tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84754136715567412302024-03-05T17:01:44.913+00:00KEEP 'HOLD OF YOUR HATwe may end up miles from hereJ. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.comBlogger49125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-87403627028313348272012-02-05T04:11:00.002+00:002012-02-05T04:12:36.498+00:00before we knew it all...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmSMMSPAL0fKJm8OjtYZfl9qOvSSBwFj2HFsIZ97ewx8I4nNCbdhPWCb21k43k7qdTu71QlWXhp2WGUP4wOrdzGq8p59u4sq70XRGyNINg7M6QzZaWnv93CuXU7vP1jcuGOffDzs_1wCM/s1600/DSCN0064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="351" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmSMMSPAL0fKJm8OjtYZfl9qOvSSBwFj2HFsIZ97ewx8I4nNCbdhPWCb21k43k7qdTu71QlWXhp2WGUP4wOrdzGq8p59u4sq70XRGyNINg7M6QzZaWnv93CuXU7vP1jcuGOffDzs_1wCM/s640/DSCN0064.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">guys, guys, guys! look at it! i just found this. this is the first picture of me in ireland. i look relaxed, but i was anything but. i was in my first bar as an alcohol-consuming human and i knew <i>nothing</i> about what i'd like to drink. that's peach schnapps in my hand there. no, i didn't finish it. i was walking around a new city with a new friend and everything was <i>just...so...new</i>. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">"ah, what a long way we've come," she says as she eyes that last cider in the fridge. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">what a long way, indeed. :)</div>J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-47460198797062443382012-02-03T04:34:00.001+00:002012-02-03T04:45:35.677+00:00it's the (bear) pitsRick Steves had a better time in Bern than I did.<i> </i>I can't actually say that for certain, since I barely remember what all I did there, but a few weeks ago, I had the good fortune to catch his Bern program on a PBS sub-channel, and...yeah, I'm 80% sure I definitely didn't do what he did.<br />
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(How much did I drink that night?)<br />
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Just kidding! That picture's from Dresden. In all seriousness, though, the most probable reasons I can't remember much of Bern are 1) because I had fallen into a hunger-based stupor and 2) I had scrapped my original plan on the train (see: hunger induced stupor). My original plan, in case you were wondering, was to find a way to stay in Lausanne or Geneva and stalk <a href="http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&rlz=1C1SKPL_enUS397US403&q=stephane+lambiel&gs_upl=&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.r_cp.,cf.osb&biw=1680&bih=959&ix=heb&ion=1&um=1&ie=UTF-8&tbm=isch&source=og&sa=N&tab=wi&authuser=0&ei=QlorT_X5FY-DtgehvqHIDw">Stephane Lambiel </a>(or at least go to the Olympic Museum and see his <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KlAekfUfIrI&feature=related">Magical Zebra Costume</a>). Unfortunately, I decided that the logistics of this trip would be too taxing on my weakened spirits and my much deflated budget, so I stayed in Bern, where I didn't really care to be, and where it did nothing but rain the second day. That said, it wasn't as miserable as this would make it seem.<br />
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From the pictures I have saved and my June bank statement, I can deduce that three main things happened:<br />
1) I walked around a lot.<br />
2) I spent a lot of money.<br />
3) I painted my nails.<br />
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Honestly, aside from the second thing, it was nice to stay in one place. Far beyond my expectations, Schwiezerdeutsch was incredibly difficult to understand. In a hunger induced stupor, I somehow managed to stumble into a cute little vegetarian restaurant advertising take-away containers filled with food for 3,70 a Schale. Without bothering to read the fine print, in proper co-oper style, I mixed tofu with salad with pasta with cheese with beans with rice and ended up with a mass amount of food. Expecting to pay only 3,70, I was surprised (and embarrassed) when the man at the counter tried to explain to me in Schwiezerdeutsch that the payment is by weight. I ended up paying 22-CHF for the damn thing. To make matters worse, the poor lad was forced to get cheeky. "You can take the bread off for the weighing," he said in Swiss German. I did nothing. "You can take the bread off," he repeated. Again, he was met with my blank stare. "Do you speak German?" he asked. The German minor in me, of course, was slightly offended, so I said "Ja!" and looked indignant. He shook his head and tsked his tongue and said in English, "Take the bread off, miss."<br />
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So, having failed to save money and having embarrassed myself trying to understand a language I thought I'd generally become comfortable speaking, I dejectedly took my take-away container to some steps to eat and stew in my own shame. (Also, don't get a tram pass for more than one trip. Once you get your bags places, you can generally walk everywhere. This mistake cost me a good 12-CHF if we're counting, and I'm <i>always</i> counting when it comes to my money.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRPYrCR9r4wYEVXPVXxR2rka_gmhUZmsck60ir1J8xqBn2fntQKk7iK8-YgV3jopx82EHKCZCT0s2CP6bZ0i4LXCFFYyTpQqnL1Zavy6v2lOX29Ev8VNVKFi1Imxg6cfxFv1lwfoo4fFM/s1600/DSCN4102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRPYrCR9r4wYEVXPVXxR2rka_gmhUZmsck60ir1J8xqBn2fntQKk7iK8-YgV3jopx82EHKCZCT0s2CP6bZ0i4LXCFFYyTpQqnL1Zavy6v2lOX29Ev8VNVKFi1Imxg6cfxFv1lwfoo4fFM/s640/DSCN4102.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>since the late 15th century in the city-gates pit. 1513-1763 on bear-square. </i>(like eyre square! it rhymes!)<i> today's cages built 1856/7 by architect friedrich tschiffeli, renovated in 1925. conversion of the pits 1995/6. </i></span></div><br />
That fiasco over, I set off to see the most memorable part of my trip to Bern: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/B%C3%A4rengraben">the bear pits</a>, or Bärengraben. They aren't exactly what they were in the 16th century, but they're still pretty damn cool. It's basically this habitat for bears that you can watch them playing and sleeping and generally being adorable. Bears are everywhere in Bern, actually. Not real ones, of course. But there are lots of statues. There's even one across the Aar River that's standing on its hind legs and looks real. Not kidding, either. I legitimately thought to call the police every time I glanced across the river because I thought that there was a bear escaped from the pits. Good thing I didn't. That bear is a fake!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5fQZCMCyiyrHC1sHS7Uit7YnyCcXWxRQrnDzqFAEEhaOludD7UJ2C-eK2lFPpF-_0RP3gNikCw5Ko_V6PQxBXaEKl454kbAk0GGw5JvRooBm14dgznPM-rzCVTSrCOw8GbGifdTnkPcM/s1600/DSCN4073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5fQZCMCyiyrHC1sHS7Uit7YnyCcXWxRQrnDzqFAEEhaOludD7UJ2C-eK2lFPpF-_0RP3gNikCw5Ko_V6PQxBXaEKl454kbAk0GGw5JvRooBm14dgznPM-rzCVTSrCOw8GbGifdTnkPcM/s640/DSCN4073.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">these bears are not fake</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcY2m7LjoJjIC9QqHeyVu-ilKSITezRVX1NYR9Ud_3kOhTwS1j60M-gUzE__ro_RZOCWMN1QKG-zTACjxNy95tQS3cw98DvVW0WOR9T7eskBMnwVPL-60RyjeEI_JJvmOgmbRa5cRNsE0/s1600/DSCN4079.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcY2m7LjoJjIC9QqHeyVu-ilKSITezRVX1NYR9Ud_3kOhTwS1j60M-gUzE__ro_RZOCWMN1QKG-zTACjxNy95tQS3cw98DvVW0WOR9T7eskBMnwVPL-60RyjeEI_JJvmOgmbRa5cRNsE0/s640/DSCN4079.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Other things I did...hmmm. I took a walk along the Aar, splashed my feet in the crystal blue waters, tried (and failed) to find salamanders or snakes, saw a cool cathedral, played in fountains, took pictures, listened to a brass band in a square, saw the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zytglogge">Zytglogge</a> (Zeitglocke) do it's thang. (Sorry for all the links, dear readers. But I really can't for the life of me remember any of these cool facts [see: hunger induced stupor] and I shouldn't take credit for things I don't remember, should I?) I also painted my nails and repacked my bags and ate some chocolate and pasta (because grocery stores in Bern were expensive too, goddammit!), watched telly, and splashed in a few puddles. <br />
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Just for your information, I keep coming back to the fact that I painted my nails because I left my nail polish in Bern. I left my towel there too, but it's not as important as my purple nail polish. It was a conscious choice to leave it, but just a word on how great it was... I got it for prom my senior year of high school because I wore a purple dress (PURPLE!!). Painting my nails became a great way to bond with one of my really close friends sophomore year of college. Then I went to Ireland and painted my Very Cheap Mobile so it didn't look like everyone else's. Then I gave the nail polish one last huzzah in Bern when my nails were looking especially good. And, in case you were wondering, I do kind of miss it.<br />
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Oh, yeah, and speaking of Rick Steves, I definitely thought I saw him in Bern. I'd just finished making a fool of myself taking a dozen awkward self-timer pictures with a bear statue when I stood up and saw a man with blondish hair, a blue collard T-shirt, khaki pants, and glasses. It goes without saying that I ditched my planned route to follow him. I kept wondering where the cameras were, if this really was Rick Steves, but I'd somehow convinced myself that he was on a real vacation and didn't want to be bothered with all that travel show nonsense. So I followed this man for about twenty minutes until he met a girl at a cafe and began speaking flawless Schwiezerdeutsch. By then I was lost, and he probably though I was creepy, but it lead me to cool fountains and a neat spider sculpture. So it's all cool. (And, since I typically followed nuns for fun, I suppose I <i>am</i> creepy?)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhirG9N5cTIGg8rVH0lC7tlx-x26LPl5TWSmkScxLW0KKzZpEeZkMmdnP__BTfnrdjOBcRih8dWKgAGhpxDvIzsj_CXZtSHHU4FDtattaz4Jm9GyoL9TKTmL39dVg6WhVSa_kgp2KUJlkY/s1600/DSCN4129.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhirG9N5cTIGg8rVH0lC7tlx-x26LPl5TWSmkScxLW0KKzZpEeZkMmdnP__BTfnrdjOBcRih8dWKgAGhpxDvIzsj_CXZtSHHU4FDtattaz4Jm9GyoL9TKTmL39dVg6WhVSa_kgp2KUJlkY/s640/DSCN4129.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> awkward self-timer pics, ahoy!</span> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx6NpewdXAm7sSEEZeeHeA6vEd0JKtdFuxPYypxhuzw6Xq_hO4WgoHbf9AzMa4JjHQIF9y-9fsneFFLIHGDg9RmEo4HFQj1IS6IThN5RSxO43_MQ_MdnSegA74Vn-apYsknTPvCFzuoK4/s1600/DSCN4149.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx6NpewdXAm7sSEEZeeHeA6vEd0JKtdFuxPYypxhuzw6Xq_hO4WgoHbf9AzMa4JjHQIF9y-9fsneFFLIHGDg9RmEo4HFQj1IS6IThN5RSxO43_MQ_MdnSegA74Vn-apYsknTPvCFzuoK4/s640/DSCN4149.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqARzen7BrsqZRGPx3R3Hug1trvyeqZ_iRXUtH7-0ZUuXMjIUG5GRJESEURsb3Z37H9IgzvwdcUNj9W3CoDpG0lJApBkcdAA9mjaSxe76OpZAC41yTF3-D9yFD-WDzZQyVhm8wWxwusLA/s1600/DSCN4151.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="460" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqARzen7BrsqZRGPx3R3Hug1trvyeqZ_iRXUtH7-0ZUuXMjIUG5GRJESEURsb3Z37H9IgzvwdcUNj9W3CoDpG0lJApBkcdAA9mjaSxe76OpZAC41yTF3-D9yFD-WDzZQyVhm8wWxwusLA/s640/DSCN4151.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
And on that note, I will leave you. Final destination: London.J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-18413025327783820082012-01-22T05:39:00.002+00:002012-01-22T05:45:29.054+00:00milanoops<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Much to the surprise of my pre-planned travel itinerary, I found out in Florence that I was going to be spending a night in Milan on my way to Bern, Switzerland. Now, this is probably gonna be the hundredth time I've said it, but I could not wait to get out of Italy. My diet there consisted of the occasional apple, Kinder Bueno bars, and gelato, though I did have toast one or two times at the hostel in Venice. The language barrier was tiring, especially since I was alone and didn't even know how to say "excuse me" on public transportation. I hated getting lost, and I was running out of money. This is not because Italy is a miserable place to travel. It's actually incredibly beautiful and worth every bit of suffering. I'd do it over again in a heartbeat. But that's all retrospective. While I was there, when I wasn't busy being awed, I was busy being miserable.</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So an extra day in Italy was sounding pretty dreadful when the man at the train station told me there was absolutely no way I could get from Florence to Bern on Monday morning. Much to the surprise of my doomsday fatalism, everything was fine.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx48yxOirHMGW0paIsY2Ehm1BztHlb2YJqZtsLLA1InOucSbzSWcTWZM80gGnP2Z6aTDPXNXPqELXXrv8FwmwPYIfcN1gy-YwwenkOhvs_jk6ta9vQmiyF63bCN-72UiySWl8KIPsuIuA/s1600/DSCN4044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx48yxOirHMGW0paIsY2Ehm1BztHlb2YJqZtsLLA1InOucSbzSWcTWZM80gGnP2Z6aTDPXNXPqELXXrv8FwmwPYIfcN1gy-YwwenkOhvs_jk6ta9vQmiyF63bCN-72UiySWl8KIPsuIuA/s640/DSCN4044.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
There's really not much to say about Milan. They have a nice tube system. For some reason I had to borrow fifty cents from some really nice tourists to get to the hostel. I eventually found it. It was run by a surprisingly unwelcoming Irish bloke and his friends (from various other countries) but I got a room to myself for mos of the day. It rained a lot. I got a slice of pizza from a fast food place because I decided I'd die without it. I followed a nun, found, and went inside a cool cathedral. It rained some more. I passed a lot of cheery-looking flower stands and contemplated buying some. More rain. I met a nice woman from New Zealand who, in exchange for the use of my iPod charger, gave me some really delicious chocolate. I called my mom from a balcony and it continued to rain. I had peanut butter for breakfast the next morning and left.<br />
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<div class="" style="clear: both;">And that is literally it.</div><div class="" style="clear: both;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both;">Thank god I plan trips as neurotically as I pack for them. I left two blank days on my EURail Pass for those just-in-case emergencies (or whims if you're an optimist). 20 euro (for the hostel) + 10 euro (for the ticket reservation) + 3 euro (for the pizza) = a minimal amount spent in exchange for a valuable learning moment.</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhviDlwrrJgE7eJByP054eDr-OBcvIboC8R6Skw8ZEhrO9y1ERcpCBtWsbD5-55zy6zgyhdqalJxjnAfCOVFA09iPVP6MDDN52isMSSTVZ02-5hcRk4x4FfT7U6Myr67Hftb3P1c0eehRM/s1600/DSCN4058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhviDlwrrJgE7eJByP054eDr-OBcvIboC8R6Skw8ZEhrO9y1ERcpCBtWsbD5-55zy6zgyhdqalJxjnAfCOVFA09iPVP6MDDN52isMSSTVZ02-5hcRk4x4FfT7U6Myr67Hftb3P1c0eehRM/s640/DSCN4058.JPG" width="480" /></a></div></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvnClsZi1FjhZsvr_e36OCNG1Kon75USTdgAFdfOeNoaGEN5LfhjYoC4NKy30vvzYp1vXaoX4lUiJgC3AEtzRtVc_Cpg_AjJLRbKBGti0KWUFbz99QyPb5Fj9x89KrSqTWSd7KAHyN4gs/s1600/DSCN4062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvnClsZi1FjhZsvr_e36OCNG1Kon75USTdgAFdfOeNoaGEN5LfhjYoC4NKy30vvzYp1vXaoX4lUiJgC3AEtzRtVc_Cpg_AjJLRbKBGti0KWUFbz99QyPb5Fj9x89KrSqTWSd7KAHyN4gs/s640/DSCN4062.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">One word of serious advice, though, to anyone traveling with a EURail Pass: The trains in Italy are not as mind-blowingly awesome as the trains in Germany/Austria/Switzerland. They are usually late. They are crowded and the air conditioning is usually broken. You <i>must</i> make a reservation (10 euro), and I'd recommend making it days in advance. At the very least, as soon as you arrive in a city, make your reservation to get to the next one. This is especially important if you are traveling on a busy day, like Monday morning, Friday afternoon, Sunday night, &c. This last bit of advice can be useful in the other countries mentioned as well. I made one reservation while in Germany because I was traveling to Munich (a popular destination) on a Sunday (a popular day). I didn't actually need it even then, but it was nice to have that added security.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4F7VO8sX6rjd9wY-wC6LGbT0LcUhHeFVziNK19VFy7NYo85ecmpBMJuPHkSdGv4B2sn7xLoco_N61vfHfgB8ZKSN3SRJEy2nBfOs549X2zH3tjUBvp4yU84F1zs9hWRp66FFDQRk2Ccw/s1600/DSCN4065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4F7VO8sX6rjd9wY-wC6LGbT0LcUhHeFVziNK19VFy7NYo85ecmpBMJuPHkSdGv4B2sn7xLoco_N61vfHfgB8ZKSN3SRJEy2nBfOs549X2zH3tjUBvp4yU84F1zs9hWRp66FFDQRk2Ccw/s640/DSCN4065.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Basically, what you're meant to gather from this post is that Milan was neither pleasant nor miserable, just a little unexpected blip where I continued my favorite game of "Follow That Nun!" and spent a ridiculous amount of time just listening to it rain. Next stop: Bern, the city where I realised things! What sort of things? You'll just have to wait and find out!J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-64028739010788724592012-01-12T05:37:00.004+00:002012-01-12T05:45:03.390+00:00you've been a long way awaySo, I was watching a movie in our college's German House. Mind you, it was a movie I love about a group I love that sang songs I love, so I was generally pretty content. I'd spent the day coloring with crayons, reading primary source documents, taking part in tea parties behind the information desk, and chatting with friends. So, yeah, I'd say I was pretty content. And then these lyrics happened:<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq"><i>Irgendwo auf der Welt gibt’s ein kleines bißchen Glück,<br />
und ich träum davon in jedem Augenblick.<br />
Irgendwo auf der Welt gibt’s ein bißchen Seligkeit,<br />
und ich träum davon schon lange, lange Zeit.<br />
Wenn ich wußt’, wo das ist, ging ich in die welt hinein,<br />
denn ich möcht’ einmal recht, so von Herzen glücklich sein.<br />
Irgendwo auf der Welt fängt mein Weg zum Himmel an<br />
Irgendwo, irgendwie, irgendwann.</i></blockquote><br />
Very roughly this translates to: "Somewhere in the world, there's a little bit of bliss, and I dream about it all the time. If I knew where it was, I'd travel the whole wide world over, because all I really want is to be happy. Somewhere, somehow, someday." Now, I've heard these lyrics a lot, and they've always struck a chord with me. They're sad-but-sweet, and they're true, and really just...Well, they're fabulous, but they've never hit me quite like they did when I was biking home. I was honestly just whistling the tune while waiting for the stop light to change so I could continue my commute homewards. I was looking at the holiday decorations and the war memorial and then, all of a sudden--BAM! Fernweh, wanderlust, get-me-out-of-here-can't-you-see-I'm-trapped!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz607u6k-G4RAvJD34BZb-qoAqimffLc-lX0bnXkrZLhVDuGcK-xlCnFdYSqTcMYpiF0_G1hUUnSjNbpHkXlh9H01Kww0H58RN8MSDDySumV8Ox3Q1wly5cphQargfG6fseY7Nv16kalw/s1600/DSCN0110.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz607u6k-G4RAvJD34BZb-qoAqimffLc-lX0bnXkrZLhVDuGcK-xlCnFdYSqTcMYpiF0_G1hUUnSjNbpHkXlh9H01Kww0H58RN8MSDDySumV8Ox3Q1wly5cphQargfG6fseY7Nv16kalw/s640/DSCN0110.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't like it here. Well, I'll be honest and say I don't <i>always</i> like it <i>here</i>. I have a very love-hate relationship with Oberlin, but I love Ohio and I've lived here all my life. Unless someone dashing from another state comes along and gives me a good reason to leave forever, I'll probably live here the rest of my life. There is a very big part of me, in fact, that enjoys being a hermit Hobbit homebody, which is probably why the prospect of not traveling over breaks this year didn't ruin my life. But every Hobbit needs an adventure, and I'm seriously Bilbo-ing hard right now. I want to see mountains, Gandalf! <i>Mountains</i>! There's a huge big world out there, and it makes me feel tiny, but I'm like those super-flexi trash bags! I can take it all in, no worries, ! Please, please, please, please, <i>please</i> let me go!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfC7ze1osj9a45VtRtQ8z0fNR45rMLTetUxxmbIDnICUvTYQ4c6APKs2oogEDhIzUe2Ge2JG5mJXjcOhiUAS1u1TaDwWdXQgCsDSQh8WFb2hfhfVhv29EkJ94LF3UrU8BMnCFS3KtHAFo/s1600/DSCN2763.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfC7ze1osj9a45VtRtQ8z0fNR45rMLTetUxxmbIDnICUvTYQ4c6APKs2oogEDhIzUe2Ge2JG5mJXjcOhiUAS1u1TaDwWdXQgCsDSQh8WFb2hfhfVhv29EkJ94LF3UrU8BMnCFS3KtHAFo/s640/DSCN2763.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br />
I guess...what I'm trying to say (really, honest-to-God) is <i>not</i> that I'm unhappy here. I'm <i>definitely</i> some sort of happy here. I've been down, but I'm on the up and it's feeling good. But there's still another sort of happy out there that I left behind. I want to have a plan, a direction<i>. </i>I want my confidence back. The past few days, I've been dreaming of Ireland and Germany. I've been lost in the Dublin airport again, on the trams in Dresden, splashing my feet in the Corrib, sleeping in a creaky hostel cot. I traveled to Ireland by myself, around Ireland (sometimes) by myself, across Europe by myself, but sometimes, when I'm here, I'm afraid to walk home from the library by myself. Loneliness here can be crushing. Loneliness abroad is empowering.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7bwLovKg6frV3DQTuRxnN1NJPBhA4Rdetx7EvjZ01iL0fLEk5XgAJoTZG5eB41VGeI-1g5tmT-8zCrv28n93XX_ORSD4t6H7dppP-cL-GEcDrvYOzxNH3FDb70NhgXeGUrH5jjrPLq2U/s1600/DSCN1263.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7bwLovKg6frV3DQTuRxnN1NJPBhA4Rdetx7EvjZ01iL0fLEk5XgAJoTZG5eB41VGeI-1g5tmT-8zCrv28n93XX_ORSD4t6H7dppP-cL-GEcDrvYOzxNH3FDb70NhgXeGUrH5jjrPLq2U/s640/DSCN1263.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
So, yeah. It's late, I'm tired, and introspection doesn't suit me. Basically, just know that, yes, I'm going to see mountains again, and--yup!--I'm going to travel the world, and then I'll know how to be truly happy somewhere, somehow, someday...J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-17016416242136607892012-01-01T21:41:00.002+00:002012-01-01T21:44:02.935+00:00promiscuous drunks, friendly calls, and humbug resolutionsI'll just start right off the bat by saying that title is a bit misleading. Sorry. While I could have gotten drunk and had a jolly old time for NYE, I forgot to buy cider when I was out and there was no point in risking my life on the dangerous drunken roads of the New Year. (As much as I love making fun of how my dear mother worries, she does often have a point, and this is one of those rare occasions where I actually agree with her. After 8pm on December 31st, I like to stay put.) So, the whole not-driving-on-NYE thing takes care of the "friendly calls" part, and I've never been one for keeping resolutions, and I long since resolved not to make them. So, I guess the title is more than a bit misleading. It's actually just an outright lie. If I had to describe my night, it would probably look something like this: "Facebook, Father Ted, and Blankets"<br />
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Which, in all honesty, is not a bad way to go.<br />
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When I think back on 2011, it's hard to believe that what happened actually happened to me. A year ago tomorrow, I was dropped off at the Columbus airport nearly four hours early en route to Galway, Ireland. I had short hair, snazzy glasses, and a new (used) iPod to entertain me. Some hours later, I was in Dublin, trying to keep an amiable look about me and listen as people tried to tell me about what my life would look like for the next five-or-so months. (No matter how much they told me about cooking for myself, I knew I'd be burning water and eating lots of raw pasta.) Everyone seemed to be just bursting with tired excitement, but, if I'm to be telling the truth, I was genuinely terrified. I'd brought more than just the allotted 23kg checked baggage, and planning to work on all my social anxieties in a new country where I knew not a soul was probably the worst (see: <i>best</i>) idea I've had in a while.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir_bfgTPAUb0w93Q3dkUEotuqNv3pbeihhq8T3JDSmKeymJi0-h1CFbMEU73jyOgaV9JhvJj00EyzXe4xgUUPTAs6rWKWVNhTs2YZJiE73gGuizlP9YAYJT_CmrRwrRQ4uzMgVzc68Ego/s1600/DSCN0114.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir_bfgTPAUb0w93Q3dkUEotuqNv3pbeihhq8T3JDSmKeymJi0-h1CFbMEU73jyOgaV9JhvJj00EyzXe4xgUUPTAs6rWKWVNhTs2YZJiE73gGuizlP9YAYJT_CmrRwrRQ4uzMgVzc68Ego/s640/DSCN0114.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
I'm not going to lie and say it was a sudden thing, that the raging winter winds just up and whipped all the shyness out of me as I crossed over the Corrib to start classes at NUIG. And I'm not gonna say that I didn't cry once the entire term, because there were definitely times when I was so frustrated and confused that I did sit in my room and wonder what the hell did I think I was doing. Gradually, though, I began to figure it out. I actually made friends on my own, and I wasn't afraid to ask people to hang out. I felt valued as an individual for the first time in ages, like I was involved, engaged, and <i>wanted</i>. And as I began to value myself<i> </i>again, I rediscovered the courage from my freshman year at Oberlin to not let opportunities pass me by, just because no one else wanted to grab them with me. There was no shame in going for a pint alone, and there was something so breathtakingly exhilarating in my solitary late-night walks though the city. Literally, I felt like I could do anything! And I really could. I had my first pint, learned to speak Irish, danced reels on the street, met Josh Ritter in Dublin, stayed with relatives-of-my-dance-teacher's-sister in Kilkenny, rode a bike around Inis Mor, saw bog bodies, took archaeology classes, rode a giant swing even though I was sure I would die, watched EuroVision live, found a new melodramatic soap opera, cooked for myself, stayed up past 4am and slept past noon, explored Barna Woods on a whim, spoke German without fear, saw a murder hole in a medieval castle, was followed by a dude in a horse mask, ate corn on pizza, went to mass in an honest-to-god cathedral, and loads of other amazing things. Oh, yeah, and then I went around Europe by myself for four weeks. No big deal or anything.<br />
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(Just kidding, by the way. It's a <i>huge</i> deal. Really...just...what a life!)<br />
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Now, loving oneself may seem like such an elementary concept, but it's something I'd somehow managed to forget, and what's sad is that I forgot again as soon as I started back at Oberlin. It was literally like someone had turned all my memories of Ireland and Europe to smoke and I was clutching madly after them to no avail. From where I'm standing at the beginning of 2012 and looking back to the beginning of this past semester, again, it's hard to believe that what happened happened to me. It's hard to believe that I could have felt so deeply alone that I would have to leave movie nights to cry in the bathroom. It was like I was living in a soap opera where nothing goes right and everyone ends up needing brain surgery and a miracle. What had been empowering abroad suddenly felt so soul-crushingly terrible that I almost gave up. After three and a half years struggling at Oberlin but refusing to throw in the towel, and in the midst of writing a senior thesis, I honestly came <i>this</i> close to taking a personal leave and never coming back. I would have been glad to leave, too. Lord knows I'd thought about leaving for long enough.<br />
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I'm not going to lie and say that I still don't wonder what my life would have been like if I'd transferred after my first year like I'd planned, but that's a different life I'll never lead. There's no use thinking about it, anyway, and what makes the horrible first half of this semester so hard to believe, honestly, is the fact that the last few weeks were positively <i>wonderful</i>. I'm not going to try to explain it, because I honestly <i>can't</i>, but for some reason, I started to wake up smiling. Co-op life, which had frustrated me to no end at the beginning of the semester, all of a sudden began to fulfill me once more. My wonderful co-workers, who had supported me through all of my (probably annoying) troubles at the beginning of the semester, continued to be some of the best friends a girl could ask for. I met new people in the co-op and in my honors seminar. For the first time since I quit taking the viola seriously, I enjoyed going to CCS rehearsal every Tuesday. I watched (and screamed over) <i>Merlin </i>every Saturday with the fandom friends. I dyed my bangs purple. I started up a random e-mail correspondence with a friend who was abroad in Spain, which turned out to be a real highlight. I played hide-&-seek in the library. I opened up about being Catholic to people I hadn't really talked to much before. I decorated my study carrel. I fell back in love with my thesis topic. I was invited to a party and I drank rummy things. I went to the ice-rink almost every week and made an arse of myself on skates. I cuddled and snuggled and played a mean game of Twister. Literally, I think one of my best semesters at Oberlin was somehow condensed into a whirl-wind of a month, and it's almost like the first half was nothing but a bad dream I could only vaguely remember when I finally woke up.<br />
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So, as I begin to condition myself to write 2012 on all my essays from this point until 2013, I can't say I'll be glad to have left last year behind. In many ways, I would give all I have to be abroad in Galway again, and I hopefully will be starting my last semester at Oberlin the same way I left--<b>happy</b>. At the same time, though, I need to look forward. I said before that I don't like to make resolutions because I never keep them, and there's no fun in being disappointed in yourself. I do, however, want to take a moment and think about everything I can be (and hopefully <i>will </i>be) be in the coming year. I will be a second-semester college senior who has never lived in a dorm or eaten in a dining hall thanks to the Oberlin Student Co-operative Association. I will be teaching an Irish Dance ExCo. I will get back into shape because I'll have no choice, what with teaching dance and taking a running/fitness course. I will eat a lot of baked goods, thanks to Professor Romano's kitchen. I will build snowmen and continue skating. By April 27th, I will have written a 60-page thesis, and by the end of May, I will be a college graduate. And someday, hopefully soon, I will be back on a plane, the anticipation will just be too much as the coast of that little teddy-bear-shaped island comes into view, and I'll go on smiling like an absolute lunatic.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIQBi8vjzlsu_Vk3ajzo_IYVKSm5BrM6N8NrXJh4JXh3dlNXhvHzXmUzAo2uPAlz5APE6Vdlum5dYJ6IAKR5wsxrkvD5uTojlDfxIxHCWylqaIMMpG7NI7Q4YX8XlYirgkUuyK8RYulSo/s1600/DSCN2230.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIQBi8vjzlsu_Vk3ajzo_IYVKSm5BrM6N8NrXJh4JXh3dlNXhvHzXmUzAo2uPAlz5APE6Vdlum5dYJ6IAKR5wsxrkvD5uTojlDfxIxHCWylqaIMMpG7NI7Q4YX8XlYirgkUuyK8RYulSo/s640/DSCN2230.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-3288692517088627262011-12-17T05:29:00.001+00:002011-12-17T05:35:21.572+00:00you may have the universe if i may have italy<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">(Never one to leave something unfinished, and having had many discussions recently about my European adventures, I decided to return to this blog and compete my trip report. There are really only three destinations after Florence, anyway. Stick with me?)</span><br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
Ahhh, Italia. The land of perpetual difficulty. When I think back on Italy, what I remember most is a completely overwhelming sense of being...well...<i>overwhelmed</i>. Before I departed Salzburg, I tried to watch <i>The Sound of Music</i> and I got stuck on the "Confidence in Me" number, because the lyrics really struck a chord. Being the sap that I am, I remember tearing up, and, since there was no turning back, I just hummed this song for the entire train ride, watching with anxiety as the signs slowly switched from German to bilingual to Italian. Somehow, I convinced myself that I would be <i>fine</i> in Italy.<br />
<br />
Looking back, I realize that I <i>was</i> fine. In spite of the terrifying language barrier, the difficulty of navigating, the plethora of transportation strikes, the natural vulnerable look of my big doe-eyes...well...you know... In light of all <i>that</i>, I really was fine. Even in Florence, where <i>everything</i> but the weather seemed to go wrong, I realize it could have been a heck of a lot worse. The major disaster is as follows... Italy, as I've already mentioned, was incredibly difficult for me to navigate. After pacing the length of a street nearly three times, I finally found my hostel. Again, like in Venice, by some stroke of luck, I heard my name called from an unknown source up three flights of stairs. God? God in the form of a matronly woman who can work the oldest elevator known to man without even batting an eyelash? No, unfortunately, but is it very Italian to know the names of your patrons? Because nobody in Germany or Ireland ever addressed me by my name before I'd even checked in. <br />
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Well, anyway, I thought that would be the end of my troubles, but it turned out they weren't quite finished working on my room, and they apparently wouldn't be finished until the next morning. So, being expert problem solvers, they moved me to a different hostel (owned by the same people) just across the street. They gave me the Internet password and told me that I could move into my room early the next morning. The Cinque Terra tour I wrote about in my last entry began at 7:30am and wouldn't be over until past 9pm, so I asked if I could move in early in the morning. They said, of course, and I slept easy. Alas! How easily they dream, who know not what awaits!!!<br />
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Okay, so it wasn't that bad. They let the room out to someone else for the night and those people wouldn't be out until after noon, so, once again, I had to compromise. No big deal, really. I understand that hostels function best when they're booked to the brim. I just had to take a deep breath and relinquish 95% of my trust to people I did not know to not steal my laptop and emergency cash when I left them behind the desk. Thankfully matronly-God-woman was there and I trusted her more than the rest of the staff. Nothing was taken and my faith in humanity was bolstered. (I won't say <i>restored </i>because, in spite of my overwhelming pessimism, I have a huge amount of faith in human beings to do the right thing.)<br />
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After I got my room all sorted, though, Florence itself was a pretty good romp, let's not lie. By the time I'd made it to this point in my trip, I was an expert traveller. I knew what I liked to do, and I knew what really wasn't worth my time. I had an idea of the sorts of souvenirs I was after and the grocery store staples that would keep me from looking feral and abandoned. Not having made any reservations at any of the famous museums, I just sort of bopped around. (Note to future travelers: if you're looking to see the great works of art in person, MAKE RESERVATIONS or know someone really famous, but mostly just MAKE RESERVATIONS.) It was a nice day and I was in the mood for walking, so I stared early, bought some grapes for breakfast, and let my senses just enjoy themselves.<br />
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The sights, naturally, were spectacular. You can really see why Florence is considered the artists' city. On tightly-knit streets, modest yellow and beige exteriors mingle with intricate, breath-taking structures, all topped with those warm, orange roofs so familiar to Mediterranean architecture. Above it all rises the Duomo, a wondrous reminder of the beauty of life. Not willing to wait in an infinite line of anger, sadness, and sore feet, I decided to climb the Santa Maria Campanile (correct me if that is not what it is called. I do not know Italian) instead of Il Duomo. Not left disappointed, after a 20-second wait, while they accepted my change and printed my ticket, and 414 steps, this is what I saw:<br />
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Just as in every place I visited, I was met with inspiration at every turn. The sun was shining, I was wearing a pretty dress, I was full of grapes and bread, and I had a bag full of tacky souvenirs. I could be anything I wanted. One second I was a Bond girl, the next an errant child in a network of city thieves, the next an artist's apprentice during the Renaissance...and, of course, once I hit on art, there's no way I couldn't pretend to be Caravaggio's nude muse. (Before you call to have me committed, I was alone for an entire month. One learns to entertain themselves in the oddest of fashions, but it works, okay?) I felt like I could conquer the world....just as soon as I figured out how to get back to my hostel.<br />
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Honestly, I wish I had written about Florence the instant I found time. Especially when I was in London, I spent way to much time watching Hollyoaks on the E4 Player and doing a fat load of nothing on Facebook. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and I've probably given you a good thousand to think on in this blog entry, but none of them quite hold the memories I wish I had retained. Before I duck out and just leave you with a bunch of pictures to speak where my words have proven inadequate, here is a list of things I endorse for cheap (or free!) in Florence:<br />
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1) Piazza de Michelangelo<br />
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2) Santa Croce<br />
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3) Santa Maria Campanile [see above]<br />
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4) Ponte Vecchio<br />
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5) Piazza della Signoria (fake!David is good enough for me considering it's the original spot. You win some, you lose some. There are other fake sculptures, too.)<br />
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6) LOTS OF WALKING & LOOKING<br />
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</div>7) And, of course, who could forget: Gelato.<br />
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And, also, just to prove I actually <i>was</i> in Florence:<br />
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Cheers!J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-2942800938362860492011-08-16T18:29:00.006+01:002011-08-16T18:49:46.205+01:00grapes, sweat, stairs, and lemon gelatoThat pretty much sums up my Cinque Terra tour with <a href="http://www.walkaboutflorence.com/index.php/cinque-terre-trek">Walkabout</a>. For those of you who know me now, you might be surprised to find out that I didn't grow up watching a ton of T.V. It's something I grew into recently thanks to the power of Hollyoaks marathons on E4, Irish-language drama on TG4, 5-hour breaks between classes, and good friend recommendations. (If you're in the market for some great shows... last month's marathon: <i>Firefly</i>. This month's: <i>Merlin</i>) Anyway, I did grow up watching <i>Rick Steves' Europe</i> on PBS. I loved his dorky voice, the way he says "locals" and does embarrassing awkward things all the time. He took me on adventures from my living room, and I used to jot place names in the margins of journals and textbooks. It was always my dream to find one of the little, obscure places he always seemed to visit between cities. They just seem so much more appealing to me than the big tourist trap cities. This was me living the dream...<br />
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The Cinque Terra is actually five little villages on the rugged coast of the Italian Riviera. And, no, it's not <i>quite </i>the little spot I've always dreamed of where I'm the only tourist around for hundreds of miles and a family takes me in and feeds me and we laugh and have a good time. (Yeah, dream on, Jen.) There <i>were</i> tourists, and a few of them were aggravating, and, as with any guided tour, I was skeptical about the truthfulness of what I was being told, but that doesn't change the fact that my Cinque Terra experience was exactly what I was looking for. What I wanted was a beautiful hike down ancient paths, with some element of adventure, completely solitary, socializing on my own terms, enjoying things on my own schedule, BUT with someone to get me there and back safely with no stress on my shoulders. Walkabout gave me that.<br />
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The day started off early and ended late. 7am bus call, 9pm return. I was immediately adopted into a family of Americans who fed me breakfast (thank you!) and thought I was pretty badass attempting a Eurotrip all by my onesies. (Except, at that point, I was so beyond <i>attempting</i>. I was <i>succeeding</i>, dammit! Hear that? That's the sound of my ego inflating.) Somewhere in the first village, I met an older Canadian woman who was also Eurotrekking alone and had done so multiple times. I found I really enjoyed her company and attitude as well, so for most of the trip, I hovered somewhere between Family Time, Fellow Badass, and Just Me. Later on, I met a cute Irish couple over gelato who took me in for a while...made sure no one forgot me on the docks, y'know. :) I spent a lot less time alone than I anticipated, but none of it was forced. I wasn't forced to listen to stupid frat bros talk about stupid frat bro things, like how the Czech Republic is such a ~*man's*~ country because of all the ~*meat*~ and ~*beer*~. Lord, I am such a misanthrope.<br />
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Anyway, the company was much better than expected, but hands down, this was one of the strangest, most exciting places I traveled this summer. The crystal blue ocean, vivid plant-life, terraced vineyards, boxy buildings all the colors of a pastel rainbow stacked one against the other... Because I was on a tour, paying people to keep me safe and get me home, for the first time since Germany I felt I could really lose myself in my imagination. Since everyone walked at a different pace, there were times when I was completely alone. In the villages, I would pretend like I was some sort of Bond girl in a luxurious, sexy dress that flapped stunningly in the crisp ocean breeze as I peered over a bridge...or maybe I was a street urchin, stealing bread and filching pocket-watches just to stay alive. On the rugged trails, I was a brilliant archaeologist, underestimated by my sexist male colleagues, determined to prove my worth and bring back the ancient artifact. You may think I'm crazy, but I'm telling you, it is <i>so</i> much fun...<br />
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This is, however, not a tour for everyone. There is a lot of walking. There is significant topography. It is hot. If you are a newlywed, trekking with your partner, be prepared for strife. There was a fresh-married couple on the trail behind me for a while and I could have sworn the girl was going to file for divorce at the end of the trip. She was afraid of heights. She was hot. She was tired. She wore sandals when they clearly state on the website to wear real shoes. And it was all her husband's fault. Man, was she cantankerous. I think she would have had an easier time if she didn't waste all her energy yelling at her husband, but I digress. The sun is strong. The stairs are many. It is <i>arduous</i>, but that is exactly what I wanted. For all I talk of safety, I don't want to stay in a safe, tourist-trodden bubble. I want to be like Rick Steves--awkward and adventurous! I want to be able to look over a cliff face and <i>feel</i> my life. The Cinque Terra was perfect for this. The whole point of the site is that it represents nature and humanity struggling to strike a balance. Landslides knock out trails; railings and warning signs don't exist. The land is only as tampered with as necessary to promote the life and culture of the communities. There may be many tourists, but it's the tourists that are forced to change and push themselves--not the land.<br />
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</a></div>Also, highlight of this adventure: I got to swim in salt water! I'd been looking forward to it the entire day, and when we finally got to the beach I was so excited, I just stripped down to my bra and underwear and splashed on in! (I knew I wanted to swim, so I brought a change of clothes... and a rain coat, an extra water bottle, and I stole some bread from the lunch restaurant as a snack. Always prepared--the mark of a true explorer!) <br />
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So, to cut a long entry cut short:<br />
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<b>#1 </b>I would definitely recommend the Walkabout tour. It's a bit expensive, but they get you where you're going, give you as much company and information as you desire, and don't force you to do anything except walk (which, they can assume is why you're on the tour anyway) and be at the tracks on time to catch the train. Plus, a delicious, local (as Rick Steves would say) lunch is provided.<br />
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<b>#2</b> Don't wear jeans and do bring sunscreen. Trust me, I broke both these rules. The only thing I did right was to bring a water bottle.<br />
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<b>#3</b> Go to the Cinque Terra. :) Do it!<br />
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J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-60637663905315378672011-08-09T15:22:00.005+01:002011-08-09T15:32:39.008+01:00der tod in venedig...JUST KIDDING.<br />
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No one died when I was in Venice, but there was a <span class="st">vaporetto (water-bus) strike the day I arrived, and so my first experience of Venice included waiting in gargantuan lines with my big, awkward luggage then cramming myself and that luggage onto an extremely crowded boat, dropping it on someone's foot, getting yelled at in Italian, and being dropped off on the wrong side of the canal. By some divine act of Providence, I managed to locate the hostel after only about thirty minutes of aimless wandering, looking like some dumb (sweaty) American...which, in this case, I suppose I actually was. Shaaaaame.</span><br />
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Anyway, I'd like to say the rest of my experience in Venice was easier, but that would be a lie. I quickly found that Venice with a map in your pocket is pretty much the same as Venice without a map in your pocket. My day began as my days in Europe always began: with me being cheap. To get to the hostel, I'd only purchased a one-way bus ticket, and I wasn't about to pay for another one to get back to the train station to make a reservation for my trip to Florence the next morning. (<b>Attention!</b> Italian trains <i>require</i> a reservation. So if you've got a EURail pass and you've been enjoying hopping on and off DB and OBB trains at will, don't forget to make a reservation for your trips in <i>AND OUT OF</i> Italy. You will see later how this gets me in trouble...) No, instead of buying a ticket, I decided to walk. <i>To walk</i>.<br />
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<span class="st">This...was a horrible idea. Not only was this the first new city of my solitary adventure, it was a pretty crappy place to start trying to navigate without any prior knowledge of the streets. One of the coolest things about Venice is also the most aggravating. In most cases, the buildings butt right up against the main canal, so following the water to any destination is virtually impossible. Every little bridge over the smaller canals could be every <i>other</i> little bridge over the smaller canals. Unlabeled alleyways break off from main roads until suddenly you find yourself on a dark and narrow street, the sun blocked by impossibly tall buildings, with no clue how you got there until suddenly a bright square opens up in front of you with bustling tourists, street vendors, fountains, and church bells. You'd <i>think</i> you'd be able to find this on the map in your pocket, but... Alas! poor traveler, you cannot.</span><br />
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<span class="st">Had I the time and the courage, I might have loved this. I recently finished a book called <i>The Water Mirror </i>by Kai Meyer (it's actually called something else in the original German, but the title escapes me now). It's set in Venice and there are mermaids and alternate worlds beneath the surface of the canals. There are master thieves and stone lions and--oh, boy, it's just super cool. Suddenly, after reading that book, the claustrophobia and anxiety of Venice were replaced by all the magic I should have took the time to feel when I was there. Because the city is <i>really</i>, <i>really</i> cool. Everything about it tantalizes the imagination. There are no streets--just sparkling, aquamarine canals. There are masks <i>everywhere</i> (probably a tourist trap, but I like to pretend like I'm living in Othello's Venice). Did I mention there are no streets? People will say you can do Venice in few hours, but I beg to differ. If you want to be stressed out and lost and scared all the time, you can do it in a few hours. If you want to take your time, stroll down alleyways and try on every single mask you see, and really soak in the beauty of Venice, take at <i>least</i> a day and a half.</span><br />
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Before I go, here is a nice list of my top tourist tips regarding Venice (some repeated [and worth repeating] from the rest of the entry]):</span><br />
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#1</b> Make reservations for your transportation <i>out</i> the minute you arrive in Venice, especially if you'll be leaving by train on a very busy travel day. (Note: Where tourist-happy cities are, every day is a busy travel day. Remember, tourists are on <i>vacation</i> and won't be needing to be at a job during the week.) Don't believe me? From Florence, I needed to get to Bern, Switzerland. I waited until the day before to make my reservation. I could only get as far as Milan. Learn from my mistakes!</span><br />
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#2 </b>The best way to see Venice is by </span><span class="st">vaporetto. Unless you have time, confidence and a GPS, don't expect to be able to walk the streets of Venice with sure feet, especially when it comes to getting from one section of town to another. What you should do is buy a 24-hr-or-so water-bus pass and just hop on and off along the canal. Most things worth seeing are near a bus stop. You can hop off and explore the area, and then follow the yellow signs painted on the buildings that will point you back to the </span><span class="st">vaporetto. (<b>Be careful!</b> The yellow signs will direct you to different sections of Venice as well [i.e. Rialto] but they are not always easily visible [sometimes they're up high on buildings] or even consistent [you can turn a corner and reach a fork and not see a sign])</span><br />
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#3</b> Don't be alarmed if the vaporetto workers are on strike. They have a pretty thankless job and people can be pretty rude to them. They (and other transportation workers) go on strike often, but this does not necessarily halt services. It usually just delays them, and popular areas will still be getting pretty consistent service. (For example, there is always a bus that will stop at Rialto.) Mostly, you can predict a strike by holiday weekends. If there's a holiday on Thursday, there will probably be a strike on Friday to make it a 4-day weekend... Plan for time-delays.</span><br />
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<span class="st"><b>#4</b> Enjoy your time there! Try not to be a big, electric ball of stress like I was. Also! Be prepared to walk up a lot of stairs to cross the big bridges. And watch out when it rains! Streets are stone-paved, which means they're super slippery... I nearly kicked it plenty of times in my tractionless flip-flops! Safety first!</span><br />
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<span class="st"><b>#5</b> Gondolas are mad expensive. I overheard a group of English teenagers arguing a price with a guy and he was like "Six of you--fifteen euro each" and an angsty boy stalked off from the group saying "I'm not gonna spend bloody fifteen euro on a boat ride" while his girlfriend(?) pranced after him, whining about how he oughtn't leave her alone and blah blah blah. God, I love eavesdropping. Anyway! The point is... if you're cheap like me, or are traveling alone and don't have five other teenagers to split the cost with you, ask about being taxied across the canal. It's not a 45 minute romantic lounge down the canal, but you still get to take your picture and say you were on a gondola. (I didn't do this--a girl staying in my hostel did, and she said it was only, like, two euro or so)...</span><br />
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So, that does it for Venice. I hope you enjoyed our first taste of Italy. Next time, I'll try to whine less.</span><br />
<span class="st"><b>Next destination</b>: Cinque Terra</span>J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-19924924991781180102011-08-09T02:19:00.004+01:002011-08-09T02:29:01.938+01:00fast immer ein kindWelp, folks, I'm as far behind in my Really-Expensive-Why-Did-I-Buy-This-Might-As-Well-Use-It travel journal as I am updating this blog, so you will have to suffer an abbreviated post on Salzburg. By no means does this mean I did not enjoy myself there. In fact, it's one of the few places (minus Dresden) I actually wish I could have stayed longer. What I'm going to do now is tell you that if you're ever in Germany, you ought to take a trip down to Austria and visit Salzburg (and Innsbruck, and Vienna, but those are still dreams of mine yet to be realized). In fact, I'm going to tell you that I'd be extremely disappointed in you if you <i>didn't </i>visit Salzburg if you ever have the chance (or the chance to make the chance). It's a relatively small, easily-accessible city whose pastel skyline is as beautiful as its musical culture. You can see the whole city in a day, but why should you when you can languish in its decorated churches, go to a concert, read a book in the gardens, eat ice cream <i>every day</i> up at the Festung? If you do make the same mistake as me and book Salzburg as nothing more than a stop-over destination, here's a nice, organized list (because who doesn't love lists?) of things you might and absolutely <i>should not </i>miss when visiting Salzburg.<br />
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<b>#1 Kapuziner Monastery</b>: I was actually surprised at how close this look-out point was to the hotel I stayed in the first time I was in Salzburg about seven years ago, which was directly off Linzer Gasse. This may seem like a funny observation to make, but it was a walk I <i>always</i> wanted to take, but also always decided against because "it's too far." That's how I've justified missing out on this for so many years. It's just amazing how you can distort a memory with a lie, but no matter! I fulfilled a dream this trip, and it was worth it! Not only was the view <i>fantastic</i>, the walk, overlooked by statues of saints, was a pleasant one. Also, I met a really nice woman and her two children. "Englisch oder Deutsch?" she asked me, and I told her in German that either would be just fine. We started talking, because she happened to be from Ohio and she'd studied at Salzburg when she was at University. Of course, I only know one school in Ohio that has a program in Salzburg, and it turns out she is a BGSU alum! One of my old German teachers had gone to BG, studied in Salzburg, met her husband there, and used to prod me to follow in her footsteps. Alas, I chose Oberlin...<br />
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<b>#2 Festung Hohensalzburg</b> Another awesome view I missed seven years ago, and from here you can really see <i>everything</i>. It's a bit higher than the Kloster, but the walk is less scenic. You can, of course, take the train up, but if you're cheap like me, you'll sweat it out, and you won't buy the audio guide. (Though, if you're interested in the history, I think it'd be cool to get one... I think it was only 2,50 euro...) Anyway, there's lots to do up at the top. You can take pictures, wander the grounds and read the history of the place, or sit back and relax by the mountains with a beer or ice cream (or both--as I found out, this is not an ideal combination. Beer: it's a learning experience.)<br />
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<b>#3 Churches</b> Despite what many may say, I do not adhere to the "seen one, seen 'em all" philosophy when it comes to churches, especially Catholic churches. If you have the time in Salzburg, go into them all, maybe even catch a Mass if that's your thing. If not, check out the Cathedral and the cemetery at St. Peter's Church. They're both relatively close and breathtaking. The pure white of the Cathedral walls, and the details in the carved relief and colorful frescoes, while extravagant, somehow avoid appearing heavy and overwrought. On the contrary, entering the building from the tourist-crammed square outside, one feels a sense of lightness, and regardless of belief, an unexplained awe washes over you. Sit a while in here and allow yourself time to stare--and eavesdrop. (Money-saving technique #549: Eavesdrop on tours, but be sneaky about it, okay, and don't tell anyone I sent you.) As for the cemetery, it's an experience just as magical. Modest wire structures rather than towering stones rise from the earth. Graves seem tightly packed and overgrown. There is often more than one body from a family buried in a single plot to save space. There are some famous people buried here, so eavesdropping or finding yourself a walking tour might be a good idea if it's your first time... (Also, go in the church if it's open! It's gold and shiny and amazing!)<br />
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<b>#4 Mozarts Geburtshaus</b> Do not--I repeat: <i>DO NOT</i> skip this! This was my third time in Salzburg, and only my first inside this beautiful yellow building, whose modest facade could never suggest what amazing treasures lie in wait just beyond the threshold. This was honestly the best <span class="st">€6 I think I spent spent the entire trip. What was really interesting was that the exhibit focused less on his music and more on his life and family. Letters, tiny violins, portraits, grade cards, gifts--that's what you see as you browse the rooms while the music of Mozart and his father sets the mood. Regardless of how mythical people claim the movie <i>Amadeus </i>is, I would just like to announce that all I could hear when I was reading his letters was Tom Hulce's sweet voice, and I'll say that counts for something. He did such an amazing job capturing the playfulness you can feel in Mozart's music and writing. Example: he wrote a whole letter to his father in alphabetic riddles. To his wife, he wrote a letter, for the most part, detailing all the silly, ridiculous things he did to her portrait when he was on the road (which, added up, totaled about 1/3 of his life). Evidently, he was pale and lacking in social graces, but you can see in the way his sister and wife loved him that he had to have possessed some sort of endearing childishness... Speaking of his sister, Nannerl Mozart, she was an excellent musician in her own right and many of her brother's earliest compositions were for her music books. Also, she seems to have had impeccable insight into her brother's personality, writing once <b><i>"Außer der Musik war und blieb er fast immer ein Kind"</i></b> (Outside of the music, he was and would remain forever a child). Brilliant!</span><br />
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<span class="st"><b>#5 Watch <i>The Sound of Music</i> and prance around Mirabell Garden</b> No, really, I'm serious. <i>The Sound of Music</i> was filmed in Salzburg and most hostels/hotels will play it daily in the lobby or common space. It's always cool to watch a movie and be able to say "I was there!" or to see a place and be able to say "Wow! That was in <i>This Movie</i> <i>or Other</i>!" Plus, while traveling alone, I will admit that the "I Have Confidence" number really touched my heart and made me shed a few tears. (Shut up, I was afraid of going to Venice the next day, okay?) Anyway, the Gardens are where the Do-A-Deer scene was filmed, and there are plenty of beautiful flowers to stop and sniff, and some hilarious (drunken?) gnome statues no one should miss!</span><br />
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<span class="st">So, there you go, folks! My Top 5 Things To Do In Salzburg, but there's plenty more to do! Go up Untersberg--even if it's cloudy, it's fun to be up there, freezing in June, stepping in snow while wearing sandals. I didn't go up there because I've had horrid luck and left a camera up there in the bathroom twice--<i>TWICE! </i>Clearly, I was not meant to remember Untersberg through photographs. See a concert! There are plenty going on every night, and Salzburg is known as the city of music so it'd be kind of blasphemous to not hear some excellent music. (Yes, I am guilty of blasphemy--just means I'll have to go back soon!) Also, go shopping. It might be a bit expensive, but I think they had some of the best tacky junk ever... I mean, who doesn't want a wooden Mozart doll to hang in your car? (By far, this is my favorite souvenir I have ever purchased. It even surpasses the sword I bought in Toledo when I was 12...)</span><br />
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<span class="st">Anyway, the children of Captain Von Trapp wish to say goodnight to you. So long, farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, adieu and all that jazz. Next update: Venice!<br />
</span>J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-74681169450656232332011-07-19T02:49:00.001+01:002011-07-19T02:52:24.749+01:00timecapsules.Reason #178968 Why I Love Film: It really takes you back.<br />
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I mean, it <i>really</i> takes you back. On Saturday, I went on an accidental 6mi walk with my friend Oksana. We hadn't quite meant for it to last around four hours, just like I didn't quite mean to have my barely-shod feet cemented in pond-mud when I went chasing after a small leopard frog at the end of our walk. What happened is what usually happens when Oksana and I get together: we couldn't stop talking. We touched on everything from amazing book series, high school memories, phantom beavers... Relevant to this post, however, we both realized that we had film to develop.<br />
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We undertook this task today. I knew mostly what would be on mine two rolls since they were only one year old, but her disposable cameras were four, some even five, years old. We handed them over to be processed, went out for frozen yogurt, spent an unnecessary (but <i>totally necessary) </i>amount of money at a used bookstore, and then headed back to pick up our pictures. Just like tiny time capsules, with each seal broken, we were suddenly escorted back to an older, ostensibly simpler time. She had pictures from our first tubing trip down Darby Creek, when my hair was still ridiculously long and my waist ridiculously smaller. Our last day of high school, our last <i>ever </i>chance to open the door of portable classroom B-2. There were smiling pictures of people we could barely remember, waddling penguins, Christmas trees wearing slippers. Every time she moved one to the bottom of the pile to reveal the next, our faces lit up and we laughed. I said "Oh, my God" like a broken record.<br />
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Well, anyway, my smallest roll of film (only 12 exposures) featured Oberlin, and mostly my first Josh Ritter concert last Fall. My friends and I sat in the balcony, pretty far away, so you really can’t make out much of his face, but the organ pipes in Finney Chapel .tower majestically over the audience. Even with my minimal talent, I've also played on that stage, under that organ. How many audiences those pipes must have seen! And then there is Tank, my humble abode for one and a half years. The sun is shining as we eat on the lawn. It’s open mic night, so there are people dancing in the background, people singing on the porch. Everyone looks happy. Everyone <i>was</i> happy.<br />
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It really made me think. We get so caught up in the moments of our lives that we don’t realize we’re happy. I’ve shed so many tears at Oberlin, for crushed dreams, friends who have passed, turned down invitations, academic insecurities. But in only 12 frames I managed to capture so much of what I often forget. Good music, good food, green lawns, historic houses, smiling faces… It was a gentle reminder that i’m going to go back in the fall, and it’s going to be <i>okay</i>. So, this is where I want to say that film is better than digital.<br />
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Why? Well, I'll tell you why! Unlike digital where you have a mistake margin of 600,000 pictures on your memory card and the ability to see and delete the crappy ones to make room, with film each frame is precious, not to be wasted. And you don't get to say "Oh, I look bad! Delete it! Let's do it again!" With each candid frame, you relive the moment just as it was when you hit the button--the original laughs, not the recreated ones. Even through the smiles, you can see sadness if it is there. The colors are real, the face are real. Every sense is captured on film. Even the developing is an experience--for me, sometimes of love, and sometimes very much of hatred. Nothing is more exhilarating to me than to flick on the lights in the negative room, finally open the developing tank, rinse the negatives, and then unroll them, revealing the thumbnails of your success. And nothing is more heart-wrenching than unrolling a set of 36 blanks--wasted time, wasted chemicals, lost memories. You run into the enlarger room and can make prints for hours of any size. It's your choice, and your fault if it screws up.<br />
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I'm not saying I don't like digital images. I don't think I would have been able to deal with wrestling my flim camera <i>and</i> my laptop all the way around Europe, and I don't think I'd have been able to fit that much film in my suitcase. All I'm saying is I don't feel the same connection to digital images, where all I have to do is copy & paste from my memory card, then resize if I want to, maybe play with the color settings a bit (make it look like I don't have a zit on my chin, y'know)... There's no sense of a battle fought and a battle well won, and I don't have anything to hold in the end. And, most importantly for this post, there is no element of surprise in digital images (if there is, it is almost minuscule). When I take old digital photos to be printed, I know exactly what I'm gonna get. When I look at my digital images, it's hard for me to feel any satisfaction comparable to what I feel when I look at the very first picture I took with my SLR, the very first picture I developed. I can remember where I took it, how I felt when I took it, who helped me develop it, how nervous I was... And then I can look at what I can do now, and it makes me so proud! It's been a long time since I had the luxury of marveling over negatives, so pardon me if I sound a little lovey-dovey. It just... well... it really takes me back. :)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisOztqyWLUVhKOEmcvf2WIZtF9l3tH1Le15ijExbooanecTL0NcsPLaYRK7nyKmmLq0VyQ0TX6C2SOAuhe7tHjrmW4dap5ZZFFj5uuhowXT02OA0N14i_4qiUjFveFkIJllnRvPvwX0So/s1600/Image+%252812%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisOztqyWLUVhKOEmcvf2WIZtF9l3tH1Le15ijExbooanecTL0NcsPLaYRK7nyKmmLq0VyQ0TX6C2SOAuhe7tHjrmW4dap5ZZFFj5uuhowXT02OA0N14i_4qiUjFveFkIJllnRvPvwX0So/s640/Image+%252812%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-28019984660186056122011-07-14T02:17:00.005+01:002012-01-24T19:33:24.446+00:00könig des mondes, der märchenVery few characters in history have excited me more than King Ludwig II of Bavaria. Alright, let's rephrase a bit. Very few characters in <i>European</i> history have excited me more than Ludwig II. On a superficial level, this probably has more to do with the fact that I am not well-versed in European history than any ultra-special exclusivity of my VIP list. However, there's also something deeper about it. The fact that, almost five years later, I'm still enchanted is testament to that. Apart from James Madison and Bobby Kennedy, he's one of the few I've actually managed to read more than half a biography for over the long, hot, humid Ohio Summers. So, as I made my fourth trip up to Neuschwanstein in the middle of a thunderstorm (ironically, with no intention of paying for <i>another</i> tour of the interior--yeah, I know, rotten idea), I began to wonder... why?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivAxen_220-qC_lGaoWaC2fNBaLkm4AdfCLI3U6qPx5cJu3Yl2TWeNmf4aAAe9N5lpQZ6QInPJBToDUdfPr8BAZ2FTd6yKKLJdJ3pJZ_BNuTWdEoPo4_1npn1p5nIhtFqndYcnASN5nQk/s1600/DSCN3205.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivAxen_220-qC_lGaoWaC2fNBaLkm4AdfCLI3U6qPx5cJu3Yl2TWeNmf4aAAe9N5lpQZ6QInPJBToDUdfPr8BAZ2FTd6yKKLJdJ3pJZ_BNuTWdEoPo4_1npn1p5nIhtFqndYcnASN5nQk/s640/DSCN3205.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">at least the weather added to the drama of the view?</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">It was about a 2-hr train ride back to Munich from Füßen, and, instead of listening to the American sisters sitting across from me complain about their too-big ice cream bars and uncomfortable seats (which is a <i>lie</i>--I love DB train seats! Trenitalia is a different story all together...), I decided to drown them out with some good ol' Schumann on my iPod and ponder that very question. <i>Why</i> is Ludwig II so <i>fascinating</i>? Lucky for me, there was a special exhibit, as part of the Bayerische Landesaustellung at Herrenchiemsee, that set about to explain just that. With so much water under my proverbial bridge, it's hard to recall <i>exactly</i> what I drew from the German reading materials, tour, and audio guide I was provided (that's what I get for ordering my Inselkarte auf Deutsch!), but I <i>can</i> break it down into three easy bullet-points...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTaHmlBV_ETD0s4ndVjOf7HHVKtwBIHev0j03P1Y0AxoMk_Jv8QdicAf8UMnyZ4j3pV7gL-VnYsn3_EqOG05mYD49il2IUps5oPHk_BxjmJ-lp6gIDTpaF_SMY80AIKNVMf3LzR-du9ug/s1600/DSCN3212.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTaHmlBV_ETD0s4ndVjOf7HHVKtwBIHev0j03P1Y0AxoMk_Jv8QdicAf8UMnyZ4j3pV7gL-VnYsn3_EqOG05mYD49il2IUps5oPHk_BxjmJ-lp6gIDTpaF_SMY80AIKNVMf3LzR-du9ug/s640/DSCN3212.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">1) He was a child. At the very entrance of the Götterdämmerung exhibit, there was an amazing quote from him that ran a little like this: <i>my self</i> (the German word he used was 'das Innere' and I still can't think of an appropriate equivalent) <i>is as sensitive as photo paper--every image, every experience leaves an impression that will last a lifetime...</i> When his father died, he was only 19, two years younger than I am now, still only beginning his university education. So suddenly, he was wrenched out of that world of safety and experimentation and made king of Bavaria. I guess it was a little like how the US felt when JFK was elected. Here was this youthful, bashful, handsome, intelligent boy being crowned your leader--like any teenager, the nation begins to feel invincible and anything seems possible. And that, I guess, fit in with Ludwig's image of himself as well. It was all a fantasy--where heroes triumph and evil is left to dust. He hated, despised, <i>abhorred</i> warfare because it interrupted these fantasies--it was cruel, expensive, and deflated morale. I think that's what Wagner meant to Ludwig. Through his operas, Ludwig was able to escape to the murals of his mother's castle at Hohenschwangau, where heroes existed and damsels in distress awaited rescuing. Everyone has fantasies. The only difference is that not everyone has the luxury of living them even after they're older.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-BsFqw4FRBuVPphXIdkfaO_H4Av3e09_JvW-mIawcj2FasvpdaaU4CqFw8VjIJQvB_UvukTfI_iuPc3sG6JoO56dSJVHKrl0pHGALGNlm5Zr7QOG5t7k4dAhThRErXcuXHs655CG9KOo/s1600/swanking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-BsFqw4FRBuVPphXIdkfaO_H4Av3e09_JvW-mIawcj2FasvpdaaU4CqFw8VjIJQvB_UvukTfI_iuPc3sG6JoO56dSJVHKrl0pHGALGNlm5Zr7QOG5t7k4dAhThRErXcuXHs655CG9KOo/s1600/swanking.jpg" /></a> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">this was the book i managed to read half of four summers ago--i just think he looks so sweet & innocent on the cover</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">2) He was a paradox, and historians love a good contradiction. Here was a young boy, tossed into a situation beyond his years, in an age of increasing republicanism, who desperately wanted to be a divine, absolutist ruler like Louis XIV. In an age of technology, he wanted to believe in magic. "I don't want to know how it works," he said of technology, "I just want to see it work." He had outdated beliefs about kingship, yet he remained popular with his people for a surprisingly long time. He had some of the most technologically advanced castles in the world with electricity, multi-colored lights, heating, running water, and yet he didn't seem really to care how it functioned. Torn between two worlds and aging (in an older man such eccentric, childish delusions were no longer acceptable), he tried to keep his world united and remain forever young. And, as if we needed one more piece of irony to complete this point, two months after his death, his noble family made the decision to open the castles to the public against his last wishes in the hope that it would further convince the Bavarian public that their king had been a total nutjob. In fact, it did quite the opposite, and he remains beloved--if even more so now than before.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE3kp3JoVIxaqED9_aocj-Cv2Prj7Cuzlszx8Qgh1e-gQZc5mkajMeCkdMc4bFWRWHHzYZYdiL1F2nvAoyKeSwtnUIhiCqkM4NK_zuRV68r_miWbB5LkSOIKsEAf6u27QsoaTsZwLF95Q/s1600/DSCN3365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE3kp3JoVIxaqED9_aocj-Cv2Prj7Cuzlszx8Qgh1e-gQZc5mkajMeCkdMc4bFWRWHHzYZYdiL1F2nvAoyKeSwtnUIhiCqkM4NK_zuRV68r_miWbB5LkSOIKsEAf6u27QsoaTsZwLF95Q/s640/DSCN3365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">the castle at herrenchiemsee was built, as a tribute to louis xiv, to be a lager-than-life homage to versailles</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">3) He was an artist. So many kings and princes want to be artists and they pour their treasuries into commissions and parties, to which they will try to entice the leading artists of the day. But Ludwig poured a great deal of his funds, impressively, into his <i>own</i> art. Everything he created was a symbol, a work of genius. He wrote poetry, designed buildings, made drawings, played music (unless I'm getting him confused with Frederick the Great, which is entirely possible)... He seemed to do it all. It was an escape for his imagination that only seemed to grow as he did. Near the end of the exhibit, there was this satire between Ludwig and Wagner, where two actors argued the question of whether either of them could have existed without the other. Ludwig starts by talking about the opera house he wanted to build, which pops up as a bubble above his head. But then he gets distracted and more and more bubbles begin to pop up until the screen is <i>full</i> of his ideas. And then, just like that, they all shatter. When the people walked through the glittering sanctuaries of their king ,they of course saw an eccentric, but, what's more, they saw an artistic genius. Instead of condemning him as the nobles and wished, his castles ensured him a spot in the historical memory of Bavaria, probably forever. God, I love history. Don't you? :)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBflvflmDpErc4Lj_a8XqdLL3D6Bv-Xe-nDIqMAk09Cgr-KMjeMKyaAF8sAB92_RNC5HmP5M7hes0Am5J9Rx9Al2z8LutBQlXpfcYLw3pFys24FYuJItPUwtqj5RFrt2tsFJMLx6gQdNE/s1600/DSCN4688.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBflvflmDpErc4Lj_a8XqdLL3D6Bv-Xe-nDIqMAk09Cgr-KMjeMKyaAF8sAB92_RNC5HmP5M7hes0Am5J9Rx9Al2z8LutBQlXpfcYLw3pFys24FYuJItPUwtqj5RFrt2tsFJMLx6gQdNE/s640/DSCN4688.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">this is the first room you walk into on the tour and it just takes your breath away. the rest of the rooms that were completed don't disappoint.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">As far as visiting Herrenchiemsee goes, I would <i>definitely</i> recommend it. It's more off-the-beaten-track than Neuschwanstein and your ticket also includes a visit to a monastery and probably other things too that I missed for want of time. Personally, I had the hardest time getting there. I missed my first train, and then indecision kept me on the next train and I missed the Prien a. Chiemsee stop. I decided to continue onto Salzburg, where I dropped my bags at the hostel and then sprinted back to the train station. I missed the next train, so I caught the next <i>next</i> train. Due to some drunk Irishmen (of all people to meet on a train in Austria) that unsettled some of the other passengers, our train was late arriving in Prien and I missed the little train that would take me to the ferry, so, again, I sprinted (about 20 minutes) to make it to the docks in time. Thankfully, I <i>did</i> end up making it, ordered my ticket, and made it to the castle in time to catch my tour. Phew!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKERm4cYwDtz82Jv4QBJO8JIVQranSFaekTQhTyNUuXO4HnGflaADdbqNzYVTkLBNYpH8yuSsLptLUuFSmj9jD_TL9E5HSAX5MxajZnLwQt-IUFfHlkS2omv35IS5JNr5qnOFZsqtQMxQ/s1600/DSCN3354.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKERm4cYwDtz82Jv4QBJO8JIVQranSFaekTQhTyNUuXO4HnGflaADdbqNzYVTkLBNYpH8yuSsLptLUuFSmj9jD_TL9E5HSAX5MxajZnLwQt-IUFfHlkS2omv35IS5JNr5qnOFZsqtQMxQ/s640/DSCN3354.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">it's an amazing boat-ride--clear blue waters, a view of the alps, a crisp breeze...!</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So, if even after all that unfortunate bustling about, I would <i>still</i> recommend Herrenchiemsee, you know it had to be good. The Landesaustellung exhibit is open until October, I believe, so if you're in Bayern or Salzburg and looking for a good day trip, GO FOR IT! They've opened the unfinished rooms of the palace for the exhibit and you get to see cool things like old sketches, his Christening gown, photos, letters, and movie portrayals. Included is great insight on what it was like to live in Bavaria at the time. Five stars to Herrenchiemsee, I'm telling you.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">(He also has another castle in Oberammergau [?] called Linderhof, which I also recommend. Seriously, just do a Ludwig tour if you're in Bavaria. It's what I would have done if I had one extra day. If you need any convincing, here's a picture of Linderhof from when I visited it four years ago...)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzuxs5KUfVwaNe09xM66404-3rmfRThz8ifDi0_rdF6QLIq5MysVPI-3FcHaIFSHJJRrs7iMvJqN_Pz3lYQ-2xaO92VFePnEm8ZvzUGZmdVVDCuZj9OhUbur9tJfDwJfaABMi1OHNG4vU/s1600/luddy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzuxs5KUfVwaNe09xM66404-3rmfRThz8ifDi0_rdF6QLIq5MysVPI-3FcHaIFSHJJRrs7iMvJqN_Pz3lYQ-2xaO92VFePnEm8ZvzUGZmdVVDCuZj9OhUbur9tJfDwJfaABMi1OHNG4vU/s640/luddy.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And with this, my friends, we can officially leave Germany and enter Austria. Huzzah! I'm sure you're all excited! :) Until next time!</div>J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-34407503707354755972011-06-19T16:45:00.000+01:002011-06-19T16:45:11.004+01:00sa bhaile, zu hause, 在宅, at homeI've decided to keep up this travel blog. I will always have a home in Hilliard, but as my friends graduate, marry, move, and as I begin to do some of the same, home starts to feel like another destination. Of course, it's a destination where there are smiles and hugs, massages to be begged and meals to be shared. It's one where I'll always come back and where I'll always be welcome. But, at the same time, my room has almost become a dumping ground, a storage unit, a sentimental stuff-graveyard where I can spend the night and wander through my past and smile nostalgically. <br />
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With that in mind, then, it would seem ridiculous that I should end this blog just because I'm back on my side of the Atlantic. Like so many college students and people my age, with how much I move--from school to home to summer job to this new hostel, that new hostel--I start to feel displaced. Displaced, but not lost. I'm floating in the world and I've got no direction but where the winds of our generation will drag me (whether it be the path of an unemployed arts major or a rich, hot-shot lawyer, a mother, a dedicated partner in life). I've begun to realize that life, itself, is a journey. Where ever I go, where ever I decide to stay--be it for three hours, three days, or three months--it's an adventure worth documenting.<br />
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Which brings me to this weekend. Saturday was <b>Skate for Hope</b>, a skating show founded by my mom's cousin Carolyn Bongirno, a survivor of breast cancer and skater. This year, with help from the participants and ticket sales, they raised over $300,000 for breast cancer research. With skaters like Johnny Weir, Ryan Bradley, Emily Hughes, and Rachael Flatt headlining, it was the reasons I came home from Europe when I did (and unfortunately missed Jamie Parker and Sam Barnett in <i>Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead</i> in London). Let me tell you, it was worth <i>every bit</i> of longing for Ireland to be able to have gone to this show. And this is why:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizvHZNgejE-wWi4kD5SJdYDRL9zmL0jX_4fxa_xspRigHkn03MUPxabTcKo_ehtEuTUZOuGfV_ZjJuzN1_Uv5tymahoHhhBIhc-LjuixyZQ-XmSAu7TqVI80fgmgVJ15rs9Ty-nM6bQwo/s1600/johnnygweir1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizvHZNgejE-wWi4kD5SJdYDRL9zmL0jX_4fxa_xspRigHkn03MUPxabTcKo_ehtEuTUZOuGfV_ZjJuzN1_Uv5tymahoHhhBIhc-LjuixyZQ-XmSAu7TqVI80fgmgVJ15rs9Ty-nM6bQwo/s640/johnnygweir1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> what a beautiful human. mom's cousin, kay, weasled me back stage and then somehow convinced tara to bring johnny back to meet <i>me</i>. just me. i wish i'd been more prepared. when i met josh ritter, i had a bullet-point list. when i met johnny, my brain went "...............................omg."</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ5DAuYPUJbbhGWXXqQatDOoVlM4-kKwIFLVtutbUS7Qvg94GmAmwn7lhVFN7vezAc1opfHdbBMwIwqCF1usraVGlUfrrOi78RIQJiTjd5KxVvqmfSOHovqY7-MDbtD2S-X0aRScCOrxc/s1600/ryansbradley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ5DAuYPUJbbhGWXXqQatDOoVlM4-kKwIFLVtutbUS7Qvg94GmAmwn7lhVFN7vezAc1opfHdbBMwIwqCF1usraVGlUfrrOi78RIQJiTjd5KxVvqmfSOHovqY7-MDbtD2S-X0aRScCOrxc/s640/ryansbradley.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">me and ryan bradley, our current national champion. he's so fit. and hilarious! i kind of love him.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Afterwards, I went with a friend to meet my third cousin (?) at the Axis club in the Short North to celebrate Pride Week and to also maybe catch another glimpse of the Weirman. (I don't think he made it out, and I don't blame him because wrestling with airports is tiresome, but he had a wristband when I met him, so it was worth a shot!) I think that's when I changed my stance on the drinking age in the U.S. As a quasi-teetoatler, I never had a problem with not being able to drink, because, well, I <i>don't</i> really. But being less than two weeks away from my 21st birthday and being told that I <i>can't</i> is an absolutely torturous experience.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtzlOgauv1xQS7Ow7FS8HzGduHwQ1EEDOmNw30K3flhEvRxpBoayR03NIUO5a4Je5ABcRV7HOPWmT8Y4koAVfcMeFiA7xq_W4YBAJSNTgGJaY8qc6qGj59ivWeUGbUUhzUZoq0O8hq-H0/s1600/DSCN4603.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtzlOgauv1xQS7Ow7FS8HzGduHwQ1EEDOmNw30K3flhEvRxpBoayR03NIUO5a4Je5ABcRV7HOPWmT8Y4koAVfcMeFiA7xq_W4YBAJSNTgGJaY8qc6qGj59ivWeUGbUUhzUZoq0O8hq-H0/s640/DSCN4603.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I have a friend at Oberlin that, whenever I would go into her room to paint nails or hang out, she would offer me a beer. I always said no, but there are no words for how much I appreciated being included like that. I don't know why I felt like I should start drinking in Ireland (okay, well, we all know <i>why</i>), but I guess what I'm trying to say is that I have reached a point in my young adult life where I actually enjoy a bit of drink with dinner or during a movie or out on the town. I've never been <i>drunk</i>, but I've been delightfully beyond buzzed and I didn't do anything irresponsible (except for that time I tried to vault over a street pole in a skirt and almost fell on my face). All I wanted was one fruity drink at the club last night, and the fact that I couldn't, twelve-or-so days before my 21st birthday, after six months of having the option open and legal, was decidedly <i>un</i>fun. My friends are getting married, fighting in wars, raising children, paying bills, and I don't know where I'm going with this except to say that I am an <i>adult</i>. It'd just be nice to be treated like one again, you know?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJJ60Lud4GioLtuOo6nltRBtJ57UgiKRZ1wuSmDwTig-kVOvvYKlb1fADlflwTwJs4dfmTBS3Itr__PHQ3m347eHRbGxZalmncZK_5uT8zaF-8sa8jtCNMUzvYCiAT1OLG0UIYUSso2Og/s1600/DSCN4613.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJJ60Lud4GioLtuOo6nltRBtJ57UgiKRZ1wuSmDwTig-kVOvvYKlb1fADlflwTwJs4dfmTBS3Itr__PHQ3m347eHRbGxZalmncZK_5uT8zaF-8sa8jtCNMUzvYCiAT1OLG0UIYUSso2Og/s640/DSCN4613.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">all lit up for pride on the short north.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And that's it for this entry. Expect a few more about past European adventures in the future. See you around the interwebs, folks!</div>J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-38030747786102748762011-06-12T09:12:00.000+01:002011-06-12T09:12:19.192+01:00one more before the plane.<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="sqq">All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost; the old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost. From the ashes a fire shall be woken, a light from the shadows shall spring; renenwed shall be blade that was broken, the crownless again shall be king.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqPgSMI6NrmozsNgwa7C8V9exL_PGfu4fOjd9EjQKycQk0RY0KtHvLQG3voBAcMwHX18u83Vi9bkfwRE9d2gsAhZO07BJc48dvU9q0hrHfbGCw8KYlTFHAypLtlW969m068DOtNGdAojY/s1600/DSCN2289.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqPgSMI6NrmozsNgwa7C8V9exL_PGfu4fOjd9EjQKycQk0RY0KtHvLQG3voBAcMwHX18u83Vi9bkfwRE9d2gsAhZO07BJc48dvU9q0hrHfbGCw8KYlTFHAypLtlW969m068DOtNGdAojY/s640/DSCN2289.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-7736378385055559292011-06-12T01:28:00.002+01:002012-01-24T19:34:29.411+00:00slán abhaile.So, as my time in Europe draws to a close (appx. 11 hours before take-off), I thought I'd leave you with a compilation of things I'm going to miss. Naturally, the list is infinite, especially once people are added, so I've elected to stick to feelings and inanimate objects, much like my list of things I missed from home. So, here it is folks, the best of the best of my time in Europe--the things I'll pine for during the many lonely hours that await me... so different from the lonely hours I've spent as a wanderer...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVAfY0_QNy_jNLmNHNBDO79Wz9emY__y7azRcc5T-PhyYurVfefEy-Mv3nLaBeDc0J3fZv5fJH0MpwROCiMAM5jDbS4vm8NiPiZGMwgl8haLOFZLBQNPPcjWNklRQlGGIKv8EnFeTYC2M/s1600/DSCN0830.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVAfY0_QNy_jNLmNHNBDO79Wz9emY__y7azRcc5T-PhyYurVfefEy-Mv3nLaBeDc0J3fZv5fJH0MpwROCiMAM5jDbS4vm8NiPiZGMwgl8haLOFZLBQNPPcjWNklRQlGGIKv8EnFeTYC2M/s640/DSCN0830.JPG" width="640" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">music.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3kpiy5e3mJEncfhSlAGcBpzLjRlCuTri_lwOatH7DEqlA3ZwA7aTYMfpm64-eU5U88VCi0TEzgMIqUeGXk8m9o4MRYHEr31cFURL91we1b6byy90a9Ypj88irxkx1ZjthjSQCTEzbrKs/s1600/miss1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3kpiy5e3mJEncfhSlAGcBpzLjRlCuTri_lwOatH7DEqlA3ZwA7aTYMfpm64-eU5U88VCi0TEzgMIqUeGXk8m9o4MRYHEr31cFURL91we1b6byy90a9Ypj88irxkx1ZjthjSQCTEzbrKs/s640/miss1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> does this even need a caption?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaK_sUlw65N-qvq1u58nfbmBEyUWa6teXP_Sb6wRGmeKsYP4udaQSTniFa-afixAzTQXoN-wU6O_cjmvzVQbR8h6D9xu1b7bxurd516At9e566PJOUukNPNFlYJVvdfUM77AsGcHaGKZ8/s1600/miss2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="395" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaK_sUlw65N-qvq1u58nfbmBEyUWa6teXP_Sb6wRGmeKsYP4udaQSTniFa-afixAzTQXoN-wU6O_cjmvzVQbR8h6D9xu1b7bxurd516At9e566PJOUukNPNFlYJVvdfUM77AsGcHaGKZ8/s640/miss2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">sweets.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA8L2-Pu0zfSpOs6HmH2TmqU_EjkYhGzlcNrIVDc19phpLcbf_ZpYUjA1JJP3G_2CgVWpNB4KTWdonHqtgZqv32FcoSNhsou7SBv99BZi3-1WJrt6XBlmcVnmAxJBAOQBL6vm1GYkjrKk/s1600/miss3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="444" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA8L2-Pu0zfSpOs6HmH2TmqU_EjkYhGzlcNrIVDc19phpLcbf_ZpYUjA1JJP3G_2CgVWpNB4KTWdonHqtgZqv32FcoSNhsou7SBv99BZi3-1WJrt6XBlmcVnmAxJBAOQBL6vm1GYkjrKk/s640/miss3.png" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCVwaGOS-y0CZRhHyI0h20LU1Hsx1XtIl0yfiFYiqLJdZgTfx_58iJIAnT-Rk56chF0ObEkuHmq7qeXj0OJYoamcy1VK-ZT22Nham83qLpr9Xb_37W-XcoBKz8Lg6dR8_3AG1we4aki1Y/s1600/miss.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCVwaGOS-y0CZRhHyI0h20LU1Hsx1XtIl0yfiFYiqLJdZgTfx_58iJIAnT-Rk56chF0ObEkuHmq7qeXj0OJYoamcy1VK-ZT22Nham83qLpr9Xb_37W-XcoBKz8Lg6dR8_3AG1we4aki1Y/s640/miss.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">mobility.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfyTTw-77p0iXS5yed6CiLLXb-hy9zZg579GQ1wQ4_x9uhfxPci9Xd8FNDCSRwJ3KUERatHvhjp4TrbFxJrBUsYBE29saqBN2kO0EAPvEMuVoQM1H2bapp_4KUQt-EcBRDGXJ8jK_XUtE/s1600/mmmm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfyTTw-77p0iXS5yed6CiLLXb-hy9zZg579GQ1wQ4_x9uhfxPci9Xd8FNDCSRwJ3KUERatHvhjp4TrbFxJrBUsYBE29saqBN2kO0EAPvEMuVoQM1H2bapp_4KUQt-EcBRDGXJ8jK_XUtE/s640/mmmm.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">sweet, sweet cider.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdml1F7kIFrY86C08DYa3hVX2xJG28xHHdFdrr8ScLAiuHGVQ8iRX1Ld30Rgz0ja2psxo3PNBxiSpXnZEloDg2-mXjAbKzuqC1VXp-b38MSLwCUTCpSO1IJJgr_BDOKy-ieyfKsqWzcdk/s1600/DSCN0573.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdml1F7kIFrY86C08DYa3hVX2xJG28xHHdFdrr8ScLAiuHGVQ8iRX1Ld30Rgz0ja2psxo3PNBxiSpXnZEloDg2-mXjAbKzuqC1VXp-b38MSLwCUTCpSO1IJJgr_BDOKy-ieyfKsqWzcdk/s640/DSCN0573.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">trad night @ the crane.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio3y1ksrDAEDoUQG5CLEOQz1RAQ_hcveovmzfPiqIJ2ucrPAUDLNf2WsZq_AH7_AiX8pdpDWWCVGyVgKAnE9MoThu0UrEBBb_Pf-qvXU5pHIo5nYSmB1GeSgcosokmS4CpkT7qLed-4kg/s1600/DSCN4031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio3y1ksrDAEDoUQG5CLEOQz1RAQ_hcveovmzfPiqIJ2ucrPAUDLNf2WsZq_AH7_AiX8pdpDWWCVGyVgKAnE9MoThu0UrEBBb_Pf-qvXU5pHIo5nYSmB1GeSgcosokmS4CpkT7qLed-4kg/s640/DSCN4031.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">magic.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCPiYHXWs9LxaKoO0jAu5ah34arGRVaSoHFUstzCMvzauZh9YelP6y4wFxMufB_KyGoplUhN6hiXERfG2EbMixH8IRNnphFuMwOy18s-OoveE83nlxAL57ahz-en3xoLSnnookCRfWncs/s1600/DSCN3493.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCPiYHXWs9LxaKoO0jAu5ah34arGRVaSoHFUstzCMvzauZh9YelP6y4wFxMufB_KyGoplUhN6hiXERfG2EbMixH8IRNnphFuMwOy18s-OoveE83nlxAL57ahz-en3xoLSnnookCRfWncs/s640/DSCN3493.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">topography. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidUjed4-EvxKVyVPgF0tE4oL8sFWBSgxhSh6ytxZoLab2Uytw8awb3rpggHidSATn5NjJnL7oWY3IYldGOMBYBfGDzjhNuJaA2qzhZ3Wdn0CrnJ-xukTq4P90LIZXKhYZmXbuqnZoKE50/s1600/DSCN2267.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidUjed4-EvxKVyVPgF0tE4oL8sFWBSgxhSh6ytxZoLab2Uytw8awb3rpggHidSATn5NjJnL7oWY3IYldGOMBYBfGDzjhNuJaA2qzhZ3Wdn0CrnJ-xukTq4P90LIZXKhYZmXbuqnZoKE50/s640/DSCN2267.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">centuries old, stone walls.</div><br />
I can't believe I'm leaving tomorrow. For those of you still waiting (im)patiently for updates on my other destinations, don't worry. No job means loads of time and I'll type yer eyes out (like talkin' yer ears off but via the interwebs). Until then.<br />
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Cheers, Europe.J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-73311715524140356722011-06-07T16:56:00.003+01:002012-01-24T19:34:55.173+00:00herz voller gold, taschen voller luft...<div class="MsoNormal">This just in. With less than five days to go, I am over-budget by approximately €300. I was hoping to get by on what I’d left in my Irish bank account after the semester was over and for the first two and a half weeks, I was doing pretty darn well. Luckily, during those times when I'm waiting on a train with no Internet, I have created a budget that I keep updated partly because it gives me something to do and partly because I thought it would be useful to see where I'd gone wrong in spending my money. (Even when I was under budget, the outlook for remaining so was bleak. I have always been an impulse buyer.) Turns out, it's a two way street.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv4vh-m73081nXbwAESpWQJJUra4WRTzSO8Yjt3-k9yaXA_-6LSS7AVrmybQ0qP3IU_PJg-ZJO4D_7wa3y81kWMoRmDCvPlEkT7RoesBQoMVCBEbP0LJ1LVio6gcyLO3LZOdvkPP5MN0k/s1600/DSCN4168.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv4vh-m73081nXbwAESpWQJJUra4WRTzSO8Yjt3-k9yaXA_-6LSS7AVrmybQ0qP3IU_PJg-ZJO4D_7wa3y81kWMoRmDCvPlEkT7RoesBQoMVCBEbP0LJ1LVio6gcyLO3LZOdvkPP5MN0k/s640/DSCN4168.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">it's a purple, money-spending kind of day</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
You <i>can</i> go wrong spending money. For example, my first meal in Bern cost almost as much as four days worth of food in Munich once I worked in all the exchange rates. It was one of those "3,70 CHF for a take away container full of food!!!" that only tells you in the small print that it's per #grams of food. Let me tell you, I shoved a crapton of vegetarian goodness into that take-away container and I paid for it...literally. (Turns out Switzerland is just expensive.) I also bought a day pass for Bern's public transportation, not knowing that I would really only need one journey. Another example, I accidentally purchased two bus tickets in Florence instead of just one. Those are euros I will never get back.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But, something I realized as I was trying to figure out how on <i>earth</i> I had managed to spend so much money while I'm going hungry 80% of the time in an attempt to make up for the souvenirs I've bought, spending money when you're traveling is what <i>pays</i>. Dresden, for example, was really nice. Most of what I wanted to see was free, so all I really needed was a Wochenkarte for the trams and a ticket to Stadt Wehlen for my hiking trip and I was set. Even the single room I splurged on was, in all honesty, a better deal than some hostel dorm rooms (only €118.80 for four nights). I found a Lidl and could live off €8.70 worth of food plus a few snacks. But different places mean different prices, and that's not necessarily a bad thing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV8uE26Fs0o9izCPijotEigZXFeNOfbuBIsyD2fs_hv2Y217DF153Io9zpZwASotK86Dcg26ta6mPaH1e7ILpjZUYS50Ah1E5PHsLQM2RVlv14P9lkNQwEUWZ81JoLkxN4G9wjH6fjtt0/s1600/DSCN3310.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV8uE26Fs0o9izCPijotEigZXFeNOfbuBIsyD2fs_hv2Y217DF153Io9zpZwASotK86Dcg26ta6mPaH1e7ILpjZUYS50Ah1E5PHsLQM2RVlv14P9lkNQwEUWZ81JoLkxN4G9wjH6fjtt0/s640/DSCN3310.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">radler, salat, käsespätzle</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
As I grew more comfortable/confident speaking German, it got easier to go out and do other things that are important to experiencing a culture. I bought strawberries from a woman at a market and she talked to me about their origin and how sometimes they press down on each other but that doesn't mean they've gone bad and how they're organic so I don't have to wash them. An experience well worth the €3,90 I paid for the strawberries. I ate dinner in a Biergarten in Munich and had ice cream overlooking Salzburg. For €8,50 I took a German-language tour through a castle I'd never seen before and understood almost every word and got to experience the <i>best</i> special exhibit on Ludwig II's life. The list goes on. Sure, I could have skipped out on things like the €85 Cinque Terra tour and done it for myself, but lunch wouldn't have been provided so I probably wouldn't have eaten it, and I wouldn't have met fellow travelers or known where to go.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVjWGEtrZqxcL07K7s0qIbtR2N3VnvfrWRmZo73upU3JV01JI1-_l2XlAbaXyB5G_ZStY9Oj4tmOqXz8CzTyq4CYOTyU3tSoTrVWDqXmf2NaL66-7e37y6W36VHpsSV3a94a739rImCOo/s1600/DSCN3509.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVjWGEtrZqxcL07K7s0qIbtR2N3VnvfrWRmZo73upU3JV01JI1-_l2XlAbaXyB5G_ZStY9Oj4tmOqXz8CzTyq4CYOTyU3tSoTrVWDqXmf2NaL66-7e37y6W36VHpsSV3a94a739rImCOo/s640/DSCN3509.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">eis</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Even my tacky souvenirs. Not all of them are tacky, okay? And, through these little trinkets, I get to share my experience with the people I love. So, do I regret the 22--CHF I spent on dinner last night? Hell yes. But can I live with it? Of course. Learning is a part of life. So often nowadays you have to pay to learn things, but I guess Newton got it right in more ways than just physics when he came up with the rule that for every action there's an equal and opposite reaction. I take money out of my pocket, but for every piece of paper and little metal coin that leaves my hands, I gain a new experience, and I'm okay with that.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Needless to say, though, my birthday could <i>not</i> come soon enough.</div>J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-85995866261516687372011-06-01T21:35:00.008+01:002012-01-24T19:40:43.993+00:00es sah einmal wie das aus...Dresden is one of my favorite cities in Germany, and I think the reason I have hesitated to write anything about it is because I want my words to do it justice. People go to Berlin and people go to Munich, but for me, no trip to Germany would be complete if I didn't spend time in Dresden. It's where I have friends, where I know the streets, where I feel comfortable. In a sea of uncertainty, it was my rock, and here's why: it's been with me since eighth grade.<br />
<br />
My first experience of Dresden came from a little book by Kurt Vonnegut called <i>Slaughter-House 5</i>. Due to "innapropriate" content, it was removed from our English reading list the summer going into ninth grade, but I read it anyway. I thought it would be really gory, about death and destruction, the kind of things I pretended to be into at that age so I could be "hardxcore"... Well, it turns out, it really is gory, in a subtle way, and it really is about death and destruction, but not in that glorified, romantic way I liked in all my vampire books. It's an anti-war book (which, is kind of as pointless as writing an anti-glacier book, Vonnegut notes, since there will always be glaciers [ha ha, that's what they thought in the 60s!], and there will always be wars) about a boy, not a man, who was a prisoner of war during the firebombing of Dresden in February 1945.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmMpbC8kvdLmIyyN6NUs3I5tR4n7DAsOwiOZkP393E4zK1aL5R-o9D7HtiMEKElkUdqGnSO4Cf7WwU2w8tyGArpVxVYO3sTOSMjweQBuABNIsQ9w74aAeBx4Q3oeCg9TMgt_v4kzbii70/s1600/dresden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmMpbC8kvdLmIyyN6NUs3I5tR4n7DAsOwiOZkP393E4zK1aL5R-o9D7HtiMEKElkUdqGnSO4Cf7WwU2w8tyGArpVxVYO3sTOSMjweQBuABNIsQ9w74aAeBx4Q3oeCg9TMgt_v4kzbii70/s640/dresden.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">[http://ckck.tumblr.com]</span></div></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">A year later, I did my first homestay in Dresden with Frau Della Flora. I was fourteen and still too young to drink and really understand much of what was happening. I looked around with wide-eyed wonder and let Wenke lead me through the streets without really comprehending, without connecting it to anything else in my life. Everything was so new to me, and I could barely speak German at the time, so as an experience, it just floated around by itself</span></span> until the next time I was in Dresden, two years later, and the Frauenkirche was open to the public. Previously, Wenke had taken me by the Frauenkirche, but she had explained that they were still rebuilding it. Like I said, I didn't connect it to anything, but two years later, two years older, I realized... walking through those doors and looking up into that beautiful dome was really something special. Later, I purchased a copy of Vonnegut's book in German and I've been attempting to read it ever since...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(On p. 100 now! Reading German is really cool because every word is like uncovering a new piece to the puzzle and once you've finally put it together, you know what the sentence says, and you're like "Wow..." for a few seconds before you put together the next sentence... I'm getting so good at it! Not to brag or anything...)</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1wokTV-AKTJdUBidbE8LaR1LhxwTYs_f_-e-cfuPvfx-9xqVXUl28tn6ha3vMkik902DPYEkmGbUksfcpqfxYNSG2O9psL55ptsGbe827gPAKHedhnoy7O8NLvehuF-HdgNIQyaTHH58/s1600/DSCN2848.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1wokTV-AKTJdUBidbE8LaR1LhxwTYs_f_-e-cfuPvfx-9xqVXUl28tn6ha3vMkik902DPYEkmGbUksfcpqfxYNSG2O9psL55ptsGbe827gPAKHedhnoy7O8NLvehuF-HdgNIQyaTHH58/s640/DSCN2848.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">This time around, I was lounging in the sun in the Großer Garten when it suddenly started to rain. Without a back-up plan since I'd opted to skip out on Pirates of the Caribbean auf Deutsch due to the awesome weather (ironic, I know), I decided to hop on the train and check out the Stadtmuseum instead since it was free entry on Fridays after noon. With an almost sick anticipation, I nearly blazed through all the information on the city during the Reformation and all the baroque architecture to the floor about WWII. But when I entered the room, I suddenly felt cold. I was soaking wet and the building was air-conditioned, but this was something deeper. There were pictures of burned bodies, collapsed buildings, lonely people wandering, lost. I sat down at a station where German actors read letters from the month after the bombing. One was headed "Mir fehlt nur Opium..." (trans: I only miss opium...) and it was about this man who was separated from his wife and child. I couldn't understand quite what happened but he went into the shelter for something and he told her to wait, that he would come for her in a few minutes. When he came back out she was gone and he found her body on a doorstep later, lying as sweetly as though she were sleeping. Call me a sap, but I get so that I really start to <i>feel</i> a history, and I had to bite my lip to keep from crying in public.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoKQCjwsG9ZuG09_Hr4iaNWwPk_a8eywERrjJ3UxEsiJN-5kdEMQd5mQ5PDe-NrEInlNtZMrJ7AQk0S050lp7A9NVgTxGLcgLT5PCMPjvssG_sOTXsKk6keWHTyvCcPzPU-P6bEUEu_tY/s1600/DSCN2849.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoKQCjwsG9ZuG09_Hr4iaNWwPk_a8eywERrjJ3UxEsiJN-5kdEMQd5mQ5PDe-NrEInlNtZMrJ7AQk0S050lp7A9NVgTxGLcgLT5PCMPjvssG_sOTXsKk6keWHTyvCcPzPU-P6bEUEu_tY/s640/DSCN2849.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Anyway, I like to buy postcards of historical pictures if they're cheap enough, and as I was holding my recent purchase up to create this image, a man walking a dog came up behind me and said very slowly, "Ja, es sah einmal wie das aus," a deep, relaxed voice thick with the gravity and melancholy of the statement. And then he just walked away, leaving me bewildered, and my arms fell heavily to my sides. Once I'd worked out exactly what he'd said, I sat there on the square with my postcard lying face-up in my lap, looking at the city through yet another filter, now six years older than the first time I saw Dresden in person. Later that day, I had dinner with a friend from Dresden outside the Frauenkirche and there was a fireworks show to mark the opening of the Dixie music festival. We talked about how four years had passed since the last time I was in Dresden, and how that's just too long. </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQpYwIAMT2q1fpCaItHJtNR7diqKxyEYTnND7c_-ckpJMwcai2tfA8KPEqTcVnjD4ZR5Y8s2rg6H3C18czqqUnFSQu9JClPeHmPjRKQbPMrBHGYHd62dHSeouM301m_8odQ8vzMUUK0f8/s1600/dSCN2915.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQpYwIAMT2q1fpCaItHJtNR7diqKxyEYTnND7c_-ckpJMwcai2tfA8KPEqTcVnjD4ZR5Y8s2rg6H3C18czqqUnFSQu9JClPeHmPjRKQbPMrBHGYHd62dHSeouM301m_8odQ8vzMUUK0f8/s640/dSCN2915.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>I think that's when I decided that Dresden was my favorite city in Germany. Every time I visit, I grow a little before I leave. The first time, I was about to turn fifteen and I'd made my first almost-twenty-year-old friend who didn't think I was some dorky little kid (or maybe that <i>is</i> what Wenke thought of me, but she was polite enough to treat me like a friend the entire time I was there). I'd walked around a city at night after nine p.m. and I'd seen a live outdoor music performance that wasn't Classical music. Oh, yeah, and I'd grown two inches. The second time I left, I had stories to tell about overcoming language barriers and I started to feel old. I had been more independent than the first time. They'd given me a phone and a key just in case I got lost and I was a real Schlüsselkinder for the first time in my life. And this time, when I left, I knew it was to come back. I can speak German now, and I'm no longer afraid of it. I planned things on my own, and when those plans fell through, <i>I</i> had to fix it, not my teacher. I am almost twenty-one. I'm exploring Europe on my own, and I left Dresden feeling confident that I <i>can</i> do it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So, here's to Dresden--a beautiful, resilient, often-overlooked city that has taught me so much about life and how to live it.</div>J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-34798396861517425072011-05-26T21:37:00.065+01:002012-01-24T19:43:39.404+00:00münchen, teil 1...<div class="MsoNormal"><span id="goog_954507111"></span><span id="goog_954507112"></span>The color of Munich is red.<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Okay, so I <i>know</i> the city’s colors are black and gold and the Bavarian colors are white and blue, but my experience thus far has been red, both in the sense that you see red when you’re beyond angry and in that mouthwatering red that promises a juicy sweetness as soon as your teeth pierce the skin. Let me start from the beginning…<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"></div> I arrived at the Wombat Hostel around 6:30pm, with enough daylight to settle into my room without having my awkward crashing around waking anyone at odd hours (well, it would have been an odd hour if they were asleep anyway!), and with enough time to complete what is fast becoming my favorite hostel ritual: Lidl shopping. I know what I like in Germany: Brötchen (translates to rolls, but they’re so much better than plain ol’ dinner rolls), Fol Epi cheese, cucumbers, tomatoes, pasta, and Knoppers. (If Augustiner gets to be the golden liquid of the gods, I would classify Knoppers and Kinder chocolate as the chocolaty delight of the gods…) I have begun to take for granted that hostels will provide me with a place to store/cook these goods.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSOpNbkc5kxWG35UrrRcMZEMhYaIfUK3Gf_fAhCCKYFgg1w7NtAiwzlGhnWG4A44uuNrtOkDOjGvL1PHMCmzxu4to2UEEDdus7ifHzJC32RYI262CsnQAQupRH3uvc14zIY0KWtZxDsNs/s1600/DSCN3115.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSOpNbkc5kxWG35UrrRcMZEMhYaIfUK3Gf_fAhCCKYFgg1w7NtAiwzlGhnWG4A44uuNrtOkDOjGvL1PHMCmzxu4to2UEEDdus7ifHzJC32RYI262CsnQAQupRH3uvc14zIY0KWtZxDsNs/s640/DSCN3115.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
The Wombat Hostel has its perks. It’s colorful, friendly, loud in the common areas, quiet in the rooms, free (crappy) wLAN, but it does not provide a guest kitchen. Suddenly, the 8,72 I’d spent on food for the four days I was here quit looking like a good way to save money. For dinner I ate raw macaroni from a Tupperware like a dog without a spoon. By the time I woke up my cheese was kicking it and the frozen veggies I’d bought as a treat were soggy and smelled of cardboard. Well, shit. Color me pissed off.</div><div class="MsoNormal">(And I <i>was </i>pissed off, but let’s not get into that.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Which brings me to yesterday. I ate what I could salvage of and tossed the rest of my spoiled food, ate a piece of bread and an apple, and decided for a new start. I can afford 8,72 for a learning experience. The day began with a free tour run by the tour-for-tips philosophy. You pay what you think the tour deserves instead of a rate upfront. Like many of its kind, it’s a good philosophy…until it’s put into practice. As a German minor and not-so-closeted hater of any large group of tourists, I probably shouldn’t have been on this tour. I can’t say I appreciated being talked to so loud in English, nor did I appreciate the almost condescending repetition of dates and questions even a five-year-old could answer. Plus, he talked about what caused the U.S. recession during the entire Glockenspiel. Good thing I wasn’t paying attention. Let me give you his tour in a nutshell:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He mentioned a lot of 9-11s without specifying he was speaking of November 11th until some American mentioned how weird it was that that date kept coming up in history, and then he condescended to her and the rest of us the entire trip. He kept saying that his goal was to make us "local" (whatever the hell that means) by getting us to think like <i>real</i> Bavarians. Okay, so the book on the evils of "authentic" tourism spoiled me for that experience. I know I'm not Bavarian, and I'm not going to pretend to be, so please stop pandering for tips! He made a lot of religious generalisations that I also didn't appreciate, such that the biggest difference between a Catholic and a Protestant is the Pope. Um, hello? Transubstantiation vs. Consubstantiation much? And finally, probably my biggest pet peeve, he spoke like Berlin and Munich were the only two cities in Germany. Berlin is ___; Munich is ___. Like, nevermind the fact that there are <i>other </i>beautiful places/regions in Germany off the beaten track that you could be recommending. Hessen! Saschen! <i>Hello!!!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoWz19ErTdO6tvbYuuDfQNKVPEVcLZUy0bAT0qUzwkg7uGSHh9f_Ze6iVTAfX0InyoqdJs50lpyEmVgbwpsCdvK5HGPcYcKG1CsSfDiojRENpg3itt0BYA7sv9R7PD2MapUsbLk1f7gDo/s1600/DSCN3098.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoWz19ErTdO6tvbYuuDfQNKVPEVcLZUy0bAT0qUzwkg7uGSHh9f_Ze6iVTAfX0InyoqdJs50lpyEmVgbwpsCdvK5HGPcYcKG1CsSfDiojRENpg3itt0BYA7sv9R7PD2MapUsbLk1f7gDo/s640/DSCN3098.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">one cool thing he did teach us is that the bayern flags on the ceiling of the hofbräu haus used to be swastikas... basically this was, like, the nazi hq</span> </div><br />
Needless to say, I didn’t pay him. In retrospect, karma is going to kick my ass, but, honestly, I spent the whole time feeling awkward and wanting to let every single German that suppressed an eye-roll in our general direction that I’m not like that! I speak German! I’ve been to Munich before! I was just lost and needed an easy way to get to the Marienplatz! Honestly! I’m not one of them!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOsXGD_1md5N0GK_Hzi-xxMJCRiINvaAjRIFGZ1f5KRYxscZhF4oIidICDMVx3MxaYuveUDXpR65ZQ1LMGJSxSFY84tzBXk6aYd6phhg9O3vZ-nA_BOao76adPpeAINzEfje2iOht8uE8/s1600/DSCN3113.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOsXGD_1md5N0GK_Hzi-xxMJCRiINvaAjRIFGZ1f5KRYxscZhF4oIidICDMVx3MxaYuveUDXpR65ZQ1LMGJSxSFY84tzBXk6aYd6phhg9O3vZ-nA_BOao76adPpeAINzEfje2iOht8uE8/s640/DSCN3113.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> theatinerkirche: these people are cheering for the environment... no, really... "k-l-i-m-a, klima!!!"</span></td></tr>
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(Which, I realize, is incredibly unfair to my fellow countrymen and travelers abroad. Regardless of how they are doing it, they are trying to experience a culture just as much as I am. Whether or not they speak the language or know anything about the country doesn’t make them dumb, annoying, bitchy, ditzy, bros, spoiled, or any other adjective I may/may not have used in my angry thoughts yesterday. Everyone starts somewhere, whether it’s an annoying [there I go again] tour or a three day homestay in Tannheim with no German skills and only an undying love for chocolate cake and farmlands [yes, cake and cows are the real reason I’m so in love with Germany]…)<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">Okay, so, ranting and raving aside (or maybe not—dun dun dunnn!), after I departed from the tour, I was a little disappointed in myself for not having met anyone, but considering I lied and said I was from Ireland, maybe it’s a good thing I was only able to initiate a ten-minute conversation in which I described the game of hurling and gushed about Galway in a sufficient-but-otherwise insufficient false-voice… Anyway, I was a little sad to be on my own after the tour, but I was also really, really glad to be set free. My lonely itinerary was as follows:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2AHui7UbT1tbrReVonoIBhGGX17T3o7slcUp1H62uvHOkgyuxbrjGi-XbgPRqUmC0NP4wCmdqavsDwK4iz7TygtAaz7Xpd265pJbejkYsZwl-vlCbi6x91jVhJnGpNLUQThxon-4YII/s1600/DSCN3120.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2AHui7UbT1tbrReVonoIBhGGX17T3o7slcUp1H62uvHOkgyuxbrjGi-XbgPRqUmC0NP4wCmdqavsDwK4iz7TygtAaz7Xpd265pJbejkYsZwl-vlCbi6x91jVhJnGpNLUQThxon-4YII/s640/DSCN3120.JPG" width="640" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
1)<b> Theatinerkirche</b> where I encountered/touched a rather chilling saintly relic</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
2) Back to <b>Marienplatz</b> to read a while in the <b>Hugenbudel</b> (supposedly the largest bookstore in Germany)</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAVwoGlyf1lz2hVm6T5zbzB5uJ9rkQHa5FZmB7u8nj07eO9m7RP2WH9WUEDdS8H-vZwBeAvXLeb_aEmtpinAhnW2Pge959U5GzsBe5S7M4J4UN3GgmkrrMR8_ZeuChyAnbEx-cJwMt6Uc/s1600/DSCN3137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAVwoGlyf1lz2hVm6T5zbzB5uJ9rkQHa5FZmB7u8nj07eO9m7RP2WH9WUEDdS8H-vZwBeAvXLeb_aEmtpinAhnW2Pge959U5GzsBe5S7M4J4UN3GgmkrrMR8_ZeuChyAnbEx-cJwMt6Uc/s640/DSCN3137.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
3) Getting lost while trying to find, and then turning around and actually finding the <b>Viktualienmarkt</b>, where I had a conversation with a lovely lady selling strawberries and learned a new useful word: Schale (means a carton or a box of ___ [i.e. strawberries, blueberries]). I did have some issues with her dialect, but I was proud of myself for understanding when she told me I could taste one before I purchased a box, that she would check to make sure they were all pretty, that I could have the ones she picked out as “bad” for free and that they weren’t actually bad, just a little squished, and that I didn’t have to wash the fruit because they were organic. Phew, I understood a lot! Hooray for me!</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmnbBAHPaJs5mQgdzh6PkDad1ruoL-z37vU2LlkrcimcMdSFtj9XWRe7zTQgQBz56G95Q7PxxceKajjfMRXtcdE9UEsRQRACHuDAafq8qKLbmBqi7lNvrm9O0DPLCIy4IwpFl1Gi5lX7s/s1600/DSCN3155.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmnbBAHPaJs5mQgdzh6PkDad1ruoL-z37vU2LlkrcimcMdSFtj9XWRe7zTQgQBz56G95Q7PxxceKajjfMRXtcdE9UEsRQRACHuDAafq8qKLbmBqi7lNvrm9O0DPLCIy4IwpFl1Gi5lX7s/s640/DSCN3155.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">abschaffen! abschaffen! abschaffen!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
4) Then I went to <b>Alter Peter</b> and as I was exiting the church, I bumped into and joined a <b>student protest</b>. They were protesting “high” university fees (which I just have to scoff at as someone who’s tuition costs $50,000/year), which I agree are ridiculous! Since I could understand what they were saying and protesting, I decided to grab some red protest stickers (“Wissen. Macht. Reich.” and “Arme Uni”) and a balloon and join in the chanting! My favorite protester was a guy dressed up as a Spartan with a red cape and a sign that read “MADNESS?!?! THIS…IS…BAVARIA!!!” <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"></div>And then I came back to the hostel only to discover that there is a guest fridge! So I went back to Lidl and bought—wait for it! Two pots of strawberry yogurt, strawberry and johannesberry jam, and the red version of Babybel cheese. So between being so frustrated I practically saw red, having nothing to eat but apples, cold macaroni slathered in tomato sauce and the cherry tomatoes I’d bought to make sandwiches, going on a dumb tour that (I will admit) did teach me a few things (like that Cincinatti, Ohio is Munich’s sister-city and that the Bavarian flags on the ceiling of the Hofbräuhaus are covering up swastikas), eating half a carton of strawberries from the Bodensee, and buying my second round of food, I have come to the conclusion that the color of Munich is red. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Which, in the end, is really more sweet than sour. :)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPHW3C_byMtFqOX1pkSrNalc81fItkS_Z0MaZVH_h-eFi3vHxX4-ielFkJiJfE_oQljryMrIy-xuo8z6kJqA1Y0zkF56XUig6mPVB_e8jKXrYjuFBHsVLndi8gyXcWRdL9Mc4Uez_WBTA/s1600/DSCN3180.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPHW3C_byMtFqOX1pkSrNalc81fItkS_Z0MaZVH_h-eFi3vHxX4-ielFkJiJfE_oQljryMrIy-xuo8z6kJqA1Y0zkF56XUig6mPVB_e8jKXrYjuFBHsVLndi8gyXcWRdL9Mc4Uez_WBTA/s640/DSCN3180.JPG" width="640" /></a></div></div>J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-79230164120227467692011-05-17T20:56:00.001+01:002011-05-17T20:57:17.648+01:00keine panik!I have just returned from my first day of real travel in Germany. Yesterday doesn't count because I spent three hours on a bus from Galway to Dublin, three hours in the Dublin airport, two hours on a plane from Dublin to Berlin, and about two hours trying to figure out how to get from the airport in Berlin to my hostel. Thankfully, I met an Irish couple with a map and kind hearts who became my surrogate parents for appx. 1 hour. I was able to return the favor by translating the transportation notices that were coming over the train's PA (there was a detour and then a signal problem). After finally arriving, all I wanted to do was sleep. Unfortunately, the big snorer in the bed above mine had other ideas.<br />
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Four hours of sleep, sore arms, and hardly any breakfast was not exactly how I wanted to start my adventures in Germany. But, as is my nature, I persevered, ate some peanut butter, and headed out to Potsdam (specifically: Schloß Sanssouci) where disappointment continued to reign. It's been almost 7 years since I was last in Berlin and Potsdam, and all I could remember about the palace was this beautiful, beautiful room with shells and pearls covering the walls. I remember walking in from the almost oppressive June heat and feeling the cool, blue breeze of a grotto kissing my cheeks. It turns out, there's a lot more to the palace than just that room. In fact, there are at least four different buildings, one of which, the New Palace, is closed on Tuesdays. Just so happens, that's the one I needed to revisit that magical place. Of course, ever the optimist, I didn't realize that until I'd paid 8 euro for a tour and came out wondering where on earth that grotto had disappeared to.<br />
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But, you know, I wandered around the palace gardens for almost four hours, a luxury we weren't afforded due to the organized-fun nature of high school trips. I saw things I've never seen before, and I was able to buy a beautiful postcard of the grotto which is better than any picture I could have taken (tripods and flash are not allowed). I didn't get to relive the magic of seven years ago, but I got to experience so much more. Besides, I'm only twenty years old. I can still come back and try again! I didn't miss one train or bus today, and I didn't get lost either, and I think that's certainly worth celebrating. I shouldn't dwell on the fact that the Berliner Dom wouldn't let me in unless I paid for a ticket or that I didn't make it out to the Berlin Wall. I fit a lot into one day (Sanssouci, Alexanderplatz, Brandenburger Tor, mich verlaufen...)! So I've decided to live this trip the way Frederick the Great's palace has advised me to: sans souci, ohne Sorge, without worries.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCD51tSVdB5J3CRWH_IamhHucAeIOOl7ebeQdufk076yZzSUtB70uUxxiGZ8Jkda0CzpcOvLoTE0uwyXhJFT031heX-AnzLM9AWKBfZWwmnt9xCrBs125oUcjgeIkWB9WqRNrWJ-4wfDM/s1600/DSCN2606.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCD51tSVdB5J3CRWH_IamhHucAeIOOl7ebeQdufk076yZzSUtB70uUxxiGZ8Jkda0CzpcOvLoTE0uwyXhJFT031heX-AnzLM9AWKBfZWwmnt9xCrBs125oUcjgeIkWB9WqRNrWJ-4wfDM/s640/DSCN2606.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
And you're probably all <i>dying</i> to know how little timid Jenny is coping with the language. Well, I'll tell you, I'm doing just fine for myself. So far I have asked questions of about 5,000 DB (Deutsche Bahn) personnel, approached the desk at my hostel, and ordered food. I'd give myself a 95% for participation and a 70% for success. Even though I start off shaky and nervous, I must sound better than I did four years ago, because people have been mostly responding to my inquiries in German, something that <i>never</i> happened before, and I can understand much better when they give directions, though sometimes I do zone out as if I were sitting in a class instead of throwing myself into the real world. I did have a <i>moment</i> today though. I went to order a sub at Subway and I made a very common English-speaking mistake when I asked the kid "Can I have a Veggie Delight?" He responded, like a snotty brat, with that trick parents and schoolteachers worldwide seem to adore: "I dunno, <i>can</i> you?" My blank stare was met by a dumb grin for a few moments before I realized and tried to correct myself, which made me seem even <i>more</i> stupid. "<i>May</i> I...?" I asked. He laughed harder and I blushed more, but we pushed forward to something I actually knew how to say--vegetable names. Thank you, high school German! So, in spite of the embarrassment, I can happily say that my German is not so bad that people only ever respond to my attempts in English.<br />
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A step in the right direction? I think so!J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-34250823219104950592011-05-11T15:31:00.008+01:002011-05-11T15:49:57.551+01:00do you feel my heartbeat, europe?It's the most wonderful time of the year! It's live! It's tacky! It sparkles! It's <b>EUROVISION 2011</b>, and it's <i>on</i>! For those of you who are unfortunate enough to have never experienced a Eurovision, it's like a ridiculously hilarious mix of American Idol and the Olympics. The song competition debuted in 1956 in Switzerland as a way to heal the divisions in a war-ravaged Europe and it is now one of the longest running television programs in the world. The basic premise is that each country submits one song for judgment, which is to be performed over a live broadcast that reaches all countries in the EBU (European Broadcasting Union). Countries vote for other countries (voting for yourself is prohibited) and, eventually, someone wins. In case you were wondering, you can thank Eurovision for ABBA.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz3mjUpEqSgrgApTilsmXGdI-CBuJpP6dsbpdeI4s6nyp_GtzpAo0viG8dEsDOlD3ny_h6CNBMd1ZKOiCyT_sH42CJOAVUmGWWcWSxquXWzEygGl0N5fdBTlfRGvmVx7aGtlCNsZxMEnk/s1600/abba_eurovision.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz3mjUpEqSgrgApTilsmXGdI-CBuJpP6dsbpdeI4s6nyp_GtzpAo0viG8dEsDOlD3ny_h6CNBMd1ZKOiCyT_sH42CJOAVUmGWWcWSxquXWzEygGl0N5fdBTlfRGvmVx7aGtlCNsZxMEnk/s640/abba_eurovision.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> ABBA ca. 1974 [http://msbeaker.blogspot.com/]</span></div><br />
But what makes Eurovision such a riot is the cheese factor. The announcers are typically desperately unfunny, the costumes and props unbearably tacky, the lyrics irritatingly catchy and nonsensical, and the performers shamelessly flirtatious. Case-in-point, Russian's entry Alexei Vorobjov is <i>coming to get you</i> and Hungary wants to know--what about my dreeaaaaaammmz?!:<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/5v9CMGzqgWE?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://2.gvt0.com/vi/NIbGvyVYM_I/0.jpg" height="266" width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/NIbGvyVYM_I&fs=1&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/NIbGvyVYM_I&fs=1&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object></div></div><br />
Good stuff, man. There are some charming groups, too, that warm the heart and make you go "awwwww" like Iceland:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://3.gvt0.com/vi/1_RmMnhiUEM/0.jpg" height="266" width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/1_RmMnhiUEM&fs=1&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/1_RmMnhiUEM&fs=1&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Ireland will be performing in the second semi-final round on Thursday. The submission? Strange, intergalactic, amazeballs twins from Dublin who call themselves <span style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="http://www.planetjedward.net/">Jedward</a></b></span> (John + Edward) with very bizarre yet somehow endearing personalities (in small doses, of course). Now, I'd heard an awful lot about the UK's submission (a sufficiently cheesy boy-band, Blue) but I hadn't heard of Jedward at all until I looked up the Eurovision listing on RTE. They're pretty fantastic. I'm not going to say I want them to win just yet, but Ireland holds the record for most Eurovision wins (7) and it'd be cool if the youngest competitors this year could add one more to the list?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ldE1jrBs3mIjwcAZq2Cm2rT6XfZzh6LmkaXSWQUJvlh_I_0LBOYBLauYAqaQmoaxg85TDm3rDbuAXHtNj12lMiDo_PFV0InorFU1WSapPcM32C0QIgtN9K_Z_CLWi9B89BJfOHSEdZQ/s1600/DSCN2457.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ldE1jrBs3mIjwcAZq2Cm2rT6XfZzh6LmkaXSWQUJvlh_I_0LBOYBLauYAqaQmoaxg85TDm3rDbuAXHtNj12lMiDo_PFV0InorFU1WSapPcM32C0QIgtN9K_Z_CLWi9B89BJfOHSEdZQ/s640/DSCN2457.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">completely sober. i can't wait until tomorrow when i'll be drinking that druid that's been in the fridge since st. patrick's day.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">That's it for now, folks. Stay tacky!</span></span></div>J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-47597638502581336802011-05-10T16:58:00.001+01:002011-05-10T16:59:05.970+01:00one week.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBN3MSulFH-BeOYjgbN0IUQ3lhM9DeobhH48sZndV_0S1FfoR21Qi0YczU1T8sIUsdoBqUzCyDNKN4yClOYGHNuDlDx9QKtiS9zVua3EeYMhJ1TOrxECSMrZYXAPKAeZPghpuMwJY6y3M/s1600/229068_10150187338502491_501857490_6810450_6802906_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBN3MSulFH-BeOYjgbN0IUQ3lhM9DeobhH48sZndV_0S1FfoR21Qi0YczU1T8sIUsdoBqUzCyDNKN4yClOYGHNuDlDx9QKtiS9zVua3EeYMhJ1TOrxECSMrZYXAPKAeZPghpuMwJY6y3M/s640/229068_10150187338502491_501857490_6810450_6802906_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-70346463038550455092011-05-08T14:13:00.000+01:002011-05-08T14:13:49.023+01:00to my mother.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhepEZ6UTNsRweu3nUoPg_9Ho2c-MmI_teTOlQACH8Y5nk63GjkidVBSBk0NY3PMj4C4oRu9bf-hbwWZm-2oZO9KClC8Li7QrHttoidKpGdKcHx4IKMNPW5JgmXPlL_lpWg1wqQ4Yf4l68/s1600/mommy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhepEZ6UTNsRweu3nUoPg_9Ho2c-MmI_teTOlQACH8Y5nk63GjkidVBSBk0NY3PMj4C4oRu9bf-hbwWZm-2oZO9KClC8Li7QrHttoidKpGdKcHx4IKMNPW5JgmXPlL_lpWg1wqQ4Yf4l68/s1600/mommy.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Happy (U.S.) Mother's Day. I know you'll always protect me from muddy Renaissance miscreants. I love you!</div>J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-88890821935247519792011-05-01T23:52:00.002+01:002012-01-24T19:35:44.695+00:00adventures close to home.It seems crazy that in sixteen days, I will be flying to Germany for the start of a whirlwind tour that will also bring me to Austria, Italy, Switzerland, England, and potentially Wales. It seems crazy, but it's true. I have sixteen days to say goodbye to everyone and Ireland, book hostels, pack my things, ship what doesn't fit home, and buy my soon-to-be seventeen-year-old brother a birthday present. That's two weeks. That's <i>terrifying</i>.<br />
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Thinking about it now, I've just made an attempt to plan a bit for Dresden, Florence, and Laussanne, and the languages are already kicking my butt--even German, because the vocab is completely unfamiliar to me. I haven't "booked a room" since we booked fake rooms in high school, and real money wasn't at stake back then. I think I did a better job bullshitting my way through the Laussanne tourism page, which randomly kept switching back to French whenever I tried to find an ice rink that would be open in June, than I did trying to figure out how exactly to get from Dresden to the Säschische-Schweiz and back. Oh, well. You live and you learn, and I'll come back to conquering the booking process tomorrow.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg11hThrWq5Y1LFSGw8Rm4MVGL7nondLYny85Ck7Gq67mqAAzmyxiUDZolu1a2Vsfys18nJWE7JrxuuT-jvBslcLNBcUbLET15zQkoj0URmDMZ1cIqNHjhueSWXgpA6C65_6SD0-MqlqY8/s1600/DSCN2201.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg11hThrWq5Y1LFSGw8Rm4MVGL7nondLYny85Ck7Gq67mqAAzmyxiUDZolu1a2Vsfys18nJWE7JrxuuT-jvBslcLNBcUbLET15zQkoj0URmDMZ1cIqNHjhueSWXgpA6C65_6SD0-MqlqY8/s640/DSCN2201.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
What, outside of finalizing my hectic month of insanity, have I been up to in the merry ol' land of Eire? With only two weeks to go, I've decided to adventure (mostly) close to home. (I may have one last big trip to see the Ring of Kerry or hang out in Ennis [since the Siege of Ennis was one of my favorite group dances growing up].) Plus, there's so much that I haven't experienced yet so close to home, and I feel like it would be a bit of a cop out if I said goodbye to Galway too soon.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghp2oxryqBy8e6GJ0Vpoz8336sxnjH-aW6ETB0xPveI6R2IUnwVbOHOG9H-kBq4lC73KchyphenhyphenAR3V1IVJNMKzSXhetlfIPJuv3gFDqFVwpEr4uENkfEekTtKmntHfXDJdh2XbcWntyQBRh8/s1600/DSCN2208.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghp2oxryqBy8e6GJ0Vpoz8336sxnjH-aW6ETB0xPveI6R2IUnwVbOHOG9H-kBq4lC73KchyphenhyphenAR3V1IVJNMKzSXhetlfIPJuv3gFDqFVwpEr4uENkfEekTtKmntHfXDJdh2XbcWntyQBRh8/s640/DSCN2208.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> on the beach where we breaked for lunch and wrote in the sand in a multitude of languages including irish, german, spanish, and japanese</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlK2DaH0JpdtvGffRy0ZH1Ig1huTP4FzsZUVATiSV6gqqe0eYFGq3M-iv7Sem772YeovhAdck1QsE6OslN42p8XuHtBUl4zBJ7IYCBZH6_ZwyplDqPE1V2iLux12YWBa0VA3APGOWg2qw/s1600/DSCN2227.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlK2DaH0JpdtvGffRy0ZH1Ig1huTP4FzsZUVATiSV6gqqe0eYFGq3M-iv7Sem772YeovhAdck1QsE6OslN42p8XuHtBUl4zBJ7IYCBZH6_ZwyplDqPE1V2iLux12YWBa0VA3APGOWg2qw/s640/DSCN2227.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">hanging out on the edge at dún aonghasa</span></div><br />
On Thursday, I journeyed to the Aran Islands (Inis Mór [literally: the big island]) for a sunny day trip. The weather was amazing and held out the entire day, despite Met Eireann warnings that there would be wet spells throughout the day along the west coast. (Whenever I look at the weather before I plan a trip, I always feel a bit like I'm playing Russian roulette and I'm about to lose.) We hired a bike for the day and once I got over the fact that there were cows and ponies and awesome views every few feet, it was nice to just cruise along with the wind in my hair and my vision unobstructed by awkwardly placed plastic curtain-holders. I am definitely a proponent of biking when you can, in Ireland and <i>anywhere</i>. Something about it is just so liberating. Plus, you don't have to pay for petrol.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVVbEt2-ctZARparftfi02K75MwnPQrFDXGALC4P6NGYZ15cq67hJ1aEtRFpvpnnWz-U-fjzJoMAiFV9z7w7fl65V-oeKf6ZJdUXJgP_-8Fl8rwZnKLvPjz22hZNoYgBLHMgpI_tVOAo0/s1600/DSCN2228.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVVbEt2-ctZARparftfi02K75MwnPQrFDXGALC4P6NGYZ15cq67hJ1aEtRFpvpnnWz-U-fjzJoMAiFV9z7w7fl65V-oeKf6ZJdUXJgP_-8Fl8rwZnKLvPjz22hZNoYgBLHMgpI_tVOAo0/s640/DSCN2228.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">the cliffs at dún aonghasa</span></div><br />
Like Carraroe and Dingle, the Aran Islands are a Gaeltacht region, meaning that Irish is everywhere. I'm always tempted to practice in the supermarket after hearing people ordering chicken or telling their kids to go grab some cookies (I only know that's what they're saying because it's what they do only seconds later), but my courage fails me at the last minute. But, aside from the exciting immersion in an Irish-speaking region, the Gaeltacht just refreshes my entire body. Even in Dingle and the Aran Islands, where you really can't walk three feet without bumping into a tourist, everyone seems friendlier, happier, more laid back (which is saying something because the Irish are incredibly friendly, mostly happy, and super laid back). The air is fresher, the atmosphere cleaner as well. It's just the kind of place where you feel like you can touch history, and, in this case, it's a <i>long</i> one indeed.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPvlG5YfRSlgUuJHKDqO5kv3C5fUBkCq6LrFn7a9M6vN-BFc7iIRl7LJK0ly-bbJ_29MhRruL_5KJ_P3oyY4WYBcrQDXoRhxU6L4THPo-atWPa5SYjix2rjc4D2JRLIDlT635IfA8AQIM/s1600/DSCN2246.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPvlG5YfRSlgUuJHKDqO5kv3C5fUBkCq6LrFn7a9M6vN-BFc7iIRl7LJK0ly-bbJ_29MhRruL_5KJ_P3oyY4WYBcrQDXoRhxU6L4THPo-atWPa5SYjix2rjc4D2JRLIDlT635IfA8AQIM/s640/DSCN2246.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCObhnp36NBC8sRkHHEP1KWdS1iEtlpmWUnbC-kkCK4vBOKCYLSMPPbrKvVGboD78hcHUEYYZ_6kSkPGxPJBpX-fOJCbLZiETJIxMlZnSJvgIy7-Hq43v3R2GlLXZJ1o1McWBzYM_vbMY/s1600/DSCN2281.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCObhnp36NBC8sRkHHEP1KWdS1iEtlpmWUnbC-kkCK4vBOKCYLSMPPbrKvVGboD78hcHUEYYZ_6kSkPGxPJBpX-fOJCbLZiETJIxMlZnSJvgIy7-Hq43v3R2GlLXZJ1o1McWBzYM_vbMY/s640/DSCN2281.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> is maith liom rothaíocht</span></div><br />
Only about 1.5 hours from Galway City Centre (1hr shutle, 1/2hr ferry), Inis Mór is practically in our backyard so to speak, and I'm glad for that. It just reinforces my already strong feeling that I am in the right place this semester. I honestly couldn't ask for any better.<br />
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Saturday was another adventure day, this time even closer to home. On the way back from Connemara, driving along the coast, I like to look out the bus window and make a list of all the places I want to go but will probably never get around to visiting. One one side is the coast, lots of beaches and sparkling water. On the other side, sometimes I see cute little towns or shops or animals out at pasture. Well, one day I was looking out the window and I saw Barna Woods. Really, it's like peering into some mythical creature's secret garden. That may sound <i>beyond</i> dorky, but I'm telling you... I was so enthralled I resolved to find it, looked up its location, found a bus that went to Barna, bought a ticket, and wandered around until I found it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZPftNmfNGAfAyAjdq8-3LxbKbQE9B57LDlOjx1x6eCiIlHiwVwGKfJpfRvnBjn_gVXaEu5IJ_df_zt_hUOfuwPT0cJz40ZaV1e_FRUKS_JegSswHI8glh8d8kJfnSacyy510LY3yokr0/s1600/DSCN2350.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZPftNmfNGAfAyAjdq8-3LxbKbQE9B57LDlOjx1x6eCiIlHiwVwGKfJpfRvnBjn_gVXaEu5IJ_df_zt_hUOfuwPT0cJz40ZaV1e_FRUKS_JegSswHI8glh8d8kJfnSacyy510LY3yokr0/s640/DSCN2350.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> spring flowers</span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXPBDpmeF3IupIAkEL0BO3EdIM87z-77XcVXaEXOea19aCjAR3hYRY4TNzNKZMfSmb2yY6ISvS1igzVzT1x05GWZ0DbMx6ivHT0Zvw1qGflxmlHPpfRKoQV41e0R_ZLMjj6FAJmxWasvA/s1600/DSCN2361.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXPBDpmeF3IupIAkEL0BO3EdIM87z-77XcVXaEXOea19aCjAR3hYRY4TNzNKZMfSmb2yY6ISvS1igzVzT1x05GWZ0DbMx6ivHT0Zvw1qGflxmlHPpfRKoQV41e0R_ZLMjj6FAJmxWasvA/s640/DSCN2361.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
It was smaller than I was used to as far as wooded parks go, but it was a lot more magical. It's (apparently, if you like to believe everything Wikipedia says) one of the only places in Ireland where oaks are growing naturally, and it's really neat because you can see some of the history of the land in its trees--the older ones are broad and fat, perfect for climbing and as shade trees for grazing stock. They were able to really stretch their limbs out as far as possible because there were no other trees competing for light and nutrients. Younger trees are skinnier and longer. So you can tell kind of where they reclaimed the land from former pastoral land. It's really fascinating. If I would have been more prepared, I would have brought a book to read in the tree I climbed. I could have spent <i>hours</i> there had I had the time. Alas! I was pressed for time because there was cool stuff happening in Galway that I didn't want to miss!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjqY-XPfxiJcNQIAKmJczZXuZlnG0i6idEVXDpn2Hq5GzDviHBhbnwJjKhmnWYr7NpDvei1durgdSPu9VDdXkp_xdjfX99f7c6h3BPf27u3AGPg-HatyaWxO7Z_C_4cskwJLlsA1CML6Q/s1600/DSCN2367.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjqY-XPfxiJcNQIAKmJczZXuZlnG0i6idEVXDpn2Hq5GzDviHBhbnwJjKhmnWYr7NpDvei1durgdSPu9VDdXkp_xdjfX99f7c6h3BPf27u3AGPg-HatyaWxO7Z_C_4cskwJLlsA1CML6Q/s640/DSCN2367.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> pretty much what i saw from the bus window multiplied by a magical factor of 815.</span></div><br />
When we were walking through the city on Friday to get lunch, we stumbled across these signs for a (FREE!!) music festival in the Latin Quarter. After finishing my Castles essay at race pace (4,000 words in 4 hours--wow!), I just didn't feel up for it that night, but on Saturday, Natalie and I hit the streets for some great craic. We saw some trad at Tigh Coili and sort of rock-ish outside of Evergreen, but I think I can say with confidence that our favorite act was the North Strand Contra Band from Dublin. They were an eclectic mix (drums, double-bass, trombone, sax, clarinet, banjo, accordion) with an awesome, totally dancable sound. I did dance, actually. A couple of mishmash reels and some Charleston. :) We loved them so much that we even saw them again tonight outside of the Townehouse and then again outside of Evergreen. And for anyone who's going to be around: they're playing again on May 27th in Monroe's.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju3dfryBKebCHJjVIzhN8VdRtFWkrooAs3s-VRVlTO17ybIJ7otDK7Gt2X6F-LDpJeBSNdgOEwXnPE0IRuPgoCSMucEZ8uNeHZzmGEkDvkKgGnF7eT6j32g4KvUl-0UmiA2BYBi3hyphenhyphenMjk/s1600/DSCN2396.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju3dfryBKebCHJjVIzhN8VdRtFWkrooAs3s-VRVlTO17ybIJ7otDK7Gt2X6F-LDpJeBSNdgOEwXnPE0IRuPgoCSMucEZ8uNeHZzmGEkDvkKgGnF7eT6j32g4KvUl-0UmiA2BYBi3hyphenhyphenMjk/s640/DSCN2396.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">the north strand kontra band.</span></div><br />
It's a little sad now knowing that I won't have great music to look forward to every evening starting at 5pm, but the Bank Holiday festivities just reminded me how much I love it here. We even stumbled upon some cool restaurants we want to test out before we leave. So, Galway's good and it's going to be really hard to leave and go back home and to Oberlin where, as much as I may have wanted it to, life didn't stop when I was gone. Oh, well, that's a long time coming. For the time being, I'll keep on living in the moment and enjoying life for all it's worth!J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-28341887908643113162011-04-26T17:06:00.002+01:002011-04-26T17:23:02.896+01:00things that are not okay.Suddenly, everything else in my life seems unimportant. Westboro Baptist Church will be picketing my old high school on May 10th in the morning around the same time that my brother will be getting out of his car. I don't want to talk about how angry and worried and upset this has made me. I don't want to talk about the <a href="http://westborobaptistchurch.com/fliers/20110425_Darby-High-School-OH.pdf">advertisement </a>that is floating around the internet for their protest. It is hateful and bigoted and ignorant. What I want to leave here is a simple (and I <i>mean</i> simple) reminder that we can be strong as a community, that we <i>are </i>strong as a community, that we can rise up in support of those we love and show that negative words cannot hurt us.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwnK-7dq_ghlsYp11-uLtluvb_t2hVjhvm57-X1FTyW89q8sbBDR6ClngFS-_89oN7gOvUSXoIhDXVVjEkTdgPAyvMSw3jKzpHQAQDSjhqfiV-XLB1uGtvnK2jGquj8ZvH2Bvwd71Sgvw/s1600/take+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwnK-7dq_ghlsYp11-uLtluvb_t2hVjhvm57-X1FTyW89q8sbBDR6ClngFS-_89oN7gOvUSXoIhDXVVjEkTdgPAyvMSw3jKzpHQAQDSjhqfiV-XLB1uGtvnK2jGquj8ZvH2Bvwd71Sgvw/s640/take+1.jpg" width="514" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">thank you, harris, for the link to <a href="http://godlovespoetry.com/about">the inspiration</a>. </span></div>J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-60025505583585340652011-04-22T17:42:00.004+01:002011-04-22T18:05:46.054+01:00i cannot live without books.One thing this semester has been absolutely fantastic for, outside of beautiful landscapes and a great craic, is books. At home, between work, co-op, and school, it's terribly difficult for me to find the time to read for fun. Before I left for Ireland, knowing I had a long flight and probably long bus/train rides awaiting me, mom took me out and we bought a few short books, enough, I thought, to get me through the whole semester. I think you all know that didn't happen. Thank God for Charlie Byrne's Bookshop.<br />
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Anyway, since I'm procrastinating (when am I not?) and I really enjoyed all the books I've read, here is a list with a short description of the books in case any of you are curious with a bit of free time on your hands.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg69fAwegs9Jhsi-CbhTdUi-Lub2YyA97IOgMCggvw8JRdwvs0Fk60fxkebAZluxOObnsoGKhWISuz7n0KjtriGDyllUOQ5DzbAoN3eacIVPJNTAI6VSRBYBqONxFkqXRdIJHJ0UiOCX1w/s1600/Eyes-Like-Stars-ebook-2010-01-30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg69fAwegs9Jhsi-CbhTdUi-Lub2YyA97IOgMCggvw8JRdwvs0Fk60fxkebAZluxOObnsoGKhWISuz7n0KjtriGDyllUOQ5DzbAoN3eacIVPJNTAI6VSRBYBqONxFkqXRdIJHJ0UiOCX1w/s200/Eyes-Like-Stars-ebook-2010-01-30.jpg" width="134" /></a><br />
<b><i>Eyes Like Stars</i> by Lisa Mantchev</b><br />
Beatrice Shakespeare Smith (the name makes me cringe, but it's a good book, okay?) is a plucky orphan who calls the magical Théâtre Illuminata home, but when she's essentially evicted, she needs to find a way to make herself invaluable otherwise be thrown out into the real world where players from all your favorite Shakespeare (and more) plays don't randomly accost you in the props room. It was recommended to me by a friend, and I'm really glad I read it. It's thick, but the font is big and it goes quickly.<br />
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<b><i>4:50 from Paddington </i>by Agatha Christie</b><br />
Mrs. McGuillicuddy is a harmless, sweet, well-meaning old woman, but when she is the only witness to a murder on a train and no body can be found, she turns to her good friend Miss Jane Marple, who is despite all appearances, much less harmless than her friend. Rutherford Hall is the target of Miss Marple's sleuthing, but could the Crackenthrope family really have something to do with the murder? A really good mystery that keeps you reading until the crack of dawn. Another good friend recommendation.<br />
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<i> <b>Equal Rites </b></i><b>by Terry Prachett</b><br />
Women can't be wizards. It's just a fact of life. But when a dying wizard prematurely passes his powers onto a child being born, and that child turns out to be a girl, what then? I've been in love with Terry Prachett and Discworld ever since <i>The Color of Magic</i> and this book did not disappoint. It's satirical, silly, and just plain fun. Definitely recommend it!<br />
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<b><i>Nemesis </i>by Agatha Christie</b><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAhQqjxpeqoyx02JqkQJD5ts2Bh6mutdSZDU5rrdpjDkWm5A7wYfQ0wXqSPLDI48KKMew7n8Pak9cR5gQcaRodILA4U5lkg3nA5FvbdSv4g8-DsA17rRpE61Y0VG2wMu79MBNMghTKcCE/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAhQqjxpeqoyx02JqkQJD5ts2Bh6mutdSZDU5rrdpjDkWm5A7wYfQ0wXqSPLDI48KKMew7n8Pak9cR5gQcaRodILA4U5lkg3nA5FvbdSv4g8-DsA17rRpE61Y0VG2wMu79MBNMghTKcCE/s200/images.jpg" width="121" /></a>Miss Jane Marple receives a mysterious letter from a dead acquaintance, setting her out on a mission, but with no further instructions as to the nature and purpose of said mission. One I picked off the shelf at Charlie Byrne's for 2 euro and it's good for a lot of reasons. Lots of characters (which means lots of suspects), a few chilling moments, and some interesting insight into Miss Marple's character. But it's also not something I'd recommend for a lot of reasons. It tended to drag at times and Agatha Christie really lets loose on her views about rape and female roles, which are old fashioned and a bit...unsettling. I can usually overlook things like this in such an old book from such an old author, but it just wasn't working for me this time...<br />
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<b><i>Welcome to my World </i>by Johnny Weir</b><br />
Johnny's self-written (you can tell because sometimes his grammar is complete crap) autobiography that follows his figure skating career as well as a look into his childhood and adolescence (I still don't consider him an adult, sorry). For anyone interested in him, I'd definitely recommend it, but advise that it be taken with a grain of salt. While a lot of it is endearing and loveable, just as much of it seems like a spoiled little brat causing trouble. It's interesting, though, because he actually admits to being a spoiled brat most of the time. He's very reflective and self-aware. I quite enjoyed it, anyway.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicAPkt-0mqztBSxW-Zpd6XFRXweRXCJ61H8tC8OHfhEkmw8RHmIs8z8O-ZUH8SG2DxJEanW4jh9s3fa-bzGF4bJCMZEOE6I5Bq_QluTgskLkv5Ff2WCnXpc7XgAKh3M_C-KR_Z6lyuaTg/s1600/patriot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicAPkt-0mqztBSxW-Zpd6XFRXweRXCJ61H8tC8OHfhEkmw8RHmIs8z8O-ZUH8SG2DxJEanW4jh9s3fa-bzGF4bJCMZEOE6I5Bq_QluTgskLkv5Ff2WCnXpc7XgAKh3M_C-KR_Z6lyuaTg/s200/patriot.jpg" width="130" /></a><br />
<b><i>The Partly Cloudy Patriot </i>by Sarah Vowell</b><br />
Written by a contributor to NPR's This American Life, it's a very entertaining read. It's essentially just a series of personal vignettes that take you through a bit of Sarah Vowell's American life and examine patriotism and some recent (and some not-so-recent) events in U.S. history. Being a history nerd myself, I quite enjoyed it, even though I think I'm a little more optimistic than her most of the time. A good recommendation from a friend from Oberlin. Thanks!<br />
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<b><i>The Queen of Attolia</i> by Megan Whalen Turner</b><br />
It's the second in an amazing series that I didn't know was a series until about half a year ago. I'd read the first book (<i>The Thief</i>) when I was in fourth grade and it's been a favorite ever since, so when I saw this on the shelf at Charlie Byrne's, there was no question. I was getting it. It's basically Gen getting into more trouble and having to find new ways to get out of it with the added bonus of really strong, interesting female characters. I'd definitely recommend this series to anyone who loves or has kids who love YA fantasy.<br />
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<b><i>The Seven Dials Mystery</i> by Agatha Christie</b><br />
Can you tell that my semester has followed a bit of a trend? When one man at a party turns up dead one morning and seven alarm clocks are found on his windowsill, all the signs begin pointing to foul play. More bodies turn up, secret societies are uncovered, and nothing is as it seems. I absolutely loved this one. It keeps you guessing until the end and it is just fabulous. I would definitely recommend it!<br />
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<b>TBR [to be read]: </b><i>Testimony of an Irish Slave Girl </i>by Kate McCafferty and <i>Schlacthof 5</i> by Kurt Vonnegut (except it's in German) <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglKN66VJDEwIkMLBMAil2XVOO008JlafCDkoTWDWEfUptB2tFC1-5U3pNccJm8bBKyFPLh9BxydiqElmh5kU7TiDa6FqgCc_HZeQ599iY9o8isulxySQSCaofFIuCihWjGZPTWS8YcQio/s1600/DSCN2150.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglKN66VJDEwIkMLBMAil2XVOO008JlafCDkoTWDWEfUptB2tFC1-5U3pNccJm8bBKyFPLh9BxydiqElmh5kU7TiDa6FqgCc_HZeQ599iY9o8isulxySQSCaofFIuCihWjGZPTWS8YcQio/s640/DSCN2150.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> the coral beach at carraroe, where we spent the afternoon yesterday and soaked up the sun.</span></div>J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8475413671556741230.post-68743343455076528802011-04-18T19:04:00.002+01:002011-04-18T19:11:39.943+01:00are you a federalist?In my life, I can't remember a time when I have been more happy to see a low battery symbol flash up on my camera screen. I haven't been to many non-classical/traditional concerts, but I have attended my fair share of figure skating events, and most of the time, that little 2x2.5" LCD screen is the bane of my experience. I'm so caught up in <i>capturing</i> the moment that I forget to <i>live in</i> the moment. You can't live life through a camera lens. It has no depth perception. So at the Josh Ritter concert when my camera pulled a Mercutio, leaned against the staircase and said, "Bring me into some house, Benvolio, or I shall faint," I was actually overjoyed. It meant I could turn off that little purple box of mine and clap my hands and scream as loud as I damn well pleased.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinUvZCBmdviws-j7tNEsQDoGQ96SnryAVrSv9HNgVwa9fLmTuqppoGLbnADLOscgksAqUGxWf3vo3wQa0BDwGA8BucB5SJo0xgCR8w5_zFKjtb8OiTadTkiq6koU4wGySsAEr5lBTOi_4/s1600/DSCN2060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinUvZCBmdviws-j7tNEsQDoGQ96SnryAVrSv9HNgVwa9fLmTuqppoGLbnADLOscgksAqUGxWf3vo3wQa0BDwGA8BucB5SJo0xgCR8w5_zFKjtb8OiTadTkiq6koU4wGySsAEr5lBTOi_4/s640/DSCN2060.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Of course, I still <i>took</i> pictures. We were in the <i>front row. </i>I <i>had</i> to take pictures!</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyway, the concert was absolutely brilliant. Like I mentioned, we were in the front row, so close I could admire the little red accents on his back pockets (among other things, heh heh) that matched the red in his shirt. Really, there aren't many words to describe how incredible it is to see him live and how much that enhances the listening experience afterward. For one, he <i>smiles</i> the whole time (unless the song calls for a more somber expression) and you can just feel his joy and energy washing over you. I had stayed up late the night before watching James Corden on A League of Their Own. I woke up early on Saturday to pack and catch a 9:30am bus to Dublin, got to Dublin around 12:45pm, and I did not stop walking until we ate dinner around 6pm. The lads that accompanied me to the concert were no better off than myself (and I'd argue even worse), but as soon as Josh Ritter stepped onto that stage, flashed that contagious grin of his, and strummed the first chord on his guitar we were bubbling-over with pure ecstasy. It's hard to describe, really, but if you could see me writing it about it right now, two days later, I'm still grinning like an absolute loon. <i>That's</i> how good Josh Ritter is.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJB5WhznLwLs3uGrzuGA0wOI8aXqJ5nyOBpo1Ggu-3D1i0Is8Kz2DVX5InhPZohKD4BWGWCpW3Y2C8avyybbRt6eiDRq-grzohu9BtffWZtLDudfBmVC3ZmCLNRvEA2mjiLzFalK1KeDw/s1600/DSCN2079.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJB5WhznLwLs3uGrzuGA0wOI8aXqJ5nyOBpo1Ggu-3D1i0Is8Kz2DVX5InhPZohKD4BWGWCpW3Y2C8avyybbRt6eiDRq-grzohu9BtffWZtLDudfBmVC3ZmCLNRvEA2mjiLzFalK1KeDw/s640/DSCN2079.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">She asked, "Are you cursed?" He said, "I think that I'm cured," then he kissed her and hoped she'd forget that question.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">He had the most fantastic set list, the perfect mix of bounce-around-screaming and sit-back-and-think music, which he played with the most infectious charm I've ever heard. I said earlier that his voice was nostalgic, and it's really true. When I closed my eyes at Vicar Street, the sun was setting on the golden Ohio cornfields painted on the insides of my eyelids and I was in dad's car with the top down driving home from dance practice. Or the sky was blue filled with big fluffy clouds and I was rolling around the grass in front of Tank, but I could hear the trains that ran behind my neighborhood growing up as well, and the little babbling brook that may or may not have had leeches. I was on playgrounds with creaky swing sets, digging in the mulch, or in my old room dancing and singing in front of the mirror in nothing but my underwear. So, really, nostalgic is the best way to describe his voice, like a picture book full of memories all out of order. It was beautiful and unforgettable.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS9jznL7LMsqMB4zk2FLKgba7AkXi1IW7lucNVONIIFVuWBPqRREYjGhMb2MbNK1Rsl2QHanavN6jb7yBPkTwNm0o6rxoOcdyjd5EdGJmQ9desii4vewWQ_F_gCoJOVR0hqjXfdITo-JM/s1600/DSCN2086.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS9jznL7LMsqMB4zk2FLKgba7AkXi1IW7lucNVONIIFVuWBPqRREYjGhMb2MbNK1Rsl2QHanavN6jb7yBPkTwNm0o6rxoOcdyjd5EdGJmQ9desii4vewWQ_F_gCoJOVR0hqjXfdITo-JM/s640/DSCN2086.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Oh, yeah, and, no big deal, but we got to meet him too! We were weak and exhausted to the point that we probably would have fallen on the floor if not for the strength of the walls and railings along the queue, but damned if we were going to miss this opportunity to show our appreciation. The closer we got, the more nervous I became. I really only had one goal coming into the concert and that was to inform him in any way possible that I go to Oberlin. But the closer we got and the more he smiled, the more words seemed to fail me. They were replaced by an unflatteringly freakish happy-wail that escaped in short bursts and increased in frequency as the distance between us and our man got smaller and smaller. And that smile! Guys, I am <i>telling you</i>. He played for almost two hours straight without opening the water by his mic, and then he came out and met person after person, and that smile <i>did not fade</i>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And then, suddenly, almost out of nowhere, he was smiling at <i>us</i>, and we were smiling back. He asked us about ourselves, genuinely interested, and that's when I told him that I'm an Obie. Before I knew it, I was in his arms, and, let me tell you, his hugs are just about as brilliant as his smile. He asked me what I was studying and I answered that I'm a history major big into the American Revolution and the early republic, to which he responded with the four words that you see in the title there. "Are you a Federalist?" I mean... how is he even <i>real</i>! Somehow, I had my wits about me enough to respond that out of loyalty to my boys James Madison and Alexander Hamilton, I would have to answer in the affirmative, but that my girl Mercy Otis Warren probably wouldn't have been too pleased with that answer, especially after she broke off her friendship with the Adams family over the issue. He laughed and <i>hugged me again</i> and then told me about this great historical library in New York as he signed my ticket for me. He told me I would <i>freak out</i> with joy when I visited this library because there were letters from, like, Washington to Lafayette, and I agreed and admitted that I sometimes go to Mudd just to finger some primary source documents. It was like I was talking to an old friend, and everything in the world was going to be okay.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Well, the boys got their time, which was just as full of conversation as my time, and we were being shooed on by the end of it by the guys who were running the shindig, but not before we got some amazing pictures with him. Before we left, he hugged me again (I swear, he hugged me about a thousand times) and told me to pass on his love to the Obie family. So, Obie family, consider yourselves loved, and by an amazing human being to boot! How lucky we all are! </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKGuHVQMQllwCf9EJdqzXL7zgvPSJb8sMGUcHZsIyxCppSdO2titzNqPH-GLyvY4-2-nmxdm6OwLlE263xazGGoGs4tN99oDSvuxMV7cte2f_AV81SnU7VJSitMN809QYex3U5Eg8-9NQ/s1600/DSCN2136.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKGuHVQMQllwCf9EJdqzXL7zgvPSJb8sMGUcHZsIyxCppSdO2titzNqPH-GLyvY4-2-nmxdm6OwLlE263xazGGoGs4tN99oDSvuxMV7cte2f_AV81SnU7VJSitMN809QYex3U5Eg8-9NQ/s640/DSCN2136.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">What can I say? Boy loves his exclamation marks! He's just ha happy person!</span></div>J. Graham Crackershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02895910124733056435noreply@blogger.com0