Before we get into the rest of our trip in Barcelona, let's get something out there: we were total brats the entire time.
So how did we go from Europe on a budget to barely budging before turn-down service?
It all started with some off-putting TripAdvisor reviews of our original hotel, the Hotel Ronda. A couple of people commented about how drunk college students tended to run through the halls at all hours of the evening. And while we were planning to consume alcohol and also act dump stupid, the thought of having to share our hallways with other people seemed way too risky! Congested hallways...no thanks!
So before ever setting foot in Spain, we called around (well, the travel agent called around), and booked a room at the Hotel Claris.
The Hotel Claris had a lot going for it. For starters, the concierge gave us a complimentary bottle of red wine. Hell yeah! Unfortunately, we didn't end up enjoying it until both Michelle and I happened to be wearing white pants. So we erred on the side of practicality and put on our terry cloth Hotel Claris bathrobes and started sipping. We never made it to Versailles, but something tells me this wine-drinking ritual rivaled it in decadence.
Another perk of the Hotel Claris might seem average at first, but trust, it's not. Water fountain. Yes, water fountain. At the Claris, if you take the elevator to the rooftop, hang a left at the pool, climb a set of narrow stairs, and then enter the gym, you come across a ray of shimmering hope in the form of a metallic box that produces freezing cold water at the push of a button. Price: 0 euro!!! And if you've been to Barcelona, you know that between the sightseeing and the hangovers, there's nothing more important than staying hydrated. We'd literally start every afternoon by taking hits at the water fountain. Lining up and taking turns powering through the brain-freezes in hopes of staying hydrated and also just taking advantage of the cheapest shit at the Calris. Barcelona on a budget!
But don't go run and book a room just yet. The Claris definitely had a pitfall. The concierge basically physically prevented us from doing anything touristy in Barcelona. Literally, any time we asked the concierge for directions to any sight other than a Michelin-star rated restaurant, she'd scream "we have a code red!" and like, metal bars would descend on all of the windows and doors. It got to the point where we just had to lie about where we were going. Like one time, we asked the concierge if there's a place to eat at the Gaudi Park. The lady straight-up said no even though we were basically positive you could grab a bite there. So we lied and said we'd eat nearby before leaving just to avoid having them make a reservation at the 100 euro Tapas place at the W.
So that basically covers our accommodations, now let's get into the sights, the restaurants, and the entertainment that occupied our remaining three days in Barcelona.
All of the sights we saw in Barcelona were pretty damn amazing. But one in particular sticks out: the Pueblo Espanda. Honestly, I'm not even sure if that's what it's called, but who cares since none of you recommended it anyways. This thing was a relic from a World Fair some decades ago, and was actually supposed to be demolished thereafter. Charming! The attraction consisted of a whole bunch of replicas of historically significant architecture throughout Spain. On paper, it sounded great. In person, eh? But no worries! We had a real blast running around assuming everything else we saw in the park was a replica too. Do you think they have replica pickpocketers? Ew, I just stepped in replica dog poop!
After the Pueblo Espanya, we walked around this really ambiguous part of Barcelona. We saw the Magical Fountain, during the daytime, which basically just made me miss our water fountain. To quote Emmy, "we did Barcelona wrong."
More coming soon. Oh, we're back in America now.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
First full day in Barcelona!
Dia uno in Barcelona consisted of a lot of rain and a lot of Gaudi. Our first stop was some Gaudi house on the like Placa de Gracia (spelling?). Zach and Michelle were easily able to get student discounts even though neither of them had appropriate identification. The ticket ladies essentially let them go in for free. I, on the other hand, was like, practically forced to recite fun facts from European History to prove that I've sat in a classroom before. And all because my student identification card didn't have a date on it! Gaudi would roll over in his grave if he knew about this.
Once we entered, Zach and Michelle whipped out their cameras and got to work. Michelle took lots of nice pictures of the fanciful architecture; Zach sort of just ran around taking pictures of random shit, including, but not limited to, every door knob, screws, and like, exit signs. When I called him out for it, he replied, "What, it's for my Mom!" Lucky her.
After this attraction, we tried to stop by the Picasso museum. Despite the pouring rain, the ticket line appeared to stretch all the way to the W. (Inside joke alert.) After a flurry of confusion, we gave up on being cultured Europeans and decided to just be fat Americans instead. Yes, we went to the Museum of chocolate. And yes, we only liked it because the ticket to the museum of Chocolate was printed on a chocolate bar. Hell yes! Price for three chocolate bars and a place to stand while it rained: 20 euro.
Dinner that night took place at a restaurant in El Born called Cal Pep. Jeremy recommended this restaurant to us. But he also apparently recommended it to like, 345 of his other closest friends because we ran into a bunch of them in the restaurant. Small world!
After dinner, we hit up Chupitos. Either we picked the worst Chupitos ever, or you guys were just innocent juniors when you went there and thought that cheap shots were like, the coolest thing since hand-sliced multi-grain. The scene at Chupitos was primarily British, so I naturally started to do my best "Charlie bit me" impression. The Brits did not appreciate this and began singing our national anthem (fun fact: they knew the words better than Xtina Auguilera). All in all, our drunk escape from Chupitos was all too reminiscent of the Revolutionary War. The British are coming, yo!
Before Razzmatazz, we the trio hit up somet decently fancy gin bar. Michelle and I let our American flag fly and ordered a bucket of beer. Zach, however, went for it and ordered some fancy gin drink. The bartender then proceeded to engage in the most elaborate drink-making process ever. He was like, peeling limes behind his back, pouring gin down the crown of his nose, and also catching doves and then forcing them to shed tears into the drink for garnish. Michelle and I could not hold back our laughter, which was undeniably fueled by our bucket of beer.
Razzmatazz was basically what we expected. However, ending up next to a group of young adults who ended up working at the same company as Michelle's dad was definitely an unexpected highlight. Fun fact for the young adults, though: don't try and network outside of a club called Razzmatazz. These kids were probably the only people in the history of Razzmatazz to reach into their pockets and pull out business cards.
In other news, I'm extremely behind in the blogging department. On the way: the final two nights in Barcelona, Cannes, Saint Tropez, and Florence!
Once we entered, Zach and Michelle whipped out their cameras and got to work. Michelle took lots of nice pictures of the fanciful architecture; Zach sort of just ran around taking pictures of random shit, including, but not limited to, every door knob, screws, and like, exit signs. When I called him out for it, he replied, "What, it's for my Mom!" Lucky her.
After this attraction, we tried to stop by the Picasso museum. Despite the pouring rain, the ticket line appeared to stretch all the way to the W. (Inside joke alert.) After a flurry of confusion, we gave up on being cultured Europeans and decided to just be fat Americans instead. Yes, we went to the Museum of chocolate. And yes, we only liked it because the ticket to the museum of Chocolate was printed on a chocolate bar. Hell yes! Price for three chocolate bars and a place to stand while it rained: 20 euro.
Dinner that night took place at a restaurant in El Born called Cal Pep. Jeremy recommended this restaurant to us. But he also apparently recommended it to like, 345 of his other closest friends because we ran into a bunch of them in the restaurant. Small world!
After dinner, we hit up Chupitos. Either we picked the worst Chupitos ever, or you guys were just innocent juniors when you went there and thought that cheap shots were like, the coolest thing since hand-sliced multi-grain. The scene at Chupitos was primarily British, so I naturally started to do my best "Charlie bit me" impression. The Brits did not appreciate this and began singing our national anthem (fun fact: they knew the words better than Xtina Auguilera). All in all, our drunk escape from Chupitos was all too reminiscent of the Revolutionary War. The British are coming, yo!
Before Razzmatazz, we the trio hit up somet decently fancy gin bar. Michelle and I let our American flag fly and ordered a bucket of beer. Zach, however, went for it and ordered some fancy gin drink. The bartender then proceeded to engage in the most elaborate drink-making process ever. He was like, peeling limes behind his back, pouring gin down the crown of his nose, and also catching doves and then forcing them to shed tears into the drink for garnish. Michelle and I could not hold back our laughter, which was undeniably fueled by our bucket of beer.
Razzmatazz was basically what we expected. However, ending up next to a group of young adults who ended up working at the same company as Michelle's dad was definitely an unexpected highlight. Fun fact for the young adults, though: don't try and network outside of a club called Razzmatazz. These kids were probably the only people in the history of Razzmatazz to reach into their pockets and pull out business cards.
In other news, I'm extremely behind in the blogging department. On the way: the final two nights in Barcelona, Cannes, Saint Tropez, and Florence!
Monday, June 13, 2011
A night in Paris.
I’m unfortunately writing this about two days after we left Paris, which is about twenty years in Euro-trip travel time, so details might be sparse. But I’ll just lie if I can’t remember something.
The start of our glamorous Parisian vacation began around 10 p.m. when we pulled into Paris Nord or something. I could get into the gory details of navigating the metro station with two large pieces of luggage and two small American brains, but I won’t. Let’s just say that Paris didn’t exactly roll out a red carpet fabricated from food-dyed crescents. (I might invent this.)
After getting to our hotel, Zach and I sat down for our first big Parisian meal: an orange, a Clementine, and two apples. We ate them in the confines of our tiny room, sort of just starring at each other and shaking our heads. Total meal price: 9 euro.
The next day began with a nifty American import: Michelle! The three of us quickly threw on some clothes and hit up a café. The food was great but some seriously bizarre parade interrupted the meal. People were like trying to seduce Zach and Michelle with black silk scarves and to put a coffin on our table. Something tells me these parade-goers take the “Twilight” movies way too seriously. Team Jacob!
After lunch, we split up: Zach and I wandered through the Louvre and Michelle glided through her old stomping grounds. (She lived in Paris for a bit.) The Louvre kind of reminded me of a mall that only sells old naked statutes. I was expecting to find a Le Auntie Anne’s Pretzels at every corner. Never found one, but Zach and I did end up finding both the bathroom and the Egyptian exhibit. This feat is pretty remarkable because Zach and I never verbalized to each other what we were looking for (I wanted to walk like an Egyptian and Zach wanted to pee like one), so every time we took turns asking a security guard for directions, we essentially cancelled out the previous directions we were working off of. Needless to say, we accidentally spent like nine hours in the damn Greek exhibit. I want a Greek salad.
Oh, we also saw Mona Lisa. Mona sort of looked like a celebrity walking down the red carpet with a swarm of paparazzi surrounding her. Pretty sure we heard people call out “Mona, what are you wearing?” and “Mona, flash us a smile!” It was dumb.
The Louvre really exhausted Zach and he basically stopped speaking for two hours. After a couple of “Zach, I think you need to go to Le Hospitales,” he eventually got a bottle of water (Price: 6 euro), and completely rebounded.
That night, the three of us had dinner at some Italian spot. The food was delicious and the wine was red. Nothing too shocking happened here other than making the wait staff stay like, 45 minutes past their normal closing time. Oops! But we’re just fat Americans, so what do we know.
The rest of the evening was spent at a variety of interesting haunts, including one bar that was none too pleased that we walked in, peed, and headed for the exit. The bouncer kinda became aggressive when we tried to leave. After escaping, we called out things like, “Yeah, well I left the seat up!” and “I peed on the seat!” (This is an example of me making stuff up.)
The taxi ride home that night was also pretty memorable. Why? Because our idiotic driver essentially dropped us off in Barcelona. Didn’t he see the itinerary! Barcelona ain’t until tomorrow! Anyways, the dude clearly knew he fucked up because he actually popped out of nowhere a minute or two later, took one look at our aimless wandering, and asked if we were alright. We said Qui, so he drove off. Apparently he doesn’t know that the actual translation of Qui is “Does it fucking look like we’re alright!” Anyways, we made it home and slept like actual rocks. Seriously, moss growing and everything.
Other stuff happened in Paris too. Example: we went to a car show featuring Ralph Lauren’s award-winning car collection. The car show was some serious Purple Label shit. I wish we were allowed to take pictures. Or rather, I wish Zach was allowed to take pictures.
Coming soon: a comprehensive explanation of why easyJet is the most ironic name ever. Oh, and Barcelona!
The start of our glamorous Parisian vacation began around 10 p.m. when we pulled into Paris Nord or something. I could get into the gory details of navigating the metro station with two large pieces of luggage and two small American brains, but I won’t. Let’s just say that Paris didn’t exactly roll out a red carpet fabricated from food-dyed crescents. (I might invent this.)
After getting to our hotel, Zach and I sat down for our first big Parisian meal: an orange, a Clementine, and two apples. We ate them in the confines of our tiny room, sort of just starring at each other and shaking our heads. Total meal price: 9 euro.
The next day began with a nifty American import: Michelle! The three of us quickly threw on some clothes and hit up a café. The food was great but some seriously bizarre parade interrupted the meal. People were like trying to seduce Zach and Michelle with black silk scarves and to put a coffin on our table. Something tells me these parade-goers take the “Twilight” movies way too seriously. Team Jacob!
After lunch, we split up: Zach and I wandered through the Louvre and Michelle glided through her old stomping grounds. (She lived in Paris for a bit.) The Louvre kind of reminded me of a mall that only sells old naked statutes. I was expecting to find a Le Auntie Anne’s Pretzels at every corner. Never found one, but Zach and I did end up finding both the bathroom and the Egyptian exhibit. This feat is pretty remarkable because Zach and I never verbalized to each other what we were looking for (I wanted to walk like an Egyptian and Zach wanted to pee like one), so every time we took turns asking a security guard for directions, we essentially cancelled out the previous directions we were working off of. Needless to say, we accidentally spent like nine hours in the damn Greek exhibit. I want a Greek salad.
Oh, we also saw Mona Lisa. Mona sort of looked like a celebrity walking down the red carpet with a swarm of paparazzi surrounding her. Pretty sure we heard people call out “Mona, what are you wearing?” and “Mona, flash us a smile!” It was dumb.
The Louvre really exhausted Zach and he basically stopped speaking for two hours. After a couple of “Zach, I think you need to go to Le Hospitales,” he eventually got a bottle of water (Price: 6 euro), and completely rebounded.
That night, the three of us had dinner at some Italian spot. The food was delicious and the wine was red. Nothing too shocking happened here other than making the wait staff stay like, 45 minutes past their normal closing time. Oops! But we’re just fat Americans, so what do we know.
The rest of the evening was spent at a variety of interesting haunts, including one bar that was none too pleased that we walked in, peed, and headed for the exit. The bouncer kinda became aggressive when we tried to leave. After escaping, we called out things like, “Yeah, well I left the seat up!” and “I peed on the seat!” (This is an example of me making stuff up.)
The taxi ride home that night was also pretty memorable. Why? Because our idiotic driver essentially dropped us off in Barcelona. Didn’t he see the itinerary! Barcelona ain’t until tomorrow! Anyways, the dude clearly knew he fucked up because he actually popped out of nowhere a minute or two later, took one look at our aimless wandering, and asked if we were alright. We said Qui, so he drove off. Apparently he doesn’t know that the actual translation of Qui is “Does it fucking look like we’re alright!” Anyways, we made it home and slept like actual rocks. Seriously, moss growing and everything.
 |
| Purple Label Shit |
Coming soon: a comprehensive explanation of why easyJet is the most ironic name ever. Oh, and Barcelona!
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
I Amsterdam.
So we went to Amsterdam! Our flight arrived at about 7:00 a.m., and we deplaned and gathered our luggage by about 8:00 a.m. Pretty straight forward stuff.
Finding our way from the airport to the hotel, however, was not so straightforward. We did our best to follow the hotel’s directions. They seemed foolproof at first, but ultimately confused us two fools to hell and back. All in, we purchased about $70 worth of train tickets. It got to the point where we literally just started buying tickets to stations with “Amsterdam” in the name. The hotel should really just save its guests the confusion and shorten its directions to “get on a train and see what fucking happens.”
We eventually made it to the hotel and proceeded to pass the fuck out. After awaking, we really began to appreciate just how bananas our room was. The toilet was literally in a glass-enclosed tube in the center of the room. If the toilet overflowed, you’d probably just drown inside the tube. Not really one of the hotel’s selling points unless, you know, you’re down to die peeing.
Anyways, let’s delve into our 36-hour stay in Amsterdam. First off, all of the attractions you guys recommended were pretty stellar. Well, except the Heineken Factory. That shit’s like paying $30 to sit through a 45-minute Heineken commercial. But we did get a beer-pouring lesson out of it, so let’s call it a wash.
Second, a lot of funny stuff happens in Amsterdam when you explore it the way it’s meant to be explored. For starters, Zach and I felt compelled to walk around the city for hours. Literally, dozens of maps in hand, pounding the pavement, occasionally spewing out phrases like “I know a shortzën cütsën” and “Deutsche wish your girlfriend was hot like me.” Basically mindlessly stomping around Amsterdam like we owned the place. (Side note: we kind of did own the place; we were accidentally tipping way too heavily earlier in the day, and the city will forever be indebted to us.)
During our walk, it felt like we navigated the entire city. (In reality, we never left a three-block radius. But what a radius it was!) On one corner, Zach stopped to buy a baguette in an Italian deli. On another, Zach starred two girls, who were adorned with massive backpacks, dead in the eye and said, “You two are literally backpacking through Europe.” And on another corner still, Zach started to play himself in tennis with a weird tether-ball game. This game would’ve been great for like, an only-child version of Serena Williams. Not really so great for Zach, though.
Oh, and on another corner, I had the great fortune of stepping in a heap of dog shit. At the time, my gut reaction was that I stepped on someone’s sock. It was not a sock.
After scrubbing down my shoes in a bunch of puddles, we hit up Starbucks. At first, we felt really comfortable there; we gave Europeans Starbucks, so it’s like a safe zone. But then some people next to us started looking around on the floor, making lots of comments, and looking irritated overall. I turned to Zach and said in as serious and as quiet of a voice as possible, “I think they know about the dog shit.” Turns out they just needed an outlet for their laptop or something. Phew!
After another series of naps, we headed back out into Amsterdam. Our first stop was a quick rendezvous through the Red Light District. In Cornell terms, this shit’s definitely the real Ho Plaza. Go big red!
Our second stop was a 2:30 a.m. grilled chicken sandwich taste-test competition between McDonald’s and Burger King. Our McDonald’s taste-test went off without a hitch. Wish we could say the same about Burger King. Burger King was closing when we got there, and the cashier said the best she could do was to serve us some chicken nuggets. Zach responded by making the biggest frown ever made on this side of the Atlantic. He literally refused to make eye contact with the cashier for the rest of the transaction. All things considered: McDonald’s wins!
A lot of other goofy things happened between the taste-test contest and our train ride to Paris the following day (think bee stings), but I don’t feel like discussing them because I’m tired.
Finding our way from the airport to the hotel, however, was not so straightforward. We did our best to follow the hotel’s directions. They seemed foolproof at first, but ultimately confused us two fools to hell and back. All in, we purchased about $70 worth of train tickets. It got to the point where we literally just started buying tickets to stations with “Amsterdam” in the name. The hotel should really just save its guests the confusion and shorten its directions to “get on a train and see what fucking happens.”
We eventually made it to the hotel and proceeded to pass the fuck out. After awaking, we really began to appreciate just how bananas our room was. The toilet was literally in a glass-enclosed tube in the center of the room. If the toilet overflowed, you’d probably just drown inside the tube. Not really one of the hotel’s selling points unless, you know, you’re down to die peeing.
Anyways, let’s delve into our 36-hour stay in Amsterdam. First off, all of the attractions you guys recommended were pretty stellar. Well, except the Heineken Factory. That shit’s like paying $30 to sit through a 45-minute Heineken commercial. But we did get a beer-pouring lesson out of it, so let’s call it a wash.
Second, a lot of funny stuff happens in Amsterdam when you explore it the way it’s meant to be explored. For starters, Zach and I felt compelled to walk around the city for hours. Literally, dozens of maps in hand, pounding the pavement, occasionally spewing out phrases like “I know a shortzën cütsën” and “Deutsche wish your girlfriend was hot like me.” Basically mindlessly stomping around Amsterdam like we owned the place. (Side note: we kind of did own the place; we were accidentally tipping way too heavily earlier in the day, and the city will forever be indebted to us.)
During our walk, it felt like we navigated the entire city. (In reality, we never left a three-block radius. But what a radius it was!) On one corner, Zach stopped to buy a baguette in an Italian deli. On another, Zach starred two girls, who were adorned with massive backpacks, dead in the eye and said, “You two are literally backpacking through Europe.” And on another corner still, Zach started to play himself in tennis with a weird tether-ball game. This game would’ve been great for like, an only-child version of Serena Williams. Not really so great for Zach, though.
Oh, and on another corner, I had the great fortune of stepping in a heap of dog shit. At the time, my gut reaction was that I stepped on someone’s sock. It was not a sock.
After scrubbing down my shoes in a bunch of puddles, we hit up Starbucks. At first, we felt really comfortable there; we gave Europeans Starbucks, so it’s like a safe zone. But then some people next to us started looking around on the floor, making lots of comments, and looking irritated overall. I turned to Zach and said in as serious and as quiet of a voice as possible, “I think they know about the dog shit.” Turns out they just needed an outlet for their laptop or something. Phew!
After another series of naps, we headed back out into Amsterdam. Our first stop was a quick rendezvous through the Red Light District. In Cornell terms, this shit’s definitely the real Ho Plaza. Go big red!
Our second stop was a 2:30 a.m. grilled chicken sandwich taste-test competition between McDonald’s and Burger King. Our McDonald’s taste-test went off without a hitch. Wish we could say the same about Burger King. Burger King was closing when we got there, and the cashier said the best she could do was to serve us some chicken nuggets. Zach responded by making the biggest frown ever made on this side of the Atlantic. He literally refused to make eye contact with the cashier for the rest of the transaction. All things considered: McDonald’s wins!
A lot of other goofy things happened between the taste-test contest and our train ride to Paris the following day (think bee stings), but I don’t feel like discussing them because I’m tired.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Adventures in Unpacking.
What’s the worst way to start your trip to Europe? How about, “Your bag is 15 pounds too heavy.” (Factor in the exchange rate, and we’re talking like 35 fucking pounds!)
I began to have a feeling that my bag would be too heavy well before I set foot in the airport. Even with wheels, this bag was nearly impossible to move. My whole, “Pack as much shit as possible” strategy clearly sent me in the wrong direction. Trying to wheel this bag reminded me of the time(s) Gindy tried to drive his front-wheel drive SUV through the snowy streets of Ithaca. Shit wouldn’t budge! Miss ya Ithaca!
Anyways, after the airport guy told me my bag was too heavy, I dragged it over to the side of the check-in kiosks and began unpacking. Figuring out which clothes to leave behind was tricky. It’s like the scene in Home Alone when the McAllister’s have to decide which one of their children to leave home during Christmas Break.
In the end, I decided to part with some pairs of jeans, toothpaste, some shoes, and a couple dozen Friends Academy Athletics t-shirts. In Home Alone terms, these items became my Kevin. I can only hope my Theory pants are as savvy as Macaulay Culkin and find a way to meet in me in Paris. I’m just trying to dress to impress, y’all.
After check-in came some quality time at the Food Court with familial representation from both the Ratner and Rosen clans. During this break, my Dad told everyone that his biggest fear is “being on a plane without a snack.” (I’m writing this post from 20,000 feet, so I’ll hold off on cracking a joke about normal peoples’ plane fears.)
Once the parents left, Zach and I headed to the gate. We asked someone to take a picture of us in front of a monitor that said Amsterdam. The guy who took the photograph was really shaky (probably blazed out of his mind), so you can barely discern either one of our faces, let alone that it says Amsterdam in the background. This is why I did not bother bringing a camera.
At this point, I’m going to dedicate my attention to the in-flight entertainment: selling off all of Zach’s possessions while he’s sleeping. Hey, Europe is pricey and I need some spending money.
I began to have a feeling that my bag would be too heavy well before I set foot in the airport. Even with wheels, this bag was nearly impossible to move. My whole, “Pack as much shit as possible” strategy clearly sent me in the wrong direction. Trying to wheel this bag reminded me of the time(s) Gindy tried to drive his front-wheel drive SUV through the snowy streets of Ithaca. Shit wouldn’t budge! Miss ya Ithaca!
Anyways, after the airport guy told me my bag was too heavy, I dragged it over to the side of the check-in kiosks and began unpacking. Figuring out which clothes to leave behind was tricky. It’s like the scene in Home Alone when the McAllister’s have to decide which one of their children to leave home during Christmas Break.
In the end, I decided to part with some pairs of jeans, toothpaste, some shoes, and a couple dozen Friends Academy Athletics t-shirts. In Home Alone terms, these items became my Kevin. I can only hope my Theory pants are as savvy as Macaulay Culkin and find a way to meet in me in Paris. I’m just trying to dress to impress, y’all.
After check-in came some quality time at the Food Court with familial representation from both the Ratner and Rosen clans. During this break, my Dad told everyone that his biggest fear is “being on a plane without a snack.” (I’m writing this post from 20,000 feet, so I’ll hold off on cracking a joke about normal peoples’ plane fears.)
 |
| Adorable. |
At this point, I’m going to dedicate my attention to the in-flight entertainment: selling off all of Zach’s possessions while he’s sleeping. Hey, Europe is pricey and I need some spending money.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Adventures in packing.
How does one pack for a three-week trip to Europe? Excluding a trip to the United Kingdom I took with my family back in like, elementary school, the longest trip I've ever taken was one to Punta Cana. And something tells me v-necks, douche-y sunglasses, and a vat of SPF 15 won't help me survive Florence.
Without any experience to guide me, I've looked to pop culture for packing help. So I naturally came to the conclusion that the one and only thing I need for my three-week trip to Europe is an iPad.
For the past few months, I've struggled with the iPad: is it a glorified iPod or is it a life-changing piece of technology. (And not just life changing in the sense that I will no longer have $600 in my wallet.) Today, after receiving a graduation check, this struggle peaced out; I could get an iPad but on some distant relative's dime!
With the check in-hand, I immediately assumed I'd be able to buy my iPad and totally finish packing by dusk. I was wrong.
Apparently, while I was busy weighing the pros and cons of iPads, the rest of the American population was buying them in bulk and shipping them to Asia. (Turn a profit at another's (e.g., my) expense...the American dream in action!) And now that I'm forced to wait one-to-two weeks for my iPad, I couldn't be less interested. Besides, when you put my iTouch next to someone with really, really little baby hands, it kind of looks like an iPad. Practically the same thing!
In the end, it looks like i'll pack the one thing I'm good at: black hooded sweatshirts. They'll keep me warm on those cool European nights (I assume it gets cool in Europe). They'll give me heat when the climate control breaks in our shoddy Italian hostel. It'll be like packing heat. But not like that, TSA.
Without any experience to guide me, I've looked to pop culture for packing help. So I naturally came to the conclusion that the one and only thing I need for my three-week trip to Europe is an iPad.
For the past few months, I've struggled with the iPad: is it a glorified iPod or is it a life-changing piece of technology. (And not just life changing in the sense that I will no longer have $600 in my wallet.) Today, after receiving a graduation check, this struggle peaced out; I could get an iPad but on some distant relative's dime!
With the check in-hand, I immediately assumed I'd be able to buy my iPad and totally finish packing by dusk. I was wrong.
Apparently, while I was busy weighing the pros and cons of iPads, the rest of the American population was buying them in bulk and shipping them to Asia. (Turn a profit at another's (e.g., my) expense...the American dream in action!) And now that I'm forced to wait one-to-two weeks for my iPad, I couldn't be less interested. Besides, when you put my iTouch next to someone with really, really little baby hands, it kind of looks like an iPad. Practically the same thing!
In the end, it looks like i'll pack the one thing I'm good at: black hooded sweatshirts. They'll keep me warm on those cool European nights (I assume it gets cool in Europe). They'll give me heat when the climate control breaks in our shoddy Italian hostel. It'll be like packing heat. But not like that, TSA.
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