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.

Thank God For House Parties

Sometimes, you just miss home. For me, it's wearing flip flops every day, driving to In-n-Out on a whim, and eating things that are green. On Friday, I finally got a taste of the beautiful San Fernando Valley.

Jessica Pulls A Kid n' Play: HOUSE PARTY German Style

Chelsea did us all a wonderful favor by turning 20 this weekend and Aaron returned the favor by having his host family leave for a few days; it was in the stars. We met at his house to find bowls of mixed chips and pretzel sticks, bottles of the German version of Coke and assorted off-brand alcohols to make terrible mixed drinks. The mini kegs were absurdly apropos to the mini table on which we used them to play beer pong. Chelsea, the most amusing partner I've ever had, made a technique out of chucking the ball as hard as she could into the center, effectively creating Beer Bowling.

After devouring her birthday cake (forks only, classy ladies), we became giddy with beer and sugar and headed to the bus to go into town.

Jessica Faces Off With Greasers; Fingers Are Snapped In An Angry Musical Fashion

The house being an unreasonably long distance away from downtown, we rode on the bus for a half hour. After about five minutes, however, a group of rowdy and be-mulleted boys climbed on board and began to pull at my hat and hair. I turned around, with lady-like poise, and politely told them that if they touched me again they would soon be doing so with a bloody stump. The silly boys, thinking that anyone with a mullet would ever be taken seriously, got a bit territorial and verbal threats were exchanged. Eventually we ignored them long enough for them to become bored and they finally left.

We got to the first club, but hearing the screaming sobs of a heavy metal band quickly turned around to stumble toward my favorite place: Blow Up. I twirled around the crowded room with Kristen, playing "musical boys" until I found the Double Mint Twins of Colombia, Carlos and Juan Carlos (their friend Juan had just left). I immediately asked them if they enjoyed both coffee and drugs, and when they answered in the affirmative, we became fast friends. After a few hours of talking to what seemed like everyone in the bar, I grew very tired and looked at the time, hoping a bus would be coming soon. It had just left.
This process repeated every hour until 5am when the bar closed. I left the bar (and my umbrella, sadly) behind and hurried to the bus stop, where I waited to be carried home by my great adversary, the Bonn transportation system.

A seemingly simple task, taking the bus, no? You just sit there quietly until the nice German lady announces your stop, and then you happily bounce off toward sweet warm home. Unless your name is Jessica and you fall asleep and miss your stop.

I sat there, cold and bleary-eyed, when a woman approached me to kindly tell me it was almost the last stop. Delirious, I could only answer: "Tannenbusch...Mitte..."
When the bus parked, I finally realized her attempt at kindness and asked the driver when we would start up again. Zwanzig minuten, but I could wait on the bus. I sat there, dozing once again, in my overstuffed down coat and bright yellow hat; I looked like an exotic bird napping with my head tucked into my body, which might have been adorable if said bird didn't have smeared makeup or occasionally mumble "Tannenbusch..." Also added to the array of fun was my desperate need to pee and the poor choice to wear tights, which press on your bladder with sinister delight. Being the only person on the bus, I pulled the waistband outward in order to decrease my discomfort for another hour, when I would finally reach my stop.

Sitting there, with mascaraed raccoon eyes, holding out the waistband of my leggings and dozing in and out of a stupor, I looked like Nelson Muntz's mother and nearly cried with joy when I leaped off the bus and ran (literally, ran) home. It was 7am when I finally hit my pillow.

Needless to Say: Jessica Spends an Entire Day Being Useless

Wrapped up in my sweatpants and Kafka teeshirt, I was happy as a clam; I ate chocolate and watched Are You Afraid of The Dark. It was a wonderful Valentine's Day.

Until next time, dumplings!

Oh, Don't Think I Won't Throw Down Over A Margarita.

There once was a young woman who by some extraordinary means was launched into the mythical world of "Europa" and, though her camera was lost to the mist of the German postal service, had wonderful adventures which she would later post into a blog. This is her story.


The Excursion, Vol. 2: Kafka's House and The Evil Czech McDonalds




The train ride into Prague was among the more memorable, as our car which sat six people had no light and barely any room for our legs. We lodged our knees in a puzzle-like configuration, curled into our jackets and iPods and promptly fell asleep for two hours. When we woke up, with the picturesque countryside flying by our windows and the grass of Germany slowly fading into the hills of Prague, cookies and M&Ms were passed around and we ate like kings and then discussed lady business. This effectively kept everyone else out of our cabin (mission accomplished). When we finally got into the train station, our tour guide named Ladi met us and I compulsively made a few Aladdin jokes before I could stop myself (Can I call you "Al"? Or how about "Din"). The strong smell of wet dirt rose in the air and I briefly felt as though the beauty of our trip had ended with the cookies and M&Ms.


We made our way to the hotel, which was at the end of a dark alley, and into the restaurant where we ate the Czech version of hamburgers and harassed the single waitress serving our whole group for more and more ketchup. I shared a room with four other girls and upon opening the door to our room, we found that there was no shower but rather a bathtub with an extended showerhead and no curtain. I lovingly named it "the Pit." The next day we prepared ourselves for a four hour walking tour, and I had the Gilligan's Island theme song on a constant loop in my head for its entirety.

A Four Hour Tour. A FOUR HOUR TOUR.

Before I got to Prague, I had no expectations nor any idea what we would see; staying in the Bates Motel and bathing in The Pit were not giving me positive impressions of our location. I could not have been more wrong because Prague is a portrait of medieval majesty and it is all different kinds of into itself. Ladi (Come here, boy! Come here, Ladi!) took us around the old part of the city to King Wenceslaus's monument, across the Charles Bridge (a site of martyrdom), through the Jewish quarter, up to a monastery with a library that I proclaimed the inspiration for the best scene in "Beauty and the Beast", through the cathedral, and up to the gates of Parliament, aka A CASTLE. Exhausted from craning my neck and sighing impressed "ohhhs" every few minutes, I cherished the moments that we were able to find a low wall to sit on. At the castle, guards with uniforms suspiciously similar to that of the British stood watch at the entrance and exit. Chelsea and I prepared the following questions to gently whisper to them:

"What are we looking at?"
"How does my breath smell?"
"Staring contest...you win."
"What are you doing later?"
"When does your shift end?"


This went on for a good half an hour and yes, it was funny the entire time.

The Jewish quarter was fascinating, with a synagogue on every corner and the famous cemetery at its heart, but the icing on the cake stared us down before we even walked into it: Kafka's house. Being the only nerd who actually enjoyed "The Metamorphosis" and gets the joke in Spaceballs right before the transition into MegaMaid, I, as the kids would say, "totally lost my shit."* Sadly, I would have to wander the streets of Prague alone the next day in order to find the house again and buy what is quite possibly the best t-shirt ever.



We did a little shopping for the rest of the afternoon at a street market and went back to the hotel for a quick nap before heading out to dinner. We went to a traditional Czech restaurant and I drank X-33, the strongest beer in the world; its 12.6% alcohol content and heavy "digestive" texture made it the equivalent of drinking a bear tranquilizer with dinner and I started breathing deeply, wheezing, and growling into my stroganoff. We planned to go out to clubs that evening, but as I morphed steadily into a tamed North American Grizzly, the sweatpants came on and the makeup came off. I convinced Kristin to have a sprite with me a few hours later at the bar and we chatted in the hotel bar while the group of girls who were going out first invited us, then left, came back when the club was closed, sat in the lobby looking up more clubs, waited for one to open, and left again. We laughed over our sugary drinks, pleased with our plans for the night.

What is the Czech phrase for "Stop giving me cheeseballs" and "That's not my margarita"?

The next day, obligated to go to the eight thousandth museum of the trip, we went to a gallery where an American living in Prague showed us pieces of deeply political art including a large chair sitting on top of the river outside next to a line of bright yellow plastic penguins. Yeah, I just said that. We went shopping (I found Kafka)afterward and I met up with a few other girls where we all decided to suck it up and get McDonalds for the sake of time and convenience. Word of advice: if a Czech person asks you something benign, such as "Is that all?" or "For here or to go?" they actually mean "Oh, that is most decidedly NOT what you will be having" and "Here is your box of cheese balls that you didn't want nor ask for, and hey I charged you two extra Euro." When they wave their hands in your face when you protest the mountain of food that has suddenly been presented to you on a plastic tray and say "GO, BYE," however, they mean precisely that. I didn't eat dinner that night.

We spent our last night in Prague at the opera, where Chelsea and I scoped out the musicians when the confusing Italians screamed "Mi Amore!" one time too many. Afterward, we went to a bar with almost the entire group because we are idiots. Evidently I was assigned the role of "Bill Handler" upon arriving in Germany and had to total up the drinks and collect the money yet again. It should be noted that I am an English major for the sole purpose of avoiding math. When the waitress tried to charge us for an extra margarita that didn't exist (and later another one because she didn't know the difference between plus and minus on her calculator), Mama Bear kicked in and didn't back down. Finally, an acquaintance of Stephanie's stepped in and payed the difference and I was incensed over the principle of the matter. I took my time leaving the bar to go to another one and glare at the room over a dry martini, which by the way is DELICIOUS. We left the bar so that Andrew could get food poisoning in a bun on the street and waited for twenty minutes in the rain. Just then, a small and grotesque man circled us, apparently trying to find his way back to the clown troupe at the Cirque Du Soliel. on the bus, the alcohol said terribly inappropriate tings using my mouth (the nerve!) and we made many friends before finally reaching our hotel.

The next day, I showered in the Pit and packed for the airport. We bade farewell to Ladi and I bought a Toblerone that took me four days to finish. I've come to the conclusion that aside from the people in it, Prague was beautiful, fun, interesting, and among the more fascinating places I have ever been. I also learned to never say "For Here" at a Czech McDonalds.

Until next time, my friends.
Tschus!

*It is necessary to understand that--GREGOR SAMSA, WE NEED TO SEE YOUR PAPERS. That is all.

Ich Bin Ein Berliner

Welcome once again to "Silly American Fails at Getting Her Passport Stamped," I'm Jessica, and I will be your host for tonight. I'm settled contentedly on my bed, inhaling the box of See's that my number one fan Jackie Blatter sent to me, which is a welcome sight after traveling for the past week.

The Excursion, Vol. 1: Mr. Gorbachev, TEAR DOWN THIS WALL! Great, Now Tour Me Around It!

We left on a cold Thursday morning, and armed with coffee and a book, I promptly fell asleep on the train; needless to say, it was a thoroughly enjoyable ride. We arrived in Berlin and had a few minutes to get lunch, so feeling pressured by Vanessa, I bought a Happy Meal from McDonalds and brought forth into this world the newest addition to our trip to Berlin: a stuffed bulldog that I named Kennedy. We all decided he would be the mascot for the week and would be important in all our activities and pictures.* After settling into the hostel, our tour guide arrived and for me, so did Christmas.


He wore an entirely matching tweed suit, complete with a jacket, golf cap, and knickers. I'm sorry, it bears repeating: KNICKERS. He merrily strolled us around Berlin showing us the remains of the Berlin Wall, the Brandenburg Gate, the Reichstag, the World War II Memorial and a Starbucks, occasionally punctuating his tidbits of history and mistranslated jokes with a cheerful "ha HA!" We enjoyed his company, which was inappropriately jaunty for the subject matter, and then went to dinner.


Though everyone in our group ordered his or her own pizza, it was only our end that ate it in its entirety. Food-drunk and euphoric, we decided it was time for alcohol.

Jessica and Friends Stumble Around Berlin Inquiring "What are Yooouuuu Loookin' At?"




A few of us found a liquor store next to the hostel and for a mere 4 euro drank like we were at a high school New Year's Eve party, taking long swigs from Champagne bottles and coming to the deeply philosophical conclusion that though it was torn down, every wall we were looking at was in fact a Berlin Wall. After thoroughly testing out every piece of equipment in a public playground, we set off with the rest of the group to a bar called "White Trash Fast Food" where I made sweet love to a hot fudge sundae.

The following day we toured the Reichstag, and I had the following fight with my arm:
"...You know the answer to that question. Just raise me."
"No. The tour guide is asking rhetorical questions. Just calm down."
"But the fire was what enabled Hitler to issue The Reichstag Fire Decree-"
"-Yeah I know, shut up"
"COME ON. JUST RAISE ME, YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO"
"...Stay....down!"

It went on like this until she got to a room I had never heard of and my not-so-inner nerd was silenced. Until we meet again, historical tour...

The next day we went to a concentration camp, which I can't describe in the same blog where I make poop jokes, so I won't. We later went to another museum about Jewish history, which was terribly confusing and extensive so Brittany and I decided we needed coffee before heading out that night, and it needed to be the Berlin equivalent of the Einstein: the Balzac Cafe.

We sat for a while, mistakenly drinking each other's coffee, going over Brittany's terrible 21st birthday when she choked on her coffee and started laughing uncontrollably. "Well, I guess that would only happen at a place called Balzac!" That's right. All that build up for a 7th grade "balls" joke that may never stop being funny to us maladjusted minds.

Later on, we went to dinner and then to Soda club. Only 3 things of note occurred there:
1)My hand stamp smeared on my face, which nobody bothered to tell me about until after I had taken several pictures; thankfully it was on the side of my mouth instead of someplace terrible, like above my lip. Which would not have been funny in BERLIN. However, the free shots made up for it.
2)I knocked over a bar stool in front of DOZENS of people, who simply looked at me in confusion as I put my finger to my lips and mouthed "NOTHING. HAPPENED."
3)They played "Celebration" by Kool and the Gang.

The last day was our traveling day to Prague, so we had a few hours of free time and Gina and I went to an underground tour, which turned out to be the highlight of our trip. We were led around underneath the metro tracks to a shelter for German citizens during the air raids of WWII by a diminutive German woman with black curls, tiny eyeglasses, and red lipstick. She talked with increasing dramatic flair, making dark jokes and serious declarations about human rights, the horrors of the National Socialists, and the function of the shelter during the war. She turned out the lights, shouted theatrically, and showed us artifacts that we'd never seen before and probably will never see again. I wanted to wrap her up in bubble paper and take her with us to Prague.

Later on, we shoved our clothes into overstuffed bags and headed to the train station to begin our next adventure, which will be relayed to you in the next installment: The Excursion: Vol. 2; I Find Kafka's House and Czech People Are Rude.

Auf Weidersehen!

*Note, this dog remained in my pocket for the rest of the trip and was only seen when I occasionally brought him out and remarked, "Oh hey, this dog is still here."

Get Off My Blog, Mom.

My greatest fear has come to life: my mother has gained a low level of computer competency and she has hacked the blog. I feel like my own personal FCC is watching me. Hi mom.

Jessica Cleans Up Her Language At The Expense of Her Blog's Level of Intrigue

I should be packing right now for Berlin and Prague, but my knee is in a brace (I'll get to that soon enough) and I've recently decided that packing with little mini-toiletries isn't much fun. Also I'm lazy.

So last night we decided to go to a place called "Carpe" which I don't think translates into anything appealing in any language (it's either a fish, a complaint, or "Seize The" which, at a club, is not a friendly encouragement, but more a lurking threat). It did, however, translate into a free bottle of champagne (champaaaanya) for every three girls. Being vehemently against sexism in any form, I simply took one for the team and correctly figured it would be made up to me by creepy men expecting the alcohol to lower a forcefield that would somehow make me at all interested in them. Calm down, I'll get there.

So we topped off the champaaaanya and RedBull and Vodkas are only a euro all night, so I got to use the phrase "Filler up, barkeep!" about 60 times, and it was ok because he didn't understand me anyway. Being the first people to get to the club, no one was on the dance floor; enter "Gold Digger." Being a faithfully stereotypical white lady, I know every word to that song. Every. Word. We got the dance floor going.

Up until this point, Germans have been fulfilling every Falco-induced image I have of their music, especially in techno clubs (see earlier post regarding this phenomenon)but last night completely redeemed the entire country. Spice Girls, Michael Jackson, Prince, and even Wheatus made appearances and I squealed with delight and bounced energetically each time (again, white lady). On my 8th trip to the bar (feeling no effects of the alcohol, or so I thought), a wonderful Nigerian approached me, introducing himself as Humphrey. I like him immediately.
"You are a good dancer!" I liked him even more.
"Let me buy you two girls a beer" We were riding a tandem bicycle in my head.
Let me put my hand on your back suggestively while we talk to your friends. I suddenly had something important to attend to across the bar and away from him.

I was quickly the recipient of a swaying German who had been pawned off by his friend who was hitting on Stephanie. Because he didn't speak much English and remained about 8 inches away from me at all times, I danced with him for the rest of the night. It got to be about 2:30am, and half of us geared up to leave. My leg was feeling oddly sore, but right then "Kiss" by Prince came on and I bounced on it some more, because, let's be honest: the man made Purple Rain. You can't hear Prince and not dance, it's just a rule. So finally, after I had had my fill of terrible and worn-out pop songs,we sauntered out of the bar toward the bus stop.

It wasn't until I stumbled into the kitchen and eyed the Nutella with a certain indescribable lust that I realized I was, in fact, quite drunk and very content; the world was in a perfect place. This morning I couldn't move my leg and my voice was gone, but the consensus is that it was worth it.

Tomorrow I head off to Berlin, and then to Prague on Sunday for more wacky misadventures and offensive behavior.
Stay tuned!

I Like-a To Make-a The Prrrank-a Phone-a Call....Ciao Roma!

Welcome to the latest installment of "Jessica Offends an Entire Continent Within the Span of One Semester," where I share my bawdy tales with my friend, the Internet. I really would love to tell you about the deliciousness and work of complete originality that is the Nutella-and-Banana sandwich, but there was this other thing I did this weekend, so we should maybe talk about that.

Jessica Says "When In Rome" About 700 Times In Three Days

So after the Wednesday night freak out about the train strike and the blood and sweat that went into making a backup travel plan, those lazy Germans stopped striking after a couple hours and we were happy to hear that our journey would be hassle-free. Enter the genius of the Deutschland labor unions. We may have been able to take our scheduled train, but that actually meant the four trains it took just to get to the airport in Weeze, which is basically a city that looks like Solvang on its night off. We got off the plane, onto another bus, walked to the metro, rowed across a lake, dog-sledded a few blocks and finally reached our hostel and were allowed in after we answered the intercom "these questions three." And then walked up seven flights of stairs.

We dropped our stuff off at the hostel, which was teeming with twenty-somethings finding themselves, and went in search of dinner. Starving, exhausted, and generally jubilant, the mood was only soured by the time (almost midnight) and the scarcity of open restaurants. Enter Ivano. If you were wondering what happened to Inigo Montoya after the Princess Bride ended, he moved to Italy and opened a hostel (at which we were staying) and then sold it and started roaming around restaurants. The staff recommended a restaurant around the corner where we ran into Indigo/Ivano and as he overheard us talking about the hostel, asked us our budget and then promised us a 4 course meal meeting the exact price. A few bottles of wine, pasta, salad, meat, appetizers, and dessert later, we breathed a collective sigh of satisfaction and unanimously decided that we were in love with Rome.

Too tired to go out, most of us went to sleep early to be prepared for the next day's adventures.

Jessica Plays A Game of Hide-And-Seek With the Pope



The Vatican. I would go on for pages and pages describing the rooms and hallways and corridors filled with marble busts and statues of gods, saints, popes, and disembodied faces of supposedly important people but it wouldn't make any difference. The best I can do is recommend a good art history book and instruct you to cut it in half; there, in a nutshell, is the Vatican. Priceless statues and frescoes that you hear about your whole life and don't really care about spring at you from every wall, reminding you that you've done little to nothing with your life. We set off in search of the Sistine Chapel, and because the Vatican is full of liars who like to post arbitrary signs all over the place, it took us hours to find it. Kristin's camera shuttered with rapid flashes every few seconds as we stared straight up at the Creation of Man and were then yelled at in rapid Italian over a loudspeaker. We moved on.



We found the School of Athens and mummies from an Egyptian collection, and then debated on whether or not to buy a two euro soda; "When in Rome," I quipped for the 8th time that day. Finally, after another labyrinth set up by what I believe to be very bored priests, we made our way out of the museums and into St. Peter's Basilica. I have never seen, nor do I think I will ever see again, something so overwhelmingly beautiful and terrifying as that building. The size of it takes your breath away, the intricacies of the art and architecture grip you, and then St. Peter himself punches you in the stomach when you look at his tomb underneath the massive baldachin and realize that you are standing feet away from the first pope. I had to sit down, but managed to pant a soft "When...in...Rome."

We walked out and took about 40 pictures in St. Peter's Square, and I was quite hurt that Benedict didn't even bother coming to say hi. Undeterred, we headed off into the streets of cheap souvenirs and gelato in search of the Colosseum. We ate a quick lunch (and I stupidly ordered a drink that cost 4 euro without knowing it) and walked for hours trying to navigate a map aimed at leading tourists down alleys where they will face off with Italians on Vespas. Running into a piazza filled with artists, music, and contented people eating outside in the warm weather, we got our first gelato and relaxed for a moment before wandering off again in search of things to tell our families we saw and feel mildly better about ourselves.
We found the Pantheon, what we thought were the Spanish steps, the Roman forum, centuries-old ruins in the city center, and then the crescendo: The Colosseum rose out from the skyline, mocking the McDonalds restaurants that cowered its ancient shadow. Being the thrifty (read: cheap) Americans that we are, we opted to walk around the Colosseum and Arch of Titus (instead of paying for the tour inside) before falling exhausted on the ground and studying a group of flight attendants with an almost pervert fascination.

We were scheduled to go to a pub crawl that night, so we headed back to the hostel to be knocked unconscious for an hour by the tiredness of traveling (which rivals the violent effects of Nyquil or Opium).

Jessica Meets the Pub Crawl: Toasts Her New Friends By Singing the Spice Girls' "Wannabe"



We met up with the group on the Spanish steps (the real ones, not the massive staircase that I stubbornly maintained was the actual monument)and after a delightful conversation with a man from Norway who knew slightly more English than I know German, we were headed to the first bar. Open bar for an hour, pizza, and the Spice Girls set the tone for an awe-inspiring night. We met several American, Spanish, Italian, and French college students (all easily identified by their respective haircuts) who were a welcome distraction from the hungry stares of middle-aged men, slicking back their oiled hair and cracking their knuckles as they measured up our group of 9 girls. The organizers rounded us up into several buses, and I crammed in the back with one of the most welcome sights of the weekend: a group of highly energetic and friendly Germans.



I rattled off every German phrase I know, including, but not limited to, my name, age, and all the swear words I've collected over the past month. Their warm reception and offer to teach me new and exciting swear words, however, could not match the sheer spectacle that was an entire group of adult men (who had moments before been singing patriotic fight songs and cheers) happily shouting every word to Katy Perry's "Hot and Cold."

After the second bar (peppered with inebriated conversation with friendly Americans and the live band's rendition of U2's entire musical catalog), we headed to the last destination: a cave with blaring dance music. In the morning, this location would be deemed "creeper central" as most of the normal people tapered off after the second bar and the rest of us got saddled with the remnants of the crowd. Luckily, I found a nice, sober Spaniard named Alberrrrto who chatted with me in English while I insulted his entire culture with my attempts at Spanish.



After the pub crawl, we realized two things:
1) We were drunk and now deaf
2) We had no idea how to get back to our hostel

We wandered aimlessly around for twenty minutes before stopping an Italian who pointed us in the opposite direction. Kristin, at this point, had a dramatic falling-out with her shoes and considered walking barefoot through the city. "When in Rome," I advised. We gathered her over our shoulders and all walked back to the hostel, having one of those conversations that in practice means nothing but contextually means everything to those participating in it. Finally making it back to the hostel around 4:00am, Brittany and I chatted with some dirty Australians in the kitchen about traveling, drinking, and the meaning of the word "cunnilingus," which incited a conversation about cultural semantics. It was all very important and not in the least bit inappropriate or immature.

The next day we woke up and packed, sad to leave this wonderful city that we had all so rapidly fell in love with and had so few hours left to explore. I went with a small group to the Trevi Fountain (which, as an ignorant American I compared to the talking statues at Caesar's Palace), made a wish to return to Rome, and had our last gelato of the trip. Then the mommy pants went back on as I frantically herded everyone out the door to make sure we didn't miss our bus, which would lead us to the seven different modes of transportation we would need to get home.

Jessica Meets the Train System Again; It Wins This Round One metro, bus, airplane, and another bus later, we were faced with the chilling weather of Germany and a train that wouldn't come for another 45 minutes. We cursed Weeze, and found a Greek restaurant five minutes away where half of us devoured cheeseburgers and fries. When I remarked that they seemed to have thrown some meat patties into the deep-fryer after cutting them with scissors, Kristin calmly responded, "When in Greece," to which I tipped my hat and uttered a satisfied "Touche." We got back on the train, and then to another train which apparently needed to make the rounds to every stop in all of Germany before getting to ours (again, a meaningful conversation driven by delirious exhaustion took place, this time regarding sausages). We finally got to Koln, and half of us made it to the stalled train to Bonn, where a forty-something woman manifested the growing anticipation for Karneval dressed as a glittering clown with a light-up tambourine.

Being one of those fortunate enough to have made the train, God made it up to me by making that train go to the wrong stop where it refused to continue on. Pretty sneaky, train. On the upside, I made two more German friends who happened to be on the same route as I, and about 45 minutes later I was back home to the smell of bruschetta, which Lilo had prepared for a small dinner party with her sister and brother-in-law. Amused by the presence of Italian food after a weekend spent desperately searching for it, I ate some, drank some juice, and headed up to bed.

How was your weekend?
Ciao!