My Life in a Nutshell

(due to technical difficulties, this blog was delayed in being posted. It is therefore already a week out of date. Story of my life.)

A few moments ago I briefly closed my eyes. When I opened them just now, I found that somehow a month had passed. The past weeks have been packed, with traveling, with family, and even with a little bit of class thrown it to fill up the free time. I have crossed the length of Spain from Granada in the south to San Sebastian in the north, toured the small towns, back roads and ruined castles of Portugal, and briefly popped over to Africa for a weekend in Morocco. I am currently coming back from a trip to the Scottish Highlands to take my finals over the next few days and then return to the U.S. in exactly a week. Time flies when…well, when doesn’t time fly?
For a brief recap:
One month ago, I went with my program to Granada, mixing place of many cultures, vestige of the last Moorish kingdom to fall to the Spanish Reconquista, and home of the incredible Alhambra fortress/palace. The trip was, of course, too short. But the winding streets steeped in centuries of history and conflicting cultures were nothing short of magical. At the end of my trip, I returned to Salamanca to find that my parents had not actually made it across the Atlantic yet (though there was a Magda Love staying at the same hotel at the time who kept this from being a straight forward discovery).
Luckily, two days later my wayward parents arrived safely after a pitstop in Dallas to renew a passport. The next weekend, the three of us hopped in a rental car and drove up to San Sebastian in the northern Pais Vasco (Basque country). People say that “Spain is different,” which the more I travel the more I realize is very true for a number of not easily pinpointable reasons. But in Spain people say that “Pais Vasco es diferente,” which is also true. Somehow San Sebastian manages to mix the architecture and feeling of a Mediterranean resort town with that of a village from the Alps. After enjoying some great seafood, and even a night of tapas (small snacks that you acquire while drifting from bar to bar) we returned to Salamanca, at which point Mom and Dad embarqued on a tour of central Spain and I went to class.
The next weekend, Bill joined us for a tour of the less seen sights of Portugal. Aside from being a wonderful family trip accomplished in true Love-Anderegg family style (i.e. lots of good food, good company and going to bed early) this was also a nice break from the crowded bustle of my previous travels that had necessarily been restricted to those highly populated areas accessible by public transport. We visited something on the order of 5 castles (in various states of disrepair), gave our respects to the Atlantic Ocean, and as an early Christmas present stayed in an incredible palace in the middle of a national forest.
Upon returning to Salamanca, Mom, Dad and Bill undertook another small excursions, and I went to class. Me going to class may appear to be somewhat of a theme, but a assure you it is not. Aided by a few Spanish holidays, I have completed all of one full five day week in Spain. It is, I believe, a lifestyle I could get used to.

Once my family returned from their outing, we celebrated a very Spanish Thanksgiving (i.e. eaten at 2:30 p.m. and consisting of a variety of meats, with some meat on the side and some fried potatoes to top things off), before heading our separate ways, my parents and Bill back to the U.S. and me to Morocco. At this point, I realized that I was going to miss approximately half the classes that remained before finals. Accompanied once again my trusty travel companion Rosalie, I ventured into the exotic, labyrinthine, and generally overwhelming streets of Marrakech, Morocco. Unfortunately, the one full day that we were in the city, it happened to be an Islamic sheep sacrificing holiday. This meant that everything, absolutely ev erything was closed and the streets were deserted. We perhaps should have suspected something when we encountered numerous sheep the evening before, tied on top of cars, trussed up on the sidewalk, on the back of motorcycles. But we were caught quite by surprise the next morning when the only people to be seen where the kids burning sheep heads over fires in the streets. Despite this minor setback, we greatly enjoyed checking Africa off our list of continents visited, and returned to Spain content.
After another brief interim of going to class (made more brief when I caught some nasty stomach bug and was out of commission for a day), I headed off for my final trip. My housemate Chris and I did what any sane person would do on a holiday in December, and headed to northern Scotland. As one might expect, Scotland was fairly cold, very wet, and very dark. However, the weather, infrequent off season busses, and six hours of daylight were more than compensated for by the highland scenery and the Scottish natives. Traipsing our way from small town to small town, Chris and I had the entire highlands to ourselves. At every turn we found mystical glens, windswept mountains, and ridiculously nice Scottish people. From the couple we met on the plane ride over who drew us a detailed map of how to get from the Glasgow train station to the bus station and gave us their phone number in case we should run into any trouble on the trip, to the man we met on a ferry who told us all about diving on ship wrecks in the area, the Scottish people were welcoming almost to a fault. Our final night in Inverness, we found ourselves in a pub talking to two toothless old men (or trying to talk, impeded as we were by their thick accent and lack of teeth) who proceeded to buy us pints of beer. When another man who we could actually understand joined the conversation, it turned out he was of the same Scottish clan as Chris (who is ¼ Urquehart). We did not find the Loch Ness Monster, nor see very many kilt wearing bagpipe players, but after a few hours of talking to Chris’ distant relative, we returned to our hostel feeling like we had gotten the real Scottish experience.

The three S's

(that would be refering to Salamanca, Segovia, and Sevilla)


Me, caught pursuing one of my favorite activities: eating chocolate con churros. The hot chocolate in Spain is so thick you can litterally almost stand a spoon up in it. With a wonderfully greasy churro on the side, one cup of chocolate is basically a meal. Particularly when one is with three or four other people who can't finish their chocolate and must finish another few half cups of chocolate. (I hurt considerably after this picture. But it was worth it).


Salamanca's cathedral at sunset.



Segovia's fairy tale castle at night.


A giant stage in front of the cathedral in the Plaza Mayor of Segovia. These Spaniards know how to throw a party. Castles, concerts, cathedrals, nice people and good food, what more could you want?


One very small portion of the very large gardens of the Alcazar (Royal Palace) of Sevilla.


The float of the Virgin in the Dia de Todos los Santos procession in Sevilla. This one was made mostly out of carved wood, though I hear the floats for Semana Santa (Holy Week)are plated in gold and silver.


So, i realize I was previously uploading pictures from my travels chronologically, and that i'm not up to Spain yet, but here is a quick snapshot (or series of snapshots) from my last few weeks. I'll get back to the rest of my trip soon, i promise.

Spain: Sevilla to Salamanca

After a little more than a month in Spain, I am beginning to feel at home, at least as much as I can while still dressing like an American and speaking broken Spanish. Spaniards, it seems to me, are a generally welcoming, generous and spirited lot (not to mention sharp dressing). They are quick to offer advice, give directions, share their culture, and bombard you with far more rapidly spoken Spanish than you can easily comprehend. A quick anecdote to illustrate my point. My roommate Chris and a Japanese friend named Yoshinori and I ventured down to Sevilla this past weekend since we had Monday off of school for All Saints’ Day. Sunday night, as we stood in the oldest bar in Sevilla (which dates back to the 1600s) eating tapas and admiring the collection of centuries old bottles behind the bar, we randomly met an old Sevillan named Jesus, who promptly offered to show us some sort of cultural spectacle. Five minutes later, we were walking directly in front of a float of the Virgin Mary alongside some incense wielding monks as a giant crowd of people made its way slowly between the small church of Saint Something and the Convent of Saint Somethingelse. Along the way, we learned about the festival, how the men carried the float, how the floats for the fiestas during La Semana Santa are at least three times as big as the one we were running in front of (which was carried by upwards of 15 strong men), and that the big bouncers aroudn the float will kindly relocate you if the crowd is too packed and you are in danger of getting run over (this I learned not from Jesus but from the bouncers).
Or take, for example, the man who sat across from me on our long bus ride back from Sevilla. Not only did he rapidly pick up cribbage as I explained the game to Chris and Yoshinori, but he happily explained to me fragments of numerous Spanish card games (or maybe entire games, but I only caught fragments).

Another thing that I appreciate about Spain is that I can at least attempt to converse in the native language. I often forget how nice this is when I'm floundering to say anything beyond the most superficial pleasantries, or when I realize for the millionth time just how far from truly understanding Spanish I am. At those times speaking Spanish seems like an utterly impossilbe task, and I feel like I am forever trapped in my own little shell of Americanness. But after traveling for a month in countries where I spoke at most five phrases of the native language, I can appreciate that here I am at least trying to bridge the gap between me and the world. In Spain I am not entirely dependant on the worldlyness of the rest of the world to cater to my aloof monoculturedness.

The great thing about patron saints is

Patron saint's day (i.e. a really big party). This last weekend I went to the nearby town of Segovia with my roommate Chris and another girl in our program named Caileen. It just so happened that Saturday was Dia de San Frutas de los Pajaros* who is the patron saint of Segovia. (*this is probably not the actual name of the saint, since it directly translates to "Saint Fruits of the Birds," but it's sure what it sounded like every time a local told me what was going on).

As a result of this coincidence, we not only thoroughly enjoyed Segovia's incredible castle, good views, and quaint streets, but also partied all night long with Segovians of all ages. After walking through a river park below Segovia in the evening and seeing the castle lit up against the background of nearby mountains, I almost wish that the University of Salamanca were in Segovia. When we got back to our pension (private residence that rents out cheap rooms), we found a large stage erected in the Plaza Mayor right in front of the cathedral. At about 10:30 p.m. segovians of all shapes and sizes began filling the Plaza, and a band began to play. Four and a half hours (and two wonderful bowls of some soup that are somehow associated with Saint whoever and distributed widely at midnight) later, the band finally stopped playing, and the people began to disperse. It was a little strange to dance to covers of classic American rock songs between some middleschool kids who knew every lyric and a cute old Spanish couple who nodded their heads to the beat while leaning on their canes. But all in all, a wonderful time.

This week I had two midterms, because apparently it is already 1/3 the way through the quarter, and managed to make it through my second full five day week for the year. Luckily, I'm not going to have another one until the week before finals in December. Today after class, I'm headed to Sevilla in southern Spain for a long weekend, since we have Monday off for "All Saints' Day." It's supposed to be in the high 80s in Sevilla, which is very unseasonal, but I don't think i'm going to complain.

A taste of the Alps

A taste of the Alps. It turns out that it´s tough to capture them in one picture, because they´re so darn big. So this is the valley below the Jungfrau.


It´s a bird! It´s a plane! No, it´s me running off a cliff and hoping that the guy behind me holding the ropes knows what he´s doing. I have pictures that my pilot took while we were in the air, but I don´t have a card reader to download them. So you guys are just going to have to wait for the documentation of the full paragliding experience.


Rosalie and I strolling leisurely through the valley underneath Gimmelwald. Shortly after this picture we entered Stecklberg and ate some incredible fondu. It´s a hard life, this traveling bit.


Kathy and I at the top of the world. Well, not even that close to the top of the world, but after a few thousand meters of verticle climb in the rain, part of it along a rather impressive knife edge ridege, this mini peak felt like quite an accomplishment.


The aforementioned ridge, which looks less intense than it did when we were on it.


The Jungfrau (young girl), one of the three real peaks in the region. We could see this slope of the mountain from our hostel, which made for a pretty amazing stay.


Yet another view of the Berner Oberland. Gimmelwald is on top of the cliff on the right hand side of the picture.


Rosalie, Kathy and I on our first hike out of Gimmelwald, Switzerland. What you can´t see in the picture are the hillsides full of cowbell wearing cows and a couple of little flower bedecked swiss cottages.

Prague Pictures round 2

A coat of arms made out of human bones. This is the handywork of the artist whose signature is in the last blog post (also made out of human bones).


A stained glass window in a random tower in the middle of Prague that is guarded guarded by armor wearing and sword weilding Czechs. The spires in the lower left are the Tyn Church.


Russian stacking dolls in a store near our hostel. Kathy and I make a guest appearance in the mirror in the back.

Prague Pictures, try 1

Rosalie (left) and Kathy (right) in front of the astronomical clock.


Tyn Church: one of the many ridiculous Gothic buildings all over Prague. Notice the buildings that are directly in front of the church so you can't see the entire facade. This building things right in front of awesome buildings seems to be a pretty common practice in Prague.


This is the Old Jewish Cemetary in Prague, where centuries of persecueted Czech Jews have been burried. Nearby is a synagoge that has been converted into a memorial for the thousands of Czech Jews that disappeard during WWII, with thier names, date of birth, and date of disappearance covering the walls. The pair make for a pretty somber visit.

This is the signature of the artist who made the sculptures out of human bones in the basement of the church in Kutna Hora. Very wierd. Very creepy.

Another Monday

I just realized yesterday that when new acquiantences ask the inevitable question, "how long are you here for" I can no longer respond "two and a half months. Now it's only two months. Shoot fire. The more time I see pass by me, the less I understand how and where it goes.

Anyway, I would title this last week as "the beginning of normalicy." I have started falling into somewhat of a routine, in which I do approximately half the things I wanted to/planned on doing every day and know that the same thing will happen tomorrow. But it's nice to have some structure to life. I have four hours of class a day, beginning at 9:00 and ending at 2:00 with an hour break in the middle. Then I return to my homestay for lunch at around 2:30, and do homework/check my email/play soccer/plan trips/take a siesta/explore Salamanca until dinner at 9:30, and continue with more of the same after dinner. Life is pretty laid back.

However, the meal schedule somehow manages to leave me either starving or stuffed beyond comfort. Breakfast is not a widely respected meal in Spain (mine is usually a very small muffin and a glass of orange juice), and because lunch is so late I am usually packing a powerful appetite by the time I get back from class. Then, after eating the mountain of food my señora feeds me, usually because it´s good and sometimes just because I don´t want to be rude by leaving something on my plate, I can do little more than stagger into my room for a nap. Yet somehow I am miraculously hungry again by 7:00. at which point dinner is still a solid 2:30 hours away.

This last weekend, I went on an excursion to a national park and to Ciudad Rodrigo with my program. The park was slightly different from the typical American park, because it mainly consists of tiny little towns that have been making a living off the forests for the past 1000 years. Only recently have they begun to reap a new harvest, that of tourism, so even today the majority of the park looks like overgrown farm land. However, it was a wonderful break to get out from the city, and the influx of tourists in the last three decades has yet to wipe out the small village feel of the towns that we stopped in.
Ciudad Rodrigo, with it´s almost completely intact mideival wall, was equally charming, though the food left me somewhat worn out. After trying the local local dish, which consists of a egg drowned in grease with some sort of fatty sasuage and a side of french fries, I felt as if I had consumed all of my calories for the week. The next day in an attempt to cut back I ordered a vegetable sandwhich. This would have been a healthy choice, had the bread not been fried in grease and had the 'vegetables' not been a bit of cabbage suspended in half a liter of maynaise. I returned to Salamanca a few steps closer to a heart attack, but overall very content. I am now going to attempt to upload some of the photos that I have been accumulating for the past month and a half. If i´m successful, you will have already seen them before this post.

La vida española

At this point in my narrative, I need to introduce more characters. The first is Vicenta, my señora. Vicenta is maybe 65, loves to give advice, cooks a mean paella, and runs the household that I am staying with. She speaks loudly and quickly, but generally clearly, and I can usually understand her unless she´s saying something important. Character two: Benito. Also in his sixties, Benito is Vicenta´s husband. He is smaller in stature than Vicenta, quiter (unless he and Vicenta are argueing in raised voices, something that seems to be a favorite passtime of many Spaniards), reserved, and absolutely one hundred percent impossible to understand. Most of my conversations with him usually end with me saying, "Si, si. Vale. Te entiendo." (Translation: "Sure, I understand") and thinking "God, I hope that wasn´t anything important." Character three: Cristobal. Chris is the other American student living with Vicenta and Benito. Chris studies hard, runs a lot, and refuses to speak English (which is a stark and refreshing contrast to many people in the program who only speak Spanish when in class). Cristobal is a font of good vocabulary, despite not having spoken a word of Spanish before he got to Salamanca in September for a month intesnive program. The only thing that I can hold agains him is that his room has wireless, and mine does not. Finally, enter the chorus: Vicenta and Benito´s family. I think they have two sons and a daughter, most of whom have spouses and some of whom have children. However, I have yet to really nail down family relations, since most people seem to come and go rapidly and at random. The end effect is an often full house, even though only Vicenta and Benito live in the apartment.
Now the set:
Salamanca is beautiful, a labyrinth of tan sandstone streets, hidden parks, baroque churches, and college students. Everything is within walking distance, because walking is really the only way you can navigate the inner city, but it always seems to take a little longer than you think to get somewhere, because straight streets were apparently a moral afront to the city planners. As a Spanish city, life begins around 10:00, completely stops between 2:00 and 4:00 pm for lunch and siesta, and then doesn´t really get going again until 9:00 in the evening. That is unless you´re a college student, in which case life doesn´t really start until midnight ish. If you´re really a foreigner, you can usually get away with going out at 11:00 and coming home at 1 or 2 am. But that´s only if it´s a week night.

In terms of action, last week I was mainly getting used to the city, classes, my host family, and trying to speak Spanish. Classes, despite the fact that they´re in a language that I only partially understand, should leave me plenty of time for traveling and tasting spanish culture. Luckily, there is a lot of culture to taste, and I find myself uncomfortably full almost every day due to the giant meals that Vicenta feeds me.

Spain at last

The journey to Spain was long and arduous (as you can probbly tell from my blog thus far), but my perserverance paid off last Wednesday. After a short an pleasant flight from London (note some sarcasm in this sentence, mainly stemming from the inhostpitable atmosphere of London airports), I met my program director and fellow ISA (International Studies Abroad) students in Madrid. Together, we formed a large tour group very similar to the groups I had grown to despise earlier in my trip and took Madrid by storm. Maintaining our storm like semblance, we then swept through Valle de los Caidos, El Escorial, and Toledo to end up in Salamanca on Sunday afternoon. My impressions of these places? Madrid is huge and overwhelming. Valle de los Caidos is a giant underground chapel with a couple hundred foot cross on top constructed by Franco in remeberence of the Spanish Civil War, and is both impressive, and oppressive. El Escorial is a giant palace/monestary/school/cathedral, which I found much less decadent and far more regal than any of the palaces I´ve seen in France, London, or Madrid. And finally, I found Toledo absolutely enchanting. Even aside from the fact that Toledo has sword shops every few feet, the town is mostly still contained within its old walls, nd absolutely loaded with character.

While it was a bit of a relief to join a larger group and let others plan everything for me, I have begun to see the advantages of traveling alone. I am left feeling that I missed a significant portion of Madrid and Toledo, though without traveling on a tour bus I would not have been able to see Valle de Los Caidos and El Escorial. There are always trade offs, I suppose.

Lee in London

I freely admit that I owe the inspiration for the title of this post to Charlie's blog from Japan (his blog name was Jarlie in Chapan). Don't be too mad, Charlie, imitation is a form of flattery, right?

Anyway, after a truly wonderful stay in Paris, Sam and I flew into London early last Saturday. After touring the sights on Sunday and watching "Lion King" the musical (which had the most spectacular costumes I have ever seen), I accompanied Sam to Oxford on Monday. Tuesday, I had another full day of sight seeing in London, which ended in a very long night catching public transit around the city and eventually to Gatwick airport, where I spent what was left of the night failing to sleep on the stone floor. My impressions from my brief stay in the UK are as follows:
1) British accents are wonderful, though they make getting directions hard
2) London is a beautiful city steeped in history, but it is impossible to navigate by foot.
3) Room temperature ale is an acquired taste, but once one acquires it, one instantly becomes an ale snob. (I now disdain those "chemical concoctions" called cold lagers. Or at least I did while in London. Now cold beers and I are back on good terms, since they happen to be what the rest of the world except the UK drinks.)
4) London has four airports in name, but none in reality. One cannot fly into or out of London. One must instead fly into a distant corner of the UK and then catch some other long and costly form of transportation into the city.
5) London football pubs are awesome, and even if your team is losing (i.e. Liverpool in the Champion's League) you can still bond with complete strangers over those two great British passions, beer and soccer.

Cheers mates (as the British would say).

A Baguette for your thoughts

Perhaps the single best and worst thing about Paris was the food. The best because the French blend food and art like no other culture I have yet seen. The worst because my appreciation of pastries is very much ruined, maybe permanently. Let's face it, how could any other pastry really stand up to French baking? Having a bakery that was voted the best baguette in Paris in 2004 right outside my front door has made me realize that those sorry concoctions of flour and sugar that I used to enjoy are just pitiful imitations of true pastries.
I believe that my baguette consumption while in Paris averaged slightly over 1 per day, and my pastry consumption about three times that. But who can fault me for doing my level best to sample as much of French culture as possible? I'm saddened to report that even my rigorous cultural enlightenment regiment left much out. In order to complete my education, I must return to Paris for no less than a month. Not only is my knowledge of pastries sadly lacking, but I have only begun to dabble in such fields as Entrecote (a French version of steak and frenchfries that has apparently overcome its modest American roots to become high cuisine in Paris), crepes, and escargo. So much to do. So little time.

Even food aside, I believe Paris is the most beautiful city I have spent time in. Prague is magical, Lucerne is quaint, Rome impressive, and Vienna is stately. But Paris is beautiful. My impression of the city was probably somewhat influenced by the incredible hospitality of John Watson and Betsy Blackwell, who warmly welcomed us into their wonderful apartment and enthusiastically supported our exploration of the city. But there is still something about Paris's wide boulevards, graceful monuments and old buildings, and matching architecture that make it special. If only I spoke French (and maybe had a hefty bank account to put up with Paris prices) I would love to spend more time there.



p.s. Rosalie's blog is http://rosalie-bateson.blogspot.com
Unlike me, she has already figured out how to post pictures easily, and has some really great ones up.

Correction

My parents just pointed out to me that I forgot to actually give you Rosalie and Sam's blog addresses. I have added Sam's into the post, and will post Rosalie's as soon as I find it.

A free man in Paris

I have shirked my blogging duties this past week, and so have much to write about and little time to write. However, before I begin I feel the need to add a brief note about my travelling companions, for those of you who don’t know them or have become confused by their random entrances and exits from my blog.
1) Rosalie Bateson- Rosalie and I have been neighbors at school for two years in a row, and this quarter we are both studying in Spain (she in Madrid and I in Salamanca). Before we left the States, I flew to North Carolina to visit Rosalie and her family. Responsible for much of the planning for the first part of the trip (particularly everything having to do with trains), Rosalie joined me for the Czech Republic, Switzerland, and half of my time in Paris. Her program started on Thursday, so she could not join me for my expedition to the UK, but because Salamanca and Madrid are relatively close, I will hopefully be seeing her occasionally this fall. For an in depth, blow-by-blow account of our travels together, visit Rosalie’s blog at
2) Kathy Cooper- Kathy lived with Rosalie and I in Slav Dom last year and graduated last Spring. She is currently working on constructing wind turbines and microhydroelectric plants in the Philippines, but was able to join us for the Czech Republic and Switzerland as she took the long route from the U.S. to her job.
3) Sam Wai- Sam is studying in Oxford this fall, and came over for her program early to meet Rosalie and I in Paris. Unfortunately, she and Rosalie only overlapped in France for a matter of hours, but Sam and I spent two more days in Paris after Rosalie left and then went to London for two days. Her program starts today, and after helping her move down to Oxford I will return to London for another day and then fly to Madrid to begin orientation for my program. For another perspective on Sam and my time in Paris, visit her blog at http://s-wai.blogspot.com
Anyway, back to where I left off about Paris.

Paris is a lovely city. Absolutely fabulous. It is picturesque, inviting, filled with incredible food, and easily navigable by foot or metro. It’s only two draw backs are 1) that it’s expensive and 2) that its citizenry speaks French. I overcame the first problem by spending the week with John Watson’s (a friend of mine from freshman year) parents in their beautiful and spacious flat near the Arch de Triumph, and by assuring myself that life is short and that it would be a long time until I made it back to Paris. The second problem I overcame, or rather failed miserably to overcome by making a fool of myself with what little French I remembered from high school and guiltily resorting to English whenever someone else spoke it.

Together with Rosalie and then with Sam Wai, and with no little help from Betsy, John’s mom who is an enthusiastic tour guide and an avid art historian, I toured the ins and outs of Paris, falling more in love with the city with every day. The highlights are as follows:

Sunday- visiting a bustling and distinctly not touristy open air market, taking a stroll to the Seine, and watching Rosalie be Julia Childs as she cooked “chicken with herbs” and “potatoes with other herbs” for dinner. It should be noted that my green beans, which I lovingly steamed with the skill of a true chef made the meal.

Monday- 6 hours in the Louvre, a walk through Luxumberg Gardens and the Latin Quarter, and some incredible Moroccan food with Betsy and elder John (John’s father). Though I list it as a highlight, I would like to caution that one should not spend six hours at the Louvre, unless one wants to collapse from exhaustion and art overdose. But Rosalie and I are apparently masochists, and couldn’t help but add on to the perfect three hour tour that Betsy outlined for us.

Tuesday- St. Chappelle (an incredible stained glass filled church near Notre Dame), Napoleon’s tomb, and the military history museum at Invalides. Art museums are pretty cool, but they just can’t stand up to rooms full of armor and giant swords. It was any guy’s dream (though judging from the male to female ratio in the museum, not so much a girl thing).

Wednesday- 3 hours in the Musee D’Orsay (we took Betsy’s advice about stopping this time, and enjoyed the museum significantly more than the Louvre), meeting Sam Wai and sending Rosalie off, then taking an evening stroll along the Seine all the way from one end of Paris to the other.

Thursday- strolling through cool Paris neighborhoods, shopping for second hand European clothes, eating hot chocolate at Victorias (supposedly on the list of 1000 things you should do before you die). And when I say eating, I mean eating. Half a cup was my lunch, and I wasn’t really hungry at dinner.

Friday- getting a view of the city from Mon Martre (the hill where Denis, one of the patron saints of Paris, was supposedly beheaded. He then picked up his head and carried it under his arm down off the hill. Now the hill holds a giant church, and some really cool neighborhoods), eating steak frites (apparently steak and French fries have transcended their modest American roots and become the highest of cuisine in Paris), and visiting the Paris auction house. I was going to try to buy something at the auctions, but the necklace that we saw auctioned was a little out of my price range at 76,000 euros.

So that was my time in Paris in a nut shell. It deserves far more than that, and I may ruminate on some specific points in future blogs, but I must sign off for now.

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles (or more appropriately trains, trains, more trains, and automobiles)

Well, another country down. After taking Switzerland by storm, we once again moved and trained through France on our slow but inexorable way to Paris.
Leaving Gimmelwald for the largish city of Lucerne was a bit of a shock on Thursday, which perhaps made us undervalue what is otherwise a very beautiful city. Lucerne sits on a beautiful lake, is surrounded by mountains and has the orderly, quaint, yet bustling charm that seems to be so unique to Switzerland. Thursday night, we went to an incredible concert by YoYo Ma and the Silk Road Ensemble in the Lucerne concert hall, which is world renowned for its architecture and almost perfect acoustics. I ignorantly went expecting a classical orchestra concert (YoYo Ma is a famous cello player, after all), but was met by a fusion of classical western European, middle eastern, African, and Asian music that blew me away.
On Friday, Rosalie and I toured some of the old city wall with Kathy, sat on a bench overlooking the city and drank a bottle of wine. In the afternoon, we bid Kathy farewell (Kathy was really only travelling with us as a stop on her way to the Philippines where she is working this fall. Still not quite sure what this work stuff is that she claims is so important, but we really enjoyed her company for the first half of our trip). Then, rather than following the usual philosophy that the fastest way to get from place to place is on direct, high speed trains, Rosalie and I laughed in the face of conventional wisdom and braved the ins and outs of just about every little train station in western Switzerland and eastern France. When we found out on Thursday that there were no available reservations for any TGVs (France’s high speed and apparently highly popular trains) from anywhere near Switzerland to Paris, we embarked on a quaint tour of backwater train stations, questionable connections, and even a train that turned into a bus halfway to its destination. Finally, many hours after leaving Lucerne, we arrived in Paris, where we met Rosalie’s friend Eva, who put us up for the night in her studio apartment.
Saturday, after more wonderful adventures in train hopping, Rosalie, Eva and I visited Reims, a city just east of Paris in the heart of champagne country. The normal routine of touring cathedrals and museums commenced (though we got to climb into the very attics of Reims’ great cathedral and get a view of the city as well as an appreciation for the ingenuity of the cathedral builders. We also managed to fit in a tour of a champagne cellar, which was very impressive (some five kilometers of cellars 12 meters underground cut into great chalk deposits) and of course came with a little champagne tasting (not that this had anything to do with the purely academic curiosity as to the making of sparkling wine that drove us to take the tour).

Simply Swiss

I’ve already discussed a little bit of Switzerland in my last post, but here is more, because Switzerland deserves more.
After briefly stopping in Interlaken, Switzerland Monday night to rest and reprovision, we three intrepid mountaineers (Rosalie, Kathy and I) ascended high into the snow covered Swiss Alps of the Berner-Oberland. Basing out of a wonderful and welcoming little hostel in the picturesque little town of Gimmelwald, we delved deep into the untamed wilderness, risking both life and limb. Take it from me, hiking through mountain valleys, admiring perfect little Swiss huts on perfect green hillsides, trying to comprehend mountain vistas and eating fondu is hard work.
Teusday afternoon, we did a warm up walk of the valley that holds Gimmelwald and about four other little towns, then ate a wonderful dinner at an out of the way restaurant. The hike was both a warm up physically and mentally, since it had very little elevation gain (something hard to come by in the Berner-Oberland region) and let us ease into the incredible views of the region and accustom the mind to such vast mountains.
On Wednesday, while Rosalie explored the waterfalls and hanging canyons around Gimmelwald, Kathy and I mounted an attempt on a nearby peak. Disdaining the gondola system that would have effortlessly whisked us to the top of a higher nearby peak (for the modest price of an arm and a leg) we set out to see the top of the world. 1400 vertical meters later, we gasped our way to our destination in time to enjoy a brief glimpse of the Eiger (ogre), Monk, and Jungfrau (young girl) through a break in the clouds that had lightly rained on us all day. The Eiger, Monk, and Jungfrau are the real peaks of the regions, clothed year-round in glaciers and more often than not clouds. Despite how we felt on the climb, Kathy and I actually ascended a sort of minor second cousin once removed of the Eiger, rather than a legitimate mountain.
Thursday morning, we bid a fond goodbye to Gimmelwald and flew off down the mountain to our next destination. And by flew I mean we literally flew down the mountain, assisted by some paraglider pilots. For those of you unfamiliar with the intricacies of the many ways humans have discovered to fall from great heights, paragliding does not involve jumping out of an airplane (as does skydiving), or jumping off a cliff (as does base jumping), but rather running down a steep hill and then flying off a cliff. Needless to say, the experience was quite breathtaking. Not only were we surrounded by some of the most spectacular mountains I have ever seen, but we were 1000 meters above the ground flying around like a bird. It was a pretty sensational way to start the morning.
Finally, after landing safely we hopped on a train to Lucerne, where we would part ways with Kathy. (to be continued in the next post)

On the road again

Prague was great, but we've got miles to go before we sleep. So we are now in the middle of Switzerland, after having toured most of the south half of Germany in a marathon day of admiring the European rail system.
On Sunday, our final day in the Czech Republic, we trained to Kutna Hora, a now smallish town that used to be the second most powerful city in central Europe when its silver mines were still producing. So it had no fewer than three giant cathedrals, and a few palaces despite the fact that it only takes 5 minutes to walk from the town center to the communist era apartment buildings on the outskirts of town. The two main attraction in Kutna Hora are a behemoth of flying buttresses to rival Notre Dame and a church basement filled with sculptures made out of human bones. The huge cathedral was pretty wonderful, particularly because it was relatively deserted compared to such attractions in the rest of Europe. The basement of bones was...impressive. Apparently, in the Czech Republic (well, some empire or another at the time) when you've got too many people to bury in a postage stamp graveyard, you sell the place to minor nobility and have them build sculptures out of the piles of bones that you don't have room in the ground for. Bones from about 40,000 people now form four 7 foot tall pyramids, candelabras, chalices, a chandeleer, and a man sized coat of arms in the basement of a small church, and hundreds of tourists come by to look at them every day. Oh, and the artist who built everything signed his name in human bones when he was done. Creepy? Maybe a little.
But the best thing about Kutna Hora was being out in the Czech countryside. From the mideival streets, you could look out and see hillsides of trees that were just beginning to turn colors.

Monday morning, we beat a hasty retreat from Prague before anyone could notice we were leaving (the streets are pretty dead at 4:30 a.m.) and tested out the efficiency of the German train system. You'll be chagrinned that it's not all it's cracked up to be. One of our trains was ten minutes late. Not that it mattered to us, because we didn't have any tight connections, but you could here the tinkling of shattered preconceptions and see the Swiss people shaking their heads. I forgive the Germans, though, partly because of my fine German heritage, partly because they have wonderful bread, and partly because they have great beer. And i didn't have to dwell on it too long because by Monday night we were already in Switzerland.

Today, we journeyed deep into the heart of the Swiss alps, to find our hostel in a tiny town of 500 that sits on top of a 1000 foot cliff and can only be reached by a gondola or a half day hike. Even as a Colorado person and proud mountain snob, I am impressed by these mountains. The views are really indescribable (and I'm tired and want to go to bed), so I'll post some pictures as soon as I download them from my camera. Until then, just imagine your most idyllic scene of green hills graced with a spattering of swiss cottages and surrounded by mountains. Then make the mountains taller, and you've got where we are.

Prague

Well, after two awesome days in the capital city of the Czech Republic, I have concluded that 1) Prague is awesome 2) if I ever design a city it's definitely going to have gothic towers every two blocks 3) there are only a finite number of puns you can make with the word "Czech" but they're funny if you repeat them 4) three days is simply not enough.

After arriving late thursday evening and only really having time to find our hostel, we set out on foot on Friday to see the less touristy places because we somehow slept through our alarms and woke up at 11:30 rather than 7:30, and did not want to brave the ridiculous crowds at the most popular places. So we walked around Old Town, which our hostel happens to be right at the center of, ate some food, and saw a lot of the Jewish quarter. Today, we succeeded in getting up early, and went across Charles Bridge (which is supposedly a big tourist attraction but had tons of construction) and Prague Castle. Prague castle is pretty darn cool, though I have to admit that my favorite part was not seeing the massive cathedral or the palace, but shooting a crossbow at the end of a long hallway of mideival arms and armor. Last night we listened to a classical concert in a large cathedral a few blocks away from our hostel, and tonight we watched Carmen at the state opera house. So, not only are we getting our fill of ridiculous gothic belltowers (which Prague seems to have an endless suply of) but we are also getting culturally enlightened. However, I should probably go to bed now. Because tomorrow we are going to attempt to get out of the city to do some more site seeing, eat as much authentic Czech food as possible, visit a club made entirely out of parts from Communist era factories, and then catch our train to Switzerland at 5:00 Monday morning. So sleep might get the shove.

There

Well, that's actually a lie. I'm not there yet. I'm not even nearly there, but I have started the journey (after some minor setbacks), and I won't actually be in Salamanca for a while yet. So, for the sake of convenience, I ask that you overlook my factual inaccuracy in the title.

Right now I am in Chapel Hill, NC visiting Rosalie who will be travelling with me for the next few weeks before joining her program in Madrid. Tomorrow we depart the US by way of Boston (where we pick up a third travelling companion, Kathy), and London on our way to Prague. The first leg of my trip (from Colorado to NC) was a little touch and go when I attempted to catch my flight at the Durango airport yesterday morning only to find that my flight had been cancelled and I had unknowingly been rebooked on an earlier, long departed flight. Luckily, I managed to weasel my way on some later flights, and managed to arrive only two hours later than planned after flying standby the whole way.

So, hopefully I got the hiccups out of the system yesterday, and my travels will be smooth from here on out. The journey has begun. And if I've forgotten anything critical, I haven't realized it yet.