Stereotypes are Efficient

Scooter and I have landed in the big, bad ´ol city of Berlin (and by "big and bad," I mean that the damn city is roughly eight times as large as Paris.) I´m guessing this ain´t gonna be no walking tour city. As you may have noticed, my English grammar has taking quite a nosedive of late - I can attribute this solely to the extreme stress placed upon both my tongue and brain by the verbal calisthenics of "getting by" in Portugal, Spain, France, Italy, Austria, the Czech Republic, and now Germany. Unlike all of the Aussies, Canucks, and Brits that I´ve met, who seem content with the fact that most Europeans speak at least some English and therefore see no use in embarassing themselves with poor tildes and umlauts, I really have tried to learn at least one phrase in every language I´ve encountered and to use that phrase at least once (to be fair to myself...I tried learning multiple phrases in every language but Czech, where I only learned how to say "Mluvite anglicky?" aka "Do you speak English?").

My attempts at sounding suave in the romantic, germanic, and slavic languages have produced a wide variety of responses, depending on my navigational position at the time. By far, the most common response to my verbal utterings was to respond to me in English. In Spain, I could comfort myself with the notion that the general populace simply didn´t like my Mexican Spanish, and preferred to speak to me in English, despite the fluidness and grace of my pronunciation. During the rest of my trip, however, I could claim no such delusions - my tongue is evidently more talented in my mind than in actual practice. The French, true to stereotype, were by far the most rude about my lack of proficiency in their country´s language - almost every English interaction was preceded by a less-than-amused smile or grimace on their part. I would perhaps feel slightly guilty about my lack of communication, except that I observed a French woman today asking a Czech man, in French, where she could find the bus to the airport. When he appeared to not understand her inquiry, she repeatedly yelled it at him...in French. Any compunction I may have had to bother with learning French pleasantries has now vanished completely, only to be replaced with a desire to state something arcane and utterly indecipherable the next time I run into a Frenchie (Perhaps, "I need más Anglicky shingles for your weinerschnitzel. Cuanto korunys bitte?).

(Helpful sign, but I could use the help more after I leave the American sector, thanks...)

When in Rome...

...do your darndest to get kicked out of Vatican City. Yet despite our kissing in St. Peter's Square, St. Peter's Basilica, and in the Sistine Chapel, Scooter and I only received stern words from the guards once - in the Sistine Chapel for simply looking at the pictures on our camera (not actually taking pictures). Oh well, I feel better for having given a symbolic "up yours" to the pope anyway. (Even if he wasn't actually in the Vatican City today...it's like rooting for your favorite player on tv...he/she can't hear you, but it still makes a difference, of course.) Speaking of Vatican City - it is, I must admit, quite stunning. Although a great deal of the materials responsible for its stunning nature were thieved from the neighboring ancient Roman ruins by the various Popes (almost all of the copper came from the Pantheon and much of the marble came from the Colosseum). I hereby suggest that the Catholic motto be changed to "beg, borrow, steal, and gloat."

Rome, in general, has been a mixed bag. Some of the sights are among the most fascinating in the world - the Colosseum and the Sistine Chapel are incomparably gorgeous. But the city of Rome itself is dirty (a great deal of the city has smelled like pee on any given day), trashed (a combination of the fact that Rome has close to 1 trash can per square mile and the general nature of droves of tourists to be evil beasties), and somewhat inhospitable to public transportation (it has only 2 metro lines, most of which don't go near the most beautiful parts of the city and the bus situation is splintered and confusing). Lastly, it's not a city I feel very safe in - there are only a handful of stoplights (for some reason, the city planners just trust all cars in Rome to learn how to yield gracefully) and Scooter and I observed a uniformed police officer notice an abandoned duffel bag placed near a bus stop, and then blissfully walk on by. Nice. Add that to the Vatican Museum x-ray tech, who was watching the people and not the bags, and well, it almost makes you want to warm up to the Department of Homeland Security's stupid Advisory System. Almost.

Scooter and I are catching the train to Venice in about an hour and a half. Only four more cities to go! (Venice, Vienna, Prague, Berlin).

Nice is Nice

Here I am, in Nice, about halfway through my European adventure, and I am just now beginning to relax and settle in to the life of a vagabond expatriate. Damn, the skin of a stressed-out lawyer takes a while to slough off. Those who compare my kind to snakes might have a point.

Nice is a fairly urban beach town (population of 300,000 - 400,000) that reminds me a heck of a lot like South Beach, except with potentially more money. The sky has been a lovely baby blue over the last few days and the water has been a delightful azure color. The Mediterranean is easily the most beautiful stretch of water I have yet seen (not that we're talking about many - heretofore, I have only seen the Atlantic, the Pacific, and the Gulf 'o Mexico). The weather could not have been nicer, except of course, for today, when Scooter and I decided to head to Cannes (home of €1,000,000 plus homes and the International Film Festival) for beaching and jet skiing.

After a 40 minute train ride, we discovered that Cannes, in fact, has no jet skiing (what resort of the rich and infamous doesn't). Then after another 20 minutes or so of attempting to sun ourselves into Grecian gods, we decided that the French Riveria had more clouds and wind in mind for today that actual sun. So much for our attempts at topless tanning. (I could justify my interest in topless bathing as a way to erase my bikini-top lines, but as most of you are aware of (a) my normal bleached flour complexion and (b) the number of times per year I am generally caught wearing a bikini top, I'll admit I did it for the novelty.)

We are headed to Florence at 10 'o clock in the morning to see if we can storm the Uffizi and ogle David's package.

Snarky's Undead Yearnings

For those of you over the age of 25 who might value your sleep...do not stay at a hostel! They are the cheap, yet evil playgrounds of the undead youth. One night in my Barcelona hostel, a hostel that believed it a good idea to put 12-14 people in each sleeping room, I was awakened at 1, 2, 4, 6, 8, and 9 in the morning. I felt that I had been through some cruel sleep deprivation experiment designed to get me to desire to sustain myself solely on rioja and the brains of my young sleeping companions. Luckily, Scooter dissuaded me from such a ghastly repast (and the hostel in Barcelona has dissuaded me from staying in anything other than a private room in the foreseeable future).

But I digress...where were we...back in Lisbon, I believe. Lisbon is a quaint little town - cobblestone streets, little cafes serving Fanta Naranja (the cousin of Orange Crush, and ubiquitus in Europe) lining the streets, terra cotta shingles, and every so often, the random local offering tourists hashish and cocaine. I observed the drug peddlers going up and down the main tourist strip in Lisbon, asking random cafe eaters whether they were interested in the little packet in their hands. I'm not entirely sure how the peddlers marked their prey other than to say that Scooter and I were offered drugs only once - when we were holding hands and being snuggly late at night, while a bloke we met from Australia who hadn't shaved in 6 months was offered pot about six times during his stay in Lisbon. I therefore deduce that hairy and/or lesbian = druggie. I can only imagine what a find a hairy lesbian must be.

Ahhh! My Internet time is running out. Until next time...

The quaint town of shingles and drugs...

Live From Lisbon

I´ve only been in Lisbon a total of six hours, but I have somehow managed to find the local cyber cafe already. I´m ahead of the curve. (I am, however, way behind the European keyboard curve - every time I try to insert a "´", I end up inserting a "º". Let´s not even get into the French and British symbols that mock me from the number row.

The flight to Lisbon, outside of being a tad late leaving Philly, was uneventful. Scooter and I were lucky enough to have an entire row to ourselves, all the better to watch the kooky couple across the aisle from. Aforementioned kooky couple were an elderly man and woman who also had the entire row to themselves, which was evidently just too much for Mr. Kooky to take - all the way until take-off, he kept switching his seat from the window to the middle to the window and back again (Mrs. Kooky was firmly planted in the aisle seat.) Perhaps he was prepping his legs for the long flight with some side-to-side stretches. Mrs. Kooky eclipsed her husband´s curious behavior, however, once the meals were served - she was so delighted by the US Airways repast placed before her that she ate the pat of Fleischmann´s butter provided right out of the aluminum foil, sans bread, in two delightful mouthfuls. She followed that with a chaser of dipping sauce, served into her discerning gullet via spoon. Mmm mmm good.

As for myself, I chose to skip the act of buttering my tongue, and upgraded my meal by purloining some first-class chocolates that were just hanging out on a tray near the first-class bathroom. Life in first-class is not only roomier, it is downright yummier!

Lisbon, thus far, is beautiful. It was about 78 degrees Fahrenheit, sunny, and dry when we landed. We made it to the hostel safely (although an accordian player who cleverly had his pet chiuahua clasp a change bucket in his mouth managed to "cute" (yes, that´s a verb now) Scooter into spending her first euro (picture is below). Alright, back to the hostel for me...I have to see if Scooter has slept off her jet lag yet...we have trouble to get into!