I Didn't Forget You

Hello love! It felt like a good day for a new blog post, don't you think? So much to update you on, where to start... well, Amsterdam was a wonderful time. I traveled with Lorel, my flatmate, who was visiting her friend there, and crashed on an air mattress in her friend's apartment. Amsterdam is a beautiful city with so much more to offer than prostitutes and weed. We went to the Van Gogh museum, took a walking tour and admired the old architecture and abundant canals, visited the Anne Frank Haus (which was right down the street from the flat), explored the many vintage outdoor markets, and ate fresh Stroopwafels with warm caramel middles that oozed out the side! I won't lie to you, I dream about those Stroopwafels sometimes.

The guide for the walking tour filled us in on Amsterdam's fascinating history while pointing out important buildings. Apparently the Dutch built this city out of a marshland, redirecting the water in all sorts of smarticle ways that are too complicated to describe without writing a novel about it. Then they got into the trade business and made this tiny country a world power. Mad props to the Dutch!

Interesting fact about cannabis--it isn't actually legal here. Only decriminalized. Basically, they still get to tax it and the police just don't prosecute anyone. Prostitution, however, is completely legal. Gotta say, the walk through the Red Light District was extremely uncomfortable. It wasn't so much the working girls in the windows (who were almost all chatting away on their cell phones, can you imagine that conversation? "yeah babe, just at work. It's been a slow night." lol), but more walking among the drunken bachelor parties and other *ahem* patrons that made it so awkward. But it gave me a new perspective. It is said that in order for something to be allowed by the Dutch, universally known for their tolerance, it must pass three criteria:

1. It does not harm anyone.
2. It easy enough to ignore.
3. It is profitable.

They have a saying which translates roughly to "looking at life through one's fingers". Which means that they see it and are aware, but choose to ignore it. I fact-checked this was a real saying by asking my Dutch neighbor, Anne, who confirmed it. But enough talk, let me show you some snapshots of Amsterdam! I left my camera and only had my phone to work with, apologies for the quality.

More recently, however, I spent a weekend in Cologne, Germany. Couchsurfing. And I survived. Can I get an amen? lol, but honestly, our host was a really neat guy who spoke German, Chinese, Spanish, and English fluently. He and his roommates showed us a great time in Cologne, taking us to touristy places like the Cathedral, but also pubs selling Kölsch--the local brew, and hipster concerts in Nike shoe shops. And they even cooked us this amazing breakfast spread with fresh croissants and omelettes. It was like a four star hotel... for free. People are cool like that.

Wish I had pictures, but I forgot my camera again. Stellar, I know. Sorry! I am going to steal my travel companions pictures eventually. Will this photo of Cologne that I stole from Google help?

No? Please don't be mad at me. I would have snapped some pictures with my iPhone but I accidentally left it on the train. I swear I'm usually a functioning member of society and not this absentminded. Really. Anyway, it was kind of a bummer and I wasn't expecting on getting it back, but after calling it a couple times, we got an answer. They gave it to the conductor who took it back to the Trier train station, where I picked it up when I got back. And we texted happily ever after.

Oh wait! I know something that will make you love me again! I haven't posted pictures of Cinque Terre, Italy yet, have I? Here. Take this album, with my love.

Greek Life Lessons

My oh my. This month has been an absolute whirlwind. The University of Trier celebrates Catholic holidays, which are all are packed into one month. So my schedule for the past month has been: a few days of school, a long weekend of traveling, get back for a day or two of school, back to traveling. Rinse and repeat. Even while I am so grateful to be given the chance to travel, I must admit that it is exhausting, and I am quite glad to have a few weeks of normalcy.

Guess what time it is. Picture time! Photo credits to Mariah and Catherine, I stole most these pictures off their Facebook because my camera  card is a prima donna and only works when it wants to. Without further ado... Edinburgh, Scotland.

Really, just an amazing time. Visited a super old castle, tried haggis (not actually bad but it is cooked in sheep intestine so ewwww) , went on a pub crawl with friends, and named a sentry Todd and made him smile, despite his best efforts to remain stoic. Win.

On to Greece. We actually ended up traveling for about 48 hours straight just to get there because a direct flight was 400 euros but apparently 3 connecting flights is only 70? Ryanair, you crazy. And we were just insane enough to attempt it.
 

And OH MY GOD SO MUCH WALKING. I was lucky enough to have a travel companion who made me go see all the ruins, even after all the dusty marble stones started to blend together. After the Parthenon I was ready to plop down and spend the rest of the time in Greece eating Döner and drinking Ouzo, but now I can say that I have seen every. single. ruin. in. Athens. Please take a moment to appreciate how many temple ruins there are.

But other than an appreciation for the subtle differences in crumbling stone, Greece had several surprising lessons in store for me. If you had told me after one week in Athens I would come away with a new idea about body image and how I feel about my own body I would have laughed. In America, the beauty industry is booming. You are taught from a young age that if you have a flaw, it needs to be fixed or concealed ASAP. And it just so happens for a small fee there is a product that promises to help. "Wearing a bikini is a privilege that should not be abused" is something I have heard many times, said many different ways, but all with the same message: only women with society's ideal body type should be allowed to show any substantial amount of skin. If you were not born with the genetics, time, or money to conform to that ideal body then please, for everyone´s sake, keep it under wraps.

All of these societal rules were subconsciously swirling around in my cerebrum when I stepped off the plane. Almost immediately I could tell there was something different here. The women... they wore whatever they wanted. Didn't matter if they had rolls, cellulite, or acne. At first I was shocked at the freedom they demonstrated. Thoughts like oh dear, she should not be wearing that. We all have our "problem areas", the poor girl apparently doesn't know hers went through my head, startling myself with my own judgement and criticism.

For the record, I consider myself to have pretty high self-esteem. I generally like myself, but no one escapes puberty unscathed. Throughout my life I learned how to hide my perceived flaws, sit up a little straighter--it decreases tummy rolls; cross your legs this way--it smooths cellulite; wear this style shirt--it conceals stretch marks. And suddenly I was confronted with women that were aware of their bodies, still loved them, and weren't afraid to bare a little skin. It was astounding to me, and suddenly made me acutely aware of those negative voices in my head. I had to ask myself, when did someone´s natural body become something offensive?

So that's a little bit heavier stuff than I usually write about, but is one of the deepest impressions Greece left on me, and I wanted to share. I am learning to love my body unconditionally. All bodies are good bodies. And mine is exceptionally good, 'cause goshdarnit it's mine. :)

But Greece wasn't done with me yet. Just when I think I'm finished with the character-building, life teaches me another lesson. So we wake up at some god-forsaken early hour of the morning, cram the last things in our backpacks and hail a taxi. And we are on our way to the bus station to catch a non-stop four hour bus ride to Volos, where our direct flight leaves from. Oh, the things we do for twenty euro flights. I've had a fantastic time in Greece, but I will be grateful to sleep in my own bed tonight. Twenty minutes into bus ride, I freeze in my seat. I didn't. No.

My travel companion, Mariah, notices I've stopped breathing. What is it? Am I okay?

I can't even look at her, I feel sick to my stomach. Oh my god. Oh my god. It's the only thing I can say as I clench the seat in front of me with white knuckles, recalling my mistake. By now Mariah is seriously worried, and she demands I tell her what is wrong. "I-I left my passport. It's in the nightstand drawer." There is a moment of speechlessness that hangs in the air.

In my mind, within seconds, I can see how this all plays out. I can't board the airplane without my passport, so I somehow communicate to the driver of the bus who doesn't speak English that he needs to drop us off somewhere there is a taxi to take us back. We are in the middle of nowhere on a highway so it won't be for a while, and we only have one hour to get from the bus station in Volos to the airport before our gate closes. With this detour, we won't make it in time, I know this now. Mariah goes on without me, I miss the flight. The next one isn't for days. I am alone in a city I don't know, missing vital days of classes that only meet once a week. My absences make me fail the classes, ruining my grade point average and causing me to lose my scholarships, the only thing allowing me to afford college. I drop out. My career plans, once so sure and practical, are blown away like a puff of smoke on the wind. I can't afford to move out. I spend the rest of my days living at home, dependent, working full-time at a job that was only supposed to help get me through college.

I need a minute before I can move, nauseous, my stomach clenching with the certainty of my fate. I don't know how long it was, but eventually I walk toward the front of the bus and crouch down to the bus driver's level. "English?" He nods, but after five minutes of strained communication that constitutes me repeating "I have to go back. I need a taxi, I left my passport in Athens." and him telling me it was fine, he motioned to a younger passenger. This man is fluent in English and the bus driver quickly begins to understand how completely screwed I am.

Miracle of miracles, after the two of them discuss my situation in Greek, the young man motions for me to join them. "He says that you need to call your hotel, and have them take your passport to the bus station. It will arrive in Volos on the next bus." Relief courses through my veins, and I cannot stop thanking him. Maybe a little bit too much relief, a little too soon. Even though the next bus is express, it will only arrive thirty minutes before my gate closes. That barely leaves me enough time to check in and run to my gate, that is assuming the bus is on time. I keep reminding myself that it is out of my hands as I clutch the business card of my hotel and begin to dial on a borrowed cell phone.

After several rings, someone picks up, speaking Greek. Though I have to shout due to the poor signal and him not being able to hear me, it is communicated that I left my passport in the drawer. Before I can instill a sense of urgency, he says he will have someone check the room and hangs up. Seven nervous minutes later, I redial.Yes, they found the passport. I also had a hundred and fifty pounds in the drawer left over from Edinburgh. Can they send that as well? After a pause, the man says what I feared, but am not surprised to hear. "No, we found no money with your passport." Of course not. Stupid, stupid, stupid. There is nothing I can do about whoever pocketed the money--be it the man I was speaking to or the person he sent to check--and everything is replaceable but my passport, so after a deep breath I convey what needs to be done. He agrees to send the passport through a taxi driver to the bus station.

Now I can only sit back and twiddle my thumbs for the next four hours. I recall seeing these really ugly plaid hats in Edinburgh that were way overpriced at twenty pounds each. With that stolen money I could have bought seven. I imagine that I left seven ugly plaid hats in my hotel room instead of the money. It helps.

Finally arriving at the bus station, the driver hands me off to another, more sympathetic bus driver. Her English is broken but she manages to communicate that we are to stay here, and at 11:30 she will go meet the driver and come back with my passport. Actually, change of plan, he is meeting us here at 12:00. Revised revised final plan: we go to the airport on her bus, and she will take me with a taxi to a place where we intercede the bus with my passport and then go back to the airport. After much confusion, and many revisions, which actually saved me a fifty euro taxi ride, the plan was set in motion. Instead of saying goodbye, she gave me a smile and repeated her mantra of don't worry. With one final pat on my arm, she said, "Don't Forget."

I have no clue what she meant.

Don't forget my passport next time? Don't forget how kind and helpful everyone was when I go back to America and tell this story? Or was that a sassy, "and don't you forget it, girlfriend"? I don't have a clue to this day, but I cannot describe how sweet and gracious she was to help me. I think maybe that Don't Forget included all of the above.

Long story short, (jk, this isn't short, I'm honestly surprised anyone made it this far. Your attention span is impressive.) I am riding in a taxi with another bus driver because the taxi driver doesn't speak English and he is needed to give directions. We can only go so far on taxi and take a ten minute walk on foot. While we wait for the bus, I begin to ask questions and he shares with me the rich history of Greece and we talk about Greek-Turkish relations. He has a fascinating, if somewhat biased, opinion on the subject, but having someone so invested and passionate share his history with me was definitely a highlight of my time in Greece. After our discussion I am back in the airport, passport in hand, and even have ten minutes to lounge around before boarding.

During this whole ordeal, even while I was sick with worry, I could not help but notice that every time I am in dire straits the kindness of total strangers gets me through it. I am still so overwhelmed with gratitude. Also, an update for you, I emailed the hotel to let them know I did indeed receive my passport, and mentioned the money. Apparently the man "had never heard me say anything about money" but they found it, and mailed it to me, refusing to take anything for postage and only asking for a positive review online. I received it today, every bill and coin still there. So much better than ugly plaid hats.

To summarize: Edinburgh was a fun, castle and whiskey-filled weekend, and Greece was a lovely, historical beach vaca, but I really owe my thanks to the Greek women and bus drivers in Athens for making it truly memorable.

xoxo