American Werewolf (in a library) in Oxford: My Europe

“Whether we like it or not, travelling forces us to evaluate our lives at every turn.”

Travelling is a transformative experience. It is also, among other things, fun, tiring, and just plain crazy. I traveled with a friend from Amsterdam to the Dolomite Mountains, hitting Brussels, Paris, Toulon, Nice, and Verona in between. In the mountains, I realized my money supply was running low, so I changed my plans. My friend left the mountains early to visit Germany and I stayed in the mountains for the rest of the week. Afterwards, I went back to Paris via Verona. From Paris I went to Prague and then to Oslo via Copenhagen. This is my Europe.

Amsterdam was cool. It's a very green city. There are very few cars on the streets. Instead, people travel by bicycle, tram, or foot. At night, the canals and bridges light up, giving the place a surreal glow. Next was a quick stop in Brussels. It's a grand ol' place where the breeze carries with it an air of waffles
Next was Paris, a special place. There is so much on offer there; and above all else, the food is amazing. The Louvre, Tour Eiffel, Arc de Triomph, Notre Dame, and Sacre Coeur are out of this world, and also amazing tourist traps. At the hostel, my friend and I met this funny Romanian kid, though he insisted he was Transylvanian. Instead of saying a thing was "cool" or "nice" he would say "boom goes the dynamite!" We all went out to a club in the Latin Quarter, snuck into the VIP section, and had an awesome night. Also, I got conned in Paris and I’m not proud of it.

This guy, in an ambiguous – but nice – black car, pulls up to my friend and me and tells us he is a big time designer from Milan.

“Cool, we might be going to Milan in a few days,” I said.

Without giving me so much as a chance to draw a breath, he says he is in Paris for a grand fashion show, but spent all of his money at the casino the night before. With intense enthusiasm, he tells me I've won the lottery and pulls out two jackets wrapped in plastic from his backseat and hands them to me.

“They are real leather and real suede, worth 1000 Euros each,” he exclaims.

He makes out to shake my hand, but then pulls me through his open car window – only a few inches from his face. He points towards his gas meter, which is sitting on empty.

He makes us a generous offer: “When you are in Milan you can have dinner with my family, and we’ll all eat authentic spaghetti and meatballs.” He releases my hand and gives me his card. There is one small problem though.

“You see,” he says in desperation now, “I need 100 Euros so that I can drive back to Milan.”

At first I thought, “no way” and stepped back, looked at my friend who had a dumbstruck-approving grin on his face, and looked quickly at the two jackets in my hand.

“Fine”, we said, “we’ll give you the money.”

“See you in Milan, Salvatore” we said with naïve enthusiasm.

He drove off and not ten minutes later, adrenaline fading, we realized the jackets were knock-offs. What can I say? Paris is an expensive city.

After Paris, we went to Nice. It attracts the rich, famous, and beautiful (emphasis on beautiful) probably because it is delicately situated in between the Mediterranean Sea and a small mountainous region, with white alpine peaks visible in the distance. At the station, a woman wearing a gown and red cape approached us and asked, in a Boston accent, for directions to her hotel. We obliged by offering to walk her there, seeing as it was late at night. She immediately began retelling the story of her night at Prince Albert’s annual ball in Monaco. Apparently, she once had an affair with the young Prince; but, to her dismay, he threw her out on the curb and married a more socially acceptable, but utterly despicable, aristocrat. At the ball she said she was singled out by Albert’s new wife and tormented in front of the entire crowd. Underlying the red caped woman’s chipper attitude was a sense of disappointment that her life never amounted to something more fantastic. Yet, here she was, trying ever so hard to once again climb the social ladder. We couldn’t take her babble anymore and said goodbye. Thus, the tone was laughably set for Nice.

I spent most days hanging out on the beach and chowing down on seafood. The beach provided much needed calm after a stressful term in Oxford. And I say calm with the exception of the Crazy Man. He was probably awesome, despite scaring away groups of girls with his incessant, drunken singing. One of the highlights of Nice, aside from the Crazy Man, was the all-you-can-eat mussels and fries from a local seafood place. What’s more, each bucket of mussels came in a sauce of my choice. They were delicious and I was stuffed. The hostel in Nice was really nice too. It was the best priced yet most luxurious of all the hostels I stayed in. It was situated in an old monastery on the hill overlooking the city, with art lining all its hallways and an art-deco stained glass wall illuminating the breakfast hall. Eventually, with a longing for the beach, I boarded the train for Verona.

“When in Verona,” a friend in London reminisced, “go to a café and just sit.” And I did just that. Verona is an Italian town with crumbling renaissance buildings, a gushing Shakespearean river, and two looming hills guarding the townsfolk. The hostel there was located in an old fifteenth century building with vanishing frescos on every wall and secret stairwells around every corner. Outside was a vast wild garden with ancient, moss covered statues hidden behind scraggly grass and under wild brambles. Carved into the cliff in the back of the garden was a Romanesque balcony where, I imagine, Juliet longingly called out to Romeo. Yes, it was a nice place. And even better was the pizza in Verona. Just writing about it makes my mouth water. We hung out with a cool Brazilian named Eduardo. He was on vacation from studying in Switzerland and looking to try the world’s different foods. We talked a lot about food with him and he taught us a lot about it too. Saying goodbye to the pizza and gelato, we made leave for Selva Gardena: an obscure village in the Italian Alps.

The mountains were inspiring. Humongous craggy sheer face rocks jut out from the earth and pierce the sky. Many are over 9000 feet tall. I spent the week hiking up and down the roads that snaked through mountains and valleys. I even climbed a small mountain, with a chicken coup at the base. My legs were like jello afterwards. The time I spent recovering in the cabin, I spent reading The Master and Margarita . The time I spent in the town, I spent eating hot-out-the-oven apple strudel from the local bakery.

From the mountains I was planning to go back to Paris, where I would stay with family friends in the Parisian countryside. At the station, however, I found out that the Italian railway workers were on strike. So, I took a detour to Verona. I arrived tired and hungry. I put my stuff down in the old hostel on the hill and went to a fast-food Mexican place nearby, where I knew a pretty student worked. We spent the whole night talking, although she didn't speak much English. I found out her name was Jasmine and we made a date for the next day. The following morning I walked around a bit and sat at a café for a while. Afterwards, I met Jasmine and we searched for a little restaurant overlooking a bridge on the river where the sounds of flowing water could be heard from the veranda. We ate lasagna and drank some wine. Good thing she brought an English-Italian dictionary with her, even though it was from the 70's. After lunch we walked around a bit and visited an ancient, ornate church. Then we went up the Torre Lamberti, the imposing tower in the city center, in time to hear the bells toll. We spent the rest of the afternoon up there. When the day was ending we rushed back up the hill so that she could get back to work and I could pack. Then I had to say good bye, and got on the overnight train to Paris.

Paris the second time round was even better than the first. The family I stayed with was really nice. Gerard, a former Boeing 747 captain, drove me around the city and took me to a traditional French restaurant called La’ Entrecote. The place is famous for its traditional service, sexy French-maid waitresses, and all you can eat steak and french-fries drenched in, the aptly named, “secret sauce”. Nicole, a worldly art trader, took me to see Fontainebleau, the palace where Napoleon gave his farewell address. Afterwards, we drank coffee and shared pastries. Gerard and Nicole live in a rustic Tudor-style thatched roof house on a small hill in the Parisian countryside, with a shy cat and blackened hearth. On a cold Sunday, all the grandchildren came over and we had tea and pastries by the crackling fireplace. I spent one day in Paris reading Indignation by Roth from cover to cover. I also learned that day that ordering a glass of wine with lunch earns a Parisian’s respect, regardless of the American accent. While in the countryside, I ate lots of stinky cheese which, surprisingly, I learned to like. Every night we had the same three cheeses to choose from, varying in degree of smell. The smelliest was lovingly dubbed by the family as “Fukushima cheese.” In general, the people I met in Paris were chill; they knew how to live life slow, enjoy the little things, eat quality food, and just be.

It was a long journey to Prague. In Nuremburg I switched from the train to the bus. I sat next to a hacking, bald old-man dressed in lederhosen. He carried with him a pipe, drank beer throughout the six hour journey, burped a lot, and looked at pictures of hats on his Mac. I kid you not. I met up with a friend from Wash U who is studying there. She taught me a lot about the city’s history, making clear that Prague is Central, not Eastern European. We went out for drinks on the first night. The bar at first sight looked calm and typical, until we climbed down into its bustling and expansive basement. Once down there we encountered numerous cobblestone chambers separated by smoky passageways. The next day I walked around the city, visiting its many famous buildings. I got to meet my friend’s host family, a past middle-aged mom and dad warm in appearance but stern underneath. My hostel in Prague was really nice, almost on par with Nice. Prague is an outstanding city and far exceeded my expectation that it would be as dull as reading the bible in a theme park. It is a city all about craft beer and hefty meat dishes, full of friendly people, pet dogs without leashes, medieval buildings, buzzing trams, public parks, museums, art displays, and food stands. The beer and meat are refreshingly well-priced at almost any restaurant, even the nicest ones. Prague is a happening city.

The train to Oslo took 18 hours, punctuated by an overnight stop in Copenhagen. On the second leg of the journey, the train boarded a ferry to cross from Denmark to the Norse peninsula. It was really cool walking around on deck and looking out through the fog onto the dull grey ocean. My aunt met me at the Oslo train station when I arrived. I stayed at her and her husband’s apartment for the three days I was there. I basically hung out with her, their Boerboel, and their 4 year old daughter. We went to pick Maya up from school, which is in the city’s only synagogue. It still has bullet holes from World War II. It was also strange hearing Jews order matza in Norwegian. Later on, we visited the top of the hill overlooking the city and the fjord. There we ate shmorgesbord sandwiches and rommegrot porridge, a sour cream and flour dish dating back to the Viking era. We saw the Viking ships in the Vikingskipshuset and Vigeland’s famous sculptures in Frogner Park. Oslo is a beautiful city, if not a bit quiet and a lot expensive. The people are nice and their language sounds like they are singing. All in all, a great place to end the adventure.

Now, I'm back in Oxford and have realized that the true marvels to behold on a journey are not just monuments and museums but also comfortable beds and friendly faces. Meanwhile, it’s spring here and tutorials are just beginning. I am looking forward to learning Epistemology and Economics of Industry this term. Although there is a stark contrast between the libraries in Oxford and the beaches in Nice, I am happy to be studying again.

Link to the video album: http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=222734141077178