Chillin' in Cochin (plus Holi)

The last 3 days have been a blur of color, heat, and food; in other words, I've been to Cochin. Kate and I stayed in a homestay in Fort Cochin, the older and more touristy part of town, with a lovely woman named Linda. Linda cooked us superb breakfasts, arranged most of our travel for us, helped us get taxis and alter clothing, lent us money, took Kate to the doctor when she fell ill (through no fault of Linda's), and took care of us the whole time. She was our Cochin mother, and we love her.

Cochin is beautiful, full of brightly painted houses and trailing vines. The first thing you notice, though, is not the beauty, but the heat. It was 90+F every day, with sweltering humidity. By the ocean the breeze kept me comfortable, but everywhere else was a sauna. 5 minutes outdoors was enough for rivulets of sweat to run down my eyelids and back; I took 2-3 showers per day, and after 3 days my lips were blistered from the heat and humidity. Apparently it's even worse in May--I cannot imagine. Nevertheless, Cochin retains its charm.

Below: beachside sunsets, trailing vines, and lacy shadows.

During our stay in Cochin, we wandered about the city, bought too many souvenirs, and enjoyed the views. We also managed to take a day to tour the backwater areas outside the city center. Linda had arranged this tour, and one day we were picked up by a mysterious van whose driver would not tell us where we were going. We, along with other hapless tourists, were herded on to a handmade boat to meander down the river. We stopped to watch rope being made from coconut fibers (very cool), and were transferred to smaller canoes to head down a smaller side canal. Here we saw women washing clothes and napping by the side of the river, mischievous little boys who splashed us during their swimming, all in the most peaceful setting I can imagine.

Below: big boat - selfie time feat. confused stranger in background -canoe ride

We also saw spice trees! Everything from nutmeg (the seeds of little fruits, with a red internal membrane that becomes mace), peppercorns, cassie cinnamon, turmeric root, and cloves to pineapple (it grows on a bush! and when you pick the fruit, the whole plant dies). I never really thought about where spices come from before--I suppose I just assumed they fell from the sky as perfectly-ground powder in little plastic tubs? It was truly remarkable.

Below: pineapple bush with baby pineapple.

Unfortunately, during our backwater tour, Kate fell ill through no fault of Le Linda's or the tour. That night Linda very graciously took us to the hospital, and on the way I had visions of an all-night wait, insurance nightmares, appointment scheduling problems. Instead I was greeted with the most unexpected of miracles: cheap, fast, effective health care! I felt like I was visiting a hairdresser: we were in and out in 30 minutes, and the entire thing cost $4, including Kate's medication, without insurance! US Senators, please take note: it is possible, and if India can do it, so can we.

While that episode certainly impressed me, another set of incidents did not. I've never been stared at, especially so frankly, while walking around minding my own business (wearing clothes that met all Indian standards of modesty, mind you). Multiple people, mostly young men, asked to take selfies with me; I refused all advances save one, a four year old girl. She is innocent, but the adults should know better. I was also followed home in my return from the beach, but I lost the fellow and felt very street-savvy.

Now, we had arrived in Cochin during Holi, the Hindu Festival of Colors famous for colored powder thrown everywhere. The first day I tried to find the celebration, but missed it by a mere half hour. Fortunately, the different temples coordinated their Holi festivals, and I finally found the celebration the next day. Kate was still not totally recovered, so I was on my own, but thankfully a man with two adorable children took me under his wing, explained the festival to me, and kept me safe from a few men who were a bit harrassing. I am so grateful to him; I would not have been brave enough to stick it out alone.

Below: my esteemed Holi guide and his 2 adorable babies

Holi itself was amazing! First the procession started with a small crowd surrounding a band, dancing and smearing each other's faces with powder. I was the favorite target for color smearing, especially from children, probably because I shine like a white sweaty beacon. We processed through the streets and the crowd grew, and also grew proportionally more raucous.. My nice painter man kept me and the children following at a respectable distance, until the crowd stopped to burn an effigy and dance around it (I am not kidding). Then everybody headed home to wash up, which proved a more troublesome task than I envisioned.

Below: slightly more flattering Holi selfie - early dancing - fire dance

 That powder just would not wash off; I scrubbed myself raw, and still wound up with a blue mustache and a smear of colors that looked suspiciously like a nasty bruise on my chest. Linda yet again saved the day by rubbing coconut oil on the powder, which dissolved the color over a few hours. I'm very curious as to how that reaction worked, but I was too relieved to ask questions.
That night Linda also taught us to make parathas, a flakey, delicious, and very oily bread, and fried chicken curry. It was about as healthy as you might imagine, but boy, did it taste good.

Below: amazing food - magical Indian spice tin that every Indian woman possesses

We finished our time in Cochin by getting henna done on our hands; it was lovely, so much so that we kept the dried paste on overnight to make it last as long as possible. Henna crusts filled the sheets when we awoke, but the result was worth it (and yes, Mom, I did clean off the sheets before leaving):

Below: before & after henna

Sadly, Kate and I parted ways this morning, Kate to journey back to the US, and me to meet my sister in Singapore. While I'm excited for my travels with my sister, I am truly sad to leave India; it's a fascinating country, and I shall return again (and next time for longer).

Hogwarts in the Hills of India

Today is my fifth day in India, and I am in love. This country is as beautiful as it is diverse, with dozens of languages, cultures, and styles of food and dress. In the midst of the color and heat of the past few days, I learned a few things that surprised me:

- Almost everyone speaks English! I knew it was taught in schools and thus commonly known, but I didn't realize its ubiquity. Not everyone is fluent, but everyone knows enough to communicate basic needs.
- I have mastered the infamous Indian head bobble. Or, at least, I can understand its meaning some of the time. A waggle with open eyes can mean anything from "yes" to "maybe not," depending on the situation and the vigor and depth of the bob. A bobble with closed eyes means "no." The gesture is actually pretty catchy; I've found myself participating subconsciously on more than one occasion.
 - Move over, Italy; India has found 1000 ways to make carbs even more delicious.  Breads, chapatis, sweets, biscuits, and my personal favorite, flakey parathas.
- Indian fashion is lovely for the women, although very hot: swaths and swaths of colorful fabric make saris and salwar kameez (pattern/color matching is not a concept here), and every woman looks very put-together, with nearly braided hair, jewelry, and occasionally fragrant jasmine tucked into their braids. South Indian men, on the other hand, either got the short end of the stick for fashion styles or fashion sense: they wear long skirt-like wraps called lungi, which would be fine if they were clean, and maybe worn with something other than a dirty old T-shirt. (This is not the case for all men, just more men than women.)
- Matching toe rings in the first toes are equivalent to wedding rings. I learned this after I bought a pair...oops!

- Not everywhere is hot! Kate and I visited the school where she used to teach, tucked away on top of a mountain in the western Ghats. It's 2000 meters above sea level, and the weather is perfect every day--70F with a cool breeze. It even gets chilly in the morning.

The school where Kate worked, located in Kodaikanal, is a private boarding school started by American missionaries. Although it catered primarily to white families in its inception, the students now mostly come from India or Korea, generally from very wealthy families. The campus is beautiful, a mix between Hogwarts, Princeton, and the set of a countryside Korean drama. See pictures below.

The school is around the corner from Coaker's Walk, where you can see the valley and plains, and on a clear day you can see all the way to Madurai. Kodaikanal is a popular destination for domestic tourists, especially in May when the rest of the country heats up.

To reach this idyllic vista, we hired a taxi for the 3 hour trek from Madurai. The last hour was uphill, entirely hairpin turns, and I relied on fresh air and Dramamine to settle my writhing stomach. Our taxi driver seemed intent on passing everyone else, but not necessarily traveling faster than them: he would pass someone, then go the exact same speed as them. I know, I wanted to tell the people now behind us, I hate this kind of driver too.

After spending two days with Kate's lovely former coworkers and friends, we journeyed not to Madurai again, but to Cochin, a city on the west coast with a booming tourism industry. This time, the taxi ride was 7 hours long --but only $150! Even more astounding, I didn't pee ONCE the whole time. I didn't know it was possible. We also saw bands of monkeys in the road, and Kate quickly informed me that here, monkeys are about as well liked as rats in the US. I thought they were cute and took pictures of them anyway.

We also encountered several homes with very loud loudspeakers outside, blaring Bollywood and classical Indian music. Apparently this is common--there is no such thing as "disturbing the peace," and everyone believes that the entire village wants to enjoy their 90's Bollywood selection. Needless to say, this would not fly in the US.

I'm out to enjoy my time in Cochin ( "God's Own Country")--sneak peek below :-)

The Temple Elephant

Dear readers, I have arrived! As I write this, I am swaddled in a silk dressing gown in our jetlag recovery hotel in Chennai. Kate, my Boston friend and traveling companion/tour guide for the India portion of my journey (she lived in south India for 2 years), recommended we spend the first night recuperating and sleeping, and I'm so glad we did. This is possibly the nicest hotel I have ever stayed in, with an ample free breakfast, foot massages, and comfy bed. (Radisson Chennai near the airport, if anybody cares to repeat.) When we stumbled in, bleary and exhausted, we were greeted with a magnificent spread, every dish of which was labeled with its nutritional merits, sometimes to our incredulity. Gulab jamun, an Indian sweet made of deep fried dough soaked in sugar syrup, was declared "high fiber" and "rich in carbohydrates." Thick, creamy stews were "high energy." Nutritional wand-wavings aside, it truly was delectable: idli sambar, a bread-y patty with a consistency similar to polenta served with spicy soup, poori (a flat round bread) served with vegetable stew, and fresh watermelon juice ensured I was very ready to hit the hay.

Left: Gulab Jamun. Right: Idli Sambar. Om nom nom.

While we're on the topic of food: I have also recently learned the art of eating with my hands. I say art because it was devilishly tricky for me at first. First, the bread: you generally have a mediumish flat round bread in front of you (naan and poori are examples), and you must place your fingers near the edge of the bread, brace the bread with your middle finger, and tear with your index and thumb. Then you take your bread piece and pinch the stew (curries, lentils, chunks of chicken in amazing tomato cream sauce) and voilà! You have a ready-to-eat bite in your hands.

One small miracle that has befallen me is that I have not yet been sick. To this I attribute good luck, Kate's warnings about what not to eat, bottled water, and magic probiotic pills that make me very gassy but defend me from worse ills. Hopefully I can avoid a serious case of the runs, but with 2 months on the road, I'm not optimistic.

Jetlag, on the other hand, has not been so kind. I had hoped my cleverly planned flight sleep schedule, with timing my sleep to match the new time zone, would help, but I did not sleep well on the plane and promptly took a 6 hour "nap" upon arrival in Chennai. That night, my body refused to sleep past 1am, and my second night fared only a bit better at a 5am wakeup. Kate keeps telling me it gets better from here, but I'm suspicious until I see results. The only plus side to waking early is listening to the city awaken. Some of these noises are hauntingly lovely, like the early morning song that calls Muslims to their first prayer. Others, not so much: my first morning in Madurai I thought heard half the city vomiting and coughing. Kate soon quelled my bubonic plague fears, but informed me that a typical morning habit here is to snort water up your nose and cough it out, which really did not make me feel any better. That is one cultural practice I will not be participating in.

Now, back to travel. Travel in India has thus far been a bit interesting, shall we say. Jet Airways, which flew me from London to Chennai, has excellent food--hot meals even on a 2 hour flight!--but the planes are a bit cramped and humid, and saxophone-heavy elevator music plays on takeoff and landing to disguise the noise. Landing in Chennai was another surprise: the plane landed at least 5 miles from the airport, as I discovered upon boarding a sweaty bus for a 20 minute ride to the terminal. The taxi from the airport gave me my first taste of Indian driving: there are no stop signs or traffic lights, only bravery.

Horns are used constantly, mostly just warn others of your presence, but also to turn--the more vigorous the beeping, the more likely you are to have someone yield. Consequently, the roads are quite a noisy place. There are also more motorbikes and rickshaws than cars on the road, and the sidewalks are not really used; instead, all traffic streams mingle together (human, vehicle, the occasional animal) and travel down the road in a large and only partially coordinated dance. Kate tells me there are many traffic fatalities, and it's easy to see why.

Taxi travel in India. Our cab broke down twice, and our cabby recruited some men standing around to help push it (above). You can also see the edge of a rickshaw on the left in this picture.

My second day in India, we flew to Madurai, a small city south of Chennai renowned for the Meenakshi temple within its borders. We visited the temple for a few hours, and it was lovely. No shoes allowed--I'm going to have to get used to grit between my toes --but the stone floors were well-swept.A walled courtyard surrounds the inner temple, with towering gates on all 4 sides of the courtyard. the gates are 60 meters high, intricately carved from wood and brightly painted with thousands of statues of gods decorating the heights. During the day, the stones of the courtyard soak up the sun and burn your feet, but near dusk, the stones are pleasantly warm, and a cool breeze softens the residual daytime heat.

Above: a nighttime stroll in the temple. Bottom shows the internal detail.
We were lucky enough to also see the temple elephant, and he blessed me by tapping my head with his trunk, a boon I requested by proffering a 10 rupee note.

Above: the friendly elephant.

And now, dear readers, I must to bed. Goodnight!

Lauren, Resurrected: Asia Edition

Dear Internet: It is with the deepest sense of chagrin that I reinstate this blog after so many years of neglect. While it's only wishful thinking that this small corner of the internet matters to anybody but my immediate family, I do regret the lost opportunities to memorialize my adventures for my own future self. (I imagine an old, grandma Lauren someday - "I promise you kids I was cool! See, read my blog from 100 years ago!" Although by that point we'll be adventuring to the edges of the universe, and my progeny will have no use for my pitifully limited wanderings.)

Anyhow, I'm still alive and kicking after 3 years sans writing, but nothing crucial has altered in that time. I work as an engineer for the same excellent company, which is letting me take lots of time off to travel (you'll hear more about that in a bit), I live in the same apartment, and I'm still friends with some of the people who made appearances in earlier posts. Perhaps my life is better defined by what I haven't accomplished despite reaching the ripe old age of 25: no marriage, no housing purchase, no kids. In other words, I'm having a blast! These past few years have had a double portion of exciting exploits, and exactly 0 portions of traditional life milestones.

Here are some adventures that have occupied my free time:

- Learning! I've been taking German classes the last 2 years, and can now vaunt my mediocrity in the language.
- Loads of reading - my usual classics and Pulitzer/Booker prize winners. I'm a bit of a snob, I'm afraid.
- Podcasts are a new hobby during my transit time. Favorites include Revisionist History and Freakonomics, which is so fascinating that I've seriously considered pursuing an Economics PhD...until I think about the pitiful PhD student stipends.
- Where would I be without mentioning travel? The following consists of a smattering of pictures of my favorite destinations from past few years.

Brazil: Top - Rio de Janeiro, Pao do Acucar (Sugarloaf Mountain). Bottom - Manaus, Amazon: Sloth is a man's best friend, cute monkey, scary monkey.

Iceland: Top - glacier hike & snorkeling between 2 tectonic plates. Middle - mountain waterfall. Bottom - Jokusarlon.

 Peru: Top, mid: Machu Picchu with my grandparents and sister! And a week-long trek through the jungle (middle). Bottom: Perched on the edge of the world in Marcahuasi.

Wyoming: Visited an old friend and hiked up frosty hills in the Rockies!

Mexico: My most recent destination, for work and play. I was accidentally-on-purpose in the country for Día de los Muertos, and celebrated with coworkers in Guanajuato. Top - touristy flower crown. Mid top - the main celebration street, which thrice changes names in its course but is called mainly De Sopena. Mid bottom - most morbid of the portraits. These are made primarily from dyed wood shavings, rice, beans, sugar, and flower petals. Bottom - downtown Guanajuato at night during the celebrations.

Now, you doubtless ask, why is a girl with so many diverting activities reinstating a dying blog? Well (I would answer in this hypothetical world), I am documenting an upcoming period of very extensive travel. To be more specific, I am on the cusp of embarking on a 2 month sightseeing trip around Asia.

Yes, that's right. 2 months off, and I STILL have my job at the end! My friends, I have truly found the Mecca of jobs. Here are some questions :

What? 2 months off? Are you sure? Very.

Do you get paid for those two months? Nope! But like I said, no house, no kids, no husband - I'm free as a bird, and with very manageable financial commitments.

Why Asia? Because I've never been there. Isn't that reason enough?

Where, exactly, are you going? India, Singapore, Malaysia, Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, Hong Kong, South Korea, Japan. See map below.

Are you traveling alone? Fortunately, no! I have somehow persuaded 4 of my lovely friends to give up all their vacation to travel with me. I'll only be alone for 4 days total, in Cambodia and Hong Kong.

How do you pack for such a long time? Veeeeery carefully. It's tough because I'll be traveling to multiple different environments - hot/humid and cold - and there are dress restrictions in different places. Asian temples require covered shoulders and knees, women's joints apparently being too scandalous for view. And everything needs to fit in my backpack. I'm taking 2 pairs of pants, 1 pair of shorts, 1 long skirt 4 T-shirts, 3 tank tops, 2 long shirts, some undies and socks, and assorted medicine.

The current state of my travel packing. All my clothes are in the top left packing cube (amazing, I know).

Now, you will all have to pardon my rusty writing skills; I've spent the past 3 years analyzing data and writing technical reports with boring titles like "High Speed Assembly Trial Results." My creative juices need a bit of priming before they'll flow freely, and I'm hoping that is exactly what this inaugural post will do. So bear with me as I gear up and prepare for the whirlwind of the next few months.

Budget Airlines Are The Devil (Plus Belgian Adventures)

If you've never traveled in Europe, it's easy to wax eloquent about the beauty of budget airlines.  Once you've actually flown with them, you tell quite a different story.  Those airplanes have been my own preview of Hell.  Cycling between uncomfortably, humidly hot and freezing cold--middle grounds don't exist here--the airplanes are stuffed with European backpackers who clearly don't bathe while journeying.  Occasionally children are brought into the pit, ostensibly as a warning to obey their parents for fear of returning to that dreaded place. Don't get me wrong--for the price, it's worth it.  To compensate for the low price, the airlines make a tremendous effort to squeeze every last penny out of you--even water is expensive (Aashika went dehydrated for a 4-hour flight rather than pay 4 euros for tap water).

   While the flights themselves are horrendous, waiting in line is (in some ways) even worse. RyanAir and EasyJet's check-in system is notoriously strict; if your bag is not exactly 30x55x20 cm (or whatever the limit is), your fine is more expensive than the value of everything in your luggage. Every single suitcase is checked in the metal box, and there are always clusters of people off to the side who don several layers of pants and sweaters in an oft-futile effort to make their suitcase fit.  Since there is a strict one-bag rule (no purses!), my trick has always been to wear a coat and hide my bulging purse underneath it.  As I approach the check-in lady, my trepidation increases to an almost debilitating level--will she spy the purse? Will I be forced to repack my entire backpack in front of the waiting line? Will she care?  Thankfully, the check-in ladies have never noticed (or always turned a blind eye to) my purse, and backpacks are rarely forced into the metal box of doom--that fate is generally reserved for suitcases.  Many people, if their suitcases do not fit, choose to toss their belongings rather than pay such exorbitant fees--by the time all passengers board, the trash bins are chock full of old shoes, socks, bottles of toothpaste and lotion--anything easily replaceable.

The nervousness increases exponentially as the line moves towards the check-in lady; in line to my flight to Brussels, I'm sweating underneath my four sweaters and coat.  The purse bulging under my coat could be mistaken for an outrageously large and misshapen backside, a humpback, or as a contraband Second Carryon Item that would earn me unmitigated wrath. Thankfully, I passed through the gauntlet unscathed, and slept the whole way to the land of Belgian chocolates. We decided all Belgian people were mean when the first two currency exchange employees were caustic and rude, but we changed our minds when the next three people were helpful in directing us to our train to Bruges.

While waiting for our train, we were drawn to a bakery in the station. We couldn't help noticing the beautiful young man at the checkout--we giggled at the register, and while walking away I impulsively whispered to Aashika, "I dare you to tell him he's cute--I dare you!"  Aashika is much more proper than I and refused my proposition outright, so I qualified it: "I'll tell him I think he's cute, and all you have to do is agree." This, apparently, met Aashika's standards for propriety, and we ran up to the counter, told him he was very cute, Aashika mumbled her agreement, and we fled in terror and excitement. The boy was disappointingly unmoved; his "Thank you" was cordial but almost practiced, as if silly American tourists did this every day. In any case, it was our first time hitting on a stranger, and we felt daring, exciting, and like thoroughly modern women.

Our hostel in Bruges boasted a receptionist who may have been very high, but we dropped off our things and wandered the city for the afternoon. Bruges is beautiful and relaxing, cobblestone streets and brick buildings and expensive shops. One cynic told us that if every "handmade in Belgium" piece of lace displayed was actually made in Belgium, every citizen would be making lace 24/7. As we soon discovered, Bruges is the prime tourist destination for all middle-aged European couples. We had a fine time spying on interesting-looking couples, and pointing out which ones we would someday become. Aashika picked a pokey old man and his very stringent wife for me; I retaliated by assigning her the fate of the couple who seemed unable to travel faster than 2 steps per minute.

I found the frog prince! Alas, it appears we were not meant to be.

Our second day in Bruges was our prime touristy day. We wanted to climb the famous tower in the center of the city, but it is horribly crowded by 10am. Unfortunately, we woke up late, but instead of forsaking our destination, we rushed out of bed and into the streets of Bruges without so much as a shower. I compensated by putting on my contacts and attempting to smear on eyeliner while we were standing in line for the tower; the middle-aged women surrounding us looked on with great disapproval ("you dare go outside without your face on?"), while their husbands merely laughed.

Bruges from the tower.

A Vietnamese festival popped up overnight in the center of town, so after climbing the tower and getting some lovely views, we stopped by and learned how to carve soap for free (of course, this is after I bought pre-carved soap. Oops.). We sat at a table with our teacher, an adorable Dutch boy, and two cool old ladies from a small island nation of 6000 people off the cost of France. They were twins, and regaled us with hilarious stories of their lives together. The younger, slightly more adventurous one, told us about when they visited a nudist beach at the ripe old age of 70; instead of going completely nude, she decided to tape tassels to her nipples--to be honest, I'm not quite sure if that would improve the situation. A bout of rain made the tassels droopy and the tape itchy, so she ended up scratching her nipples in the middle of the beach! Aside from that episode, the twins had traveled the world together; their sisterly devotion was beautiful.  Their sense of adventure was also so inspiring--I want to be a cool old lady like that someday (perhaps minus the nude beaches ;) )  After promising to each other that we'd never lose our sense of adventure, we biked to a small town called Damme; it was a lovely ride on a tree-lined pathway, very rustic and beautiful.

The daredevil twin sisters in Bruges. After meeting them, I wasn't so afraid of getting old.

That afternoon, we took a train back to Brussels; we arrived at our hostel and used our womanly charm to nab a free room upgrade from the front desk man. We were meeting Aashika's French friend for dinner, and invited along our new roommate, Mike. We walked around the city and saw such relics as the statue of the peeing boy and his sister, the peeing girl. The peeing boy statue has several legends around it, each more fantastical than the next. The first says that a small boy was lost, and the person tasked with finding him said that he would make a statue of the boy doing whatever he was doing when he found him. I imagine he did not expect such an unusual result. The second legend goes that enemies had buried gunpowder around the outskirts of the city, planning to blow up the walls so they could invade. When night set, as they were trying to light the gunpowder, the boy saw a light from way up above and aimed for it, saving the whole city. Whatever the case may be, the statue was disappointingly tiny for all the hype. We also learned about the sister statue of peeing girl, supposedly made for the express purpose of drawing the excessive crowds away from the peeing boy. Poor little sister.

Left: The peeing boy statue. Awkward. Right: The peeing girl statue. Even more awkward.

Our attempts at maintaining proper behavior at dinner were all for naught; America has rooted its uncouth tendrils too deeply for a few weeks of Europe to dislodge. To the great dismay of Aashika's French friend, Aashika requested a to-go bag for the rest of her dinner; mortified, Aashika's friend slipped some money on the table and loitered outside, waiting for us to finish the ignoble task before she would recognize us as friends again. After dinner, we bought some beers to drink while sitting out on the central square, and promptly realized we had no way to open said beers. Some flirting with bartenders solved that issue, but our next mistake was more grievous. We walked into a cool-looking bar with colorful flashing lights, and were confronted with twelve pairs of eyes all staring...at Mike. At least a dozen very fashionable men with perfectly styled hair and skinny jeans appraised him; we dared him to wink at a particularly lascivious-looking one before we fled for the sake of our sanctity. A trip to a dance club finished off the night, and I now know what it feels like to swim in a tank full of sharks. I was female and I was alive, and that entitled me to an entourage of several dozen men who kept trying to steal me away from each other. In spite of the many men trying to cut in, I spent the majority of the time learning how to Latin dance with a portly Latin graduate student who was the best dancer I have ever encountered.

We made friends at the hostel!

We finished off the evening with a 2am jaunt around Brussels, climbing on random statues of cartoon characters, avoiding scary homeless people, and pondering the meaning of life under a blanket of dim stars.

The next morning we dragged ourselves out of bed, totally exhausted after sleeping for less than 5 hours, and put ourselves on a tour of the city with a sarcastic, entertaining guide. Approximately three minutes after the tour began, the heavens decided to open the floodgates and release a waterfall onto us mere mortals. We tourists huddled under 16th-century awnings, leaving the tour guide to bear the brunt of the storm and shout over the torrents flooding the streets. Our mid-tour break occurred in a comfy little bar, where we met a former investment banker who hated his 100-hour work weeks and quit in favor of traveling around Europe.  Unfortunately, we had to leave the trip early in order to catch our flight to Portugal for the final leg of our journey together...