I wasn’t planning on visiting London twice, but it was very expensive to fly direct from Stockholm to Madrid and the first visit with my mom was a last-minute thing. I was able to re-visit some of the places I had seen with my mom before to take pictures freely and navigate the city a bit more easily.

I figured the lack of a language barrier was appealing enough, especially after not really knowing what was going on in so many cities before. The funny thing, though, is that I could hardly understand about 50 percent of the people. The pronunciation is so different that if it weren’t for maps, I would have gotten very lost with the directions people gave me. This is not even considering the Irish or other non-Brits where it is nearly as taxing having a conversation with them as in Spanish, especially because you are telling yourself this is English, why don’t you understand? But when someone refers to High Street as Eye Street, that can surely confuse you when you are trying to visualize the scene. And since when is lettuce rocket?

My first day I ended up doing a 20-mile walking tour, evading the 5 Pound ($10) Tube costs. The friend I was staying with lived a bit outside the city, but it was quite easy to walk around because of the Thames River Pathway. It runs along the river, connecting to the main parts of the city center and always has plenty of opportunities to people watch. The Grand Tour included: Tower Bridge (what people mistakenly refer to as the London Bridge…which was sold and re-constructed in Arizona…), the National Portrait Gallery, Leicester Square, Picadilly Circus, the Photographer’s Gallery, Covent Garden, the major shopping area of Oxford Street (which I discovered was the scene of a knifing the afternoon before), the huge lawn space full of pickup soccer games and rentable beach chairs in Hyde Park (not the park from 101 Dalmatians, though–that’s Regent Park), Albert Memorial (gorgeous surprise), Harrods, Buckingham Palace and St. James Park, and finally Westminster Abby, Big Ben/Parliament, and the Eye at sunset.

Most places I just walked around and tried to pickup the vibe of the area, but I did walk inside the famous (although I do not recall hearing of it before–perhaps in the movies?) British department store, Harrods. With a doorman out front, it seemed like a posh hotel, while an attendant in the bathroom (free perfume samples and mints, of course) hinted at a deluxe restaurant or theater. The detailed signs and themed rooms (e.g. Egypt for handbag collections) gave it a museum atmosphere. (The price tags may have as well been from a museum.) No detail was overlooked in the frivolously decorated, well-staffed (way more employees than customers) departments, ranging from food and bakery to shoes to jewelery and accessories to card shop. I am sure the major department store we visited in Japan was modeled off Harrods, but the Japanese had a cleaner style and didn’t apply quite have the same outlandish decadence. I imagine Philadelphia’s former Wanamaker’s would have been similar in its heyday.

Nearly forgetting that London was the scene and inspiration for the Harry Potter books, my second day I headed out to Oxford. There were a few moments of debate as to whether I should visit Cambridge (considering I am more of a science and engineering person, approaching the apply-to-grad-school point of my life), but I chose Oxford since it was extremely easy and affordable to get to. Once again, I went without a map or even knowing which stop to get off at but a few questions later, I was on my way.

Though the town is chock full of tourists, the students were still in classes and as a result a number of buildings were (rightfully so) closed off to the public. Per the advice of a gift shop cashier (who saw my bag from Japan and struck up a conversation with me), I found the little cafe Rowling wrote some of her books in and paid for a tour of the Divinity School and Bodleian Library, both of which have interesting little histories and were used in a few scenes in the Harry Potter movies. I missed the Great Hall of Christ College, though, that is the setting for the Great Hall in the films. There is a highly acknowledged elitist feel to the university and without actually visiting any of the colleges themselves, it makes it quite hard for me to imagine being a student there.

My last morning in London I finished up my Harry Potter tour by visiting King’s Cross station with Platform 9 and 3/4, and Leadenhall Market that was, according to the bookshop clerk, “dressed up” to be the scene for Diagon Alley. As a last hurrah for my love of markets, I traveled along the Northern Line to visit the Camden Markets and the Borough, both of which would have been unpleasantly crowded had it not been drizzly or a Thursday.

Even with all this activity, I must admit that London was not one of my favorite cities. There is something about British people that strikes me funny funny and bothers me. Is it that they feel un-genuine and constantly busy (they have some of the most, at least somewhat healthy, meals-on-the-go options)? Is it their Victorian ideals coming out as curt and petty? Is it the accents? Maybe it’s the overdone pub life that my cousin referred to as her “living room” when she was an au pair there? Or maybe I have tainted myself with an air of bitterness towards the 2:1 exchange rate? Regardless, if there is a next time for Europe for me, I will most likely head to the rolling green hills of the towns outside of London and avoid the city proper.

Both Stockholm and Gothenburg could have been anywhere USA. Seems hard to believe, but it was the first place I found a Target-like store (which seems like an indication of America to me). Restaurants, stores, the hodgepodge of architecture, and my favorite—BARBEQUES! (they used these handy, disposable aluminum pans with charcoal roasting beneath a wire rack)—were all reminiscent of the home I was so close to returning to. American TV and all-English channels were just as common as Swedish ones and that is mostly due to the large bilingual population that sometimes switches between languages mid-conversation. The word you say in Swedish when you see someone on the street is Hey! (though it is spelled hej in Swedish). They also claim to not have their own arts culture and as a result the majority of their music (Jack Johnson is huge) and movies are American or, perhaps, British. The love of Ikea, H&M clothing, Volvo, Pippi Longstocking and the Nobel Prize are all associated with Sweden. And it was as if I was home because I wasn’t stared at (maybe my 25% Swedish heritage was shining through).

But, Sweden does have its own attributes. Take the food. I tried Chocolate Chili ice cream, oodles of black licorice candy, cola chews, and salt-flavored or -coated gummies. I bet it’s all around the world, but I had never before seen anything but lemon water while here I found cucumber and orange slices floating in pitchers of water. New tastes included Honey Saffron ice cream, Flabar flowers (sorry, no one knew the translation) used in lemonade or refreshing sorbet, and one that I didn’t try, tubes of salty caviar (could be dill, lemon, or any other variety of flavors). The assortment of breads and rye crackers was pleasantly overwhelming to the omnipresent white bread and baguettes in Spain. The biggest shocker was the fact that traditional Swedish meatballs are eaten not with noodles, but with boiled potatoes, a cranberry-like sauce, and sweet pickles. For breakfast, we had a very soft flatbread and muesli with yogurt in an orange juice-like carton that is unscrewed and poured out.

While I was there I met uncharacteristic 26 degree (79 F) weather which was quite an assault to the long sleeve and blue jean wardrobe I had packed. In fact, while there I got my first sunburn—even after four months in Spain! This was the main reason why I waited to go to Sweden to visit my cousins (well, third cousins). One is a student in the university town of Gothenburg and the other works not too far from Stockholm, where we rendezvoused after short train rides on both our parts.

Considering I was visiting my cousin during classes at her school, much of the talk was about the similarities and differences between Swedish and American university. Her university reminded me of so many other schools I have been to in the US. Computer labs, library, separate buildings for all the departments, construction, and flyers everywhere. Adding in a third comparison, the universities I had seen in Spain and other countries were either historic sites or just not appreciated with the same respect as I am familiar with. These buildings looked like students lived here and spent most of their time studying (er, “studying”) in contrast to so many others that seemed to just be places for class and then you leave.

In Sweden, being one of the most utopian and advanced country of Europe (as you go south, claims my Spanish professor, things deteriorate), education is free and the government even gives a monthly subsidy to help cover housing and food. Dorm living is not nearly as popular abroad and Greek life does not exist, as far as we could tell. But her university (and perhaps others), have Societies to serve the fraternity/sorority role. Although they are more academic oriented for a specific major, they throw parties, have a similar recruitment process for the current members to “bid” on you, and informal initiation tasks in order to show your dedication to the society. Within a university building, each society has a “secret” room to hangout and store their stuff in, often furnished with a huge sofa and big screen TV. Picking up a flavor of Scouts, each society has a jumpsuit uniform that is worn whenever they gather and is decorated with patches from other societies they have worked with or for completing predetermined tasks. It is an honor to be a member and an excellent resume attribute, but also a huge time commitment.

We wandered the city and a huge park with a free zoo (that would never happen in the US). I learned about a pick-up baseball game Swedes like to play called Burning Ball, the influx of immigrants, and how Sweden is losing religion with the exception of the songs on the last day of school they sing. Really, it could have been anywhere in the US.

Stockholm had a similar American-vibe to Gothenburg, too, but not as strong. The hippie, organic, fair trade only population is thriving, as we saw in one market and somehow people in University of Michigan apparel were all over the city. I must have seen at least 5 people wearing hats or shirts. Maybe there was some sort of reunion? Were they Swedes or tourists? We were puzzled, but it was fun spotting them all over.

Like New York City, Stockholm has a few islands, one of which reminded me of Mackinac Island with its resort atmosphere, folk culture, and nation-renowned foods. It is mostly a national park area with trails and little restaurants to grab a snack, but at the entrance dock where the ferry drops you off is the complete antithesis to all the tranquility and nature, a tourist-ized amusement park. Eww.

I found the city of Stockholm to be quite dirty with trash and graffiti more present than I recall in any of the other cities I visited. There must have been something about the area by our hostal because I saw people peeing in the streets at least three times over the course of two days. This was both drunken peeing as well as a woman who dropped her pants in broad daylight. Bushes or on the side of the street, it didn’t matter. Granted, the shock-quality of public peeing could be due to my suburb-upbringing, but I cannot recall it being so prevalent in any other place.

Our hostal was literally floating, located in the lower cabins of a docked boat turned restaurant, so we got the smells, compact spaces, and movements of an old ship all weekend. Throughout the weekend my cousin and I kept having the sensation that the ground was rocking.

It was interesting interacting with the locals because my cousin is Swedish and obviously speaks the language, but I just have English. Sometimes it was assumed that I knew Swedish and other times people assumed she didn’t know Swedish. I would ask a question in English and they would struggle to get a clear response back until she intervened. It was always this odd mix of English and Swedish, no one ever sure which language to speak (since many Swedes know English) or how much anyone understood. Again, between my Spanish, English, and ability to read people there was quite a lot that I did understand without translation (I could even sound out some menu items).

Even after walking all over the old part of the city and seeing the changing of the guard, searching for restaurants to eat at, visiting a market and some shopping streets, as well as enjoying the views from the national park and a big rock hill, we still managed to have more time than we knew what to do with in Stockholm. We played cards (I learned a new favorite) and went to the movies (English with Swedish subtitles) because for some reason this was the only weekend in May that didn’t have any live shows.

Disregarding the currency confusion (because Swedish Krona prices seem 10 times larger than Euros or Dollars, even with a balanced exchange rate—e.g. 84 Kr for a sandwich), some new characters in the language, and traffic lights that went Green, Yellow, Red, Yellow, Green, I really felt like I could have been in the US. I just didn’t feel too culturally challenged, though I think being with my cousins shielded me a bit from that. If it weren’t for them, I would probably never have visited nor felt like I was missing out on too much. Then again, it is kind of interesting finding a place where you feel like you are at home when you are so far from it. To counter this normality, the next time I visit my cousins and I are going to go to the northern tip of the country to see the Northern Lights and visit the cities of the Midnight Sun Coast, where there is only 1 hour of daylight or 1 hour of night, depending on the season.

Even though I found a good flight and couldn’t spend another climbing-the-wall, wasting away weekend in Madrid, the real reason I went to Munich was to be mistaken as a German, to be confused as someone in the foreign culture instead of always on the outside (as I so obviously am in Spain). With my typical American mutt status, I would say that I am around 25% German, which was apparently enough to fool at least three people when my big old camera was stowed away. One just walked up to me, speaking German and another older lady on the train took the opportunity to tell me (based on her giggle) a silly little side comment. My last name as a dead give away at the place I stayed, so the receptionist first asked if I spoke German instead of proceeding immediately with English.

I try to determine what language the person likely speaks from the origination clues in their face and I am sure the same is happening to me when others want to talk to me. In Spain, I have just made a point of starting the conversation out in Spanish to indicate that I know the language, but in France, Italy, and now Germany, too, I walk in kind of timidly and hope the other person will realize my inability to communicate and forgive me ahead of time for the potentially tricky conversation to follow. Despite the difficulty I had reading a menu (didn’t eat at a single restaurant) or asking simple questions, many of the Germans do know English through their multilingual education (unlike the stress in the US) so I got some help on the streets.

I remember hearing a comment once that English has a lot of ties to German, but since languages are constantly adapting and picking up new words from every culture (especially so in the immigrant-filled US–aren’t we all immigrants?) I didn’t think too hard about it. Visiting, though, proved this generalization. Here, let me show you. Below is a list of German words. Read them aloud and listen to the hard sounds, only sometimes paying close attention to the spelling.

• Garten
• Schokolade
• Reis
• Morgen
• Willkommen
• Parkplatz
• Vorsicht
• Fett
• Nine

Any sound familiar? If not, they will be even more so when I give you the answers:

• Garden, as in Biergarten and the origin (in fact, exact same word) of that crazy word we use to describe our first year in school Kindergarten
• Chocolate (vanilla was too easy, Vanille)
• Rice
• Morning
• Welcome
• Parking lot/Space (exact phrase I saw was an advertisement on the train Parkplatzprobleme?)
• Watch it (I am stretching the translation a bit to make it work. Saw it on a neighborhood sign with little children playing on it. Most likely means Caution, but I like my version better.)
• Fat
• No (fooled you, doesn’t mean 9)

Now I am not advocating that I could go out and read a book in German or pick up the language tomorrow, but it was fun playing the word games and noticing the similarities.

My overall impression of Munich was, at first, confusion but once I orientated myself from walking around for a few hours and riding the S-bahn/U-bahn (public transportation), I was able to enjoy the environment much more. Perhaps owing to my semi-German looking appearance or perhaps not, many Germans actually smiled at me if I caught their eye. In the market, the vendors grinned even if they knew I wasn’t looking to buy and when I was in the park outside a former palace of Maximilian Sunday morning this one man strolling with his dog gave me some of the most welcoming grins I have gotten as of all of my travels. And, no, it wasn’t one of those you’re-American-seduction grins–I can sense those.

Amidst all the beer, brautworst, hot dogs, and soft pretzels, there was still an acknowledgment of healthier foods and lifestyles. At the convenience stores and even in the train station where healthy food choices are generally difficult to come by, I was surprised to see a number of places selling pieces of fresh fruit for a reasonable price of .55€ with a sink mounted next to the bowl to wash the fruit. Impressive.

The city itself was full of bikers (special lanes for them alongside the walking parts; I nearly got run over a number of times for not paying close attention to the terrain) and in the parks I found a lot of people walking with those poles, as if they were going to confront a mountain sometime soon.

Munich, if you recall, was the host of the 1972 Summer Olympics and instead of keeping the buildings as a monument to the honor of hosting the event (as I felt in Barcelona), the entire park was still in use by the locals. Youth soccer practice was in session, trophies and pictures of ice skating events decorated the display case in the arena, and for a few euros or a yearly membership you could use the pool.

They took complete advantage of their space and the architectural feats of even the airport, as I was shocked to see a kids’ marathon-like event for a humanitarian cause going on in the plaza between the two terminals. Inflatable moon walks and dance-like music are the last thing you would expect to see among the last-minute shops and over-priced restaurants.

I wasn’t intending to visit the concentration camp just outside the city because I have learned a fair amount about the Holocaust over the years–enough to know that I didn’t want to see it again and open myself up to the horrors once more. But, for those exact reasons, I felt I had to visit. I was quite somber walking around and only a few of the scenes and details highlighted in the memorial were shocking to me because they were new information to me, but the majority of the people were not nearly as pensive and reflective. It was still a tourist place where groups would wait outside the heavily symbolic entrance gate for people to stop streaming through to snap The Picture. In front of a placard-like sign that read “Never Again” in five or six languages, two American girls were taking a picture and the one posing goes, “Like, uh, what do you do in front of something like this?” she says as she does a Vanna White stance. Just as appalling to me was the fact that people now live directly butted-up to the fence surrounding the camp. Of course, I was expecting the town to continue to be its charming, quaint self as the years go by, but I cannot imagine who (and there were a lot of whos) would choose to be reminded everyday of this, especially with the tourists souring the atmosphere a bit.

After all of that adventure, my weekend didn’t stop as I went to the Real Madrid-Atletico Bilbao game a few hours after I landed on Sunday. Tickets were expensive because, had the current second place team Villareal lost, the win would have clinched Real Madrid’s spot in La Liga championship game, sending all the fans to Plaza de Cibeles for a celebratory night-long party. My friend was all ready to go–even though he was in Greece that morning (we kept talking about how we needed to pinch each other because it still doesn’t seem real that we are here)–but now has a motivator to study for finals next Sunday in Real Madrid wins again. The few pictures I took are here.

It was quite a joyful reunion this weekend, visiting my mom in London while she was attending classes at the management school, Ashridge, for her PhD program. It was almost as if we were in the US again, attending some sort of intellectual gathering at a luxurious retreat. But after heading back into the city from the infinite shades of green in the countryside for some museums and a bit of site-seeing, it was quite a shock separating again from her. My teary eyes caught even me by surprise and I somehow still feel a bit sentimental thinking about the moment again. The light at the end of the tunnel is getting brighter as the days countdown. I have pictures from both London and Ashridge but not too many from either because the Mom was distracting me and my poor little laptop’s hard drive is getting mighty full.

Believe it or not, 5 euro flights really exist. To get to Belgium to visit the family of my friends (their siblings) I took a .01 cent flight with 4.99 in taxes. Granted, I did land in an airport an hour outside the city and did online check-in with carry-on luggage only and had to pay 50 euros to get back to Madrid, it was still a cheap flight for the weekend. Not that I am complaining, but the family really spoiled me with everything from the homemade meals and luxurious guest room to their willingness to show me around Brugge and Brussels. I didn’t have to think for even a second and my nose was far from being buried in a map.

As a result of such royal treatment, I of course love the city even more, but even without it I would have still liked the buildings and atmosphere in the Grand Place, the canals and Medieval architecture in Brugge, and most certainly the waffles, mussels, chocolate, chocolate, chocolate, and did I say chocolate? I also visited Waterloo, where there’s this hill with a lion on top symbolizing peace in Europe and a rotunda with a circular mural and sound effects to re-create the battlefield.

I came in on Thursday and left on Monday morning (landed at noon and got to class with my luggage and such by 2, no problem), so I got a real feel of what it’s like to live in Belgium. Of note are the mix/clash of languages in French, Flemmish, and even a bit of German, its small size (think Maryland), and that there is a countryside with very narrow roads (so much so that people often have to back-up for another Smart car to get past). Since I was not nearly as productive as I hoped to be over Easter Break, I did have a paper. presentation, and an exam to do while I was there , so I did not do as much as I would have liked (for example, visit Amsterdam or Germany), but I am happy to report that I at least received excellent grades on those projects, so my regret is not killing me.

Since I was in the company of the family or their friends the entire time, I did not seek the companionship I normally have in my camera, so I do not have as many pictures as normal. That, and the weather was kind of dreary–always seems to happen to me when I leave the warmth and sunshine we have in Madrid.

They say that a picture is worth more than a thousand words and after all the time I spend taking, organizing, caption-ing, and editing pictures I most certainly hope that’s the case. After 9 days in Italy for Spring Break and some 400 pictures later, here I am. I did some serious traveling in Italy, starting in Rome and the Vatican for a few days; then off to Florence to meet the girl I would be spending the next week with because she offered up her place in Bologna. From Bologna I was able to visit small towns (Ravenna, Ferrara) and tourist towns (Verona, Venice) by train for tickets averaging about 12 euros and one hour per direction.

I had no plans before I left Madrid on Thursday—no cities I had to see or even a map. I played everything by ear and visited every place without many expectations so it was all the more enjoyable and exciting. Of course, I “missed out” on some things because I didn’t research the open-and-closing hours ahead of time or read the books with all the “hidden” (and sometimes obvious) things to do in the city, but I really enjoyed simply exploring and walking around all these places. I didn’t ever have to feel bad about walking too quickly or not spending enough time somewhere because I was by myself during the day, going wherever my instincts took me.

I literally picked cities off the list on the screen for train tickets and bought a map once I arrived; so un-organized and free-spirited that you might not even have recognized me. The trains ran frequently and exactly on time, and with great scenery and their popularity among the Italians (hence good people watching), they were an excellent mode of transportation and way to see the country.

To keep from getting too lost, I often would pretend I was a car and follow the main roads until I got to a landmark on my map, using the street signs as my guide. I also learned to not be afraid of asking for help, be it directions or confirming the train you are waiting for and even getting on—only, remember to do this before the train pulls out of the station…

The gloomy rain and clouds complemented by cool temperatures from Tuesday through my return back to Madrid on Saturday definitely dampened my spirits and there was always a warm bed with a rented DVD from the shop around the corner tempting me to stay inside—especially because there was this neat, automatic system of checking out a DVD whereby you search for the title in the database and it spits out the disk like an ATM would distribute cash. Between the layers of clothes and staying in constant motion, it didn’t end up being too bad. Thank goodness there were no big storms, but I imagine I would have seen more museums if that were the case. (In fact, I really didn’t go in any museums. I wanted to see how all the cities lived and experience their atmospheres.) Plus, there were always signs in the storefront windows advertising air conditioning and gelato (which I never ate because of the weather) as a reminder that I could have been visiting during the tourist-crammed, sweaty summer that nearly every town was preparing for with restoration efforts blocking my experiences.

Every town in Italy has gorgeous, ancient, and huge churches/basilicas/cathedrals. I am still not sure quite what the difference is between all the terms. I must have visited at least 50 such buildings during my time there and, yes, they do all start to blend together in my head despite all the unique attributes each claims. I’ve seen so many that I am getting to the point where I feel like I am not appreciating them as much as I should. They are so beautiful, but you really can only absorb so much beauty over such a short time period before it all plateaus to a flat climax. I’ve seen so many stunning paintings, statues, chapels, organs, mosaics, and other decadent religious paraphernalia that I just can’t compare them anymore. People will probably gasp or rollover in their graves when I say this, but I just can’t tell the difference between one beautiful paining in, say, the small-town cathedral and the Sistine Chapel. Am I an ignorant fool for not being able to distinguish it all? It’s all just beautiful. Period.

Right alongside the religious buildings the next most common things in Italian cities are boutiques. Italy is King of fashion. Men, women, children, grandparents—they all dress fashionably, and proudly so. From the calf-high leather boots and metallic tennis shoes to sunglasses, perfumes, scarves, and not to mention handbags, they really care about what they’re wearing.. The only exception might be the rebellious teens with the destroyed jeans and mohawks. The Italian and, I’ve noticed, overall European attention to detail and striving to be an expert at your specialty is such a contrast from the mass-production lifestyle in which we are immersed in the US. But, on the other hand, there are a fair amount of knock-off venders and street markets run mostly by immigrants (Bangladeshi or African are the most common) to compensate for this extravagance.

Considering heavy meals of pasta, cheese, bread, and sausages are my American conception of Italian food, I was kind of worried about what I was going to find to eat. Psh, fear not. The food was cheaper, more varied and available, and better tasting than Spain. I was ecstatic to find baby carrots and very low prices on produce; it was hard to pass by and only once did I do the stupid thing of buying heavy food from the store when I had a long ways home. Good pizza, paninis, and rolled-up sandwiches—Italian fast food—were everywhere and for less then 3 euros. It wasn’t hard to find a place with plates of pasta (fresh, if you were lucky) for 5 euros and the concept of a salad or plate with lots of veggies for a meal exists in Italy, unlike Spain. But, I guess when you add-on the “service charge” or “silverware” price of 2 or 3 euros per person in restaurants as is set by the location, things about even out. Mind you, this “tip” is much more than the American 10-15% for whatever service you happen to get. You definitely have to read the fine print in European restaurants, as some will charge for bread that they put on your table and almost always for water.

One of my favorite things in Italy was something called “apertivos,” whereby a restaurant or bar will offer an all-you-want buffet of foods (olives, cheese, chips, salads, sausages, bread, rice, pasta) with the purchase of a drink (wine, beer, cocktail) and all for 5 to 7 euros. Any drink from their pretty extensive list or maybe you’d suffer through an Italian wine with as many plates full of food until they decide to stop bringing out more. What a deal. Maybe people get dinner afterwards, but I would see no reason to do so and we usually didn’t.

Since getting used to being a meanie and completely ignoring or looking through people on the streets, I did not notice the stares of the Italian men that bothered my friend so much. As soon as she pointed it out a couple of times, it was really easy to be aware of it. They are so obvious about it, it’s hard to believe. The face will pass and then out of the corner of your eye you will see the face again, instead of the back of their head. I have no idea what is going through their minds, but they most certainly have perfected the art of stare. Once I lingered and subtly turned the corner of my lips for a split-second on a man’s face (because my brain was trying to register that he looked like this actor in the movie we were watching) and he walked my friend off the sidewalk because he stopped looking where he was going. You might think it is a complement and I am sure some people would appreciate it, but I think it’s a bit weird; I know I’m not that drop-dead gorgeous to deserve such attention. This talent for staring didn’t stop, either, with the men as I watched the women sitting across from me on the train openly eavesdrop on this group of teens talking in the pod across the aisle from us like she was watching television or something. Oh, the cultural differences.

My overall impression of Italy was excellent, though I was glad to return to the warm sun in Madrid and not be running around so much. With my Spanish background I could actually understand a lot of Italian, but don’t ask me to talk. I’ve heard that if you speak Spanish with an Italian accent and intonation, you might be able to get by but the one time I did that the woman just talked back at me in Spanish and assumed I didn’t even know English. I always felt safe walking around, even in the graffiti strewn streets that are unfortunately all over.

I took over 350 pictures, which you can get to by clicking on the names of the cities in the post or visiting all my albums. There are lots of juicy details there and you can always get a nice summary from my where I’ve traveled page.

(Just as a comment on my on post, it’s no wonder I am so late to write anything because I have so much to say that I know it is going to take me a long time to write it all. Word count without this comment: 1599. Which is better, a picture or 1000 1599 words?)

Amidst the cold (well, the 20s in comparison to Madrid’s balmy 40s-50s) and thoughts of Amelie and Ratatouille, I spent a long weekend exploring Paris with a class at SLU that was open for other students to join them. We were a small group of 5 students (2 actually in the class) and a professor that I really liked (and only partly because he was recently diagnosed with type 1 diabetes).

Some of the themes were food (crepes, Orangina, open-air markets on side streets, and even a well-established international scene with many Greek and Japanese restaurants), lights (mostly on buildings at night making for some awesome pictures), city planning (lots of open spaces and wide streets, which is especially visible from the top of the Eiffel Tower), bookstores (multiple on every corner, but maybe more salient because I was traveling with a literature class), water and bridges (the Seine River runs through the city inspiring interesting architecture and landscapes, the marsh contrasting with the arid land in Madrid and Spain), and art, art, and more art (There’s more art than places to exhibit it –galleries, museums, on the street…They were at least smart enough to devise a system to keep the works organized in the national museums such the the Louvre has the oldest pieces up to the 1890s, the Orsay has the impressionists and pieces from the 1890s to 1914 or so, and then the Pompidou has everything after 1914.).

I was on my feet from my early morning wandering (starting at 10am is for the weak!) to tours of assorted neighborhoods and museums (check out my itinerary) for about 12 hours a day Thursday, Friday, and Saturday–counting food breaks for fabulous crepes, salads, salmon, and as much soup as I could get my spoon on to fight the cold. Thank goodness for my running leggings and under armor because blue jeans with two sweaters and a sweatshirt underneath a jacket and scarf would not have been enough for me.

Once again, luck was on our side as we had a great hotel location (very nearby the Notre-Dame Cathedral, the Sorbonne French university, Luxembourg Gardens, the Pantheon, and the Latin Quarter), missed all the long lines with our group guided-tours of the museums and managed to catch all forms of public transportation before our fingers and toes fell off. Though we were definitely paying quite a bit more for all this “luck,” everything went smoothly throughout our super-saturated trip. As a means of contrast, my friend was also in Paris this weekend and her hostal located 20 minutes outside of the city on public transportation was too new to have hot water and waited in line at the Louvre and Eiffel Tower for a few hours.

Like my first days in Madrid, I was frustrated because I couldn’t communicate with the locals despite my yearning to do so–except it’s obviously a bit more extreme since I have never studied French. I wanted to ask the market-men where are you from?, what’s the best in season?, or even the stupidest question of how much? My stark independence and rabid curiosity were forced to be constrained. The Professor interacted with the locals and served the vital role in translating menus, so I didn’t suffer too badly nor find even one instance of the rude French stereotype. The only stereotype I got a whiff of was smelly French people; I kept thinking it was me and found myself checking my breath or recalling if I put on deodorant that morning.

I came to realize, though, that no matter how much I may want to be a part of another culture–be it French, Spanish–I will always be an observer, never a member. I can’t look the part or speak with the native’s flair or even think and act instinctively in any of this rich cultures I have been visiting. No amount of studying, immersion, hair dye, or plastic surgery will ever do the trick. Part of me is saddened by this illusiveness, but it also makes each place and culture all the more beautiful and exotic because I know that it will never be and must remain at the level of a Platonic love affair.

Lots of excellent pictures and you can get a better sense of the chronology and reasoning of things by reading the captions like a story.