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!