you that make men want to flash you?” But we’ll save that special kind of analysis for another blog post. Let’s make this blog post about my bike tour.

I really wanted to rent a bike to see one of the cities I was visiting, and figured Rome was as good as any. So I signed up for the “Unseen Sights” of Rome bike tour. After four hours on a bike, I now know why they’re unseen. Those seven hills are mighty and fierce on a bike. If I were ever trying to conquer Rome, I’d quickly back down after facing those hills. I’d revise my strategy for a flat city. Like Florence. Thankfully, my lot in life is to be a tourist and not a gladiator.

I ended up being the sole participant in my bike tour. When the other participants noticed it was pouring rain, they used good sense and decided to stay home. What I lack in good sense, I make up in this new found love of adventure. Plus, I read in the brochure that they had rain gear. And rain gear they had. Bright (and I mean bright) yellow track pants and jacket. I looked like an escaped convict. Or a member of the fanny pack brigade. I’d rather look like the former. West Side for life.

The brochure also promised that there would be helmets. There were none to be found. I say this without hesitation or jest that darting around a bike in Rome traffic without a helmet was far more dangerous than hang gliding in Bern.

Afterward, my tour guide asked me for drinks. But at that point, I was ready to crumble. They say riding a bicycle is a skill you never forget. “They” have never met me. A six-year hiatus from riding a bike did me in. But in all honesty, a bike is one of the best ways to see a city, and I ended up renting bikes in Dublin, Amsterdam and Reykjavik as well.

A picture is worth a thousand words. I could have spared you this blog post with the picture after the jump, but I’m a blogger. And bloggers like to hear themselves write.

Continue reading…

My posts are completely out of order at this point. Here are the places I’ve visited in order: Reykjavik, Oslo, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Istanbul, Athens, Barcelona, Vienna, Salzburg, Munich, Interlaken, Bern, Milan, Venice, Florence, Siena, Rome, Privas, Paris, London, Edinburgh, Amsterdam, Dublin, Killarney, Galway, London and back to Reykjavik.

Ireland was getting lonely. At my first hostel in Dublin, I was thrilled that they didn’t put anyone else in my room. After three months of living in the equivalent of a college dormitory with complete strangers literally sleeping on top of you in a bunk bed, getting a room to yourself is the equivalent of winning the hostel lottery. Don’t mind me why I spread my stuff from corner to corner, play my music loudly, take long showers and have dance parties.

Then they put me in a room to myself in Killarney.

And then they put me in a room to myself in Galway.

It’s like when your college sibling moves to college, and you actually start missing them. I’m even nostalgic for the five men I lived with in Amsterdam who in between getting stoned, crunching on chips and watching episodes of South Park decided that rather than using a key would just bang on the door through out the night hoping that their stoned friend would rise from his drug-induced stupor to get the door. (He never did. But I did. On multiple occassions.)

Never to fear for anyone worrying that I haven’t made new friends in Ireland as I have perfected a certain art – being a third wheel. This skill comes in handy as the main way I am seeing Ireland is on bus tours with the fanny-pack brigade. This is the absolute worst way to see Ireland. People who really want to see Ireland should rent a car and drive along the coast and avoid bus tours as they would visiting their mother-in-law or the bubonic plague.

However, I can’t drive since not only are my driving skills lacking, but there also is the fact that someone in Firenze is now in possession of my driver’s license. A hundred thousand curses on you, purse thief!

Once I’ve narrowed it down to which couple I’d like to spend the day with, I usually strike with a line. “Here, let me take a picture of the two of you together!” The art to becoming someone’s third wheel is to seem helpful. Now I would normally seek out fellow backpackers to hang out with, but there are none to be found. I suspect they’re hitch hiking or getting drunk with the locals in traditional pubs. Or in Paris on a pub crawl. But they’re certainly not on bus tours in Ireland.

To be a third wheel, it’s also important for you to keep certain thoughts to yourself. Like perhaps, if you think someone from Minnesota is wearing the bus driver’s hat, you shouldn’t ask him why he is wearing the bus driver’s hat. Perhaps, it might actually be that he likes wearing chauffer-style hats and just happens to be sitting behind the bus driver. And he might be insulted that you’re insituating he is dressing as a bus driver would.

But most likely, before you’ll know it, it will seem like you’ve always been their third wheel. You’ll be teasing Claire about her photo montage. Or lamenting with Steve on why Americans only get two weeks of vacation a year. And before you know it, you won’t just be taking the photos, you’ll be in the photos. “Honey, go and take a picture with our new friend from Colorado!”

Fast forward a month from now, I suspect I’ll have a starring role in their slideshow on Facebook as “Ellen” or perhaps “Emily.”

It’s a special kind of friendship. The kind that lasts exactly between the tour times of 9 am to 5 pm. No more, no less.

Oh, and happy birthday to my new friend Christoper. Or Kevin. Or whatever it was. I hope you and what’s-her-face really make a good day of it!

In high school, I was depressed. No further details are needed. I mean, I was in high school for four whole years. Of course, I was depressed. So when I was an angst-ridden teenager, I read The Catcher in the Rye. And it meant the world to me. While angst-ridden and teenager should be synonyms for each other, no other book captures that sentiment quite like The Catcher in the Rye. So thank you, J.D Salinger. For making me feel like someone got it. May you rest in peace.

The New York Times asked several experts and writers if “The Catcher in the Rye” is still relevant to today’s teenagers. They asked, “Does the Holden Caulfield version of alienation speak to a generation of Facebook?” As if, Facebook can prevent alienation. Facebook is mighty, but it’s no match against alienation.

Elizabeth Wurtzel, writer of “Prozac Nation,” essentially claims that today’s teenagers aren’t really teenagers. That they’re either complete trainwrecks or goody-two shoes, and there is nothing in between that would glean something from “The Catcher in the Rye.” She also refers to them as “Twitter Tribes.” Since teenagers don’t use Twitter, I’m guessing she understands teenagers as well as she did when she wrote “Prozac Nation.” Which is to say, not at all.

But, if today’s teenagers can’t find commonality with Holden Caufield when it comes to angst, I hope they can find it with Angela Chase, the Holden Caufield of my generation.

My posts are completely out of order at this point. Here are the places I’ve visited in order: Reykjavik, Oslo, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Istanbul, Athens, Barcelona, Vienna, Salzburg, Munich, Interlaken, Bern, Milan, Venice, Florence, Siena, Rome, Privas, Paris, London, Edinburgh, Amsterdam and Dublin.

I wasn’t even going to go to Amsterdam. On the hostel circuit, you mainly hear about Amsterdam for one activity, and it’s not the bike riding. It’s just not my thing. But I met enough people who convince me that Amsterdam is beautiful, and you don’t have to smoke to enjoy it.

When hostel living, breakfast is a clutch time to make new friends and find people to hang out with. Breakfast always has a similar conversation consisting of several standard questions:

• Where are you from?
• How long have you been here?
• What have you seen so far?
• What are you going to do today?

In Amsterdam, the questions remain the same. But the answers are a wee bit different.

“So what are you going to do today?,” the adorable-but-scruffy Australian asks.

“I’m going to the Van Gogh museum, the Anne Frank house and maybe for a bike ride if there is time!” I respond in my excited “Let’s Go Elaine” tourist voice. “What are you doing?”

“Well we’re thinking of hitting up the Marijuana Museum today. I hear you can take a hit off a giant bong!”

“ummm…Oh, well…UMMMM…that sounds lovely!”

“Have you been to the Sex Museum yet?”

“Ummmm…no, not yet! But it’s on the list!” (It wasn’t, but I had no idea how to hold my end of this conversation.)

“It was awful. We paid 7 Euros, and there was nothing to see! Total rip-off.”

“That’s because the Erotica Museum is the better museum, and it’s only 3 Euros,” an English girl jumps in.

Yes, that really was the exact conversation. They debate the merits of the Sex Museum versus the Erotica Museum while I finish my toast quietly. Frankly, I bet the Marijuana Museum would be hilarious with friends. But at this point at the trip, I just didn’t want to try and pretend to muster the enthusiasm up for a museum I didn’t have any aching desire to see. I wrote Amsterdam off for meeting new people.

Which is why meeting Sid made the Heineken “experience” actually worth experiencing. One of the highlights of backpacking is that you can meet people in happenstance situations and then choose to spend the rest of the day with them. Sid, short for Sidhartha, is an expat from Amsterdam currently working out of the Hague. Traveling brings the most fascinating people into your life. Back home, I’m fairly introverted. Meeting so many new people in 2009 pushed me so far out of my comfort zone it was exhausting. By the end of the year, I wasn’t open to meeting to new people. Traveling by yourself, you make the effort to meet new people or perish from loneliness. And thank God for that, because I’ve met people from countless countries and all walks of life. One of my biggest desires from traveling is to work hard in 2010 at meeting new people, especially people who don’t live/work in the social media bubble.

Sid and I finished the Heineken brewery tour (which was lame-o) and went for steaks, frites and beer at a nearby restaurant. When you walk into a restaurant, you aim to see more natives and less of the fannypack brigade. This restaurant was spot on. My super bloody steak and frites  coupled with great conversation was a much better experience than Heineken.

I wrapped up my stay in Amsterdam with a bike ride, which is the best way to see the canals of Amsterdam. On my earlier Amsterdam tour, the guide cited a fact were there was approximately two bikes for every citizen of Amsterdam. Yet, for every citizen of Amsterdam that owns 1.72 bikes, I didn’t see a single one wearing a helmet. Not one. Despite my map and several of the sites I read declaring how dangerous and crazy bike riding in Amsterdam is, the Amsterdamians haven’t gotten the memo. Is Amsterdamians a word? It is now. Go with it. It’s a cross between a dalmatian and someone who lives in Amsterdam. Pronounce it Am-ster-dame-e-an, and file it away in the Elainguage dictionary.

You leave for three months, and things change. Mainly, several of your friends pop up with new blogs that you didn’t realize they had.

My friend James Baber has a new blog, I am QuasiJames’ Mind. A brilliant thinker who unabashedly says what he thinks. Rachel Ryle has a new blog with the best title ever, Once in a Ryle. Rachel spent an entire year rhyming every single one of her Tweets, so expect good stuff from her. Cali Harris has a new blog called Caligater with posts that will dance into your heart. Which is appropriate for an award-winning dancer. My former Schenkein colleague and friend Abbey O’Neal has a blog called Days Like These about living with purpose. Her writing is striking me right at the heart as it is a lot of things I am working on right now.

And…a belated shout friend to my friend Ryan Behner. Ryan committed to doing a photo a day in 2009, which he actually followed through on. And not only did he do a photo a day, they were absolutely brilliant. Before I left for my trip, Ryan was so kind as to do a photo walk with me to give me tips on photography. He is as kind as he is talented. And every time he looks at my photos, he must reflect upon how those two hours were wasted.  Fear not Ryan, when I get back I’m going to waste more of your time as I really want to get better at this.

Ryan Behner photo. (I miss home.)

I am driving you home. Ryan Behner photo.

I interrupt my travel writing to share an article/post about fashion I think you should read. Even if you don’t like fashion or don’t care at all. The article is written by Tavi, a fourteen-year-old fashion blogger, who is an overnight sensation and gets to attend couture shows in Paris. Not that I’m jealous. Ok, I’m totally jealous. Anyway, her article does a really good job of explaining why people love fashion, and why it matters to so many of us. And really addressing the stereotypes that come along with fashion.

Soooo…speaking of fashion shows. I’ll be in NYC during Fashion Week. I’ve never been so excited about anything in my life, and will go and watch the crowds. (hi George, hope you don’t mind…) BUT, I was wondering, if any of my five readers have any contacts in the fashion world and could help me attend a show. It’s a Life List thing to attend a show rather than waiting for Style.com to load the pictures of the shows. So if you have any connection at all, would you consider dropping me an e-mail at ElaineEEllis (at) gmail.com. I’d be eternally grateful. I know it’s unlikely, but I thought I’d put it out there.

Map Reading in Rome

Everyday I am amazed at the kindness of total strangers in helping me along my way. In Bern, a father and teenage daughter spot me reading directions and walking around aimlessly with my pack on my back. They approach me in English, walk me half way to my destination and wish me safe travels.
A women from Norway seeks me out after sitting next to me on a canal tour in Copenhagen to bear hug me and tell me, “May God bless you and your travels.” As I pace nervously outside a hotel (not my own) at 4:45 am in Reykjavik, Iceland, the hotel manager comes to check on me and informs me that the shuttle has already left. She calls a cab for me, tells me not to worry and makes me coffee with biscuits as I wait.

As me and three men are examining a map in Munich attempting to find a good local watering hole, a women stops us to ask us what we are looking for. When we tell her a local bar, she tells us the name of where she’s come from and that she’s pretty “sauced”, so we will have a good time there.

As I said in my Iceland post, pulling out and staring at a map is a universal sign to either mug me or help me find my way. Repeatedly Europeans have graciously offered a stranger help in finding her way, purchasing tickets and making sure she gets off on the right train stop. In America, we frequently hear of Southern hospitality, but European hospitality would give Southerners a run for their money.

Yes, I had my wallet stolen in Florence. Yes, some man decided to whip it out of his pants to flash me in Rome. But you can’t let a couple of bad moments color the daily acts of kindness I’ve seen from Europeans.

It has me contemplating my own kindness towards others. When people are on street corners looking at maps, literally or figuratively, am I extending basic kindness that can be so meaningful?