Why hello, and welcome to weeks 21-25 of LEAH LUGS CRAP AROUND THE
WORLD, a chunk of fascinating, amazing, and simply mind-blowing weeks
of goodbyes, hellos, and mistaken death. I come to you today from an
Easy Internet Cafe off Las Ramblas in Barcelona, where surprisingly I
haven't run into a prostitute yet (too early in the morning I
suppose). We left off in the middle of a rant about a very rude,
mean, degrading landlord/flatmate (a "poopypants", if you will), and
it is with that very man we shall begin, but not, of course, before we
get our token bulleted list:

I meet the poor soul who will replace me as Rajah's flatmate
I resist kidnapping this poor soul, grabbing him by throat and saying
in hushed and urgent tones, "Now you listen to me and you listen to me
good sonny. This deal seems pretty sweet from the outside but it
ain't too good once you're in. Ya hear? Now do yourself a favor.
You go out, kid, and you get yourself a better paying job, a wife, a
nice, decent family, and when you got all that, kid, you buy yourself
a nice house, one to call your own, doesn't even have to be big or
fancy or nothin' like that. You buy yourself a LIFE kid, freedom to
use the dishrack whenever you please and until you can afford it, and
kid? You sleep in a cardboard box until you can find all that because
believe me, kid, I've lived here five months and it just ain't worth
it."
Yeah, I resisted doing that.
I make a horrific scene struggling to bring my bags do my new
residence. I think about how people are so uncaring and unhelpful on
the London transport system. Then someone is caring and helpful.
I move into my new place and find various dish-related gifts scattered
around my room.
People treat me like a princess.
I act like a princess.
I go to Prague.
Big Mama steps out.
I hear some bad news about Yolanda Vega More description on who she is
later, for those of you who didn't get to have the Yolanda Experience
in your youth).
I rack up a huge cell phone bill calling anyone I can think of in the
US to confirm the bad news about Yolanda Vega.
I go to bed depressed about the state of the world.
I attempt to buy nuts and cranberries from a Naschmarket in Vienna.
I receive the entire year's crop.
We crawl through pubs with an Austrian host who is actually named
Franz. Hans is MIA.
A German girl and I break down language barriers communicating via
the "I really have to pee dance". Our countries subsequently become
like total best friends.
I meet a random Australian named Kelly. We also become like total
best friends.
A German speaking man tells me about his glove. I nearly cry.
I am a jelly doughnut.
Greg attempts to take his pants on and off in a couchette on a night
train. Water bottles fall on my head.
I nearly throw a hissy fit on the streets of Zurich.
I nearly bludgeon to death two innocent girls from Singapore in Zurich.
Shannon fucking hates Switzerland.
I see Eddie Izzard in Geneva. Then I realize I'm still asleep.
Free croissantes in France. Shannon fucking loves France.
We see many, many cool things.
A lot of French people do the kissy kissy. It takes up way too much time.
We love the trains throughout Europe. We get into a train in France.
Every passenger is either crazy or dying.
French kids rap.
Chinese kids are racially profiled.
Madrid. It rocks.
Barcelona. It rocks.
New Years Eve: Fireworks, strangers kissing, get to know you
conversations in the middle of a near riot, and people pissing
everywhere.
As you can see, we have a lot to cover and very little time, so
let's just jump right in now, shall we? This week's blog is going to
be structured in chapters because it's ridiculously long and should
really be separate blog entries, so here we go.

Chapter 1- Good Riddance, Mr. Raj-tastic

We pick up about right where we left off, in a dark, dank cave,
deep within the labyrinth hell of Emperor Rajah's Fortress of Death.
Our omniscient protagonist (me) lay huddled in her prison cell,
exhausted from her strenuous attempts to scour her room spotless, to
bring sanitation back to her dirty, very hairy pit (our hero had not
vacuumed in some months and had straightened her hair far too many
times to count in a direct (ahem passive aggressive) rebellion against
the emperor). Our very attractive, very cool, and absolutely
irresistible hero sighed deeply as she reveled in the relaxation of
even the most remote and isolated cells of her body. She had done a
good job cleaning and deserved to lie in a calming pool of
self-congratulation.

And then a knock came.

Goddammit.

I pulled myself off the bed and trudged to the door, the pure
dread at simply seeing Rajah's "polite" face accumulating in my
stomach. With much reluctance, I opened the door and of course there
was the face, waiting "patiently" to make yet another "request."

"Yes Leah," he began, as he always does, making me hate the day
the word "yes" and the name "Leah" were invented. "I have someone
coming round to view the room in a few minutes, is it okay if they
come in?"

Oh god. This was certainly not something I had been expecting,
especially not since several days before, when I had told him (in not
so many words), "Listen, Rajah, buddy, the next time ya live with
another person, you might want to make sure you can… live with another
person."

"Okay," I said, for lack of anything better to say. "Sure." I
closed the door and hurriedly attempted to shove my new underwear,
which screams "PARTY!!!" across the butt, into a bag, any bag at all.
As I made these last minute preparations, some worrying thoughts began
to scurry through my brain. God, what was I going to tell this poor
soul when he/she arrived? What if he asked me in front of Rajah what
I thought of this place? How could I warn this innocent person to run
away, run very very far away with Rajah lurking around the flat and
still in possession of my 350 pound security deposit?

I didn't have long to think about it because in just a couple of
minutes, the flat filled with the loud ringing of the doorbell and
there, in front of me, was The Replacement. From the first moment I
saw him, all the tension fled from my body. It became abundantly
clear from the very first seconds of interaction that I was being
replaced by my exact opposite. There, in front of me, was the
anti-Leah. This person was a man, had to have been in his early
forties and was an accountant. He couldn't have picked anyone more
different than me.

Way to go, Rajah, you got rid of the kid. (But let's just see if
he can boss around a MAN in his FORTIES when it comes to the dishrack.
If only I had left some CCTV around the flat so I could see how it's
going!).

Bizarrely enough, the situation was so awkward for me and so
crucial for Rajah, that we began a very strange social dance, the
likes of which I had never before seen and never desire to see again.
That's right, Rajah was nice to me, Rajah was friendly to me, and
rather than reacting with the suspicion and true hatred that I felt, I
reacted in exactly the opposite way, smiling at Rajah like we were
grand old friends, and even letting an overly nice, Minnesotan accent
slip into my speech. And what a show it was. I cracked seemingly
"inside" jokes to Rajah who subsequently threw his head back and
laughed as if to say, "Oh Leah, you sleigh me!" He watched with
concerned and caring eyes as I described to Mr. Straightlaced
Replacement the many wondrous ways that he could find his way to work
in Hammersmith from here in Battersea. Back and forth we danced in
this very bizarre ballet, working together to convince this
unsuspecting soul to move into the room, Rajah because he needed the
money, me because I was incredibly uncomfortable.

Mr. Straightlace: How are the transport links to Hammersmith:
Emperor Rajah: Well I drive, but Leah might know. Leah, perhaps?
Our Beautiful Skinny Buttless Hero Speaking in a Minnesotan Accent:
Oh well sure there are plenty of ways! You can take several buses,
though the best bet is probably the tube. The buses can be pretty
darn frustrating around here, don't you know it!
Emperor Rajah (laughing merrily): Oh, don't I know it!
[He drove, I'll have you note he did NOT in fact know it].
Hero: It's the truth!
Emperor Rajah: Such a pain!

Hero: Gosh darn it is!
[Emperor Rajah and Our Beautiful Skinny Butless Hero throw their
heads back and laugh like old friends.]
Emperor: Oh, that Leah!
Hero: Oh, that Rajah!

We went on like this for an embarrassing length of time, and by
the time we were done Mr. Straighlaced was making plans for getting
the Rajanator his deposit. I should feel guilty, I know, for not
making it more clear to this man that the Emperor Raj was The Big
Nurse from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, but really, what else
could I have done? Good riddance, I say.

Indeed, this is something I tried to say directly to Rajah's
face but, despite my improvements on the assertiveness scale, I never
quite managed to do this. The closest I got to a nice wagged middle
finger was a more passive aggressive style of "fuck you" when Rajah
awkwardly apologized if he had ever upset me during our time together.

Rajah: I… I just wanted to say I apologize if I ever upset you.
Me (completely unwilling both to grant him forgiveness or even
acknowledgement of the apology yet also unwilling to say, "Yeah, well,
that's what happens when you're an insensitive douche-bag): Uh-huh.
Okay, well I'm going to head out then buddy! See ya later!

With that line (which, yes, I had been planning for quite some
time) I had hoped to make my dramatic exit, walking briskly through
the door, slamming it shut and sashaying confidently down the hall
without a single look back to gratify him. However, these hopes were
severely hindered by my monstrous backpack, which attached both in the
back to make me look like an unbalanced, upright turtle, and in the
front to make me look like a woman on the brink of giving birth to
quadruplets, as well as by my two huge shopping bags. (We later
calculated that together my bags had likely weighed well over 100
lbs). Such baggage made a proper, dramatic exit ("Fuck you and
everyone like you, I hate you all!' *SLAM!*) logistically impossible.
Instead, I put my backpack on my bed, strapped myself in, fell
backwards, pulled myself up, leaned forward to grab my front bag, fell
over front ways, pulled myself up, somehow managed to attach my front
bag to my back bag, bent my knees awkwardly, trying to balance like
those people in Kung Fu movies with two buckets of water on either end
of a long pole, grabbed my huge shopping bags and pushed through
several doors, my bags catching on either end as I struggled to fit
through.

Still though, my mood was so chipper that I even attempted to
hold doors open for other people, maintaining my happy faux-Minnesotan
accent as I struggled towards the bus stop, calling out to every
smiling person who passed, "You folks have a good day then now!
Alrighty then!" Man, was I happy to be out of that hell hole. I even
managed to suppress the urge to look back spitefully at my former
residence… until I knocked a small child/midget over with my bag and
had to turn around to make sure they would recover.

After that incident was settled, I somehow managed to haul my
way onto a bus and tube, making my way out to my new residence in John
and Carole's house in Colliers Wood. The journey was not without
incident, as traveling on a public transport system with over a
hundred pounds worth of crap on one's back and uteral area can never
truly be without event. Indeed, I gave the entire 137 bus quite the
show as I searched frantically in my backpack for my oyster card,
which had descended deep into the innermost sanctums of my bag,
pulling out the wads of bills from my security deposit, my passport,
my iPod, my laptop and anything valuable in an attempt to locate it.
When the card was finally found, the scene only worsened as I
attempted unsuccessfully to re-attach my heavy front bag to no avail.
I cursed the other passengers as I struggled to slid one hook into
another, wondering why they were just shooting me bewildered or angry
looks rather than getting off their asses and helping a completely
crazed (but buttless!) looking stranger out. That is, of course,
until a very sympathetic looking Hispanic woman sitting behind me
reached over and said, "Honey, do you need some help?"

"YES! YEEEEES!" I cried, the tears welling in my eyes and with that,
my bag was reattached. God bless strangers on public transport! Thus
it was that I arrived at John and Carole's looking much like a pack
horse, refusing to buckle under the weight of the bags, lugging my
stuff (with help this time) up to the room on the second floor,
dropping my stuff to the ground and collapsing on the bed where, as
luck would have it, I found my greeting present from John- a brand new
dishrack. All for me. "Oh, how nice, my own dishrack!" I thought
with relief. "They give me dishracks here!"

Ah, a relief it certainly was. Within minutes I felt at home in John
and Carole's house and free to use any and all dishracks, besides
John's jokes (at least, I think they were jokes) that he had only
gotten me the dishrack so that I would stay away from their dishrack
downstairs. But whatever.

Which brings us to Chapter Two.

Chapter Two- Goodbye, I'll miss you, and by the way, what do I do
with all this crap?

It wasn't long before I felt completely at home at John and
Carole's and was well, treating it like home. Meaning, I instantly
spread all my crap all over the room. In this homey and welcoming
setting, I quickly began to realize just how pervasive Rajah's effect
on me had been. Not only could I not relax around the communal
dishrack, but I found myself to be extremely tense around the kitchen.
It was as if I had been kidnapped by a renegade tribe of anal
retentive neat freaks and now, after so much time in the world of
Everything Just So, I was on edge amongst normal people. For
instance, at one point I spilled some water on the floor and quickly
apologized to John, moving as fast as I could to clean it up. "Leah,"
John said. " It's just water. It'll be okay." "Oh right, yeah," I
responded. I tried to play it off coolly, but the fact remains, I was
properly traumatized by the rule of the Rajahnator, and the effects
were still holding strong.

Fortunately, I soon got over this and moved back in to my usual
ways, even managing to eat a lot and watch TV, something that hadn't
happened since August when Rajah went back to Malaysia for a month.
The next two weeks were extremely busy. I continued to work 9 hours a
day and my social calendar filled completely. Indeed, I found it very
difficult to leave after those two weeks spent saying goodbye to many
friends from many corners of the earth. It takes so long to get
established in a place, so I must admit I wasn't too keen to leave
behind the many wonderful people I have met, all of whom gave me such
lovely leaving gifts, meals and drinks, and who showed me so much
kindness and generosity during my entire stay in London. The one
extremely difficult thing about traveling, about living one's life
fully, about caring about so many people, is that you really do leave
little pieces of your heart all over the world and because of that,
"home" is not one place or another, but every place all at once, so
that whenever you're in one home, you're still not in another. Which,
to quote Shakespeare (was it Hamlet who said this?) kind of blows.

But ah well, thus is the price of a life lived fully, a price I am
more than willing to pay. So to all those who made my time in London
so wonderful and who showed me so much kindness all throughout, thank
you!

Which brings me to my next section.
Chapter 3: The Tragic Death and Resurrection of Yolanda Vega in the
Czech Republic
This, of course, was the next natural phase of my travels, the
actually traveling phase. As trips often do, this one began in the
airport, where I met up with my U of R friend Shannon for a flight to
Prague. We arrived in Prague in the evening and both struggled on to
the airport bus, me waddling awkwardly with my bags, which I soon
began to call my Big Mama bags because when I wear them, well, I feel
like a Big Mama. More on this later, but let's just say that with the
painfully heavy bags on my back and stomach, I created the persona of
Big Mama L, a woman who doesn't take any crap from anyone and who can
do this simply because if someone is either in her way or doesn't
agree with her, well, that person best watch out because Big Mama will
barrel right over them! Indeed, I quickly learned that perhaps one of
the most effective ways to move with these massive bags was to either
beep like a truck backing up or shout, "Watch out boys, Big Mama be
backing up!" If, after such loudly stated warnings, I still managed
to knock people over, then it certainly wasn't Big Mama L's fault.
Big Mama SAID you best move out the way!
Mmmmhm I tell you what boy! I know you just di'int!
Indeed, throughout my travels so far I have managede to knock over a
fair amount of people, though usually able bodied people who get could
up afterwards (not like I was going to help them up, shit, I was
carrying a lot of bags!) rather than crippled people like Shannon on
the aiport bus in Prague when she accidentally bowled over a man
hobbling with a crutch.
God, why do people hate backpackers so?
Which is a natural transition to Prague, a city that the absolutely
endeeeeearing natives (cue snobby upperclass voice) have an absolutely
endeeeearing habit of calling the locale, "Praha" in that cute little
language they call Czech. And by cute little language, I mean a
language I can't even begin to understand, so we'll call it cute just
for the sake of condescension. After ruining the lives of several
cripples on the airport bus, we checked into the hostel and boom,
there was our friend, good old Greggy Poo, sitting on a rickety hostel
bed as if to do so was as natural as sitting on a rickety dorm bed in
Rochester.
Unfortunately my joy at seeing Greggy was partly trumped by the pain
of my still incredibly heavy backpack, which I threw off triumphantly
before falling to the bed, sighing loudly and mumbling (shouting)
something I can't really remember, but likely pertaining to food. And
that's when I heard a wonderful sound, an answer to my cries in a
thick English accent.

Yeah! A Brit! I was bringing London with me!

I rejoiced inwardly for a moment and then was introduced to the
Brit... only to be very quickly disappointed, mostly by the fact that
nothing that little of what came out of this kid's mouth was even
remotely true. For instance, despite telling us he had been to Prague
over twelve times for months at a time, all he knew was the best pub
to go to in Prague and nothing else (well, okay, that does sound very
British, now that I think about it). He also told us at separate
times that he was from Manchest, Newcastle and something that sounded
like Ming, which, as far as I can tell, exists neither in the UK or
anywhere else in the world.

Despite (or perhaps, because of) the Brit's lies, we were soon
endeared to his familiar face and gave him a lovely nickname, "Liar",
that soon began to roll of our tongues with love and respect. "Hey,
what do you think Liar is up to today?" we would ask ourselves. "How
can we avoid him? I bit the bullet and talked to him yesterday, guys,
it's one of your guys' turn now. Take one for the team!"

Liar of course is the perfect example of the risks you take when you
go to a hostel. Either you meet amazing people who make your time in
that given place amazing... or you meet annoying people who tag along
and potentially ruin the whole experience because they WON'T GO AWAY.

The rest of our time in Prague, outside of Liar, was quite nice. We
saw all the major sites (listed at the end of this entry in the
checklist), ate some good food, and drank some interesting Czech
liquors that I would never like to touch again, thank you very much.
In fact, it was during the very same night that we sampled the local
Czech alcoholic fineries when I was to learn some devestating news
from my travel companions. We had spent the whole day touring Prague
and, upon the suggestion of yet another character, Crazy Canadian, who
we met in a cafe in the center of the city, we checked out a few bars.
In true alcoholic fashion, the liquor and strong Czech beers soon
prompted several members of our group into forthrightness and honesty,
which is when I learned perhaps the worst news I have ever heard, news
confessed by Greg brought via a random girl in his study abroad class,
news that Yolanda Vega was dead.

That's right, Yolanda Vega had died.

For those of you unfamiliar with Yolanda Vega, she was the most
talented lottery number calling girl in all of New York State, so much
so that I would challenge you to find one child who came of lottery
age in the 90s or who attended university in the state who is
unfamiliar with Yolanda Vega's chipper greetings and spot on number
calls. Who couldn't remember her signature nightly self-naming?

"Good evening Ladies and Gentleman, I'm Yolaaaaanda Veeeega!"

Like most people, when I watched Yolanda Vega call the lotto numbers,
I involuntarily repeated her name in that similar chipper tone,
sometimes adding to the general cheery mood with an irreppressible
little jig. For the children of New York State, Yolanda Vega was our
hope, our dreams, our lotto ticket to the future. With Yolanda Vega,
life was possible. We were the Yolanda Vega generation, and with her
nightly greetings by our side, life was good. Damned good.

Until she died, at least, according to a Czech-beered up Greg in the
middle of the Czech Republic.

"WHAAAAAT?!" I cried upon hearing the news, attracting the gaze of
two hardened, stereotypically Eastern European looking unshaven men.
"Yolanda Vega is DEAD?!" Shannon, who is also from New York State,
had a similar, if less dramatic reaction and Greg tried half-heartedly
to comfort us while still dealing with his own grief over our hero's
death.

"I know, I know, it really shook me too," Greg said, shaking his
head. "No one could call those numbers like Yolanda Vega. Some of
those girls, when they saw a nine, they called a six, but not Yolanda
Vega, she never confused the two."

"No!" Shannon emphatically agreed. "Yolanda Vega never mixed shit
like that up." We all simultaneously nodded our heads in vigorous
agreement and sat in silence as we pondered the situation. Then the
first stage of grief, denial, hit me hard and I shouted out an idea.

"I don't believe you!" I cried. "We have to check! I have to know
about Yolanda Vega!"

And this, my friends, is why you don't get a cell phone with
expensive international rates for while you travel. In a panic, I
texted a friend in the UK who was closer to our time zone and likely
to be near a computer and told her of our situation, but when the text
wasn't immediately replied to, I called Arthi back in the states, who
I really haven't talked to since August.

"Arthi?" I said when she picked up the phone.

"Leah?" she asked, surprised to hear my voice. "Where are you?"

"I'm in the Czech Republic but more importantly, do you know Yolanda Vega?"

"Yooooooolaaaaaanda Veeeeeeega!" Arthi shoouted in reply.

"Yeah," I said morosely. "She's dead."

"What?!"

"I know, I know, but see we're not sure, can you check on the internet?"

Thus went this conversation, as did another similar conversation we
had with two other friends back home when it turned out Arthi could
only find a white, non-Puerto Riccan Yolanda Vega on Wikipedia (our
dear Yolanda Vega is Puerto Riccan all the way... we think...) and
none of our fears were either allayed or confirmed. It wasn't until
later in the night when we returned to internet connection and I was
climbing into bed when Greg whispered to me, "She's alive she's
alive!" that we realized the whole thing had been a miscommunication,
that Yolanda Vega was alive and well. I slept well that night, happy
that Yolanda Vega was safe and sound.

And that, my friends, was the death and resurrection of Yolanda Vega
in the Czech Republic.

As for the actual things we did in Prague outside of Yolanda Vega,
the photos I took will tell more about that than anything else, as
will the quick checklist of stuff we did at the end of this entry.
Prague was a beautiful and relatively cheap city, though not nearly as
cheap as we had been told. Not my favorite city in the world, but a
good one nonetheless. More of a comme ci comme ca city, mais oui?

Which brings us to...

Chapter 4- Franz Sans Hanz and lots and lots of Wiener.

Oh, not that kind of Wiener, you sicko! The next stop on our tour
was Vienna, which is "Wien" in german. As a result, the city of
Vienna is not only the one of the most beautiful, fun, and generally
amazing European cities I've been to, but it is also filled with signs
for Wiener things, from Wiener Hot Dogs to Wiener Clocks. As you
could probably could guess, this is hilarious to someone who is
entirely immature. And I am, so I laughed a lot in Vienna.

Indeed, Vienna was in the top five places I've ever been worldwide,
mostly because of the city itself, but also because of the crazy time
we had there. We arrived from Prague, dumped our bags at the hostel,
met a random West Virginian (yes, apparently they do leave the states,
who knew!) and a girl who had just finished doing WWOOF (farming
around the world, basically), wandered the city in the dark, stumbled
upon a huge electric menorah and realized it was Channukah and that we
had missed most of it, got amazing deserts, and generally wandered the
city.

Admittedly, part of why I like German-speaking countries is because
it gives me the opportunity to spot a zillion different words that
look like hilarious Yiddish words, like schmuck, which according to
Greg means jewelery in German (correct me if I'm wrong, I may have
completely messed that up and too typical of a lazy American to look
it up). After Greg and I realized we had already missed five days of
Channukah, I had switched properly into Yiddish word spotting, if only
out of nostalgia for home, and was subsequently incredibly excited
when, in the middle of our city wandering, we stumbled upon a
Naschmarket.

"Oh my gaaaawd!" I shouted with pure joy in a Long Island Jewish
accent. "I can't believe this! My blood sugar was just dropping and
then here is a Naschmarket! Bubbe, we can nasch!"

I was severely disappointed to be told only a few moments later that
the Naschmarket wasn't a place where Long Island Jews gathered to
nasch on things but was instead a regular market. However, my
disappointment didn't last long as I soon discovered that, while the
market had many non-food products, it was also bursting with Asian men
shouting at you to eat something. Ah, wandering the market and
smelling the glorious foods truly warmed my heart and made my stomach
grumble angrily, so much so that when a vendor called out for me to
try his dried strawberries, I couldn't help but accept. He doled out
strawberries to the entire group, and when we nodded in approval, he
offered us several other different types of dried fruit and nuts,
which, for a girl exists solely on such things, was a very nice thing
to do.

Before long I said, "M'dear, you had me at 'try these dried
strawberries for free'" and asked for a small amount of strawberries
and macademia nuts. Seeing his opportunity, the vendor suddenly
became business like, scrounged around for the biggest bag humanity
has ever seen, and proceeded to dump about ten years worth of nuts and
fruit into the bag before placing them on the scale and proclaiming,
"25 euro!"

"What?!" I cried, still in Long Island Jewish mode. "25... NO!" He
began to argue back and forth with me about it but Big Mama wasn't
going to have none of this and I simply repeated no! No! NO! Until
his boss came over and took handfuls out at time, still charging me a
ridiculous amount of 6 euro for the amount I had left. But they were
good strawberries, so Big Mama felt like she had successfully used the
dishrack and then written about it in her blog and also successfully
strung together the most inside blog jokes in one sentence, which, on
its own, makes this "you had to have been there" story worth it just
for that.
After Big Mama's strawberry incident, we rushed back to the hostel
where we had signed up for a pub crawl with an Austrian named Franz.
Now, I have never been to a pub crawl I haven't loved, simply because
you get to meet many new, like-minded and fun people, while seeing
beautiful European cities when both you and the city have let their
guard down. That, and they're just goddamn fun!
However, this one was particularly fun as our host, an Austrian guy
named Franz who, for my dad's sake, I will call Franzy Boy from now on
(because dad, I KNOW if I were telling you this story in person you'd
interrupt and say, "Franz! Franzy boy! But where was Hans?) was just
a ton of fun. The crawl began in the hostel where we met a zillion
and one Ozzies, as is pretty typical both for travel in general and
especially for pub crawls. You gotta love the ozzies!
So, as our Franzy Boy as our guide and with a slew of Ozzies, we pub
crawled our way through Wiener-land, learning Austrian "magic tricks"
from Franz, and descending on many different cool bars, much to the
chagrin of the locals. While Greg overcame language and cultural
boundaries by engaging in the largest game of international fooze ball
I've ever witnessed, I took the more girly routes, engaging in
emotional conversations with my friend Ozzie girlfriends and bonding
with random German girls in the bathroom over things like having to go
to the bathroom and is there any toilet paper left in that other
stall? (No, there is not a square to spare).
Indeed, as often happens on pub crawls, my Big Mama bladder was not
so big and I was constantly running to the bathroom, where once a
drunken Austrian girl stumbled out of a stall, grabbed for the toilet
paper on the shelf, said something in German with a huge laugh to
which I responded much like I did when I faked liking Rajah, giving a
big booming laugh back and mumbling something that I felt sounded
vaguely like German (Yah!) and leaving the interaction feeling I had
made a new friend.
I felt even more connected to a German girl I met when she came
bursting once again drunkenly into the bathroom, saying something in
clear pain in German and doing a little dance to indicate that she
really desperately had to go.
"Hey!" I cried after watching her jig. "That's the international pee
dance! Oh, sorry, how do I say that in German? Um... ich bin ein
Berliner!"
She laughed informed me that she spoke English (what German DOESN'T)
and we proceeded to have a prototypical get to know you conversation
while waiting to pee, and I believe I covered many times the fact that
I was a jelly doughnut, a phrase I repeated throughout the night to
much amusement to myself and basically no one else.

"What?!" I cried, still in Long Island Jewish mode. "25... NO!" He
began to argue back and forth with me about it but Big Mama wasn't
going to have none of this and I simply repeated no! No! NO! Until
his boss came over and took handfuls out at time, still charging me a
ridiculous amount of 6 euro for the amount I had left. But they were
good strawberries, so Big Mama felt like she had successfully used the
dishrack and then written about it in her blog and also successfully
strung together the most inside blog jokes in one sentence, which, on
its own, makes this "you had to have been there" story worth it just
for that.
After Big Mama's strawberry incident, we rushed back to the hostel
where we had signed up for a pub crawl with an Austrian named Franz.
Now, I have never been to a pub crawl I haven't loved, simply because
you get to meet many new, like-minded and fun people, while seeing
beautiful European cities when both you and the city have let their
guard down. That, and they're just goddamn fun!

However, this one was particularly fun as our host, an Austrian guy
named Franz who, for my dad's sake, I will call Franzy Boy from now on
(because dad, I KNOW if I were telling you this story in person you'd
interrupt and say, "Franz! Franzy boy! But where was Hans?) was just
a ton of fun. The crawl began in the hostel where we met a zillion
and one Ozzies, as is pretty typical both for travel in general and
especially for pub crawls. You gotta love the ozzies!

So, as our Franzy Boy as our guide and with a slew of Ozzies, we pub
crawled our way through Wiener-land, learning Austrian "magic tricks"
from Franz, and descending on many different cool bars, much to the
chagrin of the locals. While Greg overcame language and cultural
boundaries by engaging in the largest game of international fooze ball
I've ever witnessed, I took the more girly routes, engaging in
emotional conversations with my friend Ozzie girlfriends and bonding
with random German girls in the bathroom over things like having to go
to the bathroom and is there any toilet paper left in that other
stall? (No, there is not a square to spare).

Indeed, as often happens on pub crawls, my Big Mama bladder was not so
big and I was constantly running to the bathroom, where once a drunken
Austrian girl stumbled out of a stall, grabbed for the toilet paper on
the shelf, said something in German with a huge laugh to which I
responded much like I did when I faked liking Rajah, giving a big
booming laugh back and mumbling something that I felt sounded vaguely
like German (Yah!) and leaving the interaction feeling I had made a
new friend.

I felt even more connected to a German girl I met when she came
bursting once again drunkenly into the bathroom, saying something in
clear pain in German and doing a little dance to indicate that she
really desperately had to go.

"Hey!" I cried after watching her jig. "That's the international pee
dance! Oh, sorry, how do I say that in German? Um... ich bin ein
Berliner!"

She laughed informed me that she spoke English (what German DOESN'T)
and we proceeded to have a prototypical get to know you conversation
while waiting to pee, and I believe I covered many times the fact that
I was a jelly doughnut, a phrase I repeated throughout the night to
much amusement to myself and basically to no one else.

Such interactions repeated amongst the night, and as such, I found
myself making new "friends I'll never see or talk to again" throughout
the night. Indeed we were all in top form and were sad to leave
Vienna behind a few days on for Switzerland.

Which brings us to...

Chapter 5- Fucking Switzerland

Yes, my friends, Switzerland was doomed from the start for mutiple
reasons that I shall go through in only semi-chronological order. The
most natural starting point is the train ride from Vienna to Zurich.
As this was a night train, we reserved couchettes, which, for those of
you have never used a couchette, is really an adventure all by itself.
My memory of sleeping on trains was severely outdated from trips with
my parents when I was about six years old. At that time, either the
couchettes were much bigger, I was much smaller, or my mom, knowing
she couldn't handle a 6 year old in a couchette, got an actual private
room. In any event, I arrived at the train expecting bunks for four
people and a little sink, only to find six flat boards mildly padded
by cushion crushed into an impossibly small cabin. And when I say
crushed, I mean this "couchettes" (which are not nearly as fancy as
they sound!) were about one inch above and below each other. As I
have thought many times while traveling in Europe so far, I wondered
to myself, "God, what would you do if you were fat?" No wonder
Americans don't travel!

Shannon had been booked into another room so Greg and I dumped our
bags on our couchettes and slid right on. I then attempted to sit up
and read a book, which meant doing a ridiculous quarter of an
abdominal crunch and balancing the book against the bottom of the
couchette on top of mine. This position was made even more awkward by
the unfortunate fact that my huge bags wouldn't fit in the luggage
racks and so I was forced to lie on top of all my bags. Meanwhile,
Greg couldn't fall asleep in his pants, so, while I continued my
quarter crunch and the train began to rock back and forth, Greg
attempted to remove his pants. Now, I'm not sure if you've ever
watched a Long Island Jewish boy attempt to wriggle out of his pants
under a blanket while squished between two boards about an inch apart
while rocking back and forth on a train from Vienna to Zurich, but the
scene that resulted was one I will never forget. The struggle, my
friends, was as epic as they came.

Finally Greg was successful (though a similar scene would be repeated
that next morning when he tried to put his pants back on), I gave up
on the quarter crunch read, we turned out the lights and sleep fell
upon us (or at least, me) surprisingly soon to the soothing rocking of
the train.

That is, of course, until the train rocked just a bit too much and
objects from the top couchettes began falling on my head. There I
was, fast asleep in my one inch wide, stale-aired couchette, fast
asleep when BOOM! I am startled awake by a water bottle falling on my
head. And BOOM I startled awake by a cell phone falling on my head.
Throughout the course of the night, I do believe the entire contents
of a top bunker's bag had fallen on my head, a fact that couldn't even
begin to be rectifed by the stale role and tea they served for
breakfast, which we attempted to gnaw at in yet another quarter crunch
position.

Needless to say (but oh yes, I'm going to say it) I wasn't in the best
of moods by the time Greg and debarked the train bleary eyed and on
edge. It didn't help things that Shannon, who had taken a Benadryl
and passed out for the entire ride, came cheerfully up to us and
proclaimed, "Well that wasn't so bad!" Hateful looks were the only
thing to follow.

In this way, Switzerland didn't get off to the best of starts, and
things only continued to deteriorate as we tried to find our hostel.
And this, my friends, is when I speak of one of my many exhausted,
frustrated, irrational moments, moments that every person on the trip
had at one point, me especially being no exception. Let's put it this
way. After a night of very little sleep and very many objects falling
on my head, as well as a week of travel before that, I was not in a
good place. What resulted was one of those travel moments we all have
when traveling for a long time, where you reduce to a two year old,
long to throw down everything you're holding and shout, "Would someone
just carry me to bed!" in an extremely whiny voice.

Instead, I did this.

When we emerged into the train station, Shannon and Greg put down
their bags and asked me to watch them. Now, I'm sure when they did
this, they told me that they were going to get change for the bills
they had just taken out. And I'm equally sure that I either did not
hear them, or that I did hear them and was too tired to process what
they said. So when they returned and we made our way to the tram
stop, I had no idea that they had gotten change.

I thought I had been holding myself together well until I stood there
at the tram stop, my big mama bags weighing me down, going on only a
few hours of sleep and sporting many water bottle induced bruises and
attempted without much success to shove my newly acquired swiss franc
bills into the ticket slot of the ticket machine. I became more and
more frustrated as I tried time and time again to force the obviously
non-fitting bill into the slot, nearly on the brink of tears, before I
realized the machine only took coins, which of course I didn't have
because I hadn't gone to get change. I looked over to Shannon and
Greg at the other machine, and in my severely exhausted and deluded
mind, I saw them dancing in oodles, showers, plethoras of change,
putting change into the machine here, putting change into the machine
there, throwing change at bums and every unsuspecting passerby, while
I stood there, the tram approaching, longing for a bed, and completely
lacking change.

"Can I have some change?" I asked them a wave of jealously and anger
shooting through my body. They of course gave it to me, but I wasn't
done. "Where did you get that?" I asked in a thick voice, choking
back my tears and anger.

"At the change place, where we went when we left you. We told you
that," Shannon said.

This was the final straw. They did NOT tell me they were going to get
change (meaning, I'm sure they did and I didn't process it). How DARE
they go get change without getting some for me! How DARE they leave
me without telling me what they were doing! Didn't they ever think
about anyone else?!

In this wave of illogical, exhausted rage, I snapped back, "You didn't
tell me that."

"Yes, we did," Shannon said.

Now, this is the only place in this entire story where I showed the
least bit of maturity. Knowing I was being ridiculous, I clammed up
and walked away from them, if only because I knew if I said something
at that moment, it would be entirely inappropriate and unnceccesary.
But, my friends, inside my head an entirely more immature urge surged.
It took every fiber of my being not to dramatically throw my bags at
my friends, clench my fists, stamp my feet and scream,

"DID NOT! DID NOT! DID NOT! YOU POOPYFACES!!!!!" and then run away crying.

Ah, yes, I had hit that point, that extreme travel low, where you're
exhausted, you're frustrated, you hate EVERYONE and you want nothing
more than to act like a two year old!

By the time we reached the hostel (which was a long time later given
the fact that the direction were, "Go to this tram stop. Only a five
minute walk from there."), were all a bit delirious and longing for
our beds which, as luck would have it, weren't going to be ready until
2PM (it was around 7AM when we arrived). I quickly realized I needed
to get away from my friends or else I would continue to act like an
idiot, so I gleefully made my way downstairs to do a much needed and
incredibly cathartic laundry while Shannon and Greg learned they would
have to pay a ridiculous price for the all you can eat hostel
breakfast. When I returned, I found Shannon and Greg with mounds and
mounds of food on their trays from the breakfast. The high prices of
the breakfast and of Switzerland in general had severely pissed them
off, so they had formulated a very American plan. They would eat as
much as humanly possible just to spite the hostel. And so, in true
American form, we all filled our trays with food several different
times, eating far past Thanksgiving pain, if only to take back our
pride and squeeze every Swiss franc out of our meal.

Throughout the meal, Shannon kept repeating the phrase, "Fucking
Switzerland", which, in it of itself, was another reason why
Switzerland was doomed from the start. And yes, there is a backstory
to this one. While were planning the trip, many, many emails were
passed between Shannon, Greg and me while were trying to decide where
to go. The only way it really made sense for us to get from Vienna to
Spain for New Years was to pass through Switzerland and stop in Zurich
and Geneva. Shannon was very much against this given Switzerland's
price and the rumors she had heard that there wasn't much to do, but
it really didn't make any sense to go elsewhere. When I met up with
Shannon in London at one point, I asked her, Shannon, what's your deal
with Switzerland? To which she answered simply, "I don't know." We
discussed this for awhile and it turned out Shannon has random things
against different parts of the world for no real reason. For
instance, Shannon also doesn't like Maine. She can't tell you why,
she just doesn't like it. Her guidance counselor told her to apply to
a school in Maine and when she refused, her only explanation was, "I
don't like Maine."

Well Shannon had the same issue with Switzerland and soon the
mantra/joke became:

"Shannon, why don't you like Switzerland?"

*Shannon closes her eyes and shakes her head*: "Fucking Switzerland."

Thus why I say Switzerland was doomed from the start, thanks to
fatigue, the pure expense of the country, and fucking switzerland, a
mentality that began to rub off on all of us when we could barely
afford to eat.

By the time 7PM rolled around, I felt the fatigue hitting me hard, and
though I had meant to read, I soon fell asleep in the four bedroom
single-sex room that Shannon and I were sharing. Now, when I say I
fell asleep, I don't just mean I closed my eyes and began to nap.
When I say I fell asleep, I'm talking about Rip Van Winkle After Being
Conked on the Head The Entire Night Before With Water Bottles While
Crammed Between Two Tiny Boards Incredibly Deep Sleep.

This was unfortunate for the very sweet girls from Singapore who
attempted to move into the room at 7:30PM. When they came into the
room, they did far more than just startle me awake. Rather, I was
involuntarily pulled up from deepest depths of unconsciousness (only
the dead are more unconscious than I was) and thrust back into a
completely disorienting world where random Asian girls were standing
with backpacks looking very startled that someone would be sleeping at
7:30. At this moment, I had no idea where I was, who these people
were, and why they were in the room. I sat straight up in bed and
moved instantly into a defense position, the adrenaline racing through
my body and my heart pumping a million miles a minute. For all I
knew, these people were robbers, coming to take attack and kill me.
Why else would they be in my room?! In my entirely disoriented state,
this was the most logical conclusion.

For about ten solid seconds I stayed in that position, entirely ready
to maim and kill in self defense, before I took a few breaths,
realized who they were and said, "Oh. You can turn the light on if
you need to..."

And that, to me, was Switzerland, wandering around in a disheveled
sleepless state and nearly killing several different living beings
several different times. Indeed, my sleepless hallucinations went so
far that when Shannon and I later left Greg in Geneva so we could go
to France and he could visit his parents, I could have sworn to God
that the guy closing his door next to us was Eddie Izzard with brown
hair. But then I realized, it was 5 in the morning and my eyes were
barely open, so the chances were slim.

And that, my friends was fucking Switzerland.

Which brings us to...

Chapter 6- Croissantes in France and the kissy kissy

Next Shannon and I moved to Provence, where we were absolutely charmed
and fell back in love with the food and culture. In Provence, people
were friendly, they spoke to us in the language (rather than answering
back to us in English) AND they had amazing food. We based in the
walled city of Avignon and did day trips to Arles (where we only had
about half an hour and had to sprint past a random trailer park to
find our way), Nimes and Carcassonne (which,by the way, is NOT a day
trip away from Avignon) and ate ate ate ATE! The contrast in our
experience was the most extreme when we wandered a beautiful park in
Nimes (much like Parc Guell in Barcelona, watched old French men play
bocci (sp?) in the village square and stumbled on a market where a
nice baker gave us free croissantes as it was the end of the day.

We spent a lazy Christmas Eve in an Irish pub and revelled in the
privacy of our dingy but let me repeat PRIVATE hotel room, watching
French soap operas on TV because you don't really need to know the
language to watch a soap opera and know what's going on.

As always, I found France to be charming and the people NOT to be
rude, though the concept both of what to do with dog shit (pick it UP
people, and then I will stop calling Europe literally the shittiest
place on earth... though Asia may change that verdict) and how to
serve customers. By this latter part I mean that, of all things I
miss about the states (family, friends, yada yada yada) the thing I
really miss more than anything at all is going into a store or
restaurant and not being ignored! This, however, is not just a French
problem, it's a general European problem. All the waitstaff are doing
you a huge favor by serving you, which is probably why people in
Europe don't really tip.

In France, this distinctly European brand of customer service is made
even more unique (frustrating) with the whole kissy kissy greeting in
concept. We found this to be particularly frustrating when we were,
say, dealing with the train networks (which are great and efficient in
some countries, inefficient, full of queues and generally crappy in
others). Big Mama couldn't help but feel when waiting in line to get
a ticket for a train leaving in ten minutes that the kissy kissy
greeting should be foregone while people are working in time-oriented
positions. It is beyond frustrating to be in the middle of buying a
ticket for a train about to leave and have the whole process be
delayed when the ticket agent's entire network of friends, family,
colleagues, and close acquaintances appear behind the booth to the
goddamn one kiss, two kiss, three kiss, FOUR kiss! I tried very hard
to be accepting of the culture, but it was beyond my control to stop
myself from muttering at one point in a very American accent, "Let's
chop chop with the kissy kissy people!"

Aside from the lack of chop chopping with the kissy kissying, the
train networks were a large matter of amusement, mostly for the
passengers who provided quite the show. Most of the train rides were
uneventful except for the long one back from Carcassonne, where nearly
every person on our train appeared either to be completely insane or
dying. We sat in front of some normal looking people, only to realize
that the man across from us was very rapidly dying of lung disease, or
at least, that was what we guessed when he proceeded cough up that
very lung for the entire 2 hour train ride. To top that, in the
middle of the ride a very smelly man and his either drunk or
completely idiotic partner in crime moved to the center of the train
to make an announcement about how poor he was and then lean all over
every passenger in an attempt to collect change. As luck would have
it, the normal looking people behind us weren't so normal and engaged
this highly smelly man in a long conversation about how he should get
a friend, "mon amie", an argument that he thoroughly disagreed with
and argued about while leaning all over Shannon to support himself.

Ah, French bums!

However, we were even more amused by the extremely hip looking French
teenagers who sat in front of us on the train ride from Montpellier to
Barcelona. These were definitely the ultimate in worldwide cool,
complete with skateboards, cornrows or messy hair, striped hoodies and
a hippest of the hip aura. Near the end of the ride, they turned up
their French rap (which was hilarious enough on its own, French rap)
and began rocking back and forth in beat. Unfortunately for us, we
were on a crappy Spanish train and the seats rocked back and forth
with the teenagers, moving up and down with every beat. Shannon and I
found this endlessly amusing and before long Big Mama had come out,
mouthing along to the lyrics and bopping away so much so that our
entire side of the train was moving with these ultra cool French
beats.

The kids temporarily cooled their bopping when the passport agents
came through the train, bidding us to bring out our passports in
intimidating and authoritative voices, only to check the passports of
the two, mousey looking and entirely unassuming Chinese people sitting
next to us. I'd never seen racial profiling so up close and personal,
but man, is it hilarious! They couldn't have picked two more inncoent
looking souls... and Chinese no less!

But I digress.

Which brings me to....

Chapter 7- Oh Spain, you one crazy, crAZy mofo!

Shannon and I arrived in Madrid (where Greg later rejoined us) after a
disastrous, crap lugging hold up in Barcelona, and though we were in
relatively happy moods, we were exhausted after shoving our way into
the extremely crowded metro (where people TALK by the way, not at all
like the silence on the London tube during the daytime!), and lugging
our crap around the city. Matters were only worsened by the elevator
in the hostel, which refused to come, and the subsequent further crap
lugging we were forced to do up three flights of stairs. When we
finaly made it to the top, we were greeted by two German boys who were
standing on the edge of the stairs with all their stuff, and who
pointed to a sign on the door that said, "Hostel closed for cleaning,
come back at 2PM."

Well, this is when Big Mama and the Dishrack truly joined forces. The
German boys were content to lug their crap around Madrid until the
hostel reopened, but Big Mama wasn't having any of this. I shook my
head with disapproval and pushed past them (i.e. bowled them over with
my Big Mama bags) to the top of the stairs, muttering, "Oh Big Mama
doesn't think so! OH NO YOU JUST DI'IN'T!" and alternatively rang the
doorbell and knocked untila very bewildered looking hostel worker
opened the door (poor thing, she didn't know Big Mama was going to
come a'knocking!).

"Hi," I said, reverting to my polite phone voice. "I know you're
closed for cleaning, but we'd like to put down our bags, alright?"
The worker turned out to be very nice and told us that of course we
could put our bags here, but I barely heard her as I had already
barreled past her, knocked her into the wall, dropped my bags, and
settled myself in on the admittedly very clean hostel toilet. Ah, Big
Mama got relief!

Once our bags were dropped, Madrid was a ton of fun. It basically
looks like a European version of NYC, with both tall modern buildings
and shorter antiquated buildings, grand boulevards and winding
streets, and one huge ass palace. We also met some really cool people
both nights in the hostel and, though we were too exhausted to fully
adapt the Spanish habit of going out around 12 and coming back around
7AM, we managed to have our fun.

We then moved on to Barcelona which once again was an amazing time.
On its own, Barcelona is party-central. The only hours when the city
is quiet is between 7 and maybe 10 AM, when people have finally
returned from partying. During the day the streets buzz with tourists
which is crazy enough, but during the night the entire city becomes
one giant vat of debauchery, not only in the bars and clubs but also
on the streets, where people wander in all sorts of states doing all
manner of things and nine times out of ten, either singing loudly or
peeing while they walk. All of this is contained by the riot police,
who step out for major events, and by the BCNettas, who roam the
streets with a hose and broom at hand, always at the ready to clean.

Take that scene, then, and imagine the scene it became during New
Years. Let's just say, it was absolutely ridiculous. We began in the
hostel by joining forces with a Chi Phi fraternity brother (who, in a
very un-frat like manner, had sold all of his stuff at home to finance
a year of travel) to teach several Mexicans, a Norwegian girl, and
perhaps one French person (maybe?) American college drinking games.
Due to language barriers, this often resulted into, "Oh, it just
means... take a shot Italian guy!"

We then moved onto Las Ramblas, the large pedestrianized pathway in
the center of the city, for the countdown. As expected, Las Ramblas
was swarmed with people, and I was very glad I had zipped my purse
inside my jacket as people were getting mugged left and right! We
pushed down to Placa Catalunya and, in true Barcelona fashion, had to
shove our way past riot police who were snatching away people's
bottles in order to get there. Within only a few minutes Shannon and
I were separated from Greg and the Norwegian girl, Lizzy, and only
knew that it was New Years when people started screaming, we were
sprayed in champagne, and random sketchy Indian men kept encircling us
to kiss our cheeks. Then the crowd began to move in mass in one
direction, and gripped Shannon's hand tightly so as not to lose her
too. That entire section was one giant blur of faces. I kept being
pushed past English speakers, shouting, "Hey! You speak English!
Where are you from?" and beginning "get to know you" conversations
while being shoved by the crowd and riot police in the "proper"
direction. Indeed, I made many new "friends", including girl from
Minnesota and cigar smoking guy from Chicago. We're like total best
friends now!

The next day was Shannon's last day, so we wandered around trying to
eat as much good European food as possible, Shannon because she was
leaving, me because Shannon was leaving. And man, did we succeed!
Greg stayed one more day and we went to Montserrat, where we met a
random Portuguese man who took our picture, had us take ours, talked
with us for awhile, and then in the middle of the conversation, said,
"Bye" and ran away. We also met an Indian souvenir shop man and his
Serbian girlfriend, and a German-Polish couple who spoke about 6
different languages and made us feel incompetent.

So! That brings us up to about now. Is ANYone still reading? If so,
WHY?! And HOW?! That is quite a feat my friend, quite the feat, so
for those of you who made it, congratulations! I am in Barcelona
right now and am taking a night train to Granada. SO life is really
cool, and I'm having a blast. I assume my next blog update will be
before I meet my parents in Rome in February, so it'll be at least
another month, not that anyone reads all this!

I hope you all had a great Christmakah and New Years! Send me updates
on your lives when you can. I'm going to write a list of the things
we saw and did below, but please don't read it, it's only for me and
my mom to keep track of. Your eyes should be too tired already!

Okay, you're you're all well!

Love,
Big Mama L

Prague
1) Wandered the old town square where there's a wonderful Christmas
market and beautiful tree
2) Went down that famous bridge thingy
3) Went to Kutna Hora, bone church, in the country side, saw nice
cathedral while there too
4) Climbed to the top of this spire on the top of ahill that gives you
views of the city
5) Lots of trams, really cold, beautiful though

Vienna
1) Lonely planet says that if NYC is the big apple, Vienna is the
wedding cake and it's really true, such a beautiful city at every turn
2) Went to the big museum in the old palace, which is gorgeous in
itself, saw an exhibit on a famous female monarch whose name I forget
but who was really interesting
3) Pub crawl
4) Took the tram around the city several times
5) Took tour of the opera house, which was massive

Switzlerand
1) Saw Zurich and Geneva, both of which had beautiful lakes
2) The scenery in Switzerland was the best part of it. We took a
train ride through the Swiss Alps and it was absolutely gorgeous.

France
1) Took train to Arles, which we didn't get to see much of but was pretty
2) Train to Nimes, which has this beautiful park going up a hill, a
really nice market, a beautiful straight river, a roman colliseum, and
these cute winding streets like the gothic quarter in Barcelona but
brighter and sunnier
3) Explored Avignon where there was another nice Christmas market,
amazing crepes, an old city within the city walls, and an interesting
partly destroyed bridge
4) Took train to Carcassonne, which is this ancient walled city up on
a steep hill, overlooking the new city now. It'sr eally like being in
a disneyworld park except it's all authentic. really cool and
beautiful!

Madrid
1) Mostly just wandered the city, which was really beautiful, and had tapas
2) Explored the palace which was incredibly in ornate and massive.
Every room was decorated in different rich colors and materials, from
marble to velvet. Wanted to move in!

Barcelona goes unsaid!