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 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.

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.

This blog post isn’t about my travels. But in case you were wondering, I’m in Paris. I’d blog more, but I’m currently trying to convince someone, anyone to marry me so I can live here forever.

“Hi there, Pierre. How do you feel about awkward Americans? No? What about your friend? How does he feel about awkward Americans? No? Hmmm….”

No, instead this blog post is about the amazing  and tall Tara Anderson.

Tara is doing a blog series of the best aspects of 2009. And Tara named me as the best new person in her life in 2009. No, really she did! You can read it right here. That’s right. Someone likes me! Unlike Pierre. I’m as surprised as you are by this blog post but even more honored.

Ralph Waldo Emerson famously defines success as…”To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children.”

Which puts me at 1 out of 2 as children usually shy away from me. But as Tara is someone who is immensely intelligent and someone I admire immensely, so this blog post meant the world to me.

I remember being intimidated by Tara and her Lijit reputation as a social media specialist for Lijit. She’s known as one of the best in the industry and was a total trailblazer here in Boulder and the rest of the startup world. That and her handshake is incredibly strong and intimidating. Be forewarned, Tara can kill a deer with her bare hands. She probably has. And then Adam, her adorable husband makes it in a gourmet meal with the vegetables they grew together in their garden. After they finished a marathon together. Like I said, Tara is intimidating.

But despite her many successes as an athlete, gardener, social media specialist, blogger, photographer and tall person, she can’t stay intimidating for long. She is one of the warmest, most genuine people you will meet. She filled the year of 2009 with fun memories. I’ve never helped someone purchase a wedding dress the week before their wedding while leaving a conference early. Or how she can rock a fur coat better than anyone else in Boulder e.g. Ingrid’s birthday party. Or how I can relax going to a tech event because I know I can find Tara being the life of the party.

Tara also gives me great advice. She told me to write a list of everything I wanted to find in a future husband. Which I did. In my iPhone. When I told her this, she told me, “ELAINE, what do you think the Universe is going to find your list in your iPHONE? No, you need to write that on paper.”

So I started writing the list along with my New Year’s Resolutions on a notebook while at Shakespeare & Co. in Paris when a very cute American named CJ struck up a conversation with me. And I thought, “OMG, Tara was so right. This paper thing is really working out.”

But then he said he would be right back, and he wasn’t right back. That’s ok. Tara still gives really great advice.

As Tara’s blog says, “It’s a tarable life.” And I am thankful for the tarable in my life.

**I’d post a picture together of us, but in the only one we have together, I have my angry Russian expression going on.

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

“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.

Finally, I can feel good about my shopping. Enriched even. After all, the Grand Bazaar is six centuries old, and who am I to pass up a historical experience?

The Grand Bazaar has nearly 60 lanes with 4,000 shops selling almost entirely the same items – gaudy gold, factory made pottery, hookahs, leather goods, fake purses and scarves. Rinse and repeat. The Bazaar involves heavy negotiating, and only a sucker would pay full price. (This is called foreshadowing, ladies and gentlemen.)

My first foray into negotations is tepid at best. I manage to negotiate a couple lousy lira off a sheep. (Felt sheep. Although buying the baah baah kind would certainly add merriment to my sister’s house this holiday season.)

I then hone in on the scarves. I confidently ask the price believing my negotation skills on par with a UN treaty broker. He wants $10, and I demand $6. He snorts and walks away. I am ready for this game. I too will walk away. Slowly. Ever so slowly. To my disbelief, he is letting me walk away from the best scarf I have ever known. Doesn’t he know what he had? What we had, the scarf and me.

I am crushed. I am dejected. I am in the biggest pit of despair.

I try my hand again with another scarf. I make the purchase (a frothy pink scarf that will look excellent against grey), but again only knock a few scant lira off the price.

I decide to try my hand with clutches. He asks for $15, I say I’d take $9. This translates into him thinking I’d take NINE clutches. A comedy of errors as he fetches more and more clutches. But it leaves me shaken, so I take it at full price.

At this point my negotation skills are so shaky, If I were an actual hostage negotiator, I’d probably be offering to send over more hostages instead of getting them back.

“Ok, so we’ll give you 10 million dollars AND we’ll throw in an extra 10 Americans. And a tote bag, free of charge!”

I give it one last chance.

“How much?”

“35.”

“I’ll take it for 20,” and this time I’m resolute. I’m running low on lira.

“30. Your eyes are so beautiful. Where do you get them from?”

“Your mother or your father?”

“Ummm…my mother?” This isn’t true in the least. I look like the postman’s child, and my sister repeatedly told me I was.

“Your eyes are so beautiful and will look lovely with the scarf. I’ll give you the scarf for $20.”

Now herein lies the problem. The scarf is hideous, and I finally got around to realizing it. I do not want this scarf. So Mehmet (or MattMatt as I hesitantly pronounced it) sent around someone to look for it in black and white.

“What are you doing tonight?”

“Drinks with a friend!” And by drinks with a friend, I mean sitting by myself in my hotel room, eating Toblerone and trying to get the courage to grab dinner by myself.

“Forget the friend. Call me, and we’ll do dinner or drinks,” he whispers into my ear. And thus, he invades the 10 inches of space I like to reserve for the Holy Spirit.

He then proceeds to hand me his card, which shows the longest pinkie nail I’ve ever seen. Either he is a forgotten member of the Lost Boys or he is shoveling a lot of coke into his nostrils.

I say I’ll call him and leave with my scarf of questionable taste.

And that concludes the Grand Bazaar portion of this trip. Shopping here is similar to gambling in Vegas. The house always wins, and the consolation prizes offer little comfort.

From my sister:

So this morning Xander was playing with his new calculator/phone he got in his happy meal. So I pick it up and I said, “Hi? Aunt Elaine? How are you? I miss you…..Uh-huh….you want to talk to Xander? Okay here he is” So Xander got on the “phone” and said, “What? What? What? What? What? What? What did you say? Oh. Oh. Oh. Huh? FUCK!”

I’m just wondering in your imaginary conversation what the heck you said to him to say fuck.

I think Xander was referencing the Paula Abdul story myself.

My friend Jacqueline has absolutely been killing it on her blog recently. Jacqueline frequently posts about her culinary adventures. After seeing one of her Orzo salads, I had to make my own. I suspect hers was a lot better. Check her blog to learn how to do braised pork loin, apple pie, chicken tortilla soup and other amazing treats. And I’ve been dreaming about her chocolate mousse for a week.

Chocolate Mousse (photo courtest of Jacqueline Malan)

If you were worried that I would be too busy blogging my trip to post gratuitous pictures of Robert Pattinson, then you are wrong. I’ll see New Moon in Europe. See earlier gratuitous pictures here and here.

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