Welcome to Ikea

Monica and I spent the whole train ride to Berlin reading Guidebooks. She made a list of twenty museums she wanted to see. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I didn't want to see any museums, so I just helped whittle the list down.
"Monica," I said in French, "Have you ever even seen Kathy Kowelwitz work?"
"No, but the description seemed interesting."
"Monica, she has one famous work. That mother with her dead child."
"Oh," she said, "That's not at the musem, that's at the Neue Wache."
We talked at length about whether to see the Pergamon Alter. "I'd rather not pay six euros to see some old greek sculpture. It's not even that important. The only reason you see it is to say you've seen it."
"Oh, I've already seen it."
"Then it's settled," I said.
We got into Berlin, took the U-Bahn to the hostel, checked in and rented a lock.
"I can hold onto the key," Monica offered.
"No," I said, taking it, "I'll just put it in my money belt." I put it in my money belt, in the locker and locked it.
As we left, Monica asked where the key was. "Oh," I said.
"You have to tell them," she said, "They're going to think we're stupid Americans."
That became the theme for the week- avoid looking like stupid Americans.
We went to a museum of contemporary art. I spent an hour in the gift shop while Monica stared at the art. I can't look at art- I just walk through it. (It doesn't help that I can't read German."
When the museum closed at 10, monica and I walked down a street for a long time looking for something to eat.
"We could go to Burger King," I offered.
"You're joking, right?" she said.
"No," I said.
She stopped and folded her arms.
"Let's just keep walking in the direction of Burger King."
"Have you ever had Doner?" Monica asked. She ordered two falafel donner, one in a wrap, the other one in a pita-like-but-crispier bread. We sat on the sidewalk tables eating, drinking the rest of our sparkling apple juice.
Then we ate gelato, it wasn't as good.
We walked back to the hostel.
"So what do you think of Germany so far?" she asked in French.
"I think it's exactly like being at Ikea."
"How can you say that!" Monica said, in English, "That's so ignorant. How can you compare this country to something so capitalist!"
"Don't you understand?" I said, "Everything looks exactly the same, in exactly the same typeface but I can't understand what it means."
"But don't say it's like Ikea!" Monica said, "The signs aren't even in Sweedish!"
Monica would know, she has her gmail in it.
The rest of the weekend is just a blur of museums and Doner and skyping from the hostel bar. Monica left and I went down to Munich where it was very cold and I stayed in a giant tent.

Gelato, part 1

I got into the Basel airport and marched through customs. They stamped my passport without any question. (Unlike the canadian boarder guard who questioned me about how much money I had.) Then I went to find an ATM, but it wouldn't take my credit card. I thought I had my pin wrong, so I just kept trying. Then I tried to buy internet to call my mom and it wouldn't take my card, either. Finally I found a currency exchange office that was still open and hopped on my flight into Freiburg proper. Monica, my best friend from Junior year, has spent her Senior year in Freiburg where her father is taking sabbatical. She met me at the bus station.
"M!" I yelled to her.
"Désolé," she said in French, "I didn't recognize you."
I hardly recognized her either. She'd grown out her hair since leaving Interlochen, to fit in better in Germany. I'd stood in front of the mirror one day and chopped my hair off.
"I'll take your suitcase," she said,"
"I don't have one," I said, "And I think I overpacked."
We walked through the drizzle back to their apartment. It looked just like something you'd see in Ikea. We ate (what seemed like a very authentic dinner) of salad, vegetarian schnitzel and funny pasta, with white wine, of course. We sat on their balcony, from which we had a beautiful view of the black forest and the steeple of the Munster cathedral. Then, near midnight, we went to the bank where I got money from an ATM and then we got gelato. The pistachio was very good!
M and I left early the next morning. I wanted more time in Freiburg, too bad my flight had been canceled. Freiburg was the most beautiful town I've seen, with the mountains of Vancouver, the trees of Interlochen and the old buildings of Minneapolis.
And all the signs I couldn't understand.

I think jetlag is going fine. I woke up at 9, when they gave us scrumptious, "Me, myself and my muffin"'s. A short English man asked me, "Would you care for some tea or coffee?"
"No," I said.
He seemed shocked, "Well Okay."
The flight attendants were much friendlier than New Yorkers. As we deplaned, they all said, "Ba-bye, now." They reminded me of leprechauns. Most flight attendants just remind me of dental hygienists…

Speaking of dental hygiene… I spent seven and a half pounds at an airport convience store. (I have no clue what the exchange rate is, nor do I want to know.) England amazes me though. You can get the same things, except they're all marginally different. For example, many of the magazines are plastic wrapped with free t-shirts, tote bags or makeup. I bought a £2 "Glamour" with a free eyeliner. Except most of the articles were the same as US glamour, which I read at the grocery store. I also got Diet Coke in Lemon and Citrus Zest. Diet Coke with Cherry: Imagine an explosion of Cherry in the mouth! There is no detectable diet coke taste. The cherry syrup struck me as so sweet that I could hardly believe it was diet. (It had 3 kcal per 100 ml. Hell if I know what that means.) Diet coke with zest was, in fact, zesty. It was like a Zombie came and mixed my Diet coke with ultra saturated 7-up. Not entirely unpleasant.

Confession: I lost my passport at JFK last night.

At the Duty Free store in the airport I tried to sample rum. (Alcohol is a great sleep aid.) They had an ice bucket and these adorable cups. As soon as I picked up a cup, a short man ran up to me and said, "Excuse me miss, how old are you?"
"Uh, 21," I said.
"Do you have ID?" He asked. (My glasses.)
"Of course," I huffed. Then I realized I didn't.
I searched everything, looking for my passport. Security found it, luckily, 15 minutes before boarding. I had that religious conversion I've been praying for.
After my terror, I got on the plane and felt the most incredible joy. The idea that this is only the beginning makes me so giddy. When I got on that plane, I got a whole knew life. I feel like the giddy teenager I am. My life is as charmed as it will ever be, so I need to get as much mileage out of it as possible.
Before leaving New York, I ran to Macy's and bought ridiculous patchwork leggings to wear on the plane. Unfortunately, they're too big, so they keep sliding down. I bought a money belt as well ($17!!!) and it doesn't fit either. The strap is 3 feet long, so it hangs outside my shirt or makes a giant lump on my hip. The only place I can put it is in the front of my pants.
British Airways was really nice. The thing that impressed me the most was that everyone had an English accent. Why didn't I expect that? They were all so charming. I spent the first hour of the flight trying to figure out what to drink. Delta has a whole page of optons in SkyTeam magazine. BA did not. I thought about asking if they had some kind of Chardonney, but I didn't-- Glamour said Chardonney was tacky. Instead I got a screwdriver. Talk about tacky. They gave me a little bottle of Smirnoff. As soon as I smell alcohol I feel drunk. Drunk as in tired. It occurred to me that my New-York-time nightcap would make me a serious alcoholic on London time. Then I fell asleep, trying to figure out how many ounces are in 5ml.

Whoever said heat rises obviously never ran through the subway in June

This morning I woke up at 3 AM in New York, my whole body tingling with the excitement of finally leaving the US/Canada... and the anxiety of having no plan, just a one way
plane ticket and some places to be.
I leave from JFK and fly to London, then London to Basel. If British Airways doesn't cancel the flights again, I'll be in Frieburg by tomorrow night.



I'm going "backpacking," which basically means traveling without dignity. "Packing light" got ruled out when I got to New York-- sure I only have one tee-shirt, but I also have the MacBook I bought impulsively at the 5th Ave. Apple store.



After much deliberation, I could not figure out how to photograph my camera and computer (they belong together) so instead there are photographs of everything else I'm taking.



(By the way, I don't smoke. I found that pack on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and have been carrying them around ever since.)

Sorry for the boring first post-- I'm afraid of sounding anti-semetic. Basically, I went to B&H ("The photo/video SUPERSTORE"- where I refused to go when I was twelve) and I had such a cultural awakening. My mother went to Jerusalem but I went to B&H!