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.

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."

It Costs How Much?

Hallo!

Before I came to Germany, my father and I had the following conversation:

"If you go to Amsterdam, stay away from the Red Light District."
"Dad, I have to work somehow."

"Jessica Meets Amsterdam; It Owes Her money"

On Thursday, we finally got our passports back and decided to follow through on our haphazard plan to go to Amsterdam, which meant getting on a train from Koln at 8:00am, which also meant getting on a train from Bonn to Koln at 7:00am, meaning getting to the train station at 6:30am, meaning I woke up at 4:45am to be packed and ready to go by 6:00am. I grabbed a banana and cried into it until I found coffee at the station.

After a nice 4 hour drive in which we squished our malleable bodies into the zig-zagged bus seats, we arrived in Holland. I would tell you how many windmills we saw on the way, but I can't count that high. After getting off the bus and realizing that we are in a completely different country with no guide or general direction, we found a tram into downtown and hopped on, hoping for the best. After about 10 minutes of walking, we started to notice the abundance of "Coffee Shops" and realized our wildest dreams had come true; we had found the Red Light District.

I opted for a hostel right next to the gay cinema (aptly named, "Gay Cinema") and after a half hour of contemplating finding a cheap hotel, I put on my Dad pants and reserved the rooms, collected the money, and threatened anyone who disagreed with the belt. They had no choice but to comply. After settling our things, our group split up, with four of us girls deciding to find some lunch and the Anne Frank house.

We found what was quite possibly the worst pizza ever made and began to wander through the city. We walked by a male strip joint (also quite appropriately named, "Sex Show") when a lanky man with a sad mustache in the doorway aggressively implored, "Come on ladies, wanna see a big cock for a change?" I was offended.
"What are you trying to imply," I demanded, "that I can't find one for myself?"

We eventually came to Anne Frank's house and saw that the price of admission was 8.50 Euro. This was in addition to the train, bus, hostel, and food for the day, so my miserly eyes scanned down the sign to "Children 10-17: 4 Euro." My moral consciousness engaged in a bitter battle with my cheapness as I considered lying to get into Anne Frank's house on a discount. It didn't work anyway; the teller asked for ID, and I was 9 Euro poorer. We walked through the house, bare, cold, and silent behind the droves of other guests peering into glass cases and touching the brown wallpaper in each of the rooms. Surprisingly complex, the annex was several different rooms entwined with staircases and doorways, all beginning behind a movable bookcase which I remembered reading about in the book years ago. Toward the end, considerably more teary than when we entered, we left the museum and headed toward an espresso cafe that promised to make us much more cheerful. It did.

At this point, I was still marveling at the houses and buildings of the city as they all pile onto one another like a crooked smile tangled up with different canals; distracted by the quirky unevenness that seems to define Amsterdam, I barely realized that we were heading toward our hostel in the Red Light.

I've heard about the women in the windows before, assuming that they danced in elevated storefronts to entice customers into the brothel; I did not expect to be separated from a woman dancing in lingerie and shooting sultry looks at passersby by a mere sheet of glass and open curtain which would close when the visible room was to be occupied. My reaction being a profoundly sympathetic "Wow, that's a lot of low self esteem," I wasn't truly shocked until the young blond women started disappearing and the much larger 65-year old women began pressing themselves up to the glass. I received an appreciative laugh when reacting to this phenomenon with an exclamatory "CHRIST!" from two Americans who were walking near us and evidently shared my sentiments.

Eventually, we all met back up at the hostel and relaxed for a little while before heading out that night. Gina and I had other plans, however, and promptly purchased a bottle of champagne and a bottle of Pinot Grigio (both fine choices, as proven by their 5 Euro price tags). Splitting the two bottles with Brittany, we headed out to dinner giggling and trying to lead the group toward a Mexican restaurant we found earlier that day. We drunkenly led everyone down the wrong street, and were amused by the reaction of "do you even know where you're going?" from our friends. I mean really, who's the idiot: the drunk bastards leading someone to a wrong destination, or the sober person following them? My point exactly.

We got to the restaurant, and I decided to exercise my rusty Spanish; hilarity ensued. I ordered half a chicken, and didn't understand why the waiter laughed so jauntily until I remembered that the word in Spanish for "half" is media, not mierda, which of course means "shit." He brought us chicken, not shit, and later kissed my hand goodbye as he enjoyed our company thoroughly. After this, we decided to find a bar to celebrate Ryan's birthday and failed miserably. We split up a few times, heading off into different directions and different bars. Eventually, however, we all ended up at one bar, where I vividly remember drinking the best-tasting coke I've ever had at around 1:15am.

As the bars started closing and the crazies really started coming out (one fine gentlemen came within two inches of my face and hissed "heeeyy, sexy") we all headed home to the hostel for a welcome sleep. In the morning, checked out and weighed down with backpacks and the weariness of travel and intoxication, we got breakfast and explored Amsterdam in the daylight before heading back to the bus. Apparently, our bus drivers made a bet as to how many different Shells and convenience stores they could stop at before driving all the passengers crazy, and our 4 hour ride lasted 6.

Coming home, I found the most wonderful and appreciated substance in the whole world: warm leftovers, all for yours truly. I devoured dinner and am now documenting this weekend as one for the books.

Tomorrow we meet with the Mayor of Bonn, and I write my next entry, "Jessica Meets the Mayor, Mistranslation Results In Hurt Feelings and Handcuffs"

Tschus!

Recovery is a Long Process

Today I slept a lot after class, and here's why.

"Jessica Meets the Bars: Undying Love is Proclaimed"

Yesterday, after a visit to the German Post-WWII exhibit (with a very cute student tour guide from the AIB), I had my first chocolate shake since being here and let me say, my friend, they should look into adding ice cream to that sucker. Once we were all done, Neils (or at least that's how I will be spelling it) asked us if we wanted to stick around or go back to the AIB. I made my voice clearly heard:

"My name is Jessica, and I would like to drink something. Preferably something with what you'd call 'alcohol' in it."

The student worker was AWESOME and agreed to meet us at the Aldstat (an area where there are a lot of bars and where many of the university students live) that night. I put my gameface on. We met up at an Australian bar, but moved to an Irish pub across the way when there were far too many territorial Germans for us wide-eyed Americans to fit in there. At the pub, all the girls crowded around the cute student worker like a circus act and he taught us a drinking game that was eerily similar to Bullshit, except with dice (pretty sneaky, Germans). We all took a shot of Spanish Fly (What's that? Why yes, it was delicious and worthy of its notoriety, I'm glad you asked) and it was on. Then we moved to another bar that had foosball table, and I failed miserably. My opponent blamed the alcohol; I blamed my limited motor skills. Then we were on our way to Blow Up, which was every bit as spectacular as it sounds.

En route, some of the girls stopped for McDonalds, which left me waiting out in the cold; I do not patronize McDonalds in America, and I don't believe that just because something has a European accent that it is any sexier**. We then walked on as they devoured what must have been a welcome taste of home and finally got to a bar that was packed with writhing humans uncomfortably dancing to "Sugarpie Honeybunch." A few more beers and many more Germans enjoying our company simply for being American later, all my trains had left (and we know how testy that bitch can be). As in most situations, my response was "SUCK IT, LOGIC. I know I have class tomorrow and don't need to drink any more, but I'm a grown-ass woman and I'll do what I want." So I danced to "Gimme Some Lovin" and proceeded to get Mr. Rogers-status drunk (Whatdya mean I gadda take off my sweater?)

Now, as a sober person I'm not exaclty adept at navigating the bus system, and as a drunk person, I imagine my attempts wouldn't be much more than me staring angrily at the schedule muttering "yeeaaah, eerryybody's a comedian." So I stayed with one of the girls and had to wake up this morning to get home, change, and grab my homework before getting back on the train to school (that's right, for about an hour, I was like 7 years old as I gathered my packet of German homework where I had to transcribe a conversation between Hans and Helga).

Needless to say, I didn't learn much German today. But at least my hair smelled like cigarette smoke all morning, so that was good. I gratefully accepted my friend's nutella-covered bread and had inappropriate fantasies about coffee until class was over, when we all got pizza.

So, to recap:
Many friendly Germans crowded around our group of rowdy and cheerful Americans until we trickled down to the last few of us (stereotype alert) swinging our steins in the air and singing about sausage. And after a night of no sleep, a lunch of 50cent pizza and coffee, I took a sizable nap and woke up in time for dinner.

Today my life ROCKED.

Tonight we hit the clubs, and the second installment of my epic journey continues.
Tschus!

**This opinion is subject to change quite frequently.

Eiffel

Hallo! Guten Tag!

This weekend we visited the Monastery Maria Laach (St. Mary of the Lake) and got to attend a mass with Gregorian chants (thought of you, Chris; I wanted to record it so you could hear it yourself) and organ music that sounded EXACTLY like the music from Princess Bride (think Wesley running after fighting Inigo Montoya and Fezzik) and the tomb of the noble that supported the monastery as it was being built in 1093. One of the boys on our trip isn't Catholic, and thought that he had to go up to the front when everybody else did and just grabbed the host and walked back to his seat with it in his hand...until a very angry German stopped him and yelled at him with very stern words. Afterward I explained that that was basically the equivalent of punching Jesus in the face, and the moral of the story is to not follow Catholics when you don't know what they're doing.

After that, we went to Schloss Burresheim, which is a castle/palace in the Eiffel region. We got to walk inside (where it was FREEZING...there wasn't a room where you couldn't see your breath) and see all the original furniture and paintings, walk up and down very narrow spiral staircases, and play with the caretaker's cat. Sadly, I walked away thinking only that I couldn't feel my toes and that I wanted that cat. Then we went and ate Schnitzel at a small restaurant and headed for the town of Monreal. After spending every ounce of energy on not letting me freeze to death (I was wearing 3 shirts, a ski jacket, thick scarf, beanie, two pairs of pants, and boots, as recommended), my body said "OH NO YOU DON'T" and instead of walking along an old wall where I could take no pictures (broken camera until further notice), one girl and I went to the cafe where we got free coffee and cheesecake. This was wonderful for three reasons:
1) I got to talk to someone new
2) I was told the wall was "not worth it"
3) I got to try out my very limited German with "I'm learning German" and "Where is the bathroom?"

Then we drove home, and Hans and his wife and mother took me out for steak. I got chicken. We talked about movies and celebrities (they know Colin Hanks) and they told me we have a famous name-relative! Hans said the president of FIFA (?), the soccer federation or whatever it's called, is named Blatter! We should tell everyone we know.

Anyway, after a very terrible night last night (camera broken, computer sort of blew up, terrible nightmares about black widows biting me and Jennifer saying, "Calm down, you have an hour until it's fatal") today totally made up for it. Tomorrow I start classes and I'm really excited to start speaking German and mail my camera back home to be fixed. (Thanks, Cheri for sending me your spare). If you want to send me anything, like a letter or See's, my address is:

Jessica Blatter
AIB
Adenauerallee 7
D-53111 Bonn, Germany

Leave comments so I can hear from everyone!
Love you all very much, Danke shein for reading!
<3
Jess