Hello! For those of you who kept up with this blog one year ago, the inexplicable recurrence of what was surely a source of unending joy must come as a shock. You probably dismissed me as either dead or heartless, the victim of some British kidnapping plot (yes, yes, I know I never wrote about the London adventures), a fugitive from the IRA, or maybe just a forgetful, silly American college girl who stopped writing once her European adventures drew to a close. While I cannot give credence to any of these rumors, I can now proudly say I am back, fueled by a new burst of European experiences. Here are the things that have happened since May 15, 2013 (the day of my last post):
- I had a lovely time in London
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| Buckingham Palace! |
- I arrived home safely, spent about two minutes with my family, and rushed off to my internship for the summer
- I returned to school expecting everything to be the same, but somehow everything had changed. It was rather a rough year, but I made lots of new friends and learned a lot. I suppose the best lessons are the hardest ones (that's what I keep telling myself, at any rate)
- Over winter break, several of my Cornell friends proposed a short vacation to Puerto Rico. I gladly joined in, and took part in many adventures that I may write about after the EuroTrip #2 Chronicles are finished
- I graduated!
- I embarked on a 3-week, all-expenses-paid (Ha! I wish) trip to Europe with one of my best friends, Aashika. We went to Geneva, Naples, Bruges, Brussels, and all over Portugal together, and then I split off and visited Barcelona and Madrid by myself.
- Three days after arriving back home, a cruel man pulled out all my teeth. Well, just my wisdom teeth. But I've spent the past week at home, alternatively being dazed on painkillers or moaning about the pain and my not-so-glamorous face. My new nickname is "Jabba the Hut" because of the fantastic jowls the recovery process has given me
- I start full-time work in two days! You're catching me at the end of an era; I suppose I must begin Real Life now. But before I do, allow me to reflect on my adventures abroad....
I began to plan this trip with Aashika months before, in late March/ early April. We agreed upon an ideal itinerary--we'd travel around Greece for about a week, go to Portugal, maybe stop in Milan for awhile, perhaps visit to the south of France. It took us a very long time to agree on this itinerary, and the decision-making process involved a complicated system of rankings, weightings, and exclusions that only two math-happy engineers could ever come up with. We happily settled down and bought our tickets to and from Europe.
When we looked into buying our inter-European tickets, however, we soon realized that the low-budget airlines did not, unfortunately, comply with our plan. All the tickets we wanted were prohibitively expensive, so we decided to plan our journey one leg at a time. Our internal destinations didn't matter as much as long as we made it to Portugal, where we planned to rendezvous with Aashika's study abroad friends. Thus our original plan was completely demolished, and a somewhat haphazard plan fell into place. Our destinations make no sense geographically; we bounce all around the continent with no apparent regard for reason or convenience. If you look at ticket prices, however, it all works out.
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| Like I said, it makes no sense. But it was affordable! |
Anyway, here I was, a freshly graduated Cornell alumni with one week at home to prepare for the journey. So I did what any self-respecting member of my family would do: I procrastinated. I hung out with my family, read books, even watched a movie or two, hoping that the daunting challenge of packing for 3 weeks would diminish. Sadly, it did not. In fact, it only got worse: I had originally thought that I would get 1 free carry-on and 1 free personal item (ie a purse), like most reasonable airlines allow. However, the ultra-cheap airlines we booked charge the equivalent of $50 and up for such rookie errors--you are allowed exactly one carry-on, subject to very specific dimensions. We'll talk more about these crazy airlines later. My sole luggage was limited to a backpack. 1 backpack for 3 weeks. I never thought I could do it.
I did eventually manage this great feat. If you are not in awe of my prodigious packing skills, you will be after hearing that I almost didn't have to re-wear anything. I managed this feat by filling my backpack to bursting; I almost couldn't zipper it closed., and travel-sized shampoos and makeups spewed out of its side pockets like a vomity child.
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| My trusty companion. You can't tell, but this backpack held practically a complete wardrobe, and didn't explode. I say it performed quite admirably given its unsuitability for the task. |
My first destination was Geneva, but I had quite a journey before me. The $300 tickets I had booked included an overnight stop in Iceland, which sounds fun until you hear that it spans the hours of midnight and 6am--my first night in an airport. My flight to Reykjavik was uneventful but sleepless; I took advantage of the in-flight entertainment system and watched old movies to my heart's content. Marilyn Monroe taught me everything I needed to know in How to Marry a Millionaire. I also met my first European on the flight over, a nice, intelligent French boy who was leaving a Harvard teaching post to try for a position as a French ambassador.
I disembarked from the plane, weirdly excited for my first night sleeping in an airport. This was my christening as an official Traveller of the World--the experience everyone needs in order to legitimately complain about airports! The enterprise seemed doubly thrilling from its supposed illegality; most reports I had looked up beforehand reinforced the strict Reykjavik airport "no-spending-the-night" principle. I found my way to the main lobby, grabbed some food ("pizza Americano"--I couldn't resist), and found a bench with a few other criminal nappers. There was safety in numbers, I supposed, and I was not about to get robbed by some Icelandic thug. In spite of my fears and somewhat to my disappointment, I did not get harassed by Reykjavik airport employees.
Partly from excitement and partly from the blinding lights and unforgiving metal bench, I barely slept at all that night. The frequent rattling from store cages as they closed (only to be re-opened three hours later) also didn't help. I slept from 1am to 4:30am, when I was woken by curious children started to pass me and ask their parents who the hobo was. I went to the ladies' room to brush my teeth and almost didn't recognize myself. See my transformation from normal girl to hideous creature of death below.
It was after this venture that I began to realize some of the oddities of the Icelandic airport (and European airports in general, as I was soon to discover). First, there were no water fountains, so I canvassed the airport cafes, asking for water refills that I promptly sucked down and then had to stalk for new, unsuspecting cafe workers.
Around this time I also began to notice the blatant Icelandic propaganda sprinkled throughout the airport. Posters hung everywhere proclaiming the beauty and glory of Iceland, but the truth was barely veiled. A barren wasteland became a "vast uncharted territory for YOU to explore!" A bleak plot of snow morphed into a "tranquil place for perfect views of the Northern Lights!" Not even the airplane was left untouched; the seatbacks sported embroidered Icelandic phrases with their English counterparts. The free airplane blanket had bits of Icelandic poetry prominently stitched onto the front. Half of the in-flight shows were documentaries about Iceland or movies made by Icelandic producers. However, their most effective marketing technique was their choice of employee--every single flight attendant was a gorgeous woman: tall, blonde, buxom, and wearing very sexy heels.
My flight to Zurich was forty minutes late but otherwise uneventful. At this point I was completely exhausted. I had had 2 1/2 hours of sleep in the past 24, and only an act of God would push me through until I'd get my next time in a real bed (another 36 hours away). Thankfully, the Man Upstairs had mercy on my poor soul and kept me awake for the next three hours, which were my own version of the Comedy of Errors.
I arrived in Zurich and barreled through the airport, hoping to catch the train to Geneva that left in a mere 10 minutes. I was going to meet Aashika and my Cornell friend George who was then studying abroad in Geneva. Unfortunately, the Zurich airport is set up like a maze, with a thousand shops strategically placed in the exit route. I knocked down dozens of elderly Swiss people in vain--I did not make the train. It left as I ran down the stairs. I spent the next fifteen minutes frantically trying to find free WiFi (hint: nothing is free in Switzerland) with which to communicate with George, then paid an exorbitant price for a power converter when I realized my iPod had died, then realized there were no outlets. I finally boarded the train, twenty-eight euros lighter but still unable to tell George that I'd be late. One station later, the loudspeakers announced that the tracks were broken later on in the route, and the train would no longer stop in Geneva. I got off, boarded the next train almost in tears, and was shepherded by a nice Swiss Rails employee who informed me that I'd have to change trains 3 times. The schedule then changed two more times, and finally it was settled that my new train would in fact go to Geneva.
Just as I settled down to enjoy my long ride to Geneva, a family parked a baby carriage that must have been filled with dirty diapers right behind my chair. The smell forced me to move across from a creepy guy who had been eyeing me the whole time. At this point, I had started writing notes on my iPod chronicling what happened throughout the trip so that I could remember and write blog posts later (I'm looking at my notes right now). For about the next two paragraphs of notes, I wrote a humorous but very detailed description of this strange man's character in the off-chance that he would whisk me off to be a sex slave in Tibet, and that description was the only thing that could lead to my rescue. (It appears that the movie Taken had strongly influenced my impressions of Europeans.)
I finally arrived in Geneva, sleep-deprived and weary, but ready for adventure. I miraculously found Aashika and George at the train station, and we headed off into the sunset to have lovely adventures in Geneva. You'll hear all about that on the next post--this one is too long already.
Much love,
Lauren
