It has its moments...

I've been back in the US for nearly three weeks and it's been...something.
I'm in Spanish class 20 hours a week, doing assignments for at least another 8, and then add to that the supplemental things to try to make the language stick. (Seriously, another romance language? What was I thinking? Bienvenido, benvenudo, and bienvenue to the swirl of Latin-languages living in my brain.) I've been reading news in Spanish  talking to myself in Spanish  and I've even taken up watching game shows in Spanish ..It's almost like immersion...Only not... Sidebar: Telemundo dating shows? I don't get it. And I don't  think it's entirely a language barrier issue. Have you ever seen 12 Corazones? It's friggin' bizarre. It pretends to have something to do with the zodiac? Maybe?

WHY ARE ALL THE MEN DRESSED LIKE TARZAN?!?

Maybe I shouldn't have admitted to watching this show... No matter, soon I'll be watching telenovelas like a pro. Or at least knowing for sure that it's a terrible terrible idea and giving up the dream to pursue something completely different and probably equally disappointing... German comedy perhaps?

Moving right along. The point of all of this is that between everything Spanish-related and all that basic sleeping/eating/bathing stuff that I'm still catching up on from my time on the road (don't judge, hooligans) "Summer" has been on hiatus.
Not the actual season. That, my intercontinental friends, is in full swing in this neck of the woods (Read: GAH! It's been hot and humid and I can't quite handle it, my skin, it burrrrrrrrnnnnnnnnnnssssssss and I thank my lucky, though rarely present in the sky this close to NYC, stars for air conditioning) But more like the devil-may-care, got no worries, throw caution to the wind notion of summer that my school years have taught me to appreciate while I have it because it doesn't last forever. Hell, if I'm being completely honest, this may be the last one I get (I have no plans for grad school, or becoming a teacher, or moving to France...Which I think are the only methods of attaining "summer vacation" to the degree to which I have become accustomed) and while I'm actually enjoying this whole language learning thing, I sometimes like to be reminded of what summer is all about.

Tonight was one of those nights.
In case you are somehow just now tuning in to...well...my existence... Food is a huge part of my life and therefore it shouldn't surprise anyone to find out that it's a focal point of many of my friendships as well.
Picture the scene: The gang's all here (in this case "the gang" refers to a group of girls with whom I've been friends since elementary school...That's a long-ass time) it's 10 PM, we've finally all got an evening free from other responsibilities, and the nighttime temperature has dropped below 85 (Fahrenheit) for the first time in weeks after a much needed rain storm. What's a group of vivacious 20-somethings to do?

If your answer was an emphatic: "OMG ROADTRIP!!!!!!!!" then I'm happy to say that your pop-culture knowledge of 20-something year old girls has started you down the path to a correct answer...Award yourself 3 points...

If your answer included the magic word "Milkshake" then BRAVO, BRAVA! You know us too well. Award yourself 10 points AND partial custody of all the boys in the yard. Yes, I just turned this into a Kelis reference. No, I'm not ashamed.

Couldn't resist...

There's just something to be said for the hours spent in a car, highway speeds, windows down, music blaring, muggy post-storm night, on a quest for elusive and far away milkshakes for no other reason than "Because there's a full tank of gas and hours 'til sunrise"

The milkshakes were alright, but the night? It was summer.

Humble pie

I am not a particularly cocky individual by nature, but when push comes to shove, I am 100% aware that I'm pretty awesome. I've been to interesting places, met interesting people, and done interesting things--and sometimes I've even blogged about them. There are some things I do pretty well, some things I'm comically bad at--some of which I do anyway. I feel like most people are this way.
And then there are times when you just need to take a deep breath, a step back, and a slice of humble pie and say "Wow. I am honored to know you. You are something special."
There are a lot of very talented people in the world, and it's days like today that make me realize how fortunate I am to know so many of them.
Today, I sat in an off-Broadway theater space in Manhattan, watching a girl I've known for 9 years win the hearts of a sold-out crowd in a musical production written by a friend of the guy sitting next to me (himself, also a talented actor and friend of mine)
It's a small, beautiful world.

In which I pretend to be interesting...

Here in blogosphereland, I like to keep it honest. It does me no good to lie to you and it does you no good to think I'm any more/less interesting than I actually am. If Abe Lincoln can be honest (and a vampire hunter...Yes, I saw that movie. Yes, it was incredible. No, I don't want to hear your sass about how you thought it took itself too seriously or wasn't historically accurate enough. The civil war is better with vampires.) so can I.
So why did I actually come home when I did, rather than just getting increasingly broke and eventually pretending I was qualified to teach English in order to avoid the cost of a transatlantic flight...Or getting deported...
Did I miss my cats?

This is Pi, she's a little special

No...I'm pretty sure that wasn't it...
The real reason was infinitely less fluffy. I had to enroll in summer classes. Woo! I hear you out there in bloggosphereland saying, "But wait! I saw you in one of those universally unflattering graduation hats and re-purposed judge robes! You somehow managed not to trip when you walked across a stage and shook hands with various old people! They handed you a diploma folder! Everything is a lie!"
Well, it turns out I was a few credits shy of being an *actual* graduate, so I did what any normal pseudo-grad would do: I said "Fie!" to spending a summer session at my matriculated institution of higher learning, used the money I wasn't spending on summer session tuition/housing to finance my eurotrip, and signed myself up for transferable credits at my friendly neighborhood community college.
Spanish, to be exact.
Why Spanish? Well, the savvy "I'll soon be looking for employment" answer is: "In the USA especially, a fundamental grasp on the Spanish language is a tool that everyone could benefit from having in their utility belt". The "off the cuff" answer is: "Well, I already speak French and some Italian. Spanish is the next logical romance language for me to tackle (sorry, Portuguese and Romanian)". And the "bizarre, accurate" answer is: "I really want to understand telenovelas, guys."
Seriously.
Anyway, I'm now a week into this class, and all I've really learned is that TV is lying to me. Community college Spanish is nothing like this:

But every day I find myself one step closer to making sense of the game shows on telemundo...And that's an accomplishment.

There's no place like...

I guess I'm home now. It's strange and weird and I don't know how I feel about any of it.
Since I've been gone, my room in my parent's house has been emptied, painted beige, and the furniture has been rearranged, it's a little like one of those dreams where you're talking to your french professor in their office, only in dream world your professor looks just like Heidi Klum...in a tutu...and their office is a giant plastic orb full of grass on top of London's tower bridge. And you know that it's business as usual and you know exactly where you are and exactly who you're talking to but something feels a little out of joint, but you can't put your finger on it until you wake up and are trying to explain the dream to your friend over breakfast and they're like, "What's so weird about you talking to the professor in his office, was it something he said?" and you tell them "Well, no, but he was Heidi Klum...and wearing a tutu!" And they laugh, and you laugh, but somewhere inside you wonder how dream-you didn't catch on that everything was different...
It's kind of like that.
But it's nice to see my family, and it's nice to see all these home-friends, and it's REALLY nice to be back in the land of proper bagels. People *think* they have a "good bagel place" near them, but they're wrong. Some are decent substitutes and, in a moment of bagel-deprived weakness, they'll do, but nothing compares to a New York bagel. I won't waste my breath fighting you on pizza, or hot dogs, or clam chowder, but our bagels will always win. Hands down. No contest.
Now, just because I'm home doesn't mean that this is goodbye. Millions of people lead perfectly interesting lives in the United States, why shouldn't I be one of them? And why shouldn't I continue to write about it?

What to expect:
-Fewer pub crawls
-Fewer references to people solely by nationality
-Fewer places I can't spell
-Fewer complaints about my WiFi enabled device
-More pictures
-More milkshakes
-More driving
-More AMERICA...YEAH!

The truth is...I don't know what to expect from this moving forward. But it will move forward. And that's what matters...I think...

Iceland wants to be your friend...

So, I know I talked a lot about midnight sun in a few of these (namely Copenhagen and Stockholm) but I was lying. I mean, not that it wasn't cool then and there, but seriously: Iceland. The sun actually didn't set. Not even for a minute. It was like a creepy-surreal-nightmare-dream...on mars...But not real mars...more like marvin the martian loony-toons mars...But with vikings...
I feel like this blog graphs out my brain function pretty nicely. As sleep decreases, ranting increases...It's been a long 6 weeks...
Anyway: I landed in Reykjavik at midnight and got on a bus into the city. This was no ordinary bus. Apparently, by day, it runs as a tour bus with automated robot-voice facts about everything you pass, so when it's masquerading as a lowly airport transfer bus in the wee hours the commentary still runs! We drove through the volcanic ash mound hill things that had names I could neither pronounce nor write made primarily of minerals I can't spell. I swear it was all very educational.
The bus stopped at a depot and we were all wrangled off, with our luggage, and told to stand in a line. At this moment, I was seriously awaiting Bjork Von Martian with her Skyr-powered laser gun that emitted high frequency beams of Sigur Rós...And she'd be wearing one of those sweaters... Volcanos...Brennivín...er...where was I?
Oh: So then instead of Marvin the Martian Icelandic Stereotype coming to kill us, two old men pulled up in white vans and started calling names like they were picking teams for kickball in grade school...I was called last (for real, it was a little terrifying) and joined my teammates in the creepy white van. After a couple of stops, the van pulled up outside my hostel and let me out (no death or actual kickball required)
At this point it was increda-late, not that you could tell by looking, so I buzzed into the hostel and walked up 2 flights of stairs to reception, which was a glorious, antique wonderland slash bar. And I swear all of Reykjavik was there.
Ordinarily, this would mean that I was going to throw my backpack into the luggage storage room (an old freight elevator. Even the luggage room was cool. Be still, my hostel-loving heart) and head to the bustling bar to make friends, but I didn't have a kronur to my name and was, after a night flight, hygenically in no place to be scamming drinks from kindly strangers, if you know what I mean... So I did what any sane person would do, checked in to my room, had a half-hour discussion with the woman at the desk about the earrings I was wearing and Icelandic art and design, and walked upstairs, past the diorama of a vintage barbershop and innumerable pieces of defunct arcade games, to my room, found the appropriately numbered bunk and climbed into bed...With a strange man... That's right, kiddos, hide your kids, hide your wife, there was a bed intruder... (yeah, I couldn't resist that one) I stifled a *serious* eep-sound, sprung out of bed, hitting my head on the top bunk and somehow still managing not to wake the massive Norse bed thief, tiptoed (read: tripped over every duffel, wire, and dust-bunny imaginable but didn't crash to the floor, meaning I was totally stealth) through the room until, examining much more carefully this time, I found the only vacant bed, claimed it as my own, and passed out.
Five hours later I awoke. bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, scheduled my airport bus, and set out into the city for a solid 5 hours of meandering before my flight. Apparently it's strange for anyone to be out and about before 9 unless they're a beard-faced, sweater-clad, octogenarian, so I got some sideways glances as I ordered breakfast and made myself at home in a cafe with my cup of tea, hafragrautur--oatmeal--and skyr (it seemed to be the breakfast of choice for that crowd, only with coffee instead of tea. If it's good enough for Icelandic grandpas, it's good enough for me)
After breakfast I followed the path set out for me by the woman at reception, past government buildings, museums, churches, and statues, and, after stopping by the post office, I curled up along the water at Solfar, the Sun Voyager monument, with my trusty purple marker and wrote my final round of postcards.
I walked back along the water to the hostel, collected my luggage, and went outside to meet the bus (which tried to leave without me, and I chased it down the street, which would be its own story, but frankly, my hand is getting tired and at this point, that kind of madness should be expected of me. You can fill in the tale yourself, I trust you.)

Sitting in the airport, I realize this adventure has come to an end...

Or maybe it's just evolving...

Making friends

The Germans seem to have a word for everything-- I'm sure this is because they just cram all the descriptors into one spaceless string of letters, but that doesn't make it any less cool to me. My personal favorite is one that means "a face badly in need of a fist"
This leads me to wonder if they have words for faces badly in need of other things...stories, for example.
My whole life I've found that apparently my face constantly says: tell me about your life. It happens on trains, planes, busses, streets, and restaurants. It happens when the storyteller has had a great day, an awful day, or just your run of the mill average day. It happens with kids and old people, suits and homeless folks, men and women, introverts and extroverts, all sorts of people from all walks of life.
I've always thought of it as a super power of sorts. And I love it, really I do, but still it catches me off guard time and again.
Today, for example, I was in line at the airport coffee shop for a cup of tea to keep me company while I waited for my flight to Iceland. The line was long, but moving quickly, efficient if a little cold...and then I showed up... I ordered my tea, she asked for my name and where I was headed.
"Kate, and I'm going to reykjavik"
"and then?" she asked, glancing at my backpack with a smile.
"home...er...New York-ish?
She told me about the time her friends went to New York and how jealous she was that they got to see the big apple and asked why I left. When I told her about Franklin, she told me about her time studying in England and how she wished she had stayed longer and about her flat and her roommate and his cat. Fifteen minutes later, I knew large parts of her life story and it was a good thing there was another register open... I got my tea and she went back to manning the register with nothing but a courteous smile for the next in line.
People are strange and wonderful creatures.

Just some oak and some pine and a handful of Norse men

Greetings from Sweden: where the furniture folds to a much smaller size.
I landed at the airport at nearly 11 pm after another truly bizarre flight.
It was the night Italy took on Germany in the Eurocup and my plane was full of Italians anxious to land so they could find out the score. About halfway through the flight, the intercom came on, "good evening, this is your captain speaking" never a good sign on a ryanair flight, especially not a night flight where everyone is asleep and the captain is waking you up for announcements "we are now flying over Germany. Speaking of Germany, the score of the match is currently 2-0, have a pleasant rest of your flight."
At that moment, a near riot broke out. I've never heard more che cazzo-ing in all my time in Switaly.
The intercom comes back: "this is your captain again...ITALY, it's 2-0 ITALY, ITALIA is winning 2 goals to nil." the cussing turns to raucous cheering, "who wants a drink? Beer and wine, half price. If you don't drink, Germany wins."
Needless to say, the cabin crew ran out of beer and wine and the rest of the flight consisted of a lot of cheering and singing and general merriment.
Sports make people do silly things.
Anyway, flight landed, bought my ticket to central terminal, and spent the next hour and a half on a bus reveling in the seemingly eternal sunset/dusk/dawn looming on the horizon well into the wee hours. This northern summer light all day thing is really mind blowing.
I walked to hostel number 1, used the super secret pin code to open the door (seriously, it seems like Stockholm residents don't use keys, they all just have keypad code locks and memorize a lot of numbers) grabbed my envelope off the reception desk, got the code to my room (always a friggin code) got hit on by the drunk man sitting in the lounge, pretended not to speak English, found my room, crawled into bed, and passed out.
The next morning I checked out and walked the 4 blocks to hostel number 2. (why 2 hostels? Well number 2 looked cooler--practically the only cool looking hostel in Stockholm...at least at a reasonable price--but had limited availability...do what you gotta do...oh! And hostel 2 has a no shoes rule...which is perfect for my life, who needs shoes?)
I checked in, dropped my backpack in the luggage room, and set out in hopes of adventure...and food.
I wandered for a good long while, got more than my fair share of lost, saw a bunch of cool buildings that I later found out were old town/historical in some way, kicked a few pigeons, and still was incapable of finding affordable food. Note to self: when everyone everywhere warns you about how expensive Stockholm is, don't scoff and say "something something expensive? Something something 4 years in Switzerland something something" because they are right, Stockholm will actually eat your wallet AND find some way to tax you on it for services rendered.
I gave up and went to the grocery store, bought rice, a can of beans, and an onion, and made pauper beans and rice...and even that set me back nearly $15
Over the course of dinner I met 2 Arizonian (is that the right word for that? Autocorrect doesn't seem to hate it...but it also keeps trying to make "Scandinavian" into "scandalnavia"... Which isn't even a word...or an accurate descriptor of my time in the region...but it would be a good name for a bad preteen romance novel or something) brothers, a Finnophile Aussie metalhead, and their Californian hostel-roommate and we decided to hit the town, it was Friday after all. We were joined by an Aussie girl and made our way to a place called lion bar that was promised to have comparatively affordable drinks, unfortunately, they were "full" which is bouncer code for "we don't want you idiot tourists in our bar, go away"
Jerks.
We made our way up the street and into a dive-y place called Anchor...it was a little loud/angry/dark for my liking, but they let us in...so that was something.
We stayed for a drink or two and then called it quits...a biker bar was not really the way I wanted to go broke anyway...
We walked outside and it became abundantly clear how Swedes spent a night out without going broke buying 60 kronor beers in bars...they have a serious cruising culture. They pile into these epic old cars (or in one case, a monster truck with couches in the back) and drive up and down the street, harassing pedestrians and blasting music (and in one case, running bare-assed out onto the sidewalk and kissing a beggar woman...yeah...that happened)
We returned to the hostel and called for a mulligan the next day...starting with a pilgrimage to the world's largest Ikea. Best idea. Especially since we had in our midst an Ikea virgin! What better place to remedy this than Sweden?
We left at noon and train/bus/walked our way to Ikea. We headed straight for the restaurant and gorged ourselves on meatballs and potatoes and lingonberry everything (the most affordable meal of this leg of the trip, and delicious to boot!)
We spent three hours sprawling on couches, hopping on beds, playing with plush rats, and spinning in desk chairs...and I got stuck on a children's slide...
Pictures were taken, fun was had, and plushie rats were purchased...Ikea success.
We got back to the hostel and napped. Ikea can be exhausting.
In the evening, we set out to wander old town and explore the more eclectic southern part of Stockholm (recommended as a hip cool party place)
After deciding the bars recommended to us were not our scene, we found a place with nifty decor, strange music, and 35 kronor pints...we settled in for a few drinks, a chat about healthcare/music/food, and watched it pour rain outside for a solid 30 minutes. When it stopped, we tried to go to this funky club under a bridge that has too many accents in it for me to type it on my wifi enabled device, but there was an hour wait (at least), a 120 kronor cover charge, and according to the Swedes in front of us, drinks inside were club-prices (meaning all the money)
Going with the "well, we tried" theory, we had another beer elsewhere, got gyros (that were GIANT and magical and full of meaty french fry-y goodness) and walked home into the sunrise/set...yeah, I still don't know where one stops and the other begins...but the nonstop orange/blue glow is pretty amazing.
Real morning came and brought July with it, and with July comes my departure from Sweden and Europe and the beginning of my trip home...this was getting me down...until schadenfreude stepped in and I met Lee, a SoCal kid who likes Russian literature and dislikes the sun (and resents that the english language calls warmth and blue skies "nice weather")
He is stuck indefinitely in Sweden without luggage or a working credit card but fortunately, WITH a good sense of humor about it all...at least my future includes bagels...
Anyway, he and I chatted about the soviet union, eurocup, the word "quaint" among others, beautiful people, bad canadian pop music, and we sang Whitney Houston loudly in the common room with a Swiss/Frenchman. It was a good end to this leg of the journey.
Now it's off to a long layover in Reykjavik and then...JFK :-/
I'm thrilled, really.