Brussels, where Beer and Waffles Rule

After stepping off the train into what was most certainly not the prime real estate area of town, we quickly oriented ourselves, grateful to the people who consider poor lost souls when deciding to offer free maps in the train station. Soon we were in the Grand Place, a most accurate name for the location. The square was surrounded by a set of some of the most incredible buildings I’ve ever seen. We simply stood there gaping for a few minutes as we turned around and let ourselves absorb the immense beauty of it all. To think that some people can walk past architecture—art, really—like this every day, to have it as simply a backdrop to the monotony of every day life is beyond me. At home in Pisa, I still wake up each morning, walk out my front door, and shake my head in wonder at that leaning tower staring back at me. Meanwhile, most residents, my roommates included, seem to simply forget it’s even there. I would love to have the opportunity to immerse myself in a beautiful city for a few years. Just think, I could buy a tourism book and really go to every single place mentioned. (Grad school, anyone?)

But back to Brussels. I was pulled down to reality by the bottomless pit that is my stomach, particularly a stomach on a three-euro-a-day diet. Fortunately, before budgeting everything and discovering that we only had three euros a day left for food, we put aside 15 whole euros per person for a Belgian waffle restaurant (and another 15 euros per person for a creperie in Paris). This meant that today, for the first time since leaving Pisa, I could eat to my heart’s content, comparatively speaking at least. Discovering that waffle restaurants didn’t require a full 15 euros, we stopped at a waffle street vendor to start the day off right. Oh my goodness, does Belgium know how to do waffles! There were sugar chunks throughout the soft, crispy waffles. As I devoured my meal, my mouth didn’t think it could get much happier.

We wandered down the streets admiring the shops and discovering that Brussels is actually quite a hilly city! In one shop window, Alex stopped us in shock. Turning to look for the source of his surprise, we found a pack of Duracell batteries… with a bunny on the pack. What have we now, the Duracell bunny?? Hmm… We past the Royal Gallery and arrived at a cathedral and discovered in its front lawn a set of pimped-out, contoured park benches. While cat-napping on these, I spotted a truck. A red truck. A Pump and Mixing Service Truck, as the small print indicated. Though most of the text written on the vehicle was in another language, this essential part was in English. Yes, though I could hardly believe my eyes, I had found a red PMS mobile. Shrieking in delight, I jumped off my bench and began chasing the truck with my camera. My cousins quickly realized what I had discovered, but were somehow more amused by my response than by the vehicle itself. Okay, maybe I am ridiculous. I think the picture to the right captures quite perfectly my response to this wonderfully amusing truck. But seriously, you know there must have been an English-speaking person on that team just dying as his company chose the logo to paint on the truck. After this, what better an activity to do outside a cathedral than to teach your second cousins once removed how to do headstands? Irreverant, you say? No…

We wandered through the Parc de Bruxelles, where we saw men of all ages running in very short shorts past business men enjoying the lunch-break strolls. The prevalence and stark contrast of the two types of people filling the park was amusing. On the opposite edge of the park, we found the Palais Royal (Royal Palace!), where we stopped again to do some arches and headstands, including the tricky one-on-top-of-the-other arches.

Finally, it was lunch time. Returning to the Grand Place, we ordered a rich meal of waffles and Kriek-Lindemans Raspberry beer, which hardly tasted like beer and turned out to be a truly unforgettable beverage. It was in this restaurant that we found the most wonderful news article: a whole page on the strengthening of the dollar against the euro. There is hope yet, America!

After lunch we made the requisite stop at Mannekin-Pis, affectionately nicknamed P-Dawg by our very own Al. It turns out the little guy is actually quite small, and not nearly remarkable enough to be the city’s greatest source of pride. Stick with the waffles as your selling feature, Brussels. In our remaining time, we power-walked it towards the Museum of Army and Military History, where we heard we might find a most excellent set of arches. Along the way we passed by any EU government offices, since Brussels is the center of the EU government. It was really cool to get the chance to see that all. Of course we also enjoyed a chance to sprawl out in the grass by the museum and have some fun. On the way back, Alex and I were excited to find the solution to love! (Too bad it's just the equation for a heart in polar coordinates.) We took the time to admire the Palais de la Nation (and continue stretching out those sore backs). We strolled the scenic route back towards the train station, passing the Eglise Notre Dame de Sablon, the Place du Petit Sablon, and the Royal Musical Conservatory. Our trek led us to the Place Poelaert (the Brussels Courthouse) a majestic building, from which we got a full view across Brussels. Conveniently, there was also a giant glass elevator which we were able to ride down to reach the lower city-level. It gave a very Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator feel for a few moments. We meandered through some wonderfully old, classically European streets and made it back to the station with time to spare. That evening, we rode to Paris.

Bonn, home of Beethoven… and not much else

We arrived in the birthplace of Beethoven with high hopes, but the city, it turns out, could really use something else going for it. The whole town seems to be devoted completely to Beethoven. We started our day out at the Münster Platz and the Basilica of Saint Martin (called the Münsterbasilika). From here we found the Beethoven house, the place where he was born and lived for seven years. After wandering through the rooms, we went to Saint Remigus Parish Church, where Beethoven played the organ as a child. Next stop was the Beethoven concert hall, which was basically a regular old building but it had a funky statue outside it called “Beethon,” which is apparently a play on words since beton = concrete.

We found the residence of the electoral princes of Köln. (Yes, Köln—Cologne—not Bonn. No, you’re right, we were in Bonn.) That called for some arches, and we even tried some fancy work leaning on our heads and holding hands. In our wanderings, we made our way back to the good old Rhine, but this time we didn’t take a nap. Trekking onward, we arrived at the Bonn Universitat, which had some wonderful grass for frolicking and rolling around. As you may imagine, I did precisely that. After some more walking and a strange encounter with a sketchy, blue-lit bathroom, we discovered our castle, which was also labeled as a molecular physiology building. However, much more tempting than the interior was the grounds of the castle: before you knew it, we were climbing and swinging from trees like hooligans. It was here that I performed my first headstand in Europe. We also found some mega-cool poisonous berries. They may not have been poisonous, but it was much more exciting to determine that they were.

We watched with excitement as a man and woman became entangled when their dogs, with matching leashes, suddenly ran towards and around each other. To our dismay, we looked on as destiny was thwarted when the man and woman managed to untangle their leashes and continue on in separate directions. Clearly, Bonn is not the city of romance (or anything very exciting). We walked down some quaint German streets lined with old houses, and questioned as we observed young children playing with some rather unusual water toys. We returned to the train station, bought ourselves a couple of excellent German soft pretzels, and caught an evening train home.

Cologne: Cool Cathedrals, Crazy Models, and Uber-cheap Ice Cream

When Anastasia, Alex, and I arrived in Cologne, we realized that we couldn’t get in touch with Ploy, my sorority sister who was hosting us. We also realized that we couldn’t afford to travel to the stop where we thought she was staying. After staking out the best remaining places in the station to spend the night (damn homeless people beat us to the best of ‘em), going to a McDonald’s to quench our thirst on a drink we shared with three straws, and nearly freezing to death, we discovered that Ploy actually lived a lot closer than we thought. So in the end, we did indeed spend the night with a roof over our heads and a door to close behind us. Still, it is fun to reminisce about that night we almost spent homeless in Cologne.

On your first day in a new country whose language you don’t really speak, noticing that the headlines across their newspapers read in big, bold, capital letters KREIG! (WAR!) is not always a good thing. Or not ever, really. Fortunately, we had already heard that Russia had just attacked Georgia, so we could guess what the papers were talking about. Beyond that, we didn’t much know what was going on as we wandered through the city. Luckily, the train that morning spit us out right by the cathedral, which was a good starting point. From there we wandered around and eventually found the Rhine. Here, Anastasia taught me exactly how to do her signature backbend move. After having the good luck of finding a city map, we headed to the Chocolate Museum, which was filled with useless information and lies. After acting like we cared about the history and production of chocolate for a few rooms, we began power-walking through the museum only to discover that there were, indeed, no free samples. They did, however, enjoy showing us how chocolate was packaged and even discarded due to imperfections… as long as they could keep us on the other side of the glass walls. Surrendering, we took a table at the museum restaurant where we shared a glass of iced chocolate and, to my delight, a glass of Bailey’s chocolate cream. Oh, Bailey’s…

After this we took a nap on the banks of the Rhine. This was great until some drunken German picnickers decided to get too rowdy and ruin the pleasant afternoon atmosphere. So we picked up and headed out. In our wanderings, we found the St. Maria in Kapitol church where we befriended a set of lion statues. Continuing in our journey, we reached the arch at the city’s end, at which point we took our first arch-in-front-of-an-arch snapshot of many across the continent. Nearby, we found a local fair complete with musicians and street vendors. However, we were most interested in the ice cream… which sold for about 80 cents a cone! Most flavors were conveniently listed with Italian names, but feeling adventurous, we decided to go for the most undecipherable flavors behind the counter and learn to translate via our tastebuds: Malaga (eggnog with raisins), Wiener Mandeln (almonds), and Zimt (cinnamon). Being in Germany, we of course got ourselves some apple strudel to split.

As we wandered back to the train station, we discovered several things: 1. Germany is much more orderly than Italy. Cars, pedestrians, and restaurant owners all seem to respect their own boundaries. 2. German mannequins are crazy. Crazy, man. 3. The Killers were performing in Cologne that night as part of the Music Unlimited Cologne Festival! So we listened to the end of their performance from just outside the concert area, and we even caught the finale of fireworks above the Cologne Cathedral! What a way to end the night. Definitely earned an “uber-cool” rating in my book.

And so the adventures begin...

After a long day or two of travels, Alex and Anastasia arrived at long last in Pisa yesterday. I was already standing on their platform by the time their train from Rome rolled in. We bee-lined for my place and had a slow evening with pasta and Bacardi Breezers. (Couldn’t forget to celebrate Alex’s first night somewhere being legal.) We swapped stories and spent a lot of time laughing. Finally it was off to bed… at least that would have been a good idea. But Anastasia and I are much more inventive with our time. After all, what could possibly be more useful after non-stop traveling across nine time zones and spending a hot summer day in Rome than to help your second cousin once removed (that would be me) figure out exactly how tall and rich the future love of her life must be based upon the first initial of his last name?

…Somehow this made a lot more sense after not sleeping for over 24 hours. (I had also pulled an all-nighter the previous night in an effort to get some extra data analysis done.)

The next morning we woke at the crack of… 3:45pm. Holy crap! So we frantically packed our stuff, jotted down all the last minute information we needed from the internet, and closed up the apartment. We headed over to the Leaning Tower, where I was at long last reduced to being a tourist, but with my luggage strapped over my shoulders, I didn’t resist much: the tower is a perfectly respectable place to begin living the true backpacking-across-Europe dream. On our way to the train station, we also swung by the Scuola Normale Superiore and grabbed some gelato (requisite Italian treat).

We missed the train we hoped to catch, but the next still got us to the airport with plenty of time to spare. And so we were off!

When in Italy, Just Smile and Don't Ask

Here are some interesting observations I hadn’t considered seriously until trying to prepare Anastasia for her arrival (tomorrow!!):

Should you use cash or credit cards? In Italy, cash is almost always preferred, especially in restaurants. I’m not so sure that Italians consider it much of a civic duty to be entirely honest when reporting revenue. Also, do not ever expect precise change when making a purchase. Italians do not enjoy using coins smaller than the 5 or even 10 cent piece. You don’t really need those pesky two- and one-cent coins weighing you down, anyway. Conveniently, if upon your arrival at the next register you find yourself a few cents shy of your purchase total, the cashiers aren’t too demanding. I suspect the change they never returned to the previous customer will probably cover their losses at the end of the day.

Should you arrive early for the trains or are they always running late? This is a bit of a tough one. To be safe, you should always arrive a few minutes early because you never know with the Italian trains. However, even when they leave late, things always seem to work out. My train leaving Naples was delayed by twenty minutes, but I was lucky I’d set my alarm 15 minutes before the scheduled arrival time before falling asleep: the train still managed to reach Rome ten minutes ahead of schedule.

Is there anything you should bring to wear? If you want to look Italian, you will not wear shorts or sneakers. Despite the sweltering heat, Italian women will go to great lengths to avoid a fashion faux pas. Besides the standard set of tight jeans, they can be spotted in skirts and dresses, but death before shorts unless, as my roommates explained, you are in a beach town, at which point the article becomes acceptable though still not often worn. Also, forget practicality when it comes to shoes. Sneakers might spare you all sorts of foot pain, but these women would rather sparkle in their gold and silver sandals, of which it seems every Italian woman owns at least a pair this season. Fortunately, it is possible to find trendy (mostly silver and gold) tennis shoes for those who would rather not sacrifice so much on the comfort or those, like me, who are wondering how the heck they could possibly survive a whole week of touring around Europe in those uncomfortable little sandals and ballerina flats.

Do you need a visa? Thank goodness, no, people spending under 90 days in Italy are spared the nightmare of Italian bureaucracy. To get my permission of stay, one set of finger prints, although digitalized, simply would not suffice. The two offices demanding the fingerprints couldn’t possibly email the files to each other or even walk a disk across the street since that’s how close together they’re situated. An appointment with the “Questura” must be scheduled weeks in advance, yet still the office will keep you waiting several hours after the appointed time. Despite the proximity of the offices asking for the fingerprints, each only opens for several hours a day, rendering a single day’s visit to both buildings impossible. Efficiency is not a part of the Italian psyche. Workers update each other on the minutia of their social lives between grabbing each of your fingers, either assuming you don’t actually understand the country’s language or figuring that you probably don’t have much better to do that to get a crash course in their personal lives. Anyone wishing to live in Italy must prove themselves patient and in possession of a strong sense of humor.

Thanks to FunDraw.com for the free clip art!

Dear Mr. Would-be Latin Lovers...

Please do not tell me your name and carina or uscire in the same breath. Preferably not even in the same conversation.

If I’m wearing shorts, this is because for once it’s just too damn hot to try to assimilate into the Italian culture and wear jeans or a skirt. However, I can now appreciate why Italian women don’t wear shorts. To clarify things, these shorts were not put on to impress or invite you.

If I refuse to take off my earbuds when you speak to me, this is not a good sign. If I eventually rip one out when you won’t shut up to tell you I don’t speak much Italian, this does not mean we should try again in another language.

Just because you think I look French (and perhaps have by now realized that I speak French or have a French name) does not mean I will have sex with you today, tonight, or even at all.

Do you really think it's a compliment to tell me I look too pretty to be a Biological Engineer? What's that even supposed to mean exactly?

If you’re thirty years old, I’m too young for you. If you’re older, don’t ask.

Look me in the eye. If you would have to stand on your toes to kiss me, don’t try.

Who the hell do you even think you’re asking out? You don’t know the first thing about me. I could be some crazy-psycho-killer-bitch who keeps ex-lovers’ dead bodies stashed away in my closet. But seriously, if the only reason you want to take me out is because you think I'm cute, I'm not biting.

Asking for my zodiac sign will not win you points. How dumb do you think I am?

If all else fails, you do not have permission to grab, smack, or in any way touch my ass, thank you very much.

Love,
Me

Free Original Clipart at Designed to a T

A Visit from my Sisters (and... 4 days and counting!)

This weekend, for a change, I didn’t venture out of Pisa. Having a lot of busy-work to do and plenty of preparations left for next week’s adventures, I decided to hold the fort in Via Pasquale Galluppi. The highlight of the weekend was welcoming my sorority sisters Ploy and Yuri (my adoptive little sister!), who spent Saturday night in Pisa. We toured the city (for the whole fifteen minutes that required) and went out for pizza with Ramòn. (I had salmon and mascarpone—wow, delicious.) We got some gelato which was, as always, wonderful. I’m not sure how I will ever be able to eat in the United States again. The food here is just consistently… fantastic.

Anastasia and Alex arrive in four days. It's pretty incredible that we only met a year ago, and just because of the dumb luck that I ended up spending a summer in LA and my mom happened to remember that we had some relatives on the West Coast who "might be worth meeting for lunch one day." Exploring Europe with them will be an experience of a lifetime. I can hardly believe they’re almost here!!!