AMSTERDAM TO HOUSTON, TEXAS, TO PHOENIX, AZ - JUNE 28, 2009

The flight from Amsterdam to Houston was ten hours – left Amsterdam at 10:10 AM. While this morning was quite early, breakfast was good, the coach driver was nice, and I absolutely loved the fog – such a seaside atmosphere and one last hurrah of mild weather before returning to Phoenix. Like the city itself, the Amsterdam airport was rather crazy, but everyone was awake with anticipation of going home.

We had to leave our dear Adam at the airport, as he was obviously not coming back to Houston. We had taken up a little collection for him along with thank you notes, and Marshall presented him with all of it at the gate. We were all very sad to see him, his antics, and his intense directional skills go.

While I do miss my family and this whole living out of a suitcase gig is getting a bit old, it seems almost a crime to leave Europe at all at my age, much less when we’re so CLOSE to every country we didn’t visit. Switzerland, Sweden, Germany, Denmark, Italy, Spain, Greece, Austria, etc. A shame, I tell you!

We flew in a Boeing 777, which has three sections of seats across it.

Thankfully the AM-HOU flight was tolerable even though I didn’t sleep. I had an aisle seat, plenty of room, drinks, food, and even ice cream!

What really got me through, though, was a fascinating book about the like and exploits of hunter S. Thompson. I also was able to play a mean game of Alchemy in the seat’s headrest. Thank you, Continental.

It was nice to get to the airport and be able to occupy more than 4 square feet of space at a time. Customs was a new experience. We collected our bags at the carousel, then walked through an exceedingly awkward and creepy hallway where a couple of agents sat in the middle and looked at everyone like they were about to shoot them down in an old cowboy movie. I think about four of the delegates and leaders were pulled aside in that strange place.

The bags went back onto a conveyor for another check before we were allowed to have them for good, and then through security again with our shoes and carry-on and etc. We had more waiting to do at a new gate then back on another plane. Our break consisted of bathrooms, water buying, Wendy’s, and a bookstore. Finally being reunited with cell phone!

The Houston to Phoenix plane was much smaller and older than the ones we flew internationally, but the ride flew by, and I was glad to see my mom after two weeks. We made a obligatory Taco Bell stop, went to grandma’s to see her, the I slept for about 16 hours.

A trip well spent.

AMSTERDAM, HOLLAND- June 27 2009

Notice the Marilyn Monroe transvestite.

We lacked our regular journals to write in for this day because they were being “graded” by our respective group leaders. Excuse me if my narrative is sloppier and jumpier than usual with the lack of my regular organizational space.

This morning we got to sleep in as an almost-the-end-of-the-trip treat – little did we know we would seriously need it after misfortunes later in the day.

I was so enamored with European food at this point that I recorded most of my meals in minute fashion, so I will describe breakfast:

A crepe-like pancake filled with honey

Two croissants

One cup delicious fruit with yogurt

One glass orange juice

One roll with creamy cheese (I thought it was butter when I picked it up but the cheese was better by far)

After our early breakfast, we dashed to our coach with a new driver, and drove through slightly soggy and foggy fields towards a cheese and clog farm, so we were told. As we parked and hopped out of our coach into a gravel yard next to a barn with a rather imposing animal smell, we didn’t know quite what our activities were going to be. Kees Jan, one of the owners of the farm of Katrina and Kees Jan, where cheese and wooden clogs were the specialty, met us outside the door of their main wooden building. Before taking us inside, he encouraged us to walk through the cow barn – it was quaint and beautiful and of course I love cows, but the smell was almost unbearable between the animals and the fermented mash they feed the animals.

Kees himself is very good-natured and certainly farmer in aspect. He was wearing a huge and well-worn pair of wooden clogs, and it was a bit difficult to wrap my head around the fact he wore those particular shoes throughout his daily chores. He said they protected his feet from the weather, sinking into the ground, and careless animals. I still say they looked painful.

We all packed into the “clogging room” filled with pair upon pair of all size, color, painting, stain, and everything else of clogs. Choosing Robyn as his assistant, he showed us the method his great-grandfather had used to make clogs – basically whittling them by hand (about two hours by hand per shoe).

He then took us through the modern process, which takes about five minutes per shoe.

You first take a good size piece of wood (straight from the tree) and split it into about four equal pieces from the center with axe and hammer.

You take one piece at a time, and put it into a cutting machine with two blocks attached together.

As one side of the cutting device traces a premade mold, it cuts into the block of wood the same shape.

This creates the shoe, but a little of the large piece of wood is still attached to the toe of the shoe, and has to be cut off.

The shoe then goes into a similar machine that hollows out the foot hole.

The shoe is then smoothed using a hand-powered belt sander.

Afterwards, they can leave it au naturale, carve it (special carvings are made for engaged girls to wear on their wedding day), or paint it. They finally seal it, and sell it. The sizes available range from a men’s 15 to a keychain size, about two inches long.

We then moved to the cheese making room, where USA native Katrina showed us the cheese-making process. Their marriage story goes as follows from her: She came with her family on a trip in her youth, and Kees’ mother (who originally turned the farm into a tourist attraction) suggested she might want to see the cows being milked, which happened to be Kees’ chore…. And they got married. Sweet. Simple, to the point. Like them. She also told us how he said he always knew he would marry and American because he participated in a program mating Dutch cows with US cows – and now everyone jokes their children are half-breeds.

Such goes the cheese-making:

All the cows are milked at two times a day: 5:30 AM and PM.

The milk goes into a large vessel with hollow wall, with cold water pumped in continuously.

The next morning, hot water (30 degrees) is pumped in.

The Jan’s were very sweet and generous to us. They let us sample many types of cheese while we looked around the shop. Some people actually bought cheese, but most of us stuck to miniature clogs or other trinkets. We hopped back on the coach, and back into the main city we went. I believe we stopped for lunch and some shopping, and in that plaza we saw a huge plastic statue spelling out: I AM in one color, then STERDAM in another color. Very cute, very clever.

We were dismayed to find after lunch that our coach had been in some kind of minor traffic accident, and the driver would have to find a new coach, transfer our belongings, and drive back to the city before we could get back on.

After the unfortunate accident that the coach driver was involved in left us waiting in vain for an hour, we literally ran through a few blocks of Amsterdam to get to our canal cruise. I was glad to sit down, even in the tightly spaced, glass-topped boats. I’m sure it would have been a relaxing ride and I would have absorbed a great time of Amsterdam culture and history, but it was like a sauna with the sun beating on the boats glass tops and reflecting off the water.

We continued our sprint around Amsterdam with our fearless and quick-walking leaders, Adam and Mr. Druck, to our next rendezvous – a diamond factory. There were rooms and rooms filled with beautiful diamond- and other precious stoned-studded jewelry, some for sale, and I believe some was just for display. The very strange thing was the rooms of jewelry in little desks with sitting women in black clothes selling it. I can only compare it to, like, the Macy’s makeup counters, but even they don’t sit.

Our final event of the day was Anne Frank’s actual hiding house near the canal, now a very busy museum. I found it very interesting how late the museum was open – we went in around six or seven at night. Though we waited for quite a while, the house was well worth it. It is kept in the same condition as Frank’s father found it after the war – unfurnished, dark, boarded up. You can walk through the moderately normal downstairs, and then take the dizzyingly skinny stairs to the hidden attic. The feeling of claustrophobia from 15 minutes up there is strong; I can’t imagine being stuck up their for months, fearing to even glance out the window.

Whenever I think of Frank’s story (which I have read and seen on both film and the stage), I am struck to the soul by the cruelty people are capable of when not properly educated in understanding, openness, understanding, and kindness, and taught to sympathize/empathize with mankind.

Since we went into the museum in smaller groups, those of us who were finished sat outside the museum in a lovely church courtyard. We went into a small gift shop right outside of the church for a while, and then found a comfy curb.

I absolutely loved that not 20 feet from the church there was a small gay festival/PRIDE-like event, complete with drag queen. I cannot understand why people in the states, or Arizona for that matter, can’t just let people be.

I believe after the museum we returned to our hotel and spent the night packing for the trip back to the States.

BRUSSELS, BELGIUM AND AMSTERDAM, HOLLAND, THE NETHERLANDS – JUNE 26 2009

Both pictures are by me: Top is view down Amsterdam canal, bottom is in Brussels, throughly enjoying a Belgian waffle.

After Bastogne, we went to Dinant, a small village with a ridiculously imposing hotel. After pushing the coach through roads it was about three times too big to safely maneuver, we ended up at a huge white stone structure that resembled a castle. The interior, including our rooms and delicious dinner, were no less luxurious. While many of the other delegates took advantage of the pool, I was all too happy to have the room to myself for awhile to write, nap, and shower.

We drove into Brussels the next day, another very uptown city akin to Paris, with a more commercial than historic charm, unfortunately. We had to speed past the United Nations building, which I would have loved to see, in order to go to a chocolate factory. I understand 99.9% of the world is madly in love with the strange brown substance, but I want nothing to do with chocolate’s taste, smell, touch, etc.

Despite my mental objections, we all trooped off to Planete Chocolate, a local chocolatier who graciously allowed our large group to drop by for an “educational presentation.”

We were ushered in past showy window displays of things like a full-size chocolate soccer ball (white and black). Through the small storefront was the back kitchen and a midsize seating area for such presentations. Our speaker was very accented and very engaging. With classic Albert Einstein/Doctor Frankenstein-Mel-Brooks-style white hair and coat, he looked the part, and sort of acted it, as well. He gave us a little cocoa (he said “caca,” and provided endless amusement to our childish sides, at his expense): the beans were originally discovered in South America by the Spaniards (so far as the West was concerned – obviously the native peoples the Spanish came upon actually discovered the function of the beans). Cocoa was originally used by the Aztecs to make a bitter, reddish drink with drug-like qualities for religious ceremonies.

The process to “harvest” chocolate consists of a few steps: first, the cocoa beans themselves, referred to as the fruit at this stage, are harvested from their plant; next, the white fruit is taken out of its shell for the fermenting process; after fermenting, the beans are dried in the sun until they are a golden brown. At this stage, the product is transferred to different factories. The liquids go to make chocolate liquor. The rest is transported by truck, at 25-30 degrees Celsius, into other factories. The separate the product into solids (for powders) and cocoa butter. These parts a recombined at 25 degrees Celsius into plastic molds, then excess is scraped out. Te first chocolatier to use molds was neuhaus, now a very famous chocolate store. Different amounts of each part of the chocolate produce milk, dark, and white chocolate varieties.

Our presenter also shared that a quality piece of chocolate with break only into two pieces versus multiple pieces because there is a significant portion of cocoa butter in it. Also, filled chocolates are called prelees.

After such an entertaining demonstration, they had prepared special plates of chocolate for everyone, and an extra-special plate for those of us with nut allergies. Anyone who knows me knows I cannot stand chocolate, but refusing such a thoughtful gesture would have been more impolite than I could bear. I took a small medallion of white chocolate and cautiously nibbled – much to my surprise, all I could taste was a sweet butter and a very, very slight trace of the vile taste of chocolate. I got it all down and with the help of an entire bottle of water, avoided even so much as a stomachache.

We were promised in the itinerary to see the Manneken Pis (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manneken_Pis), or the statue of the peeing boy, but we never were able to see the original, just plastic replicas in gift shops. The gentleman at Planete Chocolate gave us one explanation for the origin of the odd statue: in the Middle Ages, all of Brussels was constructed out of wood, and a great fire spread through the city, threatening to destroy everything – the little boy immortalized in statue came outside and peed to put out the great fire. Our tour guide, Adam provided us with two alternate explanations. First, the boy might have found himself peeing on the door of a witches house, and in her anger she froze him into a statue. Or it might be that an army attacked Belgium and stole the kings son, placing him on a platform above the army – from his perch, the boy promptly peed on the army, hitting them in the face and blinding them all, allowing his father to win the battle. The second explanation is much more tongue-in-cheek and I think I like it the best of the three.

We were actually allowed some shopping time in Belgium, walking through and around the beautiful square we had lunch in.

I don’t remember our main course on the top floor of a very old-style, wood floored and walled pub, but we had wonderful Belgian waffles (my second serving of the day) and I snagged a Dutch bottle of Coca-Cola that still sits in my room as a flower vase.

Also, I don’t know if there’s an ulterior meeting, but Karl Marx had visited the building we ate lunch in at some point during his three-year stay in Brussels. Someone evidently though this was remarkable, as there is now a golden plaque announcing this visit.

After our shopping excursion, we rejoined the bus and drove to Holland, seeing many interesting side-of-the-road happenings. On our drive, Adam shared some of the current (at that time) issues in the EU Parliament. Ireland and Italy were protesting the call for EU MPs to be allotted by population, as they are both smaller nations in terms of population. It was hard to hear of Ireland at the brink of slipping into another situation of losing its independent voice to larger, more populous countries again. Such an action, along with the recession, seemed like a power keg for the IRA and similar organizations. And today, very unfortunately violence in Ireland has once again picked up.

On our long rive to Amsterdam, it began to weigh on me I didn’t know why some countries drove on the left (UK) and some on the right (US). A little research led me to: http://users.telenet.be/worldstandards/driving%20on%20the%20left.htm#history :

“About a quarter of the world drives on the left, and the countries that do are mostly old British colonies. This strange quirk perplexes the rest of the world; but there is a perfectly good reason.

In the past, almost everybody travelled on the left side of the road because that was the most sensible option for feudal, violent societies. Since most people are right-handed, swordsmen preferred to keep to the left in order to have their right arm nearer to an opponent and their scabbard further from him. Moreover, it reduced the chance of the scabbard (worn on the left) hitting other people.

Furthermore, a right-handed person finds it easier to mount a horse from the left side of the horse, and it would be very difficult to do otherwise if wearing a sword (which would be worn on the left). It is safer to mount and dismount towards the side of the road, rather than in the middle of traffic, so if one mounts on the left, then the horse should be ridden on the left side of the road.

In the late 1700s, however, teamsters in France and the United States began hauling farm products in big wagons pulled by several pairs of horses. These wagons had no driver's seat; instead the driver sat on the left rear horse, so he could keep his right arm free to lash the team. Since he was sitting on the left, he naturally wanted everybody to pass on the left so he could look down and make sure he kept clear of the oncoming wagon’s wheels. Therefore he kept to the right side of the road.

In addition, the French Revolution of 1789 gave a huge impetus to right-hand travel in Europe. The fact is, before the Revolution, the aristocracy travelled on the left of the road, forcing the peasantry over to the right, but after the storming of the Bastille and the subsequent events, aristocrats preferred to keep a low profile and joined the peasants on the right. An official keep-right rule was introduced in Paris in 1794, more or less parallel to Denmark, where driving on the right had been made compulsory in 1793.

Later, Napoleon's conquests spread the new rightism to the Low Countries (Belgium, the Netherlands and Luxembourg), Switzerland, Germany, Poland, Russia and many parts of Spain and Italy. The states that had resisted Napoleon kept left – Britain, the Austro-Hungarian Empire and Portugal. This European division, between the left- and right-hand nations would remain fixed for more than 100 years, until after the First World War.

Although left-driving Sweden ceded Finland to right-driving Russia after the Russo-Swedish War (1808-1809), Swedish law – including traffic regulations – remained valid in Finland for another 50 years. It wasn’t until 1858 that an Imperial Russian decree made Finland swap sides.

The trend among nations over the years has been toward driving on the right, but Britain has done its best to stave off global homogenization. With the expansion of travel and road building in the 1800s, traffic regulations were made in every country. Left-hand driving was made mandatory in Britain in 1835. Countries which were part of the British Empire followed suit. This is why to this very day, India, Australasia and the former British colonies in Africa go left. An exception to the rule, however, is Egypt, which had been conquered by Napoleon before becoming a British dependency.”

I also learned that in Dutch, leather is leder.

One of the sites we passed was a Nazi concentration camp. I wish we wouldn’t have had to see it, but I know that such things must stand; an enduring testament to the cruelty humanity is capable of if blinded by self-interest, and betraying the very principals that make us human. I thought it strange to still see a German flag flying at the camp – it made me wonder how German citizens deal with their history in the Nazi period – if it creates national guilt, how they teach that period in schools, etc.

After another bus exit, we crazily navigated the busy streets of Amsterdam. And when I say busy, it is the biggest of understatements. Bicycles whiz by in their designated lanes, but are not shy about bumping into a confused pedestrian. Cars form a constant flow on the other side of the bike lane, occasionally interrupting by a light-rail like contraption that comes three or four feet onto the cobblestoned service this unassuming tourist thought to be safe sidewalk to walk on. If you can avoid those obstacles, you then must avoid the denizens of the city, hurrying and pushing past with more important places to go. And let us not forget the ever-present canals. While they give a wonderful atmosphere to the otherwise concrete jungle with their coolness, trees, boat houses and other colorful characters, the canals pose another obstacle to you can trip over/fall into/etc.

Some of Amsterdam is reclaimed land from the ocean – the water is kept back by complex series of pumps and dikes. One example is the Amsterdam airport, which is 11 feet below sea level. The city recently started a subway system, but the digging tore into the now-rotten wooden supports holding the “golden age” houses (from the 1600s). Some houses have sunk one or two floors into the ground. The city had already spent $5 million, and may have had to stop shortly after due to costs.

Canals are a popular place to live, with 2,500 houseboats fully equipped with sewage, electricity and gas going for 300,000 Euros.

Before we left the coach for the last time this day, I was selected as the ambassador to give our bus driver a pin and keychain from Arizona and tokens of our appreciation for his service. He was very surprised and grateful, and it felt nice to give him something he thought was novel and interesting, as Arizona has certainly lost a lot of its charm for me, with a crumbling state budget, inept leadership in my eyes, a crippled education system, and the Sheriff Arpaio fiasco. After seeing the look on his face I guess I came back to appreciate Arizona a little bit more.

We had dinner in a little Japanese restaurant in a square across from the Hard Rock Café. For dessert, I ordered the vanilla ice cream with caramel sauce, but I got a surprise – what we surmised were chili flakes in the sauce, giving it an unexpected, unusual but tasty kick. The rest of the foods reminded me of P.F. Changs in the states.

While shopping after dinner in the usual outlay of tourist shops, it was sort of disconcerting to see locals in “I Love New York” shirts and clothing displaying American sports teams.

We were able to pick our roommates tonight, and in the spirit of the petty girl drama I tried to stay away from – it was nice to be able to room with someone who was nice. Despite this, I was hit with the thought that my grandparents had never been able to travel to Europe, and, at their ages, would in all likelihood never see it, even though they helped finance my trip. Though I felt a wave of sadness, I was glad I would have the opportunity to share pictures, memorabilia and journals of my trip with them.

LISTENING TO:

The Editors

Faith No More

The Wallflowers (comes highly recommended)

BELGIUM - JUNE 25 2009

We drove from our hotel outside of Paris to Bastogne, where the bloodiest encounter of WWII in the Western Theater took place – the Battle of the Bulge. For some historical context, we watched an episode of Band of Brothers on the bus- the only one I have ever seen. We were asked to take notes about the realistic aspects of the show, and some were. For instance, the characters discussed the layout of Bastogne; seven roads in, seven roads out. All soldiers characteristically smoked, commanders made battle tactics in the field with the aid of terrain maps, and the forces used smoke and flashlight signals. Another stark fact that comes up multiple times in the movie is the lack of supplies to the Allied forces – food to bullets.

After we saw all the memorials and museums in honor of Americans helping in WWII, it seems strange that the prevailing European opinion is against Americans. Some people we spoke to added a caveat to this view: Europeans may dislike American policy in foreign affairs and economics, but will show no dislike for someone just because they are American, and especially if they are young Americans in Europe to broaden their horizons. I don’t know if that was sincere or forced politeness, but I try to believe it was the former.

I enjoyed learning more about the Battle of the Bulge today. I didn’t know very much about the literally epic battle, and was glad to expand my historical knowledge. The museum we walked through, though not expansive, was filled with actually military gear, uniforms, and tank s- the story took on a sort of immediacy from the actuality of the relics.

We also saw a movie detailing the intensity of the battle, as well as the living conditions of the civilians. The snow blanketed the burned out town, buildings crumbled on a daily basis, food and water were scarce. Some families had to stay underground in makeshift bomb shelters almost all day for weeks. The commander of operations was in the 101^st Air Division, nicknamed the Screaming Eagles. That same division is, at time of my trip, fighting in Iraq. The battle was fought from December 1944 to January 1945, and killed over 19,000 Americans, according to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_the_Bulge.

In 1944, there were 5,000 people in Bastogne and another 5,000 people in the 13 surrounding villages. Today, there are 7,500 in the same locations, making 15,000 altogether. The town suffered huge damage to the town – 1,000 buildings destroyed, 2,000 buildings damaged. The current day “Baby-City” store was a 50-bed hospital during the battle for GI’s. There was one nurse for all, but she was killed during a bombing raid trying to evacuate her patients.

In late June, there is march through town honoring the bond of military and civilian friendship. The city’s colors are blue (water) and red (sand). In 1332, a wall was built around all of Bastogne. When he came to power, Louis XIV ordered the wall destroyed except around the town’s church.

Roadblocks were often used in the battle because the off-road terrain was mostly schist, an almost-waterproof type of rock that would cause tanks and other vehicles to slip and slide in the rain and snow. The citizens of Bastogne helped the Allied forces by providing them white sheets in the winter to camouflage their uniforms into the snow. The grenades the Germans threw at Allied forces were called potato smashers and consisted of a classic grenade latched onto a large throwing stick for maximum distance. Also special tactics were needed to drop supplies into Bastogne when German forces blockaded it. The target dropping areas on the ground were very small, and the pilot of the plane dropping supplies only had a one-minute Passover period. Different supplies were signified using different colored parachutes attached to the boxes: red for ammunition, blue for anti-tank artillery, white for food, and yellow for medical supplies. If the supplies made it to the ground, generally in a field, soldiers had to risk their lives to run out into the open to retrieve the packages.

I will be perfectly honest about the museum – it seemed a little empty and dusty, not like the sleek WWII museum in France. I don’t know if the difference has to do with age of building and funds available, but I thought it odd and even offensive one museum would seem so much better cared for than the other. I am in no way saying the caretakers of the Bastogne museum were not adequately caring for the property and relics, but perhaps business opportunities are not prime.

After the museum, we walked more of the grounds until we reached the Battle of the Bulge memorial, a huge concrete sculpture honoring the Americans, by state, who fought in the battle. There are stirring inscriptions around the entire structure, along with a narrow, curving staircase to access the top of the structure. The view includes Bastogne and much of the surrounding area – all saved from possible obliteration by the American soldiers the memorial honors. The structure was funded, planned and built right after the war, despite lack of materials, supplies, and labor. Near the memorial, in an underground chamber, is a crypt for many soldiers who died in the Bastogne fighting. The chapel is separated into three walls for the three faiths buried there, each marked with a different tile mosaic. The crypt had the calm feeling of a great cathedral, and I truly hope the soldiers buried there are in heaven.

Continuing on with our busy day, we traveled a little outside of town to see the East Company’s actual fox holes, looking out across enemy lines. The actual depressions in the earth they crouched in were unimaginably small, and would have been cramped, cold, and fear-filled, knowing a German soldier with a machine gun might be sniping at you or charging your lines at any time.

After our brush with a combat situation, we stopped at German cemetery – again, endless markers, but inside a more countryside stone gate, covered by weeping willows, the grass darker in the shade. There was also a chapel in this cemetery – it was again, smaller than the American cemetery in France, the stone darker, and the décor less gilded and grand – but beautiful and heartbreaking in their way. The stone markers that carpeted the grass were again crosses, though they marked two deaths per headstone. There are over 9,000 soldiers buried in the graveyard. At the back of the cemetery are four crosses honoring those whose remains could not be indentified.

The first headstone my group approached two men who were only 18. Should I have been either of the men (as with the WWII museum), I would have already been dead, with no chance at a career or a family. One of the caretakers told us that a German youth group comes to the cemetery every summer to tend to the grounds – it makes me feel like the soldiers all less alone, away from home.

In addition the German causalities, 7,901 American GI’s are buried around the village. In the chapel, there is a small bell that an American GI picked up after a church bombing in the area in 1944. In 1984, the GI brought the bell back to the chapel at the cemetery, where it and his ashes (by special request) now reside.

The scenery here is much like Ireland, but yet so different – I think much of the difference lies in lighter foliage and more sun. When I look at an Irish landscape, it calls to mind mysteries and myths; Belgium seems more like a tidy, welcoming, little village. The way the forests blend straight into meadows and houses is startling; they just stop in a straight line to reveal perfectly cut fields that roll on and on through the hilly countryside, dotted by creeks and stone farmhouses with bright flower boxes under picturesque windows.

I also recommend Belgian pomme frites, though they will look at you strangely if you request ketchup. All you really need is a little mayonnaise. In the food vein, I felt very weird in Belgium, as it is so famous for chocolate, which I can’t stand.

Currently watching: First 48 on A&E – Forensic Files on TruTV. Listening: Paul Simon, The Band, Neil Diamond

PARIS PART II - JUNE 24 2009

I cannot say enough about Paris! It’s amazing beyond all my expectations, lofty as they were. When I was sitting on the steps to the Sacred Heart Basilica under a comfortably warm sun, listening to the street musicians and soaking up a bit of sun, I was perfectly content. I could actually see myself living here sometime in the future.

Here’s an alternate view of how I felt sitting on those warm steps, surrounded by movement, history, laughter, and light:

“It was one of those moments when the universe stops.
A feeling of content tranquility,
coupled with a satisfied understanding.
A moment of unity and peace with the world."
Rarely does the clichéd notion of inner peace enter my life – I find myself immersed in a world of impersonality and coldness in humanity that I cannot comprehend, and so I retreat into silence or sarcastic remarks as an unjustified, but effective, defense. Jaded though I am at my ancient 18, never will the day I felt absolute, complete, contentment of my being, my moment of “satisfied understanding,” of “peace and unity with the world,” leave my consciousness, nor will I ever stop striving to be able to return to that place, time of day, season, and emotion, to relive it. [This is merely a preface; it doesn’t necessarily need to be included with it in the future.]
Underneath the golden and soothingly warm Paris sunshine, I reclined in a world simply otherworldly – a city of lights and sounds unfamiliar and glorious in their novelty and continuity - the bustle and tussle of a great city of the ages at my feet. Sitting on the straight and narrowed steps outside of Basilique du Sacre-Coeur, who stood proud and graceful and reaching out like the most touching and heart-breaking of starkly white marble Mother Mary statues, I felt a spirituality completely cut off from religion, from order, from control. I felt flooded with contentment, a longing to never leave my cement step spot, to sit forever on that great hill of artists and musicians and critics and thinkers and simply people who are – who sit outside cafes with espresso and chocolate and cigarettes and read poetry, who remember the good days, who sit with old friends, who cradle their new child, and are therefore great -a place woven from history and culture and enlightenment, a place sincerely devoid of superficiality and condescension and judgment and of time management, of profession, or class, and watch the late afternoon fade with brilliant pinks and blues and stripes of gold across a crisp sky into sunset with a flourish again and again over palace and apartment building, boulangerie and cafe, in a dreamy déjà vu that captivated my soul.”

Our first activity of the day, after a traditionally wonderful French breakfast, was a coach tour around the sprawling city. Our tour guide was very friendly and sweet, knowledgeable about Paris and able to recreate history with a bit of flair. The tour also gave me some orientation to the geography and city layout. Paris has 20 districts, with #1 in the center and the rest spreading out in a circular fashion from there. The city is further separated into the West and East back of the Seine (bringing us the Latin Quarter) and the island where Notre Dame rests. Each of the aforementioned districts has a specialty product of service - some sell musical instruments, and the Latin Quarter, for instance, sells books. We drove by the endless stalls of tattered books by the side of the road - I could feel their dog-eared pages of want, love, lust, hate, worth, thought, death, failure, history, triumph - endless emotions calling out to me in the irresistible cover of a old French book. Some stalls even had classic records and other rare collectibles. There are also 60 green foundations built around the city - they were constructed by a militant anti-alcohol activist who though Parisians drank too much wine. They a;so have a program placing grey, basketed bikes, about 8-10 to a rack, around the city for people to rent temporarily and get around for small errands.

Notably, we passed the Sorbonne, a university I have often considered in my lists of places-I-will-never-get-into-and-cannot-afford. Just passing by the perfectly Parisian philosopher building was gratifying enough, until I leave ASU at least. Our tour guide mentioned some students were preparing for or taking “le bac,” a much harder version of our SAT that dictates college entrance. I decry the US’s education system for something more European – tests at the 8^th grade level for trade school, an equivalent of an associate’s degree of for university studies.

We drove around many monuments, learning Louis XIV’s nickname was the Sun King for his use of gold and sun symbols in his palaces and commissioned artwork. The word boulevard comes from the horse chestnut trees (or boule verts) that line the streets throughout Paris, providing shade and a bit of green to the historic city. The Rivier Seine, which we had gotten a great view of at the Eiffel Tower, is pronounced “sin.” This revelation came after one of the delegates mispronounced it. And how can I forget driving by (yes, only driving) Notre Dame cathedral. The size of the stained glass window in the wondrous church defies classification – the building took almost two centuries to build, starting gin 1163. We also drove through the Concorde Square (Place de la Concorde), the site of the revolutionary guillotine after monarchs had enjoyed public executions there. (Further info courtesy http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Place_de_la_Concorde). Le Musee de Louvre, which we would visit later, was originally built as a battlement to protect Paris. After a king was murdered in the building, his queen commissioned a new palace, the Luxembourg Palace, with accompanying gardens.

We were able to get out the coach at the gardens, a green carpet dotted with trees, shrubs, flowerbeds, statues, tennis and volleyball courts, and crepe stands. We took an all-too-short walk around the nearest pat of the gardens, stopping briefly to admire the palace itself. The tour guide mentioned that the gardens was a favorite sport of Ernest Hemingway's during his time in Paris - he could catch pigeons to eat, evidently. I certainly wish I could have sat in the park day after a day and wrote a novel or two. One of my fellow delegates and I then got to experience something new – a pay-per-use bathroom. This was a completely foreign concept to me, but is common in Paris (we again saw this same idea in the shopping mall outside the Louvre). The restrooms near the Louvre, however, were much more lose than the ones I used at the park (I heard this second-hand). Evidently, they have different colors of toilet seats, tissue paper, and other amenities you can use – for a fee, of course.

After lunch, we pressed on towards the grandfather of all art collections/museums/spaces filled with people – the Louvre. We navigated through the colossal space (which would take about two months to see in its entirety) by a treasure hunt of sorts. We were split into 4 groups, and then visited a certain number of the most famous attractions in the museum. Our first stop was Nike, the winged victory statue that the Nike brand based their logo off of – the curve of her left wing, to be exact. Next was the largest painting in the museum’s collection as far as I could tell, the Consecration of the Emperor Napoleon I and Coronation of the Empress Josephine in the Cathedral of Notre-Dame de Paris on 2 Dec 1804 by Jacques-Louis David. Our hunt papers also included interesting facts about some of the artwork – in Coronation, Napoleon is shown on steps to make him look taller than his court. Apollo’s gallery followed, with the strange in its accuracy Venus de Milo, a statue of lovely Aphrodite. We went on through the endless corridors (which are not air conditioned in consideration of the art. Some pieces are so delicate they must be in temperature-controlled glass cases).

We next located the room that housed Liberty Leading the People by Delacroix, a very stirring painting of the aftermath of a bloody battle. You can see it here: http://www.louvre.fr/llv/oeuvres/detail_notice_popup.jsp?CONTENT<>cnt_id=10134198673237674&CURRENT_LLV_NOTICE<>cnt_id=10134198673237674&FOLDER<>folder_id=9852723696500815&bmLocale=en

The last of the paintings we hurriedly viewed was the illustrious Mona Lisa. On a wall by herself, dwarfed by the huge painting she faces and the constant 10 person deep crown that enveloped her viewing area, she sits calmly. So calmly, in fact, it is disconcerting. I will attest that her eyes do really follow your movements around the room, and something about her almost-curled-into-a-smile lips give you the air of humor and intelligence far beyond he regular measure of a piece of canvas. As captivating as Da Vinci’s woman was, I really enjoyed walking through the bowels of the palace, seeing pieces of the original Louvre castle, intermixed with cool, underground rooms of Egyptian antiquity – a modern day pyramid in the middle of Paris. Maybe the Egyptian mystique that seems to crop up often in Paris draws me even more strongly to it.

Our last stop in our altogether short time in the museum was the room housing the former French crown jewels. Much like still royal English Crown Jewels, they are unbelievably sparkly and containing large amounts of mind-bogglingly large gems. Also, much like the other set, they were mostly gotten by conquest and brutality – that does take away some of their grandeur. The jewels and some other artifacts were in the rooms decorated by Louis XIV in accordance with his Sun King nickname. He had suns displayed prominently in the décor, along with astrological symbols. These rooms in particular featured, carved, painted, and gilded ceilings, which captivated one’s attention so much one might bump into innocent Frenchman and benches. Even now that I’m back home trying to write all these entries, I can’t imagine the time and effort that were put into just one of the many masterpieces inside. Some took lifetimes.

As I mentioned, outside of the museum entrance is a shopping mall of sorts. The center court showcases the beautiful glass pyramid, which hangs down as well as pushes up through the ground. The lighting from this interesting fixture is intense, bright enough to illuminate almost the whole mall. Many stores in the shopping center were very upscale, though some were recognizable, like Virgin Megastore. I thought I might snag a French newspaper there, but no luck.

After our art culture shock, we went to Bistro L’eorin. I felt so uptown, sitting outside at the little bistro, sipping out ice water from crystal wine glasses, delicately picking at our escargot (delicious) and frog legs (unfortunately the taste and consistency of overly cooked chicken).

One cultural cliché is the flowers in windowsills in France – alas, it is true. Also, we saw more than one lady or gentleman with a fresh baguette in a large paper sack on their way home. Further, French keyboards (and also keyboards in the Netherlands) are laid out in a different arrangement than US or UK boards, causing typing mayhem, as my emails to Mom during this period will attest.

Back in my journal, I mourned our passing of the Musee D’Orsay, full of my favorite artist, Van Gogh. I'm also sad we didn't explore the catacombs, as they are now closed due to vandalism.

PARIS - JUNE 23 2009

*I took these pictures.

The next morning we were finally driving into Paris! I had taken three years of French in high school, and loved the language, the culture, the food, and the literature. Like London, traffic into the city was a veritable snarl, and took quite a while to get through. On our ride, I mostly remember Taylor and I listening to the radio on the coach and hearing the announcer say “Le Rolling Stones.” I can’t imagine why they didn’t just translate the group’s name.

Once inside Paris proper, we took a drive around the roundabout surrounded the Arc de Triomphe – truly a near-death experience. Once we got in the inside lane, I was certain I would never make out alive. Somehow we did make it out alive. The roundabout was the world’s first. We continued down the main avenues towards the Champs-Elysees, Paris’ main shopping district. Some people compare it to Rodeo Drive or 5^th Avenue – I think it surpasses both. There were high-end stores for brands I had never heard of, and brands I don’t think make enough products to fill a store, no matter how small. Unbelievably, the say we were in Paris was a major sale day, and we were still not allowed out of the coach. I was half-expecting a mutiny from the girls on the trip.

We passed other places on our drive around Paris to get to different areas – in front of many of the monuments and museums, there were peaceful protestors. One a square just outside of the Eiffel though, there was a rambunctious group of Iranian protestors, waving flags and seemingly threatening to get violent through body language. It was a sad sight – more conflict and possible violence against repression and violence.

We were able to get off for a short walk around the Arc, which I found very nice. The weather was much warmer than the other places we had been so far, feeling much more at home for me. The Arc is a terribly imposing structure once one is standing under it – it is covered with huge carvings of Napoleon (who built the Arc as homage to himself, and who the French are still very fond of), various other generals and commanders. Tales of great battles are also inscribed into the monument.

One thing that was rather disconcerting about our stop was the many street vendors. We were warned many times by our leaders to avoid their small mats and various plastics wares – not only were they selling cheap junk, they might become combative or try thievery. I did, consequently, look at them with a rather suspicious eye.

We had a wonderful lunch somewhere in the city – I’m pretty sure everything from the café we went to would have tasted heavenly. The mushroom and herb chicken was perfectly cooked (you could cut if with your fork) and sauced, the dessert of heavy crème on top of fresh strawberry parfait sweet, vegetables warm and flavorful, same for the bread.

After our very filling lunch, we hopped back on the coach for the ultimate French landmark – the Eiffel Tower, or La Tour Eiffel, or Der Eiffel Turm (German). Built for the 1899’s World’s Fair by Gustave Eiffel, the French people at first objected to the monument construction and its perceived mar on their view and skyline, to be torn down after the conclusion of the event. The tower is 324 meters tall and weighs over 10,000 tons. Present day is a much different story. The French now adore the tower, insistent that it remains a permanent part of their city. I can certainly understand why – it has a majestic beauty, proving the prowess of human intelligence, design, and architecture. The tower looks remarkably different from different angles on the ground and we had plenty of time to contemplate and photograph it while waiting for our tickets. We also snuck in a moment for some melty vanilla ice cream.

The entire trip up the tower, using a series of elevators and staying with the entire group, took about four hours. The experience of making it to the top was completely worth it – the view was unbelievable, with the windows telling you what directions and countries you were looking at. Since we spent so much time snaking through lines to the top, we had to run down the stairs (yes, run, and the stairs were endless) from the top of the tower to the very bottom. Even scarier than that much physical exertion was how the tower visibly swayed in the wind as we got closer to the top – I was not altogether heartbroken we got off it.

In addition to the street vendors, we were told to stay away from the Gypsies that live and, work, I suppose, around the major tourist attractions, Coincidentally, we stayed in a hotel near the Gypsy encampment in Paris, a large area of lean-to’s and trucks with campers underneath a freeway underpass. I can understand some people dislike their choice of a living (begging and stealing instead of working a self-supporting job), but I think some sympathy should be given to a people looked down upon for their ethnicity, and who grew up in an environment that supports propagating the lifestyle. We saw a few Gypsies by the Eiffel Tower – they tried to sell us something, but we told them no and they simply walked away. They were all women or small children – I held my purse close, but I felt no physical danger.

Another flashback – the outskirts of the city’s downtown are many ornate, old school apartment buildings. Some of the city’s residents tried to warm me against high prices, but I still occasionally dream about living there in s sunny flat.

Another interesting highlight of the day was going into the underground Metro system. We weren’t allowed to ride the actual trains, but walking underground from station to station avoids the dangers of crossing streets, etc. We were walking briskly, to say the least, and were still being passed by wafer-thin Parisian girls in sky-high stilettos.

Dinner after the tour was once again exquisite, though we got lost a few times before finally finding the restaurant, tucked away in an office park. Le Cordon Blu avec le poulet, “potato chips,” and crème brulee, which I had never had before but am now in love with. A perfect storm of sweetness and more sugar. French cooking is not overrated. And when we got back to the hotel, I tried my first Oragina – basically a perfect mixture of Sprite and orange juice in one bottle.

But while we got lost on our way to dinner, we passed by a huge concert venue and the poster for Depeche Mode was up. I MISSED MY FAVORITE BAND IN MY FAVOIRTE CITY. Sigh. Another sign announced Leonard Cohen would soon be there – another concert I would have died to go to.

A few observations about French culture:

The public bathrooms are much less private than in the US. One restaurant had only a half-wall between the girl’s sink and men’s urinal, which made all the delegates a little uncomfortably. Getting us all in and out of the bathroom was a feat everyplace we went, anyways.

I also found it a bit funny that the US always makes such a big deal out of free speech, yet the first thing we saw on a Paris street once we hopped out of the coach were hardcore porn mags displayed on the outside of a magazine stand. The TV and radio are also uncensored. I am always a supporter of the less censorship the better, but people have different comfort levels.

Another random thing I wondered while in Paris but also London and Dublin – How do they keep all those bloody white granite and marble statues clean!?! If that’s a job, best job ever.

I also think this was about the time it actually began to sink in that we were actually in Europe, and we would have to leave soon.

A song by a Parisian band, ironically named Phoenix makes me think of my Paris trip.

On the subject of music in France, this site has music from cities around the world, including Paris, London, and Amsterdam: http://citysounds.fm/

NORMANDY - FRANCE JUNE 22 2009

Today started in an extremely unusual way. Unbeknownst to any of the students (and I daresay the leaders), ship wide music piped into every room at 4:45 AM sharp. There was, despite much wall banging, no button to turn the annoying music and stewardess voice off. After a hurried morning run around, we all arrived in an upstairs lounge until the ship docked. We gathered our luggage and got off the ship into the cold morning air.

Our first stop of a day focusing on WWII was Normandy. We drove into the small city, on the first double-decker bus I have ever been in (though I expected to see them in England). Once in the town, we went to Le Memorial de Caen Museum. Outside of the building, the following words are engraved: “Grief had wrecked me; my brothers roused me from my ruins, and freedom gushed out of my wounds.” The main exhibit was a literal spiral down a concrete ramp, showing the downgrade from the roaring 1920’s into the Great Depression and finally to the dangerous appeal of fascism in some European nations, such as Germany. Father into the exhibit, the lights became dimmer as more and more Nazi atrocities were displayed, until arrival into the victory room, showcasing many military tactics and vehicles.

I have taken a few honors history courses, but we never got too much war history. I learned a huge amount about WWII that day. We watched a poignant film about the Battle of Britain, where the German air force of more than 1400 fighter pilots and bombers faced off against a desperate force of 700 or so fighters with mostly young pilots. Another exhibit dealt with France’s “Phony War” before they capitulated to Nazi rule. Marshall Penn controlled half of the country, and German forces occupied the other half.

Another exhibit had to do solely with the human atrocities carried out by the Nazis, and it was tough. In one very graphic picture, a 17-year-old German-Jewish girl was being publicly hanged. If I had been that girl, I would have never seen 18, or Europe. Or college. Reading her age was like a sucker punch to the stomach. Another room had a recorded Hitler rally – his very voice has enough evil in its undertones to make you shiver. I cannot fathom how one human body held so much evil; a being so filled depravity he could bring new pain and hurt to a world already suffering under hundreds of years of torment from wars, starvation, racism, poverty.

Post-museum, we headed out to the actual beaches where the D-Day invasion, or Operation Overlord, occurred. We went to Omaha beach, which saw the most causalities. We also climbed over some of the trenches and huge anti-aircraft guns dug into the ground overlooking the steep cliffs. On other parts of the beach, people were sunbathing and swimming, much like any other beach on a summer day. All I imagine was the water red with blood from the men who died protecting their freedom to sit on those beaches in peace and equality.

After two stops at highly emotional and sobering sights, the most painful was left for last. We finished our day at the American Memorial Cemetery in Normandy. The cemetery is the only military one without the traditional round marker – there is instead a sea of white crosses, so still they seem like a field of wildflowers without a breeze. I was told there are more than 9,000 graves. A large gate opens into a greenery-surrounded path into the cemetery proper. Upon entering, the crosses stretch out directly in front of you, with the cliffs off in the distance, the water glinting in the sun. To the right is a large memorial sculpture reminiscent of the White House, with murals depicting the many bloody battle of WWII. In the center of the plaza structure was a special area with statues and a place for us to put a wreath in honor of the fallen soldiers. Taps was played over the loudspeakers as we stood there, and I could feel the iciness of almost a whole generation lost, in my heart.

I know my dad and grandfather would have loved to be able to see this memorial – my grandfather served in the states and my father followed with a voracious appetite for military history. Indeed, both of my grandfathers served, so it was very disconcerting knowing that if they would have been deployed on their mission, I could have been standing near their graves. Even so, each man WAS someone’s father, brother, son, cousin, nephew, friend.

The plaza area also has a time capsule buried under it, dedicated to President Eisenhower. It contains information on the D-Day invasion and will be opened on June 6^th, 2044.

Behind the plaza is another small garden with a wall that wraps around it, stretching for what must be 100 feet. The way, much like the traveling Vietnam Memorial, it covered with inscribed names – they are, in this case, names of those missing in action. In the midst of graves, near what must have been the center, there was a chapel. Simple on the exterior with white columns, it was ornate inside. In addition to full church regalia, there was a mural depicting soldiers traveling from America to France, and France giving back the dead soldiers with prayers of hope.

We then walked the cemetery in groups there was almost nowhere to tread but over the corners of graves in places; I fancied the earth felt firmer over their metal caskets than elsewhere. Before we stepped out, one of the cemetery’s caretakers showed us some of the more notable graves.

The cemetery contains all American citizens except for two Mexicans and two British soldiers who fought with the Americans. There are three recipients of the Medal of Honor on the cemetery – one of them is Theodore Roosevelt Jr. He earned his metal by leading his troops to safety through the chaos on Utah beach. We also saw the graves of two brothers (one died June 6, the other June 7). A third brother was MIA and presumed dead until found after the war as a POW. A fourth brother was stopped en route to France because of the unbelievably heavy toll his family had already suffered for the war.

One thing we found curios was the omission of a D.O.B. on the grave markers. One of the caretakers explained the omission was due to one of two reasons. The official was that the army thought people would feel more sorry for the younger soldiers, which would be unfair. The actual issue was the dates would be horrifying – some soldiers faked papers to enlist and were as young as 15 at their death.

I must say is struck me rather hard that there weren’t flowers at every grave. Obviously some men have no ore family; some can’t afford the trip; etc. At the time, I sketched some ideas about starting a small effort to purchase and place a flower on every grave once a year, maybe on the anniversary of D-Day. If anyone reading this would like to help, please let me know.

In order to convey some of feelings about the gravity of what I saw this day, I will quote directly from my journal at this point:

All of today has been so hard-hitting and historical. It’s heartbreaking to see this much death. War should never be fought – no one ever gains anything from it but more death, and pain. As I look around, I really hope that regardless of outward appearance of the other delegates (students), they are taking the level of destruction (the craters we saw, burned into the ground on Omaha beach) quite seriously, and will use all the means available to them now and in the future to prevent war. They will do everything to promote peace, cultured understanding, respect, and harmony.

That night, I stayed in a room with Marissa, a friendly girl who agreed to braid my then quite short hair. She turned on her music and began to read a book, and I continued to chronicle. I wrote about how the middle school group, which did the trip in the reverse order as we did, had warned us the hotel in Belgium was “scary.” It was actually a hostel, and not scary at all. I also wrote about my wish that we had also been able to go to Germany, Austria, and Hungary because it seems that countries are so close together in Europe. Next, I took the opportunity to make a family souvenir checklist, as many people wanted something from France.

After listing, I wrote some practice French on hot to order a sugar and butter crepe (Une crepe avec le sucre et le berr, sil vous plait). I thought about the daunting ten-hour flight we had to look forward to after Amsterdam. I then discussed the childish drama that some of the students engaged in, such as making crude jokes about the French people’s supposed refusal to use perfume or deodorant. Near the end of the trip, their antics really began to grate on my nerves.

Next was a small rage about the lack of seafood when we have mainly been on coastline or islands. Finally, I recorded my joy at receiving a greeting card from my mom, and of course how I missed her.

I was also super-excited to go to Paris, of course.