Wait, What?

"Dublin, Dublin, Take Me In" or, "Drink and Drink and Drink and Drink and Drink and Fight, HEY!"

2010-07-20T12:39:00.000-04:00

Let's face facts: Southerners are the nicest people in America. The Irish are the nicest people in the world.

DAY 1: EN ROUTE ("THE SHOCKER", RYANAIR/PAIN, "WELCOME TO DUBLIN")

After weeks of planning, the crew (Ryan, Sean, David, Grace, and Me) decided that the 26 hour train ride from Valencia to Dublin wasn't quite as appealing as we'd originally thought. Instead, we settled on taking a train to Madrid and enduring a Ryanair flight to Dublin.

Per usual for any Ryanair flight, the experience was similar to meandering through Dante's Inferno. Rushing to line up for unassigned seats, shoving our bags into pint-sized measuring frames, squinting from the all-yellow and blue plane interior, humming to drown out the incessant conversations and merciless advertisements for smokeless cigarettes and lottery cards and, finally, thanking God for the sound of the horse horn upon our arrival at 1 AM... that about sums it up.

Hating life and Ryanair

Both tired and delirious, standing in the customs line was one of the first true "thank God I'm an American" moments I'd had while in Europe. Instead of waiting in the hour-long "Citizens of the E.U." line, we skated our way through the three minute "All Other Passports" line, where we were greeted by smiling customs agents and had an entire page of our passports stamped with a big 'ol green IRELAND. When Mr. O'Shannahan told me to "have fun" in his country, I knew the crew was destined for victory.

Turned out our hotel room wasn't quite as convenient as we'd hoped, but we sucked it up and split the 60 euro cab ride getting there and checked into the Days Inn Park West (about 10 miles outside of the city). Now, when I say "checked in", I really mean that Grace and I hid at the bar while the boys found out that our reservation never really existed, that there was a massive rugby tournament that had the entire city booked, and that while we could get a room for the first night, we weren't promised anything beyond that. We drowned our panic attacks with delicious beer at the bar and made our way upstairs, where we pulled a Georgia-Florida and fit 5 people in one room.

Despite the overcrowded bed, we all slept well (except for Ryan, who slept in the closet for unknown reasons) and woke up ready to kick Dublin's ass.

DAY 2: LOVELY DAY FOR A GUINNESS (x1000)

Because we were reppin' the hood about 10 miles outside of the city, we took a train into Dublin in the morning and ate a comparatively delicious breakfast at main train station.

A Delicious Breakfast

From there, we made our way to the Guinness Factory, where beer drinkers go to meet God. Though I certainly wouldn't consider Guinness to be my beer of choice, I'd consider my experience in the five-story pint glass to be similar to that of Charlie in the proverbial Chocolate Factory.

We bathed in mounds of barley, inhaled the delicious smell of hops, kicked some Frenchy's ass in some touch-screen beer trivia, and sipped a delicious pint of freshly-brewed Guinness from atop the factory's Gravity Bar, overlooking cloudy Dublin. Life doesn't get much better than that, folks.

Bathing in Mounds of Barley at the Guinness Factory

Three Cheers for the Gravity Bar!
View of Dublin from the Gravity Bar

Soon after, the boys and girls split up, with the boys headed to the Jameson factory and the girls heading out to explore. Now, some of you may be wondering why I decided to skip out on one of the most popular whiskey factories in the world. My answer, put simply, is that whiskey and I, more specifically Jameson and I, have an abusive history. I've never abused Jameson, but Jameson abused me. One night (re: 2009 Heritage Ball) was all it took for me to understand that any bottle with said label would drag me down to the pits of Hell, arms wrapped around a toilet bowl all the way down.

So, anyway...

Grace and I did some light thrift store wandering before consuming two slices (each, naturally) of pizza the size of Rhode Island. Soon after, we met up with the boys at the Porterhouse Pub to do some more heavy drinking and watch the Six Nation's Rugby Cup. I'd been advised by a certain beer guru (cough, cough: Pete West) to try the pub's Plain Porter, and, unsurprisingly, was not let down.

The Porterhouse Pub: Home to the delicious Plain Porter

Several more pints and a rugby game later, the boys and girls split up once again to head with some UGA at Oxford friends to attend what turned out to be one of the best shows I've ever been to: The Avett Brothers at "Crawdaddy's". Before arriving, though, we stopped into a convenience store for any concert goer's pregame snack: Cadbury Eggs and Prozky's Czech Beer (a quality beverage priced at about 30 euro cents a can). We made the Bulldawg Nation proud by shotgunning said Czech beer in a dark alleyway in the company of a hobo cat on an abandoned mattress. If that's not classy, I don't know what is.

The Crawdaddy turned out to be smaller than Athens' 40 Watt, which made for one of the best shows I've ever been to. After having our hearts melted, Grace and I made our way to the Night Lynx bus with a crazy "woohoo" and "hooray" shouting hobo and headed back to the hotel-- but not before polishing off some Dairy Milk McFlurries and fries from McDonald's, where I came across a group of highschool girls pregaming in the bathroom with bottles of cheap wine. Let me make this next part clear: if I ever steep so low as to pregame in a dirty McDonald's bathroom, please, don't hesitate to end my life.

The Avett Brothers at Crawdaddy's

We came back to the hotel room to find the boys watching Amanda Bynes' hit film, She's The Man. You can't make that up.

DAY 2: WOLFPACK TAKES CITY, SCORES 9 "FREE" BEERS

The second day of our journey was marked by extreme wandering and various tourist attractions. St. Andrew's Green, Grafton Street, Trinity College, the "Erection in the Section", and the Book of Kells (or, Book of 'I can't believe I just paid 9 euro for that') filled up the better part of our afternoon. We also enjoyed a late lunch at Acapulco's, home of Dublin's signature food: Mexican. After stocking up on booze, we made our way back to the hotel, where the real fun began.

Ryan and Me on St. Stephen's Green

The first thing on our list for a fun Dublin night was Hope Floats and drinking games in our hotel room. Naturally, we became hungry and put Gracer in charge of ordering us pizza from Domino's. Said responsibility was soon revoked when she picked up the phone, pressed one, ad stated, "Hi... I wanted to talk to... Domino's...". After consuming copious amounts of pizza, we decided that we were sufficiently intoxicated and ventured downstairs to the (surprise!) hotel bar to continue our night of debauchery. Already ahead of us was Frankie, an Irish father of God-knows-how-many-kids taking a break from the real world to drink some Guinness.

Frankie, our Irish father

Frankie taught us a great deal about life in Ireland, which mostly involved drinking and buying us multiple rounds of alcohol. He also got the boys pretty close to smacking themselves in the balls. When the bartender left, though, is when the night really started. Frankie is apparently also a kleptomaniac, as he not only stole food from the kitchen for Grace and me, but also a great deal of Heineken with the help of our own little leprechaun, Ryan.

After that, I saw "the brain", and I don't really wanna talk about it.

DAY 3: AMERICANS ARE "FUCKIN' BRILLIANT!"

The day began with a three-hour train ride to Cork, where we didn't do much except marvel at the Star Trek-like bathrooms. When we arrived, we wandered for a bit before catching a train to the Blarney Castle, where we literally bent over backwards over the ledge of the castle to kiss the stone in hopes of receiving the "gift of gab".

Downtown Cork

Cork, a couple hundred feet up

Ryan, Sean, and Me atop Blarney Castle

Gettin' some Gab

The train ride home left us with a lot of multiple exposure photos and the hankering to drink. From the train station, we staggered into Baker's Pub, where we quenched our thirst and played the post-it note game. About halfway through, though, we were interrupted by Paddy, a creepy (but harmless) Irishman who turned out to be a big fan of all things American. He told us about how "fuckin' brilliant" good 'ol U.S. of A. was-- from our smelly hobos to free Coke refills. We liked him.

Ryan, x3
Nuns on the Train! Nuns on the Train! Nuns on the Train!

The Crew at Baker's Pub

The Name Game

Paddy (center), his wife, and (drunk) friend
More from Baker's Pub

After drinking our last pints of Guinness from the homeland, we headed back to our humble hotel room to rest up for our early-morning flight to Brussels... where chaos ensued.

Mom and Dad would be so proud...

2010-03-28T17:03:00.000-04:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pJ9gxO8-6nU

Paris: The Land of Massive Pigeons and Delicious Food

2010-03-10T06:55:00.000-05:00

PART 1: The Journey

It took every ounce of me to work up the strength to board the 18-hour train ride from Valencia to Paris, but I did it. Sean and I embarked with delicious bocadillos in hand around 1:30 PM, and mentally prepared ourselves for our 8:30 AM arrival in Paris the next day. The ride wasn't nearly as bad as we'd expected (especially not for 9.75 euro price tag), and we got a kick out of watching "Yes Man" in Spanish.

View of the Spanish Countryside from the Train

Sean and His Delicious Bocadillo

We got into Cerbere (on the Spanish/French border) around 8PM and waited until 9:30 for the train from Cerbere to Paris, fearing for our lives all the while. Unheated, under renovation, and a home to hobos and crackheads, the Cerbere train station might actually be the most accurate representation of what Hell would be, should the Good Lord smite me and send me that way. Growing up in Georgia helped to cultivate a tolerance for the sweltering heat; therefore, I'm pretty sure that God sends Southerners to the icy tundra that is Cerbere instead of to the firey depths of Hell. We could handle that heat, y'all.

The train to Paris included lots of nappage and a desperate need for a shower. When we finally made it to Paris, Sean headed to Orleans and I made my way to the hostel in order to take said shower. But did I get it? No, of course not. Because that would imply that my life isn't actually a joke. And let's be honest. We all know it is. Instead of checking into my room and meeting up with Caroline and Brit, I was told to come back at 4PM. I managed to talk them into letting me use their 2x2 bathroom (we're talking smaller than an airplane baño) to change clothes... very reminiscent of that scene in Tommy Boy. You know the one.

PART 2: Paris Domination, Day 1

After meeting up with Caro and Brit, we headed to the Metro in search of the Eiffel Tower. With my mind compromised by lack of sleep and proper nourishment, I agreed to join them on a "Fat Tire" bike tour of the city. No matter that it was 30 degrees and 4-hours long. We are badasses. We do what we want. Led by Texans with a good sense of humor and willingness to share their warm clothes (thanks, Emma, for the hat), it was a fun time all-around. I should also mention that the Redhead from the Delta in-flight safety video was pedaling alongside us, and that she's actually a badass. "Smoking is not allowed..."

That's right.

After our bike tour, we made our way to Notre Dame to mingle with los Católicos. (That's Spanish for "the Catholics"). My last experience in the historic cathedral involved Mr. President (Bill Clinton) and his buddy (James Carville). This visit wasn't quite as action-packed, but it was nice to take in the scenery and light a candle for my bro.

Inside Notre Dame

I don't know who you are, Mr. Statue, but I like you.

A Candle for Bub

All of this culture was making us hungry, so we decided to stop in a really neat café in Bastille for a cheese plate. At 2 euro a person, we had our fill and headed on home to our hostel to meet Grace and plan our night.

Getting Towards Sunset in Paris

Café in Bastille with a Badass Cheese Plate

After some light nappage, we decided to book it to the Louvre for free student entry night. By the time we got there, it was only 30 minutes 'til close, but that didn't matter-- we were having a blast soaking in our "Night at the Museum" experience. Like any group of American tourists, we immediately headed to the Mona Lisa. Though you can't usually see her for the swarm of folks around her, we lucked out and found only 5 stragglers in the room with us. Realizing that it was close to closing time, we quickened our pace and made it out the door within 30 minutes. How's that for a quick tour?

The Louvre at night... This doesn't even look real!

Yours truly with some weird painting... I don't remember the name.

Straight out of "Night at the Museum"

Grubbin' with some pals at the Last Supper

Again, this doesn't even look real!

After the Louvre, we grabbed some dinner and passed out in our tiny little hostel beds. Boom!

PART 3: Paris Domination, Day 2

Sometimes, I wonder why I don't have Rick Steves' job. The amount of sites that we saw (and pounds that we gained) on Saturday easily broke his record, and I'd like to take the time to thank Caroline O'Neill, our own personal Magellan, for making that happen. Because I'm lazy, I'm going to illustrate our day (and maybe write a little, too) so that you can understand just how badass (and fatass) we are.

After wandering around the market in Bastille, we hopped the Metro to Sacre Coure. (Side note: I'm not kidding when I say 'hopped'. We came to find that jumping over the turnstiles when the desk guys aren't looking saves you 1.60 euro per jump. Parisians do it all the time and are eager to help American girls follow their lead. I like to call it an investment: for the 10 tickets I actually did pay for, I got about 25 rides out of those guys. Booyah, Paris!)

We took a few pictures in front of the church overlooking the city, and quickly decided that we were in need of some banana and nutella crepes. Montmart, the surrounding neighborhood, didn't let us down.

Crepes: A little gift from God to which 95% of our funds went

Después de enjoying our crepes, we continued to wander around Montmart, stopping mostly in bakeries to admire their delicious culinary creations.

Montmart Bakery #1

Montmart Bakery #2

We also ran into some precious little drummer boys

Following our Montmart adventure, we hopped the Metro to the Latin Quarter and then made our way to the Luxembourg Gardens, where I staked my claim for my wedding reception.

Luxembourg Gardens

After leaving the gardens, we ambled through St. Germain and made our way towards Shakespeare & Company, one of the coolest bookstores I've ever encountered. All the books were in English, which was a nice change from the usual Spanish that I've seen for the past 2 months. The walls were covered with book shelves and quotes-- I could have lived there.

Shakespeare & Co

The Stairwell

The Children's Section

After picking up a surprise for my sweet nephew and a little something for myself, we made our way to the Jewish Quarter in search of the best falafel I've ever had-- well worth the hour-long walk and hour-long wait. After falafel we decided we needed some coffee, and after coffee we decided that we needed a cupcake. Don't judge.

Next was a difficult hostel shower, a brief moment of being locked in a tiny, stupid, Parisian bathroom, and some delicious Mexican food with free margaritas (gotta love that sweet, Southern charm). After a Chimay Rouge at Polly Magoo's, we called it a night... and what a good night sleep it was.

PART 4: It's All a Haze

Sunday was spent wandering around Paris with Grace and Chelsea waiting to hop back on a train with Sean at 10PM that night. I remember that several crepes and coffees were involved, and that the train ride to Cerbere was characterized by lots of sleeping. When we got to Cerbere at 8AM the next morning, we were met by a legitimate blizzard, the same sketchy station, and a third wheel to Che Guevara and Fidel Castro. His dog's name was "Cuba" and he wore all camo, except for the bright orange Che shirt that he loved to show off. I was too tired to laugh. At 3:30 PM Monday, we made it home to Valencia, at which point I wrote down my most notable observations of the past weekend:

1.) Paris is nice to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there. Valencia it is.

2.) French scares me

3.) My Spanish is a lot better than I think it is

4.) Parisian bathrooms are tiny and dangerous. Their locks are unpredictable and can lead to minor panic attacks.

5.) What mutant gene do their pigeons have? Those things are massive!

6.) (As asked by Brit, Grace and Caro) Why would anyone ever want to come to America? We have free refills and Stone Mountain. That's about it.

Yowzas, that was a long one!

Barcelona: The land of Pickpockets, Chupitos, and Scary, Scary Men

2010-03-02T12:55:00.000-05:00

DAY 1

After a 5 hour bus ride, we made it to Barcelona ready to get the night started. We settled into our 4-star hotel (thanks, UGA!), proceeded with some heavy pregaming, and headed out for a night on the town. Our first stop was Espit Chupitos, a shot bar in Catalunya, where we met up with Courtney. She showed us the ropes and we caught on pretty quickly, engaging in some of the most ridiculous chupitos (shots) I've ever encountered:

Buscando Nemo (Finding Nemo)

After covering an unidentified blue alcohol with a blast of whipped cream, an M&M (Nemo) is then dropped into said concoction for you to find-- without using your hands.

The Boyscout

Shots of another unidentified liquor are lit on fire for you to roast a marshmallow over, dip in the alcohol, eat, and finish the shot.

Getting our Boyscout on at Espit Chupitos

The Harry Potter

Unidentified alcohol goes up in flames and sparks when magic dust is thrown on the shot glasses. Expecto Patronum, anyone?

...After about a half an hour and 8 shots later, we headed to Razzmatazz, a massive discoteca to dance and drink the night away. We left the club around 3 AM with 1 missing Wolfpack member, a black eye, and a pair of heels held together with bubblegum. Classy. Needless to say, it was a successful night.

With Grace, Britt, Taylor, and Kristen at Razzmatazz

DAY 2

Whose idea it was to load 40 hungover students on a 4-hour bus tour at 10 AM? Bad decision. We spent some time at Park Guell and then headed back to the hotel to rest up for my half birthday. That's right. Half birthday.

We're goin' down fast, Captain! - Ryan and Me in Park Guell

Additionally, I've found that the Spanish equivalent to the "crab claw" is the full-on ass grab. If there's one thing Spanish men are not, it's shy. After shoving a man down the stairs as he grabbed my face and tried to kiss me whilst exiting Metro, I decided that I'd take the frat boy crab claw any day. At least frat boys (occasionally) bathe.

Half birthday preparedness on the Metro. Creeper not pictured.

DAY 3

Even though we were out until 4 AM and had a to board a bus home at noon the next day, Caro, Suz and I did some light exploring before meeting the group and heading back to Valencia. Favorite stop: Sagrada Familia.

Outside of the Sagrada Familia

Barca was great, but nothing beats Valencia.

Love y'all!

Top 5: Things That I Legitimately Don't Like About Spain

2010-02-24T06:37:00.000-05:00

1.) The Lunchladies

Remember Miss Mae who served you your food every day grades K-12 with a smile on her face and a lovely, "How are you today, sweetie?" In Spain, not so. Lunch Lady Land? False. Forget it. These ladies hate us. I'm really, really not kidding. "Gracias" and "Por favor"? Don't even say it. They'll just hate you more. What's that you say? You're a Spanish student? Oh, never mind then! In that case, I'll love you forever and sneak you extra food and drinks. But don't tell those stupid American students. They dress funny and are too polite.

2.) That asshole who works at the train station

You see me approach your ticket booth, and you laugh. "Dublín?" You say. "Quieres ir a Dublín!?" You laugh some more. You tell the guys behind you in the language you think I can't understand. "Hey fellas, these little American kids want to go to Dublín! Can you believe that!? What a joke!" They laugh. You smirk. I stab the mole on your forehead with my eyes. Why can't you just sell me the ticket?

3.) In America, we clean up after our dogs.

You know those days when you just can't wait to step in a steaming hot pile of dog poo left for you by that massive German Shepherd just a few paces up the road? Yeah, me either. The sidewalks may be made of pretty, shiny marble, but beware: land-mines are abundant and do NOT discriminate between worker boots and Tory Burch flats.

4.) Why don't you people believe in ice?

Ice + water = ice water. Please. Pleaaaaase.

5.) Vegetarian ≠ Meatless

I can see the conversation now. "Hey, Javí, we can still label this 'vegetarian' even if we hid a layer of ham underneath the cheese, right?" "Certainly," Javí replies. "Ham Sandwiches, Pepperoni Pizzas, Pastas, Paellas... it's all the same, really."

*But really though. Spain is great. (Despite aforementioned characteristics).

You Sound Like You're From Lonnndonnn

2010-02-22T14:58:00.000-05:00

Despite my newfound hatred for all things easyJet and downright miserable traveling experiences this past weekend, London was epic.

In sum: High Tea at Harrods, Pizza Express, QPR won!, celebration, Mr. Scruff, Magic Dance, my very own Oyster Card, Camden is badass, a real English breakfast, great folks, people who actually speak English, flight delays, plane engine problems, safe arrival, lots of Toblerone, a higher knowledge of the Tube system, "Peter Rammage Wonderland", a real-live streaker, and lots of American Idol.

I didn't take any pictures (shocker, I know), but I managed to steal some pictures from Kacy:

Mr. Jones himself enjoying some champagne during our tea-time at Harrods

Tea, finger sandwiches, crumpets, and dessert at Harrods... dee-lish

Do you really want a description?

Love y'all!

-E

Granada: Sometimes Life Throws You Expensive Curveballs... in Euros

2010-02-17T08:15:00.000-05:00

You know those times when you've had a really badass weekend and took 1,415 pictures (literally) and have so much to tell folks and know that you should post a blog but don't want to because you just really want to take a siesta before going to that mandatory 4 o'clock movie that you're excited to see but would rather sleep through? Well, this is one of those times.

Prepare yourself, folks, because this could get long.

DAY 1: SIERRA NEVADA

We arrived in Granada after an uncomfortable but surprisingly hassle-free overnight train from Valencia. Sleep-deprived but ready to hit the slopes, we dropped our packs at Hotel Niza and caught the 10 AM bus to Sierra Nevada just in time. Somewhere along the 45-minute ride up the mountain, I vaguely remember Suz mentioning how smoothly our trip had gone so far. "Don't speak too soon," I said. "We might jinx it." Too late.

After gearing up and buying our ski passes, we hit the mountain. Never have I ever felt a more imminent death than as I did whilst skiing down the icy, vertical slope that we first encountered on the mountain. After learning that this was the bunny slope, I decided that it'd be in my best interests to lose the skis and head to the cafeteria on the top of the mountain to hide and take a nap. Though my friends assured me that I was "actually a really good skiier" and that I should "give it another go", I had to be honest with myself. I looked like a seizing giraffe going down that mountain, and no amount of reassurance could have convinced me otherwise. Thus, I made my nest next to a table full of Germans and dozed off to the sound of Lief, Hans, Fritz, and Heinrich talking about lederhosen and frankfurters. Okay, so that probably wasn't the actual topic of discussion, but it only seems fitting, right?

Sporting my neon orange "I'll never get lost in an avalanche" jacket before realizing that skiing wasn't as easy as I'd remembered

After hiding for what seemed an adequate amount of time to tell my friends that I'd gone on some "really sweet runs" and how I thoroughly enjoyed the "totally nectar" powder, I trudged back to the ski rental shop to be shamelessly ridiculed by Martín, the Argentine guy running the shop. However, the next thing my tired little eyes saw was like a cold T-Bone steak to my bruised ego:

Our own little snow angel: Dave Gutierrez

Needless to say, my mood was infinitely lightened after this little gem walked into my line of vision. Said mood was soon darkened after learning that our return bus to Granada wasn't actually returning, that there was some kind of a "blizzard" and it was too "peligroso" to drive up the "montaña"... whatever, you know I don't speak Spanish. Instead of crying, we decided to invest (I say "invest" because I now have 30 euros left to last me until March) in some swanky hotel rooms and drown our sorrows with alcohol. After some quality bonding time and copious games of F-M-K, we hit the hay and prayed that we'd make it home in the morning.

Our swanky digs with the window open to judge just how "snowed in"

we were the next morning

Will we make it down the mountain? Survey says... yes. But barely.

After a little Hallelujah chorus and free buffet breakfast, we finally headed back down the mountain towards Granada, the place that we should have been all along. Ex-shmausted and in need of some serious nappage, we collapsed in our happy little hostel beds and slept.

DAY 2: GRANADA

Before leaving America, I was given a few words of advice. You know, the usual. "Don't go anywhere alone", "stay away from those damned I-talian men", "never wear a fanny pack unless it's hidden under your shirt that looks nothing like anything someone from America might think about wearing"... yadda yadda yadda. Perhaps the only nugget of wisdom that I reallytook to heart was that concerning hostels. "They're cheap, and if you get a good one, you're fine. But if you get a bad one... you also risk getting diseases and getting kidnapped. Choose wisely."

For those of you who don't know me quite as well as others, there are a few things that I really, really don't like. One is scary movies. That's right, I unashamedly label The Witches as the scariest film I've ever seen (that means movies like Taken and Hostel have certainly never seen me in the audience), and I'd rather not think about germs. It's not that I have an irrational fear of them or anything, but it's more like a, "I can't wrap my head around why people don't accept hand sanitizer when I offer" type of thing. The other two things that make my skin crawl are Skittles and asparagus, but luckily, those are rarely found in hostels.

Anyway, I'm glad to say that my experiences with hostels thus far have been beyond great. Though I'd probably never put my parents up at Hotel Niza, it was great for us:

Suz researches fun ideas for the day in our room at Hotel Niza

After some light nappage, a few of us decided to roam around Albaicín, Granada's Moroccan neighborhood. Despite the rain and inadequate choice of footwear, we had a fun time walking through the alleyways and checking out the scene. We decided to stop in As-Sirat, a Moroccan teahouse, for some tea and culture. They seated us in a lofted area with cushioned footstools that overlooked the tiny house with pillars and colorful lamps, and we flipped through the somewhat overwhelming menu for a while before asking the waiter what he recommended. "Sueños de la Alhambra", he said. A mix of Earl Grey, cinammon, special fruits, and rose, it was the color of raspberries and was nice after a day of trudging through the rain.

The view from our lofted table at As-Sirat

Tea-time in Albaicín

After paying our bill of 2.50 each, we walked around a little bit more before deciding that we were tired and cold. We headed back to Niza for some more Hostel Lovin', characterized by some light journaling (pronounced here, "yournaling") and consumption of the worst investment of my life: the German Bread Basket. It tasted like feet marinated in pork. I'm really, really not kidding. I wish I were. But alas, my Dinosaurus cookies saved the day (per usual) and all was well in the world again.

The worst investment I've ever made

The best investment I've ever made

Happy as a clam after getting my scarf stuck in the hairdryer

Please notice the "magic" button at the bottom. Why don't we have these in the States?

And this, folks, is where I sign off for parts 1 and 2. Get excited for part 3... can you handle the suspense!?

¡Amunt Valencia!

2010-02-07T07:10:00.000-05:00

Fact: Soccer games in Europe are wayyy cooler than soccer games in America. Let's face it, folks, that's science. Yesterday, a group of us put our game faces on and headed to Manolo's, a badass bar right across the street from La Mestalla, Valencia's very own soccer stadium. Manolo's is easily one of the most interesting bars I've ever been to, if not for its owner who has been to every World Cup game (seriously though, think about that... EVERY WORLD CUP GAME!) but for all of the memorabilia he has around the place. Apparently, he makes bank during soccer season here in Valencia and then spends it all once the season's done on traveling and more soccer. What a life!

Inside Manolo's... Epic.

Fun fact number 2: Even though the lunch ladies at the Rector Peset hate our guts, Valencian men LOVE US. No really though, they LOVE US. Yeah, sure, sometimes they can be creepy and old (see below) but it's nice to get free drinks and practice your Spanish every once in a while. Wait, what? Did I just say every once in a while? False. All the time.

I don't know this guy's name, but I can tell you three things: he was creepy (but harmless), old, and wanted to rock Molly's body.

After ignoring the open container laws here in Valencia (post about that to follow), we headed into La Mestalla to take our seats. Don't be fooled- just because some seats behind me in the picture below are empty, doesn't mean the 55,000 person stadium wasn't lit. We played a crummy team, but of course none of us cared, because that just meant more goals, more chants, and more ridiculous pictures:

Only minimal excitement after the team's first goal

With a 2-o victory, I'd say it was a successful evening. After that, I went home, ate free dinner, took a 4 hour siesta, and spent the rest of the night dancing out on the town. BOOM, son!

A few of us inside La Mestalla

PS... GO SAINTS! WHO DAT!?!?!

Livin' the Rough Life

2010-02-02T08:14:00.000-05:00

Make no mistake, life here in Spain is tough. I wake up around 8, grab myself some free breakfast and a cafe con leche, and make the 25 minute trek to class. The journey is rough- I walk along cobblestone roads and marble sidewalks along the Rio under a perfect blue sky, and attend 1-2 mentally strenuous classes about culture, music, and film-- depending on my schedule.

The walk to class along the Rio.

My afternoons are spent siesta-ing and/or reading on the roof that overlooks my new hometown, working on my non-existent tan, and enjoying a soft, cool breeze. If I'm feeling adventurous, I sometimes choose to wander the previously-mentioned cobblestone streets, making my way through markets and maybe picking up a bocadilla (small sandwich) along the way. That is, if I didn't get enough to eat during my free lunch at the Rector Peset.

An afternoon siesta on the roof.

Sometimes during the afternoon we have these really awful, optional group adventures that we can go on to see all kinds of Valencian culture... for free. Occasionally I'll attend, if I'm feeling artsy, and go to museums that give us free posters of the art we've seen and buildings that are 3x older than America. Let me tell you, it's neither easy nor fun living in Spain!

Taken during a stroll along El Rio on our way to a museum

Sliding down a massive slide in El Rio

During the weekends, we are ALWAYS bored. Napping and drinking Sangria on the beach all day long is an absolute bust, especially when someone brings a soccer ball and we play pickup games, barefoot in the sand, 20 feet from the Mediterranean. The mountains in the distance don't look appealing at all, and we certainly don't plan on hiking them this Sunday. No way, that would mean Spain is bad ass, and let me tell you... it's not!

Hanging out on the Mediterranean

Outside of the Fallas Museum

The nightlife is also very uneventful. After another free meal (dinner) at the Rector Peset, pre-gaming with 89 cent bottles of wine really leaves a hole in my pocket. Additionally, the all-night dancing, karaoke, and kebab eating makes me wish I could just do some lawn work in Columbus, Georgia. Valencia is ugly at night, anyway, and has nothing on Athens' Wal-Mart.

Valencia after dark

Hating life, karaoke, and Heineken at Club Lala in Valencia

I don't even like these people!

So Mom and Dad, if you're reading this, punish me for all of my life's transgressions throughout the past 20 years and make me stay in Spain! It will teach me a lesson and how I should appreciate the finer things in life-- such as taking out the trash and spending more time with old people. Trust me... you won't regret it.

Day 10: Discovery of the Roof

2010-01-29T13:30:00.000-05:00

After almost a week of siesta-ing (something that I really, really think should be adopted by American culture-- and I'm willing to be the trailblazer for that campaign) in our cold room, a few of us discovered what I'm pretty sure is one of my new favorite spots in Valencia: the roof of our dorm. With a huge tile patio, great view of the city, and great amount of sunlight, it's the perfect place to come to draw, read Rick Steve's advice about how to get around Europe for less money than I actually have, or take an afternoon nap. Booyah, cold dorm rooms!

Top 5: El Prado

2010-01-27T08:04:00.000-05:00

I'd have to say that Art History with Mrs. Livengood was arguably my favorite class in high school, and I wish all the things that I'd learned during that semester were more fresh in my mind after spending several hours in one of the world's largest art galleries last week. Madrid's El Prado is by far one of the most incredible museums I've been to in a while. Here are some of my favorites from my visit, along with my thoughts on each of them:

El Salvador Bendiciendo / The Benevolent Savior (Zurbarán)

Okay, really though? Can we all just take a look at this guy? This is NOT Jesus. This is a creepy, dorky, wimpy stand in. I don't know about y'all, but this guy looks more like the guy I buy my slushies and lottery tickets from at the gas station than the savior of all humanity. Just sayin'. And check out that skank 'stache! I like to think of my Jesus as having an EPIC beard, not some pedophile peach fuzz. Try again, Zurbarán.

Doña Juana la Loca / Queen Joanna the Mad (Ribera)

Taking up an entire gallery wall, the massive painting depicts Doña Juana holding vigil over the casket of her late husband, Philip the Handsome. It makes you wonder just how handsome her Philip was, and how she got her nickname as a Negative Nancy. Seriously, though, one of the best depictions of human emotion I've ever seen.

Sacrificio a Baco / Sacrifice to Bacchus (Michel-Ange Houasse)

More than anything, I'd like to just call attention to the vomiting baby in the foreground. I've never seen a hungover baby before, but if I did, I'm sure that this interpretation would be pretty spot-on. Props, Houasse.

Vuelo de Brujos / Flight of the Witches (de Goya)

No real explanation, I'm just a fan. Except to say that it's probably a safe bet that that guy at the bottom of the frame is having a worse day than you are.

Queen Maria Luisa on Horseback (de Goya)

How much of a badass is she? After staring at portraits of elaborately dressed women with umbrellas and children, Queen Maria Luisa pretty much jumps out of the frame. She's on horseback wearing a uniform for crying out loud. I'd like to have known her husband and find out who wore the pants in that relationship.

Life in Spain... So Far

2010-01-25T16:52:00.000-05:00

"AFOOT and light-hearted, I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose." -Walt Whitman, Song of the Open Road

...okay, so maybe that was lame, but that's a

badass poem and you can't argue with badass.

After a day of flying, one hour of sleep, feeding crying/obnoxious toddlers, and countless glasses of complimentary vino, we arrived in Madrid to get the party started. We had our dinner comp'd by the hotel and soon headed out to hit the town, landing in Moore's Irish Pub of of Plaza Mayor. Apparently Mick Harley, the Northern Ireland born-and-bred bartender, was impressed by a pasty white American from down South's ability to finish a car bomb in five seconds flat (timed, mind you, with a reliable stop watch and much faster than the 50-year-old Dubliner chugging along with me) --which merited 2 more free car bombs--(ridiculous and incriminating pictures to follow). After bonding over REM, the Doors, and Pearl Jam, Mick hooked me up with several more drinks, explaining my ability to get 5 car bombs, 3 Newcastles, and 1 other identified beer for only 9 euro. Booyah.

After getting sweet talked and liquored up (but not in a negative way) by Mick, I moved on to talk with three well-dressed businessmen sitting in the back room with the rest of the UGA crew. Felípe (from Toledo), Leif (from Germany but living in LA) and Andy (from Chicago) were all on business in Madrid with their sustainable wind-energy company. Felípe told us the best places in Spain to go during our time here, while Andy and Leif introduced me to possible job opportunities in India working in their CSR department, despite my horrible track record in Math and Science. Thanks for the business cards, boys.

In other news, Spanish breakfasts are a little more bizarre than I'd expected, although I'm starting to get the hang of them. Spaniards are big fans of meat, especially ham. As in, most vegetarian options that I encountered in Madrid included... wait, really? What? That's right. Jamón. (Valencia has been much better, though).

With Felípe's advice, a few of us opted to catch a 40-minute train to Toledo for a couple of hours to check out Spain's original capital.

Needless to say, it was pretty epic and very fun. We went to a great little place near the center of town to get a few Tinto de Veranos (the winter version of Sangria here)-- which came with tapas. In this case, they were tiny burgers and french fries. We like to think that they were horse burgers, as they smelled foul but apparently tasted like Mr. Ed (which, I guess, is delicious?)

We also met an older Turkish couple that owns a travel company and was very eager to meet American kids. They gave us their information and told us to come visit them, although we're a little concerned that we'll get there and it will be a Hansel and Gretel type situation, and we'll end up dying at the hands of a seemingly sweet but actually deadly Turkish couple. But hey, you never know...

Anyway, during our last day in Madrid, a handful of us went to El Prado, where we saw paintings by Rembrandt, Raphael, El Greco, Velázuez, Goya, and Titian. Excluding the Lourve, it was the best museum I'd ever been to. Our last night in Madrid was pretty ridiculous. After making friends with Gloria and Pascal, a Madridian couple who apparently have the hookup in their hometown, we scored about 20 passes to Joy, one of Madrid's most badass discotecas, and danced all of our bocadillos off. We woke up the next day (Saturday) to make the 4 hour bus ride to Valencia, where we are getting settled now.

Understanding John Mayer's Reference to a "Quarter-Life Crisis"

2009-10-27T15:48:00.000-04:00

My recent realization of the fact that I've been on this earth for two decades was borderline terrifying. Coming to terms with the idea that, come next year, I'll no longer be covered by my parents' insurance, that I'll have to get a "real job"-- or go to law school--, that my lazy summers will be over, and that I'll have to start searching for an answer to the question, "So, what do you want to do with your life?" isn't going to be easy.

But then this weekend, after watching a climbing documentary, I began wondering if any of the aforementioned things were even necessary. Why can't I just take a few years off and backpack/climb around Patagonia? What's the big damn deal?

I've never done anything the "usual way" before, so why would everyone expect me to do the same now? I'm in no hurry to enter the real world, and yes, while money is an issue, I could always just rake up some dough and spend it all on travel. After all, when else will I have that opportunity?

So my question is... what are your thoughts? What's the big damn deal if I don't "make something of myself" for a few more years?

Kanye, You Pain Me.

2009-09-14T00:42:00.000-04:00

I guess I picked a good year to start watching the VMAs, because clearly there exists a lot more drama in the pop music world than I ever knew about. Hosted by Russell I-Forgot-His-Last-Name (Who was this guy? Who gave him a mic?), the VMAs provided a solid 3 hours of procrastination for yours truly. Good thing I didn't end up canceling my cable this year.

Anyway, the real topic of this post revolves around Taylor Swift, precious little country singer of the universe, and Kanye West, the newly-crowned douchebag of the universe. In case you missed it, here's the clip:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hi6jpJYIC9w

In short, precious little country singer of the universe Taylor Swift beat out Beyoncé for best female music video (which, granted, probably shouldn't have happened), and while she was giving her googly-eyed acceptance speech, Kanye got on stage, took the mic from her, and said that Beyonce should have won.

Really, Kanye? Really?

That was a little aggressive. We all knew it was true, but why take the little girl's dream? Why not just let her win? Beyoncé went on to win best overall music video, anyway. During her acceptance speech, she proved to us all what a fine woman she is by calling Taylor Swift back on stage to have "her time to shine." Way to be, Beyoncé, way to be.

I think there exist several life lessons that we can learn from tonight's events:

-Kanye is a tool

-That Mother's favorite saying of, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all" will always ring true (no matter how many Grammys you have)

-Beyoncé's gracious words make her a fine, fine woman

-I should really start listening to the radio more often, as I had never heard of half of the people I saw tonight.

I hope we can all agree.

"UD" get a lot out of a decent grammar class (we can only hope).

2009-08-25T20:52:00.000-04:00

There are a lot of things I don't understand in life-- the concept of platform shoes, die-hard reality TV fans, Hot Pockets (gross, but that's a different post for a different time)-- the list goes on. Perhaps one of the most baffling concepts among the list, though, is that of personalized license plates.

I just don't get it.

Sometimes they gross me out. And sometimes they just make me mad. As an example, I'll refer to an especially ridiculous personalized license plate that I had the misfortune of encountering while walking home from class today.

As the tool in the driver's seat of a wannabe swanky whip (strike number one) whizzed past me with a deafening roar-- the combination of bad rap music and the lack of a muffler-- (strike number two), I noticed the license plate carried a message:

"UDLOOSE" (I don't think I need to mention strike number three).

Wait, what? Really? Really? I'm going to take a guess here and assume that you meant for the caption to read, "You'd Lose", in which case I understand the need to shorten the first word to "UD", an abbreviation that's hellacious enough on its own, but must you spell "lose" wrong? I mean, really. Get it together. No one wants to drag race you, they want to drive behind you... so that they can snap a picture of your license plate with their phone and send it to all of their friends.

You lose.

"I threatened him with my intellectual curiosity"

2009-08-23T20:10:00.000-04:00

I don't think there's anything I enjoy more than a good friend, a good meal, and a good quote from funny conversations taken out of context to be used as the title of a blog post.