So Long, Farewell

Well, dumplings, it's been grand. Unfortunately for both of us, I am no longer writing amongst the Germans but rather the LA crowd.

Because Elton John's "Tiny Dancer" is the only decent song with a so-called "LA Lady" in it, my new blog is an homage to the tune which we all drunkenly moan on a regular basis. http://bluejeansjess.blogspot.com/

Get to following, and I'll get to writing.

Alles Liebe,
Jess

A Most Agreeable Semester

'Tis true. I am home in California, in a land known as "The Valley," where the nights glow softly with the illumination of a thousand sex stores, and mini-kegs are surrounded by lost souls caught between high school and real life huddling to keep warm in the winter of their discontent. It is a land where one never wants for a liquor store or movie theater, abundant in heated swimming pools and wilting trees, where wandering youths find solace in the glowing Beacon of Denny's in the wee hours of the morning. It is a magical place.

I went to Bonn with a quivering eagerness for a different life, but initially found that it was just me living the same life in another country. A slow-burning love smoldered in the background for months before becoming apparent; Bonn would be my Mr. Darcy. At first cold, harsh, and unintelligible, Bonn insulted me with its heritage and wealth (not to mention its finely tailored top-hat and tails) but slowly I unclenched my fists and spent the next few months exchanging complex and witty banter before declaring my love at the last possible moment, finally relinquishing my pride (or prejudice, I forget which one).

Bonn bewitched me, body and soul, and until I re-read Sense and Sensibility, I will stick with this metaphor. Though I am no Elizabeth Bennett (try as I might, I can't learn those dances and the phrases "most agreeable" and "take a turn about the room" usually stop a conversation instead of inviting a more elegant one), I read a lot of books and wear a lot of dirty clothes, so it works. My dying alone amidst the company of a dozen cats and a rocking chair instead of in a handsome Victorian estate is irrelevant to my point.

My point is that it took me a long time to fall in love, and when I did, I fell hard. But the greatest romances are often short-lived, and while in 10 years my life will be drastically different, once or twice I might stop to think about Bonn, where he is now, and if he is married with two children and a farm, just like we talked about that night at the fair. I will wonder about his life without me, and fantasize, just for a moment, that perhaps he is out there thinking of me in my rocker stroking my cat, just as he predicted. I also might one day drunkenly text Bonn, in which case, I apologize in advance.

I loved Bonn, from its train-station "sexy shops" to it's pitiful attempts at Mexican food, from its threatening "ACHTUNG!" messages over PA systems to its jubilant cries of "Alaaf!" during Karneval, from its be-mulleted youths unable to dance with their hips to its inability to detect sarcasm, I loved Bonn. I always will.

But for now, our letters will be tied with ribbon (naturalich) and hidden away to be retrieved only in times of great sadness or great joy as a reminder of a life I once lived, if only for a few short months. I will seal them up with my photos and memories, retell my stories with the fluidity of a glass of wine, and cherish them as my most sacred possession with the ferocity of a mother for her child. Bonn was never mine, but for a brief moment I was his.

And thus ends the self-important memoirs of an idiot in Germany, a foolish girl who thinks she knows about life and has seen a thing or two. So it ends, and so it begins as the new adventures in a distant land, known as "The Valley."

Alles Liebe,
Jess

"Why I'll Never Go To 'Schwartzlicht' Again" And Other Stories

On the off-chance that you are more bored than I this Monday night, here's a blog, comin' ATCHA!


Jessica Heads to Gay Paris; Searches For People Who Resemble Bomb Voyage

In Normal People Standard Time (NPST), Caitlin came to visit me two weeks ago; in a Lazy American Time Era (LATE), I'm right on time in blogging about it. I hopped on a train Saturday morning to emerge five hours later in a park outside our hotel where accordions were playing in the distance and baguettes were being tossed around like fireworks. "Ahhh, Mon cherie amore," I whispered into the breeze, "Bonjour."

Caitlin, the Cagney to my Lacey, arrived a little while later and we headed out for a gay ole' Parisian lunch of baguettes, escargot, and Perrier. Just then, a French man sauntered by our table and grazed his forefinger along Caitlin's knife while she was mid-sentence. Shocked and utterly speechless, she finally regained consciousness and cleaned her knife off while a distant chortle down the road echoed "Hee Hee Hee, Haw Haw Haw." It was the start of a wonderful trip.



We wandered around our hotel, casing the place for coffee and pastries (SUCCESS!)and explored Montmartre, before collapsing in exhaustion and anticipation for Versailles the next morning.



Oh yeah, WE WENT TO VERSAILLES THE NEXT MORNING. As I entered into Stage-4 Geek Out Mode, I may or may not have documented every inch of the palace, sharing pieced-together tidbits of history in the hopes of impressing my much wiser friend. She was momentarily fooled, and I twirled the ends of my sinister mustachio in delight. After smugging ourselves up with superior historical knowledge and experience, we went back to the hotel for an epic nap. Later, we had a life-changing dinner (really, what food isn't life-changing? Exactly, none.) and decided on a whim to climb up the Eiffel Tower at midnight. And climb we did.



Our last day was spent at the Louvre (pronounced "LOOV-RA") and later participating in a furious triathlon to get to the Notre Dame before getting our bus departed. Our time was 47 minutes flat; Parisians all around us fell at our feet. Then we took an 8 hour bus ride, made slightly better by consuming the chocolate eggs that we stole from the hotel. For the record, they were called "Googies."



Caitlin and Jessica Paint Bonn Red, Then Promply Paint It Back While Irritated Germans Supervise

The week went by in waves of rapid activity and monumental text messages, friendship bracelets and matching scars, episodes of Eerie Indiana watched and dignity lost. She came to my uninteresting excursions, and I regailed her with even less intersting stories; beer was then consumed, and our friendship continues into the present. I finally found someone to share my love of Blow Up (in this week's episode, I meet the only Canadian in Bonn who insists on yelling about religion over James Brown songs while I discreetly dance away and Caitlin suffers through another guy's tales from the gas station), and found that she also fears the Haribo bear that whispers menacingly in German.

Finally, Caitlin's last night arrived, and after having watched "Eerie Indiana Season 1" in its entirety, we finally put on some pants and went outside.

Let me explain Schwartzlicht. It is a small door sandwiched between a carpet store and an office depot which ultimately leads into the depths of Techno Hell. You wander further and further down the stairs, pass by the Lustful, avoid the gaze of the Gluttons, row across the river Styx, and eventually are released onto a dance floor with a DJ featuring the Gnashing of Teeth (Remix!). Alright it's not that bad; there is a boat! Hanging near the coat check! It's neat!

We were the ONLY (aside from the bartenders) people there, and that misguided twenty-something clinging to a failed dream (otherwise known as the DJ) still wouldn't play our requests. Eventually music started, drinks were poured, and a seemingly uneventful night came to a close as Caitlin and I headed toward the bus. After a quick stop at the Inner Ring where the blasphemers and sodomites gather at night (McDonalds), we entered into a new realm of joy: Bus Surfing.

Initially just Caitlin's off-handed comment, Bus Surfing took on a serious level of involvement (both physical and emotional) of everyone on the bus as they either cheered our feats of balance or desperately wished for us to fall down. After about 25 minutes of serious surfing (during which our skills were reaching professional levels), a violent jerk sent Caitlin sailing into the ticket-box. Incredulous, she said to me "I think he did that ON PURPOSE." And then, from behind the wheel, came the proud screech of "JA!"

At the next stop, we sat down defeated; the bus driver turned slowly to reveal a toothless and good-humored grin of victory. Until next time, my friend; next time.



Caitlin Goes Home, And Jessica Continues To Hate Schwartzlicht

Finals time has approached (hence my blogging) and in an attempt to squeeze the most out of our final moments in Bonn, our group decided to give the ol' Seventh Circle of Hell another shot. It was a terrible shot; I can only imagine the owners' conversation went as follows:
"She's coming back again?!"
"Yep, tonight. With more people."
"Didn't she LEARN?! What, she thinks she can just waltz on in here like its some cheap club in between a carpet store and an office depot?"
"We should teach her a real lesson this time."
"You're right. Turn on the fog machines."

Needless to say, I had my first official hangover the next day.

Join me next week, as I go undercover as EuroTrash during my last weekend in Bonn!

Edit: I ran a marathon on Sunday. OK, a half marathon. Slowly. OK, just shy of dead last. But I still got a medal, so SUCK IT, SERIOUS RUNNERS.

How I Remembered That I Don't Like Taking Shots

Yes, my darlings, it has been a while. Though I would love to entertain you with my tales of ribaldry, there is too much; lemme sum up.


Vienna: Beautiful, full of castles, Sigmund Freud, and buying a discount card that at its best got us 60 cents off a pastry that we didn't want, and at its worst got us discounts on things that were already free. The people made that trip magical, especially during our visit to the Praterdome, the Austrian Eurotrash Summit Headquarters for 2009. Never underestimate the attractive powers of themed clubs that strongly resemble the Excalibur in Las Vegas, my friends.


Munich: Full of man-shaped manly things, like the BMW Showroom and the Olympic stadium (which boasts a concert hall powerful enough to hold the likes of Robin Gibb), Munich was a lovely reminder of every German stereotype that exists. We drank large beers, ate meat off a comically large bone, and went on a bike tour through the city with a group of college-aged travelers training to be tour guides under the guidance of a man who used swear words inappropriately in order to connect with the kids these days. We also spent an entire day at the Disneyland castle where I ate a large sausage. So that's how that went.


But the real meat of the last few weeks was the biggest trip of the semester: ESPANA.



Jessica Searches for the Six-Fingered Man, Engages in Several Duels

Since arriving in Bonn, the weather has ranged from cold, snowing-cold, sunny-cold, and "where did my balls go?" cold. In Spain this year, the weather has remained in the "break out your unbuttoned too-tight shirt and absurdly faded jeans" region. The day we left for Spain, the weather forecast informed us that it would be raining all week; Bonn would be 70 degrees and sunny starting that day.

We began our trip in Madrid, arriving after a long day of travel (and a brief tease of Mallorca, which felt like Miami but exotic and lovely instead of humid and teeming with drug dealers)to our hotel before a tapas dinner and Flamenco show. Let me pause for a minute to reflect on the dancers. The woman, an unnaturally beautiful dancer, stomped and twisted her body like a deranged contortionist with an incredible sense of rhythm. The man, already sweating before he stepped on stage under the weight of his long Spanish hair, was no less talented; he did, however, spoil his performance by maintaining a very strange facial expression, which was not unlike a 9 year old boy who had farted in a crowded room and was extremely proud of himself.

We then headed out to the clubs by way of promoters standing on the corners showering tourists with cards promising free shots under blacklights. We ended up at a place called the Palace; and it was indeed worthy of royalty. Getting to a club before 1:00am in Spain means that you are the youngest and most naive of the crowd; we learned this as we weaved through the mob of early birds too preoccupied with their tight dresses and heavy Spanish petting to even bother lying about their age, which was 48 at the youngest. Once the live band sang the entire "Grease" medley, however, I had already made the most of my free drink and was the happiest American to be rejected by several be-hairgelled teenagers in the history of the world. Enter the Frenchmen.

Somehow Chelsea and Vanessa stumbled upon 60 French rugby players and brought them to the club, where they bought us drinks and made the general atmosphere quite merry. The next day we went on a walking tour of the city and then suffered through a 3 hour museum visit, during which we all contemplated how to break our own legs simply to have an excuse to go home. Then Gina and I decided to pay tribute to Kriss Kross.



I took it easy the next few nights, having a date with Gina and an unsuccessful search for another club which ended in McFlurries and talk of the sex trade (on the serious, McFlurries really are the most perfect invention since Top Ramen). After several more museum visits and a tour of Toledo, we packed up for Barcelona.





Barcelona Wages War on Jessica's Grasp of Logic; Wins

It was pouring. Not sprinkles, buckets. We ate tapas (getting a bit old after the 4th time in less than a week) and tried to nap before embarking on a 5 hour bus tour in which we did not see a single thing once our body heat fogged up the windows for the entirety of the trip. Eventually, we were able to get out of the bus to see the Cathedral that has been under construction for 120 years (further proof that contractors really screw you, even after you die), which was indescribable, and the buildings of Antoni Gaudi (only 5 fingers, he was spared) which were characterized by breathtaking mosaics and bizarre shapes which resembled a significantly less delicious version of Candyland.


After a certain point, the rain and horrible tour simply became hilarious and concluded with a delirious session of uncontrollable laughter and subsequent photographs marking the occasion. Yes, they are hilarious, no, I don't have them.

That night, we met up with my friend Stephanie who is studying in Barcelona, and she introduced us to what would later be my downfall: CHUPITAS. In short, Chupitas is a bar that boasts shots for two euros, all with wonderful names such as "Acid," "Boys," "The Monica Lewinsky," and "Animal Balls"; I drank three of those, I will leave it to you to guess which ones. After they kicked out all the Americans infesting the bar, we headed to an overpriced club named Roxy; Logic was packing its drunken bags and I actually paid the ridiculous cover charge to get in and dance to terrible Euro pop. "Single Ladies" at the end was my only solace.



The next morning, strangely energized, I visited the Joan Miro museum and then had time to explore Barcelona on my own. We saw the Olympic Stadium and a small Spanish version of Epcott, where each region of Spain was represented by detailed buildings and region-specific artisans. The simple translation of this is "I spent a lot of money buying presents."

That night, we had a farewell dinner and once again took a fateful step into Chupitas. Logic long gone, I for some reason thought I was impervious to the effects of 8 shots. I, quite frankly, was mistaken. On the upside, Kristin got to see me fall over my suitcase in our room and our friendship is a lot stronger as a result of the rest of that very, very long night.

The next day was simply a bit of wandering through the Picasso museum (where a still-betrunken Brittany and I sat on benches and stared at the chandeliers, which I declared were stupid), and a surprisingly stress-free trip home to the wonderfully warm and beautiful Bonn. It took a week in Spain amongst the aggressive and spray-tanned Spaniards to realize that I am completely, totally, butt-crazy in love with Bonn! Today was probably the most blissfully happy I have ever been, as I spent an entire day in the sun sitting on the grass and eating gelato before having an improvised dinner party. I can't wait for tomorrow.


Bonn, ich liebe dich.

We've Met Before, My Name Is Jessica

Phew! That took forever! Hello again to all my friends, I'm sure you've been pining away for me, repeatedly refreshing your browsers in the hopes of an update with which to waste your time. And I will not disappoint.

Jessica Does Many Many Things; Forgets Them All

When I last left you, I was stuffing boxes of candy down my mouse pants and crawling toward my house (der meine gastfamilie) while my muscles atrophied from overexposure to sugar and beer. Not much has changed.

An easy week followed, without much class or any need for intellectual stimulation, so I youtubed my way through about 4 days. This weekend, most of the group went to Budapest but I am just not that interesting, so I explored Bonn!

The Bonn Chronicles, Part 1: In Which I Discover the Gestapo and Gummi Bears

On Thursday, we went to the Gestapo Headquarters in Cologne; the building had been used for decades after the war, only being turned into a museum in 1997. We looked into the cells where detainees were held; tiny spaces with windows looking out into the street, 20-30 people squished together for days at a time and were ignored by passersby. Needless to say, it was very moving, but being the insufferable ass that I often am, I made moon eyes at my professor the entire time. Ha, I'm only kidding, you should know my not-so-inner nerd was having a conniption (but on the serious, he is PRECIOUS).





On Friday, Kristin and I did what we do best: find candy, preferably being passed out by humans dressed in giant furry costumes. We went to the Haribo factory, and I personally dug my hand into every candy shelf they had, with a loud squeeeee! of gluttonous joy.



Afterward we wandered around Bad Godesberg and realized that we had absolutely nothing to do. Until I found this:

What you are viewing is quite possibly the most bizarrely racist Easter Bunny or sweetest (pun!) tribute to Mickey Rooney in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" EVER. You decide.




The Bonn Chronicles Part 2: The Uneventful Troupe Meets the Eurotrash Twins



Determined to enjoy ourselves in the absence of our Budapest-invading friends, Stephanie, Vanessa, Kristin and I met for dinner at Stephanie's house (where I got to chat with my dear old friend, the piano, until I remembered that I am a terrible player and stopped out of mercy for the rest of the group) and headed off to Cologne to meet Sandra. In typical New Europe Program fashion, we wandered around the streets of Cologne without an idea as to where we would go. After a few beers and shots of Absinthe, we came up with the bright idea of heading back to Bonn. And so we went, arm in arm.





We went to N8, a club near the Altstadt which is evidently a sweatlodge set to 90s pop music. I had a lovely time, at least I thought I did until I saw them: perched on a platform in matching black button down shirts, there they were in all their glory. Two souls, so perfectly synchronized in their rhythmic swaying, so hairsprayed and adorned in Calvin Klein accessories (that could only be outshined by their hairless torsos exposed by four undone buttons) that they could not be ignored. We found the holy grail of Eurotrash; and there were TWO OF THEM. Wiping sweat from my brow, I weighed a large bag of sand with which I replaced them and ran, chased by spear-throwing club-goers. Safely back in their museum, the Eurotrash twins were finally in a place where they would be properly cared for.*



Eventually, after "Wannabe" played again, I headed home to rest up for my big day of doing nothing, otherwise known as "homework." You see, there was once this thing called "homework" (phonetically "hohm-wurk")that I used to do back in the Americas. Though it is nearing extinction in Germany, some rare breeds still exist and I occasionally tend to them instead of shooting them as I would like to. Two papers, a presentation, and 2 midterms (wish me luck on Friday!) later, I am ready for a nice day trip. Why, there's one tomorrow you say? What luck!

Join me next time for "Jessica Visits Trier and Further Annoys Others With Frivolous Picture-Taking"
Tschuss!

*Please note, I saw the shorter one at Starbucks the next day in a tee shirt and jeans with his homework and I breast swelled with a motherly pride.

If You Don't Remember Eating Something, It Doesn't Count

Oh hello, I didn't see you there! Come on in, I'm just musing about my latest adventures here in Bonn. Won't you join me?

Karneval Part 2: Deutschland Boogaloo
After sleeping longer than is healthy or natural on Friday, Kristin came over dressed, to my disappointment, as something other than a Viking. I simply sighed as I painted flowers on her face to pass her off as a "Hawaiian" and then stars on my own to make the least possible effort in becoming a fairy princess. We left for downtown, hoping our plans would take shape on the way. We devoured sandwiches at the bakery and then wandered aimlessly until our group met up at the James Joyce. We looked around at everyone selecting one drink, and took one look at each other before reaching a psychic agreement:
"Let's split a pitcher."

We all sat there, musing about love and loss and all those important things; when my words made too much sense and I felt the conversational was all too logical and not in the least bit emotionally dramatic, I shot a second glance at Kristin:
"Let's split another one."

A pitcher and a half later, I was still in control of my faculties, much to my surprise; at least it seemed this way until we got to Billabonn. Something to remember about Karneval is that there are three songs that every bar in Germany is legally required to play on a constant loop, under penalty of death; interchangeable and repetitive, these songs get more and more tolerable in proportion to beer consumed. Regarding the lyrics, I know when to loudly slur "Viva Colonia!" and thus have enjoyed them quite a bit. We bounced up and down for a good thirty minutes making up our own German words (which were probably offensive) and then decided to make our way over to Carpe Nochtem.

On the way, a brief crisis intervened and the only solution was 50cent pizza. I did not remember this portion of the evening until reminded of it the next day, and I still refuse to acknowledge that I ingested more food that night. Let's prepare to fast forward to Carpe. Fast Forwarding, sir!

We got to carpe, danced a bit with seasonal transvestites (Karneval season, that is)and eventually left to get an early start on parades the next day.

Karneval Part 3: In Which We Get Rejected By Every Mode of Transportation In Cologne

Vanessa and I went to the parade in Tannenbusch, dressed as a pirate and a mouse respectively, and once again surrendered all dignity to dive for generic candies strewn about on the street. I regret nothing. We ate the best sausage you can find on the street (and had some thrown at us from a float!) and then went back to my house for a small party where we would meet Kristin and Chelsea. I was overwhelmed with happiness when I saw the Viking hat once again. We ate like kings, and were forced to take shots of fig-flavored vodka by Petra (Lilo's sister) who told us it would "make us strong." This warranted a response from my two hungover friends of, "Who is that lady? Because I hate her."

We then got on the train to Cologne, looking ridiculous but feeling quite comfortable with our enormous and elaborate costumes; it is a strange feeling to know that you have a three-foot tail trailing behind you and you're not in the least bit out of place. We meant to get to the Geisterzooch (an eco-friendly political event...meaning full of German hippies with no candy) but ended up in Cologne-Sud and came up with the genius idea of patronizing liquor stores and making friends on the street. After shouting at a giant cat, chatting about language with a vampire, and flirting with a train station, we had made enough friends for the night and some of us readied ourselves to head home. For some reason, everyone followed.

After missing the first train, we waited near a cafe for the next, which would be our last moments of fresh air. Upon boarding the train, we were pushed and pressed into the walls like sardines being punished. After ten minutes of struggling to breathe with the doors open, I began to have visions of asphyxiation and pushed my way through the crowd out of the train, ready to wait an hour for the next one. Ryan and Chelsea followed me a few minutes later, and, feeling guilty about all of us standing in the rain, I ran down our options. We decided to find the u-bahn toward Bonn and just take a longer ride, which for the first 30 minutes seemed like an excellent idea. Until it stopped. In Bruhl. In the middle of nowhere. With nothing (but, strangely enough, a James Joyce pub). We were stranded at 1:30am in the rain with nothing but a pay phone in a ghost-town of a train station that wouldn't start up again until 4:30am. Eventually, we got back on the train heading in the opposite direction back toward Cologne to start this wonderful journey all over again.

We got back to the station to see ambulances and masses of people flooding out to the streets from the train station in the confusion of rain and darkness, which alerted my panic button once again as the suggestion of being stranded reentered my consciousness. Eventually, we found out by way of a lovely German woman who acted as my temporary translator, that someone had pulled the emergency brake and the train was stopped a quarter mile ahead and the next one had been canceled. This was the point at which this situation stopped being irritating and started being hilarious; it was coincidentally also the point at which we discussed Ryan's childhood tendency to unwittingly kill hamsters.

Finally, the train backed itself up and we stood as a hopeful crowd waiting for it to open its warm doors and let us get packed in once again. Ironically, I noted, we had left four hours before because the train was too crowded; after all that trouble, it was even more crowded than before. It was, however, a much friendlier crowd who collectively reacted to the slow movements of the train, hoping for a door to open in front of them. After about seven hopeful "Ahhhh!"s and an equal number of disappointed "Ooooh"s, a door opened right in front of us and we grabbed a seat as quickly as possible. Poor Ryan, who had only wanted to eat a döner (a Turkish delicacy) all night, was faced with a large drunken German eating one inches in away from his face. We played a few games of tic-tac-toe on the steamy window with our new German friends, and finally, before I fell asleep, Ryan turned to me and said, "At least we learned a valuable lesson today." "Yes," I replied, "STAY ON THE TRAIN."

Karnval Part 4: Jessica Hides In Bed All Day Useless for an entire day, I enjoyed the hours in my bed reading and chatting online without any facepaint or animal ears on my head.

Join me next time, when I tell you about the last day of Karneval, in which I wear more facepaint and animal ears on my head!
Tschus!

My Plans For This Morning? Why, To Ingest A Bottle of Wine, Of Course!

Not that it's all that important, but "Word Up" by Cameo has been stuck in my head since waking up this morning, which is not all that much better than the pounding headache I should have.

Jessica Goes to Karneval; Continues Illicit Affair With Candy and Alcohol

Yes, after three grueling days of long classes where we learned to our personal horror that would finally have homework ("What? Four pages? In two weeks? FOUR PAGES?! This is an outrage."), Karneval began yesterday morning. Being poor, I bought only facepaint and a cheap Ladybug (marienkaefer, German word of the day!) set, hoping for the best. And the best is what came of it.

We stocked up on cheap drinks from the grocery store in order to avoid buying any at the bar, and as I walked through the streets with my brimming bag that night, I looked like someone feeling very optimistic on her first day of being a hobo. With a twinkle in my eye and a kick in my step, I strolled home and snuggled under the covers that night, longing for Karneval with the fervor of a six year old on Christmas Eve. I was right to do so.

We met at the AIB at 10:00am, faces painted and oversized animal ears planted firmly on our heads, to start drinking like we all just got laid off (probably an inappropriate joke, considering the economic climate, but ladybugs do not worry about such things). We walked across the bridge and for the first and only time in my life, people begged me to finish their drinks for them; I was quite chipper once we reached Beuhel. Finally at the site of the parade, we perched ourselves on the sidewalks screaming "ALAFF!" and "CAMELLA!" as drunken pirates, clowns, and police officers chucked candies at our heads (and, strangely, tissues). Once the ground became littered with unlabeled treats, we dove after them with the reckless abandon of people suffering from severe low blood sugar, which I assure you we were not. We were just drunken crazy people willing to writhe on the floor at the mere mention of "FOOOOOOOD!" Finally, a day where I didn't need to feel ashamed of my daily activities.

After the parade, I stuck around with the resident Germans from the AIB who took me around to bars where I shamelessly exploited the adorable ladybug antennae for a spot at the front of the line for the port-a-potties. After I had completely lost any sense of personal motives, I simply followed Victoria and Nils and somehow ended up in Cologne with a beer bottle shoved down the side of my pants in order to hide it when going into the next bar. I now have a bruise, which is my only means of recalling that half hour spent standing in line. Eventually, tired and preparing for my head to fall off at any second, Nils and I took the train back to Bonn and I slowly stumbled home.

As I unlocked the door, feeling that it must be at least 2:00am, I sneaked quietly through the hallway when I saw the living room light on and heard the TV echoing something German and apparently hilarious. Looking at my phone, I realized it was 7:30pm. Lilo, wonder of all wonders, made me a gigantic plate of mock-Boyardee ravioli from what must have been a family-sized can. Having eaten nothing since 11am (strange candies), I ate the entire plate with the determined focus of a professional chess player.

Though I had planned on getting cleaned up to go back out the bars, I quickly reconsidered that plan upon getting into my bedroom. The warm mattress and fluffy comforter toyed with my emotions before I finally gave in and fell asleep around 8:30pm; I wouldn't wake up for another 13 hours.

Now, as I write this, I consider how much I need to clean my room before Kristin gets here and we get ready for Round 2...

More on Karneval and other news, tomorrow at 11.