La Dolce Vita

The Last Night

aeileenr — Tue, 9 Sep 2014 12:03:00 GMT

My original plan was to get up early on my last day in Europe, the day I flew back home, but in reality, I never went to sleep.

I’d spent my days in Venice, Florence, and London just walking. I'd done other things too, but looking back, it was all a blur of my two feet moving me forward to the next sight. In Copenhagen, the same general idea applied, however my time was spent on a bike, one foot in front of the other, pedaling and changing gears.

This last morning really blended in with my last day because, well, I didn’t sleep. I had plans to go to bed early and rise early (like, 4:00am early) and all signs that day pointed to that outcome. I like my sleep, and having it taken away from me is something I only reserve for the most special of occasions.

After a long day of sightseeing, I’d met my friend in the old meatpacking district, which is now a cool, hip place to grab dinner and drinks. We parked our bikes and had a leisurely dinner over the last hour of warm sun. We stopped for a quick drink next door, and then we were off. She went home and I went… everywhere.

I had about seven hours before I had to be up. I had ten hours left on my bike rental. It wasn’t really a hard decision when you looked at those facts. Stocked with some trail mix and water, I headed out into the night, just as everyone was heading in.

At first, I didn’t have a plan. I just went from street to street, with only a general idea of where I was. Copenhagen is pretty massive, but you can cover a lot of mileage on a bike. I kept that in mind as tall buildings gave way to houses. I passed under some sort of expressway, and before I knew it, I was back in the center of town. Hours were spent this way, going from one thing to the next, not knowing. And I loved not knowing.

The canals were mostly still, speckled sporadically with people sitting along the edges drinking beers. Dark restaurant windows and abandoned streets reminded me of the late time, and yet I kept going. Fast at first, afraid of losing momentum. But Copenhagen is not a fast-biking kind of city. So, eventually, I slowed, matching the pace of the rare person to ride alongside me.

Pretty soon, the night quieted like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Maybe because my instinct, when out late, is not to wander the streets, but rather to duck inside somewhere. However, there is so much beauty in a city at night. Of course, I wasn’t completely alone; Copenhagen has a great nightlife and I randomly bumped into masses of people exiting bars and clubs.

As I rode longer and longer, it transitioned from night to morning. I don’t know when the transition occurred, exactly, but pretty soon, I started to see lights turning on inside of apartments. Cars met me at intersections, and just as I realized it was almost time to leave for the airport, my hostel coincidentally stood not 200 feet away, beckoning me to come inside for a quick shower and pack-up.

I obliged, and pretty soon, I was on my way home, flying above the clouds, with not even one wink of sleep from the night before. I’d reluctantly turned in my bike, which had ridden who knows how many miles in the last 48 hours: 50? 100? But I was filled with gratitude, because my last night in Europe just so happened to be my favorite night.

Maybe because it technically never ended.

Reflections on Travel

aeileenr — Sun, 7 Sep 2014 10:04:00 GMT

Growing up, it didn’t take long for me to become consumed with the idea of travel. I remember declaring to my mother at an early age that I wasn’t interested in living in the United States because there were so many other countries to see. Why would I want to stick around in just one? I suppose a small part of me still believes that. It’s not that I don’t love California (because I do). The world is a gigantic place with millions of little cafés, corners, alleys, streets, and people who were all raised differently than me. I want to see it. I want to see it all. I never intend to replace the feeling of home, because I do think it’s important to have a home, even in an abstract sense. But before my time on this earth is over, you’d better believe that I will see and do as much as I possibly can.

Now that I’ve had some time to let everything sink in and gain some perspective on the whole trip, I think I’ve come to realize that travel means something different to everyone. No one person has the same experience while traveling; two people could go to the same places and do the exact same things, and still come out of it at the end with entirely different notions on their experiences. There is no guidebook-fits-all. Which is good, I think, because in order to form your own opinion about something, it really must be lived out in person. And being an aspiring travel writer, that really is the key: to inspire people to go out and have their own experiences.

As I sit in my apartment writing this blog post, I yearn for an Italian cappuccino, or the cobblestone streets of London. I miss the street art in Berlin, the Venetian canals, and the Florentine gelato. I miss everything about Copenhagen (seriously, my favorite city, ever, and I only spent two days there.) But I feel fuller, and more rounded, if that makes sense. I feel content with my place in the world. I feel stronger, mentally and emotionally. I know how I travel, and why I travel: because I don’t feel content learning about the world from a book. I need to see, explore, eat, sleep and be present in a place. I want to know a place much more than what I can read in a travel book or magazine. I want to forge these paths for others. That is why I travel. That is why I write. I want to share these experiences with others. And I know that I always will.

Lost but Content in Copenhagen

aeileenr — Wed, 27 Aug 2014 20:56:00 GMT

“Next stop: Sweden.”

Yep, I got so lost upon arrival in Copenhagen that I almost ended up in Malmö, Sweden. To be fair, Malmö is only a 35-minute train/bus ride from Copenhagen (on the Øresund Bridge), but still. I jumped up from my (surprisingly comfortable) train seat and booked it out of there before I ended up in a different country.

I was somewhere in the outskirts of Copenhagen (literally, it was the very last stop.) I was extremely tired due to my early flight from London, and I was cursing my suitcase for being So. Damn. Heavy. Finally, after the kindness of several strangers, I was somehow headed in the right direction to my hostel. Or, at least I hoped I was. Traveling really makes it impossible not to trust people. Take this bus to here, and transfer to there? OK. It ended up working out in the end, thankfully, and I managed to get to my hostel with only a few blisters.

It took me 4 hours to get from the airport to my hostel (when in reality, it should’ve taken about 40 minutes). However, I will say, Copenhagen is one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever seen, and getting lost was actually a pleasant experience. If I were to get lost here again, I wouldn't complain.

A few awesome observations I've made about Copenhagen so far: organic food is cheaper than non-organic food. It’s true, and it’s amazing. There is also free wifi on public transportation (which made life much easier for me when I was lost). People are happy here. It radiates from their faces. I swear, it's almost robotic (but in the nicest way possible, if that makes sense). Copenhagen was apparently voted the most livable city in the world, and I have to say, now that I am here, it makes total sense.

If all of that wasn’t enough, just imagine a city where bikes are the major mode of transportation (Like a 100:1 bike to car ratio). There are bike repair shops on every corner. Everyone speaks English because it’s a requirement in school. There is an under-population problem so the city is very child-friendly as they want to promote people to have children. The majority of people have master’s degrees. They all have free healthcare and education.

Ok, I'm done. I realize I sound like a walking advertisement for Copenhagen. It's just such an incredible city and the 24 hours that I've been here have been some of the most scenic and wonderful 24 hours of this entire trip. I've loved every city I've visited, but Copenhagen and I just click somehow. It's true love.

All in all, I am currently looking into a way to move here permanently.

How I Fell in Love with London All over Again

aeileenr — Mon, 25 Aug 2014 07:45:00 GMT

"London smells like history." That's what I catch myself saying over and over again as I ride along the river Thames on a bike. I am aware more than ever that history is greeting me with every corner turned and every street passed. Our biking tour group stops in front of a poultry butchery in Leadenhall Market that retains it’s original tables, counters, and walls: from 1670. And before that, before being rebuilt after the great London fire of 1666, it was a poultry butchery from the Middle Ages. So, really, there has been a poultry butchery here for about 700 years.

Leadenhall Market is one of the oldest parts of London. It dates back to Roman times, where it served as a basilica (or, public space). In 1321, the area now known as Leadenhall Market became the major place to buy chicken, turkey, eggs, and the like. In the 19th century, 34,000 geese stopped over in Leadenhall for the night during their migration. As our tour guide put it, “Hell of a place to stop over for the night as a goose.” Essentially, all but 1 goose was captured, killed, and sold. That 1 goose, who persistently escaped capture, was applauded for his elusiveness and was eventually kept as an honored pet. They named him “Old Tom,” and he lived for 30+ years. When he died of old age, they held a state funeral for him. That’s how loved he was.

That’s London. Every nook and cranny has a history; every part has a story. Every part has so much energy, and you can feel that as you walk the streets. The air has a certain scent of time; time passing behind and time moving forward. People may come and go, but London has stood its ground for over 2,000 years. The earth here practically vibrates with lives lived and lives lost. It's almost ghostly.

London is big enough to let you escape somewhere else for a night, and it’s small enough to hop on the Tube to visit your friend 20 miles away. Royal palaces dot the outskirts of town, and if you look closely, you can still see Medieval ruins on your way to one of these palaces.

There is something for everyone here. There are museums, parks, red double-decker buses (always sit on top!), old buildings, the river Thames, pubs, cobblestone roads, historical artifacts, tasty food, art… it’s no wonder London is considered one of the best cities in the world. It’s Mecca; it’s life at its core.

Ciao, Italy!

aeileenr — Fri, 22 Aug 2014 19:39:00 GMT

These are the facts: I am currently sitting in a cafe outside of Firenze S.M.N. train station. I am sipping a cappuccino before my train departs for Pisa. I am starting to get nostalgic for Italy in a strange and unfamiliar way, because, well, I am technically still here.

This was my first “real” trip to Italy (other than a half day in San Remo in 2007) and I was here for 4 whole days; enough time to get fully immersed in the Italian culture but not enough time to feel satisfied with my amount of time here. Does that make sense? It’s like Italy has served up this platter of incredible experiences, only to take it all back just as I am starting to get used to it; just as I’m starting to love it.

I met a lot of wonderful, friendly people. I ate some incredible food. I saw some breathtaking sights (I’m looking at you, Piazza del Duomo). I don’t speak a word of Italian except for “Ciao!” and “Gratzie,” (bye and thank you). But it hasn’t really hindered me at all. I’ve had some pretty impressive encounters simply by using my hands and smiling. It’s almost as if we don’t need words to communicate here.

Most of yesterday was spent in Lucca, a small, Tuscan village about an hour outside of Florence. I rented a bike and that was my mode of transportation for the next six hours. Lucca still retains it’s original city wall, and you can now bike or walk along it, around the entire city. The rolling Tuscan hills surround you, and whiffs of what I can only describe as “fresh countryside” fill the air. I, of course, stopped for gelato in the main square (which had almost no tourists compared to Florence) and just let everything hit me. This is the best day ever. Italy is awesome.

I head to London tomorrow morning and although I’m excited to begin the next leg of the trip in my favorite city, I also can’t help but feel a little sad that my time here is nearly over. Italy has stolen my heart with its crazy ideas about time and priorities (and suitcases!), the food, the people, the culture, and the magnificent sights to be seen (I mean really, get yourself to the Duomo, stat! It’s utterly stunning).

Ciao for now, Italy. I will surely be back soon.

Buon Appetito!

aeileenr — Wed, 20 Aug 2014 22:37:00 GMT

I suppose it would be ludicrous to be in Italy and not talk about the food. I know it’s overdone (because, Italy, duh) but seriously, FOOD IS A THING HERE. A very serious thing.

I spent the first part of my day in Florence walking from my hostel (which served the best full breakfast if I ever did see one), to the Piazza del Duomo, to the Uffizi Gallery, to the Ponte Vecchio, and finally, to the Palazzo Pitti. I was voracious by that point, and it had started to rain, so I ducked into a little Trattoria about a quarter mile from Palazza Pitti, called Trattoria la Mangiatoia, for lunch. Before I can say anything, a waitress quickly ushers me upstairs, and I notice I am alone. Fluorescent lighting, classic Italian decorations, and a gelato bar greet me as I take the table nearest to the to the kitchen. The chef is humming along to the Italian music on the radio.

Let me start off by saying that the food in Venice was… not that great. Don’t hate me! Maybe I missed something, but the 3 meals I had while there were just alright. I was disappointed. So I was very hopeful Florence would show me some scrumptious Tuscan cuisine.

The waitress doesn't speak English, but she knows what I mean when I say, “Please bring me whatever you would eat.” I don't bother with the menu as I will eat just about anything.

First comes the white wine. Fried zucchini blossoms follow, which, luckily, are in season (they are only available for a couple of months in the summer). A zucchini blossom is exactly what it sounds like: the blossom found on a zucchini. These particular ones are served in a brown paper cone to absorb excess oil.

Bread and olive oil are handed to me as well, which I take graciously, as if I haven't had 100% carbohydrates since being in Italy (I have). The bread is soft on the inside and fire roasted on the outside.

Then comes the pasta course. Yes, pasta is a course in Italy, not the main dish. The waitress brings me pasta with mussels, clams, and a giant shrimp the size of my hand. She takes her fingers and kisses her lips. “Buon Appetito!” It’s exactly what I was hoping for.

She then offers to bring me a meat dish but I have to decline. I am so overly stuffed by this point. Obviously I am not yet trained in the Italian way of eating at least 3 courses for every meal. Meat is typically served as the main course, followed by dessert, and lastly, an espresso. I make a mental note to come prepared next time.

During my long lunch, the restaurant starts to fill up with Italians (always a good sign) and I'm left sipping a sugary espresso (my third of the day, but who is counting?) Waitresses yell orders to the chef and a terrace door is opened as a stormy breeze flows through the muggy restaurant. It starts to rain again.

I’ve come to realize that meals are essentially the highlight of your day here; everything in between is just filler, time to run errands, see your loved ones, perhaps go to work. Then it’s time to start all over again with the food rituals. My waistband may protest in the coming days, but I think I am starting to understand the way of life here in Italy and I think, no, I am certain, I already love it.

La Dolce Vita

aeileenr — Tue, 19 Aug 2014 20:56:00 GMT

I cringe as the boat driver throws my precious things casually to the side, chuckling as I stare at him in disbelief.

Sitting on the Alilaguna water bus going from Marco Polo airport to central Venice, my suitcase sits above me on the deck, two inches from the side of the boat, with no rails: only two inches separates my suitcase from the water below.

"Won't my suitcase fall off?!” I nod towards the choppy water. One small bump, and my suitcase would surely go over the side.

"Oh no, no, no. It is very safe.” He gives me a toothy grin and I notice he has three gold teeth.

I smile, not entirely sure if I believe him. Surely there has to be a handful of people who lose their things to the Laguna Veneta. I imagine long lost suitcases, backpacks, and strollers at the bottom of the turquoise water, sitting peacefully. I wonder how it feels to know all of your things are gone, irretrievable, as the boat chugs along. I’ve been to Italy once before, in the north. I’m familiar the carefree lifestyle, which worries me further. I clutch my purse tighter. This may be all I'm left with after this boat ride.

In the western world, especially in the US, there is such an attachment to material things.

“That shirt holds special meaning.”

“Those books were the first books I bought in college.”

“I saved up months to buy this new computer.”

What is it about material possessions that stake their claim in our hearts, where memories, feelings, emotions, and love, should be instead? Obviously, it would be awful to lose your things to the Laguna Veneta, but it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Suddenly it hits me. Why am I worrying about a stupid suitcase? I am in Venice! Cream-colored buildings with turquoise and red roofs slide past me, as if in a moving slideshow. A boat of Italians wave as we pass them. We are almost to our destination: Madonna dell'Orto. We pull up to an enormous building, crumbling and majestic. This is Venice.

Of course my suitcase is fine. I make a promise to myself to be present and stop worrying about things that don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps it’s time to adopt the saying, La Dolce Vita; “The good life.”

Führerbunker

aeileenr — Mon, 18 Aug 2014 08:45:00 GMT

I stand in the middle of a small, modest apartment parking lot, surrounded by plain, brick apartment buildings. A willow tree looms to my right and a small, red and blue children's slide sits to my left, currently unused.

“Four meters below where you are standing is where Hitler committed suicide in 1945.”

Our tour guide pauses to let the powerful words sink in. “I could go on about what an awful human being Adolf Hitler was but I’m sure we are all aware. So instead, I just want you to look around.”

We do. A few lampposts are sprinkled throughout the open area. Families pass to and from their apartments. A few small birds land in a shallow puddle, nipping water quickly.

It’s hard to go anywhere in Berlin without being constantly inundated with World War II references. The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe is just down the street. Haunting, coffin-like structures jut out of the ground at different heights in an effort to portray the tragedy with art. The Ministry of Aviation, now a gargantuan government building, was once an integral part of Nazi Germany. Even standing on Potsdamer Platz, one of the main streets in Berlin, you are reminded of the second world war just by its sheer modernism and neoteric feel. The old Berlin is gone, and you stand in it’s young wake.

As the tour group moves on to the next site, I look over my shoulder just as a child gets onto the slide. Families live here, eat here, sleep here, love here. There is no plaque or memorial here (as it should be). The memory of an dreadful time is rightfully snubbed just by existing, unbeknownst to passersby, below the ground of some cracked concrete.

Photos: Euro roadtrip

aeileenr — Sun, 17 Aug 2014 08:02:00 GMT

2014

Berlin: Then & Now

aeileenr — Sun, 17 Aug 2014 07:56:00 GMT

In Berlin, where a serious-looking older woman in a suit sits next to a punk on the U-bahn, there seems to be a juxtaposition between the old Berlin and the new Berlin. The older woman who remembers “East” and “West” Germany; the same woman who passes the wall on her commute every morning and wonders, “Is this real?” The punk sips her beer slowly and laughs as her friend says something funny.

The towering concrete Berlin wall is painted with colorful murals, it’s significance overpowering; a reminder of the past, and hope for the future. Although somewhat desolate, love declarations scribbled hurriedly fill the empty spaces in each section, while love locks, keys discarded in the river nearby, sit locked in defiance of the past. Young tourists take selfies in front of the wall, in spite of its past. There seems to be a reoccurring theme in Berlin: rebirth.

Young musicians crowd the U-bahn entrances, happy to share their music with commuters. The older woman walks quickly away, paying no attention while the punk dances on her heels for a minute before hopping on her bike across town. Maybe that’s Berlin; the wall standing as a testament between the old and the new. No blurred lines, just a clear picture of how it was and how it is. Perhaps we’re all better for it.

Wrong Side of the Wall

aeileenr — Thu, 15 May 2014 17:37:55 GMT

We pushed through the Arab Quarter and focused on the dusty ground, avoiding eye contact with anyone as if that would disguise us. It didn’t. One elderly Muslim man with a turban spat at us, his face taut with anger; another yelled profanities in Hebrew while briskly shutting his shop doors to our group. Children ran around us quickly, frighteningly, singing and dancing and sticking their tongues out at us with youthful confidence.

They could tell we were with a Jewish group. They all hated us. Everyone here. I felt my throat get tight as I realized we had nowhere to hide. We’d taken buses and walked around Tel Aviv with no issues but here, the Holy Land, here people cared. It was a deeply personal issue to them. I heard a woman wailing at us, her face stricken with grief. She blubbered something in Hebrew, her words disguised by the thickness of her sobs. Israeli Jews probably killed someone she loved. She pointed an aging, wrinkly finger at me and I wished I could speak Hebrew. I’m sorry.

I’d never experienced hate like this before. Seemingly nice people walked away from us as our group marched on, lost in the wrong place, completely by accident. We’d wandered too far to the left. We’d ended up in the very place they told us not to go. The Rabbi’s wife cried silently next to me, her pious body clutching me for comfort. “They’re going to hurt us if we don’t get out of here soon.” I’d seen nothing but smiles on her lips since being in Israel. I knew we were in trouble. “We’re not supposed to be here.”

As we quickly trotted through the cobblestoned road, trying to find our way back, I noticed the harlequin rugs blanketing the doors and windows, masking the structure underneath, as if the shops were made solely from evocatively colored Persian wool. Each rug held a different story. Each rug was hung with pride. The gold ornaments, rubies, emeralds, incense, and multi-faceted clothing filled all of the little crevices in shop windows; windows that we were not permitted to look at.

We turned a corner and there stood a fifteen-foot-high gate armed with at least twenty Israeli soldiers. The Rabbi’s wife ran and hugged them; they let us through to the other side and we were safe in a matter of seconds. The metal ground behind us and each side was once again segregated from one another. I glanced back and saw a little Muslim boy staring at us through the cattle grid of the old gate with such eager curiosity. He did not yet know. Soon. Soon he would know.