Europe, we have to talk.

Dear Europe,

I am an American, as you know. We have been living together for three months today. Isn't that such a long time! When I first arrived I didn't know what to think. My French was poor, my shame from my origins high, and I expected you to be less than accepting of such a person as myself. However, you seemed to appreciate my efforts, and the first few people I met were very kind. More so even, than their jobs merited. However, the longer I have stayed the more I realize the truth. Europe, you have produced some delicious fruit, but your tree is rotting. You hold up your achievements, but they do not define your culture. Your achievements have actually held a reverse effect, that now people can hold up things they had nothing to do with, and whose implementation they complained about to exonerate their own debauchery, bigotry, or combinations thereof. Europe, you have to stop talking about Americans, because you are exactly the same. There was no culture in the US save for the yogurt and the Meningitis. I am afraid that you are headed down the same path. There are remnants of your culture, to be certain. But you can't hold on to these for long, especially when you are working as hard as you can to tear them down, and replace them with large gaudy offices, that will only be torn down to make room for more large gaudy offices. Giraudoux must be rolling in his grave so quickly it's a wonder that the Passy Cemetary hasn't robbed the Earth of all its angular momentum. And yet, you hold him up saying "Look at our greatness! Look at our culture!" When you yourself have done nothing to accept or encourage the growth thereof. 

My point Europe, is that I wish you did complain about me. I wish I was ostracized and marginalized here. Disenfranchised with my lack of culture and my wont to be a little brash and completely stubborn more often than I'd care to admit. I wish you saw yourself as different from me. But you don't. You as we, have fallen into the abyss of consumerism. What's worse you do not even recognize it is glaring back. You have come to live lying in your most base desires and instincts. You do not care anymore Europe, and you are okay with that. When I first arrived I was so enamored. I guess I just talked to the right people. If I hear an iphone play hip hop on the metro at 7 am once more I am going to lose my mind. Headphones may be masturbatory, and the may slice through solidarity like a razor through the side of my cheek when I inevitably cut myself shaving, but they at least lack entitlement. We have screwed ourselves Europe, and we are starting to realize that our entitlement was unfounded. Please, you are looking up to what America is and behaving in the way that has made its last few years so very disastrous. I am only here for a little while longer Europe, and I'd rather say this as I left, but here we are. You have lost all the responsibility that you must have had after you screwed yourself the last time. You're on the verge of it again. But this time, you will rot from the inside, until your fruit gets uglier and uglier and soon disappears altogether. Norway stayed out of your organizations as did Switzerland. I don't blame them. I want the rest of our time together to be time well spent. But this will require change I know you're unable to make. It will require you finding something to eat other than McDonnald's and durum. It will require me finding cavernous art galleries packed and bars with bad music and overpriced drinks empty. It will require you to ask me about more than clubs when I tell you I went to a country you've never been to. I told you I didn't go clubbing already, why ask again? So Europe, I do value the time we've spent together, but I feel like what I have loved about you was an ersatz to what you want. The long dinners with friends were scoffed by your populace in favor of cheap and fast. The museums and cathedrals seen as only a place upon the exteriors to express your bland statement of ego, or pithy pseudo-anarchist slogans. How long are you going to ride the outliers of your society before you admit that something is wrong? more importantly though, how long will Poland last now that they look up to you?

I am going to be with Africa for awhile Europe. You treated Africa terribly, and well, I hope that in that regard they are different than you. But you've taught me not to expect much.

Kimball

Brussels

So here's the thing about Belgium, it is officially bilingual. This means that to get a job one must speak French and Dutch. However, until a while ago the Francophones had all of the industry and all of the power. So the Dutch were used to learning French. Now it is imperative that the Francophones also learn Dutch, but none of the Wallonian teachers know Dutch. As a result, the French have 20% unemployment and businesses have a severe need for employees. As such, there are problems, since unemployment is so high. Moroccan  men have an unemployment rate of 70%. That is catastrophic. But if one wants a job here they must speak French, Dutch, and preferably English. Unless you are like the awesome sandwich lady and only speak French, but make such a sandwich that no one cares. So all in all, the poverty is pretty bad, and the poorer someone is the more they will flaunt what little money they can appear to have. As such, there is a huge market for stupid flashy crap here. It is pretty annoying. People have been complementing me on my shoes, which is something that never has happened before in my life. It turns out the first pair of shoes I have bought in nearly 4 years, for a pithy $20 is an 85 euro commodity here. So obviously, they are just complimenting my ability to buy them. Which makes me feel really uneasy. 

The point of all this is I stepped on a snail the other day. They are everywhere, and usually I watch out for them, but I was reading. They make the saddest pop sound. I have eaten them, once, it was not so great. But I didn't feel bad about it then. However, stepping on one and lifting up my foot to all of the shell fragments was terrible. Stepping on a snail I think was worse then seeing that guy die on the steps of the Bourse. But guys on the Bourse will try and steal your beer. Snails do no harm to anyone. RIP random snail driven to the parking lot because of the rain. You were a better man than I am.

Scandamazia

So, two months since my last post, that seems like a good time to add one more. My original plan was to update this for every single day that I was abroad. Obviously that has fallen through. I suppose that the complacency that goes along with moving away from being a tourist has made me more uneasy about writing a lot. Days spent trying to get various identity cards do not make interesting work. It is not that I haven't done anything interesting. I have been to three countries since my last post. I have also seen more interesting things in my time in Belgium than any person really deserves. But still, I feel like I can't write about being a student. My setting may be more interesting, but I'm still doing the same things you're doing. I'm studying, I'm writing papers, and I really dislike a few professors. Just because I'm in Europe doesn't magically make any of that mundane stuff interesting. And when I take time to go to another country it is still just a break. Anyhow, here is what I've considered important for those two months I've yet to describe.

4/Nov/2009 

I have returned to Brussels from Norway. I originally bought a ticket, and then changed the date so I could man a coat check on Halloween. The coat check job fell through though, and so instead I decided to introduce several friends to Blue Velvet. In the morning I pack very quickly and head to the train station to catch the bus to the airport in southern Belgium where my plane departs. The bus makes me feel like I am going to throw up. I am dreading the plane. However, I get to the airport and everything goes pretty smoothly. They take my toothpaste and soap, but I wasn't surprised by that. They let me keep my deodorant though, which pleased me very much. 

I get to the airport and run into two people from my college that had told me earlier they were also going to Oslo. It turns out we are in the same hostel. They talk about how great America is. I am slightly worried. They talk about how effeminate European men are. I've heard that one before, I don't care much other than it sounds pretty stupid when people say it. They talk about how much they hate Asian people. They are either not funny or openly and unapologetically racist. The latter turns out to be the case. They are as it turns out, also looking forward to Christmas. I point out that it is November. They do not see the point of my bringing this up. At least there are no awkward silences. 

We plan out a little more of what we are going to try to do while there. We make some plans and then something that makes me feel terrible is said, and we go back to planing. We finally get on the plane and I try to read, but do not succeed. More terrible things are said, during which times I remain quiet. More talk about Christmas is had, during which times I remain confused. We land and go to the hostel. We check in, and got to our respective rooms. It is a nice place, and completely spotless. I have a very favorable impression of the place. It is late so my sputniks and I go to find a restaurant. We stumble upon an Indian place with very good food called I think, New Kandahar. However, Kandahar is in Afghanistan so that is probably not right. The food is great, and with a little stumbling over my Norwegian phrase book everyone is more than happy to converse in English, modestly stating "I only speak a bit" before they go on with a perfect accent and an at least 1500 SAT vocabulary. More horrible things are said over dinner, and I feel ashamed for the better part of the trip. We are exhausted and go to bed afterwards. 

The second day I wake up before the sun is up, which I imagine is probably not saying much in winter. get ready and knock on the door of the private room. My classmates are dressed and they are more or less ready to go. I use their toothpaste while I am there. One of them has brought four different shampoos. I think this is too much shampoo, and express that thought. They seem to think it is necessary. Oh well. We go to a museum, but it is closed. We go to another and their is a man at a desk but he informs us that as it is Monday all of the museums are closed. We walk to the old costal fortress, but that is closed too. We walk around the harbor for a little while until we get to city hall. Inside there is an open hall with some paintings, and while the paintings are good it is nothing terribly impressing. However, we go up to the main hall and there are several grandiose mosaics and huge murals depicting Norway during WWII. The whole room looks over the gray ocean, and the scene is as cold as it is beautiful. We go to the sculpture park and they squeal at the nudes. I bring up the fact that one of them has said she wants 9 kids, and as such she will have to deal with a penis at least nine times. She has no response for this. It is exactly like traveling with a relative's children. Children that you have to smile and act polite to, and try to talk esthetics with, while they completely reject it. They complain a lot, but they let me take awhile to appreciate what is a very impressive place. They also let me dictate what we are doing and when, which puts me in the position of ensuring they have a good time, but I never let that inherent responsibility lord over my doing what I want. I occasionally ask if they want to do something I have planned and then we do it. The only downside is that I have no sense of direction, so if there are four possible ways to go, we wind up going four ways before we find the right way. I agree to go back to the Hostel after the sculpture park. They decide to watch The Santa Clause, apparently they are serious about this Christmas in early November thing. I toy with the idea of pretending to be Jewish, after some anti-Semitic remarks are made. I don't but I have started taking to saying "You are terrible people" when something like that is said. Again, it could be a very unfunny act, but to do it for that long would also make one a terrible person. I use the movie time to take a nap. We go to dinner after that. We go for Norwegian food this time. We get fermented cod and lutefisk to start. They are both terrible. I know it's an acquired taste. I think people were just a lot hungrier back when the first person dropped their cod in the fire, put it out, and then dug it out of the ashes and ate it. The main course comes. I ordered the Reindeer. It is served with root vegetables and is very good. We pay (too much even though it is a mid priced restaurant) and leave. I spend the rest of the evening planning out my last day, trying to figure out how to see everything I'd like to.

Day 3 I wake up and dress quickly. I meet up with the one-third of our group and go meet the other for breakfast. Breakfast goes a little long and we get a late start. We take the tram way into the suburbs to go to the science museum. Only a few stops outside of the city center we start to see large houses, but it doesn't look like urban sprawl. Maybe if I had any experience in the subject I could describe it better, but I've been to L.A. a few times, and it was 100,000 times nicer than that. We go to the science museum, which is nice enough. On the way we meet the wife of the director of Visit Oslo. She seem perplexed by our presence in the city. She is very nice though, as are most of the people. There is a perpetual motion machine that relies on weights to constantly put it off balance and keep it going. It is a cool idea, and if not for friction it would produce more energy than it took to start it, but of course, it didn't work. We next headed to the Munch Museum. We saw the Death of Marat II, The Madonna, and of course the Scream. My favorite painting was the Wave. But the most interesting thing there was when they had a drawing next to a woodcut of the same scene. That was impressive. From there we went to the folk museum by bus, which is good because as I learned later the ferry was closed for the winter. The Museum was outside of the city and it had several old buildings, including the world's oldest wooden church. It was a continuous series of roofs on the outside, and meticulously decorated. From there we headed to the Viking Museum, and then to the Maritime Museum and the Kon Tiki Museum. We headed back to the city and ate at a decent Mexican place. I figured that one time eating Norwegian was enough for my wallet. We then headed to the Nobel Center where the terrorism board game was. I may have bought it, except for the space and having nothing to do with it after December. We then went to the Royal Palace, and ate at a really good unbelievably cheap Eritrean place before going back. 

I said good bye to the people I had been borrowing toothpaste from and went into my room to try to get some of the reading done for my class on Thursday. A lot of people were in the room, and we talked for a long time. Two of the guys left. Two Belgian girls slipped a note under their door once they had. We were all in bed but not asleep when a girl from New York slipped in. We told her to turn off the light, and kept talking. I was thinking about leaving, and it made me feel terrible. For whatever reason I loved Oslo. Three days and I would have lived there if I had any hope of learning the language (which I recognize that I don't.) I woke up the next morning from the only good sleep I got the entire trip and left with the two Belgian girls in our room. I went from sleeping on the train to the airport to sleeping on the plane, which arrived 1 hour before scheduled, due to leaving 45 minutes ahead of time. I also found out my living permit was only good for one week after I received it due to a misprint. In that sense I am glad that I got to come back to Brussels, as I only have one entry on my now expired Visa.

Although not being able to leave Norway wouldn't be bad at all.

Olso, je t'aime.

It's feast or famine here in Kimball's House of Blog.

18/08/2009

            I wake up at 5 in the morning. One of my roommates is dragging the other into the room. I offer to help. When it is refused I go back to sleep. I wake up again after my alarm goes off. I look at my roommate. He is covered in blood. We meet early for a bus tour of the city, and have to wake him up. Noise doesn’t work, nor does shaking him. I finally get him up on my shoulder and he jolts awake. “You can sleep on the bus” my other roommate reassures him. We get there right on time; several people have obviously been there for a long while. We get on the bus and juice boxes are quickly distributed. The Dutch word for apple juice turns out to be “Appelsaap.” Everyone has a good laugh about this and then we silently enjoy them. My roommate we had trouble waking as it turns out was in a fight, and has lost several teeth. He has started noticeably forcing his mouth shut when he smiles.

A British man guides the tour. We see some statues, and drive by the Atomium, a replica of an Iron molecule for the world’s fair. We get out, snap some pictures, eat some fries and then trudge back onto the bus. The rest of the tour consists of going to the UN. We are told the official meeting center is in Strasbourg, and so one country volunteers to sit out each meeting. The French refuse to move the EU to Brussels. We see a part of the Berlin wall, and the building where dentistry was given to children against their will not a stone’s throw away.

Then there is a long series of more information given to us on campus, accompanied by more of the neon green chicken sandwiches I’ve come to be so fond of. We are given our housing assignments. I am to live with a woman on the end of the 5 metro line. This is quite far from the edge of the city, but pretty close to the campus, so it is nice.

We leave campus and go to La Mirabelle for diner. We walk out back into a fantastic garden that is set up in the middle of the predominantly grey city. There is even a chicken walking around. We eat and drink and I am seated next to a native so we can speak in French. It is a little awkward at first and it makes me think of my various conversation partners. I feel bad for them. Eventually though we move past this with some help from my knowledge of soccer. As it turns out, the Belgians hate the French. As far as I can see, every nationality in Europe hates someone different. After dinner we take some busses back. I almost fall off when the doors are closing, but manage to grab one of the rails on the door, preventing them from closing. We have a quick aperitif and go back to the hostel.

 

19/08/2009

            The morning is full of registering at school. Our campus involves a renovated barn. The novelty is the best part about it. It is hot, the speeches are long, and if the chairs weren’t so damn uncomfortable I would have gladly slept it all away. It is basically a huge waste of time.

            It ends eventually though and we decide that we need a drink. It is roughly 1:30. We hear about a good café to go to, and search for it for a long time. Finally we ask a young girl at a grocery store and she directs us. It is across the street, it just has a huge terrace. Everyone orders, I use the term for vodka I was taught in class. They look at me as if I asked them to order a kidney from a hospital. I get up and go to the bar. The shifts are changing so it takes awhile to get my order in. I come out several minutes later with a gin and tonic and a double of vodka. They feel bad for me though and only charge me 5 euro. I get back and everyone else is finishing their drinks, so I drink mine faster than I might have. Everyone else goes to buy clothes except for one other guy and I. The school is putting on a barbecue. We decide that there will be free food and that therefore, will make it worth going.

            When we get there I met the guy who I will be living with. He asks my friend who is wearing a Twins shirt if he is from Minnesota. All I know about my roommate is that he’s Minnesotan. Low and behold. However, we don’t hit it off very well. Instead the people I wind up talking to are two girls who ask me if I like metal. I ask if they mean steel or Slayer. They seem excited about the slayer reference. As it turns out they are twins who are writing a fantasy book about WWII. They will be published in December. They are super excited about everything. Their mom calls and they ask me to walk with them to where she is picking them up. We talk some more, and they are picked up. As they leave I get the kiss on the cheek from each of them. They leave and I am smugly smiling. I feel like I have integrated into the culture, even if it is just a trifling bit.

An odd night for a Spanish woman in Europe.

17/08/2009

            We wake up and go to the lobby of the hostel. We talk about what we did the night before. We go upstairs and a few of us bring the small sandwiches that we ate the day before for breakfast, and some water sparkling and otherwise. We talk about traveling and other such things and are given 10 voyage passes that may be transferred unlimited times within the hour.

            We dig into the sandwiches. One really good one is the bloody roast beef, which is eaten by taking the cheese off of another sandwich, eating that roll, and then eating the new beef and Gouda sandwich.

            A large woman with a slight British accent enters during lunch and talks with the coordinator, a young woman named Emily. A significantly skinnier girl comes into the room looking rushed and takes most of the class away to teach those without any experience a little French. We are left with the large woman, who speaks to us in French for a little while and then we play some games obviously intended to test our ability. We first go around and say I’m traveling in Belgium and in my suitcase there is…We go in a circle and list things, including everything previously mentioned. The first 20 or so things are pretty conducive to Belgium or at least traveling, but it quickly deteriorates to Hippos and stoplights. It becomes harder to remember the order and items exponentially. Then we make up sketches for the other group. We make things that we think that they can have fun with. But they decide to be dignified, and any potential of our skits is dashed. The professor leaves and we are each given a French dictionary with a section for romantic phrases, which of course we all find independently and within 30 seconds of receiving the books. Mine is to be left in the room of our hostel.

            We talk more about traveling and safety, and we are given phones. They are used; mine has no credit on it. I fall asleep while they are talking about area codes and how to dial us from the US. The room is hot and I am jetlagged, so I don’t feel sorry. After we finish talking we take our metro cards and prepare to go to the last open-air brewery in Belgium. On the way we see a man in a Fifty Cent shirt with his pants around his knees, shaking to support the weight of the chain around his neck, leaning against his cane. He is my favorite person in Brussels.

            The brewery is a large building in the working district of Brussels. We pull open a garage door and enter. There is a huge space, with the sigh of the brewery “Cantillon” above an area for tasting. We are given a tour of large mixing machines, thousands of bottles stacked against walls after being corked, big oak barrels, fermenting pans as big as our hostel floor, and various mashing pumping and boiling instruments. We are told that they do not use brewer’s yeast, but let the air ferment the barley, which they can do because they only brew for a few months in the winter when the beer bacteria and not the vinegar bacteria are floating around. They also explain that the wood in the brewery contains the bacteria needed, and so only former open-air breweries can do this. If the place every burns, then they are sunk forever. They take us through the steps and show us the storage rooms. It smells exactly like a winery. We are told that it takes 3 years for the lambic to ferment, and when it does, it is sour, because none of the sugar is left and flat because the carbonation does not occur. During this time the owner goes into how when the Americans brought Coca-Cola all of the humanity left beer. He goes through the history of beer. Women as it turns out, invented beer. They made it sour and flat and it was that way of over ten thousand years. We clap and go to the tasting. We try some Gueuse, made from a 1,2, and 3-year-old batch, and a kreik made by throwing sour cherries into the beer after 2 years. I like the Gueuse, which is like drinking a thick lemon. I debate whether or not to pay an extra 2 euro to try the lambic. The choice is made for me, we are leaving, and the owner is dealing with some other tourists.

            I take a shower and a nap and we go out to find some falafel. It is cheap and delicious, and gives me the worst stomach cramp I’ve had in a long while. We go for drinks afterwards and  after a few beers I am ready to go to sleep. We walk around for awhile though, and when someone else suggests that they will go home, I take the opportunity to leave also. We pass by my roommate that I never see and I persuade him to give me his room key since I’ve lost mine. He sings with a friend and pees on a wall after I take it. I say good night and go to take a shower. I walk out in just a towel and I am greeted by the door opening. I look over and am greeted by a woman, naked from the waist down with her pants around her ankles. She yells, but doesn’t move. By the time she screamed I had already turned around, but I can’t help but laugh. Some other people with their clothes on run past me to get to her, apparently they are acquainted. They yell in Spanish and I walk back to my room. When I turn the corner one apologizes in Spanish. “De nada!” I am already halfway in my room. I put some pants on and go to sleep.  

Mussels in Brussles

16/08/2009

            I wake up in time to make my extremely early check out. In fact, I wake up early enough to shower again, get breakfast and return to my room before heading out. Thanks to my broken clock that was not working at all when I awoke and told me that it was 3:45. However, the sun was out, so I knew that was not correct. Opening my computer confirmed my suspicion and gave me the correct time. I look outside and three times see different men who are not poorly dressed pull bottles of juice out of the trash and consume the remnants. I pack up, check out and see the Czech boy waiting there. I am put off, but we go to the hostel where I will be staying and put my luggage in a room and my computer bag behind the counter. It takes some persuading since I don’t actually have a room yet. We head out to kill some time before the 12:00 meeting. We go to a church with urinals on the side. He goes into a rant about Belgium and how they have no respect and merely do these sorts of things for attention. I relish the opportunity to use such an implement. Eventually I have his email and I am in the lobby of the hostel for registration. He is headed back to Prague. I see some of my acquaintances from the night before and we start chatting. We are greeted and head to a room where we are given schedules and a lot of papers. We play some getting to know you games. One of these is a list of random things that one tries to fill in with their fellow student’s names. I can put myself down for almost all of them, so I make it an easy time for everyone else. We eat a large amount of small sandwiches. My favorite is a neon green chicken curry that looks as if it could give me superpowers. After a few hours of presentations on the Metro and other aspects of living in Brussels we are let loose to move into our hostel rooms. One of my roommates is a person I sat with the night before. He is very friendly and has a severe receding hairline. The other is a guy who hasn’t said a word the whole night. He drops his baggage, which is substantial, off and leaves before I pull my backpack and suitcase up the stairs. I will not actually see him until the morning of the 18^th. My roommate and I talk for a while. He has graduated already, but wanted to go abroad and since his parents were paying for it figured why not just study? He has a job as a bartender in Australia after this semester. I take a shower and head downstairs for a walking tour. It is about six o’clock and the sun is still blazing away. We are told that this won’t last and that we are fortunate. We walk around and see a few places that I visited the night before. We also visit the urinal church. We are told that there used to be a port in Belgium and that sailors wouldn’t stop urinating against the side of the harbor church, so they eventually just set up a drain and made stone urinals. “Has anyone already taken advantage of these?” Our director Michelangelo asks. I raise my hand and he laughs. “No one usually does their entire time here! Good job!” I get a few slaps on the back and we continue. We see a statue of Godfrey II the man who conquered and became King of Jerusalem during the first crusade. We also see a statue of the current king on a horse; we are told that it had originally been ordered to be on a motorcycle. A few people laugh. We are brought to a beautiful covered walkway with statues aligning both sides and let loose.

            A few friends and I are told the name of a really good seafood place and we go there. There are around 18 of us all together and so we split up into groups of four and five to be seated. Everyone else at our table orders the special: A pot of mussels, fries, and a small beer for 14 euro. I figure though that it’s my birthday and I should indulge myself, and so long as I am here branch out a little. I order the horse and a kir, along with everyone else’s food and feel like quite the francophone. The mussels are delicious. The Horse however, is far better. It was a fantastic cut of meat. No ring of fat, no bones, just delicious and tender. It has the consistency of a steak, but tastes like a sweet pork chop. The kir is good too, but as it turns out is much sweeter than I’d expected, so I drink it before eating too much of my meal. After diner we stumble, drunk on our full stomachs to the Delirium Tremens, an idea for a café I’d had since 16. We all order a beer, and I run to get an absinthe. I get a cube of sugar and a match, but I am forced to ask the bartender to do it for me, in less than wonderful French. The confidence I’d had earlier is shattered. He dunks the sugar cube in, pulls it out and puts it on the spoon. I bring it back to the group and it is consumed to many cheers. Someone calls it “Devil’s piss.” I can feel it in my sinuses when I drink it, and in my stomach once it is down. I order a beer and continue to drink, though much more conservatively now. Many other students join us and we go downstairs and shove a few tables together. I let it slip that it’s my birthday when someone asks me why I drank absinthe and happy birthday is sung. The whole bar joins in and after the song demands a speech. It goes roughly as follows with me trying to translate every line after I say it:

“Thank you. In my home country, to turn 20 means nothing. There is nothing that one can do to mark the event. But though I have been here a very short time, and though I have embarrassed myself on multiple occasions while here, I still feel as if I have something to celebrate in just being here. I feel as if this is actually a decent place. So thank you for letting me be here.”

            It gets applause and I am already completely red by the time I sit down again. Several drinks are purchased for me and the times are good. We go to see a Rolling Stones cover band but before they start playing two other students and I decide to go home. I send a rushed e-mail to my parents and go to s

Begining

14/08/2009

            I leave today for Brussels. Katie and Deidre come by with scones. They are delicious and consumed with tea. I’m worried though that they will make me hungrier later in the day, which later is confirmed as a valid concern. There is a goodbye that goes by all too quickly and then a few minutes later Ethan and Zach come. We play a game of FIFA and they as partners crush me. We have a rematch and I score the only goal in the 88^th minute. We say goodbye and they leave me to my baggage and family. I go to get ice cream with my siblings and we head back, running into Betsy at Parilla. Pleasantries are exchanged and she is shocked to learn that I am leaving. Either we have not spent enough time together or I am talking about the wrong things. I’d like to think that it’s the former; I’ve not spent enough time with nearly enough people. I make some last minute calls to say good-bye but only get machines. I leave my phone on the kitchen counter intentionally. I grab a shirt and the four Euro I was given by my godmother and prepare to go to the car. I check on a concert ticket to a summer festival being printed out and forget the shirt. I then start loading the luggage and forget the concert ticket. Everything but what I’ve forgotten and left is loaded and we head out.

We go to the ticket counter but no indication of Lufthansa is there. We ask Delta and they send us to United. I try to check in, but have no flight number on my reservation, so I have to ask to be checked in. The clerk scans my passport with a loud sigh and he prints out my ticket, but not before scorning me for not having a return flight. My bags are checked and with the tickets in hand I head to security. Here was what was in those bags and what I carried on…

Complete baggage list, to Brussels:

Ticket Boise-Denver

Ticket Denver-Frankfurt

Ticket Frankfurt-Brussels

4 Euro

$770 cash

Passport w/ Visa

Wallet

Vaccination history

Hotel reservation

Power cords for computer and hard drive

Socket adapters

USB cord for my hard drive, but no hard drive.

Camera & USB cord

Computer & charger

Hemp long sleeve shirts (2)

Short sleeve button front shirts (3)

Linen pants (3)

Cotton pants (3)

Corduroy pants (2)

Sweaters (2)

Tee shirts (5)

Underwear (10)

Socks (13)

Pea-coat

Towel (a traveler’s best friend)

Bungee cords (2)

Mace

Pebbles (5)

Xeroxed story about trans-Russian drive (1/2)

Selected Stories of Chekhov

Pack of gum (12)

Altoids (2)

Copies of passport, visa, and all papers required for the obtaining of said documents

Pens (11)

Birthday letter

Passport photos for Belgian police and Senegal visa (6)

Black hiking boots

Black sneakers

Pocketknife

Nebulizer

Shave kit-

            Inhaler (2)

            Toothbrush

            Toothpaste

            Disinfectant cream

            Migraine medicine (30)

            Allergy medicine (200 +- 30)

            Malaria Medication (for 16 weeks)

            Eye drops (3)

            Deodorant (2)

            Tongue cleaner

            Razor

            Extra Blades (16)

            Floss (3 yds.)

            Extra fluoride toothpaste (2 oz)

Sleeping bag and sack.

Dry bag

Travel pillow

Travel books (Amsterdam, Belgium & Luxembourg, and Senegal & the Gambia)

Wind-up flashlight

Bandana

Buff

Travel clock

Where there is no Doctor

Mosquito net

Tent Stakes (for mosquito net)

Raincoat

Conjugation book of French verbs

All of the above fit into 1 suitcase (37 lbs) 1 backpack (22 lbs) and a carry on (weight unknown). They could all easily be carried at one time, and fit very nicely on the plane I’m sure.

 

            Multiple hugs are shared between the family, and I go through the security checkpoint. I wave once though the man who checks the authenticity of the passport and the wait in line with my back to my family. I get through put my shoes on, and look back in time to see them walking away. Waiting for the plane there is an old man with a white beard on his chin that connects with his moustache for at least 2 inches along it’s plane listening to gangster rap. My flight to Denver is delayed; leaving me 8 minutes before the connection to Frankfurt supposedly closes the gate. I ask the man behind the counter for help and he bumps me up to the eighth row, which just happens to be the last row of first class. I chat with a middle-aged woman next to me who redirects the conversation instead of telling me her name though I ask twice. She may have been famous, but I doubt it. She is nice enough though, and at the end of the flight when I explain my situation and ask her to stand up quickly when we land she runs to the front of the plane with me, out the walkway and shows me where the train is to my gate. I flash her a big smile say good bye and then wait awkwardly for the next train to come while the other passengers look at the boy panting and sweating. I hop on at the B gates and off at the A gates.  After climbing the stairs, I see my gate and get in the line, which is still substantial. I pull out my ticket and passport and am informed I need to fill out a form. It is fast and consists of an emergency contact and my attestation that my passport is authentic.

            On the plane the only people who are talking all speak German. I am in the last row, and as such get to see everyone on board. The flight attendants are all male and all but one is black. My seat is very comfortable and the one next to it is vacant. It seems to be the only vacancy on the plane. The pilot is overly talkative and comes on the PA every hour or so. I consider stealing a blanket for a while after reading about a reporter trying to drive across Russia and then afterwards, Chekhov. I have never read him before and I am surprised why since it is great. I then think about making Chek-ray specks and it makes me chuckle to myself. (See the inner tribulations of even the happiest person! See doubt and greed in even the most pious! See guilt and heartbreak in the most hardened criminal! $2.50.) Luckily, the person across the isle is watching a bollywood movie and doesn’t see this strange display. The bollywood fan goes to sleep while it is still light out, although as the pilot informed me we are flying over the arctic circle and the sun will not set. We are asked a few minutes after he doses off to shut our windows. Dinner is the served and I am given a decent sized plate of pasta, and a beer. The beer puts everything I’ve had in the US to shame easily. I watch “I Love you Man” with another beer (they are complimentary) and read a bit more, making it to around page 200. I try to go to sleep, but despite the vacant seat next to me, and the tipsiness I feel I can’t. My foot keeps falling asleep and that prevents the rest of me from doing it. I finally manage to go to sleep after all the reading lights but one are off.

 

15/08/2009

            When I wake up most of the other people on the plane are as well, but they light coming through the windows is still substantial. I don’t really want to read anymore, so I chew a stick of gum and read the Lufthansa magazine. It has the best interviews I’ve ever read. In an expose on Bristol every other question is “You like this staircase? Does it concern you that at the top was the town gallows and this was the approach?” It was kind of fantastic that it was in the airport magazine. I resolve to buy a Lufthansa shirt when I get home. I think it’s odd that I’m already thinking about home, but shove it off. We land very smoothly and stop less so. I’m one of the last off the plane, carrying no Lufthansa blanket, and I see a glass smoking room and the hazy silhouette of the people within. “Fastest people off the plane” the person next to me jeers. I laugh and we chat for a bit. He is done with his flights. He is seeing a friend. We walk for a long time and finally get to a long gate that people are walking through one at a time in a single file line 250 yards long. We get split up in customs. I am searched four times. He is not touched. I get out and my ticket says gate 21. I have a five-hour wait and spend the first hour standing near the departures screen watching German soccer. I pick up a paper and the picture on the front is of Obama shoving an Indian re-enactor and looking disgusted. For the first I can remember, I wish that I knew German. I buy an overpriced slice of pizza without cheese and take a nap. When I wake up it is 20 minutes until my plane leaves. I see no plane in the gate, nor ticket taker at the desk. I look around for a switchboard but there isn’t one in sight. I run across the corridor and when the woman hangs up the phone I ask her about my flight. “Gate two” she says. “Hurry” she adds nonchalantly, “it stops boarding in two minutes.” I grab my pack and sprint as fast as I can, going through the abandoned portion between moving walkways. I tighten all the straps that I can and wish I had kept my boots tied tightly after the last security check. I get to the desk and I am given the all clear. I run through and down some stairs and I am confronted with a locked glass door and a bus idling. I pound on the glass and yell for help in English and French. One man makes a motion to help but is scorned by a waitress and the bus remains idling. 7 people enter the hallway where I’m still banging on the glass and the bus pulls away. I turn around and they all give me a nervous smile, which I reciprocate. The door opens and a man in a luggage truck gives us the shhh finger and loads us onto the truck. No one gets to ride with the luggage. We drive very quickly (probably about 25 mph, judging on my scooter) and it still takes around 10 minutes, but we catch up to the bus and are let on the plane. The total number of passengers is 13.

            There is no English on the plane now, only German. When we get to Brussels there is German and French. I get out of the plane and make my way out of the airport slowly. I exchange a few dollars and ask the money converter where the train is. He tells me but I can’t understand, and finally after becoming too embarrassed, let him tell me in English. I go to get my luggage and after retrieving my backpack notice someone grab my suitcase. I’m about to yell at him when he says something to his friends and throws it back on the carousel. He glances over at me pulling it off and he stops laughing. I get on the train to downtown after purchasing the 3 Euro ticket (a taxi was 35-45 euro) and we roll out of the station. Almost everyone has just one piece of luggage. I have all my things in chairs where I can see them and watch the train move along. The city looks half like it is cleaned everyday and half like it only just came out of the throws of WWII. I get to the station and pay a taxi to take me to my hotel. It is 2.30 to hire. The ride cost me 4.30 and that is because the driver spent 1 Euro asking for directions. Or maybe he was just chatting, they were speaking Dutch so I couldn’t tell. I unload my things and enter the hotel. I ask for my room and show the reservation. The man compliments me for trying to do it in French and sends me upstairs.

            The room is quiet and clean and overlooking a bunch of tents, trumpet, and accordion players. It is smaller than the cell in Darkness at Noon. But I like it a lot. I try to get online to email my parents but the Internet is 10 Euro per hour. I shower and brush my teeth in the little shower connected to the room. I go downstairs to get directions to where I’m meeting the group and talk to the man behind the counter for about an hour. He winds up giving me a map. I shove my passport in my pants (so someone’s going to have to really want to pickpocket me) and head for the hostel where I’m meeting everyone.

            All the students are nice enough. We do a roll call and head for a beer only bar the coordinator knows. I have two beers made by monks. The one I remember is the Rochefort, which is sweet as heaven and black as hell. The coordinator sits with us. He is Dutch, balding slightly and a really interesting guy with an air of a kind of curious sadness. He is a doctor of economics as it turns out, and could easily write a book about what we’re drinking. I meet a 18 year old from Prague who offers to show me around once we’re done. We go off and see the EU parliament, even though the official meeting place is in Strasbourg, and the national library among other things. I take blurry pictures and when we get back to my hotel I have the odd impression that he is attracted to me. This puts me off, and I know how a few girls I knew must have felt at various points in their lives. He asks if I am tired and I say yes and I suggest leave so I can go to sleep as politely and subtly as possible. He doesn’t get it so I’m a little more forceful and he leaves. He asks if he can come back tomorrow morning, as he will need to leave in the afternoon. I consent, figuring he will not and go to sleep. The time on my clock says 11:30 local time. It is actually 3:00 and my clock is broken.