Jagger is a LIAR!

Whoever said time is “on their side” never saw that semi coming. Time is not on our side. Be it moving too fast or too slow, time is the enemy of all things. Here it is: the end of Fevrier and I find myself floating somewhere between the end of the beginning and the beginning of the end of my stay abroad. As with all séjours, they never last as long as we want, or, in the case of the Donner Party, they cannot end soon enough. “Where do I fall?” Dunno. My time here has been wonderful. A much-needed respite from “real life,” France has taught me a few lessons—none of which I want to share with any of you. And not from knowing I can do something (such as this year) without said family and friends, but because I know I want to, I am liberated. I want nothing to do with the life that awaits me in the States. I do not want to escape it completely—I am not so naïve that I think I could. I just don’t want to continue on the path in front of me—not that I have any idea where it leads.
There are, however, some roadblocks I cannot help but see on the horizon: My education has forced my into an obscene amount of debt (the most vile of all 4 letter words) waiting to be paid off, seeing…people for the first time back*, narrating the same slide shows over and over again, and let us not forget, graduation and the final nail in the coffin of my youth. No, time is not on my side, for as long as time continues with its sadism, these are all inevitables I must face. And I can. I just don’t want to.
France, or rather, Europe has been great. I want to keep moving east and have the feeling I won’t be content to return to Washington until I must do so by crossing the Pacific. There is still so much I want to see and do. Thankfully, I am not one of the many students here who see this as my one opportunity. As I sit here eating my Asterix (lemon) and Obelix (strawberry) PEZ**, I am keenly aware that “I’ll be back.” I know I don’t have to shove all of Europe into my backpack this one trip. I have all the time in the world… Oh Shit! SEMI!
Or so goes irony. If you haven’t met her, she’s a bitch.
Yes, at the moment, that is where I lie. I am happy to relax and enjoy the pace of my “life” in France for now, knowing that I can spend my life doing those things I have always yearned to do (and fear not, I am of the cloth who actually goes out and does them) if I have the time. What if I don’t have the time? A semi’s trailer can be filled with worse things than death. Pregnancy, for example; Prince Charming, or perhaps more debt leading to criminal and otherwise unethical behavior, a desk job followed by suburban bliss (say it ain’t so), et cetera.
School ends in May. If all goes according to plan, I return to the States in August. There, I will finish my bachelor’s, consolidate my loans at a less-than-enviable interest rate, and sell my all of possessions to buy a ticket for the jet plane I’ll be leaving on. Wish me luck, eh?
And at the rate I’m going, I won’t have even finished telling my tales of Christmas vacation by then. “ARGH!” she screams as she strangles herself with the completely useless USB cable “connecting” her computer to the Internet.


*or ever again for that matter. There are certainly people I have not missed. The constant blather of certains, the over affection or lack thereof from others. No, I have not missed many people.
** I haven’t had anything to eat since noon, but as it is after 22:30, I am not in the mood to eat. Just snack. On PEZ.

Thanks Bobby! I LOVE the Muppets.

You Are Dr. Bunsen Honeydew

You take the title "mad scientist" to the extreme -with very scary things coming out of your lab. And you've invented some pretty cool things, from a banana sharpener to a robot politician. But while you're busy turning gold into cottage cheese, you need to watch out for poor little Beaker! "Oh, that's very naughty, Beaker! Now you eat these paper clips this minute."

The Muppet Personality Test

Tick, Tick, Tick

Just wanted to let everyone know I am alive and ticking. Just finished the first week of classes, and "boy, are my arms tired."
Have much, much, much more to post on Munich and the rest of my trip, but, per usual, computers on campus are not working and they keep kicking us out of the student union to make room for private parties-- no students allowed. God Bless the French. The following is a list of...well, see for yourself:

France has neither winter nor summer nor morals. Apart from these
drawbacks it is a fine country. France has usually been governed by
prostitutes." Mark Twain.

"I would rather have a German division in front of me than a French one
behind me." General George S. Patton.

"Going to war without France is like going deer hunting without your
accordion."
Norman Schwartzkopf.

"We can stand here like the French, or we can do something about it."
Marge Simpson

"As far as I'm concerned, war always means failure." Jacques Chirac,
President of France.

"As far as France is concerned, you're right." Rush Limbaugh

"The only time France wants us to go to war is when the German Army is
sitting in Paris sipping coffee." Regis Philbin.

"The French are a smallish, monkey-looking bunch and not dressed any
better, on average, than the citizens of Baltimore. True, you can sit
outside in Paris and drink little cups of coffee, but why this is more
stylish than sitting inside and drinking large glasses of whisky I don't
know."
P.J O Rourke (1989).

"You know, the French remind me a little bit of an aging actress of the
1940s who was still trying to dine out on her looks but doesn't have the
face for it."
John McCain, U.S. Senator from Arizona.

"You know why the French don't want to bomb Saddam Hussein? Because he
hates America, he loves mistresses and wears a beret. He is French,
people."
Conan O'Brien

"I don't know why people are surprised that France won't help us get
Saddam out of Iraq. After all, France wouldn't help us get Hitler out of
France either." Jay Leno.

"The last time the French asked for 'more proof' it came marching into
Paris under a German flag." David Letterman

Only thing worse than a Frenchman is a Frenchman who lives in Canada.
Ted Nugent.

War without France would be like...uh...World War II.

"The favorite bumper sticker in Washington D.C. right now is one that
says First Iraq, then France.'" Tom Brokaw.

"What do you expect from a culture and a nation that exerted more of its
national will fighting against DisneyWorld and Big Macs than the Nazis?"
Dennis Miller.

"It is important to remember that the French have always been there when
they needed us." Alan Kent

"They've taken their own precautions against al-Qa'ida. To prepare for
an attack, each Frenchman is urged to keep duct tape, a white flag, and
a three-day supply of mistresses in the house." Argus Hamilton

"Somebody was telling me about the French Army rifle that was being
advertised on eBay the other day -- the description was, 'Never shot.
Dropped once.'" Rep. Roy Blunt (MO)

"The French will only agree to go to war when we've proven we've found
truffles in Iraq." Dennis Miller

Raise your right hand if you like the French...Raise both hands if you
are French.

Q. What did the mayor of Paris say to the German Army as they entered
the city in WWII? A. Table for 100,000 m'sieur?

"Do you know how many Frenchmen it takes to defend Paris? It's not
known, it ' s never been tried." Rep. R. Blount (MO)

"Do you know it only took Germany three days to conquer France in WWII?
And that's because it was raining." John Xereas, Manager, DC Improv.

The AP and UPI reported that the French Government announced after the
London bombings that it has raised its terror alert level from Run to
Hide. The only two higher levels in France are Surrender and
Collaborate. The rise in the alert level was precipitated by a recent
fire which destroyed France ' s white flag factory, effectively
disabling their military.

French Ban Fireworks at Euro Disney (AP), Paris, March 5, 2003 The
French Government announced today that it is imposing a ban on the use
of fireworks at Euro Disney. The decision comes the day after a nightly
fireworks display at the park, located just 30 miles outside of Paris,
caused the soldiers at a nearby French Army garrison to surrender to a
group of Czech tourists.

The Day After

Under the impression everything had been shut down for the last few days, Sunday brought with it a new understanding of holiday. Nothing was open. Trains stations(!), all stores, all restaurants not connected to a hotel—everything. I wandered around town (yes, the same town, the same few ancient blocks, the same few ancient churches [also closed). One might say this was simply poor planning on my part—at least, that is what I would say. I couldn’t even take a day trip anywhere; I had no way of buying a ticket. After lunch at the one kebab stand in town, I headed back to my room for a warm snuggle in my bed, and a few German-dubbed movies.
When all of a sudden, the phone rang…

A Tall Man

My grandfather is the third relative to have passed away since I arrived in Europe. I have not been able to return home for anyone’s services, and I was not able to do so for Poppy’s. I spent the rest of the day and night trying to find a flight cheaper than 3200 euros (roundtrip), and how I might return to Caen before returning to the States, but it was not meant to be. Even after some extended searching the next day (to no avail), I still had my heart set on returning home.
For the first time since May, I wanted to be home. I wanted to see my mommy, my sisters, and brother. I didn’t want to see my grandma; I didn’t want to see her crying, or watch as she buried her partner and best friend of 60 years. But, I wanted to be there for her, to let her know how much he meant to me, and how much I loved and supported her.


Poppy was a war veteran. He fought in Japan during WWII. He was a carpenter, farmer, and cowboy. He continued to break horses well into his 60’s, and loved to tinker with antique farm equipment. He taught me how to play—or rather cheat at cards, and always managed to swindle me out of any candy I happened to have. He loved the Seattle Mariners, and—should there be a game on, always insisted we watched it over anything else (he also had a thing for Dr. Quinn). Poppy was the only relation as tall as I. He loved my height, but always greeted me with a hug, and a quick measure to make sure he was still taller. He loved my mother’s meatloaf, and ate a grilled cheese sandwich everyday for lunch.
He was laid to rest—against his wishes (he wanted to be cremated, Mimi insisted he be buried), at a veteran’s cemetery in Idaho. The service included a 21-gun salute and flag folding ceremony. Several of my white-trash cousins didn’t show. We have yet to decide if that was disrespectful or simply for the best.


When I finally accepted the fact that I would not be going home, I curled up on my bed and cried for a few hours. But, as I had to be in Munich that night, I dutifully gathered my belongings and headed for the Bavarian capital.

Christmas Day

I was joined by Megan and Michael from Australia, and Mayumi from Japan (incidentally, all of them live in the UK). They were all part of the group of us that went out my last night in Nuremburg. I had invited them all to join me, as we were all traveling alone, and had nowhere special to be on Christmas Day. They met me as I walked out of my hotel’s dining room where I had just finished breakfast. We dropped some stuff off in my room, and went to explore the city. It is exactly like how every brochure and guide has ever said it is: old, charming, colorful, authentic. Unfortunately, everything was closed for Christmas. We walked around the old walls, explored a few small streets; and found a Schneeball* shop that was actually open, so we went in to see what the fuss was all about.
Lunch—for me, was potato dumplings, schnitzel, and a cup of potato soup at a small (couldn’t have sat more than 20 people) restaurant offering Christmas specials for 5.50 euros. I didn’t get the name of the joint, but it was run by a young couple (both of whose waists were bigger than the bar); very quaint atmosphere, with great prices for good local cuisine.
A few souvenir shops were open, and although I didn’t buy anything that day, we all stole handmade ornaments from various trees poised in the church squares and around town. I got a wooden Santa head complete with beard and hat.
Wparted ways around two in the afternoon. It is, for me, always awkward to say good-bye to people with whom, while we’ve only just met, I have bonded and share new memories. I often opt for the friendly, but quick and wide-berthed hug. Handshakes are too impersonal, cheek kisses too pretentious, and what else is there, really? I will probably never see most of these people again. If I like them enough, I’ll get their e-mail and maybe even tell them about Serena-Abroad.com, but most likely, I’ll never see (or hear from) them again.
On my way back to the hotel, I decided to pay the 4 euros admission into the Christmas Museum in the center of town. It is above a giant Christmas store, and an actual museum with antiquities, dedicated to the history of Christmas and its conservation. It’s small, but worth the 4 euros.
After a nap and a few hours of American movies dubbed in German (Long Kiss Goodnight, Ski Patrol, 48 Hours, etc.), I put on every layer of clothing I had with me, and joined a torch-lit tour of the ancient city.
Sadly, much like the petite ballad I went on in Auvergne, this was nothing like the brochure. It is not a tour of the city, but a hike-ish type excursion, into the dark, surrounding countryside. Everybody gets their own torch** and nobody can see beyond their own torches’ light. We were an angry mob storming the castle/village. And by ‘an angry mob,’ I mean Burberry- and fur-clad, middle-aged tourists and their bored-out-of-their-skulls teenage children. There was a guide, but no tour as there was nothing to see. Black forests and the occasional car. All alone, I began eavesdropping on groups around me. An American couple with two teenage boys were playing a creepily intimate game of “Grosser than Gross” and “Would you rather…,” and a giggly French couple made out while walking the narrow path—almost setting me and several others on fire.
Halfway down the trail, the group is led to a clearing with a giant bonfire in the middle. Gluwheine and cookies are served, and two men—dressed as medieval night watchmen, no less—sing Christmas carols. I whipped out my cell phone and played games for the show. When we finally started back, I was given a new torch, and with it, endless hours of pyro-maniacal fun.
The tour costs 6 euros and lasts a little longer than 2 hours. Don’t waste your money. The countryside is ONLY seen in the daylight, and as much as I enjoyed the torches, you can stick a sock in a bottle of wine, light it on fire, and walk around in the dark for free… on your own.




*A schnee ball tastes a bit like what I imagine a mothball would taste like, covered in chocolate, caramel, wrapped in sugar, or perhaps filled with Marzipan. Rarely have I put something in my mouth so big, and so unfortunately bad tasting (but really, does that say more about me or the company I keep?). Strips of dough (think pie crust dough without any sugar [read: flavor) are wrapped around each other to form the schneeball, once it has reached the desired circumference , it is baked, then the outer layer—and only the outer layer is dipped, glazed, dusted. Schneeballs start around 2.50 euros, and are available on every corner in Rothenburg. Avoid them at all costs.


**Who knew torches bring instant fun. Have a party that’s a pooper? Bring out the torches. Saddened by a recent loss? Run around the block with a torch. Not only will your recent loss excuse such eccentricity in the sight of neighbors, pretending to carry the Olympic Torch through the ‘burbs is just as fun as it sounds…er, um… I assume?

A Feast for the Princess that I am

Chirstmas Eve—not Christmas Day, in Germany is the big day of celebration, and that night, my hotel was only serving guests a special holiday meal—nothing à la carte nor room service (as they were running a skeleton crew).
Now, this backpacker brings only essentials when traveling the world, and when traveling by myself, I don’t go places that necessitate nice clothing. Thankfully, I was able to dress up jeans and a black t-shirt with a corduroy blazer, scarf, and a pair of burgundy kitten-heeled ballet slippers I had just bought in Berlin. It wasn’t anything like the fur and leather* on display in the dining room, but was much better than my soon to be retired Pumas. Alone, I was hopping for a small table in a back corner, or perhaps, at a table of other mish-mash diners: I was seated at my own booth in the dead center of the dining room. Now, I have an amazing ability to completely zone out, and move into my own little world, but warding off stares from fellow diners proved too difficult, and I was not able to enjoy myself as much as I would’ve liked. So, I ordered a carafe of wine J.
Then, as if the evening had not been humiliating enough, the host asked me if I wouldn’t mind sharing my table with a few late-to-check-in guests. “Sure,” I grumbled drinking more wine. Enter a young Japanese couple. He spoke English and she understood it, and we exchanged a few pleasantries. Overhearing from the next table, a middle-aged Irish couple joined in, and the five of us passed the rest of the remaining two courses making fun of the French (regardless of the fact that there was a French couple sitting right behind me), and how, for the Japanese, at Christmastime, it is tradition to eat Kentucky Fried Chicken. *shrug* Richard and Mary (the Irish couple) live near the Black Forest while she finishes her doctorate in German History. They were affable and offered me lots of tips on Rothenburg and the surrounding area (they spend every Christmas here). I will see them several times throughout the next several days.
The 5-course dinner, 35 centiliters of the house red, and a bottle of table water (because, like France, tap-water doesn’t exist in Germany) cost me just a little under 60 euros, and was worth every cent. I retired to my room and watched Christmas Eve celebrations being televised from all over the country.



*What is it with European women—okay, the men too, pouring themselves into leather pants (I saw someone in a unitard—that was… um, er… disturbing: it zipped up from the ankle to the chin)? These women tend to be much to old to sport the second skin look, and adding a fur hat to your head? It doesn’t make you look fashionable or rich. Just tacky.

A Feast for the Princess that I am

Chirstmas Eve—not Christmas Day, in Germany is the big day of celebration, and that night, my hotel was only serving guests a special holiday meal—nothing à la carte nor room service (as they were running a skeleton crew).
Now, this backpacker brings only essentials when traveling the world, and when traveling by myself, I don’t go places that necessitate nice clothing. Thankfully, I was able to dress up jeans and a black t-shirt with a corduroy blazer, scarf, and a pair of burgundy kitten-heeled ballet slippers I had just bought in Berlin. It wasn’t anything like the fur and leather* on display in the dining room, but was much better than my soon to be retired Pumas. Alone, I was hopping for a small table in a back corner, or perhaps, at a table of other mish-mash diners: I was seated at my own booth in the dead center of the dining room. Now, I have an amazing ability to completely zone out, and move into my own little world, but warding off stares from fellow diners proved too difficult, and I was not able to enjoy myself as much as I would’ve liked. So, I ordered a carafe of wine J.
Then, as if the evening had not been humiliating enough, the host asked me if I wouldn’t mind sharing my table with a few late-to-check-in guests. “Sure,” I grumbled drinking more wine. Enter a young Japanese couple. He spoke English and she understood it, and we exchanged a few pleasantries. Overhearing from the next table, a middle-aged Irish couple joined in, and the five of us passed the rest of the remaining two courses making fun of the French (regardless of the fact that there was a French couple sitting right behind me), and how, for the Japanese, at Christmastime, it is tradition to eat Kentucky Fried Chicken. *shrug* Richard and Mary (the Irish couple) live near the Black Forest while she finishes her doctorate in German History. They were affable and offered me lots of tips on Rothenburg and the surrounding area (they spend every Christmas here). I will see them several times throughout the next several days.
The 5-course dinner, 35 centiliters of the house red, and a bottle of table water (because, like France, tap-water doesn’t exist in Germany) cost me just a little under 60 euros, and was worth every cent. I retired to my room and watched Christmas Eve celebrations being televised from all over the country.



*What is it with European women—okay, the men too, pouring themselves into leather pants (I saw someone in a unitard—that was… um, er… disturbing: it zipped up from the ankle to the chin)? These women tend to be much to old to sport the second skin look, and adding a fur hat to your head? It doesn’t make you look fashionable or rich. Just tacky.