Get Me Outta Here

Amsterdam, The Netherlands

Ahh, travel. Like everything else, it has its good days and its bad days. Today was a far cry from that first day off the ship in Japan where Christine and I were trying to navigate the labyrinth of subways and I told her elatedly, “Figuring it out is the best part!” Today, however, is a different story.

After getting off to a late start (and getting stuck in the revolving glass doors on the way out of the port terminal while simultaneously getting a family with four small children stuck along with me), I was off. My Semester at Sea journey had come to an end. Being too cheap to pay 60 Euros for a cab to the airport, I decided to take a quick cab ride down the street so as not to have to have to carry my luggage to the train station. Mind you, I could see the train station from the port terminal. 8 Euros and at least one illegal u-turn later, I arrived at the train station. At the station, the ticket machine didn’t take my debit card (or cash for that matter). Of course. Why would it? When I asked the repair man fixing the turnstile where I could purchase a ticket with cash, he directed me to the ticket booth…on the opposite site of the station meaning I had to go outside and around with all of my earthly possessions. This is when “tired from processing a new country every two days, packed more than I can carry and I think I may cry” girl made her first appearance of the morning. He let me in through the open turnstile and 4 Euros later, I was on my way to the airport.

Getting luggage on and off the train proved to be a bit of an ordeal. I had in tow a rollerboard carryon that tethered to another suitcase and also a rolling duffle bag I bought at Coscto. Note to self: repeatedly yanking on a suitcase that is stuck on the step of the train and cursing “Come on, you piece of…” under your breath over and over does not work. But thanks to the kindness of strangers, my bags and I all made it onto the train.

Upon arrival at the airport, the issue of the luggage again reared its ugly head. Online, it made it sound like there were luggage carts readily available once you got off of the train, but when I arrived, there were none to be found. I saw at least five ladies pushing just their purse in one of these carts. After breaking a sweat more than once hauling all of my worldly possessions all over Amsterdam, I wished every single one of those ladies bad travel juju. Trust me, they earned it.

At the terminal, it became something of a mystery in order to find the check in counter. Everything at the Amsterdam airport was assigned, what appeared to be, an arbitrary number. I found a screen with check in numbers. I had to find my flight number, then that flight had a designated check in counter. Check in 20. What the heck did that mean? What about just having signs for Icleandair? Too easy? After using my imaginary Dutch decoder ring to solve the mystery, I finally found the ominous check in 20 where I was told that my bags were over the weight limit. Every time I use that damn duffle bag, I am over the weight limit. Every time. That is what I get for buying a bag that could probably hold half the contents of a Costco store. I kept pulling things out of my Buick-sized duffle bag and when I had a sufficient pile of dirty laundry and other essentials weighing what I hoped would be at least 5 kilograms on the floor in front of the airport counter, the attendant asked, “Now where are you going to put all that?” When I pointed to my rollerboard, she politely told me that then my carryon luggage would then be too heavy. So I piled everything back in and forked over the overweight baggage fee.

At security, I read all of the signs, followed the protocols accordingly, and still was asked to unpack half of my suitcase and put it in a plastic bin before putting everything through the x-ray machine (laptop, charger, liquids, camera, pretty much anything with a battery…). Sir, a word of advice: if you make that clear on the signage, people would have to unpack everything on the conveyor belt. Just saying.

Almost every interaction I had with another human being this morning resulted in me saying, “You want me to pay how much?!” and then me mumbling to myself, “Get me out of here.” But on the upside, the lady sitting next to me on the plane pulled out a Walkman. Not an iPod or even a Discman, but an honest to goodness Walkman. I was rather impressed until she shooed me off of my own try table during takeoff (as I was writing this) and told me, “You must have this up. For safety.” And proceeded to put the tray table up for me. What does she know about safety? She had her Walkman on during the entire safety briefing. A few minutes after takeoff, she points to the tray table and tells me, “It’s probably okay now.” What are you, the tray table police? My response to her, “I have been on a place before.” Lady, your walkman just got a lot less cool. 

Coffee Shop or Coffee Shop?

Amsterdam, The Netherlands

Amsterdam itself is a really cool city, with winding city streets intertwined with a series of canals. Did I mention the bikes? Lots and lots of bikes. I’d even go as far to say that pedestrians don’t in fact have the right of way in Amsterdam. Bikes do. And for someone is who is anything but an avid cyclist (see post from South Africa above), this was a bit troublesome for me.

I did all of the standard Amsterdamy things: the Anne Frank House, saw the Flower Market, and meandered through the old city. The jury, however, is still out on the Dutch people. Based on the ones I interacted with anyway. At one point, I had my map out, trying to get my bearings, and a guy asked me, “Do you know where you are?” Now that is a loaded question. Like at this exact moment or in life?  The second guy to help me with directions then proceeded to ask me for money. I gave him two Euros. Then he asked me for one more. Sir, if you knew how much money I’d given to people in New York City, you’d be a) a little more grateful and b) shocked at my current generosity.

The interactions I had with a couple of the shopkeepers weren’t that much better. I was burying stamps and postcards and I thought I heard the woman behind the counter asked me, “Inside Europe?” And I responded, “International. United States” Well apparently she has asked, “Outside Europe?” because then she proceeded to tell me that “Yes, the United States is international” and that in Europe there are different countries that require different postage not like sending mail between the states in the US. Really? Is that how it works, please tell me more about these countries you speak of.

At the second shop, I was buying at tshirt that was advertised at 15 Euros at the 8 other tourist shops I’d been in. I put the shirt on the counter and the guy says, “20 Euros.” When I told him I thought it was 15, he tells me, “Okay, 17.” I tell him that every other shop on this block is selling it for 15 (and I’m pretty sure he had it signed at 15 as well), he begrudgingly takes 15.

On the upside, the guy who sold me a falafel for lunch was really quite pleasant. 

Nothing that a Belgian waffle won't fix

Antwerp, Belgium

I’m done. My brain is just done. If having six days to research, explore, and then process a country during the full semester seemed like a daunting task, try doing it in two days or even one. I’m ready to figure out a new place and have that be how it’s going to be for awhile.

I was getting disappointed in myself as  a traveler, not out exploring from sun up to sun down, but then after a sweet and a coffee at a café in the town square, I realized that this in and of itself is traveling. There’s no one way to do it. (This is not the first time a revelation has come after a snack break.) And it’s okay to go home in between and regroup. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. 

Thank you for helping to keep Paris clean

Paris, France

I spent the last few days in Paris, arguably one of my favorite places. It’s such a cliché place to love, but I don’t care. And what they say about Paris in the spring, it’s all true. It really is beautiful. When Maureen and I were here last year, it was the end of February, cold, rainy, and still awesome. So imagine a bit warmer weather, people out and about, and flowers in bloom. I spent two days just wandering around the city, sitting on a park bench watching the world go by, stopping to eat a crepe whenever the moment hit. I really just love Paris.

The real accomplishment was successfully navigating the city with three children under the age of nine in tow. I had come along to Paris with the K family to afford Mr. and Mrs. K the opportunity to have a night out in one of the most romantic cities in the world. I was a bit apprehensive, as usually we are confined to  the ship during our time together, but things went surprisingly well. We spent the entire afternoon in the Tuileries, a lovely garden at the end of the Champs-Elysses. I insisted that no trip to Paris was complete without a ride on the carousel. They were hesitant at first, but ended up loving it. I bought two sets of tickets and the guy behind the counter gave me a third one for free. We repeated this process again and they rode six times. They also have these trampolines (or jumping carpets as the French call them) set up in the middle of the park. You pay two Euros and kids can jump for five whole minutes. The boys convinced me that buying two tickets was a really great idea, and seeing no downside to expending more energy, I agreed. (Too bad the trampoline guy wasn’t as generous as the carousel guy.) Sometime that day, the two oldest boys started collecting used Metro tickets that they found on the ground. It was a great distraction, but it was also a great distraction. Especially when walking to and from…anywhere. There was one point at the metro station on the way home that I thought they were going to get trampled trying to pick up used tickets right outside the turnstile as people were trying to get in. Luckily, all injuries were avoided. While we were at the jumping carpets, one of the boys was rifling through the landscaping, picking up old tickets and one of the fathers said, “You know those aren’t good right?” When I explained that it was just an impromptu hobby, he said, “Thank you for helping to keep Paris clean.” A good distraction (most of the time) and picking up liter. It’s a win-win. 

Are you enjoying yourself?

Lisbon, Portugal

This afternoon, I did a Segway tour of Lisbon. I had never been on a Segway before, but it proved to be a really cool way to explore the city. The first time I ever saw them was at Epcot at Disney World. They look so futuristic to me. Now, mind you, my first memories of Epcot from when I was there as a kid, are of Mickey and Minnie wearing space suits. While they have toned down the space age-ness a bit, I still associate all things Epcot with the age of hovercrafts and life on Mars. Upon getting on the Segway for the first time, I said, “Look at me! I’m in the future!”

Riding a Segway requires a different kind of balance, one I wasn’t entirely comfortable with until towards the end of the tour. I was only moderately terrified that I was going to go plummeting down a hill, with the Segway toppling after me. At one point, one of the tour guides even asked me, “Are you enjoying yourself?” The concentration it took to prevent that from happening showed on my face and, at times, was more important than taking in the sights.

After the Segway tour, I meandered around downtown. I wanted to take one of the famous trolleys to the top of the city and take in the view. Partly because I had already bought a postcard of said trolley and partly for the view. I saw a trolley stop and waited about 15 minutes. I was ready to give up on the wait and just walk up, but I told myself “Five more minutes.” No less than two minutes later, a taxi stopped at the red light, a lady opened the door and proceeded to vomit less than five feet in front of me. Considering how narrow the sidewalks are in Lisbon, it’s nothing short of a miracle that she didn’t puke on my shoes. When the light turned green, she shut the door, and they left just as quickly as they came. Taking that as a sign that maybe this trolley wasn’t meant to be, I walked down the block to see if there was another stop in view. Seeing none, I walked back to my original stop. I saw a trolley approaching and was excited that my patience had paid off until the electrical wire thing at the top of the car came unattached and started sparking. Not wanting to risk my life, I let that trolley keep on keeping on. By this time, quite a crowd of people with similar view-seeking ideals had formed at the stop. No less than 74 people attempted to get on the next trolley car that stopped next. The trolley car probably only holds about 30 people so I waited for the next one and then somehow managed not to pay. And the view really was lovely. I guess the third time’s a charm. 

Is 20,000 camels a lot?

Fes, Morocco

At Christine’s recommendation, I signed up for the Semester at Sea trip to Fes. I had heard wonderful things about the city and figured I’d give it a shot.

Customs didn’t take nearly as long as it did last time, so I was in a pretty pleasant mood. Unfortunately, my other travelling companions were not. Traveling with seniors has been quite the adventure. Some of them have been quite lovely and many of them, well, have not. Since we spent most of the day on the bus, much of my travel notes from the day include what people chose to complain about. And since we had so much time on the bus (about four hours each way for a 14 hour trip), there was lots of time to complain. (Remind me never to get old and grumpy.)

Here’s a list of things that were complained about (and this was all within the first few hours):

1.      Immigration. “Can you believe it took so long?” When the ship was in Casablanca two weeks ago, it took over four hours. This time, it took about two. I count that as a win. Besides, it’s their country. They can do whatever they want. Suck it up.

2.      Length of the bus ride. While it wasn’t fun to sit on a bus 8 hours of a 13 hour trip, do your research. You don’t want to sit on a bus that long, don’t sign up for the trip.

3.      Lack of toilet paper in the restroom. I’m pretty sure they told us in the pre-port to carry your own TP. By the time the college students arrived in Morocco, they were prepared with TP and hand sanitizer in hand, ready to face any bathroom challenges that may arise. The old people, not so much. (“You want me to go in a hole in the ground?!”)

4.      Tipping the restroom attendant. “There’s no toilet paper and she expects a tip?” This lady makes as much in a week as you make in an hour at home and that’s if she’s lucky.

5.      The convenience store not taking dollars: Newsflash, this isn’t America and they don’t have to take dollars if they don’t want to.

6.      The two-time divorcee you got stuck sitting next to on the bus: I was sitting in front of this lady and her unfortunate choice for a seat mate. Trust me, she had every right to complain. Sir if you ever want to be on your way to marriage (and probably divorce) number three, stop talking about how much you hate your ex-wife.

7.      Lunch time: Due to the length of the bus ride, we didn’t get to eat lunch until around 3pm. Our lunch destination was in the medina, so we did a bit of a tour along the way. Our tour guide was mid-sentence, telling us some super interesting fact about the ancient city of Fes, when one of the ladies on the trip interrupted him with a rather rude, “When’s lunch?” He politely answered her and went back to talking when she interrupted him again and said, “Yeah, but when’s lunch?” Geez, lady, pack a snack next time.

On a less grumpy note…When we were walking through the medina, one of the rather charming shopkeepers, asked me, “Are you married?” When I said no, he said, “I would give you 20,000 camels for your hand.” I have no idea if that’s a lot, but I’ll take what I can get. 

It's pronounced CadITH

Cadiz, Spain

To be perfectly honest, I didn’t see much of Cadiz. I was in prepping for a job interview for much of the first day and only ventured out for a couple of hours later that afternoon. As it turns out, a couple of hours is just enough time to explore this charming coastal town.

I was out and about during siesta. I walked by a pub and there were grown men inside, drinking and singing, quite loudly might I add. I stood there and listened to them for a few minutes, jealous that I didn’t live in a place that valued afternoon naps, tapas, and boisterous singing as much as the Spanish.