"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.