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 and Siena.

My View From Mass

I had my heart set on a Tuscan Christmas. Ribollita, roasted chestnuts , chianti and panettone within the rolling green hills of Tuscany. Too much Under the Tuscan Sun under my skin. My vision is solidified when I sit down at The Kitchen community dinner next to two couples who spent Christmas in Siena the previous year.

I am not the most religious of people. Mass is an experience full of cultural traditions that I never seemed to get the hang of as a child or young adult.

“Left or right? Right or left? What is Katie doing? LEFT OR RIGHT?”

I would inwardly panic as I crawled closer to receiving Communion and struggled to remember which hand went under which hand.

Then there was the Mass where the Priest asked for a silent Peace Be With You. In which I loudly told everyone Peace Be With You in my best Elaine outdoor voice.

Or maybe the time I took Communion with my Mom at Notre Dame, and she told me to never tell anyone what happened. In respect of her Catholic upbringing, I won’t tell that story here.

But I will tell you my Mom told me and my sister not to tell her relatives that we don’t go to Mass regularly at one family reunion. I suspect they caught on pretty quickly. Not sure what would give it away.

But I am downright giddy for midnight Mass in Italian on Christmas Eve at the Duomo.

At the onset of Mass, a buzzard rings as if to announce: It’s Catholic Time!

I think I actually inherited my father’s sense of proprietary because I am shocked to see the altar boys wearing jeans and sneakers under their robes. What is this world coming to? Children, the night before the birth of Baby Jesus we wear dress shoes, which is the equivalent of modern day incense and myrrh. In fact, most of the female congregation is decked in jeans and boots. Baby Jesus weeps for you! Never you mind my own Mass attendance or the fact that my hotel desk clerk shook her head when I asked if my dress was appropriate indicating that short sleeves were a no go. At least I didn’t live Tweet mass Dennis Crowley style (I might have had the Duomo had free WiFi).

The Mass is beautiful despite not understanding most (any) of what is said. I do recognize the word Christ, which is pronounced Cristo as in the Count of Monte Cristo. And a lovely Italian version of Holy Night and Silent Night. And just like that, Mass is over.

Afterward, the whole congregation seems to be heading the opposite direction of me. I go with the flow hoping this is the moment the whole town gathers round the large village Christmas tree, gathers hands and sings Holy Night. But no go. The entire congregation just appears to live in the opposite direction of my hotel.

I spend nearly the majority of Christmas exploring Siena, which is fairy tale beautiful. Minus the part where the whole town seems averse to holding hands and singing Christmas carols around the Christmas tree.

At one point I will find having my wallet stolen in Florence three days before Christmas funny, but I am simply not at that point. Maybe when I have some form of plastic back in hand. Then I’ll blog Florence. Until then, thank you to my Aunt Mary Jo for wiring me money, Kari Bobo from First Bank for going above and beyond to get my cards back and to Andrew Hyde for helping me book a hostel so I would have somewhere to send the cards. And Jackie McKenna Sablich? Thanks for being my person. It’ll mean more to me than you’ll ever know.

You Know What I Also Left in Florence? My Wallet!

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 and Siena.

I love traveling alone, but it is wonderful to reconnect with the people you’ll know you’ll get along with. In Venice, I meet up with Jonathan, whom I met in Stockholm, for what is the last leg of his journey before he heads home to New Zealand.

Tourists Line Up To Take Our Photo

I am really excited to meet up again with Jonathan, and of course, he is really excited to meet up with me too. Which is pretty evident on our gondola tour of Venice that I insist upon.

“In the three months I’ve been traveling, this is the only time I’ve actually ever felt like a tourist.”

“Oh my God, are they taking pictures of us? Great, now I’ve become the tourist attraction.”

The look on his face says complete horror, but I know in his heart of hearts he would have been devastated to miss this authentic Venetian experience. And in my heart of hearts, I know he’ll regret his decisions not to take the gondola tour wearing Venetian masks or to get his picture take with the ribboned gondolier hat, per my suggestions.

I find it really easy to talk with Jonathan. Not because he’s an easy going Kiwi, has put together

Complete Horror

an incredible European experience or because he listens to crazy amounts of indie music, but because he’[s a Macbook Pro owner. Mac owners are just better conversationalists. You can talk (or not talk and just be smug) for hours about the superiority of Macs, apps you like and Steve Jobs.

With our full day in Venice, we see the classics. And take our authentic Venetian gondola ride. But the highlight of this trip is food. A Canadian staying in my room in Bern told me to look for the snail symbol on menus, which signifies the slow food movement. The other tip the Canadian gave me for finding amazing gelato is that banana gelato should be a grey color since it'll mean they aren't using artificial colors or preservatives.

Flooded in Venice

We don’t actually see many people who are actual Venetians. I express my view to Jonathan that not many people appear to live there. “Elaine, I don’t think the entire population consists of people selling leather handbags and Venetian masks,” Jonathan expresses in his smug New Zealander accent.

We’re staying a hotel in Venice rather than a hostel. Previously, I used to be a bit elitist towards hotels and their services. Once you start renting sheets and towels on a regular basis, you become a lot more appreciative of the little things. Pre-hostel living, I would have been unappreciative of mini shampoo bottles. Not Aveda or Bliss Spa? Meh. Now I’m more along the lines of, “Is this Suave??? Oh man, I love Suave,” and stuff my backpack full of said Suave.

Our hotel offers complimentary embroidered slippers. (At least I think they were complimentary. Waiting on the bill to be certain.) Which are now residing at the bottom of my back pack. It is nice to take a few steps back in life to be more appreciative and realistic on what you actually need in life. My experiences are not diminished because I’ve been wearing the same clothes for multiple weeks straight or sleeping on rented sheets. It does not make what I’m seeing less beautiful or the

See, this is pretty and FUN!

people less interesting. And when I do receive embroidered slippers and Suave shampoo, my attitude is of appreciation rather than expectation.

Jonathan left me with two sentiments that I hope will season the remaining weeks. At one point he mentioned that he just wanted to live as much as possible on his trip. While simple, I loved this perspective of cramming in as much fun and adventure into three months. He also told me about one of his trips into Estonia that he figured a lot could go wrong, but a lot could go right.

Thanks Jonathan for such a fun couple of days and helping me view my trip with a different perspective. And sorry that I ruined your hardcore backpacker reputation by making you take a gondola ride. At least I didn’t tag the above photo, Jonathan <omit last name>: Venetian Gondola Ride Taker.

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 and Siena.

While staying at my hostel in Milan, I tweet out that I am worried that I’ll be stabbed to death in my bed. My adorable friend Drew sends me a very worried direct message on Twitter. Not because he’s worried that I’ll be stabbed to death, but because he is so mortified that I am wasting one of my 90 days in Milan.

“Milan SUCKS! Why are you there? Just see the Duomo & get out. Milan works so that Italy doesn’t have to. Super industrial there.”

Well said Drew.

After embarking off the train, I take the subway. And then I get lost. Seriously lost. The hostel directions were missing key ingredients like 3 or 4 street names needed to get to the actual hostel. By the time I get to the hostel I’m almost in tears as my shoulder straps are off and my back is extremely sore.

As far as I can tell, I’m the only one staying at my “luxury” hostel, which itself is suspect. Then there are no locks on any of the doors and no lockers for your luggage, which is highly unusual. The sole hostel employee is a strung out Australian.

With only a couple hours to explore Milan, I head out as the snow dumps. Which wouldn’t have been a big deal if the zipper on one of my boots hadn’t broken that morning (thankyouverymuch Zappos and Seychelles), and I had to wear my Converse. Needless to say after an hour or two, my sneakers are soaked.

The next morning, I attempt to blow dry my sneakers and get them to the point they are damp and not soaked. Damp sneakers might have been fine except I need to stand in the Milan train station for nearly an hour in the cold waiting for them to post the platform number of my train. Which they did. Ten minutes after my train should have left. Oh, and there is a 90-minute delay. And I have no feeling in my toes. I use my delay to buy ugly boots. Which comes in handy as my train is delayed another 60 minutes.

Oh and the Duomo. It’s ok I guess.

Thanks for the memories, Godforsaken Milan.

Kate, if you could read this to Xander, I’d love it very much. I’m sure he won’t pay any attention, but then it’ll be just like me reading to him in real life.

Dear Xander,

Today you turn three, and I just wanted to let you know how much I love you.

When leaving for this trip, the only time I cried is when I had to say goodbye to you. And then I bawled. Because I do not mind missing Christmas or New Year’s back home, but missing you and your birthday is the hardest part of being gone. You grow so quickly and in the three months I’ll be gone, you just might forget me. And that would break my heart.

One sentiment I’ve always held onto is the belief that you were made for our family. After Mom passed away, Carrie told me that when your parents passed away, they got to help pick your children in heaven. And after you were born, I had no doubt that Mom and Dad helped pick you out for Kate and Jace.

You helped fill a giant hole left in our lives. Watching you grow up has been one of the greatest privileges I’ve ever been given. Everytime I see you, you leave me awed and more in love with you.

I love your little surfer haircut. I love watching you babble out words. I love reading to you and you not paying attention to me at all. I love the way you get a mischievous smile on your face and completely disregard what your parents are telling you (especially if it’s your Mom!). I love you so much that I love your temper tantrums even if they’re directed at me. I love the fact that you listen to Coldplay, watch the movie Halloween 3,336 times in a row and that you mouth the lyrics to the intro as you dance around.

I love how you greet me as “Aunt Elaine!” and run up to see me. Even if the excitement generally lasts less than a minute. I love taking you to museums and the places my parents took us as children. I loved the time we asked you who the Wooly Mammoth looked like, and you said “Mom!” Even if what you meant to say was the character from Ice Age.

I can’t be there today to wish you a Happy Birthday, wrap you in my arms and suffocate you with kisses. But I want you to know on your birthday that even if you can’t understand what your Mom is reading to you, you are loved.

After you lost your Grandfather Rick this year, I was devastated that you only had one grandparent to watch you grow up. But as someone told me (and I can’t remember who) that they were all your surrogate grandparents. Your Great Aunt Julie, Great Aunt Diane, Great Aunt Mary Jo and Uncle Gene and your great Godparents Marilyn and Larry love you too. As do Rick and Linda’s siblings.

Happy Birthday Xander. You are loved.

Aunt Elaine

The capital of Switzerland, Bern is actually a small town with a population of a little more than 100,000. The town is so historical that UNESCO has named the entire old town a world heritage site. It’s like Old Town Arvada, but you know, with history of a more riveting nature. (Not like the Old Town Arvada flour mill isn’t incredible.)

Since I only have one full day in Bern, I decide to take a four-hour iPod tour of the city (my blog on the tour for Soci@lByte here). The tour is incredibly well done and lets you pause the tour to take detours as you wish.

I decide to take one detour when I see people lining outside The Münster, their largest Cathedral, for what is a free military concert. I was thrilled to land there at exactly the right time. As the doors open, I rush in and grab a seat at nearly the front minus a dozen rows saved for the actual Swiss military. I live for these moments of kismet, when I just happen upon a choir singing Christmas carols or a giant Nativity scene in a courtyard.

As the drum and flag procession begins, my excitement diminishes. I realize that I’m not actually at a military concert but that I’m actually I appear to be at a military graduation. And that I’m one of the few in jeans and definitely the only one in Chucks. And I’m sitting practically front row surrounded by proud picture-snapping parents and snazzily dressed Swiss military men.

The only thing more boring than listening to some pompous graduate telling you to soar high like an Eagle is listening to that same speech in German. I make it through two speeches before I make my escape, keeping my head low to avoid the stares I know I’m receiving. Glares are a universal language.

Kismet is awesome, isn’t it?

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 and Interlaken.

Andrew Hyde gets us lost. Do you see cacti there?

In Athens, I got my first glimpse of what it must be like to travel with locals.

The first night I’m in Athens, a colleague of Andrew’s not only gives us a restaurant recommendation, but takes us there personally, introduces us to the waiter, who then gives us complimentary ouzo shots. The food is phenomenal, and this is a local’s favorite.

I am under no illusion that I am seeing the real fabric of the countries I am visiting. In and out in most countries in three days, I hear more English spoken at the sites I’m visiting than whatever the native tongue is. I’m not visiting local favorites, I’m visiting tourists’ favorites. Both have their pluses, but as I write this post, I’m starting to crave a more authentic version of what I’m doing.

I loved the Acropolis. Who wouldn’t? 25 centuries of history reside in Athens, and it is evident

At the Acropolis

everywhere. The subways have exhibits to the artifacts they found while building out the infrastructure for the subway. Even the H&M shows you how they are built on artifacts. One of the locals I meet at Startup Weekend talked about that if you get a building permit, you hold your breath that they don’t actually discover anything while digging. Which of course they do because this is Athens, and it has 25 centuries of history everywhere.

The Acropolis Museum is an incredible building, and is a can’t miss if you go. Provides great perspective on the Acropolis. And is only a Euro. We got frappes, the coffee drink of Greek choice, at the coffee shop on the roof.

At a church right below the Acropolis

I also got to meet some incredibly nice and brilliant people at Athens Startup Weekend. Their hospitality was wonderful, and it was the only leg of my journey where I’ve really gotten to speak to the people living in the countries I’m visiting. One of the cultural nuances that I find hilarious is that everyone is in scarves and jackets. And it’s seventy degrees Fahrenheit. As Vicky told me, if they don’t wear scarves now, what will they wear when it’s 100 degrees out? I wore short sleeves and looked like a tourist. Well, the short sleeves and my albino pallor created the tourist luster.

One other aspect that I find fascinating is that Greece with all of its amazing history is refuting the legality of other countries possessing its historical artifacts. Like the incredible Elgin Marbles. The Getty Museum from Los Angeles had to return more than 40 artifacts to Greece. Including this incredible wreath.

If your nation’s historical artifacts are plundered a century or more ago, chances are you’d like

Plundered Wreath Gets Returned

them back in their rightful country. But where does it begin and end? Every museum has an Egyptian exhibit (including Greece). A lot of these artifacts were taken under auspicious circumstances.  France just agreed to return several items to Egypt that were stolen. What is the statue of limitations on plundering or is there one at all?

It makes me more thoughtfully consider when looking at artifacts about where they belong. Can’t wait to get back and discuss this with Bruce Wyman.

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 and Interlaken.

Church from Sound of Music

The Beatles. Cadbury Chocolate. The Sound of Music. European imports that American women go crazy for. And American women in hordes descend upon Salzburg for The Sound of Music tour.

I too made this cultural pilgrimage. Back in college while visiting my friend Jeanna in London, she mentioned she had just came back from the Sound of Music tour, and I put it on my mental to-do list of places to visit.

Yet somehow the pinnacle of this city was dancing around a stripper pole at 3 am at a gay bar.

I spent day one sightseeing with my hostelmate, an Australian named Zara, who had also been at the second hostel I stayed at in Vienna. We then ran into Winnie, a

Pregaming

Canadian, who I had met at my first hostel in Vienna. Sabrina, a German, introduces herself to us. On our way to get beers at the hostel, we run into Alex from Florida, who I’ve now run into at Stockholm, Vienna and now Salzburg. while drinking, Will an Australian, introduces himself.

We close down the hostel bar and then another bar and are told the only bar open was Maxxs. Which incidentally turned out to be a gay bar. With a stripper pole. Back home I would have refused to have participated in a turn around the pole. But here? Here I take several turns. Here I know no one, so why not? Although should I start running low on Euros, I don’t think I’ve found my latest profession.

I tackle the Sound of Music tour the following morning. Raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles, warm woolen mittens, brown paper packages tied up with strings. These are a few of my favorite things. Hangovers with over animated tour operators telling awful jokes and enacting out scenes from Sound of Music? Almost killed my favorite musical forever.

“I really don’t like the sound of the Austrian language,” I told my hostelmates.

“Actually, I believe they speak German,” my hostelmate replied.

As my friend Tara says, “It’s great to see you spreading your awkwardness all over Europe.”

Eleven countries into my trip, I’m making more of an effort (albeit a limited one) to learn the languages of the cities I’m visiting. You know, like the Austrian language.

German is a fierce sounding language befitting of a country with a tough military background. One of my hostelmates told a story of how his tour guide said to pay attention to the rules at the exhibit since “nothing is scarier than being yelled at in German.”

And in Spain, I’m able to use all of the Spanish I learned in high school. And by that, I mean “Hola.” As my former boss Doyle pointed out, I also know burrito, enchilada and sombrero. And therefore, I’ll be well dressed and fed.

After making a concentrated effort to use hola and gracias in Spain, I couldn’t seem to shake the phrases in Austria. Nothing like having poorly pronounced Spanish words from an Albino looking Russian while being in Austria. Graciously, the Austrians nod and politely look away from the cultural catastrophe that is me.

I’ve started asking my hostel upon check-in for at least basic phrases since I chucked my travel guide awhile back. Frankly, it’s rude to go into a country and not at least learn basic phrases. Now that I’m not going to jump around as frequently, I want to start entrenching myself a little bit more into the different cultures, so I can complacently further butcher their languages.