Monday, December 20, 2010
I'll Be Home For Christmas
"Hey where's the bus at?"
Really Rascal Flatts? Each of the three of you, not to mention all the other fake rednecks that handle your promotion and distribution, are multi-multi millionaires, and yet the cleverest, most topical 18 second introduction to this video you can concoct is, "Hey, let's s'ang that one about bein' home for Christmas."
Like you couldn't even vocalize the fake cell phone conversation that the fat guy with the flip-up had in his hotel room? (By the way, dude, it hasn't been 1999 for almost 11 calendar years; it's time for you to snip that goo demon once and for all) Maybe stir in a, "Yeah, ba'aby, I'll be home for Christmas; I love you, too, ba'aby" and then have him look sad yet optimistic for 2 seconds. Unless flippy orchestrated the video prologue himself (which would not surprise me), the mere existence of this video means some no-talent asshole was probably paid a number of thousands of dollars to create that masterful introduction. Which actually makes me sick.
Which, it turns out, I am anyway, because I haven't slept in like three days and I've been sucking down airplane oxygen the whole time.
On that note, if none of the aforementioned or following actually comes across as logical English, forgive me. I am exhausted, but I can't sleep* on the benches in the New York Penn Station Amtrak WiFi HotSpot Waiting Area Zone (that are specifically designed so homeless people cannot sleep on them. And considering I'm rocking a 3-week beard, a stained, maroon hoodie, and significant travel B.O., I guess the benches are doing their job).
*Note: I also cannot sleep because the smug, balding asshole with the goatee sitting three benches behind me is reading entire Newsweek articles out loud to his friends.
My journey back to American soil started three-ish days ago (time difference in screwing with me). I packed the dorm room on Saturday night and headed to the airport earlier than I had to on Sunday in order to save some dough on the taxi, which actually turned out to be wise because it meant I could get in the excruciating British Airways rebooking line earlier than most of the other people on my flight.
I guess London got more snow this weekend than it's had in 30 years, so everyone who was scheduled to fly through Heathrow (yours truly) was given a hotel voucher and a new, convoluted-ass route to their original destination (Mine was Prague to Warsaw to Newark to you're own your own). Acquiring this was a mostly hassle free process, unless you count standing in line for a full FIVE hours a hassle. 1, 2, 3, 4, FIVE. Standing. British Airways was utilizing a grand total of two members of their Prague Airport staff to service approximately 300 travelers, and it seemed as if one of the two ladies would manage to slip away every half hour to go be surly elsewhere. Allow to me add one more thing to the list of things I will not miss about Prague: service.
So after I spent five precious hours of my life glaring at airport employees in hopes of telekinetically convincing them to be more than barely helpful (I was not successful), I got to the front of the line and was rewarded with a next-day flight and a room at the Airport Marriott Courtyard, which was not such a bad deal. If I had to choose between being on an airplane or eating dinner at a complimentary buffet Sunday night, you better believe I would be at that buffet. The Marriott also had a 24-hour workout room, which I got really juiced about initially, but then, as happens all too frequently when I consider exercising, I decided to sit in bed, chat with people on Facebook, and take down a king-sized Cadbury's Fruit and Nut chocolate bar square by square by square. All things considered, not a bad night.
And the following day didn't start off so bad either. Again, ya man hit the complimentary buffet for breakfast, and I hit it hard. There might be someone in this world with enough self-control to not make numerous trips to a buffet line in one sitting, but that person is not me. I ate at least 10 mini chocolate croissants, interspersed with not-strange-tasting scambled eggs and sausage (!) and bacon (!!) and sliced fruit and muesli (which I acknowledge is actually just granola with an exotic, healthy sounding name). Just a great all-around breakfast, which I semi-suspect the blog Gods laid before me in an act of irony and spite. Whatever. Shit tasted good.
But then shit went downhill.
My new airline was Polish Air (It goes by LOT), and flying with LOT was, in fact, as mechanically outdated and potentially-life-threatening as you'd suspect. I'm usually pretty calm and collected when it comes to takeoffs and landings, but I was legitimately worried during the entirety of both of my LOT flights. I prayed. Yeah, that worried.
I'm not really sure what LOT teaches their pilots, but neither landing I experienced today felt remotely normal or safe. Each time the plane approached the destination, it would alternate between accelerating at inappropriately high speeds and coasting at inappropriately low speeds. And as if the mental image of a sideways building careening into the Polish countryside at 2 billion miles per hour wasn't present enough in my mind, before each landing the plane was fucking crooked. Like the plane felt crooked. That shit gives me the willies** just thinkin' about it.
**In my book, "the willies" is not merely a turn of phrase, but an actual physical phenomenon usually brought on by the thought of smelling sour dairy products or having my nipples fucked with.
Mechanics aside, my flights still sucked exceptionally.
When I checked in however long ago, I asked the attractive LOT desk clerk for exit row seats because I have long legs and I am not resilient. She said she could accomodate me no problem, and I left the counter oddly satisfied with the very last service I would recieve in Prague (not true, the dumbass waitress at "Coke Pointe" adjacent to Gate C10 had no idea how to swipe a credit card so I couldn't buy a pre-flight Powerade).
However, I soon found out that by "exit row," Miss Lady must have thought I said "least comfortable and nearly the least convenient seat on the entire jumbo fucking jet" (to be fair, I did get an exit row on the 1 hour flight from Prague to Warsaw; on the 10 hour flight from Warsaw to Newark, however, I was not as fortunate). On that 10 hour flight, the seating arrangement that directly affected me was as follows:
Directly in front of me was the composite board that divides first class from the heathens in coach. This divider represents evil for so many reasons. Here are two:
1) The divider gives those directly behind it approximately 8 fewer inches of leg room than one would have in a normal coach seat (case closed, but read on). In order to keep my legs from becoming permanently numb, I had two options: extend my dogs into the aisle to my left, which was a) not comfortable because my armrest jutted into my hip whenever I shifted ever so slightly to the left, and b) not practical because the stuartesses always managed to run my foot over with their carts; my other option was to stretch my feet out vertically onto the divider wall, which was a little more comfortable, but the comfrt was short lived because my legs were drained of blood within 10 minutes.
2) I could fucking see two unoccupied first class seats within an arm's reach. Talk about torture. Usually, I would be first in shameless line asking to be relocated, but not this time, because:
The (very) young couple sitting next to me had a baby, so I felt they deserved it over me. I even suggested to them that they inquire about the upgrade; they appeared to be quite humored by the prospective methods of inquiry, but never quite managed to do it. Honestly, they were good people, but there is no way sitting next to a small, curly-haired noise machine for ten hours is going to leave much of any blempathy (blog empathy) on the table. Once again, I am no exception.
Based on my ten hours seated next to the young family, I suppose that these three humans were related this way: the wee one was the offspring of the lady and the gentleman, who I also suppose were not married (no rings). He was (is) black; she was (is) white. I only mention this because the little guy looked (looks) like what I suspect Jaden Smith looked like 7 or 8 years ago. Cute as a god damn cappuccino button. But, like all people under the age of 17 (generous), super irritating.
But only because he consistently made noise, not because the noises he made were particularly bothersome -- a distinction which means a lot when it comes to judging infants. Because of that distinction, my recent memory of the little man is positively skewed. And even though the gurgles and shrieks that he emitted were more voluminous and unpredictable than any other noise in the immediate vicinity (except for possibly the aforementioned composite board, which was not completely fastened to the ceiling, and which occasionally rattled, mimicking what I think it would sound like if someone rubbed two pieces of styrofoam together into a loudspeaker).
I was actually more bothered by his Euro league basketball playing father (possibly Poland, possibly Ukraine), who, for a solid 45 minutes, discussed the intracacies of the statistical relationship between shoe size and height -- not only for himself, but for each of his teammates. Needless to say, his girlfriend/fiance thought most of everything he had to say on the matter was, "so crazy."
Though the couple seated next to me was far and away the most interesting of my travel companions, not to be forgotten were the gentlemen to my direct left and rear, the former of which is a shoe-in for Ivan Drago in any upcoming Rocky IV remake, and the latter of which was an obese, cantankerous Polish man who also happened to have the most impressive patch of ear hair I have ever regrettably laid eyes on. Neither of these gentlemen did anything noteworthy, though I'm sure that if I understood Polish grumbling, I would have had a bone or two to pick with Mr. Furry Ears.
So, to make an unnecessarily long story shorter, the 10 hour flight ended and I rushed the fuck out of the plane (which had landed at Newark International Airport, remember) in order to try to catch a train that I was doomed to not catch from the get-go.
Had my flights not been conjunctively delayed an hour, and had the U.S. customs line not already been 400 people deep when I joined, and had I not forgotten my passport on the plane...
Yup, forgot my passport on the plane. It didn't really end up being a problem; a LOT employee fetched it eventually, but it did add one more hour to my too-many-houred trip, and it did give me an inside perspective on the U.S. Homeland Security Department: Newark, New Jersey Branch. Pretty much what you'd expect -- one long-winded Italian guy and three or four other less long-winded Italian guys. And a very, very large woman who intoxicated people have probably thought was J-WOWW.
So, passport in hand, I went to retrieve my checked luggage. Up to this point I had on my person a carry-onable wheeled suitcase, an oversized backpack, a shopping bag with gifts for my mother (if I somehow lose her Christmas gifts believe you me I am sleeping in the yard until 2011), and my bulky-ass, pilly wool overcoat. In case you aren't a visual person, that right there is enough to occupy a guy's paws.
Add on 100 pounds of checked luggage dispersed into two massive L.L. Bean wheeled suitcases, as well as a thick sheen of perspiration, and you've got yourself a pretty accurate image of what I looked leaving baggage claim number 7 at Newark International Airport. I then get through the "baggage check" line, which is purely a harvest point for those meaningless customs declarations they make you fill out, only to discover that I've now lost my meaningless customs declaration. I found it pretty soon thereafter, but I mention it to reiterate how shitty this travelsty (has someone copyrighted that yet?) was up to this point.
And as if my sore throat and destitute appearance was not enough, allow me to remind you that I broke my Blackberry a month and a half ago, so in order to figure out the train schedule, I had to use a payphone (!!insert yuppie squirm!!). Which went fine. But I forgot how to make a collect call (actually I was just tired of listening to the operator), so I had to panhandle for someone's cellphone.
I looked around the airport lobby-ish area for potential targets, and I found what I thought would be a great match: two older white folks eagerly holding up a homemade sign that said something about welcoming someone home. Perfect, I thought, they're white, I'm white, we're in Newark; I've got this in the bag.
"Um, excuse me, sorry to bother you, but would it be at all possible for me to borrow one of your cellphones and call my parents?"
The mom looked at me, looked at her husband, and then looked back at me as if I had just asked her if she knew where I could score some rocks and a handgun.
"Uhh, did you bring your cellphone, dear? I don't have my cellphone."
"No, I don't have a cellphone."
Are you fucking kidding me? You probably have 4 cellphones between the two of you. And I bet two of them are iPhone 4's. I could not fucking believe it. Not only did these people deny me something that I and (I would like to think) most cellphone owners would grant to normal looking people that go to the trouble of asking, but they tried to bullshit me in the process. I mean, lady, do you think I'm gonna fake a call home and then abscond with your mobile phone in this extremely busy airport? Do you think I'm part of some elaborate burglary scheme and I have a getaway van waiting down the block? No. I need to make a fucking phone call.
Thankfully a friendly latino guy handed me his extremely complicated touch screen phone, which I handed back to him and asked him to dial my house number for me (this, ladies and gentlemen, is yet another example of technology advancing far too rapidly beyond the scope of human control -- there is no way I, a modestly tech-savvy 21-year-old, should be rendered incapable by any consumer electronic good. But alas, it has happened. In three years I'll probably have to have my now 4-year-old cousin Nora show me how to use whatever new-fangled moving picture device I get for Christmas..).
And then I got in a cab, which took me for a $70 ride (literally and proverbially) to New York Penn Station, where I and my luggage got out and smelled New York City for the first time since August.
And it smelled wonderful.
It was no coincidence that I was smelling air in the immediate vicinity of the 33rd Street Brother Jimmy's (by far the most inferior of the 3, though still patronable), where I promptly dragged my luggage, sat at the bar, and ate the most delectable marbled barbeque brisket sandwich and drank the most refreshing 16 ounce can of Natural Light. And I don't give a shit about football (especially involving Bears or Vikings), but MNF was on and I saw Robbie Gould kick a field goal.
It's good to be back, America.
Now, as I sit on the Amtrak 67 Northeast Regional bound for DC -- a route that I've become almost routinely familiar with over the course of the past two years -- I'm trying really hard to quantify what it's like to be back home, to be back at routines. Considering I've been "home" (in the most generic sense of the word) for approximately 6 hours, and considering I haven't slept a god damn wink in two days, this is proving to be a far less profound experience than I expected. Instead, it feels like it should: routine, possibly with a little nostalgic sparkle mixed in. If you'll allow me to get flowery on your ass momentarily, I feel like a fish who's spent the past hour of his life in a unknown, temporary bowl because the everyday tank is being cleaned; I've just gotten dumped back into the old tank, and I can see a lot more clearly than I did before, but nothing looks all that different.
If you asked me 96 hours ago if, in order to get home, I would want to have my flight delayed by a calendar day, spend another calendar day waiting in lines and sitting on airplanes, lose my passport, and have to pay an additional $180 just in order to to be able arrive home within a day of when I was supposed to, I would have undoubtedly said no.
But if you said that within that extra 24 hour time frame, I'd be able to eat a marbled barbeque brisket sandwich, I would have undoubtedly said yes.
And I'll be home for Christmas. That's pretty good too.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
How to Study Abroad For People that Just Might Find Themselves Facing the Same Problems I Faced
The following is simply advice I wish I had gotten before I came abroad. I've been toiling all week, and I've finally narrowed my suggestions down to a field of some specific Do's and Don't's. Obviously, I can only really speak for my own preferences. I can sort of speak for Prague, and electrically (very important), I can only speak for continental Europe. Even so, many of the things I have to say are extremely important life lessons that everyone should read and reread every night before they go to bed (more hits, what's up).
Do..
1) ..come to Europe with a lot of money.
I don't think this is exactly a secret, but it is a truth. I was fortunate that Prague was far and away the cheapest of all the cities I visited, and probably the cheapest of any European city considered part of the study abroad rolodex. Still, you need tha paper. Even if you book everything in super advance and find crazy cheap deals to the most off-season of places (undoubtedly featuring the most uncomfortable of flights at the most inconvenient of times), you're gonna spend no less than $200 a weekend, all things considered. And let's be honest, having to fly out of anywhere between the hours of 10 PM and 10 AM is a stone cold pain in the ass, so you're probably gonna be paying a premium for normal hours. On top of that, having to sleep in a massive orphanage-style hostel room with 3 different groups of travelers (2 of which will most certainly be comprised of european dudes who wanna get drunk and loud) is also not preferable, so you're probably going to be spending a little extra skrill on 2-4 person rooms in nicer hostels, if not springing for a clean 3-star hotel.
If you're living in Prague, I'd say you could have an exciting but budgeted semester for $6,000, and you could have a very comfortable, jetsetting semester for $10,000. If you live in a Eurozone country (or anywhere else not in Central Eastern Europpe), you should probably add $2,000-3,000 to those estimates.
2) ..some cultural research before you arrive.
I didn't exactly hit the Prague section of the lib too hard before I came here, and it's something I regret. I suggest that even before you select where you're going to study abroad, you actually familiarize yourself with the culture and the language (i.e., more than "good beer; cheap"), but at the very least, if you find out you're going to spend almost four months of your young life in a place that is without a doubt historically and culturally rich, you owe it to yourself to do some homework. It's not like I didn't make friends because I didn't know when the huns or turks or whoever occupied Bohemia and Moravia, but I am leaving here with what I feel is inadequate knowledge about this centuries old important European city where I've lived, which sort of translates to 'missed opportunity.'
3) ..study abroad with a friend or two in the same place or nearby places.
Now I can't speak for this positive per say, but I can speak for the opposite. I came to Prague knowing no one (well, obviously I was familiar with the Facebook profile pictures of all the girls listed in my program, as well as information not kept private, but whatever), and knowing no one was one of my major reasons for coming. I don't necessarily think the solo-Dolo semester was the wrong choice (particularly because I'm leaving here with what I hoped to achieve: a better appreciation of who and what I have at home), but I do think having a pre-established friendship in Prague would have facilitated more exploration, my general insufficiency of which is a major regret.
4) ..set up a "Strong VPN."
Now this is exactly what a scholar such as myself who is already predisposed to not wanting go on tours/leave his room unless necessary should not have access to, but I did it anyway. Do not ask me how this works (does anyone know how anything works anymore? I realized this the other day--if someone asked me how pants are made/work, I would have NO idea), but it does. What's "it," you may ask? "It" is the ability to watch Netflix and Hulu and make USA-toll-free Skype calls. "It" is achieved by visiting http://www.strongvpn.com/ and paying them $21 in exchange for three months of access to the inexhaustible wells of online American entertainment (re: details - their customer service live chat is super helpful). You probably won't thank me in the end because you'll have spent your final two weeks of the semester storming through the first two seasons of The Office instead of seeing the beautiful city that lies before you, but you will, arguably, laugh more.
5) ..establish a hobby or a project to do while you're abroad.
If your program is as academically rigorous as mine was, you are going to have a LOT of time on your hands. Start a blog (and actually write more than two posts), set goals for things you really want to see and go take pictures (if you're that type -- blogging has been in my bloodline for generations so I didn't really have a choice in the matter), whatever. Just have something in mind that you can do when you find yourself swimming in free time.
6) ..eat-in.
Obviously one of the major features of traveling anywhere is the food. I'm not saying you should purge yourself and eat nothing but chicken breasts all week and pack a cooler of leftovers for weekend picnics. This isn't my mom's car ride to Bethany; this is Europe, and this shit is fancy. You can live a little. But the more quickly you get in the habit of buying groceries and cooking for yourself at home, the more quickly you will save at least $60 a week (and that's in cheapo Prague). After a month of eating-in more than eating out, you'll probably be able to afford an additional weekend trip.
7) ..the following regarding electricity conversion:
For some very unnecessary reason, this was a major, major mental roadbloack of mine during departure preparation. Here's what I learned (this is what I was referring to when I said I can only speak for continental Europe--UK has different system):
*Note: I acknowledge that the following very well could be the least technical explanation of electricity of all time. But I'm cool with that, because if you're anything like me, you have no idea how anything works.
**Note: This could also be incorrect.
US outlets spit 120 Volts of electricity. Continental European electricity comes through the wall at a blazing 230 Volts. Many US appliances have a functional range of 100-240V. You can found out this information in a number of places, namely: google, the appliance's manual, even the plug itself sometimes has a number printed onto it. If you discover that your appliance does have this range, all you will need is a "adapter," which looks something like this:
I recommend having three of these (I got by with two, though).
If you discover that your appliance does not have this range, and operates only at a specific voltage (probably 120), then (I think) you will need what is called a "converter," which does something I cannot even begin to explain. My advice, though: just don't bring that appliance, and buy a temporary Euro version to use for the semester. Specifically, do not bring your electric toothbrush, or your beard trimmer, because they will not work in Europe (so, sadly, you'll have to become accustomed to the 80% clean feeling you get from a pedestrian manual toothbrush).
Also, for "three-pronged" appliances like many laptop chargers, you need to visit your local hardware store and pick up another sort of adapter that effectively makes your appliance two-pronged. I have no knowledge of any technical terms in the electricity-conversion world, but if my amigo at 187th-and-Beaumont-Hardware could understand figure gestures and my meekly repeated, "dos a tres," "dos a tres," chances are your local shop purveyor will be able to as well.
8) ..bring your own toiletries and medicine (and we already learned why not to bring an overabundance of travel miniatures). And bring more than enough, especially deodorant and face wash. Seriously, shit is different over here, folks. Be prepared.
9) ..bring a collapsable travel pillow. You'll thank me.
10) ..figure out when your program ends well in advance, and book a ROUND TRIP flight.
Now, this is a contentious point. One never really knows what they're gonna want to do six to eight months in the future when they're in Europe without any obligations. If you're studying abroad in the Spring, there's a damn good chance you'll want to travel because it will be so nice outside. If you're studying abroad next fall, there's a damn good chance you're gonna want to get the fliggity fluck out of Europe because it's so cold. Either way, in six to eight months, you're probably going to have limited cash flow and an uncontrollable desire to return home to what and who you know best. Therefore, buying a round trip flight at the outset is definitely worth considering because you will probably save at least $600 (I would have..).
Do not..
1) ..use discount websites to book your flights.
This is extremely contentious (you can't see them but there are multiple electrode skirmishes happening very close to this sentence). Having missed a flight I booked on Expedia, I will now say that it would have been less expensive for me to pay the 10-20% extra by booking all of my other flights directly through their airline. Now, the lesson here really should be: don't miss flights. Yes, I suggest you do not miss your flights, but it's probably going to happen once, and if it does, you will be in much more favorable and much less expensive circumstances if you booked through the airline.
In this same vein, I'll declare it here and now: all those discount websites offer the exact same fares on the exact same flights. If you have to pick one, I recommend Expedia (and do not recommend Student Universe) because their customer service is superior. But honestly, I'd go straight through the airline, even if it means spending an extra $60.
2) ..buy a shitload of travel locks.
Unless you plan to sleep in alleys or the woods, these are completely unnecessary. Granted, I never shared a room with someone I didn't know, and that's a game-changer. But as I mentioned above, you probably aren't going to want to share a room with a bunch of stinky European backpackers anyway, so save your money on travel locks and spend it on hostel upgrades.
Seriously, when I cleaned out my room today, I found like 9 luggage locks. I actually used a travel lock once, and I only did it because I was pining for a reason to make good on some of $50 I dropped on locks before I left. Fucking waste. Don't do this.
3) ..get hoodwinked by the convenience stores they put outside of security.
This is one of the more embarrassing things I consistently did over the course of the semester, and it's also just common fucking sense, but do not buy a big-ass three-liter bottle of water before you go through airport security. Not only is it a waste of money, but you look like an asshole standing by the trashcans (that are packed with half-full bottles of water) chugging water like an ironman competitor between legs 2 and 3. Just internalize it now: buy water (and anything else with a 3+ ounce/1.7 liter capacity) after you pass through security.
4) ..book unreasonably early flights.
I heard the "Oh I'm just gonna go out and stay out 'til I leave for the airport" line at least once a weekend, and then every monday that same asshole is telling stories about what he had to do because he missed his flight. The out-to-airport mctwist sounds great in theory, but fails in practice. Inevitably, you'll get home two to three hours before you leave, drunk pack, and then pass out and miss your flight because you don't feel like going to the airport four hours early. Do yourself and your parents' credit card a favor, book flights during business hours, and if you can manage, don't go out the night before. No night out is ever worth missing a flight.
5) ..eat a fourth meal at SuperMac's in Galway, Ireland.
In a word or two, SuperMac's is the gastronomic equilavent of the Fordham Rd. WhiteCastle. And just as in the Bronx whenever somebody half-jokingly suggests copping a late night crave case and having a grand ol' drunk, gassy time, you know in your heart that nothing of the sort should actually happen because everyone that contributes to demolishing the case will be a markedly less pleasant person for the following 48 to 96 hours. When you hear SuperMac's, you say no.
6) ..at Matthew Williams' residence at Dublin City College, do NOT come back from a strong night out with a loaf of white-bread on your person.
If this is unavoidable (been there, it's okay), I advise you to NOT clutch onto said loaf with both of your hands. However, if that loaf of bread absolutely needs your two-armed attention until it meets its maker, then for God's sake, do not walk across the extremely soggy grass in the courtyard and slip on your fat ass. Because, seeing as you're clutching bread, your options for getting back up are a bit limited, so you'll probably slip again. And then the next morning you'll realize that you imported well over a square yard of mud into Matt's house, mostly via your expensive wool overcoat. Before you can wash your coat or jeans, though, you have to physically scrape the soft earth that became caked onto your clothing overnight. THEN you toss your jeans and your expensive wool overcoat through a cycle only to discover that your expensive wool overcoat is dry clean only, and that over the course of the next couple weeks, said coat will start to pill more and more, giving the clumsy-bread-protecting owner of said coat a progressively more homeless look.
I have more to add, but I think these qualify for post status.
If you're curious, at present I am sitting on a desk chair in room 316 of the Prague Ruzyne Airport Courtyard Marriott, and I'm not in the least bit unhappy. Yes, I did have to wait in line for four hours today, but once I felt the down count in these hotel pillows my troubles vanished. I (hope I) fly from Prague to Warsaw at 2:30p tomorrow, followed by a 10 hour flight between two of the most beautiful places on earth: Warsaw, Poland and Newark, New Jersey. And then I hop in a cab to the Newark train station, try not to get raped while I wait for the train, and if all goes well I roll into DC between midnight and 2 AM Tuesday. But that's IF all goes well. Well hasn't exactly been a theme of my departure yet, so I'm not counting chickens.
I hope my loyal fanbase has been putting forth their best effort to teach themselves entire semesters worth of material in one or two very long sittings. Anyone going abroad next semester can look forward to not having to do anything of that sort. I, on the other hand, am making my final strides back toward reality, and it feels damn good.
Do..
1) ..come to Europe with a lot of money.
I don't think this is exactly a secret, but it is a truth. I was fortunate that Prague was far and away the cheapest of all the cities I visited, and probably the cheapest of any European city considered part of the study abroad rolodex. Still, you need tha paper. Even if you book everything in super advance and find crazy cheap deals to the most off-season of places (undoubtedly featuring the most uncomfortable of flights at the most inconvenient of times), you're gonna spend no less than $200 a weekend, all things considered. And let's be honest, having to fly out of anywhere between the hours of 10 PM and 10 AM is a stone cold pain in the ass, so you're probably gonna be paying a premium for normal hours. On top of that, having to sleep in a massive orphanage-style hostel room with 3 different groups of travelers (2 of which will most certainly be comprised of european dudes who wanna get drunk and loud) is also not preferable, so you're probably going to be spending a little extra skrill on 2-4 person rooms in nicer hostels, if not springing for a clean 3-star hotel.
If you're living in Prague, I'd say you could have an exciting but budgeted semester for $6,000, and you could have a very comfortable, jetsetting semester for $10,000. If you live in a Eurozone country (or anywhere else not in Central Eastern Europpe), you should probably add $2,000-3,000 to those estimates.
2) ..some cultural research before you arrive.
I didn't exactly hit the Prague section of the lib too hard before I came here, and it's something I regret. I suggest that even before you select where you're going to study abroad, you actually familiarize yourself with the culture and the language (i.e., more than "good beer; cheap"), but at the very least, if you find out you're going to spend almost four months of your young life in a place that is without a doubt historically and culturally rich, you owe it to yourself to do some homework. It's not like I didn't make friends because I didn't know when the huns or turks or whoever occupied Bohemia and Moravia, but I am leaving here with what I feel is inadequate knowledge about this centuries old important European city where I've lived, which sort of translates to 'missed opportunity.'
3) ..study abroad with a friend or two in the same place or nearby places.
Now I can't speak for this positive per say, but I can speak for the opposite. I came to Prague knowing no one (well, obviously I was familiar with the Facebook profile pictures of all the girls listed in my program, as well as information not kept private, but whatever), and knowing no one was one of my major reasons for coming. I don't necessarily think the solo-Dolo semester was the wrong choice (particularly because I'm leaving here with what I hoped to achieve: a better appreciation of who and what I have at home), but I do think having a pre-established friendship in Prague would have facilitated more exploration, my general insufficiency of which is a major regret.
4) ..set up a "Strong VPN."
Now this is exactly what a scholar such as myself who is already predisposed to not wanting go on tours/leave his room unless necessary should not have access to, but I did it anyway. Do not ask me how this works (does anyone know how anything works anymore? I realized this the other day--if someone asked me how pants are made/work, I would have NO idea), but it does. What's "it," you may ask? "It" is the ability to watch Netflix and Hulu and make USA-toll-free Skype calls. "It" is achieved by visiting http://www.strongvpn.com/ and paying them $21 in exchange for three months of access to the inexhaustible wells of online American entertainment (re: details - their customer service live chat is super helpful). You probably won't thank me in the end because you'll have spent your final two weeks of the semester storming through the first two seasons of The Office instead of seeing the beautiful city that lies before you, but you will, arguably, laugh more.
5) ..establish a hobby or a project to do while you're abroad.
If your program is as academically rigorous as mine was, you are going to have a LOT of time on your hands. Start a blog (and actually write more than two posts), set goals for things you really want to see and go take pictures (if you're that type -- blogging has been in my bloodline for generations so I didn't really have a choice in the matter), whatever. Just have something in mind that you can do when you find yourself swimming in free time.
6) ..eat-in.
Obviously one of the major features of traveling anywhere is the food. I'm not saying you should purge yourself and eat nothing but chicken breasts all week and pack a cooler of leftovers for weekend picnics. This isn't my mom's car ride to Bethany; this is Europe, and this shit is fancy. You can live a little. But the more quickly you get in the habit of buying groceries and cooking for yourself at home, the more quickly you will save at least $60 a week (and that's in cheapo Prague). After a month of eating-in more than eating out, you'll probably be able to afford an additional weekend trip.
7) ..the following regarding electricity conversion:
For some very unnecessary reason, this was a major, major mental roadbloack of mine during departure preparation. Here's what I learned (this is what I was referring to when I said I can only speak for continental Europe--UK has different system):
*Note: I acknowledge that the following very well could be the least technical explanation of electricity of all time. But I'm cool with that, because if you're anything like me, you have no idea how anything works.
**Note: This could also be incorrect.
US outlets spit 120 Volts of electricity. Continental European electricity comes through the wall at a blazing 230 Volts. Many US appliances have a functional range of 100-240V. You can found out this information in a number of places, namely: google, the appliance's manual, even the plug itself sometimes has a number printed onto it. If you discover that your appliance does have this range, all you will need is a "adapter," which looks something like this:
If you discover that your appliance does not have this range, and operates only at a specific voltage (probably 120), then (I think) you will need what is called a "converter," which does something I cannot even begin to explain. My advice, though: just don't bring that appliance, and buy a temporary Euro version to use for the semester. Specifically, do not bring your electric toothbrush, or your beard trimmer, because they will not work in Europe (so, sadly, you'll have to become accustomed to the 80% clean feeling you get from a pedestrian manual toothbrush).
Also, for "three-pronged" appliances like many laptop chargers, you need to visit your local hardware store and pick up another sort of adapter that effectively makes your appliance two-pronged. I have no knowledge of any technical terms in the electricity-conversion world, but if my amigo at 187th-and-Beaumont-Hardware could understand figure gestures and my meekly repeated, "dos a tres," "dos a tres," chances are your local shop purveyor will be able to as well.
8) ..bring your own toiletries and medicine (and we already learned why not to bring an overabundance of travel miniatures). And bring more than enough, especially deodorant and face wash. Seriously, shit is different over here, folks. Be prepared.
9) ..bring a collapsable travel pillow. You'll thank me.
10) ..figure out when your program ends well in advance, and book a ROUND TRIP flight.
Now, this is a contentious point. One never really knows what they're gonna want to do six to eight months in the future when they're in Europe without any obligations. If you're studying abroad in the Spring, there's a damn good chance you'll want to travel because it will be so nice outside. If you're studying abroad next fall, there's a damn good chance you're gonna want to get the fliggity fluck out of Europe because it's so cold. Either way, in six to eight months, you're probably going to have limited cash flow and an uncontrollable desire to return home to what and who you know best. Therefore, buying a round trip flight at the outset is definitely worth considering because you will probably save at least $600 (I would have..).
Do not..
1) ..use discount websites to book your flights.
This is extremely contentious (you can't see them but there are multiple electrode skirmishes happening very close to this sentence). Having missed a flight I booked on Expedia, I will now say that it would have been less expensive for me to pay the 10-20% extra by booking all of my other flights directly through their airline. Now, the lesson here really should be: don't miss flights. Yes, I suggest you do not miss your flights, but it's probably going to happen once, and if it does, you will be in much more favorable and much less expensive circumstances if you booked through the airline.
In this same vein, I'll declare it here and now: all those discount websites offer the exact same fares on the exact same flights. If you have to pick one, I recommend Expedia (and do not recommend Student Universe) because their customer service is superior. But honestly, I'd go straight through the airline, even if it means spending an extra $60.
2) ..buy a shitload of travel locks.
Unless you plan to sleep in alleys or the woods, these are completely unnecessary. Granted, I never shared a room with someone I didn't know, and that's a game-changer. But as I mentioned above, you probably aren't going to want to share a room with a bunch of stinky European backpackers anyway, so save your money on travel locks and spend it on hostel upgrades.
Seriously, when I cleaned out my room today, I found like 9 luggage locks. I actually used a travel lock once, and I only did it because I was pining for a reason to make good on some of $50 I dropped on locks before I left. Fucking waste. Don't do this.
3) ..get hoodwinked by the convenience stores they put outside of security.
This is one of the more embarrassing things I consistently did over the course of the semester, and it's also just common fucking sense, but do not buy a big-ass three-liter bottle of water before you go through airport security. Not only is it a waste of money, but you look like an asshole standing by the trashcans (that are packed with half-full bottles of water) chugging water like an ironman competitor between legs 2 and 3. Just internalize it now: buy water (and anything else with a 3+ ounce/1.7 liter capacity) after you pass through security.
4) ..book unreasonably early flights.
I heard the "Oh I'm just gonna go out and stay out 'til I leave for the airport" line at least once a weekend, and then every monday that same asshole is telling stories about what he had to do because he missed his flight. The out-to-airport mctwist sounds great in theory, but fails in practice. Inevitably, you'll get home two to three hours before you leave, drunk pack, and then pass out and miss your flight because you don't feel like going to the airport four hours early. Do yourself and your parents' credit card a favor, book flights during business hours, and if you can manage, don't go out the night before. No night out is ever worth missing a flight.
5) ..eat a fourth meal at SuperMac's in Galway, Ireland.
In a word or two, SuperMac's is the gastronomic equilavent of the Fordham Rd. WhiteCastle. And just as in the Bronx whenever somebody half-jokingly suggests copping a late night crave case and having a grand ol' drunk, gassy time, you know in your heart that nothing of the sort should actually happen because everyone that contributes to demolishing the case will be a markedly less pleasant person for the following 48 to 96 hours. When you hear SuperMac's, you say no.
6) ..at Matthew Williams' residence at Dublin City College, do NOT come back from a strong night out with a loaf of white-bread on your person.
If this is unavoidable (been there, it's okay), I advise you to NOT clutch onto said loaf with both of your hands. However, if that loaf of bread absolutely needs your two-armed attention until it meets its maker, then for God's sake, do not walk across the extremely soggy grass in the courtyard and slip on your fat ass. Because, seeing as you're clutching bread, your options for getting back up are a bit limited, so you'll probably slip again. And then the next morning you'll realize that you imported well over a square yard of mud into Matt's house, mostly via your expensive wool overcoat. Before you can wash your coat or jeans, though, you have to physically scrape the soft earth that became caked onto your clothing overnight. THEN you toss your jeans and your expensive wool overcoat through a cycle only to discover that your expensive wool overcoat is dry clean only, and that over the course of the next couple weeks, said coat will start to pill more and more, giving the clumsy-bread-protecting owner of said coat a progressively more homeless look.
I have more to add, but I think these qualify for post status.
If you're curious, at present I am sitting on a desk chair in room 316 of the Prague Ruzyne Airport Courtyard Marriott, and I'm not in the least bit unhappy. Yes, I did have to wait in line for four hours today, but once I felt the down count in these hotel pillows my troubles vanished. I (hope I) fly from Prague to Warsaw at 2:30p tomorrow, followed by a 10 hour flight between two of the most beautiful places on earth: Warsaw, Poland and Newark, New Jersey. And then I hop in a cab to the Newark train station, try not to get raped while I wait for the train, and if all goes well I roll into DC between midnight and 2 AM Tuesday. But that's IF all goes well. Well hasn't exactly been a theme of my departure yet, so I'm not counting chickens.
I hope my loyal fanbase has been putting forth their best effort to teach themselves entire semesters worth of material in one or two very long sittings. Anyone going abroad next semester can look forward to not having to do anything of that sort. I, on the other hand, am making my final strides back toward reality, and it feels damn good.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
These are a Few of My Favorite Things, Part I
My semester abroad only has a few gasps left, and most of them involve studying. So instead of doing that, I figured I should hold my life from the past 3+ months up to light.
What I will not miss about Prague:
1) This god damn snow.
The weather in Prague these last few weeks has killed every ounce of good will I've ever had toward snow. I was cool with flakes for about an hour after I got back from Ireland, but it did not take long before I was crunching around with my head in my chest bitching about how cold it is outside.
The anecdote: two weeks ago, after I landed in Prague, I ran into my buddy Sam at the airport. It was snowing, so Sam, someone who I thought was his sister but turned out to be his girlfriend, and I took a cab to Charles Bridge (you literally cannot win in that situation--they looked kinda alike, so I asked they were brother and sister, and they were not; what if I had asked if she was his girlfriend and she turned out to be his sister? What's more awkward? I have no frame of reference on the latter. Lemme know.) because the two lovebirds wanted to snap a few pictures of the wintery fairy land amassing itself on the most famous bridge in Prague. I tagged along, and it was pretty beautiful.
Lumpy, ass-dirty, brown-grey crap that lingers on the streets for god damn ever and makes even the most basic task an insurmountable hassle.
Over the past two weeks, I have achieved less because snow has achieved the following: 1) getting in my shoes 2) indirectly creating a thin layer of sand and salt on the floor of my room so now I have to do the stop-lift-brush-the-bottom-of-my-foot manuever every time I stand up 3) getting in my shoes 4) turning staircases into sledding hills 5) making me want to stay inside and eat chocolate.
But at least it hasn't started snowing in DC and NYC right? ...Oh.
2) The inability to fully express myself to other human beings.
Having lived in Prague for 14+ weeks, and having taken (and not failed--fingers crossed!) a semi-rigorous Czech language course, I've finally developed an appreciation of the Czech language. I think I can pinpoint my transformation to a day about three weeks ago when I stumbled upon this hole in the wall antique shop--I'm pretty retro--and stopped in for a gander.
There was some cool shit there--mostly old, dirty shit--and at some point I lifted up an old, dirty, tin Pilsner Urquell sign and said to the jolly old guy in the corner, "Kolik stoji?" ("How much?"). He blurted a number back at me and I understood because I have numbers pretty down-pat, though I'm still convinced 9, 10, 19, 90, 900 and all the 20s are phonetically fucking identical. I also understood that I would not give him half of what he was asking, so I set the sign down, and as I expected, the man then gestured and breathed some sentences of Czech that were absolutely meaningless to me (though he was definitely saying, "but for you, special price: [10% less than what I just said]"). I looked back at him like a discombobulated labrador.
I then launched into a grammatically incorrect explanation of how I am American and how I exclusively speak English. Turns out, he spoke about as much English as I spoke Czech, so for about 15 seconds there we were just pointin around and gesticulatin and shit, but eventually he was able to say to me, "You have very good [Czech] pronounciation." This easily could have just been a ploy to get me to like him, feel sorry for him because he sits in a musty room all day, and buy something (it worked), but even so, since that day I've spoken and listened to Czech in a markedly more enthusiastic way.
But I haven't really gotten any better at understanding Czech.
I've noticed lately that I make a very strong effort to use and correctly pronounce Czech when I initiate a conversation (e.g. Kolik stoji? - How much?; Kde je ___ ? - Where is ____ ?; Jak se mate? - How are you? -- complex, important shit here, folks), but literally every single time someone says something back to me in Czech (which is always because of my exceptional pronounciation), I, again, look back at them like a confused labrador puppy and, in a defeated, begging-ass tone, mumble, "Anglicky?" ("English?"), to which some people can respond. Most just shake their heads and look back at me like a confused Czech labrador, though, so I usually end up back at square one.
Bottom line, I'm really lookin' forward to hearing the fat young guy at Pugsley's say "WutcanIgetcha" with half a chicken roll in his mouth.
3) Having the nearest ATM be a tram ride away.
Now, having to take a tram or even walk 10 minutes when its 40-60 degrees and sunny outside really isn't so bad. But having to wait for a tram in the freezing-ass cold on a road covered in grey-brown lumps that runs parallel to a fucking river is bad.
There has been at least one day during these past two weeks when I opted to just not eat or do anything all day because the prospect of going to the ATM seemed so dreadful. I know that's pathetic, but I just don't understand why grocery stores or Czech bodegas (called Potraviny's, if you're curious) don't have ATMs. On some of these really cold days I would confirm upwards of a $7 additional ATM charge just so I don't have to spend more than 30 seconds outside. But you know what they say, one man's minor problem is another man's multi-million dollar Eastern European start-up business. Don't say I didn't warn you.
4) The running noise my toilet makes after I flush.
You know the (totally) insignificant issues humans develop with their habitat that over time begin to eat away at the very core of their existence? For example, when Ilived in was occasionally in my sophomore year dorm room, Finlay 423, I hated with every bone in my body when, the few mornings (particularly weekends) I slept in there, my charming roommate Gus would wake up no later than 10:30a, and something that almost always resembled this would follow:
Gus: Yo, Mikey, you up?
Mikey: No.
Gus: How the fuck did I get home last night, dude?
I'd come to right around here.
Mikey: [Chuckle] I dunno. [Possibly mentions where he last saw Gus].
Gus: Definitely went to Pugsley's [chuckle].
Mikey: [Chuckle].
10 seconds of silence.
Mikey: Alright, I'm up.
Gus: [Big chuckle] What the fuck happened YOU last night, dude?
And so on.
I loathed this, not only because it was genuinely frustrating to have your sleep intermittantly disturbed by the same brand of noise, but also simply because when humans get irritated by confined spaces (and Finlay 423 was a confined space), we channel our irritation into neurosis over a single meaningless event. And when this event so much as rears the tippy-top of its annoying-ass head, we go fucking nuts inside.
I've noticed that for me, when I live with other people, my single meaningless event is triggered by another person's behavior (usually Gus'). When I don't cohabitate, my single meaningless event is triggered by things that involve the word flush.
#1: Mice,breifly, because I find this particularly amusing: After Mikey and Gus went home for the rest of the summer at the beginning of this past July, I had the second floor of 2471A Crotona all to myself. And I really liked it for a while (not seeing shirtless Gus in his pajama pants sprawled out on our uncomfortable RHAMCO futon was a big, short-run improvement); but after about 3 weeks, I became borderline insane.
You see we had this mouse problem since the day we moved in. Since then, try as I might with traditional traps, glue traps, varying baits, pellets (you name it, the latino guy at the corner hardware store said, "the best," and I bought it), I could not exterminate those fucking rodents. Now, I won't try to be green or tough or whatever you'd call not thinking mice are repulsive vermin, because they are. Repuslive, vile, loaf-of-bread-nibbling, stovetop-defecating vermin. But in the grand scheme of things, mice really aren't that bad. Just don't leave any food out, Windex the mouse shit all over your counter before you cook, and let it be.
Fast-forward to July 19th, 2010 at 10:45 PM, and let it be is the farthest thing from reality.
I'm in my room, probably making a list, when I hear the all-too-familiar faint scratching noise coming from the kitchen, which signified that a mouse just crawled up or down the backside of my oven. "Those fucking bastards," I said to myself, "freestyle shitting all over the god damn place."
"Not tonight."
Next thing I know I'm on all fours on my kitchen floor (in my underpants) wagging a pair of barbeque tongs back and forth underneath the oven because for some delusional reason I believed I could not only succeed at flushing this creature out of its hiding place, but that once flushed, I could whack-a-mole the motherfucker with the large wooden spoon I was holding in my free hand. Let me tell you from experience: not only is what I just described physiologically impossible, but any mouse's speed and agility outmatches the brute strength of a husky, half-naked guy armed with cooking utensils.
I was driven so mad by the mouse in my house that this sort of behavior became customary for about 3 weeks. I was so obsessed by this creature that I took the time to figure out the 15 minute time frame in which he was most likely to come out (10:17-10:32 PM), and every night I waited in the kitchen with a wooden spoon in each hand, ready to do battle with Mr. Mouse.
He won those battles. But I won the war.
Pellets, my friends, are the name of the game. They took an extra two weeks to kick-in, but once I came back from my Lollapalooza trip in August, Mr. Mouse was no longer in the house.
And a while ago I was gonna say something about something else that incorporates the word flush. Here goes:
#2: I have an en-suite bathroom. It's fantastic. Except for the toilet flushing mechanism:
Dearest NVTBS reader, allow me to introduce to you my current object of untamable neurosis:
I hear this shit in my sleep. Day in, night out, day in, night out, my toilet sounds like it is urinating into itself.
See what's goin' on here is that the flush pad gets hung up in the open position as soon as it's pressed, but after you initiate a flush, there's a period of about 11 seconds where the pad is in a fixed position (ensuring a thorough flush). So naturally (this has to be animal instinct at work), after I take a piss, I don't want to stand near where I just pissed. You don't see dogs step down into their pee pools, do you? No, they think that shit is gross too.
So I walk out of the bathroom, turn the faucet on, and wash my hands. The faucet drowns out the running toilet, so I wipe hands and exit. 20 seconds later, once I've settled into my chair or bed, I realize that my fucking toilet is making that fucking noise again. So I have to unsettle, stand up, walk to where I just peed, and do this:
You see how little pressure was just applied to silence that toilet? I could whisper at the flush pad and the thing would unjam.
Now I'm sure you're saying to yourself, "Marty, you are crazy as a fucking loon. This is the most insignificant, fruitless worry that could possibly have."
Maybe, but consider this: I would gander that I have to walk back into the bathroom to mute my toilet 5 to 7 times a day. That's 35-50 times per week. Up to 200 times per month. Possibly 700 total extraneous bathroom visits over the course of this semester. Assuming I spend an extra 30 seconds on each trip, that's a total of...it does not matter; my toilet annoys me on a very regular basis, and if it weren't the toilet, it would most definitely be something else (like the way my futon-chair gradually stretches out from underneath me when I sit in it for prolonged periods of time airing toilet grievances on my blog...)
Look forward to my next entry, Things I Will Miss About Prague, most of which have to do with carbohydrates.
If reading a list of things I don't like to do has you down, find solace in these two songs (I couldn't find .MP3s so here are links to their respective blog posts).
Ellie Goulding (covering Rihanna) - Only Girl (In the World)
I have a monstrous crush on Ellie Goulding.
5oh! - Home Alone (Christmas Dubstep Remix)
PS.
5) Doing laundry.
6) Breakfast.
What I will not miss about Prague:
1) This god damn snow.
The weather in Prague these last few weeks has killed every ounce of good will I've ever had toward snow. I was cool with flakes for about an hour after I got back from Ireland, but it did not take long before I was crunching around with my head in my chest bitching about how cold it is outside.
The anecdote: two weeks ago, after I landed in Prague, I ran into my buddy Sam at the airport. It was snowing, so Sam, someone who I thought was his sister but turned out to be his girlfriend, and I took a cab to Charles Bridge (you literally cannot win in that situation--they looked kinda alike, so I asked they were brother and sister, and they were not; what if I had asked if she was his girlfriend and she turned out to be his sister? What's more awkward? I have no frame of reference on the latter. Lemme know.) because the two lovebirds wanted to snap a few pictures of the wintery fairy land amassing itself on the most famous bridge in Prague. I tagged along, and it was pretty beautiful.
 |
| At first glance it looks as if Goodnight Moon made an appearance in Prague; much to my chagrin, it was a mere melted snowflake on my lens. |
 |
| Fuckin' magestic right? |
But then I walked home because I had no money, and over the course of my mile and a half trek home, I remembered why I am not a fan of snow.
When many people (I'd go so far as to say most people) hear the word snow, they think of something along the lines of this:
When I hear the word snow, I think of something more along the lines of this:
Lumpy, ass-dirty, brown-grey crap that lingers on the streets for god damn ever and makes even the most basic task an insurmountable hassle.
Over the past two weeks, I have achieved less because snow has achieved the following: 1) getting in my shoes 2) indirectly creating a thin layer of sand and salt on the floor of my room so now I have to do the stop-lift-brush-the-bottom-of-my-foot manuever every time I stand up 3) getting in my shoes 4) turning staircases into sledding hills 5) making me want to stay inside and eat chocolate.
But at least it hasn't started snowing in DC and NYC right? ...Oh.
2) The inability to fully express myself to other human beings.
Having lived in Prague for 14+ weeks, and having taken (and not failed--fingers crossed!) a semi-rigorous Czech language course, I've finally developed an appreciation of the Czech language. I think I can pinpoint my transformation to a day about three weeks ago when I stumbled upon this hole in the wall antique shop--I'm pretty retro--and stopped in for a gander.
There was some cool shit there--mostly old, dirty shit--and at some point I lifted up an old, dirty, tin Pilsner Urquell sign and said to the jolly old guy in the corner, "Kolik stoji?" ("How much?"). He blurted a number back at me and I understood because I have numbers pretty down-pat, though I'm still convinced 9, 10, 19, 90, 900 and all the 20s are phonetically fucking identical. I also understood that I would not give him half of what he was asking, so I set the sign down, and as I expected, the man then gestured and breathed some sentences of Czech that were absolutely meaningless to me (though he was definitely saying, "but for you, special price: [10% less than what I just said]"). I looked back at him like a discombobulated labrador.
 |
| The fuck did you just say to me old timer? |
But I haven't really gotten any better at understanding Czech.
I've noticed lately that I make a very strong effort to use and correctly pronounce Czech when I initiate a conversation (e.g. Kolik stoji? - How much?; Kde je ___ ? - Where is ____ ?; Jak se mate? - How are you? -- complex, important shit here, folks), but literally every single time someone says something back to me in Czech (which is always because of my exceptional pronounciation), I, again, look back at them like a confused labrador puppy and, in a defeated, begging-ass tone, mumble, "Anglicky?" ("English?"), to which some people can respond. Most just shake their heads and look back at me like a confused Czech labrador, though, so I usually end up back at square one.
Bottom line, I'm really lookin' forward to hearing the fat young guy at Pugsley's say "WutcanIgetcha" with half a chicken roll in his mouth.
3) Having the nearest ATM be a tram ride away.
Now, having to take a tram or even walk 10 minutes when its 40-60 degrees and sunny outside really isn't so bad. But having to wait for a tram in the freezing-ass cold on a road covered in grey-brown lumps that runs parallel to a fucking river is bad.
There has been at least one day during these past two weeks when I opted to just not eat or do anything all day because the prospect of going to the ATM seemed so dreadful. I know that's pathetic, but I just don't understand why grocery stores or Czech bodegas (called Potraviny's, if you're curious) don't have ATMs. On some of these really cold days I would confirm upwards of a $7 additional ATM charge just so I don't have to spend more than 30 seconds outside. But you know what they say, one man's minor problem is another man's multi-million dollar Eastern European start-up business. Don't say I didn't warn you.
4) The running noise my toilet makes after I flush.
You know the (totally) insignificant issues humans develop with their habitat that over time begin to eat away at the very core of their existence? For example, when I
Gus: Yo, Mikey, you up?
Mikey: No.
Gus: How the fuck did I get home last night, dude?
I'd come to right around here.
Mikey: [Chuckle] I dunno. [Possibly mentions where he last saw Gus].
Gus: Definitely went to Pugsley's [chuckle].
Mikey: [Chuckle].
10 seconds of silence.
Mikey: Alright, I'm up.
Gus: [Big chuckle] What the fuck happened YOU last night, dude?
And so on.
I loathed this, not only because it was genuinely frustrating to have your sleep intermittantly disturbed by the same brand of noise, but also simply because when humans get irritated by confined spaces (and Finlay 423 was a confined space), we channel our irritation into neurosis over a single meaningless event. And when this event so much as rears the tippy-top of its annoying-ass head, we go fucking nuts inside.
I've noticed that for me, when I live with other people, my single meaningless event is triggered by another person's behavior (usually Gus'). When I don't cohabitate, my single meaningless event is triggered by things that involve the word flush.
#1: Mice,
 |
| Too convenient. |
You see we had this mouse problem since the day we moved in. Since then, try as I might with traditional traps, glue traps, varying baits, pellets (you name it, the latino guy at the corner hardware store said, "the best," and I bought it), I could not exterminate those fucking rodents. Now, I won't try to be green or tough or whatever you'd call not thinking mice are repulsive vermin, because they are. Repuslive, vile, loaf-of-bread-nibbling, stovetop-defecating vermin. But in the grand scheme of things, mice really aren't that bad. Just don't leave any food out, Windex the mouse shit all over your counter before you cook, and let it be.
Fast-forward to July 19th, 2010 at 10:45 PM, and let it be is the farthest thing from reality.
I'm in my room, probably making a list, when I hear the all-too-familiar faint scratching noise coming from the kitchen, which signified that a mouse just crawled up or down the backside of my oven. "Those fucking bastards," I said to myself, "freestyle shitting all over the god damn place."
"Not tonight."
Next thing I know I'm on all fours on my kitchen floor (in my underpants) wagging a pair of barbeque tongs back and forth underneath the oven because for some delusional reason I believed I could not only succeed at flushing this creature out of its hiding place, but that once flushed, I could whack-a-mole the motherfucker with the large wooden spoon I was holding in my free hand. Let me tell you from experience: not only is what I just described physiologically impossible, but any mouse's speed and agility outmatches the brute strength of a husky, half-naked guy armed with cooking utensils.
I was driven so mad by the mouse in my house that this sort of behavior became customary for about 3 weeks. I was so obsessed by this creature that I took the time to figure out the 15 minute time frame in which he was most likely to come out (10:17-10:32 PM), and every night I waited in the kitchen with a wooden spoon in each hand, ready to do battle with Mr. Mouse.
He won those battles. But I won the war.
Pellets, my friends, are the name of the game. They took an extra two weeks to kick-in, but once I came back from my Lollapalooza trip in August, Mr. Mouse was no longer in the house.
And a while ago I was gonna say something about something else that incorporates the word flush. Here goes:
#2: I have an en-suite bathroom. It's fantastic. Except for the toilet flushing mechanism:
I hear this shit in my sleep. Day in, night out, day in, night out, my toilet sounds like it is urinating into itself.
See what's goin' on here is that the flush pad gets hung up in the open position as soon as it's pressed, but after you initiate a flush, there's a period of about 11 seconds where the pad is in a fixed position (ensuring a thorough flush). So naturally (this has to be animal instinct at work), after I take a piss, I don't want to stand near where I just pissed. You don't see dogs step down into their pee pools, do you? No, they think that shit is gross too.
So I walk out of the bathroom, turn the faucet on, and wash my hands. The faucet drowns out the running toilet, so I wipe hands and exit. 20 seconds later, once I've settled into my chair or bed, I realize that my fucking toilet is making that fucking noise again. So I have to unsettle, stand up, walk to where I just peed, and do this:
You see how little pressure was just applied to silence that toilet? I could whisper at the flush pad and the thing would unjam.
Now I'm sure you're saying to yourself, "Marty, you are crazy as a fucking loon. This is the most insignificant, fruitless worry that could possibly have."
Maybe, but consider this: I would gander that I have to walk back into the bathroom to mute my toilet 5 to 7 times a day. That's 35-50 times per week. Up to 200 times per month. Possibly 700 total extraneous bathroom visits over the course of this semester. Assuming I spend an extra 30 seconds on each trip, that's a total of...it does not matter; my toilet annoys me on a very regular basis, and if it weren't the toilet, it would most definitely be something else (like the way my futon-chair gradually stretches out from underneath me when I sit in it for prolonged periods of time airing toilet grievances on my blog...)
Look forward to my next entry, Things I Will Miss About Prague, most of which have to do with carbohydrates.
If reading a list of things I don't like to do has you down, find solace in these two songs (I couldn't find .MP3s so here are links to their respective blog posts).
Ellie Goulding (covering Rihanna) - Only Girl (In the World)
I have a monstrous crush on Ellie Goulding.
5oh! - Home Alone (Christmas Dubstep Remix)
On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me: whomp-whomp-whomp-whomp-whomp-whomp-whomp.
PS.
5) Doing laundry.
6) Breakfast.
Dear Mom, Dad, and, actually, everyone else (but especially Mom and Dad):
I think this is as appropriate a time as ever to say that despite the fact that probably 75-90% definitely 100% of the content on this blog involves me complaining or being an asshole, I actually have had a good time in Prague and everywhere else I left tracks. Especially as the semester winds down, I could not feel more lucky and blessed, and I could not be more inexplicably grateful to my parents for making this possible for me.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Buster the Fordham Ram Makes his Rose Hill Debut!
http://www.fordham.edu/Campus_Resources/eNewsroom/topstories_2009.asp
How do you follow up a $25 million gift--the largest in school history--to transform the undergraduate business school at Fordham? You rent a ram for a couple hours.
I would be pretty pumped if Mario Gabelli GSB '65 actually purchased a Ram and supplied Fordham with a mascot besides the short-fused asshole in the ram suit that casually assaults people (By the way, the visual of someone in that costume chasing a drunk kid out of McGinley Center with Jose the creepy sandwich guy and a mob of agitated, underpaid Sodexo employees in hot pursuit has had me LOLing in my room by myself for 4 solid minutes).
I mean, what's the upkeep on a ram? 10 large a year max? Mario's underwear drawer is probably worth more than 10k. But, no, his cold, multi-million-dollar heart didn't wanna spring for a full-time Ram; he just hired poor old Buster to wear a rug (excuse me, a "mantle") and hoof around Rose Hill in the rain for a few hours.
By the way, of all the names you could have given this handsome beast, you chose Buster? Really? You're presented with the rare opportuniy to name something with horns, and you come up with the most generic pet name in the history of pet naming? It's not even ironic like naming a captive bear "Honey." It's just wildly overused. I can think of about 300 names for a ram that are cooler than Buster: Ramblin' Ram; Rambler; Rampage; Trampler; Cam the Ram; Green Eggs and Ram; Rambo; Ram I Am. That took two minutes. I'm sure Buster would have felt a whole lot cooler for the past nine years if you put just the slightest effort into bestowing him with a unique title...
Anyway, for what it's worth, Fordham, I want my piece heard: if you and Greenbacks Gabelli are thinking about bringing a ram to Rose Hill permanently, the absolute last kind of creature we need is a docile one that waits in a van until its dry enough outside for commuters to pet him. I don't want Buster the ram. I want the Fordham Ram to be so god damn frightening that people stop considering rams to be a) mythological creatures, b) goats, or c) fat cartoons.
I want a dangerous ram. I want a hell-raising, names-taking, person-charging, vicious ass ram with a harem of foxy sheep bitches on call 24/7/365; I want this ram to break out of his cage every once in a while and maul something; I want our ram to go to other schools, kidnap students and hold them for ransom; I want this ram to patrol off-campus every night and fuck with locals; I want this ram to have a theme song. And I want this ram's name to be Shaft.
On an entirely unrelated note, Isaac Hayes (God rest his soulful ass) was batshit fucking crazy.
But, alas, we didn't get Shaft the Ram or even a ram with a sweet human name like Joaquin. We got Buster. For the afternoon.
But I guess it was still pretty cool because they dished out b-school t-shirts and magnets. And Michelle Ioannou (how in the world do you pronounce that?), an FCRH sophomore, seemed to think a permanent Buster could shore up some of the dormant Ram spirit at Rose Hill: “I think he should be here all the time...Having an actual ram would help school spirit, especially at events like Homecoming and Spring Fling.”
I'm with you, Michelle; there is nothing more I would love to see after a day of boozing in the Bronx sunshine than a four-legged furry creature with horns, but you and I both know that's a pipe dream. How about we start with getting the name of Spring Weekend right, and then we'll see where school spirit stands.
Go Rams.
How do you follow up a $25 million gift--the largest in school history--to transform the undergraduate business school at Fordham? You rent a ram for a couple hours.
I would be pretty pumped if Mario Gabelli GSB '65 actually purchased a Ram and supplied Fordham with a mascot besides the short-fused asshole in the ram suit that casually assaults people (By the way, the visual of someone in that costume chasing a drunk kid out of McGinley Center with Jose the creepy sandwich guy and a mob of agitated, underpaid Sodexo employees in hot pursuit has had me LOLing in my room by myself for 4 solid minutes).
I mean, what's the upkeep on a ram? 10 large a year max? Mario's underwear drawer is probably worth more than 10k. But, no, his cold, multi-million-dollar heart didn't wanna spring for a full-time Ram; he just hired poor old Buster to wear a rug (excuse me, a "mantle") and hoof around Rose Hill in the rain for a few hours.
By the way, of all the names you could have given this handsome beast, you chose Buster? Really? You're presented with the rare opportuniy to name something with horns, and you come up with the most generic pet name in the history of pet naming? It's not even ironic like naming a captive bear "Honey." It's just wildly overused. I can think of about 300 names for a ram that are cooler than Buster: Ramblin' Ram; Rambler; Rampage; Trampler; Cam the Ram; Green Eggs and Ram; Rambo; Ram I Am. That took two minutes. I'm sure Buster would have felt a whole lot cooler for the past nine years if you put just the slightest effort into bestowing him with a unique title...
Anyway, for what it's worth, Fordham, I want my piece heard: if you and Greenbacks Gabelli are thinking about bringing a ram to Rose Hill permanently, the absolute last kind of creature we need is a docile one that waits in a van until its dry enough outside for commuters to pet him. I don't want Buster the ram. I want the Fordham Ram to be so god damn frightening that people stop considering rams to be a) mythological creatures, b) goats, or c) fat cartoons.
 |
| My man looks like he's about two mouthfuls of grain away from calling it quits on the hurdle and straight chillin' at Fordham (which, interestingly enough, is definitely a Fordham theme). |
On an entirely unrelated note, Isaac Hayes (God rest his soulful ass) was batshit fucking crazy.
But, alas, we didn't get Shaft the Ram or even a ram with a sweet human name like Joaquin. We got Buster. For the afternoon.
But I guess it was still pretty cool because they dished out b-school t-shirts and magnets. And Michelle Ioannou (how in the world do you pronounce that?), an FCRH sophomore, seemed to think a permanent Buster could shore up some of the dormant Ram spirit at Rose Hill: “I think he should be here all the time...Having an actual ram would help school spirit, especially at events like Homecoming and Spring Fling.”
I'm with you, Michelle; there is nothing more I would love to see after a day of boozing in the Bronx sunshine than a four-legged furry creature with horns, but you and I both know that's a pipe dream. How about we start with getting the name of Spring Weekend right, and then we'll see where school spirit stands.
Go Rams.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Just When I Don't Need Yet Another Distraction from the Overwhelming Amount of Work I Have to Do Before I Leave Prague...
...I figured out how to upload music.
Here are the bestten eleven songs from my recently added playlist (in no particular order):
Still Night - Pretty Lights
Still Night - Pretty Lights by NVTBSlow
Pretty Lights released his third EP of 2010 on October 22, just time in for your boy's 21st birthday. I think PL's music has gotten progressively more mellow (or "low-tempo") starting about a year ago, and I haven't decided whether I prefer the recent stuff over the bangers on Filling Up The City Skies. Regardless, it's been entirely too long since I've heard any of his music in the live setting, and the more I think about that the more I want to fly to Chicago for his New Year's Eve show. Unfortunately, though, methinks live PL will have to wait until 2011. In other PL news, he got arrested for pot possession crossing over the Arizona border earlier this week. I sleep a little better at night knowing that American taxpayer dollars are being put to good use: trying to keep Arizona State kids from having more fun than everyone else.
All Pretty Lights music can be downloaded for free at http://www.prettylightsmusic.com/
Black Bug - Wick-It the Instigator
Black Bug - Wick-It The Instigator by NVTBSlow
99 Problems (The Prodigy Remix) - Jay-Z
Jay-Z - 99 Problems (The Prodigy Remix) by NVTBSlow
This vocal should be 1000 feet in the ground at this point, but this Prodigy beat makes me feel like I'm about to hit the CYO basketball court all over again.
Mean Planes & Taylor Gangs - Bretton Duvall
Mean Planes & Taylor Gangs - Brenton Duvall by NVTBSlow
Apparently Brenton Duvall is from Potomac, MD. Good mash-ups, that's what Maryland does.
Sleepyhead (Passion Pit Cover) - Ellie Goulding & Starsmith
Sleepyhead (Ellie Goulding & Starsmith Cover) by NVTBSlow
Humdrum Town - Theophilus London
Humdrum Town - Theophilius London by NVTBSlow
Without Lies (Breakbot Remix) - Aeroplane
Without Lies (Breakbot Remix) - Aeroplane by NVTBSlow
Fuck the Money - B.o.B. feat. Wiz Khalifa (Prod. by Kanye West)
Fuck The Money - B.o.B. feat. Wiz Khalifa by NVTBSlow
An Enormous Anger Grows in Brooklyn - The Record Summer
An Enormous Anger Grows in Brooklyn - The Record Summer by NVTBSlow
California Soul (Diplo Mad-Decent Remix)
California Soul (Diplo Mad-Decent-Remix) by NVTBSlow
Skrillex - Slats Slats Slats
Skrillex - Slats Slats Slats by NVTBSlow
Skrillex is nasty. Download as much of his music as you can find.
Here are the best
Still Night - Pretty Lights
Still Night - Pretty Lights by NVTBSlow
Pretty Lights released his third EP of 2010 on October 22, just time in for your boy's 21st birthday. I think PL's music has gotten progressively more mellow (or "low-tempo") starting about a year ago, and I haven't decided whether I prefer the recent stuff over the bangers on Filling Up The City Skies. Regardless, it's been entirely too long since I've heard any of his music in the live setting, and the more I think about that the more I want to fly to Chicago for his New Year's Eve show. Unfortunately, though, methinks live PL will have to wait until 2011. In other PL news, he got arrested for pot possession crossing over the Arizona border earlier this week. I sleep a little better at night knowing that American taxpayer dollars are being put to good use: trying to keep Arizona State kids from having more fun than everyone else.
All Pretty Lights music can be downloaded for free at http://www.prettylightsmusic.com/
Black Bug - Wick-It the Instigator
Black Bug - Wick-It The Instigator by NVTBSlow
99 Problems (The Prodigy Remix) - Jay-Z
Jay-Z - 99 Problems (The Prodigy Remix) by NVTBSlow
This vocal should be 1000 feet in the ground at this point, but this Prodigy beat makes me feel like I'm about to hit the CYO basketball court all over again.
Mean Planes & Taylor Gangs - Bretton Duvall
Mean Planes & Taylor Gangs - Brenton Duvall by NVTBSlow
Apparently Brenton Duvall is from Potomac, MD. Good mash-ups, that's what Maryland does.
Sleepyhead (Passion Pit Cover) - Ellie Goulding & Starsmith
Sleepyhead (Ellie Goulding & Starsmith Cover) by NVTBSlow
Humdrum Town - Theophilus London
Humdrum Town - Theophilius London by NVTBSlow
Without Lies (Breakbot Remix) - Aeroplane
Without Lies (Breakbot Remix) - Aeroplane by NVTBSlow
Fuck the Money - B.o.B. feat. Wiz Khalifa (Prod. by Kanye West)
Fuck The Money - B.o.B. feat. Wiz Khalifa by NVTBSlow
An Enormous Anger Grows in Brooklyn - The Record Summer
An Enormous Anger Grows in Brooklyn - The Record Summer by NVTBSlow
California Soul (Diplo Mad-Decent Remix)
California Soul (Diplo Mad-Decent-Remix) by NVTBSlow
Skrillex - Slats Slats Slats
Skrillex - Slats Slats Slats by NVTBSlow
Skrillex is nasty. Download as much of his music as you can find.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Sensation Dude
Or, Sensation Lose Your Friends and Walk Around an Arena that Lacks Distinguishing Features Filled with People Dressed Entirely in White
I'll say it, Sensation White was not the time I expected. Though I should have expected a giant white sausage fest (for reasons not limited to the fact that I myself traveled there exclusively with four other dudes), the YouTube promo-videos I watched ad nauseum beforehand gave me the fabricated impression that Sensation White is a slice of electro-heaven teeming with buxom European bitches in undersized tank tops and angel outfits getting in cat fights over sexual access to American guys who blog.
This was not the case.
Instead, Copenhagen's Parken Arena was a whole pie of innumerable groups of dudes, possibly huddled around a hot girl or two, but more likely just huddled around themselves, flexing and peering around for girls that weren't accounted for.
Gentlemen of Europe, YouTube has bamboozled us once again.
Alright it wasn't that bad. The concept of tens of thousands of youths clad in white converging on one city for one night of blue-chip house music is a pretty cool idea, and something I'm proud to have said I did. But if you consider the logistics, it's pretty impossible to execute this concept without the problems that I (and just about everyone else I knew there) encountered.
Namely, a) an abundance of cock, and b) the impossibility of finding anyone you aren't holding hands with.
a) In hindsight, this is pretty fucking obvious. Heading into last weekend I knew of (or tangentially knew of) at least 20 guys that were mad amped for the Sensation White, and exactly 6 girls of the like. There has to be some sort of sociological explanation for this, but I still have my doubts about science so I'm gonna attribute the discrepancy to the fact that everywhere I've been in Europe, notably Oktoberfest and Prague, I feel as if I'm always near a 8+ person herd of greasy, tan, drunk European men, but NEVER do I feel proximate to European women in groups of more than three anywhere. There's an important lesson to be learned here: when in doubt, blame European guys.
But seriously, the guy to girl ratio at Parken Arena was probably 6 to 1, and that's generous.
Granted, it's not as if I went into the night thinking, "tonight, in a massive arena seething with bass, will be the night I find my blonde, smokeshow, Scandinavian soul mate." That's dead-end logic every day of the week for me. Not only because I have the WORST press-your-crotch-up-against-the-hind-of-a-random-girl-in-the-club game, but also because I have without any doubt the WORRRST press-your-crotch-up-against-the-hind-of-a-random-girl-in-the-club game. I am certain that my lifetime batting average against not-fat-girls in situations when I cannot introduce myself first is .000. And I've come to accept that; I'm just not that guy. So instead of trying to fail at being someone I'm not, I tried to find people I knew that were there.
b) Which I also failed at.
For no identifiable reason, I was by myself within 5 minutes of walking into Sensation White with three other people. Maybe it's because I insisted on waiting in line for drinks and a hot dog, maybe it's not. I just don't know.
I do know that I love the way Copenhagen does hot dogs (Wikipedia just dropped a knowledge bomb on my ass; apparently I was not eating the "traditional" Danish hot dog, but rather the French hot dog, which I'll just pretend doesn't come from France): they chop off about 20% of a baguette, hollow it out, squirt a condiment down the hollow (you're limited to one, which is unfortunate but very acceptable considering the taste advantages of a toasty baguette over your run-of-the-mill hot dog bun), and then chase the sauce with a foot-long weiner, which protrudes from the baguette just slightly. And this is getting weird.
The snack bar was also serving Captain & Cola in a can.
Not a chance there was more than 4% alcohol in each one, but they tasted like candy and, in the same vein as the midget principle from my toothpastes post, I'm a sucker for products that are diminutive and/or previously unheard of. These were both, and each sold for the equivalent of 9 US dollars. I really am a sucker.
When I wasn't focused on consuming, I was focused on locating companions, which I tried to do by making lap after lap after lap around that gigantic fucking arena using the advertisements under the box-seat level as landmarks (there was literally no way of accurately describing to someone exactly where you were in that arena because each of the four sides were 97% identical).
During one of my latter laps, my Blackberry up and decided it should dress the part as well.
I wanna send a very special Not Very Tall But Slow shout out to the asshole that danced all over my phone as soon as it fell out of my pocket. Really, thank you for destroying my single effective means of communication while I'm abroad, and thank you for giving me the opportunity to falsify an insurance claim when I finally get back to America in a month (immediately after I penned this dependent clause, I realized I should probably take care of the insurance claim ASAP, which I've now done; but I can still be a badass who blogs about his own insurance fraud right?).
So, I found no one I looked for (namely, Margaret Hollingsworth and Dave Hamilton; congratulations, you guys are famous), which certainly detracted from the experience, but I managed to enjoy myself nonetheless.
My videos and pictures:
After walking out of the restaurant less-satisfied than I was when I walked in, my friends and I bumbled around the city center a little bit. But it was cold and rainy, so we opted to see a movie instead of wet Copenhagen.
It was just our luck that Tony Scott's newest gem Unstoppable was the only movie we could watch in its entirely without missing our flight. I don't think I need to say it, but Unstoppable has Oscar dark-horse written all over it.
.......psych! I'm not here to be the movie snob that lambasts big-budget, high-intensity films about a [insert looming disaster that is ultimately thwarted by an unlikely hero]. These movies will be made, and these movies will make money, for generations to come--at least until humans evolve into machines that receive emotions in binary code via an intravenous USB port. But I will say this:
1) Denzel, isn't there some way you and your perfectly symmetrical body can avoid aging, at least cinematically? You're in your fifties, I get it. But do you have to start playing the flabby, sage old-timer just yet? Your double-chin in Unstoppable was very clearly made up, and it looked like you were wearing at least 6 thick coats the entire time. All I'm saying is you don't have to be fat to be old. Point in case:
2) I am so tired of seeing Ethlan Suplee play the fat doofus. He's not even fat anymore, yet he's still always the fat fucking doofus.
Boy Meets World? Fat, mean doofus. American History X? Fat, van-driving, neo-Nazi doofus. Remember the Titans? Really fat, kind-hearted doofus. Blow? His character's name was fucking Tuna, and he was so fat and doofy that his most memorable scene is him lying sideways on the ground next to a bong, laughing at Dooley getting high in his stupid hat (or, arguably, his most memorable scene is the cannonball at the end of the Mexico house montage, which is equally indicative of fat doofusness).
If you read Suplee's IMDB credits, you'll see that over half his characters only have one name, and usually the names are in the same vein as "Tuna" or "Thumper" (The Butterfly Effect). In Unstoppable, Suplee portrays "Dewey," the fat, slow doofus who exits his moving train in order to do some train thing and then trips on route to board his moving train, creating the aforementioned looming disaster that Denzel and Chris Pine ultimately thwart. (Did I ruin it for you? So sorry.)
Anyway, Hollywood, please find a new fat doofus (and please stop becoming inspirations for subpar brunch buffet restaurants).
After the movie, I took this video.
I do love a good accordionist.
Then I flew back to Prague. Then I wrote that last post, then I wrote most of this post, then I went to Ireland, and now I'm back from Ireland finishing a two-and-a-half-week old post. Slow and steady wins the race.
I'll say it, Sensation White was not the time I expected. Though I should have expected a giant white sausage fest (for reasons not limited to the fact that I myself traveled there exclusively with four other dudes), the YouTube promo-videos I watched ad nauseum beforehand gave me the fabricated impression that Sensation White is a slice of electro-heaven teeming with buxom European bitches in undersized tank tops and angel outfits getting in cat fights over sexual access to American guys who blog.
This was not the case.
Instead, Copenhagen's Parken Arena was a whole pie of innumerable groups of dudes, possibly huddled around a hot girl or two, but more likely just huddled around themselves, flexing and peering around for girls that weren't accounted for.
Gentlemen of Europe, YouTube has bamboozled us once again.
Alright it wasn't that bad. The concept of tens of thousands of youths clad in white converging on one city for one night of blue-chip house music is a pretty cool idea, and something I'm proud to have said I did. But if you consider the logistics, it's pretty impossible to execute this concept without the problems that I (and just about everyone else I knew there) encountered.
Namely, a) an abundance of cock, and b) the impossibility of finding anyone you aren't holding hands with.
a) In hindsight, this is pretty fucking obvious. Heading into last weekend I knew of (or tangentially knew of) at least 20 guys that were mad amped for the Sensation White, and exactly 6 girls of the like. There has to be some sort of sociological explanation for this, but I still have my doubts about science so I'm gonna attribute the discrepancy to the fact that everywhere I've been in Europe, notably Oktoberfest and Prague, I feel as if I'm always near a 8+ person herd of greasy, tan, drunk European men, but NEVER do I feel proximate to European women in groups of more than three anywhere. There's an important lesson to be learned here: when in doubt, blame European guys.
But seriously, the guy to girl ratio at Parken Arena was probably 6 to 1, and that's generous.
Granted, it's not as if I went into the night thinking, "tonight, in a massive arena seething with bass, will be the night I find my blonde, smokeshow, Scandinavian soul mate." That's dead-end logic every day of the week for me. Not only because I have the WORST press-your-crotch-up-against-the-hind-of-a-random-girl-in-the-club game, but also because I have without any doubt the WORRRST press-your-crotch-up-against-the-hind-of-a-random-girl-in-the-club game. I am certain that my lifetime batting average against not-fat-girls in situations when I cannot introduce myself first is .000. And I've come to accept that; I'm just not that guy. So instead of trying to fail at being someone I'm not, I tried to find people I knew that were there.
b) Which I also failed at.
For no identifiable reason, I was by myself within 5 minutes of walking into Sensation White with three other people. Maybe it's because I insisted on waiting in line for drinks and a hot dog, maybe it's not. I just don't know.
I do know that I love the way Copenhagen does hot dogs (Wikipedia just dropped a knowledge bomb on my ass; apparently I was not eating the "traditional" Danish hot dog, but rather the French hot dog, which I'll just pretend doesn't come from France): they chop off about 20% of a baguette, hollow it out, squirt a condiment down the hollow (you're limited to one, which is unfortunate but very acceptable considering the taste advantages of a toasty baguette over your run-of-the-mill hot dog bun), and then chase the sauce with a foot-long weiner, which protrudes from the baguette just slightly. And this is getting weird.
The snack bar was also serving Captain & Cola in a can.
 |
| Captain & Cola in a can. |
Not a chance there was more than 4% alcohol in each one, but they tasted like candy and, in the same vein as the midget principle from my toothpastes post, I'm a sucker for products that are diminutive and/or previously unheard of. These were both, and each sold for the equivalent of 9 US dollars. I really am a sucker.
When I wasn't focused on consuming, I was focused on locating companions, which I tried to do by making lap after lap after lap around that gigantic fucking arena using the advertisements under the box-seat level as landmarks (there was literally no way of accurately describing to someone exactly where you were in that arena because each of the four sides were 97% identical).
During one of my latter laps, my Blackberry up and decided it should dress the part as well.
I wanna send a very special Not Very Tall But Slow shout out to the asshole that danced all over my phone as soon as it fell out of my pocket. Really, thank you for destroying my single effective means of communication while I'm abroad, and thank you for giving me the opportunity to falsify an insurance claim when I finally get back to America in a month (immediately after I penned this dependent clause, I realized I should probably take care of the insurance claim ASAP, which I've now done; but I can still be a badass who blogs about his own insurance fraud right?).
So, I found no one I looked for (namely, Margaret Hollingsworth and Dave Hamilton; congratulations, you guys are famous), which certainly detracted from the experience, but I managed to enjoy myself nonetheless.
My videos and pictures:
Fedde Le Grand
Note: The video above was taken on the highest level of the very Mayan looking center stage, into which was built a most impressive light show. Needless to say, the four sided, interactive stage was a siren call for dudes of all creeds and colors (mostly white guys, though).
Fedde Le Grand Mixing Something Mayan Sounding
Fedde Le Grand Mixing Dirty South's Phazing
0:07-08 - Look at all those fuckin' dudes!
And to think that I was having a hard time finding people...
Joris Voorn & 2000 and One Mixing Duck Sauce's Barbra Streisand
Best video I've seen since I think Rad Anthem.
Then on Sunday, I ate at a ridiculously overpriced breakfast at a place named "Hollywood Cafe" or something of the like, which meant it was just a shit-ass restaurant disguised by tons of cheaply framed print-outs of famous people. If any readers find themselves in Copenhagen, starved on an early Sunday afternoon, don't go to The Hollywood Cafe, but if you have no other option, don't order the nachos.
After walking out of the restaurant less-satisfied than I was when I walked in, my friends and I bumbled around the city center a little bit. But it was cold and rainy, so we opted to see a movie instead of wet Copenhagen.
It was just our luck that Tony Scott's newest gem Unstoppable was the only movie we could watch in its entirely without missing our flight. I don't think I need to say it, but Unstoppable has Oscar dark-horse written all over it.
.......psych! I'm not here to be the movie snob that lambasts big-budget, high-intensity films about a [insert looming disaster that is ultimately thwarted by an unlikely hero]. These movies will be made, and these movies will make money, for generations to come--at least until humans evolve into machines that receive emotions in binary code via an intravenous USB port. But I will say this:
1) Denzel, isn't there some way you and your perfectly symmetrical body can avoid aging, at least cinematically? You're in your fifties, I get it. But do you have to start playing the flabby, sage old-timer just yet? Your double-chin in Unstoppable was very clearly made up, and it looked like you were wearing at least 6 thick coats the entire time. All I'm saying is you don't have to be fat to be old. Point in case:
 |
| Stephen Lang is two years older than Denzel Washington |
Boy Meets World? Fat, mean doofus. American History X? Fat, van-driving, neo-Nazi doofus. Remember the Titans? Really fat, kind-hearted doofus. Blow? His character's name was fucking Tuna, and he was so fat and doofy that his most memorable scene is him lying sideways on the ground next to a bong, laughing at Dooley getting high in his stupid hat (or, arguably, his most memorable scene is the cannonball at the end of the Mexico house montage, which is equally indicative of fat doofusness).
If you read Suplee's IMDB credits, you'll see that over half his characters only have one name, and usually the names are in the same vein as "Tuna" or "Thumper" (The Butterfly Effect). In Unstoppable, Suplee portrays "Dewey," the fat, slow doofus who exits his moving train in order to do some train thing and then trips on route to board his moving train, creating the aforementioned looming disaster that Denzel and Chris Pine ultimately thwart. (Did I ruin it for you? So sorry.)
 |
| Train go fast. Me go slow. |
After the movie, I took this video.
I do love a good accordionist.
Then I flew back to Prague. Then I wrote that last post, then I wrote most of this post, then I went to Ireland, and now I'm back from Ireland finishing a two-and-a-half-week old post. Slow and steady wins the race.
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