A Long Story...Short

There was a bus, a tram, a subway, and a train…that got our group back to Rome from the beach. We had secured plane tickets for Thursday the 22nd of April from Milan to Prague late Monday night, and we figured we would spend a short Wednesday afternoon in Italy’s fashion capital before bunking down in the airport for our flight the next morning.

And then the fun began…we arrived at the Rome train station at 8:29 am with the intent of buying a ticket on the first train to Milan—at 8:33am. As you may or may not have guessed, we did not make the first train, so we bought a ticket on the second train scheduled to leave at noon and arrive in Milan around 7:00pm. Not a problem, we would just catch dinner in the city, right? Wrong, a train derailment caused a two hour delay for our train that only made my getting up at 6:00 am that much more pleasurable.

We arrived in Milan: smelly, tired, and a bit temperamental around 10:00pm hoping, praying, and pleading that our flight the next morning would not be cancelled.

We found a place to eat. We found a place to check the Internet. We found our way to the airport. We crashed.

And we commenced the longest night of my life. I could pretend that I was tough and say it wasn’t that bad, but my middle class upbringing has caused me to covet certain things. The least of which is a bed with a blanket and a real shower. Freezing, fearing the loss of our possessions, and just downright uncomfortable, I wanted nothing more than for morning to come.

The next morning—never so happy to get out of bed—we prepared for our flight. On time and ash free we make to the City of Spires, but we are still a bus, a train, and a tram away from our almost homes. 36 hours of travel and many purchases of price gouged food later, we arrive to our almost real beds. And we stayed there for the next 36.

It’s a Sunset

For spring break, our group was pretty meticulous—honestly, we were downright anal. We had multiple planning meetings lasting no less than two hours each. Books detailing what we should and should not see, and how to get there. And comprehensive spreadsheet outlining every dime and every minute we planned to spend. Honestly, the Travel Channel had nothing on our group.

Then the message came: “Dear Sir or Madam:/We regret to inform you that your flight destined…has been cancelled due to the ongoing…” Words cannot describe how disheartening a letter like that can be when a person is several hundred miles away from their already temporary home. What does a person do? Where does he or she go?

My worry wasn’t that we wouldn’t have something to do—we were in Rome after all. My worry was that we would have nowhere to go. The hostel we were staying at was already booked through the week, and the websites listing other hostels in our area weren’t much more promising. Not to mention, the newspapers and talk radio were doing nothing to improve my optimism.

So…what does a person do when all the airports are closed and all of the train tickets have suddenly skyrocketed? Well, they find the nearest beach, of course, buy a few bottles of vodka and hope it will all be over in a few days.

When they are hungry, they eat…when they are thirsty, they drink…when they are tired, they sleep, and they realize very quickly that life goes on. I may never see the Eiffel Tower or Abbey Road, but I would also never give up our few sleeps at the beach. It is a sunset, a symphony. It is that which makes life interesting.

Let’s Celebrate, Slavery?

There is nothing like a little slavery and animal cruelty to pull in the tourists. In fact, many cities survive on the exploitation of other's peril alone, but none quite like Rome, Italy. With perhaps the exception of a deep southern Civil War reenactment, no one place takes on the slavery with such indifference. Everywhere a person looks there is someone celebrating one of the blacker spots on the history of humankind.

Yes, men donned the garb of warriors to fight lions…and tigers…and bears and, oh my, that would be frightening, but not nearly as frightening as the reason these men were fighting in the first place. Remember, gladiators were Roman slaves force to fight, usually to the death, for their freedom. And if I were enslaved by a tyrannical ruler, treated as though I were less than human, I too would probably consider the near certainty of death almost as liberating as a meager chance for real freedom. Yet, here we are as a society celebrating this savage practice with costumes, souvenirs, and all things that gather dust as we age.

Ten feet from the entrance into the Coliseum stands several guides wanting to help tourists, “Walk in the footsteps of the Emperors…” while they hear, “stories of Gladiator fights, [and] blood thirsty battles”— and hippies are considered to be threats to society. I suppose I am supposed to look at these stories of valor and strength as a testament to the resiliency of man…the knights—or Romans—in shinning armor. However, I am always stuck with images of the barbaric nature of man. The people, with any hope, we—as society—are teaching our children not to be.

A Story

“Come, sit down! You try our strawberry wine. My brother make it himself.” If the Maître d' of a restaurant is willing to hunt people down on the streets with promises of free wine, a person should expect a surcharge somewhere. If a man approaches a person on the street claiming to have the cheapest boat fares, a person should expect a less than subtle request for a tip. If a vendor sees a person staring too long at his or her Versace and Burberry knockoffs, a person should expect to be nearly accosted unremittingly for what seems like hours. This, in short, is the essence of Venice, Italy. No traveler should set foot in the city without the expectation of losing his or her shirt.

And as horrible as that description sounds, it is what I loved most about the city by the sea. The constant presence of swindlers and gypsies provide the city with a sort of endearing, “I have your money; you have a story” quality. Yes, you just paid thirty dollars for a glass of wine and spaghetti…yes, you just paid twenty-five dollars to ride in a glorified canoe…yes, that person is going to follow you back to your hostel…” but, if you can make it through with a Euro still in your pocket, you have a story. And that, in my opinion, is the essence of why a person desires to travel.

Laura likes Coke©; Freud Really Liked Coke

Vienna, Austria is famous for many things…The Habsburgs, Mozart, churches that take up entire city blocks, and Sigmund Freud. Being the rather morbid person that I am, only one of those things truly caught my attention. And so I was off to the Freud museum.

Anyone that is not a psychology major should know that there are really only two reasons to visit a museum devoted completely to Sigmund Freud. And none of them revolve around the id, the ego, or the superego. Well, not exactly.

Freud loved coke. And by coke I do not mean: “I’d like to buy the world…,” “The pause that refreshes, “Good til’ the last drop,” “Pure as Sunlight,” “The real thing.” Well, maybe I do, but not in the same sense.

To the good doctor, cocaine was that cure-all drug for any psychological illness—well, really any illness—that was in no way meant for thugs. And with side effects like: addiction, paranoia, irritability, restlessness, auditory hallucinations, and mood disturbances, this writer does not know how any person could disagree. This was the first question I wanted answered after paying four-euro to step inside the museum.

The second question revolved around Freud’s stages of psychosexual development—which makes a lot more sense once a person realizes the man spent the better part of his adult life literally hopped up on uppers. According to Freud, a person cannot develop a healthy personality unless he or she accepts his or her libido as the driving force for all desires. A concept made stranger when understood that this healthy personality should be developed by the age of five.

Any common tourist would expect to read about these things when walking into a Freud museum. Sadly, no. Less than two pages each of the sixty-page guides given to visitors are devoted to the only things most people know about Freud. Reading about his wife, his family, and his education are all great fun, but honestly, all real quests for knowledge are rooted in a desire for scandal—any Freudian scholar would know that—and the Freud museum offered very little.

I Never Wanted to Attend School in Seattle

I am not a particularly sunny person; in fact, I can be downright dark. I like rain. Rain can be fun, but even Bea Arthur liked a little sun every now and then. Today marks—I am not sure—the umpteenth day of rain since my arrival in Europe. And I cannot take it anymore.

My shoes are wet. My pants are wet. My hair is wet. And I can feel my soul becoming wet. All I ask is for one solid week of perfect weather.

One week where I do not start my walk to the big box store with a cloudless sky and finish the mile having waded through varying degrees of rain, sleet, and snow. One day where I only have to dry my hair once. One hour where I do not even have to think about my umbrella. Just one.

Easter Monday

Easter Monday is a very special day in Czech culture. For centuries a custom known as pomlázka has been practiced in the Czech Republic and other neighboring Slovak counties (each country uses a different name for the tradition). For this one day—and one day only—men, both young and old, walk around city squares with whips—yes, whips—made out of pussywillow branches scourging women’s legs—foolhardy men also scourge other areas of a woman’s body.

The practice has pagan roots but, unfortunately, I am not familiar enough with them to go into great detail. I did read somewhere that traditionally pussywillow whips were tools used by women to whip their livestock, husbands, and children into shape…so, I guess, Easter Monday is like a Sadie Hawkins ritual but with men taking on the dominant role. Women, in turn, are expected to take on the role of a submissive by giving out intricately decorated eggs (antiqued), candy, and in more recent years, shots of alcohol to the man performing the whipping. In the end, women who have been whipped are expected live longer lives and be more fertile.

I had first heard of this ritual during our group’s second week in the Czech Republic, but it was not until one of our leaders Jan discussed the ritual that I began to understand the full extent of it. Nonchalant, as always, he explained that Easter Monday is the only day that it is legal to whip women, and men use this to every advantage. He then went further to say —jokingly—that if a woman did complain to police or other officials she would likely be whipped again.

To try and put it into perspective…on Easter most of the stores that are normally open on weekends remained open for the holiday. On Easter Monday, everything but a few restaurants and the big box store was close in observance of the holiday. The people here really love their fetishism.

Being the masochist that I am, I decided to venture out Easter Monday morning to see the debauchery for myself.

Toddlers to men well past retirement age were running up and down the streets of the city with their sticks and bags for candy looking to find a woman. It was like trick-or-treating with whips. Seriously.

And everyone was having a good time—unlike most holidays in America where a specific group is either uprooted to the children’s table or thrust out completely because he or she has no one to kiss under the mistletoe. Aside from the chauvinistic undertone, I think America could use a little of this pure madness—sadly, I am sure we would ruin it with a marketing scheme.

The Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister

I would like it to be written that I love art. Impressionism…realism…cubism…I like them all, but I hate the Renaissance with my whole heart…my whole heart. A person can only look at so many cherubs before actually attempting to gouge his or her eyes out with spoons. And with the brief rant…it should come as no surprise to any of my readers that this gnome was forced into an art museum filled completely with art from the Renaissance period.

During our eight hours in Dresden, Germany our group was given tickets to attend the city’s famed art museum, “The Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister.” The museum is filled with three stories of Renaissance art. Three stories! Every story a little more painful than the last.

There was the dead white guys with collars room (actually there were a few dead white guy rooms), the dead white girl room, and paintings commissioned by the dead white guys and girls depicting either Jesus’ crucifixion, birth, or random cherubs—because that is what every person need hanging over his or her dinner table.
As I walked past the dead nobles and Jesus I found myself wishing I were the dead white girl on the wall instead of the person who had to stare at her. Unfortunately, I could not figure out how to make that happened, so I walked and stared and walked and stared and walk…until I could take no longer.

Our group was given nearly three hours to walk. I made it about two and a quarter before deciding that I was either jumping through the nearest window or leaving peacefully through the front door…either way I was getting out of that museum. A week later, it is my sincere dream that I never have to see another cherub again.

They Even Make Me Rhyme—A Poem About My Quadmates

by Laura Ahlman
(I am not a poet...and I know it).

My quadmates seem to be stealing my soap,
At least now their dishes would be clean, you’d hope,
But nope
Oh, how will I cope

I am starting to become mad,
Because they make my living conditions so bad,
It is just a little sad,
That they can’t figure out how to open a Glad,

They never hear it when people knock,
But constantly invite people from other blocks,
To enjoy whatever is in their wok,
And pay no attention to the clock.

They fail to clean up the eggs they broke,
On Thursday, they filled the building with smoke,
I wonder how many ways they can make me choke,
I really wish I were making a joke

Make Love, Not War

The Habsburg Empire ruled the Czech Republic until the early twentieth century. Who were the Habsburgs, you ask? Well, just your prototypical family that just happened to rule the greater part of Central Europe and the Holy Roman Empire…but that is a story for another day. It is much more interesting to find out how the Habsburgs managed to gain their power.

Most empires are built with guns, swords, and the blood of innocent men. Not the Habsburgs (well, they did a little of that on the side too…just not well). During the dynasty’s youth it was discovered that the Habsburgs have fighting skills that are akin to the boy who always received the swirly in middle school, but they knew how to play the political game.

Through a series of strategic marriages the Habsburgs managed to take control of the old world stating that empires are created in the bedroom not the battlefield. In my opinion, their family philosophy was probably one of the most intelligent political moves of all time. Sadly, families that only allow for noble birth can only sleep their way so far…and eventually they too fail—and everyone in the former empire now hates them. At least they can say that they added a whole new meaning to the phrase, “sleep you way to the top.” That has to count for something.

Dresden

Germany is an interesting place, and last Saturday morning our group found out why. As most readers probably know, Dresden, Germany was the site of a major Allied firebombing during World War II. The bombing is controversial to this day in likeness to the controversy express over dropping atom bombs in Japan—namely, the opposition views that there was a more peaceful end to the war.

The bombings in Dresden destroyed a large part of the city and thousands of innocent people were burned alive. It is little over a half-century later and the city is still trying to recover. Part of the city were left in ruins and many historical sites, such as the Church of Our Lady, were left as ash. After the war ended, Dresden and other cities in Europe were faced with a decision of what was worth saving and what should be forgotten.

Luckily (or not, depending on you views of nobility), many of city’s upper class neighborhoods were spared. They now make up most of city’s museums, and in 1985, it was decided to rebuild the famed Church of Our Lady. Still today as a visitor walks around the city he or she notices the constant process of rehabilitation but he or she can also feel the immense old beauty trying to work its way out.

Praha is a Bit of a Brouhaha

Arriving at Prague’s train station Thursday morning I was not sure what to expect. I have been to the city before. Actually, I have been to a lot of cities—cities bigger than Prague—but I was still a little nervous as I stepped off the train. Prague was supposed to be amazing. According to my friend back in Nebraska, Prague was supposed to be THE city. The city that I will love the second I step off the train. The city that will put all other cities to shame. In short, Prague was supposed to be like a little piece of heaven on earth. I, however, did not find Prague to be any more impressive than any other city I have ever seen and by the end of our long weekend I found the city to be downright vexing. Now, let me count the reasons.

People
As is the problem with just about any place in the world, people make much better doors than windows. And in Prague, there are people everywhere. Trying to walk between our group’s hostel and the main square—where we spent the majority of our time—was like trying to win a game of dodgeball by yourself against an opposing team comprised of thousands—and I hate dodgeball. Throughout the entire weekend I held on for the one moment outside where I could stop dodging and smell the roses. It never came. Instead I spent the better part of the weekend trying to avoid tourists who cannot rationalize why it is a bad idea to stop squarely in the middle of random places so that they can molest a thousand year old statue. Honestly, I have nothing against assaulting statues…just please, the next time you do it, step away from the crowd and help everyone to avoid a domino effect.

Money
As one would expect…Prague is a very expensive city. The average meal in Olomouc, from a street vender, is around $1.75. In Prague a meal from a street vendor is double and a restaurant is nearly triple. To put it into perspective…a cup of water in Prague costs about as much as a hamburger in Olomouc—not to mention that a cup of water is generally just that: a measuring cup’s worth of water. Continually a visitor to Prague must make the choice: food or water – or the choice many of my fellow group members made…beer.

People with money are the real problem with Prague—and, in general, with humanity. In Prague—and I am guessing the rest of the major cities in Europe—the locals do their very best to take the tourists for everything they have. And since many of the tourists are willing to give everything they have to the locals a vicious cycle has ensued. The locals have realized that they can charge just about anything and add on just about any fee as long as they advertise with the words, “Authentic Czech” somewhere in English. They know that they can add gratuity onto restaurant bills—which goes against European custom—and have tourists pay it without little or no fuss. Before going to Prague, a visitor hears about all of the city’s history and beauty. However, for this gnome, none of that can be enjoyed when several thousand people are vying for the chance to get a 25-dollar caricature of him or herself as he or she drinks a Czech beer.

The city seems, to me, to be a big charade and this sinister creature would much rather experience that which is real. After all, that is why I left my comfy bridge.
I should note: not everything about Prague was bad, but that is another post for another day. To be continued…