Munich, Prague, & Berlin: Stereotypes, Memorials, & Street Art

After Venice, I took a train through the Austrian Alps to get to Munich (it was another one of those carriage-like seating arrangements but it really didn't matter this time because the mountains were so gorgeous that I really couldn't look away). After a 5-hour train ride, I arrived in Munich. This was my first time in Germany so naturally I tried to employ all of my irrational stereotypes and create new ones as quickly as possible. A couple of first impressions about the Germans:

1) They're actually very friendly. I know, I know, I'm blowing your mind right now.

2) They never jaywalk (this is later confirmed to be a rather widespread phenomenon in Germany). Between New Haven, New York, and small-town California, I realized that I don't think I know a single person that actually obeys walking traffic laws, or even knows that they exist. Even with oncoming traffic, we still cross the street. Somewhere in the back of our minds we say, "You'll stop for me and I'll cross or you won't stop and you'll hit me and I'll sue you for everything your worth," and then we go on our merry, totally non-passive agressive way. In Germany, however, there could be absolutely no cars in sight and a crowd of 30 Germans will just patiently wait for the walk signal. Fascinating.

Beer garden, Englischer Garten

3) These people love their green spaces. There are little grassy knolls and mini park-like spaces throughout the city. The kicker for me is the "Englischer Garten" — the overwhelmingly large and beautiful city park. This park is seriously unreal. Now, I'm not a big park/garden person...I've tried multiple times to make myself take a blanket and a book and just lounge at a park; I've always thought it'd be nice to contribute to that idyllic atmosphere for visiting park-goers. Doesn't work for me. There's something about parks that make me fidget. Am I a fidgeter in my day-to-day life? Nope. Just in parks, on blankets, reading books. My attention span goes completely berserk. Usually it ends up with me vowing to aggressively kill some fly or ant. So, yeah, I just don't even try to lounge in parks anymore because I'm a pacifist. Anyway, I still couldn't lounge around in the Englischer Garten, but there was loads to keep my ADD-self busy.

This park was created way back in the late 18th century and is comprised of 910 acres in the heart of the city, making it larger than NYC's Central Park. LARGER THAN CENTRAL PARK. In addition to it's sheer size, there's a few things about this park that make it wonderful: Firstly, there is a beer garden, as there should be in any half-decent German park. Secondly, there are nudists (as you know, these are basically my people now). One of my favorite people-watching events was the "unaware-tourist-stumbles-upon-nude-section-of-park" phenomenon. Fantastic. Finally, there is a RIVER running right through the heart of the park (I have determined that this is a European theme). And, for some reason that I'm pretty sure is actually just magical, there is surfing on the river. Yes, river surfing. Surfers huddle up on the banks of the river, decked out in their wetsuits and holding their surfboards and take turns jumping in and entertaining the hoards of fascinating onlookers (like me).

Urban surfing in Munich! 

After Munich, and trying to figure out this whole "urban surfing" phenomenon for hours (I refuse to google it because I don't want to ruin the possibility that it's magical), I ventured into the Czech Republic for a little stint in Prague. I'm not going to say a darn thing about Prague primarily because Berlin was awesome and it's the next stop on the trip, and like I said, sometimes I have a short attention span, BUT, at my hostel in Prague, I ran into a guy I met in Morocco! We had stayed in the same hostel dorm in the very funky "Funky Fes" hostel and roamed the streets together the first day when he realized that my original intention was to roam them alone. What a keeper.

Gotta at least give Prague a photo!

Anyway, Berlin. Oh Berlin. This may be my favorite stop so far. Germany is winning some serious points in my book, which is great because when I originally "planned" (I use the term very loosely) this trip, I didn't even have Germany on the list. My trip post-Rome has been largely impromptu and guided by the cost of a bus ticket and a hostel bed. The natural progression from Prague just seemed to be Berlin, and I had heard nothing but good things.

Let's get this straight from the start —Berlin was a week of nerding out. The history is just absolutely mind-blowing. I want to know it all. After a free historical walking tour around the city, finding a bookstore became my number one priority. Because Germans are for the most part bilingual (everyone learns English in school), they had a huge English section, which was fantastic. I spent a solid hour sifting through a bunch of European history books and finally landed on Bloodlands, which I dove straight into and absolutely loved (in a "woah this shit is horrifyingly depressing" sort of way). Only then did I flip the book over and read up on the author. Turns out he's a Yale history professor. HUZZAH. European history wasn't really my thing so I never had a class with him, but I feel like I may have missed out. *Take me back to college*

Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe

So I spent the day drinking far too much coffee (what else is new) and blazing through a solid half of this 400-pager. The next day, I realized I should probably continue to actually explore Berlin instead of just reading about it, so I took myself on a very, very long jaunt around Berlin. While the city is amazing, I don't think I could ever live there permanently. Everywhere you turn, there is some sort of incredibly powerful memorial to one of the many tragic events in history that have found its center in Berlin.

In the middle of the city, just outside the financial district and the American Embassy, there is the nearly 5-acre interactive monument entitled "Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe." The memorial consists of 2,711 huge blocks of concrete that are arranged on a grid on a sloping field. Some are crooked, some are massively tall, some are only knee-high. People can walk through the blocks and get lost in the grid, at times looking over the whole field of concrete and at other times seeing nothing but the towering blocks overhead. I walked through twice — once during the day and once at night. If I thought that the daytime walk was powerful, the nighttime walk was overwhelming. They don't light up the monument — it is left completely dark. As you walk through, the blocks begin to tower over you and you realize that you're in the dark, in some maze, where no one can see you. What I love about it is that it's left completely unexplained. Why 2,711? Why the sloping? Why blocks? It's completely up for interpretation and allows you to just explore organically.

Plaque outside of the gay Holocaust memorial

While I personally think the memorial is incredibly well-done, it has been the point of some controversy. This controversy fits into the larger issue of how the Germans have chosen to deal with the darker elements of their collective past, which has largely been through the creation of separate memorials for different groups of people who were incarcerated, killed, or otherwise affected by the Holocaust. For example, the memorial described above specifically commemorates the Jewish population, and only the Jewish population. There's various other specified groups, including a memorial dedicated to mothers who lost their children, and across the street from the Jewish memorial — in Tiergarten Park — there is a separate memorial for the gay population killed by Nazis.

While I understand the controversial aspect of distinguishing between people that were all killed in the same chapter of human history, I think that in this case, distinguishing is appropriate. And I love that the city publicly and permanently memorializes the loss of members of the gay community. That's something that no one really talks about, and a lot of people just don't even know about. There were 50,000 convictions of homosexuality under the Nazis. It's certainly not something that I learned in elementary school when I first learned about the Holocaust. In fact, it was another layer of the Holocaust that I was only first exposed to when I got to college. Berlin, however, has taken it upon itself to educate those who live in and pass through the city, placing the memorial in the main park and forcing people to grapple with history, each in their own unique way.

East Side Gallery, Berlin Wall.
1.3km long section covered with 100+ paintings
Celebrates freedom after the "fall" of the Berlin Wall.

After an incredible, but depressing day of memorials and the darker side of history, I decided to explore the more wacky, fun side of the city with the "Alternative Berlin Walking Tour" — end on a happier note, if you will. This was the first paid tour I've attended so far. Let me tell ya, I will never pay for one ever again. It was absolutely not worth the money in terms of the quality of the guide, but definitely worth it in terms of the initial exposure. Our guide was most certainly hungover from what is sure to have been a "heart-recalibrating, teeth-chattering" night of "hardcore techno." Why would I assume such a thing? Half of our tour was him stopping at various clubs and pointing out which nights were best for some "mind-blowing techno." Bro, I can't even begin to explain how little I care about techno.

Bahahah I die.

One of the more hilarious moments of the tour, however, was the reaction from the rest of the group when we stopped in front of the Kit-Kat Club. Now, I knew what was coming and I giddily braced myself for the group's reaction: Firstly, I could tell this sunken-eyed, techno-loving, grungy Brit was probably a little wild. Secondly, I already knew what the Kit Kat Club was all about because Berlin has a reputation for being a little freaky so I took it upon myself early on to figure out what I was in for. The rest of the people in my group clearly did not. So we roll up to the Kit Kat Club and it's around 4:30pm on a Sunday and the music is still bumpin from the night before. This club is the most famous...wait for it...sex club in Berlin (oh yes, apparently there are many). I'm talking legitimate sex club. If you want to visit you either have to be wearing leather or wearing nothing. That's the deal.

Anyway, our tour guide gave this place a genuinely heartfelt recommendation. I take it he's a regular. And I think that explains his sunken eyes. Perhaps that is where he just came from? Whatever, that boy was cray, but we did see some pretty great street art, and seeing as how I'm trying to cultivate all sides of my liberal self, I figured "street art" is something I should pretend to know a little something about.

A couple days later I wandered back to Kreuzberg —one of the more "alternative" districts of Berlin— to spend some time in the area and just wander around. I love this area. There's grafitti (oh...I'm sorry..."street art") everywhere. Nearly every single wall you come across has some amazing work of art on it. If this were in the United States, I would probably be a little hesitant to walk around a neighborhood that looks like Kreuzberg. But it's Germany, so clearly I'm invincible. What's great about Kreuzberg is that it's dirty, there's lots of obscenities and otherwise hilariously offensive scribblings on walls, there's people peeing in bushes in broad daylight, but there's also loads of little parks filled with single moms and their toddler-aged kids, and everyone is mixed together without problems. The single moms don't seemed phased by the daytime drinkers and the daytime drinkers don't seem to have any interest in bothering those around them.

A less-violent work from "El Bocho"

Some apparently famous
street artist named "El Bocho"
created a character named "Lucy" who
is shown throughout the city killing cats
in various brutal matters...disturbing?

After a good dose of history, a few memorials, and some street art, I finally left Berlin for Copenhagen.

As I sit here writing this, I am currently in Hamburg. Like I said, Germany is totally growing on me, so I had to come back to hit one more city. I just arrived a few hours ago on an overnight bus from my stay in Copenhagen (it arrived at 5am), which means two things:

1) I am almost caught up with my blog posts!

2) CNN is up on my screen and I am delirious enough to go on a totally wild tangent and say that the republicans have gone absolutely mad; someone get me my absentee ballot up in here puhleaze.

Venizia

On the train from Rome to Venice, I sat in one of those stereotypical European family-style carriages where everyone faces each-other. Those things seriously freak me out. Now, it's fine for a short trip or one where you know everyone can speak the same language, but when I know that I'm gonna be there for a long haul and the person sitting across from me very clearly doesn't speak English, then I start to get a bit nervous. There are two reasons for this:

1) I like to hear myself talk, so it's rather inconvenient to have a completely captive audience staring me in the face, but not be able to communicate.

2) I have recently discovered one of my very limited number of talents: initiating moments of awkward eye contact. Ya'll know what I'm talking about. You just zone out for a second and find yourself staring at whatever object happens to be in your path — usually another human being — and that person happens to look up and lock eyes for just a hair too long. Normally, this might be diffused with what is sure to be a rather witty or charming remark, but you know that you don't speak the same language. So, further trying to salvage the situation, you try the universal smile, but the other person just giggles in response. Now you've really done it and made a harmless situation much more awkward because you may have very well just inadvertently flirted with someone who is going to be facing you for SEVEN hours from only 2 feet away.

In this case, it was a grandmother in her mid-to-late 70s so I really wasn't too worried about it, but you can imagine that under different circumstances, this could have been very bad. That's what I call "pre-emptive lesson-learning" — from now on I shall direct my blank stare out the window. Anyway, this woman ended up being hilarious. She is clearly very popular. Her phone was ringing off the hook. The best part, however, was that her ringtone was "Wish You a Merry Christmas." So during this train ride I probably heard the Christmas carol ten times. And her reaction time was impressively slow, so each time I heard the song nearly in it's entirety. Not even Costco starts Christmas in August. Aggressive.

After 7 hours of Christmas carols, I was understandably delirious so when I heard the conductor announce something with the word "Venizia" in it, I just assumed it was my stop. When I hopped off the train and saw no canals around me I began to get a little suspicious. I may not know much, but I've seen every single Johnny Depp movie, including "The Tourist" (you know, that terrible little Venetian gem with Angelina), so I had a pretty strong hunch that there were supposed to be canals. So I showed a cab driver the address that I needed to get to and we had a little chat where I pretended to speak Italian and he pretended to speak English and somehow it worked out enough that I realized that I got off at the wrong "Venizia." How am I to know that there are two Venezias? After a couple more broken English/Italian miming games, I found my way to the bus that took me into the city center.

From the waterbus! Gondolier in the foreground.

Eventually I reached the correct "Venezia" and the next challenge was actually finding my way to the hostel. Venice is a bit complicated to navigate since the streets aren't on a grid, many aren't labeled, and usually when you finally think you're going the right way, you run into an uncrossable canal. At this point it was 11:30pm and I was getting a little worried since my general experience of Italians is that they're...well...mean, and my hostel's reception was closing at midnight. Closing your reception office at all, by the way, is nearly unheard of in the hostel world, but I guess when you run one of only a handful of hostels in one of the most popular tourist destinations in the world, you can do whatever you want.

View from Ponte dell'Accademia

Once I got to the bus station, the only people around who did not look like fellow utterly confused tourists were the water bus (re: a metro system on water) operators. They were all 40+ and didn't speak a word of English. Thankfully, I'm well practiced with the 30% English - 20% Italian - 50% miming game and they were incredibly patient and helpful. One of the men was about to begin his shift on one of the water buses so he just took me along with him and then made sure to let me know when it was my stop. Mind you, this was a fully-packed water bus. Marry me.

I don't even know where this is...

At 11:50pm, I finally arrived at my hostel. I seriously would still be lost in Venice if it weren't for a slew of incredibly patient locals. Their wonderfulness almost briefly stunned me into re-arranging my entire stereotype of Italy as a country filled with only snooty and mean people, but that would have been far too rational so I decided to just make an exception for the Venetians. The hostel-owner himself was an overly-friendly, somewhat creepy, but totally harmless man who had recently taken over the place and was trying just a little too desperately to boost their ratings. I was greeted with a hug and three kisses on the cheek but since he insisted on carrying my bag up the three flights of stairs and turning the fan directly on me when I walked into reception, I decided that he was the hero of the moment so I just really didn't care. Additionally, he upgraded me from a 5-bed dorm to a 3-bed dorm (that's some luxury stuff right there), so really this guy could do no wrong.

Shortly after I arrived in my room, my fellow dorm-mates — two sisters from New Mexico — also showed up. They were adorable. They've literally been planning to travel Europe together since they were in elementary school and now that one has finished college and the other is going into her senior year, they finally thought it was time to cross the pond. "Yeah, we both took out the maximum amount of student loans each year to pay for this." Couldn't be prouder to be an American.

Eurotrip within a Eurotrip

After Porto, and the disappointment of unsuccessfully stalking Nate Berkus, I flew to Barcelona to meet up with my friend and fellow Yalie, Jen Ong, for a weeklong Eurotrip to Barcelona and Rome. HOLLA. Considering that neither of us had a functioning phone, I'm rather impressed with the fact that we managed to find each-other. Nothing like a glorious reunion at the Barcelona Airport Bagage Claim.

Gaudi!

From there we managed to navigate ourselves to the city center and find an apartment belonging to a man named Esteban. Not nearly as sketchy as it sounds, I promise. Barcelona is obscenely expensive in August, even when you just stay in the most basic of hostels so we booked the spare bedroom in Esteban's apartment. Sound even sketchier now? There's a site called airbnb (definitely check it out if you're travelling on the cheap and can't find good hostels) where people can post spare rooms, tents, couches, etc. and then they list the price and are reviewed by previous travelers. It's like the ebay of short-term room rentals. Anyway, Esteban was right in the middle of Barcelona, got great reviews, and only charged 10 euro a night. Sold. Seriously, minimal sketchiness.

Esteban and his girlfriend were adorable. They set us up in a cute little side room, gave us purple and green towels (clearly, they could tell Barney is my fave), and provided us with free McDonald's maps that not only told us the exact location of every single McDonald's in the city, but also labeled the most important monuments and metro lines. Turns out, Esteban's apartment is only a five minute walk from La Sagrada Familia.

Totally irrelevant photo...didn't even buy the candy...
but isn't it beautiful?!

Having arrived around midnight we decided to call it a night and explore the next day. And explore we did. We literally spent the entire day walking throughout the city, stumbling upon random Gaudi buildings, and eventually discovering that Barcelona has many, many beaches. Just kidding...I may not know much, but I swear I actually knew that Barcelona was on the coast. Give me some credit.

Clearly our day was super strenuous so we decided to hit up a beachside bar that featured a beautifully creepy combination of oversized Buddha statues, waiters that offered massages, and a wall of enormous couches where a whole slew of overly-tanned Spaniards were lounging and drinking. Clearly this place was too fancy and expensive for us so we decided to go in and get some drinks with the rest of the debt-laden customers. But we're smart cookies so we had the cheapest drinks possible, enjoyed the couches and the absurdness of the entire place, and then wandered off to real bar — the closest Irish pub.

Thank goodness we did because there we met Wilfred, a middle-aged bearded sailor from Belgium who is currently staying in Barcelona while he fixes up his boat for a two year sailing trip around the world. Wilfred was a hilarious character. Firstly, he was actually a sailor. I realized that I've never met a sailor before, but he pretty much exactly matched the image that I've always had of a sailor — bearded, corpulent, and a bit of a charming old drunk. Wilfred is incredibly well travelled; seriously, this man has made his way around the world. I can't even explain the extent of it except for the fact that when he asked Jen where she was from she replied, "Pleasanton, California" and he immediately responded, "Oh, just east of San Francisco, right?" WOAH. Okay, I've been living in California my entire life and I don't even know Pleasanton. Impressed.

Anyway, we were chatting away with Wilfred and some German couple at the bar and we realized that Wilfred seemed to sort of dominate this pub. When I asked him "do you come here often?" he replied "every day at 7." Ahahaha I died. Love my unabashed alcoholics. Clearly Wilfred was tight with the Irish owner who proceeded to bring us a plate of free food and a free round —okay, okay, four free rounds— of Jaegar Bombs.
When the first round was brought out, we both turned to Wilfred:
Us: "Jaegar Bombs? Really?"
Wilfred: "Americans turning down free alcohol?"
Us: "Good point."

Selfie at the Colosseum, 70-80AD

Now, people always seem a little shocked when I say I'm travelling by myself. The conversation usually turns to something along the lines of..."don't you think that's just a little bit dangerous?" Okay, hold up, has no one ever heard of girl power and brass knuckles? 21st century people. Seriously, I understand the concern, but I can safely say that it is far more dangerous to travel with friends. Would I be chatting and taking jaegar bombs with a large sailing Belgian stranger named Wilfred and eating his Irish friend's plate of mysterious free food if I were all by myself?? Nope. Why? Cuz that's just stupid. DUH. See what I did there? You're stupider when you're with other smart people. It's just the damdest thing.

Trevi Fountain, 1762

Anyway, Wilfred turned out to be a good enough guy, we explored Barcelona, had a great time, and then hopped on a ridiculously early flight to Rome. There's really not much to say about it. I mean, it's Rome. It's gorgeous. The city is absurd and I really can't even believe how jam-packed it is with millennia-old monuments.

We ate way too much gelato and pizza and waiters kept giving us free wine. I most definitely have heart palpitations from all the espresso. I ordered "due cappuccini" whenever the opportunity presented itself, and here's why: 1) I had recently re-watched "Eat, Pray, Love" and Sofi —Elizabeth's Swedish friend in Rome (stick with me here)— first enters the movie in some chaotic Roman cafe ordering "due cappuccini" for both of them, 2) it briefly made me sound like I spoke italian, 3) one coffee just isn't enough, 4) I would still pay four times as much at Starbucks so it's totally justified.

That's pretty much all I'll say about Rome. It's stunning, but I don't particularly care for the Italians so I like to keep my praises to a minimum. 'MERICA.

At the Vatican and no lightening in sight

Good thing we happened to stumble upon the Pantheon!
118-125 AD

Back to Clothed Civilization

I'm behind again! Hopefully this is the first of a slew of posts catching you up since I left the nudist lodge. I'm currently in Berlin for the week, but I'll get to that a couple of posts down the road!

Jumping back into it —

Where to go from a nudist lodge? Drinking. Duh. I packed up my stuff (a little reluctantly, I might add; I quite enjoyed the relaxed nudist lifestyle), and hopped the train for Porto, home of Port wine (re: a socially acceptable form of sipping 40 proof dranks at lunch time). The train was comfortable and smooth, and I generally enjoyed the entire trip except for the last third when a young couple (early 20s maybe) got on the train and just started making out...I mean like really going for it. You know how there's that form of over-the-top-adorable-handholding-sweet-puppy-love-displays-of-affection that make you want to kill yourself for being alone? Ya, that was not this. This was the sort of obnoxious grossness that just makes you want to kill them. Can I get an amen? Oh you know it.

Porto & River Duoro

Anyway, I tried to look the other way, but then Celine Dion's "Alone" came on shuffle and I got ever more frustrated. I should really delete some of that stuff off my ipod...but a girl is loyal to her first concert. Is it weird that my 14 year-old self was obsessed with Celine? Don't answer that.

Finally, we rolled up into Porto and I swear to goodness...it is so intensely BEAUTIFUL. What is up with all of these gorgeous cities on rivers? Oh fresh food, water, and ease of farming...? Ya okay, I guess that would make sense if you're originally intended as an outpost of the Roman Empire.

River and port-carrying boats!

The train arrived into the city around 9pm and I was looking to catch some shut-eye pronto, so I skipped any explorations for the evening and just went directly to the hostel. First, I was impressed by the river and then I was impressed by the hostel. This is one of those hostels that you can tell someone really anal designed and thank goodness for that. Each bunk has its own CURTAINS (woah), power sockets, reading light, shelf by the foot of the bed for whatever little knick-knacks. Additionally, there's a fully equipped restaurant/kitchen area with BOOTHS (I feel like I'm at a pancake house), AND there's an outdoor terrace with HANGING CHAIRS.

So I essentially passed out in my 15 euro per night heaven and woke up the next morning to my unlimited coffee breakfast. In choosing a location to sit amongst the pancake house booths, I chose a spot next to the most Bohemian looking girl I could find, just to make sure things stayed interesting. And indeed they did. I quickly got to talking to this faux-Bohemian girl (you know the type) who very proudly declared that she was from Venice Beach, California and then seemed shocked when I knew what she was talking about...gurrrrllll California is a big 'ol state, it ain't that shocking to run into a few Californians along the way.

Anyway, she was going on and on about how beautiful the beach is at home and said that when she was growing up, she used to go down to the beach, sit down, and look out into the distance and wonder what was on the other side. Poetic, really.

Venice Beach Girl: "I'm so glad I finally get to find out."
Me: "Too bad you crossed the Atlantic."
VB Girl: "What?"
Me: "I mean, you still don't know what's on the other side." [filtered: "although, I have a funny feeling that it might be Asia."]
VB Girl: "No wait, part of Portugal is on the Pacific."
Me: "Nah, sorry girl, we're most definitely on the Atlantic."
VB Girl: "Ahaha that's kinda funny."

Ferreira Port Cellars — founded 1751.
My glasses are the empty ones
in the front right corner (DUHR)

Oh child. What are you doing with yourself. I may not have known where Estonia is up until last week, but I usually keep track of which ocean I'm crossing when I travel...It was a beautiful start to the day.

Quinta do Noval — founded 1715

To continue with the beautiful day, I took myself on a couple of port tastings. The first place I went to didn't have an English tour until later in the day so I joined the Spanish tour. I thought, "oh the Spanish are fun, this will be great!" The tour was fine enough but I was vastly disappointed when NONE of the Spanish people finished their port; they took the "tasting" part seriously and actually just tasted it and then left the rest. And I know that it wasn't because they disliked the port because I saw half of them buying bottles of it in the storefront afterward. I seriously hope I never reach a point in my life where I feel too classy to finish my free alcohol.

The next day I was walking through Porto and stumbled upon the Lello Bookstore, which I vaguely remembered was famous for some reason unknown to me so I went inside. As I walked in I saw a beautiful, familiar face. It was NATE BERKUS. Now, you may not know who Nate Berkus is, and I really only know him because he is one of Oprah's little prodigies, and I like to keep track of them in the event of moments like these where I might schmooze with those who can lead me to her. Here's how I picture it going down:

Oprah fans will instantly recognize the backdrop.
Look at that face!

Nate Berkus to Oprah: "Oh hey, Ops, meet my new BFF Lexi, she's unemployed."

Oprah to me: "Any friend of Nate's is a friend of mine! Would you like to be my personal assistant? Unfortunately, the starting pay is only $500/hour with full benefits and a free car."

See how great that would be? Anyway, I ran across Nate as he was heading to the check out line in an absurdly posh suit (his show is called "Nate by Design" so basically he's paid to look pretty at all times), and then some woman came out of nowhere, said something slightly aggressive to him, and he put the book down and they left. What book was he going to buy? "Ines d'orey porto interior." Typical. I creeped a picture of it. 

Oprah's prodigy
wanted this book

Then, I gave it about 15 seconds (didn't want to be too obvious that I was absolutely following him), and headed out the door after him. But, DAMN, that boy must walk fast. He was nowhere in sight. As I was sulking down the street, I came across a flicker of hope — a store by the same name as the book he wanted to buy. Could he possibly be inside? NOPE. That would be too easy. Hopes of tracking down Oprah have been delayed but not destroyed. While I definitely botched this opportunity, I'm convinced that there will be others. So, I have taken this as a "learning moment" — the next time I see a link to Oprah, I will aggressively harass them from the get-go. No covert stalking attempts, just blatantly aggressive schmoozing/stalking.

Storefront
with no Nate inside. 

Ain't no tan lines here: Baring it all in Southern Portugal

During the first week of my trip, I made a bucket list of the things I wanted to accomplish in my six months of travel. Number three on my list (as I look back at my journal to reference...be glad I don't put more of that stuff in my blog) was verbatim: "be happy naked [...] two weeks at a nudist lodge should give you a bangin' tan." Now, sometimes even in the privacy of my own journal that I know no one will ever snoop on (Mom...), I like to tease myself...cuz let's be real, I could have been naked every single day since my birth, and I would never achieve a "bangin' tan." It's genetically impossible (Mom...).

Two weeks in the lovely fishing village
Ferragudo, Portugal. 

Anyway, the bigger point is "be happy naked" — that I can work on. Let's be serious though, we all live in this world and we're all raised to feel a little uncomfortable naked. Not really sure how that happens because I know for damn sure I was one of those modern hippy kids that isn't allowed to smoke weed with the 'rents but is still told she's perfect in every imaginable way and that all of life's possibilities are within my reach — really quite overwhelming now that I think about it #firstworldproblems. Regardless, even those of us who were fortunate enough to be raised knowing we are perfect little imperfections feel uncomfortable with ourselves physically in one way or another. 

Get naked!
Front entrance of La Quinta da Horta

That annoys me. I decided that the best way to feel comfortable naked is to practice (in a non-disease spreading sort of way). Sometime in early April I wrote to the good people at La Quinta da Horta, a nudist lodge in the Algarve of Southern Portugal. They were looking for helpers and I was looking for nudity. Never a more perfect match. I would be joining "Ted and Hun, the Buns" (tagline for literally every e-mail exchange) in mid-July. 

We arranged to have Ted pick me up at the bus station on the night that I arrived. I had no idea what to expect....would I find an unusually tan, naked British man expecting me to strip down for a quick car ride? Would he be the creepy type that owns a nudist lodge but isn't actually a nudist? What did he expect? Was I supposed to be the hippy type? (I wore a purple bandana in my hair just in case...I have a real firm grasp on the definition of "hippy," believe you me....)

I jumped in the car and the very tanned, yet very clothed British Ted began telling me about the Estonian yoga group that would be arriving the next day. Apparently this Estonian group hosts their annual yoga retreat at La Quinta da Horta every year and rents out the entire place. My first thought: what the hell is Estonia? I thought it was a type of yoga. Nope, it's a country. A COUNTRY. Geography champ, right here. 

And we finally found Estonia.

After discovering that Estonia is indeed a country (a very small country...think 1.3 million people, which is apparently exactly the same population as San Diego...WOAH dream big), the next thought was: what are these random 20 Estonians doing (a) in Portugal, (b) participating in yoga, (c) participating in a yoga retreat at a nudist lodge in Portugal. Ted's response, "I swear to you, all Estonians are mad." 

Within five minutes of meeting Ted (who was now confirmed to be a nudist himself), he started on a mini-rant about the Estonians and the fact that he was going to have to cook "vegetarian poppycock for these damn yogis." Apparently, Ted doesn't believe in such "alternative crap." I almost died of happiness. I mean... you're a nudist, bro. How much more "alternative" does it get? I knew we were gonna have a great time; love those snarky Brits, especially the irrational, naked kind.

Nudist pool at La Quinta.

Then, we arrived at the lodge and I was getting all settled in to my own little personal cottage, I asked Ted for the wifi password: "barebums." YES, nudists with a sense of humor. Needless to say, I giggled inappropriately and then proceeded to check my e-mail. 

The next morning I got myself all geared up for my first day of "work." I headed down to the kitchen fully clothed to help Ted prepare the vegetarian breakfast and found him clothed as well and then saw a bunch of Estonians running around also clothed. Welp, glad I didn't get naked....if being communally naked is a little awkward, being the only one naked is very awkward. 

One of the various nude sketches around La Quinta 

Apparently most of the Estonians are not naturists, they are just Eastern European vegetarian yogis. Glad we cleared that one up early on. Occasionally, I looked up from my breakfast nook and would see a few of them running around naked and then heading off to the pool, but for the most part, they remained fairly clothed. Ted, however, did not. Many of our kitchen sessions (I was essentially his sous-chef and dishwasher that first week) consisted of him pointing to various vegetables and things for me to chop, mince, slice, and other various orders that I just always interpreted as "cut however you like," and he would do so completely naked as he fried up one vegetable after the other. It took me a little while to get used to, but our conversations proceeded as normal (fake it till you make it) and I became very well practiced at looking people directly in the eyes when speaking to them. 

A week later, the Estonians had finally moved out and it was time to clean out their rooms in preparation of the arrival of some true naturists. Throughout the whole previous week, naked Ted and I had spent many hours in the kitchen preparing the Estonians' veggie diet in the exact "cleansing" manner requested by their leader. One crucial aspect of their retreat was not only to practice yoga and meditation, but to remain on a cleansing diet (think ginger, beet, and carrot bake). I was thoroughly impressed at their diligence UNTIL the week was up and I went to go clean out their rooms. I have never seen so many empty beer cans in my life...and if you've ever seen Yale during "reading period" (HA) then you know that this was an impressive amount of beer. A little buzz to enhance meditation?  Clearly.

Beach at Lagos, Portugal 15 miles from Ferragudo

Eventually I finished all of the "rubbish runs" and it was high time to get naked. All the cool kids were doin' it...plus, I had spent the majority of my week down at the beach and had worked up some pretty horrendous tan lines that needed tending. So I grabbed a grocery-brand beer out of the fridge (those damn nudists can be pretty stingy people), popped it open, stripped down, and walked out to one of the many loungers for a bit of a naked nap in the sun. After a couple of hours of dozing in and out, Ted walked up to me (also naked) and began discussing the plans for the next day's cleaning schedule. I was so used to seeing him naked at this point that I didn't even really think about the fact that I was naked as well. Needless to say, the transition to full-blown nudity went much more smoothly than I anticipated. Looking back, I wish that someone had taken a picture of one of these full-blown naked conversations between myself and the man who was essentially my boss, but even the most classless of nudists know that it's poor form to snap photos.

A few days later, a new workawayer —Anna— arrived from Italy. Anna is not your typical workawayer. For one thing, she is probably in her late 40s (workawayers tend to be quite young) and she actually has a real job. Why she came to La Quinta to work is beyond me, but it really doesn't matter because she provided some hilarious moments during my short time with her. I'll just share my favorite:

Everything at La Quinta is a little "wild"

Now that I had become accustomed to my daily routine (fix breakfast for the nudists, clean up after the nudists, take out the trash produced by the nudists, stop by lunchtime, get naked myself, and go pretend like I'm capable of tanning), I really did not care that my favorite naked tanning spot was right next to Anna's cottage...it was still my naked spot. Thankfully, she didn't care either as she quickly stripped down herself. One afternoon, however, I was woken up from a tanning/napping session to Anna's broken English: "Lexi! No, no your tit is too red," and before I even knew what was happening, she was spraying me with sunscreen. LITERALLY SPRAYING MY BODY. Oh, Italians. If this would have happened two months ago I would have most likely experienced a life-altering anxiety attack, but what was amazing about this moment —aside from the obvious— was that I had no reaction except for gratitude. I do not want to burn, especially not there. So thanks for lookin' out, Anna.

For all intents and purposes, I think my moment with Anna may have been a breakthrough. I mean, a woman that I would still consider a stranger just sprayed my naked body with sunscreen. May we all have a little nudity in our lives, and hopefully, a little Anna. Thanks to the wild naturists and the encouraging sunshine of Southern Portugal. Mission accomplished and on to the next adventure. 

Bye-bye Granada, Hello Madrid. Bye-bye Madrid, Hello Portugal.

Plaza Mayor, Madrid

Sadly, after two and a half weeks of working at Itinere Hostel (highly recommended!) in Granada, the time came to pack up my overstuffed REI backpack and hit the road again for a new adventure. However, I couldn't leave Spain without experiencing Madrid — and I couldn't really get to Portugal without flying through Madrid anyway so it all worked out!

The bus got into Madrid around 7pm and I proudly navigated the metro system directly to my hostel without issue. Then, in search of a bite to eat, I followed one interesting street after another, letting my curiosity get the better of me until I was completely and utterly lost...I'm not even sure I was in Madrid at one point. One full month of travel and this was the first time I had to flag down a taxi. Despite my 7 euro mistake, I made one of the best discoveries of my life to date.

Dunkbucks!

Now, if you know anything about me, you know that my coffee consumption is a little out of hand. I will most certainly have heart palpitations by the time I'm 30; no amount of meditation will undo the damage already done. But I really don't care and that is certainly not the point. The point is that I found a two-storey Starbucks in Madrid located right next to AND beneath a THREE-STOREY Dunkin Donuts.

I just didn't know what to do. My dual-loyalty instincts wanted me to buy coffee from both and then befriend all of the Americans that were surely sipping their over-sized coffees inside. But it was already night-time and I didn't sleep very well the night before so I restrained myself and vowed to return the next day. To be sure that I wasn't just hallucinating, I frantically started taking pictures. All the Spanish people started looking around trying to see what all the fuss was about... Justin Bieber? Tom Cruise? Oprah?!? Nope...my two favorite coffee shops all up in each other's business. Oprah would have been pretty great though. (*NOTE: Again, Oprah, if you ever read this, I love you and I would like to be employed by you in pretty much whatever capacity you see fit.)

Shortly after this dizzying Dunkbucks (Dunkin-Starbucks...obvi) discovery, I got lost, found a very sweet cab driver who dropped me off dangerously close to my hostel door, and proceeded to pass out in one of the best hostel beds I've ever experienced.

The next morning I got up early to just completely nerd out and spend the entire day at the Prado Museum and the Reina Sofia. Essentially, I spent my whole day looking at paintings by Picasso, Dalí, Goya, and El Greco and pretended to be artistically inclined. Occasionally I picked a painting to stare at, threw in a little twist of the head and a nodded in a pensive fashion, and basically looked like an artistic GENIUS...especially in my mesh shorts and flip-flops. Let's be real though, I took one week of Art History and then dropped it like it was hot (#seniorspringproblems).

Royal Palace, Madrid

After a strenuous day of cultural enrichment, I ventured back over to my beloved Dunkbucks and faced the heart-wrenching task of choosing between the two. As I stood there slightly panicked and weighing my options, a young couple walked out of Dunkin' and a faint sound of country music snuck out with them. I died of happiness. "Small Town USA" playing in big town Spain...now that's what I call exporting culture.


Now I know for some of you, the sweet sounds of Nashville would have swayed you toward the Starbucks, but I do love me some country so I settled in for a few hours of coffee drinking, people watching, and journaling.

Definitely gave them a euro...
have no idea how they did this!

My trip to Madrid was a quick one — just three nights and then I had to venture off to the Madrid Airport (again, successfully navigated the metro) to experience my first European budget airline flight with RyanAir. Along my travels I've run into people with some horror stories about RyanAir: exorbitant charges for bags that are overweight, charging you to print out your boarding pass if you lose it, not stamping your boarding pass and then rejecting you at the security line, etc. So to continue with the nerdy nature of my Madrid trip, I showed up to the airport THREE hours early. Of course, my bag was the perfect weight, I had absolutely no problems, and I walked directly through security. So I had three hours to kill and drink some overpriced coffee and eat an overpriced sandwich. While these inflated airport prices would normally have thrown me into a bit of a hissy fit, I've had some amazing luck recently finding money in the most random of places so I don't feel as bad having to pay the inflated prices.


I found 3 euro in the SINK at my hostel in Madrid when I came back after an afternoon cafe jaunt. Then, the very next day, in the Madrid Airport, I found 4 euro in the bins for the security line. It's the little things in life. 


Anyway, the plane in Madrid arrived late. So we boarded late. And then the Spanish military (I know, I know...they actually have one of those...) was performing some flight operation so all flights were delayed. And then, when we finally arrived at the Faro Airport, the bus from the airport to the city center was late. When it finally arrived, it was packed full. So then I caught a taxi with a bunch of other frustrated travelers. Just when I was sure that I would miss the last bus from Faro to Portimao (where I was being picked up by the nudist resort owner), the bus from Faro to Portimao was also late so it all worked out. OH I SEE WHAT YOU DID THERE PORTUGAL.

Long story, but now I'm at the nudist lodge, which we shall turn to in the next posting. Good thing I'm all caught up because tomorrow begins my first two days off of work here in Portugal and I'm heading into Lagos for a night out...the Portuguese haven for dancing on bars and lighting shots on fire. 

Las Alpujarras: Off-road hiking & aggressive crickets

So it seems I'm about ten days behind in my blogging....that's alright though, just a sign of having a good time and cleaning too many toilets! Anyway, I started this post last week so I'm just gonna let it flow as I started it (aka when I say "this past weekend" I really mean June 30th - July 1st....forgive me) and I'll hopefully catch you up to speed with another post or two in the coming days.

This past weekend, I decided to take a vacation from my vacation, so I sat down and actually did a bit of research on where I might go. The fifteen minutes of Google searching reminded me not to go to grad school any time soon.

First night in Capileira.

I decided that since I had three days off from my toilet cleaning job, I would hop a bus for a casual weekend trip to Las Alpujarras in the Spanish Sierra Nevada mountains. The area is dotted with teeny tiny little picturesque villages and I chose Capileira, which is one of the highest in the region. Population: 559. 

What's incredible about the area is that there are three traditional all-white (talking architecture here) villages that you can hike between: Capileira, Bubión, and Pampaneira. I'm pretty sure that the people who created the trails between the three had my sort of humor because there would be a very clear trailhead and then half a mile later the trail would split into three places with no marking whatsoever. Naturally, I always chose the wrong one and ended up on someone's private property, their wild dogs would come sprinting toward me inducing a moment of terror and regret, only to be greeted with a sniff and then quickly rejected. 

Off-road hiking in Las Alpujarras

Other than these relatively isolated incidences of poodle-induced terror, I didn't have much problem with the whole "propiedad privada" thing. Except for the fact that I'm pretty convinced that crickets wildly reproduce in the summer-time because the second I stepped off the trailhead —rather, the second the trailhead straight-up disappeared— there were crickets everywhere. Literally in all the places. Every step I took, there were 6 or 7 crickets that would hop up out of nowhere. I'm not gonna lie, I died a little on the inside. I don't particularly care for bugs. I mean, who does really? Except for those adorable nerdy little kids with glasses who collect them in a jar only to study them and then grow up to be wildly handsome geniuses. You know who you are.

Anyway, it was kind of gross, and I'm pretty sure I accidentally killed 15 or 20 crickets. And I'm a bit of a pacifist so for a while there I was feeling pretty bad about myself. However, after a couple of miles of jaunting through cricket-infested territory, one very rude cricket jumped a little too high...and landed IN MY SHIRT. Yes, there was a cricket in my shirt. It gives me the heebie jeebies just thinking about it. I almost ripped off my whole shirt out of sheer horror but that would have given the cricket too much satisfaction. After that, I didn't care about killing the crickets. One rude cricket and my pacifism flew out the window. I'm pretty sure that's how wars start. One damn rude cricket....

Apartments in Bubión

Aside from the whole cricket jumping incident, my stay in Las Alpujarras was lovely. Two solid days filled with hiking, sitting by the pool, and chatting with old men about Spain's Eurocup domination. Since the weekend I was in Alpujarras was the weekend of the Eurocup final, the owners of the lodge that I was staying at turned their outdoor patio/garden into a raging outdoor sports bar— as raging as one can possibly get in a town of 559 people. Had I not been surrounded by wildly out of control small-town Spaniards, I probably would have felt almost sort of bad for Italy and their horrifying 4-0 dismal performance. BUT, when in Spain do as the Spanish do... show up late to meetings, eat dinner at 11pm, and NEVER feel bad for the Italians.