The Travels of Aidan B.

In Brief: Acadia National Park, Maine

2014-06-04T20:37:00.001-04:00

So, revelation number one: I'm alive! Haven't been here in a while, I know. Revelation number two: I got to somewhere!

This was a long time coming, folks. Tony and I haven't had any time off together since we hit up Europe back in August of 2012. So when Tony called one day during a break at work and told me he'd figured out we could take nearly a week off to go somewhere, it was cause for celebration. At that point I didn't even care where we were going, just that we needed to GO.

Home sweet home, from Tues night to Sun morning.

Things got even better when we decided to go somewhere new for me, but somewhere familiar and beloved for Tony: Acadia National Park, on Mount Desert Island, Maine. And so it was that on a Tuesday afternoon, after Tony's students had been dismissed, we found ourselves Maine-bound. Since we didn't cross the Maine border until around 10 PM, I didn't get a good look at the place; we drove over the water to Mount Desert Island without even knowing it, and when we found our way to the campground and our site, we pitched our tent assisted by our car headlights around 1:30 AM; when those were switched off, we were engulfed in the deepest blackness I've ever seen until we woke up in our tent at Blackwoods Campground the following morning. We were awakened by the grating sounds of what was either a crow or the three-eyed raven, come to lead us north of the wall. Either way, we woke up in Maine.

Fog obscuring the treetops at Sand Beach

It had drizzled during the night, so we emerged Wednesday morning into a soft, pine-scented, damp world. The thick layer of fallen needles absorbed the sounds of our few neighbors, and with no fire to warm us, the morning was especially cold. We decided to drive into Bar Harbor for coffee and breakfast, and so my first impressions of Maine were of the mountains cloaked in fog, the roadways streaked black with damp. A flash of white, and suddenly an eagle was in sight, landing on the rocks above a small pond; I knew then that we were somewhere wild. In Bar Harbor we found a coffee shop clearly catering to locals but welcoming campers. After bagels and coffee we drove back toward camp until we found the entrance to Park Loop Road, which, as you might guess, circles the main part of Acadia. The fog hid most of the views; and then it began to rain. Undeterred, we decided to don our rain gear and climb our first mountain, Gorham. Lo, by the time we reached its peak, the fog was beginning to roll away, and the first rays of sun we'd seen all day kissed our grateful, dampened cheeks. We decided to eat the snacks we'd packed and see if the weather improved. We shed a layer of clothing, chewed, and waited.

And then...the first sight of blue water.

The view from Gorham Mountain, after fog had rolled away.

The view showed me not just how far we'd climbed, but also why Tony had been so anxious to bring me here. He's what he calls a "ridgerunner," raised in the foothills and rocky ledges of the Pocono mountains. I grew up in the Chesapeake Bay watershed, never far from a bay or river, and splashing in fresh and salt water for much of the year. Acadia has the mountains and the rocks, and the blue, blue ocean. It was the best of both worlds, an essence of each one of us, combined into one.

A fitting metaphor, considering that we're getting married, don't you think? Oh yeah, that's one of the many things to happen since I last blogged ;-)

In my coming posts I'll go into more detail about the trails we climbed, the places we ate, our campground accommodations, and our too-short stay in the Camden/Rockport area. But for now, I'll sum up our trip with just a few words and phrases: Dark skies. Quiet. Mountains. The ocean. The sun on your freshly freckled face.

What could be better?

The Barnes Foundation

2013-10-14T13:13:00.003-04:00

There is a brand new building just off of the Ben Franklin Parkway that houses an incredible collection, one which is likely to grow into an attraction just as large as that other city landmark, the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Philadelphia is on the rise as a world art attraction, and the Barnes is part of the reason why.

Exterior rendering of the Barnes' new parkway location.

The New Barnes:

Previously housed in a manse-like setting off of City Avenue (still used as archiving/restoration facilities, and grounds/sculpture garden still open to visitors), the bulk of the collection now has a home on museum row, across the highway from the Franklin Institute and within sight of the hulking Museum of Art. You could almost miss the place walking past it on the parkway side, hidden as it is behind trees and with minimal signage. Approaching from the parkway, a gravel walk leads you past soothing water features and toward the ticket office, which is housed in a separate building on the grounds. From there a path surrounded by shallow reflecting pools leads visitors to the imposing, unmarked doors.

Past an initial security check you come to a crossroads; to your immediate left are stairs leading down to coat check, flawless bathrooms, gift shop, cafe, and library. If you stray just past the stairs, a guard will usher you around a corner into a massive room, nearly empty but for some soft benches scattered about like fallen dominos. Find your way past them, have your ticket scanned (perhaps pausing to pick up an audio tour guide first), and you're in.

The honey-colored gallery will beckon you forward, but don't forget to take notice of the stairs to your right and elevator to your left; when you're done downstairs, there is a whole second floor to explore.

The collection you will see once belonged to Albert C. Barnes, a Philadelphia-raised chemist who grew his fortune by developing and selling a drug to battle gonorrhoea in the days before antibiotics. Luckily he used his powers for good and began amassing impressionist and modernist pieces at an astonishing rate. The collection really is world-class: how many places have nearly 200 works by Renoir (181, to be exact), alongside the likes of Cezanne, Degas, Picasso, Van Gogh, Matisse, Modigliani, Gauguin, Monet, Manet....(I could go on). Luckily, though, there are other works sprinkled in: some pre-Renaissance pieces from Europe, ancient Chinese and Japanese paintings, and more. We were particularly impressed with some Egyptian and Roman artifacts that we found upstairs, some of them impossibly old.

Our experience:

Our afternoon at the Barnes Foundation was like stepping back in time a whole year; last August, Tony and I were exploring the art museums of Amsterdam, taking in Dutch masters and Van Gogh. The Barnes, however, was mercifully much less crowded than the Van Gogh or Rijksmuseum, and we were actually able to be seated for a while and absorb everything around us. The galleries are bright and airy and painted a reflective yellowish hue, and there was a sense of serenity and calm in each room. The staff was friendly and helpful; one passing security guard even complimented Tony's shoes! We did have to navigate around some guided tours, but eavesdropping in on them to get some more details was fun and worth the trouble. Plus, you can explore the galleries in whatever order you like; if a tour crowds one room, and you prefer silent observation, you can always circle back.

We did not sample the cafe or library, but we inspected the gift shop; I couldn't find a magnet to my liking (I collect them) but there are lots of books, prints, jewelry, and other items, priced about the same as the PMOA.

Getting there:

We walked from the 18th & JFK Suburban Station exit. If taking regional rail, opt to get off at Suburban as opposed to 30th Street. If you're not up for the walk, a cab ride from nearby won't cost you much. If you do walk, you'll get to enjoy the fountains at Logan Square (skip Love Park; it's overrated in my opinion, always crowded, and dirty).

If driving, you'll have to look around for a garage; I don't believe the Barnes has one of its own.

Other things to know:

Timed tickets are highly encouraged and can be purchased online ahead of your visit. You can also call ahead to reserve tickets or a spot in a guided tour at 215-278-7200.
The museum is closed on Tuesdays, but is open late Friday nights to make up for those lost hours. Regular hours the rest of the week are 10 a.m. to 6 p.m.

A peek into one of the Barnes' main first-floor galleries

Student admission is just $10! If you are out of school but still have your student ID around somewhere, tuck it into your wallet for this trip. Unless, of course, you buy online, in which case you won't be required to show it. They'll scan your ticket and send you on your way.
There is a size limit on the bags that you can carry into the gallery. I was annoyed when told I would have to check mine, but the bag check was free of charge, and you can take with you a clear plastic bag to hold your wallet, phone, and anything else with which you are unwilling to part.

Overall, I'd classify the Barnes as a dont-miss; even in its original building the collection appears in the book 1000 Places to See Before You Die; in its new digs, it's now even more of a destination.

The Barnes Foundation

www.barnesfoundation.org

2025 Benjamin Franklin Parkway

Philadelphia, PA 19130

215-278-7000

300 North Latch's Lane

Merion, PA 19066

215-278-7350

Climbing Old Rag: Shenandoah National Park

2013-03-24T21:42:00.000-04:00

Six hours. Eleven and a half miles. One day in March.

Tony at the Old Rag summit, March 15 2013.

Old Rag is my boyfriend Tony's "favorite hike in the world;" and this is a guy who has climbed glaciers in Iceland. When we both found ourselves with an opportunity to take the day off this month, Tony decided that we needed some fresh air, and that he wanted to share this hike with me. While I'm not a novice outdoors lady, I'm also nowhere near expert; the more I read up on this hike beforehand, the more nervous I became. But with Tony's confidence in me, and my own in myself, on the line, I became determined that I would reach the tippy top, and be darn proud of myself once there.

We left home at about 6:45 and made the long drive into Virginia toward Shenandoah National Park. Once off the highway, we drove toward the mountains with Fleet Foxes in our ears. Past Sperryville we got a little turned around, but eventually found our way down the rural roads and into the mountain's shadow. I was treated to some views of Old Rag's bald top as we approached, which didn't ease my apprehension about the hike ahead.

While Hiking Upward only gives the trail a 4 out of 10 for difficulty, this is on the upper end of difficulty for a one-day hike. The trail circuit runs about 11 miles, and the climb upward is more than 2,000 feet. A calorie calculator I found online estimated that the climb would burn over 2,000 calories! The last mile of the the hike, should you choose the blue trail as we did, consists of a rock scramble that requires some hand-over-hand climbing. And if you're short, like me (I'm maybe 5'4" in my boots), you'll probably need a boost to get through the toughest parts of the trail. Even in spring the trail can be icy or snowy, making the rock scramble slippery and a little dangerous. If this was a 4, I can only imagine a 10!


Snow on the mountain in Mid-March

There are two trails you can take to reach the summit of Old Rag: the blue trail, which includes several miles of switchbacks and then the rock scramble, and the yellow trial, which is comprised of switchbacks all the way up or down, and then a much longer walk from/back to the lower parking lot. We chose to go up the blue trail, and reward ourselves with an easier hike back down on the yellow trial.

As it turned out, the hike was a challenge for me, as I expected. The switchbacks are deceptively simple, but they take a lot of effort as you climb upward. As for the rock scramble, I definitely could not have done it on my own. While my Gollum-like crawling and shimmying served me well, there were spots where I was just too short to even find a good hand or foothold. It was at those spots where some serious team work was required between Tony and myself.

View from the Old Rag summit, 2k feet up.

Things to bring:

As much water as you can comfortably carry
Protein-packed snacks
Climbing gloves
Extra socks, in case your feet get wet
A hat, to warm your ears at the windy summit
Tissues or a handkerchief
Your inhaler, if you're even slightly asthmatic

Other tips:

Set your GPS to Sperryville, Virginia. Then, follow the route past the pizza place, out of the town, with the mountain on your right, until you reach Nethers Road; make a right onto Nethers and follow it all the way down to reach the Old Rag lower parking lot. You'll have to pay $15 per carload to access the park.
Invest in waterproof hiking shoes. There was still snow and ice on the mountain in mid-March, and our feet could have gotten soaked in sneakers. Also, regular athletic shoes won't quite provide the grip needed for the more difficult parks of the rock scramble. I bought these L.L. Bean boots and they held up perfectly. As I didn't have time to break them in before the hike, I invested in a Friction Stick from Band-Aid, and that rubbed onto my feet really helped protect against chafing.
Pack on some sunblock before the climb, even if you won't need it. Tony and I were only on the summit for about an hour, and we both came home with sunburned faces and necks!
Bring extra water and snacks to leave in the car, that way you can refuel and rehydrate when you get back to the lot.
There are some port-a-potties in the lower parking lot, but other than that, you're on your own for the entirety of the trail. No bathrooms. Ladies, plan ahead. Carefully.
Dress in layers; we peeled most of ours off on the way up, but piled them back on once we reached the top!
I would not suggest hiking this trail alone, especially if it's your first time. Bring a friend to help you through the more difficult spots.
Give yourself a day after to recover. Really. We needed it.

Going off of that last bullet point, be warned: if you're not in utterly fantastic shape, you'll feel this hike at least a little the day after. Tony and I are fairly active people, and our muscles began burning on the drive home and didn't stop the next day. Saturday I also discovered a number of minor injuries: bruises on my knees and elbows, a big bruise on my right thigh, scraped palms from the climb, a strained shoulder muscle (from Tony pulling me up by my arms) and even bruises around my ankles, where my new shoes had ground into them all day. So plan ahead, and give yourself the day after to recover. Really.

But the bumps and bruises and moment of mild panic were well worth it. Even the view from the first rocky spot was incredible; we could see past the farms spreading out below the mountain all the way to the highway that had led us here. I thought we were nearly there, but my upward glance had deceived me; the rock scramble was only just beginning. By the time we had struggled and shimmied to the top a mile later, with the wind whipping and whistling around our cold ears, and my smiling boyfriend's arm around me, I knew that I had something to be proud of.

For more detailed information, Hiking Upward has a great page for Old Rag information, including weather forecasts and a printable trail map. You can also find more information on the National Parks website. Happy hiking!

In Amsterdam: The Heineken Experience

2013-02-17T12:57:00.002-05:00

Heineken's original brewing facilities, still as shiny as new!

Was it corny? Undoubtedly. Was it fun? Yes, it certainly was! As much as we enjoyed the Riijksmuseum, it had been a stoic, serious affair. It was fun to loosen up with the help of a few good pints at the Heineken Experience, just a short walk from the Museum District.

Disclaimer: I don't pretend to know a whole lot about the brewing process, and also, this trip took place six months ago. So if some of the details aren't quite up to par, I apologize!

The first time I visited Holland, back in 2008, I was not really a beer drinker. I was not yet 21, so coming to England as a student abroad was my first real experimentation with alcohol, and I still didn't know what I liked. So when I found myself at the pub in Rotterdam with a Heineken in my hand, I had apprehensions. However, I was pleasantly surprised by the taste of the stuff, and over that long weekend, that was the only beverage I had. I've had them occasionally back in the US, but honestly, Heineken is never better than it is in Holland, especially from draft, all golden and bubbly. On this trip, Tony and I fast lost track of all the Heinekens we drank!

The factory that houses the Heineken Experience no longer does any brewing; however, it is the original facility that was purchased by Gerard Adriaan Heineken after he obtained the Haystack Brewing Company in 1873. Heineken perfected his own personal yeast mixture in 1886, and that yeast has been used to brew Heineken until this very day! The building also houses the official Heineken draft horses, which are used to pull the beer wagon for parades or other occasions, much like the Budweiser Clydesdales.

A display of water, barley, hops, and yeast.

Upon entry, you pay for admission (18 Euro for adults; 16 Euro if purchased online) and receive a green rubber wristband, which contains two plugs that you can redeem for pints at the end of the tour; that's right, two! The wristband will also get you one of two things: 1. Free transportation up the canal to the official gift shop, or 2. ten percent off your purchase at said gift shop. Talk about a good deal! They will also take your baggage and coats for free, which was much appreciated.

The tour is self guided, and begins with a museum-like display of early advertising and facts about the company's history. The first interactive part of the tour involves a stop in front of great columns of brewing ingredients, where an employee talks you through the basics of the brewing process. After that, the tour moves into the airy and bright brewing area, which houses the copper vats that blend, toast, and ferment. The whole room smelled deliciously of barley and yeast; almost like bread baking.

After that, a staircase takes you up to the next level and offers views of the Heineken stables, their horses in repose. Upstairs is a short display demonstrating bottling, and where, for a small fee, you can create your own label and have it slapped on a bottle to take home with you.

After that, a ride of sorts: moving platforms in front of a large screen take the visitor on a tour of the brewing process from the point of view of the hops; we are toasted (via an overhead heater), slide down to the fermenter, doused with water, etc. It's fun, but visitors who would rather skip it have the option to. After that is the official tasting room, where staff takes us through the perfect pour. According to him, a good pour of Heineken should have a large head. He says the British in particular, used to a small head on their ale, will give him crap for this: "You cheap Dutchman, give me more beer!" Once everyone was given a half-pint, we all admired its amber color and bubbles, toasted, and, at last imbibed. Underage visitors were given water so as to be able to participate as well.

Tony and I cheesing in blacklights at the Heineken Experience.

After that the last few rooms, admittedly, felt like overkill; we navigated a maze of rooms all adorned in the styles of different ad campaigns, the music blaring from speakers, commercials flashing across flat-screen televisions, tourists reclining and giggling on couches made to look the ones the happily-Heineken-sipping extras had utilized in the commercials. We enjoyed the blacklight room, obviously, as you can see to the right. Then we used one of the touch screen computers to send an e-card to our parents, complete with an unflattering screen-shot of us flashing wide smiles. After that we rushed through the last few rooms to get to what we had come for: the pub, and our free pints!

A dark, club-like area houses two bars: one full-service, and the other where visitors have the opportunity to pour their own pint. Two pints are on the house, but after that you'll have to pay up! If you do visit, beware; the floors were sticky and most of the stools and benches full. Tony and I managed to find a quiet corner in which to enjoy our pints. I only had one, since I had been sick the last few days (because I am ALWAYS sick on vacation), but Tony took full advantage of both of his!

There is a sizeable gift shop on the premises, full of postcards, jerseys and other apparel, hats, jewelry, magnets, glasses, soccer balls, and more. I can only imagine the size of the "official" gift shop! Like most official merchandise, everything was rather pricey, so I chose not to buy anything, although I was sorely tempted by a ladies' sweatshirt/jacket that felt incredibly soft and warm. Temptation was resisted, however, and after picking up our things at coat check, we embarked back out into the warm Amsterdam streets in search of our hotel, a bite, and a bit of well-deserved rest.

Tony with an antique Heineken wagon!

The Heineken Experience is open every day of the year save three: Christmas Day, New Year's Day, and April 30, a national holiday.

Underage visitors are welcome, though they will not be allowed to sample! Children under age eight are admitted for free, and though the facility is wheelchair-accessible, strollers and prams must be checked at the front.

All photos and text by me. Please credit.

In Amsterdam: The Rijksmuseum

2013-01-25T21:08:00.001-05:00

Warhol's portrait of Queen Beatrix of Holland.

Located (where else?) in Amsterdam's Museum District, The Rijksmuseum these days is the greatest hits album to the museum's massive collection. The real Rijksmuseum, a massive, ornamented brick palace surrounded by gardens, was when we were there closed off by scaffolding and chain link fence, inaccessible due to the massive renovations currently in full swing. When we visited, a mere wing of the museum was open, though it housed more masterpieces than many museums can boast of their entire collections. And until April of this year you will have to enter as we did, through a glass entryway on the side of the building, on the same street that leads to the Van Gogh museum just a few blocks away.

Contained in this small (comparatively speaking) wing, along with some historical artifacts from old Holland and its many colonies, a suitably large display of Delftware, and a Warhol portrait of Queen Beatrix, is a mind-boggling display of works from the Dutch masters, including Vermeer, De Hooch, and Rembrandt. A small collection, perhaps, but a mighty one.

Tony and I gratefully handed over our backpacks when we got there, free to browse the museum unburdened and out of the gaze hot summer sun. We began our tour on the lower level of the wing, where we took in artifacts of Holland's colonial past; relics from sea voyages to foreign lands, and furniture from the homes Dutch settlers built for themselves when they got there. This included some historical information of course, but we made our way through these early galleries rather quickly, eager to see what we had come for.

The Delftware Gallery which followed was a pleasant surprise; when one thinks of Delftware, one things of plates and platters, teacups and saucers. Well, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the Dutch could make just about anything out of this distinctive china: whole dining services of course, but also intricate, animal-shaped vases, furniture adorned with ivory and Mother of Pearl, and even a Delftware violin! I'm not sure the sound quality would be quite that of a wooden violin; even so, I'm sure the tone would be quite different.

Once we had exhausted the lower galleries, we took a bathroom break and then ascended to the upper level via a bright, sunny stairway; when we got the top, we were rewarded by the sight of Queen Beatrix's regal stare, via Andy Warhol.

And then, we found ourselves face to face with the Old Masters. You may tire of still lifes fairly quickly, but here at least are some still lifes backed up by familiar, legendary names: De Hooch, Rembrandt. We see scenes of hunting spoils, kitchen supplies, and other necessities. There are also portraits galore, of prosperous people who would have been long forgotten but for these likenesses in oil. We see Rembrandt age through his self portraits, and see the faces he was surrounded by. And Rembrandt's massive masterpiece, "The Night Watch," enjoys a room almost entirely to itself.

It may not be apparent to everyone who knows me how much I enjoy Vermeer's work, but as mentioned in the Delft post, I discovered the artist in my mid-teens, when Tracy Chevalier's "Girl with a Pearl Earring" immersed me in the painter's world. When I came face to face with the girl in The Hague back in 2008, I stood breathlessly before her, feeling almost too meek to look her in the eye. So when, in the Riijksmuseum, I found myself presented with FOUR of Vermeer's works, I had to take some deep breaths. On display here are: "The Milkmaid," "The Little Street," "Woman Reading a Letter," and "The Love Letter." And once the hordes of people moved on to the next room, I got to have a little time alone with each of them, more so than I had had with my beloved girl.

Vermeer's "The Milkmaid," at the Riijksmuseum

Other authors can tell you more about Vermeer's techniques, the themes and metaphors in his work, etc. All I will tell you is that these are pristine scenes of ordinary life, each one a snapshot of an ordinary day in the lives of ordinary people, brought to life with layers of deep, vibrant colors and a superb capture of natural light. And for that, I not only respect the work for its technical aspects, but for the peace I feel in gazing at it, and a longing for a simpler time.

After the darkness of "The Night Watchman's" gallery, visitors make their way into, what else, the gift shop. You can buy almost anything featuring the works in this collection: journals, prints, erasers, stuffed toys, even umbrellas. And just in case you resist temptation but can't shake the thought of that Vermeer pencil case long after you've left, you can always go online and order from there.

By the way, the museum's website is incredible; it not only provides information about visiting the museum, and what you can find there, but you can also search the collection by keyword, artist, etc. Once you've found the work you want, you are presented with options: zoom in and take in the work's details, share your find on Twitter, Facebook or Pinterest, download it for wallpaper, print it for a craft project, or even order professional prints of it right from the same screen. If you're not looking for anything specific, browse the collection at random. My Rijskstudio allows you to do all of this, and also allows you to make your own boards there, in the style of Pinterest and organized any way you'd like, using objects from the collections. Whether you are artistically inclined or are just an appreciator with little artistic talent, as I am, I guarantee you can spend hours getting lost on the website.

And speaking of hours getting lost, the full museum is set to reopen on Saturday, April 13; naturally, less than a year after we visited. The renovations have taken 10 years and have included massive restorations of the existing building and galleries. The renovation will also allow for full access to the museum's 20th century collection, as well as its celebrated fashion gallery, and include a new Asian pavilion and renovated gardens. What I wouldn't give for it to have been finished last summer!

But you, my friends, if you were considering a visit to Amsterdam, here have all the knowledge you need to make a wise decision: buy your tickets, but make sure you'll be going after April 13! Really, go. It's well worth it.

All photos taken by me, all text written by me. Please credit.

Suggested Travel Resolution: Iceland!

2013-01-06T10:29:00.004-05:00

Happy New Year, everyone! Via The Huffington Post, here is a great article on why a visit Iceland should be one of your new year's resolutions, by Elizabeth Thorp. Just click here.

I can check off two things at least: Blue Lagoon (in whose thermal waters I would dearly love to soak at the moment) and hip, downtown Reykjavik. But the natural beauty? The wild horses? The Northern Lights?

I need to go back! And as long as I'm with Tony, it's highly likely that I will.

Overview: Two Days in Amsterdam

2012-12-12T21:58:00.001-05:00


Our first view of Amsterdam off the train, on a sparkling summer morning.

As with Delft and The Hague, August 2012 became my second trip to Amsterdam. Tony and I departed from Rotterdam early on another beautiful summer morning, drowsily riding the high-speed train for just under two hours. When the flat, green farmland outside of our window began giving way to suburbs and apartment buildings, I knew we were getting close. And when we emerged from the darkness of Centraal Station, Amsterdam spread out ahead of us in all directions, all sparkling water, flat boats and spires.

We only had two days in Amsterdam at our disposal, and planned to make the most of them. Our agenda included the city's biggest draws, of course: The Riijksmuseum, the Red Light District, the Heineken Experience, the Anne Frank House Museum, perhaps a cafe visit. Sounds doable, right? Unfortunately, we came quickly to realize that had really underestimated the size of the city and our ability to get around it unaided. We hadn't looked into getting metro or tram passes, thinking we could easily walk to wherever we needed to be. While Amsterdam is certainly a walkable city, and walking is a wonderful way to experience its charms, our determination only to walk it almost became our undoing.

We really should have taken some time to orient ourselves with the city before we went, but we had brought along a map lent to us by Co, and figured we could make our way once there. We knew that everything we wanted to see was down below the sprawling Centraal Station on the outskirts of the city, so we decided to walk straight ahead of the station and work our way into the heart of the city. We were starving, though, having nothing but a small breakfast at the train platform in Rotterdam, so we ducked into an open cafe for breakfast. There, over wonderfully crisp and melty paninis and small cups of black European coffee, we unfurled the map and saw just what we were in for. The museum district was at the very bottom of the city, quite a long distance from our current location.

We spent a frustratingly long time wandering back and forth in the hot sun as we tried to find the Riijksmuseum, but we did get to see a lot of true Amsterdam long the way: the bicycles artfully leaned against buildings, the old houseboats creaking gently at their tethers, the locals coming and going out of townhouses with their shopping, children balanced precariously in seats (with no restraints or helmets) on the front of their parents' bicycles.

Finally, finally, we started seeing signs for the Riijksmuseum, and began following the brass arrows. And at long last we found ourselves in the cool shadow of the palatial museum, and made our way to the museum's annex to gain entry (but more on that later).

Finding our way to the Heineken Experience after the Riijksmuseum was luckily not nearly as much of a challenge; we made our way there quickly and easily and spent over an hour enjoying the center's various charms. After that, however, we were back to square one. After asking a Heineken employee for directions and scouring multiple maps, we still had no idea where to find our hotel. One of the more memorable moments of the trip when I, infuriated by our inability to find our hotel, juggling city maps and guidebooks in my hands in front of a city map on a street corner, declared:

"We are the only people in the world who could stand in front of a map, with three other $%#&ing maps, and still have no idea where the hell we are!" At the time it was just true, but luckily, it later became funny.

After another near hour of aimless wandering and frustration, through many of the same streets we had traipsed hours before, we were nearly at the end of our patience and our endurance. I took out the borrowed cell phone and called two cab companies whose numbers I found in our Amsterdam guidebook; I couldn't get through to either one. Now feeling truly hopeless, we made our way back to the Symphony Hall area, where we thought we could find a cab.

And luckily for us, we did find one. Tony showed the driver the hotel's address and asked if we were close. "No, not at all," was the response. But luckily he knew where to find it, and we embarked on a nail-biting ride across the city, dodging pedestrians and bicyclists, and at one point narrowly avoiding a tram as we coasted dangerously along the edges of its tracks.

A well-established Amsterdam houseboat docked in the shade.

Our hotel was on the edges of the Amsterdam World Trade Center, some distance from the center of the city. And so it was that our second day in Amsterdam began with a 30-minute walk to the museum district, where we waited in line for over an hour before taking in the delights of the Van Gogh Museum.

Given the experience of the previous day, we were not only exhausted but completely sick of walking and trying to find our way around. So after Van Gogh, we took the advice of every guidebook we'd ever read and decided to invest in a hop-on, hop-off Canal Tour.

BEST. DECISION. EVER. We were able to bask on the warm deck of the flat boat and watch Amsterdam's beautiful buildings pass by from the level of the water. Even better, it took us all the way back up to Centraal Station, where we departed in search of the Red Light District. Once that little excursion was complete, we made our way back to the dock and then coasted along the canals to the Anne Frank House.

If only we'd had tram access that first day, or shelled out for the boat tour; we would have had the energy to try to cram in some more things into those two days in Amsterdam. By the end of those two days, we were so exhausted that we barely made it back to Centraal. And once in Rotterdam, it was a long walk back to Dierdre and Co's place where, after the customary offered Heinekens, we gratefully fell into bed.

So, take our advice: BUY A TRAM PASS. We had looked into the MyAmsterdam pass, which would have provided us unlimited access to public transit for the duration of our stay, but we decided against it since the amount of museum and attraction discounts we could amass in two days did not seem to make up for the cost of the pass. Now we know, however, that the availability of public transit alone would have made the pass worth it. it won't be valid on any of the canal cruises, but you'll be glad to spend a little extra money for that when you find that you still have energy to take in some Amsterdam nightlife; I'm pretty sure that Tony and I, as a result of the miles we'd walked that day, were soundly sleeping in our neon-lit hotel bed by 11 PM.

Park at the rear of the Riijksmuseum, with the famous I Amsterdam sculpture in front.

There is plenty more Dutch ground to cover, so stay tuned for updates on the Riijskmuseum, the Heineken Experience, Qbic Hotel, The Van Gogh Museum, The Red Light District, and the Anne Frank House.

Fun Facts: Delft Edition

2012-11-25T15:37:00.005-05:00

After my second visit to Delft this past August, I wanted to know more about the city. Here are some interesting bits that I found out:

Origins: Delft began as a small village in the middle ages, and received its charter from the royal family in the 13th century. At this point the city expanded enormously as many neighborhoods were added; in fact, by the end of 1355 the city reached the same size it would retain until the 1800s. In 1847 Delft became connected to Holland's new railway system; the city expanded again considerably after that.

Van der Poel's depiction of Delft after the explosion.

Delft Resilience: The little city has endured its share of disasters. First there was the Great Fire: most likely caused by a lightning strike to the steeple of Niewe Kerk, Delft went up in flames on May 3, 1536; more than 2,300 buildings burned to the ground. Just over 100 years later, on October 12 1654, a massive explosion at a gunpowder store rocked Delft to its foundations, killing more than 100 people in the close vinicity. Thousands more were wounded, and nearly 200 buildings and homes were lost. Several of painter Egbert van der Poel's works show the devastation of the town. A replacement of the factory was built nearly a mile out of town to avoid a repeat of this disaster.

East India Company: The Dutch East India Company, begun over 400 years ago, made Delft one of its six home ports in the Netherlands. Along with the spices, ceramics and tea the hundreds of ships brought to the city, prosperity came as well.

A traditional Delftware dish.

Delftware: Delft is famous as the home of the famous blue and white Delftware tiles that have been sold around the world since the EIC brought ceramic arts to Delft. We saw plenty of this in shops all over the town center; during my visit in 2008, I bought a tile reproduction of Vermeer's "The Milkmaid," which still resides on my bureau to this day. Most of the Delftware available in gift shops runs cheaper because it is less quality, but it can be pricey! Delftware can be found in the form of tiles, dishes, and more; in Amsterdam, we saw a Defltware violin!

Painters: Many of the Old Dutch Master are tied to Delft, not just Vermeer; among many who never became famous, Delft's beloved painters include Pieter de Hoogh, Egbert van der Poel, and Jan Steen. The Dutch school was known for depictions of average people and everyday life, as well as quiet town scenes and still lifes. None of Vermeer's work makes its home in Deft, but Delft's Vermeer Center offers visitors in-depth looks at the artists' life and techniques. I had wanted to go during this visit, but it was too beautiful a day to be inside, and I decided to skip it in favor of enjoying the sunny streets.

Science and Engineering: Anton Van Leewenhoek, inventor of the microscope and a friend of Vermeer, lived and worked in Delft in the 16- and 1700s. in 1842 the Polytechnic School, now Delft University of Technology, was established.

William I of Orange

Ties to Royalty: William I, Prince of Orange (also known as William the Silent) led the revolt against the Spanish rulers of the Dutch territories in the 1600s, sparking the Eighty Years' War that eventually resulted in the independence of the United Provinces from the Spanish in 1646. After unofficially taking over as ruler of the territories, William was declared an outlaw by the Spanish king, and was assassinated in Delft by a foreigner in 1584. (Trust me, that's a very abridged version of the story). His original tomb in Niewe Kerk was modest, but eventually replaced by a grateful community. These days, royalty still comes to Delft: the mighty bells of Oude Kerk are rung for state occasions, such as marriages and burials in the royal family. Niewe Kerk contains the royal family's tomb, with William's splendid effigy on top to guard his descendants.

Delft today: Delft today is a young town, with nearly 15,000 students enrolled at Delft University of Technology today. The city is home to many scientifically-minded companies, including Netherlands Organisation for Applied Scientific Research, Stichting GeoDelft, Nederlands Normalisatie-Instituut, and UNESCO-IHE Institute for water education. The charming town center is all that most tourists see, but the city sprawls away from the center to house its nearly 100,000 inhabitants. There is also room for plenty of hotels and restaurants, making Delft a great place to spend a night or the whole weekend.

Want to visit Delft? If you do, you'll be one of over 1 million registered visitors per year!

Sources: Delft.nl, Wikipedia.

In Holland: Delft

2012-11-18T22:18:00.004-05:00

The Dutch town of Delft, from above, with Oude Kerk poking into the sky.

During my first trip to Holland in 2008, I had only seen Delft in the dark. Dierdre's morning trip to the emergency room, after breaking her wrist in a post-pub Halloween celebration daze, had set us back several hours. Thus, by the time we arrived from The Hague, the sun had already gone down on Delft's picturesque canals and brick townhouses. Still, as we had meandered for a while despite the dark and drizzle, I was struck by the quiet beauty of the dark, rain-dampened town. Besides that, one of my very favorite books, "Girl With a Pearl Earring," is set here. Inspired by the painting of the same name, it crafts a story around Johannes Vermeer's unknown muse. Griet's character may not have been real, but I knew that Vermeer himself had once walked along these canals, trod the same wet bricks of Market Square, gazed upward at the spire of the New Church. I knew that someday I wanted to be back here, to use the sunlight to trace Vermeer's shadows. Our second day in Holland this time around, Tony and I did just that.

Our first view of Delft, down the canal to Oude Kerk.

From the main road that led to the train station, we made a right into what Tony thought at first would be a dead end; a small alley, barely large enough for one car to fit through at a time. But we emerged from its shadows into one of Delft's side streets. On either side of us the road, lined with brick houses of various colors, stretched straight out as far as we could see; a thin canal separated the two sides of the street, with tiny cars squeezed into even tinier parallel parking spots along the water, with no safety rail. Trees with pale, papery leaves cast dappled shadows onto the walkways. It was quiet; a few locals were passing by on foot and bicycle, but after the hustle and bustle of downtown Rotterdam the day before, walking into Delft felt like, at long last, we were seeing the real charms of Holland.

We followed signs to Market Square and gradually emerged into the less sleepy part of town; large groups of people were milling about near a larger canal where paddle-boats were available for hire. An occasional driver maneuvered around the oblivious pedestrian tourists crisscrossing the main roadway. At this busy intersection we made a right, making for the steeple we could see poking above the rooftops in the distance.

Market Square, where the fictional Griet did her shopping, had no market on this weekday, but was still bordered by cafe umbrellas and tables, and tourists crowding around shops selling chocolates, trinkets, and cheese. A pedestrian-only area, it could belong to any era in time. Directly ahead of us perched the hulking New Church, its steeple and tower rearing high into the summer sky. We walked all the way around it, taking in the small side canals, here spotted with lily pads, there hiding a rusting bicycle in its black shallows. At the rear of the church we found a statue tribute to Vermeer's "The Milkmaid," another masterpiece we were eager to see in Amsterdam in the coming days.

Tony enjoying our long, sunny lunch in Delft.

We lunched at a cafe just one street over from Market Square, where it was a bit quieter. We had been warned by our hosts that service in Holland can be frustratingly slow for American tourists, as most of us are used to the constant rush of our lives at home; the Dutch tend to take their time with most things, especially dining out. Indeed, even though we had nowhere in particular to be, we were a bit frustrated by how infrequently our waitress appeared within earshot, and we spent well over an hour at the cafe before our we finally managed to flag someone down to receive our check. But Tony's vegetable croquettes, my club sandwich, and our glasses of cold Amstel were just what the sunny afternoon had ordered...even if a bit slowly.

From the cafe we made our way back into the shadow of the New Church, passing between its massive, yawning doors to pay admission for the church and tower. Inside we made our way between the earthen off-white columns and were treated to the sight of the massive, splendid tomb of William of Orange, the most famous of Holland's royal figures. Members of the Dutch Royal Family are buried here to this day, with a stone weighing over 11,000 lbs sealing their resting place in the deepest of divine darknesses. Once we had sufficiently enjoyed the nave, with the stained glass casting patterns on our bare arms as we passed through, we decided to face the next part of our admission fee: the tower.

Interior of Oude Kerk, Delft.

Tony came to regret letting me talk him into climbing the tower, but not long before I came to regret it myself; the tiny spiral staircase went on for what seemed like ages without landings or windows, making me dizzy and a bit panicky; we also frequently had to stop and flatten ourselves against the wall to accommodate people who were going back down. A little over halfway up, we pushed open a wooden door and found ourselves on one of the lower, rear roofs of the building. After stopping for air and a few photos (and a "I hate you so much right now" from Tony as he looked straight down at the pavement), we took deep breaths and plunged back into the semi-darkness.

Once we were finally, finally at the top, we were rewarded for our efforts; breathtaking views of red-tipped Delft gave ways to stretches of flat, green countryside, and the distant cranes hovering over the waterfronts of Rotterdam in one direction, The Hague in the other. As we gulped in the fresh air we squeezed past other people to make our way to each side of the roof, eager to take in the view in all directions. Despite the calm weather on ground level, we were up so high that we were caught in an almost nautical breeze; my blue dress whipped around my legs, and a video Tony made of the panorama is obscured by the sound of wind in the speakers. After all of that time in the windowless tower, though, the breeze was much appreciated.

Luckily, going down didn't seem to take nearly as long, and once we sat our shaky behinds down on a bench for a few moments, we were ready to make our way to Delft's other main attraction.

Vermeer's final resting place in Oude Kerk, Delft.

Oude Kerk, affectionately nicknamed "Old Jan" (Old John) was our final Delft destination; a landmark in its own right, the church is even more recognizable from afar due to its tower, which leans 22 feet off-center from the base. It was into this tilted building that we entered for free, and found ourselves in a cathedral much different than the one we had just left; nearly everything was white, except for the ceilings, paneled in dark wood. The church houses not one but three magnificent pipe organs, so that nearly every way we looked we were facing one of them. And when one of them began to play a demonstration, I took a seat, the better to feel the stones rumble beneath me from the pipes' power. Soon, though, we got up, and began to scan the carved stones in the floor of the nave: we were looking for someone.

Just when we were ready to call it a lost cause and leave, I saw a woman tap her husband's shoulder to get his attention, then point down to the stone at her feet. They stood staring down at it with something like reverence for several moments before they moved away. Then it was my turn to quietly call for Tony and wave him over. Soon, we were both standing where the woman and her husband had been, and looking down at a simple, small stone engraved with the name we had sought: Johannes Vermeer. A mere 43 years he lived and painted in Delft, leaving behind a widow and 10 children, and far too few paintings. Nearby lies his friend Anton Van Leeuwenhoek, inventor of the microscope, interred in a far more prominent tomb above the floor. Had Vermeer been laid to rest today, I am sure it would have been in equal splendor.

When we finally emerged back into the sunlight, I felt a heaviness slip away from my chest; I suddenly felt that all day, until this moment, I had been holding my breath.

Deep shadows on Delft's shaded canals, behind Niewe Kerk.

Finally we knew we couldn't stay in Delft any longer; we had to catch a train to The Hague if we were going to see some of Vermeer's work; more on that later, but spoiler alert: we didn't. It was with regret that I dragged my sandal-ed feet along the cobblestones back toward the train station. We took our time along the canals, now lined with deep afternoon shadows from the buildings on either side, and I thought of Griet, or whoever she was; perhaps on another summer's day just like this one, she had been walking along the same waterway with a basket under her arm, or gazing down from a window in her blue and yellow turban. But then, we turned a corner into the alley, with the rumble of traffic ahead, and she was gone.

Note: all text and photos are my own. Please credit.

Day 1 in Holland: Rotterdam!

2012-10-08T20:44:00.002-04:00

Tony and I enjoying our first pint in Holland at Rotterdam's old harbor

Unsurprisingly, Tony and I slept rather late on Monday morning, after arriving from New York (via Iceland) the night before; Dierdre woke us with a rap on the door of our attic bedroom about noon local time. We were confused at first as to why our clothing was draped over every available surface of the room; however, we soon remembered that we had opened our luggage the night before to find that everything inside was soaked! The airport staff in Reykjavik must have left our bags out in the pouring rain before the transfer. To prevent it from becoming smelly we draped it all over the room to air out before we went to bed, tired as we were. Upon learning this after we woke, Dierdre insisted on offering the dryer's services. And so all was soon well, except for one pair of Tony's socks, which refused to dry out even after two full cycles.

The babies had gone to creche early in the morning, so we would have to wait until the following day to see them. Without that distraction, we quickly showered and had a bit of breakfast, then set out into a mild summer's day. Dierdre led us on a short walk to nearby Rotterdam Alexaander station. Since international credit cards are not accepted at the automated ticket machines, we needed to use her card to buy tickets and pay her back later. Soon enough, though, we had stamped our tickets and were gliding through the suburbs and past the Rotterdam Zoo, which I had visited on my first trip four years before.

Once in the city, we walked through the bustling station, which is undergoing huge renovations and promises to be quite impressive upon completion; what a shame that we will probably never see it finished! A short walk from there led us to the main shopping streets, which give the impression of an outdoor shopping mall: stores on either side, wide brick walkways, and the occasional stall or even small take-away joint in the middle of the path.

The cubic apartments are a must-see, even just from outside!

After fighting our way through the shopping streets (surprisingly crowded, for a workday, I thought) we made for one of Rotterdam's main attractions: the famous cubic apartments. People do actually leave in these odd-looking dwellings, though I couldn't help picturing the inside as a dizzying fun house attraction. I could have proved my intuition wrong by paying a few Euro to tour one, but we decided it was far too nice a day to spend any time inside, and contented ourselves with the exterior view.

We made our way from there to Rotterdam's old harbor, where we were treated to some rare, pre-World War II architecture. As I mentioned in the previous post, Rotterdam was bombed flat by the Nazis, leaving only a few buildings intact. Some of them cluster around the old harbor, giving the impression of sentinels, enduring all the guard Europe's largest seaport. We settled in at a dockside table and toasted our trip with our first Heineken of the journey.

Dierdre had to head back to pick up the twins from creche, but before leaving us she saw us to a water taxi, which would take us across the harbor to the other side of the city. Tony and I clumsily climbed in and then waved goodbye to Dierdre as the wooden boat took us away from her. As we left the dock area and picked up speed, it occurred to me that I was in Holland for the first time without Dierdre or Co to lead me about! It was like suddenly realizing that I'd given a chaperone the slip, only to find that it was a bad idea. But I was soon enjoying the taxi ride and looking forward to discovering what we'd find on the opposite shore.

Interior of the water taxi that took us to Hotel New York.

The opposite shore, as it turned out, was nearly empty, but for the Hotel New York, an imposing brick feature taking up much of the waterside acreage. But we wandered away from it for a while, finding ourselves in much quieter streets lined with cheap shops and automobile garages. Eventually we came to a corner bar and stepped inside, thirsty from the hot day and long walk. The place was empty but for the smoking owner, who stubbed our her cigarette to serve us, then ignored her own signage, "absolutely no smoking," and took to the back room with another once we were served.

We stayed long enough to enjoy and pay for our pints, then set off again toward the harbor. By the time we actually made our way back to Hotel New York, we were hungry. After a quick look at the Euro amounts on the menu, we were relieved to discover that we could actually afford to eat here, and decided to stay.

Dinner at the Hotel New York turned out to be the highlight of the day. We settled into a cafe table outside on the wharf, an awning sheltering us from the late afternoon sun. The wait staff obligingly brought us a menu in English, and we were thrilled to find on it a regional delicacy we had particularly wanted to try: shrimp croquettes! These arrived first, along with bread and several whipped spreads. The croquettes were crunchy outside, creamy and salty inside; perfection. An astonishing amount of mussels in a steaming pot arrived next, along with a plate of fries. Between all of that and a few Heinekens, we ended up staying on the wharf for nearly two hours.

Mussels, shrimp croquettes, fries, bread, and tasty sauces.

Tony found out from his mother just before our trip that his German ancestors had departed for New York City from Rotterdam many generations ago. Oddly enough, the Hotel New York is so named because it is situated on the very wharf where ships departed, full of immigrants, to America. As I'm also of German heritage (among many other European races) it's quite possible that Tony and I both have ancestors who had once trod the very bricks beneath which we were enjoying our meal. We mused on this great coincidence, or perhaps twist of fate, as we watched the sun slowly sink down, casting a golden glow over the decks of the ships at moor on the water.

After finally ending our meal, we waddled back down to the dock and obtained the services of a different water taxi back across the harbor. He dropped us off at a different spot than we had embarked from in the first place, but we easily oriented ourselves and set off in the direction of the train station. We passed coffee shops and "coffee shops" (more on that later), the now-sleepy shopping streets, the old city hall, and even passed over what appeared to be a Dutch musical walk of fame, completely by accident. By the time we found our way back to Centraal we were more than ready to settle ourselves on the couch at D and Co's place, where we were sure another cold Heineken (or three) would be awaiting us when we arrived.

Rotterdam: The Family Home

2012-10-07T17:12:00.002-04:00

Rotterdam's "cubic apartments" are a must-see.

Tony and I arrived in Amsterdam around 8:30 PM local time, tired but with cheeks still flushed from the volcanic waters of Iceland's Blue Lagoon. After a much faster trip out of the terminal than usual- somehow we managed to completely bypass passport control- we startled to found ourselves suddenly in the arrivals hall. After standing momentarily bewildered in front of a pair of Stars Wars-esque sliding doors, we walked forward, and there was Dierdre!

For those of you who don't know, Dierdre became part of my extended family more than 10 years ago, when she was in her early twenties and working for a software company that made annual business trips to work with my Dad's employer. Dad took a liking to the spunky young Irish gal and invited her home to try my mom's cooking, and spend some time out of her lonely hotel room. Apart from the cat nibbling on one of Dierdre's toes during Grace, the meal went well, and we all got along splendidly. We were all together in Scotland the following year, when both Dad and Dierdre had business there, and have seen each other nearly every other year since. She brings tasty European chocolates or Irish jewelry and takes us out to dinner at our favorite Italian place; she stays with us instead of in a hotel and enjoys our American hospitality, especially my mom's yummy cooking. It's a nice arrangement for all involved!

After being transferred to The Netherlands, Dierdre met and married a delightful Dutchman, Cochise, who has been along with her to visit us twice. I was lucky enough to spend a long weekend with the happy couple in the autumn of 2008 with my friend Laura; we were studying abroad in England and Amsterdam was just an hour's flight away! Much to everyone's elation, D and Co welcomed twins, a boy and a girl, last October. Having missed their wedding in Ireland I was not about to miss out on the twins' babyhood, and essentially invited myself over for a summertime visit. Luckily, they were more than happy to welcome not just me, but also Tony, whom they had never met, into their home.

Dierdre and Co make their home in a cozy townhouse on the outskirts of the city of Rotterdam, about an hour's drive from Amsterdam. Despite being the home of Europe's largest seaport, Rotterdam does not see as much tourist traffic as other Dutch cities. This is largely because it is one of Holland's more modern cities. Hardly any buildings survived the vicious bombings of World War II, when Rotterdam was flattened by Nazi forces in the course of just one day.

Rotterdam was a great base for all of our travels. Apart from the city itself (which I'll detail in a post to come), Rotterdam's Centraal Station can take you all over The Netherlands and even to Belgium without stopping for customs or so much as a passport check. Our home station was Rotterdam Alexaander, a convenient walk and even more convenient bike pedal from Dierdre and Co's place. On the day we went to Delft and The Hague, we borrowed their bikes and got to the station that way instead of walking.

I was a bit nervous at first, considering A) It's been about two years since I've been on a bike, B) Dierdre is a few inches taller than me, with much longer legs, making the ride slightly uncomfortable, C) I was also wearing a dress, not having planned on this turn of events, and D) Neither one of us had ever pedaled around in another country before! Luckily Holland is probably the most bike-friendly country in the world. Every road short of the highways seems to have a bike path, and cars are expected to yield to cyclists. That didn't stop us from being a little nervous navigating the traffic circles at first, but we eventually became more confident once no one tried to run us over or even honk their horns at us.

Tony and I playing with Aiofe on our last day in Rotterdam.

If we had had more time in Rotterdam I would have loved to spend more time exploring the city by bike; but we were really only there either at the beginning or end of a very long and busy day. There wasn't much time or energy for bike rides!

Our final day in Holland was spent in Rotterdam, where we caught up on sleep and then spent the day with D and Co and the babies. It was a brutally hot day; we had planned to go to a nearby UNESCO World Heritage Site to see some windmills, but couldn't risk taking the babies out in that weather. So we sweated out the day in the shade of the house, windows and doors thrown open. Tony and I crawled around on the carpet with the "babas," playing with blocks and trains balls. When the men left for a shopping trip Dierdre and I got the babies and in out of their cribs for naps and fed them yogurt, bread, and cheese.

In the afternoon we slathered the babies in sunscreen and took them out to the back garden, where a paddling pool was waiting for them underneath the tarp. The cool water was a relief to all of us, even us adults, who merely got splashed by Ciaran and Aiofe. After toweling them off we all settled around the backyard table for a barbecue, complete with steak, salmon, chicken, cheese schnitzel, and other tasty goodies. Our orbits around the table as we followed the shade of the umbrella was highly amusing.

It's looking likely that the family will be moving to Ireland soon, so it's highly likely that I'll never be back to Rotterdam. Tony and I want to come back to Amsterdam and The Hague once all of the museum are open (more on that later), but as Dierdre drove us away from the city as we departed for the airport, I couldn't help thinking that I'd never see the place again. Still, one never knows where one will end up going on one's next adventure! Maybe next summer will be Ireland!

In Iceland: The Blue Lagoon!

2012-09-09T18:37:00.001-04:00

The Blue Lagoon welcomed us to its doors much as Iceland had welcomed us onto her soil a few hours before: with wind and rain.

Despite the mild weather we had left behind in downtown Reykjavik, barely half an hour later we found ourselves running for cover when the Flybus dropped us off at the mouth of the long path to the spa’s entryway. I laughed nearly the whole way up the black, lava-lined sidewalk, my umbrella not over my head, but in front of my face to block the stinging rain that was blowing directly into our faces. Tony had given up shelter and strode determinedly by my side, the very image of "whatever, it's rain" manliness. I got a quick peek at a pool of blue, steaming water to my left before diving inside the safety of the building. We joined the rest of the dripping queue waiting to pay for admission and took in our surroundings. To our right, an inviting-looking gift shop edged in gray stone displayed presumably pricey spa items, and straight ahead, delicious smells were wafting out of the on-site restaurant.

The Blue Lagoon's pools look just like this, except full of swimmers!

There are many naturally-occurring hot springs in Iceland (many of which you can just drive up to and jump into), but The Blue Lagoon is the only one that offers guests the full resort experience, complete with overnight stays or massage and other spa services, in addition to the basic warm swim. National Geographic has declared The Blue Lagoon one of the 25 Wonders of the World. From the website: 'In its description of Blue Lagoon National Geographic says "the steaming turquoise pools of Iceland's Blue Lagoon, trapped in volcanic rock represent an otherworldly vision." National Geographic says that Blue Lagoon is a geothermal gift of nature.' Tony had been there the previous year, but was eager that I should experience the lagoon for myself.

We each paid for the basic package: hot springs admission, and a towel, which came to about $50 US; admission is good for the entire day. Other packages include fluffy robes and slippers, spa supplies such as pumice stones, spa service packages, and access to a warmed, post-pool lounge. At the lagoon each guest is given a waterproof wristband that acts as the key for their locker, as well as allows them to charge food, drink, or spa purchases. Mine nearly slipped off about a hundred times, but in theory, they are adjustable. At the set of stairs that led up to the women's locker areas, I said goodbye to Tony, who said we would meet at the back door, where we could enter the water.

I ascended the stairs and turned the corner into the women’s area, where I suddenly and unexpectedly encountered a wall of pasty, slack flesh; the locker room was absolutely crammed with naked women. Naked, old women. The only young people in the room were the female assistants (mercifully clothed), trying in vain to ignore the language barrier and the nudity, in order to help these jabbering, jiggling guests work their lockers. I tried to edge into the room, looking for a free locker, but the crowd wouldn’t budge. Feeling meek, I turned and walked back out and across the hall, where I thought there would be a second changing room. That was full too. I peered back around into the first area, where some of the women seems to have shuffled into the shower area. Another American girl who looked to be about my own age had squeezed into a corner and found an open locker there. She and I shared a quick, "this is awkward" look before she began to undress.

I looked around for a private dressing area but didn't see one, so after locating a locker, I though "fuggit," and quickly stripped, pulling on my bathing suit and wrapping myself in my towel. After some difficulty I managed to squeeze the backpack, umbrella, and all of my clothes and shower gear into the locker, and with some assistance, secured it. Then it was on to the shower room, where all guests are required to bathe before entering the pools. I kept my suit on, though most of the women there did not. Each stall is filled with a special conditioner which guests are urged to apply thoroughly to their hair, which prevents it from being dried out and damaged by the salty water.

Downstairs I found a shivering Tony already waiting for me. "Lots of naked people?" he asked; I guess I still looked shocked. "Yeah...it's like that here," he said. "Sorry I didn't mention that."

We found a corner where we could leave our towels, said a quick prayer that no one would steal them, counted to three, then pushed open the door and dashed across the wet boards. I think I made an audible "woo!" sound as my bare flesh encountered the less than fifty-degree temperature and bitter wind, and we splashed clumsily and desperately down the wooden steps into the pool.

The silty bottom caressed our feet as we sank in gratefully up to our shoulders, where we were largely out of the reach of the wind. The water we were paddling in was fluorescent, almost neon blue, but so silty that we couldn't see to our hips, let alone our feet. We doggie-paddled to the center of the pool and took in our surroundings; the wooden and glass spa buildings were straight ahead, as was a waterfall where brave swimmers were taking turns subjecting their shoulders to the pounding natural massage. To our left, a small wooden structure which Tony said was the bar perched just over the pool like a water skimmer in the creeks back at home. Behind us were walls of lumpy-looking, jet-black volcanic rock, and the occasional guard dressed in a snowsuit, patrolling the perimeter for children in need of water wings, and that kind of thing. To our right, people were scooping white clay out of wooden boxes and applying it to their faces. Many of them were laughing at one another's masks.

Tony led me over to the clay station, where I dipped my hands into a ladle full of the thick, soft substance, and smeared it over my face, from forehead to chin.He decided not to risk getting the stuff caught in his beard, and so went without. After about 10 minutes I washed it off, amazed to already feel my face feel tight, clean, and softer than a baby's butt. After that it was over to the waterfall, which pounded down on us with surprising force, but which effectively loosened our muscles, tight from all of the previous day's travel.

"Well," sputtered Tony, his now-soaked beard giving him a very Viking-esque appearance as we emerged from the waterfall's spray; "want a beer?"

We swam over to the bar and joined the queue. Apparently the little shack perched above the water sold not just beer, cocktails and smoothies, but spa accessories as well, and several people swam away with pumice stones or "volcano scrub" to pamper themselves further. Tony and I settled on two cans of Gull beer, which we paid for with a swipe of our wristbands. We carefully carried the cups to a corner of the pool, where we perched on a ledge there, and toasted to our adventure. "To The Blue Lagoon!" We frequently giggled in between sips, just amused by the novelty of it all, and gripped our plastic cups carefully, not wanting to earn the infamous reputation of the tourist that forever ruined the springs' PH balance.

The lava-lined path to the spa's entrance.

We would have loved to stay all day, but we had a plane to catch! And so we dragged ourselves out of the water after nearly an hour of soaking; our fingers and tows had been effectively reduced to raisins. We separated again for locker room time, which was hectic; I managed to find a shower stall with a door, and so bathed privately but quickly. The spray from the shower took up the whole stall, soaking my bag of toiletries and actually knocking out one of my pearl stud earrings, which I luckily located on the shower floor before it was swept down the train. Ladies, sake my advice: remove ALL of your jewelry before going into the pool! I was so overwhelmed by the mass nudity that I didn't think about it until I was out there. I had also neglected to put up my hair, and so had to wash and condition the ends, which had dragged into the briny water, very thoroughly. By the time I was ready to get dressed, most of the Germanic elderly women had already passed through, and I was able to pull on my clothes without fear of a moon landing.

Downstairs, I dropped my wet towel into one laundry bag, my wristband into another, and met Tony on the other side of the turnstile. And so it was that, our hair still dripping slightly, we walked hand-in-hand down between the lava formations to the road, where we would begin the next stage of our journey to The Netherlands.

In a few minutes our bus drove around yet another traffic circle, and all traces of the lagoon were gone; even the steam had been borne away with the wind.

The Layover: Reykjavik, Iceland

2012-09-09T17:05:00.002-04:00

"Sun Voyager" sculpture on Reykjavik's waterfront

Reykjavik means "smoky cove" in Icelandic, and it certainly appeared smoky from the window as our jet soared down toward Keflavik International Airport. Being in the aisle seat my view downward was largely obscured by other passengers, but with the dreamy, evocative music of Sigur Ros playing in my ears, I could imagine the green and rocky land spread out below the fog.

It was early morning on Sunday, August 12, and I was looking ahead to 10 hours spent in Iceland before jetting off to meet friends in Amsterdam, The Netherlands.

I was not sitting anywhere near my travel companion and boyfriend of over a year, Tony, on this flight, and so could not see him, though I'm sure he was smiling as we prepared to land. Last year he and his sister spent 10 days here, and he had fallen in love with the incredible natural beauty of Iceland and the warm people who inhabit this wild land. I knew he was glad to be back.

When we had landed I swung my backpack onto my back, zipped up my sister's borrowed North Face jacket, and slung my purse over my shoulder. When I emerged from the plane, Iceland woke me from my post-rock dream state with a literal slap; I disembarked into the open air, which was cold and blowing a stinging rain in my face. I took the stairs down from the aircraft carefully, then took my first steps on Icelandic soil at a run to for the cover of the airport, where Tony was waiting inside the door.

The unforgiving Icelandic terrain near Keflavik

"Welcome to Iceland!" he said brightly. We hadn't seen each other in over six hours.

After a short trip through border control, whose agents appeared stern but relaxed, we found ourselves in Keflavik's main terminal, where we used the startlingly clean facilities and retrieved Icelandic Krona from an ATM machine. Then it was downstairs past baggage (our bags were being shipped straight on to Amsterdam) to buy a ticket for the Flybus, which would take us 45 minutes away into Reykjavik. Reykjavik does have an airport of its own, but is only used for domestic travel and for shorter flights to Greenland and the nearby Faroe Islands; the rest of us must arrive in Keflavik.

The monitor in our coach bus informed us that it was just after 7:00 in the morning, and the temperature just over 50 degrees Fahrenheit; a far cry from the 90-degree temperatures we had left behind in the states barely seven hours before. Once the bus we full of other yawning passengers, we departed the airport via a dizzying succession of traffic circles and set out into a rocky, moss-covered landscape: the lava fields.

"There are no trees in this country," Tony whispered to me as we drove through the bleak-looking but surprisingly beautiful countryside. "They can't grow here. You barely see a bush out there. You would see some lavender," he said guiltily, "if the rain hadn't smashed it all down!"

Hallgrímskirkja, Iceland's largest church

By "out there" Tony means in the wilderness, which he spent several days driving through in his rented "super Jeep" last year. He and his sister climbed glaciers, napped on the banks a waterfall so impressive I was sure it could only exist in Middle Earth, stayed in a hostel owned by a sheep farmer, and got closer to active volcanoes than most people I know have ever been.

Once we entered into the suburbs of Reykjavik, though, I did spot some hardy-looking trees swaying in the wind, poking up from behind fenced-in yards and in parking lots. "Imported and planted," Tony assured me in response to my raised eyebrows. "Trust me, nothing like that grows out in the wild." This was the first time I had ever really seen a landscape without trees; as I hail from the sylvan lands of Maryland and Pennsylvania, I didn't quite know what to make of it.

It didn't seem as long as 45 minutes before suburbs began to creep upward out of the lava and we found ourselves approaching Reykjavik. Located at just over 64 degrees north, Reykjavik is the world's northernmost capital city. This capital city is located on the southern shore of Faxaflói Bay, in the southwest of Iceland. With just over 119,000 residents in the city, and with 200,000 in the greater area, Reykjavik is home to over one third of Iceland's total population. Iceland itself is a fraction of the size of the United States, roughly the size of the state of Kentucky.

It had stopped raining by the time we disembarked at the main bus terminal, and Tony and I hoisted our packs up onto our shoulders and set off for the center of town. We set our sights on the recognizable steeple of Hallgrímskirkja, the largest church in Iceland and the country's only cathedral. It also makes a convenient orientation point for figuring out where you are in the city. Walking toward it on well-trod garden paths and litter-free sidewalks, we passed neat-looking middle-class homes, all of them in shades of off-white; their inhabitants were presumably still asleep, as it was barely 8:00 in the morning. We didn't meet a soul, actually, until we were staring up at the impressive facade of the cathedral, where a woman was watching her granddaughter play at the base of an equally impressive statue of the great explorer, Lief Erickson. Behind Lief, the gray pillars covering the cathedral's sides and stretching into the sky are meant to look like the basalt columns that naturally occur in parts of the country.

Icelanders are an open, accepting people.

From the cathedral we made our way downhill to the water (passing a couple of tourists who still appeared drunk, stumbling down the street), where we encountered the famous Sun Voyager sculpture, and a cloud-obscured view of the Esja Mountains across the water. "Sun Voyager is much more impressive when there is actual sun," mumbled my apologetic boyfriend, who obviously thought the gloomy weather was having a negative impact on my first impressions of Iceland.

Tony remembered a favorite cafe in town from the year before, and we set about locating it to procure some breakfast. Along the way we trod on the remains of rain-sodden, multicolored confetti; apparently we had just missed Reykjavik's annual Gay Pride Parade, which had taken place even as we flew toward it. Nearly every storefront we passed displayed a rainbow flag or other sign of solidarity, and in one souvenir shop a stuffed reindeer showed support of the most blatant kind: a cardboard sign reading "I'm gay" had been balanced on his antlers. Farther along the same street, we found a storefront with a permanent message plastered onto one of the windows: "If you are racist, sexist, homophobic, or an asshole, don't come in." I decided right then and there that I liked Icelanders a lot.

Sun breaks on the Esja Mountains, near Reykjavik

We meandered past an array of sleepy buildings, many of them empty, some of them covered with vibrant graffiti (Iceland is still recovering from a financial crisis of its own), and worked our way back uphill to the heart of town. We finally stumbled upon Cafe Babalu, but found it was closed until 11:00 in the morning. Our stomachs grumbling audibly, we made our way back to a bakery that we had passed earlier; inside we found an enticing array of still-warm loaves, still-sticky pastries, and sandwiches on freshly-baked rolls. After ordering easily with the blonde, blue-eyed baker (everyone here speaks English; they don't even expect tourists to attempt to speak any Icelandic), we settled into a corner table with sandwiches and small cups of strong, black coffee, and relaxed for a little while. Other tourists with backpacks filtered in and out, clearly illustrating that this was probably the only place in the city that was actually open so early on a Sunday morning. But our simple ham and cheese sandwiches on buttered, cloud-soft white rolls were more than satisfying.

After breakfast we wandered down over the ever-present confetti to the edge of the university neighborhood. There on the lake's edge, we found that even the ducks and pigeons were still asleep; everyone must gotten in late from the parade! This area is on the edge of the old town, where Nordic influence can still be seen in the architecture. After that we made a loop back around the water, past the concert hall/opera house, a modern, black building whose windows appear to change color as you pass by; then decided to make our way back to the bus station.

Before the bus station we made a pit stop; back at Hallgrímskirkja we found the doors of the church had been thrown open, and people were coming and going. Since it was Sunday morning we initially shrank back from the doors, thinking we did not want to disturb any worshipers; however, the two way traffic indicated that we were welcome, so we went in. I've been to a lot of cathedrals and churches in England, France, and Italy, but I had never seen one like this; the ceiling, many stories above us, was vaulted in smooth white, without any of the ornate designs of European cathedrals. In fact, I don't think I saw even a single cross. The interior was smooth, and clean, almost like newly fallen snow had settled over the arches. I huge pipe organ clung to the rear of the church over the doors, in a nest of dark wood that matched the pews. We didn't stay long, but it only took a few moments to absorb the beauty of the place.

Back outside, we listened to the church bells slowly toll ten times as the wind whistled around our shoulders and mussed our already messy hair. We had already been in Iceland for more than four hours.

Back downhill we went, past the same houses we had passed hours before, but which looked no closer to waking up. As we passed through a small garden, a friendly cat approached us, meowing, and wound itself once around a cringing Tony's ankles before disappearing into the undergrowth. Back at the bus station, we settled into plastic seats while awaiting the bus that would take us to our next destination, and our way of killing time before the airport: the waters of The Blue Lagoon awaited us.

Coming soon...

2012-07-13T11:20:00.005-04:00

In one month we will be embarking on quite an adventure, and I'm getting very excited!

I'll be spending my first layover here:

Jealous? This is Blue Lagoon in Iceland, a world-famous geothermal spa. Since we'll be in Iceland from 6:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. the first day of our journey, that gives us plenty of time for a warm, soothing dip. The spa is also conveniently located between Keflavik airport and the main (and only) city of Reykjavic, and buses that run between the two stop there.

After that, it's off to Rotterdam, which will serve as home base during our stay in the Netherlands. We're taking day trips to Delft and The Hague, both of which I've been to before but am keen to revisit. We're spending a night in Amsterdam, with accomodation in a very modern hotel, and then hopefully hopping over the German border to spend a day in Munster. Tony and I both have a lot of Germanic heritage, so both our families are encouraging us to go! Even if we do all of that, that still leaves us with about two days in which to be spontaneous or to spend time with our lovely host family.

Our second layover will be overnight, but apparently Reykjavic is known for its nightlife. We can probably find a good, cozy bar somewhere to wait out the night. Not that it will be dark, that is. Iceland is so far north that darkness hardly ever falls in the summertime. I'm actually very excited to be heading so far north, nearly to the Arctic Circle! While most people seek out warmer weather when they go on vacation, I'm looking forward to feeling the chill of fresh, clean, cold air in my lungs. At least for a day or two. In Holland it's been somewhat dreary this summer, but I'm hoping the sun shines on us during our visit.

In the next month we'll be buying supplies for the journey, packing, accumulating all of the necessary forms and tickets, getting currency, and generally being beside ourselves with excitement.

The cafe at Blue Lagoon has free wifi, so who knows? You may just hear from me while I'm there :-)

In Cleveland, OH: Rock and Roll Hall of Fame!

2012-06-03T18:24:00.003-04:00

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame/Museum in Cleveland, OH.

The weekend of May 17-19, Tony and I took a long-awaited trip to Cleveland, Ohio, to visit my cousin and her boyfriend in the suburbs. We had hoped to go in the winter but never made it; probably a good thing, considering all of that lake-effect snow! The six-hour drive from Lancaster to Cleveland was well worth it as soon as we got our first tantalizing glimpse of blue from downtonwn; it was the first time I had ever seen one of the Great Lakes! And perched on the side of Lake Erie, like an angular glass lighthouse, is the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum, our first stop on the too-short trip.

The building is spectacular to look at it; a glass pyramid comprises the atrium of the museum, which is criss-crossed with escalators to guide visitors up four stories to the peak. The round, tower-like feature on the museum's left side is the Hall of Fame itself, a round room that takes its visitors up and around as they pass by the names inscribed under glass on the left wall. By the time you reach the top, you file past artifacts dedicated by recent inductees (the Red Hot Chili Peppers and the Beastie Boys this year, to name a couple), before guiding you back into the main body of the museum. The building is completely full of light in its center, but shields the precious artifacts within using darkened exhibits sectioned off from the main area.

Tony is a musician by passion and trade, so a visit to this landmark of music was a must. What he liked best about the museum was that it covered all of the musical genres that contributed to the creation of rock and roll, including the blues, gospel, and early soul music. The main exhibit here takes you on a journey through all of these times by using interactive audio/video booths as well as artifacts such as--a highlight for Tony--blues guitarist Lead Belly's instruments. We also saw such items as: John Lennon's piano, organ, and handwritten lyrics; Diana Ross' sequin-spangled stagewear; Elvis Presley's high school football helmet; David Bowie's stage costumes, including his Ziggy Stardust getup; Buddy Holly's suit and guitar; Micheal Jackson's tap shoes and golden glove; The Rolling Stones' guitars; Jimi Hendrix's cape, shirts, and childhood drawings; Stevie Knicks of Fleetwood Mac's stagewear; Led Zeppelin's first recording contract; and more! The gallery is a vast wonderland of musical stuff, and it took us nearly two hours to work our way, slack-jawed, past its many wonders.

As we emerged, blinking, into the sun-bright atrium from the darkened exhibit, I was struck again by the beauty of the building. Even the cafe area offered wonderful views of the lake; as we ate, Tony and I observed several groups of people go out onto a balcony to take pictures of the lake or have their pictures taken in front of it, then hurry back inside out of the chilly wind.

After lunch we traveled up another set of escalators into smaller exhibits that focused on things such as music technology, music on television, the recording process, etc. After these smaller displays we entered the actual hall of fame display, walking slowly around in circles as we read all of the names. Then it was nearly closing time!

The gift shop is vast and impressively stocked with many collections of merchandise, as well as a full music store owned by FYE. I contented myself with a magnet for my collection and a pin for my dad, while Tony took home some guitar picks for his students.

Tony in front of Johnny and June Carter Cash's tour bus!

The museum had one more surprise for us even as we were leaving: parked outside was an insignificant-looking bus that we had failed to notice on our way in. Closer inspection revealed it to be the former tour bus of none other than Johnny Cash! it was in his possession for more than twenty years, and he sold it just a short time after his beloved wife, June Carter Cash, died in 2003. If we had stopped at the bus on our way inside we would have been allowed to go inside it! Sadly, as the museum was getting ready to close for the evening, the bus was locked up, and we could only admire it from the outside. Amy later informed us that the vehicle on display changes regularly, so we're glad that we were there on Johnny Cash day!

Tony and I both hope to take our respective Dads to the museum someday; I would certainly go back. In short, the place is a must for any music fan, even if you're not the hardest of rockers.

The Big Move Part 1: Hometown Blues

2012-05-27T17:38:00.000-04:00

If you read the previous post, you know that I have FINALLY moved out of the town where I had spent a large part of the last thirteen years of my life, having moved there when I was ten. Living in the same place for that long meant that when it was finally time to move, I spent weeks digging myself out of piles of clothes, paper, and other detritus I'd pulled from closets and and from under the bed and thinking "where did all of this come from?!" (On an unrelated note, I recently helped my grandparents pack up their home of more than forty years, which was a monumental task. Thirteen years is plenty). It also meant that while I was packing, I had a lot of time to think about my hometown, and what it meant to finally be leaving it for good after all this time.

Here's the thing: I have a love-hate relationship with my hometown, in a way that I think many of us who grew up in small towns do. I love it, mostly, because of the rural neighborhood where I grew up, because it was safe and I could run around with the neighborhood kids without our parents ever really having to worry about us. I loved my large, green yard, and the patch of woodland behind our house that connected into a slightly larger one that in childhood seemed immense, and where we could pretend to be anything we wanted. The creek that flowed through it was our conduit, and we spent days of every season wandering up and down it, trudging through deep water, edging past brambles and stepping on slippery stones until we found ourselves sitting on the banks of whole new worlds.

When I began to grow up, when running around barefoot with a back of twelve kids was suddenly "uncool," my town offered me next-to-no opportunities. For a town whose biggest draw is a strip mall, the lack of anything to do was incredibly frustrating. No cafes or coffee shops. No movie theatre. No mall. All we had was a bowling alley partially owned by a sex offender, so obviously our parents weren't crazy about us hanging out there anyway. I spent the majority of my adolescence holed up in my room wallowing in my own boredom, playing "The Sims" on the computer and giving my avatars much more exciting lives than my own, and staying up late scribbling into moonlit journals about how unhappy I was. Later, when I made friends my own age, we busied ourselves with extra-curriculars and volunteering after school, and on the weekends we would hole up in someone else's bedroom or living room, commiserating and expressing our greatest fear: that we would end up staying in this purgatory between childhood and adulthood forever. So many of our friends' parents and grandparents were graduates of the our high school, but we wanted to go places and do things and see things. We didn't want to stay here like them, to raise another generation of bored children. We wanted out.

Most of us did get out. I went to college (in another small town, but a different one, at least) for four years, including a semester abroad in Cheltenham England during my junior year. From Cheltenham I branched out to London, Bath, Florence, Edinburgh, Amsterdam, Galway, and more. Here, at last was the dream: I was so far away from my hometown. I was finally seeing a part of the world I'd always wanted to see. I took thousands of pictures, met new people, tried new foods and developed new hobbies, and I broadened horizons. Coming back from England saw me deeply unhappy again, but eventually I pulled myself together, threw myself into my studies and jobs, drank a little on the weekends, and spent the next year pushing toward the cap and gown.

That's what made it so hard when I found myself with a diploma in my hand, but with no job offers in my inbox. I wasn't unhappy at the thought of being back with my parents; I get along with my family extremely well and am probably closer to my parents than most people I know. I was unhappy because I had no choice but to go back to the town I had so desperately wanted to escape. I had worked so hard all through high school and college in part because I wanted it to pay off in a way that meant I never had to come back. Coming back and staying for 18 months, and working in a local diner was absolute torture, because I lived in constant fear of someone--anyone--I'd known from high school coming in and being waited on by me, of them thinking or saying, "wow, we really thought you were going to be something; we thought that you, of all people, would get out." The days I wasn't at the diner I was bored to death working the desk at the local library of an even smaller town twenty minutes away, where I sifted through job listings on the Internet, planning my escape.

But I finally did escape: a job was offered, and it swept me off to the big city. I've been here since late February and am truly enjoying myself. And here's what I've come to realize about my hometown: it is a great place to raise a family. I was a very happy child. It was only in adolescence that boredom set in, and then in young adulthood that I realised I could be sucked into its opportunity-less vortex forever if I didn't act fast. It's not a bad place; it's just that I always knew it wasn't the place I wanted to spend the rest of my life.

That isn't to say that I want to spend the rest of my life here in Philadelphia; I am enamored of this place for many reasons, but there is still so much of the world I haven't seen. Maybe I will end up here long term; I certainly have no plans to leave soon. I don't know where my life will take me in the (hopefully) many years ahead of me, but I am more than happy to make Philadelphia my home base for now. If nothing else, at least I'm not nearly as bored as I used to be.

Sorry...here's what's up.

2012-04-30T21:54:00.000-04:00

Well, I must apologise. I was sitting around minding my own business and being generally unsatisfied with my life when something extraordinary happened: life itself happened. After months of submitting resume after resume without receiving so much as an e-mail in return, I received a phone call in late November; just before Thanksgiving, I found myself sitting in a 12-th story office of a building in Olde City, Philadelphia, being interviewed for an entry-level job in academic publishing. About a week before Christmas, I received a call informing me that I had gotten the job (Marry Christmast to me!!) Since the opening had been posted on CareerBuilder and had generated over 700 applications, I was stunned to find myself in the office for an interview, let alone moving into the cubicle a few weeks later. Really, I still can't believe my luck.

And so, after 18 months of working dead-end, underpaying, largely unfulfilling jobs, the search was over. I, and my degree, had been hired, and in a field I had actually been interested in!

That is the reason for my absence, blogosphere; my life flipped completely upside down just before Christmas and I feel as though I am just now catching my breath.

I commuted from my parents' home for the better part of two months, a 70-mile drive that wreaked havoc on my 14-year-old car, my wallet, and my nerves. I lucked out completely when I met a very nice girl through Roomster.com who needed a roommate to share her two-bedroom townhouse in Roxborough, on the northwest side of the city. I moved in in late February, and I am writing from there at this moment.

So, it is my hope to catch up on some of the places I've visited since i moved in...and there have been a lot of them! I've eaten at a ton of great restaurants and seen some great exhibits and shows in the city. Slowly (very slowly, I'm sure) but surely, I'll get there. And in the meantime, it will be better for me to sit around writing about all of the places I've already been, instead of going out and spending more money, because I have a very big trip coming up that I need to save up for!

In very exciting news, I will be making my triumphant return to The Netherlands in August! I visited nearly four years ago, in November 2008, staying with family friends in Rotterdam, and covering their city as well as Amsterdam, Delft, and The Hague in just over four days. This time I'll be there for over a week! And along the way, I will be stopping off for a 10-hour layover in Iceland! Ten hours is just enough time for a short excursion into Reykjavik and a leisurely swim through the therapeutic, geothermal waters of Blue Lagoon! I am also hoping to make an excursion to Brussels, a mere two-hour journey from Rotterdam by train. All in all, I might be able to visit three countries in under two weeks! I can hardly wait.

In just as exciting news, I won't be travelling alone this time: my wonderful boyfriend of nearly a year shall be accompanying me. We are absolutely giddy with anticipation at the thought of taking our first big trip together, and I can't wait for him to meet my European friends. Then days together any place at all would be wonderful, but the fact that we get to spend 10 days together abroad is fantastic :)

Okay, so now that we've established the current time and place, I'll start brainstorming as to what I want to cover first! I need to flex my blogging muscles and get back into the swing of this thing.

Stay tuned! And in the meantime, please feel free to revisit my posts from this time last year; I can't believe it's already been a year since I returned from Paris!

(And remember children, every time you click on a link on this blog, the Google fairies deposit a few cents into Aidan's paypal account!)

In Atlanta, GA: FLIP Burger Boutique

2011-12-12T17:00:00.000-05:00

Anyone who spent any time with me last summer will remember that I was became too emotionally invested in Top Chef: All Stars. I wept over this show, people. The winner of that season was my favorite from the start, Chef Richard Blais. Mr. Blais owns a trio of Burger Boutiques, and I got to go to one of them in Atlanta while I was there! FLIP Burger Midtown was a heck of a dining experience, especially to this amateur (or wannabe) foodie.

I have plenty of positive things to say, but I have one complaint to start: the hostess seated us in an isolated corner. We couldn't see the rest of the restaurant, which, with its red and black decor channeling a more modern take on a 50s diner, I was keen to take in. In hindsight, I really should have asked if we could be seated elsewhere, but I guess I didn't want to offend our waiter. All I had was a slim view of the bar on the far wall, and Tony got to look at the parking lot outside of the window, and...me. Maybe you guys should consider shuffling the tables around.

Liquid nitrogen milkshakes at FLIP Burger are so cool!

Tony and I started things off with a milkshake which was meant to be shared; my stomach can only handle minimal amounts of heavy cream these days, so I knew Tony would be doing most of the heavy drinking. I wish I could have had more, though! This wasn't your average milkshake; this, my friends, was a pumpkin chai milkshake topped with colder-than-ice, smoky liquid nitrogen, which has to fizzle off before you begin drinking. It feels like you're being presented with an edible chemistry project; it was both of our first times indulging in liquid nitrogen, and we giggled until we could drink it. After that, it didn't last very long. I die to think of it. If only I could have had more!

There was only one vegetarian burger option on the menu, which is to be expected; Tony and I planned ahead to make sure he would have options. Luckily, his "fauxlafel" burger was delicious and cooked to perfection. It was his first time having falafel, and he's a huge fan now. The salsa verde was a nice touch. I have consulted the menu online and it seems they now offer the fauxlafel and a black bean burger. Hmm.

The Cuban at FLIP Burger Boutique

My burger was the Cuban, which I have learned is no longer on the menu. Perhaps they rotate? It was a spiced pork patty topped with melted Swiss cheese, homemade pickles and thick chunks of pork belly. I'd been tempted by Blais' take on the bacon cheeseburger, but after salivating over his pork belly creations for a whole season, I couldn't pass up an opportunity such as this one. I'm glad I did! Truth be told, I found it a bit too salty; pork belly basically tasted to me like tender, concentrated bacon, so I think that smaller portions of it would have been better on the burger; the seasoned patty plus the pork belly left a salty aftertaste in my mouth. Luckily the delicious pickles offered some relief. Don't get me wrong, I'm really glad that I tried it; and what do I know, anyway? I didn't win Top Chef!

To conclude: Well done, Mr. Blais. The next time we're in Atlanta, we'll be back.

FLIP Burger has two Atlanta locations, Buckhead and Midtown, and a location in Birmingham, Alabama.

Event Review: Fitz and the Tantrums 11/08/11

2011-11-18T21:13:00.000-05:00

Fitz and the Tantrums in Lancaster, PA, 11/08/11

I don't know but I've been told...that Fitz and the Tantrums put on a kickass live show.

Before we begin, I would like to say that I have discovered Drinkify and it has sucked up almost an hour of my free time in the past week. And if one is listening to Fitz and the Tantrums, Drinkify suggests 6 ounces of Hennessy, on the rocks, garnished with a twist of grapefruit. Right now I'm drinking hard cider because it's a) leftover from my birthday and b) the only thing in the house, so it'll have to do.

I was lucky enough to score tickets to their show at the Chameleon Club in Lancaster, PA. It's almost impossibly tiny, with room for maybe just a couple hundred people. It expands not horizontally but vertically, with the floor level, second-floor balcony, complete with bar, and third floor. After a drink on the third floor, Mom and I stationed ourselves railside on the second, courtesy of some friendly high-schoolers from York who squeezed together to allow us room.

Walk the Moon clears their Chameleon set

The opening band was a quartet of early twenty-somethings called Walk the Moon (8 oz cocaine; serve neat, stir slowly) from Cleveland. Their hipsters appearance hid expectations of the a glam-rock sound they produced. they impressed me right away with their rhythms and enthusiasm. I must say that, however, that I find their habit of decorating themselves with neon warpaint before they go on a little pretentious; I thought I was being too hard on them until I spotted the lead singer at the merch table after the show, offering to paint the faces of admiring fans (aka, girls).

They played about eight songs, all of them upbeat, and worked themselves into a sweaty lather before signing off for the night. Oh, and they covered Fleet Foxes' "White Winter Hymnal," and somehow avoided destroying it. In fact, they made it sound quite hip. But anyway. For the most part they cleared up their own equipment. After that, we waited for the stroke of 9:35 for Fitz and company to take to the stage.

They opened with my personal favorite, "Don't Gotta Work it Out." About halfway into that first song, Fitz noticed the top two floors of spectators; his look of genuine surprise was endearing. Throughout the show, he would wave and point to us while singing. After ending the first ditty, we were greeted with a "Helloooooo Lancaster" from Fitz and an "are you ready to get the fuck down?!" from singer Noelle Scaggs. Then it was time to boogie. Through the whole discography they kept us into the show with claps, sing-alongs and dancing.

I don't know what the off-stage relationship between Fitz and Noelle is, but I will say this: they have got some serious chemistry. It is hinted at in many of their music videos, but when you see them together on stage, you can almost feel the heat coming off of them as they sing to each other, dance around each other, and occasionally, dance on each other. Noelle provides vocals and tamborine, and she does a damn good job.

And Fitz is quite a dancer! When he wasn't singing I thought he was going to backflip off of the stage! Dude's got some moves. And the other musicians are fantastic, especially woodwind player James King, who manned the sax most of the night but also turned to flute for songs such as "Breaking the Chains of Love."

In addition to playing all of "Pickin' Up the Pieces", The band debuted a couple of new songs that they've been working on while on the road; one, "Wake Up," was pretty damn catchy. The other, I don't recall, although that shouldn't detract from it at all. Everything they played that night was spectacular.

The last half hour or so of the show was given over completely to rocking out to the fastest, danciest songs; I didn't take any photos. Mom and I were dancing like maniacs; elbowing one another, our purses swinging wildly off of our elbows as we got down. At one point, we literally got down; Noelle and Fitz called out anybody they could see who wasn't. The image of me in skinny jeans, attempting to back it up without elbowing any of my neighbors or ripping any denim, must have been hilarious.

They surprised us all with the first song of the encore (after five minutes of vocal chord-hemmoraging screams and cheers); it took me about 30 seconds to realize what I was hearing, but they covered Eurythmics' "Sweet Dreams are Made of This!" The final song of the encore was, of course, their number 1 hit: Moneygrabber. By the time they left the stage, almost everyone was sweaty, out of breath, and elated. My vantage point from the second floor helped me to see that I wasn't the only one.

Me and Noelle!

We got to meet Fitz, bass player Joseph Karnes, and Noelle at their merch table, and they were so friendly! Handshakes and introductions, pictures, autographs, the full nine yards. It was nice to see that despite their rapid rise over the past year or so, they weren't above taking the time to learn our names and thank us for coming. And they seemed to genuinely appreciate our attention and our comments. They solicited this interaction as well: at the end of the show they encouraged us to come and see them at the merch tables. No tour bus stalking this time!

Me with Fitz! He says the gray is au natural

Mom bought tickets to Fitz's show in Philly the following Saturday, forcing my dad to come along. I am happy to report that they came home just after 1:00 in the morning, giggling, and proceeded to talk our ears off about how much fun they'd had. Mom swore that Fitz had seen her in the crowd, and maybe recognized her from Tuesday night. My dad even demonstrated some of the dancing he had been doing! Bless him. The man is whiter than a corpse on the dance floor but he certainly tries.

Fitz strikes a pose with my mom

So at the end of the day, this is a band that not only has a pretty rockin' album, but is worth seeing twice in the same week in two different cities. Their energy is contagious, and you'll leave feeling like you just left a kickass, 70s soul-themed party that may or may not have turned into an orgy after you left. If you shell out the minimal ticket prices to see these guys, I guarantee that you won't regret it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to obtain some Hennessy and grapefruit.

Notable Things of September

2011-09-17T10:26:00.002-04:00

I don't know how it happened, but over half of September has gotten away from me without my noticing. Here it is, September 17. The weather is getting cooler, which means (oh rapture!) scarves and jackets and boots. Today is the massive Book and Bake sale for the library where I work. Tomorrow is my mother's 47th birthday. Everyone say "happy birthday, Mrs. B!" Best of all, next Saturday I will be watching my friends Lauren Fairweather and Matt Maggiacomo get married! Unbelievable.

Since I barely have time to breathe this month, I'll use my quiet morning at the library (the book sale is mercifully located at the park this time around) to summarize a few things. September favorites:

Favorite Album: Barton Hollow by the Civil Wars. I spent about two months on the library's waiting list before I got my hands on this gem. Gorgeous, gorgeous harmonies between Joy Williams and Johnny Depp look-alike John Paul White are the highlight of the album. Some songs lean more to the country end of the spectrum than others, but all songs feature beautiful guitar work (something I'm learning to appreciate more, lately) and exquisite melodies. "Poison and Wine" is a heartbreakingly beautiful ode to a dying relationship, and "Barton Hollow" celebrates the devil in us all with its rock-hard drumbeats and persistent guitar line. Buy this album. Now.

Favorite Meal: the peasant omelet at On Orange in Lancaster. Potatoes, herbs, and sharp cheddar cheese wrapped in an omelet with a side of country white toast and roasted tomatoes. SO GOOD. Perfect breakfast for a rainy morning, and well worth a rainy20-minute walk across town.

Favorite Movie: God, I saw a lot of movies this summer. From May-August it was (ahem): Water for Elephants (okay), Super 8 (freaking AWESOME), Midnight in Paris (fantastic; will be purchasing the DVD), The Help (very good, and quite faithful to the book), Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 2 (tears were shed), and Crazy Stupid Love (meh). Outside of theaters, I FINALLY got around to seeing Coen Brothers' classic O Brother, Where Art Thou? And that tops this list. Between George Clooney's suave, fast-talking Odysseus and John Goodman's modern, bible-thumping cyclops and the fantastic soundtrack...oh man, it was just a lot of fun. And you did know that it's based on Homer's "The Odyssey," right?

Favorite Part of My (Better) Job: Leaving the post office just as the school bus is dropping kids off, and hearing 'HI, LIBRARIAN!!!" screeched by half a dozen little voices.

Oh, and I'm officially applying to grad school for next fall.

I think that about sums it up! Six hours of work to go...

Exhibition: Mummies of the World

2011-09-09T13:03:00.000-04:00

Mummies of the World, an exhibition currently at the Franklin Institute in Philadelphia, is an absolute must-see. I know, because I went to see it last month.

Highlights:
1. A mummified howler monkey from South America, eerily decorated with a garland of flowers;
2. The body of a child, from one of the first Christian civilizations in Egypt;
3. The woman from the Andes with mysterious tattoos on her face and body;
4. The remains of an 18th-century German baron and baroness, who were naturally mummified in the family tomb, and whose descendants donated their ancestors to the exhibit for study;
5. Bodies ceremonially sacrificed to the bogs of Ireland and The Netherlands, which I find endlessly fascinating.

If you're squeamish about dead children or fetuses, as Tony and I found ourselves to be, be warned that this exhibit contains several. Don't miss out because of it, though; just pass by the cases quickly.

Entry to the exhibition is timed on the half-hour, to prevent too many people from rushing in all at once. Tony and I hung back at the beginning of the exhibit and let most of the crowd filter past us. This helped our views of the cases in the long run. Before entry, the audience sees a short film, about three minutes, that introduces the history of the mummies in the exhibit, and also provides a crash course in "mummy ethics;" the statement can be found on the exhibition website: "[we] demand that human remains are treated with respect and dignity, taking into account the interests and beliefs of the social, ethical and religious groups from which the human remains originate."

Basically, remember that the bodies you're looking at were once living, breathing people; don't be an asshole. And no photos or videos allowed.

Tickets can be purchased online at the Franklin Institute's web site, or at the museum the day of your visit.

In Paris: The Queen's Hamlet

2011-09-09T12:35:00.000-04:00

Nestled away in several acres of countryside outside the hubbub of central Paris lies Marie Antoinette's little rural sanctuary. Aside from being a place for her to go and escape her privileged yet harried royal life, it was also one of her charitable institutions. The hameau consisted of a working farm and dairy with residential cottages for a dozen or so impoverished farmers and their families, according to Juliet Grey, who used Huff Post to bust several myths about the infamous queen. For me, the hamlet was refreshing after the almost oppressive symmetry of Versaille's gardens, and a wonderful place to spend an afternoon exploring.

The hamlet consists of about a dozen cottages clustered around a central pond, and a once-working dairy farm. Some animals, including sheep, rabbits, cattle, and chickens, still reside there today. The cottages, whose thatched roofs once sheltered families of farmers, now house gardening supplies and are not open to tourists. Katie and I peeked through some windows, though, and found most to be empty.

The main cottage, where Marie Antoinette presumably stayed, is two stories, with a wide veranda and a set of vine-wrapped circular stairs that are now crumbling toward the dirt.


Katie and I declare this one to be our new home!

If you ever visit Paris thinking that Versailles isn't for you, give the Queen's Hamlet a try. This was my favorite part of the day, and I definitely plan to go back again someday.

Paris: The Gardens of Versailles

2011-06-18T11:10:00.072-04:00

Katie and I still had a busy day ahead of us after Sainte-Chapelle, and it was going to take a lot to impress me after that stained glass-colored chapel. But a short train ride to the outskirts of the city would see us arriving near the Chateau de Versailles, and I'd be in for yet another pleasant surprise.

As the line to get into Sainte-Chapelle had taken up such a large chunk of our morning, we found ourselves facing an incomplete day in which to take in Versailles; in Katie's opinion, the chateau (palace) was overrated; the gardens are a cheaper and more pleasant way to spend the day. She also really wanted to take me to the Queen's Hamlet (which will be my final Paris post), and it would be impossible to take in all three in the time we had left. So, it was decided that we would skip the palace and spend the day outside; anyway, it was around 80 degrees and wonderfully sunny.

After a train ride spent munching baguettes and being entertained by a duo of accordion players, we got off at our stop. We approached Versailles from a distance, but the undulating crowds and the gold-tipped gates were easily visible in the brilliant sunlight. We passed historic buildings on either side of the cobblestoned street. At one time, these served as stables, carriage houses, and other essentials that had no place amidst the glamor of the main palace. The palace itself is so large that I couldn't get a good photo of it from the front. Instead of trying, Katie and I allowed ourselves to be absorbed into the crowd, fighting the swarms of people making for the main entrance, and walked along the gates to the garden entrance.

"The people of Paris were starving, and they were adding more gold to the gates," said Katie, looking up at those gates and shaking her head as we passed them. The gold made for a dazzling sight to modern eyes, but I could certainly understand why they had once enraged so many people.

We waited in line for quite some time to get into the gardens; queuing was our theme for the day, it seems. And there was no shade, so we got a bit sweaty and freckled and browned; I left Paris tan lines on my feet. But we finally moved past the ticket booths and onto the smooth white gravel paths of Versailles gardens. I had expected the view to be grand, but I wasn't prepared for this:

Adding to the grand atmosphere was the baroque music blaring out from speakers hidden by hedges and trees; nice touch, management. I felt like I should be strutting around wearing an enormous white wig and hoop skirts. "Let them eat cake!" (Marie Antoinette never said that, by the way; here's proof.)

Anyway, the long body of water stretching out into the distance is the Grand Canal, which collects water drained from the fountains above and was popularly used for boating parties when royalty still occupied the palace. These days, rowboats full of tourists and regal white swans decorate the water.

The garden is laid out in the traditional French style, here perfected by Andre Le Notre; that is to say, it is symmetrical to the point that I found it almost annoying. The avenues, grottos and gardens are mirror images of each other, separated by the fountains and Grand Canal in the center.

We wandered down along the canal until we came to a tree-lined path that Katie thought would take us to the Queen's Hamlet; all we found, however, was a creek and a brick wall.

After pulling out a map and getting our bearings, we found our way to the far gates of the Versailles gardens, where the estate meets a public park. From there, we followed a dirt path uphill to Louis and Marie's "country house."

Country house indeed. Our admission to this mini-palace included admission to the Queen's Hamlet, which will be documented in another blog because I've already got too many pictures in this one.

After our visit to the Hamlet, which took a few hours, we were so exhausted that we paid an exorbitant amount of money to take a tram the short distance back to Versailles. We crammed into the little seats alongside other tourists and exhaled a simultaneous "whew." We were exhausted! Back at Versailles, we picked a spot of soft grass beside the canal and snacked on the pastries we'd brought from Paris. Our spot was very good for people and swan-watching as well. Couples walked by hand-in-hand, athletes jogged or pedaled by along the canal. For several minutes we watched a couple of swans fly side-by-side, their synchronized wingbeats brushing the water.

We made our way back up the hill to the palace in the still-warm sunlight of the afternoon. We ducked into the remaining grottos we hadn't explored the first time, including one where, Katie says, Marie Antoinette and her family hid from the angry mob that breached the palace gates. It was quiet here, and whether as a result of Katie's story or of intuition, I felt I could sense a long-ago fear, or the echoes of skirts hurriedly sweeping over gravel.

Back behind the palace, I took a video of Versailles in 360 degrees, slowly turning on the spot for full effect. Then, tired as we were, it was time to go.

Outside the gates, where people were still queuing for entry to the palace, we let the crowd guide us back down the stone streets to the train station. When the train finally chugged up alongside the platform, we settled back on the tired vinyl of the crowded benches and let ourselves be carried back into the heart of the city, like leaves on a French country stream.

In Paris: Le Sainte-Chapelle

2011-06-15T15:47:00.000-04:00

Notre Dame didn't really do it for me. There, I said it. Yes, I can check it off in my copy of "1000 Places to See Before You Die" (of which I've seen about 40), and I thought the gargoyles were pretty cool, but I wasn't moved. I wasn't blown away. As I was to find out just a few days later, Notre Dame, for me at least, couldn't hold a 3-Euro prayer candle to Saint Chapelle.

Well now (to the left). See what I mean?
(All photos on this post by me, by the way)

Before we get into too much detail, here's the thing about Saint Chapelle. If you don't want to wait in line, get there early Very, very early. Katie and I got there by 9:30, I believe, and we waited for almost an hour. And the place is easy to miss; the line blocks most of the signage.

Once off the street (about an hour after joinin the queue), we had to go through security, We walked through a metal detector and had our bags x-rayed; my water bottle almost met its doom before Katie explained to the guard what it was! This is beacause right next door is the Palais de Justice, which was once the seat of the French monarchy but whose modern function I don't exactly remember at the moment. It's important, I'm sure, hence all the hubbub. But here's a picture of me in front of it after we left the chapel, trying my best to look Parisian.

After security, we were free to walk out into the courtyard; once there, I found myself wondering where all of the people had gone! The line in front of us had been pretty substantial, yet I only saw a dozen or so people milling around. The chapel I found myself approaching is much smaller than any other places of worship I had entered on this trip; in fact, it looked positively tiny by contrast. I took in the faded gray sides of the building, including the crumbling gargoyles resting at its base, and wondered why Katie had been so eager to bring me here. But then, we paid our admission, and I found myself here:

Then, I could see why. The colors! The details!

The lower chapel is dedicated to the Virgin Mary; her plinth stands at the center of the nave. Fleur-de-lis are everywhere on this level, as they represent the royal family of France, and the chapel was commissioned by 12th-century royalty. You can see here that much of the place still needs to be restored; many of the frescoes are crumbling, and the glass is dirty. But restorations have come a long way, as you can see from the brilliant gold features of the room. There was an impressive selection of souveniers here for so small an attraction, which he poked and prodded but didn't buy. Then it was up, up, all the way up a winding staircase to the second floor.

And here we have the upper sanctuary, with its 13 stained glass windows chronicling the full biblical story of humanity, from Genesis through Christ's crucifixion.

It took my breath away. After several seconds of turning in a circle with my mouth no doubt hanging open, I found myself facing Katie, who laughed as she said, "that's the reaction I was looking for."

The windows on one side of the chapel have been fully cleaned, while on the other side, you can clearly see the grime that needs to be carefully wiped away. But it was here that I had the moment I had expected to feel in Notre Dame: feeling very small, yet full of light.

Fun facts:
1. The entire chapel contains 6,456 square feet of that brilliantly colorful stained glass.
2. The chapel is open 9:30-6:00 nearly every day of the year; it closes only for New Year's Day, May 1 (anyone care to explain that?) and Christmas Day.
3. Admission is €5.50 ; Red.: €3.50 ; Group: €4.50.
4. Commissioned by King Louis IX to house such precious relics as the crown of thorns (supposedly), Saint Chapelle (literally meaning "the holy chapel") was constructed around 1240 and consecrated in 1248.
5. Most of the chapel is a reconstruction, following periods of disrepair and several fires; additionally, the windows of the lower chapel had to be completely replaced after the Seine flooded it in the 1800s.

The upper sanctuary is captivating, but you also need to tear your eyes away from the stained glass and take time to enjoy the details on both levels:

I think the little gargoyle dude is my favorite thing ever. He looks like the pet I would have if I were a medeival/Gothic villain. And his face! He looks so distressed! I just want to comfort him!

...Anyway.

Here's my suggestion. Get up early, take the number four line to Sainte-Michel/Notre Dame, and get in line for Saint Chapelle. The morning light breaking through the stained glass of the upper sanctuary is the perfect way to start a day in Paris. Even if Christianity isn't your chosen faith, you'll feel something in there. I did. And there will always be time for Notre Dame.

In Paris: Pere Lachais

2011-06-02T22:50:00.000-04:00

Monday morning in Paris dawned warm and bright once again, but unfortunately Katie needed to spend the day inside, catching up homework. So, I was handed over to the very capable other Katie (in whose apartment we had spent that enjoyable Saturday night) and Orla, sans Luke, who had already flown home to Dublin. Our first task for the day (and a very important one) was to obtain baguettes; after that, to visit a cemetery which had particular significance for me: Pere Lachais.

Unfortunately, I forgot my wallet, leaving it somewhere in Katie's room (blargh!) but fortunately the girls were able to spot me Metro tickets and lunch money. We obtained baguettes (oui!) from a corner cafe and carried them down the street, where we ate on a bench, crunching away. My lap was covered in crumbs by the time the mozzerella, tomato and basil baguette had fully met its doom; nothing else was left but the brown paper in which I'd carried it there. So crunchy! So savory! So tasty.

We had bought a map of the cemetery at a local newspaper stand before eating, and we unfurled it as we passed through the front gates. We were met by cobblestone streets and a sudden quiet; only a few steps in, we could barely hear the traffic on the street behind us. A large monument of white marble read "for the dead" in French, in case we didn't already know where we had found ourselves. We walked behind it, picked a side street, and set off. It really was like a small city; the tree-lined roads gave that impression strongly. And the monuments on either side of us could have been buildings. There were so many: thousands upon thousands. It was really impossible to try to capture the scope of the place in a single frame. A video may get the point across, but it still wouldn't capture the hushed reverence of the place.

As we made our way toward the center of the cemetery, I felt excitement mounting. After a brief consultation of the map, we settled on a more direct route. Then, at last, there it was: the final resting place of an author most beloved, Oscar Wilde.

Oscar Wilde's tomb

As you may or may not know, tradition dictates that ardent admirers leave something other than flowers for Oscar: a kiss. I'm not a lipstick-wearing gal, at least not yet, but I had obtained a tube of reddish rouge from Katie for this purpose. I was determined. However, when I got up close, I was...to put it lightly...slightly grossed out. I had underestimated the number of previous visitors, and I found myself taken aback by the sheer number of red and pink smooches. I couldn't find an untouched spot that wasn't a foot over my head. I took my time applying lipstick and waiting for the other tourists to clear out. I found the least touched spot possible on a far corner, and handed the camera to Orla. Finally, I screwed up my courage, pushed back my germophomic tendencies, and planted a wet one on Oscar. I'll admit the reception was a bit...cold. And hard. Perhaps Oscar knew I was reluctant. For that, I apologize.

I rubbed off the lipstick on a tissue, smothered my hands in sanitizer and patted them on my face. Yeah, it was that nasty.

Memorials to the Haulocaust victims of France.

We kept walking until we found ourselves at the rear of the cemetery, right along the far wall, which is lined with memorials to victims of the World Wars and of the Holocaust. Honestly, I hadn't been prepared for this kind of thing. Actually, I hadn't even known that there had been camps in France; just a few miles from Paris, in fact. After the giddiness of finally seeing Oscar's tomb, I felt a wave of quiet flow over me, and I observed these monuments in silence, taking fewer photos.

After that, we saw the tomb of Edith Piaf, the famed French singer whose life was documented in the film "La Vie en Rose," which I still have yet to see. Piaf is buried in her family tomb with her parents, wedged in tightly among other monuments. I had to step on/around other tombs to get there and take a proper photo, and I whispered "sorry!" repeatedly as I went. I always feel the urge to do this in cemeteries.

We spent a while searching for a historic figure Orla had studied, then found the resting place of a British comedian. The sheer number of famous names here is impressive. We later found out that the composer Chopin is laid to rest here as well.

Arguably the most famous person of recent years laid to rest in Pere Lachais (to Americans, at least) is Jim Morrison, front man of The Doors, who died here in the city in 1971. There are barriers around his tomb to keep people from getting too close to it, but the tomb was covered in flowers and candles anyway. A nearby tree was so covered in Doors-related graffiti that it seemed the bark had just given up on trying to grow back; nearby graves hadn't been spared either, which I thought was rather disrespectful to their inhabitants. Morrison's celebrity seems almost greater in death.

Jim Morrison's grave

After that we returned to the 3rd arondissment to retrieve my wallet, then took the Metro downtown for some shopping! I don't have any pictures from that afternoon except for a hastily-snapped photo of the Opera House. I indulged a bit in some very French-looking tops. I was tempted by some beautiful dresses, but I'm very glad I saved my money, as I would need it for my Eurostar adventures.

The evening was rounded off with homemade crepes, macaroons, plenty of French cider and beer, and lots of laughter. Still, Pere Lachais was in my head. It had been just hours before that I had pressed my lips to the final resting place of one of my final authors; just hours had passed since I had learned that there had been internment camps just outside of Paris, and seen memorials to those that had suffered; just hours had passed since I had walked through a city of the dead right in the middle of one of the most famous cities of the living. I don't think I'll ever experience anything quite like Pere Lachais.