first lonely day. . .

Ok, well I was sitting here staring at the computer screen in this ridiculously expensive internet cafe at my hostel (5 euro for an hour - like 7 US dollars) at 1am, trying to think of something happy and clever and meaningful to post. I know many of you have been reading and enjoying these meandering introspections of mine, for whatever reason. But I have no clever introspection today, just a slight touch of lonliness.

Maybe it's being in this party city for 4 days. I felt beautiful in Paris. Here, I just feel like a sloppy American. Amsterdam is nice, but everyone is just busy and loud all the time. It's a bit easy to get swept underfoot emotionally, if one isn't careful.

Before I left, many friends and acquaintences tried to reassure me, saying, "Oh don't worry about being alone in Europe. Lots of people travel alone. You'll meet people." I've met people, but NO ONE is alone. In one whole week, I haven't met one single person travelling alone. Everyone I've met I've had to approach in their group or pair and introduce myself and basically invite myself into their company. I find myself offering to buy drinks for people all the time just to pay them for their company. So yes, I've had lots of fun with lots of different people so far, but after the fun's over, they leave. They go back to their best friend or boyfriend or group of 10 people and laugh all the way home. And I put in my ipod and begin playing my daily game of ok-how-the-bonkers-do-I-get-home-now? all by myself.

Don't feel sorry for me. Don't sit there and go, "Aw." Because I should be fine. I'm courageous, right? That's what everyone says. "Wow, you're travelling for 6 weeks all alone? How brave! I'm jealous!" No you're not, liar. If you were jealous, you'd do it. There's a reason you're all with someone else. So once again, I'm the victorious, courageous, brave one who is all alone. What good is courage when all you want is to laugh with a good friend?

ode to amsterdam

Anyway, Amsterdam. Hmmm. . . what can I possibly say about Amsterdam that I wish to be posted publicly on a website that is read by my family and many of my colleagues? Well, think of the craziest party you've ever been to - I mean one that went all night and where you woke up on some street that you've never been on before - now multiply it by 100, add some Austrailians on vacation, and legalize a whole lotta stuff that's not legal anywhere else (bad stuff like jay-walking) and you are coming close to what it's like here. Anyway, this is quite the place. I met an Australian couple yesterday and we've been touring the city together ever since. Think we'll try to do something halfway educational today and maybe see the Anne Frank house. . . then again, maybe not. Fries drenched in mayonaise anyone?

Funny story: We were walking through Vondelpark today (still in Amsterdam), and noticed a big group of guys throwing rocks into the canal at their soccer ball. It had fallen into the canal and floated to the other side, and they were pretty broken up about the end of their game. I said as I walked by, "Well you're not going to get it like that - jump in!" I was kidding. He started to take his jacket off, then looked at me and said, "You jump in. I pay you 5 euro." I lifted my hand in the air as though to say, "Higher." He said, "20 euro." Higher. "50 euro." I waved my hand and started to walk away. He yelled "Jump in and get our ball and I pay you 100 euro." Now it should be mentioned here that the canals in Amsterdam are not necessarily your suburban backyard swimming pool. There was garbage and what looked like a little bit of oil, and you couldn't see the bottom. God knows what the hell was alive in there - or worse, dead. I looked long and hard at that gray water, and long and hard at that orange soccer ball just yards away, and thought about how 100 euro was an entire day's budget, and about how I'd overspent my daily budget for the last 3 days in a row, and about what a good picture it would be of me swimming in the canal and possibly getting arrested, and then said, "Let me see the money first." He and his friends all emptied their pockets and started gathering money. I took off my bag and my shoes. . . then they said they could only come up with 60 euro, and I simply wouldn't do it for less than 100. I mean, a girl's gotta have standards folks. And that was how I almost died in a canal in Amsterdam.

"like bird"

I took this trip to have an adventure. I was tired of being married, responsible, safe, and mature. I wanted to come to Europe to party, meet fabulous people, and be spontaneous. No more practical, well-thought out decisions for me. No sir. It was going to be all about debauchery and unabashed hedonism.

Then I spent the evening with two 20 year olds, who were actually still young and sponteneous (without having to give themselves the "I'm going to be spontaneous now" speech.) They were best friends from the Czech Republic who had spent the past two days hitchiking to Paris because one of them was in love with a girl in Paris and planned to woo her. The other was also in love with a girl back home. As we sat by the Seine drinking this knock-you-on-your-ass brew from their hometown, I felt the conversation begin to shift. These guys were just boys, and I was a woman. We were not talking as peers, comparing our fears of never finding love; I had become their teacher. They were just beginning to experience the delightful nauseousness of new infatuation, and were ready to sell their souls for it. It was beautiful. Listening to them talk was like gazing at an unblemished field of daisies; you just wanted so badly for this to really be the way things are.

They saw in me a "been-there-and-back-ness," but not in a jaded way, just in a knowing way. They asked my advice about women, and I showed them their way on the Paris metro. Just three days ago, I was walking 8 blocks out of my way to get on my line because I was afraid I'd get lost if I had to switch trains. Now I was explaining the system and how to buy tickets like a local.

Later that day, I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window, and you know what? I looked beautiful. I used to dread going back to college in the fall because I would get so overwhelmed by the throng of skinny, tan bitches who made my self-esteem plummet. But now, here in the beautiful-women captial of the world, I felt truly unique and beautiful. And most importantly, I felt grown up, and I liked it. I began to see how growing up doesn't always have to mean being boring and practical. It also means learning to know and trust yourself in a way that no one can take from you. Becoming unshakable in your selfhood.

When one of the Czech boys asked me why I was travelling this summer, I explained that I had recently left my marriage and was looking for some new experiences in the world. He smiled, and said in broken English, "So, you are . . . like bird then. You fly free." Yes. I am like bird.

the Louvre

this is a simple poem I scrawled while in the French Paintings room:

The Louvre

Shoe soles squeak

on the flawless, polished marble floor.

I hear the enthusiastic voice of a tour guide

in the next room.

Her delicious French words tumble over one another,

so anxious to fill the room.

She loves this art.

I see the faces of the visitors;

she has invited them,

now they love it too.

They are one with wonder.

The wide, ornate golden frames fill the walls;

presenting their rich innards with pride.

They seem to want to push the paintings out,

into the room,

onto me.

Golden guardians of history,

you are so unlike anything in my life.

Yet I am here with you,

and you forgive my ignorance.

I am an arrogant American

more interested in art that can be put on a t-shirt.

Campbells soup cans and neon light shows -

art that screams

Feminism!

Conflict!

Politics!

But you offer your gift

silently,

patiently,

and I see that these heavy oil paintings

ARE war

ARE women

ARE government and philosophy.

They reflect another life

where pomp and social grace

were an ornate disguise for the same old fears.

Rolls of lemon fabric cover, but barely hide,

the same body;

the same breasts,

the same round belly,

the same need for love.

There is magic in this place,

as if the universe begins here

on these frozen, two dimensional faces.

I cradle my awe secretly.

Something just gave birth inside me

and now it is growing.

With humility,

for once,

I am grateful to be alone.

SALE DAY!

Well my second day in Paris brought an unexpected treat - national sale day. The government regulates sales here, so stores only have sales twice a year - once in January, and once today. I felt like I won the girl lottery! What unbelievable luck! I onlt bought 2 shirts, a skirt, and a scarf, but the experience of clothes shopping in the fashion capital of the world when everything was about 70 percent off was enough to get me off. I wish I could wear cute heels like that. . .

first night in Paris

Explanation of pics:

My first night in Paris found me eating beer and cheese fondue. For those of you who have known me for more than five minutes, you know that there's not much that can make me happier than a pot of melted cheese to dip stuff into. I wanted to go swimming in it. (I didn't.) At said fondue joint, I met three lovely Canadians; siblings travelling through Europe together. We spent the rest of the evening together. The brother with the hat is a hip-hop recording artist who had a video camera and was using it to interview people under the guise of a fake mtv-type show. He was pretty hilarious. The other brother used to manage his brother's band, but is now planning to return to school for Islamic studies; a kind, intelligent soul. The sister was quiet except when she was laughing at her brothers' antics, but also very sweet. We walked around for hours, at one point stopping to watch this fire-juggler in front of Notre Dame (the pic is sideways - mom, how do i fix that?) The last pic is blurry but still a nice shot of me in front of the Seine.

I'm in love

When travelling alone, everything feels like a marvelous accomplishment. Thus, my constant congratulatory interior monologue: Wow, you got on the metro and found your way into the city alone - way to go! You said escuse moi to that girl when she bumped into you and now she surely thinks you're a native Parisian - your French is amazing! You discovered how to flush the toilet - you really are a genius, Melanie! You figured out your European dress size - what a fantastic human being!

Seriously though, not enough can be said about the beauty of Paris, no matter how cliched it sounds. Tonight, I had dinner at this quintessential Parisian bistro. I had wine, chicken provencal, and strawberries and cream for dessert. I sat at one of those little metal tables in one of those folding metal bistro chairs, under a pot of hanging geraniums, next to a 100 year old wooden door on which hung a chalkboard listing the days specials, while I listened to the bells of Notre Dame and gazed at the sun setting over the Seine. Inside was a small bar lined with tiny espresso cups and terracotta pots of orange flowers, filling slowly with flawlessly gorgeous Parisians coming to relax and drink after a day of leisurely work. A man in mustard yellow drawstring pants, a white tank top and a fedora walked by playing the tambourine for no one but himself. Oh my god, give me a break. Could this be anymore freaking perfect? When I first got into the city, I kept thinking every building must be the Louvre and every church must be Notre Dame, because every single last wall in this place is breathtaking in its ornate detail. When I finally did find both the Louvre and Notre Dame, I almost fell on the ground and started worshipping them, they were so magestic. This city's magic simply cannot be overstated. Paris is the city of love, but not because you need to be kissing someone on the street corner (a very popular passtime here). I'm in love with Paris itself. I might just marry it.

azerty

Well I'm here! This is the view from my window. I'm staying in a little suburb called Montrouge, just outside Paris proper. Unfortunately, my blog entries will have to be short here, because among other things, their keyboards are laid out differently. It's not a QWERTY, it's an AZERTY. Damn French. They don't know how to start an illegal war with terrorists and they certainly don't know how to make keyboards. Other things that are different so far: everyone smokes, but only in their kitchens; the toilet paper is in tiny little pink squares, not on a roll (this has been a bit of a challenge so far I must say); the cars are as tiny as matchbox cars; no air conditioning anywhere in the city (you don't really need it though); and everyone is rather gorgeous. I think I'm about to go meet up with this band from LA that I met on the plane. Stay tuned. . .

No More Sleeps!

When I was a kid, I would count down to exciting events like vacations by asking my parents how many "sleeps" until we left. One particular year, I think I was about 5, I was especially excited to go to Virginia Beach because we were going to go on the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel. My family told me about how it goes under water, and I couldn't wait to see this incredible wonder. The whole way I asked how much longer until we get there, and my family patronized the cute little wide-eyed girl in the back of the van. But just as we were about to approach the tunnel, my excitement turned to fear. I realized that we were going under water, and I didn't know if I could hold my breath for that long, and I didn't want to see any sharks from out of the car window. I started crying and freaking out, and didn't stop until we reached the tunnel and I saw the saftety of the thick walls between me and the ocean.

For the past few weeks, I've been telling people that I'm going backpacking through Europe for six weeks all alone, and I'd get comments ranging from "Wow, good for you! You're going to have such a great time!" to "I'm so jealous! What an adventure, you're so brave!" But no one ever said, "You must be scared to death!" although that was the closest thing to the truth. This is something that I've talked about doing since I was 16. Yes, I'm excited. Yes, I know I'll have a good time, but I'm also stomach-churning, cold-sweat-inducing scared shitless. What if I get lost? What if I can't find someone who speaks English when I need them? What if I find someone cool to hang out with and then find out they're creepy when it's too late? What if I get too lonely and homesick to have a good time? What if I run out of money? What if I don't like the food? And on and on and on.

But this morning, I broke through the fear. I was driving very early, getting some last minute errands done. I didn't have any of my normal cd's in the car because I had just uploaded my entire collection to my ipod, so I had to put in the only thing left - my Christmas mix from last year. Something about driving at 6:30 on a June morning with Mariah Carey belting out "All I Want for Christmas is You" cut me loose. I started laughing at the absurdity of it. My laughter turned to tears, and mixed with more laughter. I cried and laughed all the way home. I'm really doing it, I thought. I'm about to get on a plane and fly across the Atlantic Ocean to several countries where I've never been. I don't know anyone, I don't speak any of the languages, and I don't even know where I'm going to stay yet for most of the trip. But I'm doing it, and it's a wonderful, beautiful, exciting thing.

So here I am. There are no more sleeps. I'll soon be on the other side of the tunnel, and there will be no more need for tears. Here's to my great adventure!

My itinerary

So here's where I'll be wreaking havoc in Europe (a.k.a. my itinerary):

Paris
Amsterdam
Berlin
Dresden
Prague
Cesky Krumlov
Vienna
Salzburg
Munich
Stuttgart
back to Paris, then home sweet home

Perhaps other destinations will be added once I'm there and meet fun travel partners. We'll see. . .

Here I am in the world of blogs

Well let me add "started a blog" to the list of trendy, 20-something things to do this year, along with:
- travel to Europe to "find myself"
- get divorced
- cease talking to anyone on the phone in the name of texting till my fingers bleed
- turn down perfectly good "going out" offers to have a secret "Sex in the City" marathon with my couch
- pretend to be a songwriter (Well, I am, but I only write songs about relationships, so I'm starting to sound like a slightly less violent Alanis Morissette, and really - let's be honest - every hippie chick worth her weight in patchouli goes through a photography phase, a poetry phase, and a songwriting phase. I've done the first two, so I guess it's ok to give in to this self-indulgent singer/songwriter thing, even if I do only know 3 chords on the guitar and I like the way it looks on my lap more than I actually have the patience to learn how to play.)
- start a blog

But really, this blog is dedicated to Uncle Travelling Matt from Fraggle Rock, who always travelled the world and sent informative, educational postcards back to his nephew, Gobo. I leave for my 6-week backpacking trip through Europe in 5 days, and this will be my connection to my peeps back home, because I know that y'all can't live without me for that long.

So here it is, for your reading pleasure. . . (drumroll) . . . my blog.