Luxembourg is a pretty mix of modern and ancient spread across rolling hills and decorated with bright-autumn changing leaves. It is also bitterly cold at the moment, but don’t let that deter you–grab a parka and come hang out. =)

Even though we arrived by autobahn, our first stop was the train station. High up on one wall is a large, famous stained glass window featuring a castle at sunset. (They even somehow managed a gradient effect to the colored glass–amazing.)

Afterward, we strolled around the center plaza and ended up lunching at an Italian outdoor cafe. We each got a pizza (because in Europe all pizzas are “personal” size.) Mine was fresh mozzerella, artichokes, and a few varieties of mushroom (which is neat, because in the States I’m typically served the standard generic mushroom.) Charlotte ordered a ham and artichoke pizza, and got a surprise when it was served with a (runny!) egg in the middle of it!

Once we finished eating (except for the runny egg) we headed over to the Modern Art Museum. The first time Erin was here, the walls were lined with small tracks spiralling from ceiling to floor. When you arrived, you were given a marble, and when you reached the top floor, you placed your marble on the first leg of the track and let it clatter around the museum over and over until it hit the ground. She was excited to show us the crazy marble exhibit, so imagine her surprise to find it not only gone–but the main center room filled with sand! (Yes, *sand*.)

The first exhibit contained a car and three paintings, and a good six-to-eight inches of sand. In fact, in order to get to any of the other exhibition halls, we had to cross past the car and clomp through the sand!

The museum is neat for several reasons. First, there’s none of the stereotypical “red circle on black background” modern art paintings. In fact, there were little to no paintings at all. Second, the museum is a revolving collection of exhibitions, rather than an unchanging, permanent set of any one thing. Third, the exhibitions rarely stay longer than 3 months at a time. This means you could come to this museum once every season of the year and it would be a wholly different experience every time!

If I could change anything about the museum, however, it would be to arrange things so that we could see the “real” walls rather than the temporary sheetrock. The bits we could glimpse were covered with frescoes and tapestries and ornate mouldings. But I guess the mind set in Europe is more like, “We have so many old, old buildings–who cares if we turn one into a Modern Art Museum?”

Later, we strolled about the town and in and out of the two main cathedrals. Both had pipe organs on the second story, and one had some kind of shrubbery growing in the baptismal basin. (We have no clue what that was about!)

On that note, have you ever come across something similarly inexplicable in your travels? I can’t be the only one running across runny eggs on pizza and bush-filled baptismal basins. Share your stories!

So, today I started out with a hotel-provided breakfast of croissants and cheese slices. I forgot all about the cheese slices on a plate until I saw them this morning, and it made me laugh. It’s some kind of cheese that I don’t know, sliced in a square like Kraft Singles but it’s the color of Swiss (minus holes) and cut super thin. Next I went to the Atocha train station to reserve my tickets and then realized I hadn’t brought my Eurail pass with me. (oops.) So I came back, swung by El Corte Ingles to get some band aids for my ampollos and then up to the room (4th floor) to get my Eurail pass and my mp3 player.

At Atocha (which looks like Jurassic Park inside–very cool) I stood in a long, long line, but not as horrendous as last night, which is good. I was able to get most of my tickets except for Italy and a couple for France, so that’s one hassle mostly hurdled. I then decided to walk to el Museo del Prado and spend all day looking at art with a rented audioguide, but… on my way I passed the sidewalk sale. Those of you who know me well know that I’d rather stick my head in an oven than go shopping, but this was a sidewalk sale of *books*. Books, I tell you! I absolutely, positively, cannot be trusted around books. I think I bought some from every single vendor. I had to throw out all my clothes just to pack them in my suitcase, and it’s only the 3rd day. (OK, I didn’t throw out all my clothes… but that’s the choice I would’ve made if it came to that.) How could I pass it up? Some English-language authors like Robin Cook and Stephanie Bond (translated into Spanish of course) and a ton of Spanish authors, and some from other countries.

So, when I finally made it the half-mile or so to the Prado Museum, my shoulder was already weighed down with more or less my body weight in books. (Or at least it felt that way.) Instead of spending all day at the museum (the beginning hour or so of which was spent book browsing) I stayed until about 5pm (rather than 7:30) before I gave up. I’ll come back in a couple weeks, maybe. (It’s free on Sundays, although more crowded.)

The weird thing about being in Madrid is that although I’m toting the camera everywhere I go, I’m hardly taking any pictures. I’ve been pretty much everywhere (and documented 99% of it on film previously) so there’s no real reason to take yet *another* picture of XYZ statue or ABC fountain. I did notice that the entire city is under major construction (Retiro Park says they’ll be done in 4 months, not sure about the people re-bricking the streets) so I’m interested in coming back in another year or two and seeing the upgrades. I did get to ride in a brand spanking new Metro train, the sort where you can see from one end all the way down to the other end, rather than boxed off cars.

I met some people from Oregon who were in Madrid by way of Ireland, and who told me that people from Edinburgh call people from Glasgow “soap dodgers” (which is a hilarious insult) due to their alleged stinkiness, and that Glasgow is the 2nd most likely place in the world to get stabbed. (#1 is some place in South Africa.) Apparently, gang members in track suits strap machetes to their thighs and stab people–rival gang members and ignorant tourists alike–who wander into their ‘hoods. And these ‘hoods aren’t your typical ghetto… they’ve been razed and replaced with government housing in the form of the tallest skyscrapers in Ireland. So the people on the street basically don’t go near tall buildings, because if they do, they’ll be stabbed. (If I decide to tour Glasgow someday, I’m guessing I better not pack a track suit.)

After all that fun, I came back to the hotel and did some work because tomorrow morning I get up nice and early so I can fly to Frankfurt to see Erin!

I went to El Corte Ingles about a hundred times, mostly because it just has everything. And at the Metro stop where I am (Sol) there’s 3, count ‘em, 3 Cortes Ingleses. One has a main floor, 7 upper floors, and 2 basements. That’s the one that has the post office (I mailed a post card) the supermercado (I bought some cheese and melocoton juice) and the travel agency (I got an adaptor for my laptop ’cause I have no clue what happened to the last one.) Not the converter thing–my laptop has its own. Just the do-hickey that changes the plug from flat-prong to round-prong. And I had a devil of a time describing it, because I totally don’t know the word for “prong”. So I picked up a European plug, pointed to the round metal prongs, and said (en espanol, of course) What do you call these here thingamabobbers? And the cashier blinked, squinted, shrugged, and said, “I don’t know.” So I said, “I don’t know either, but mine are flat and I need an adapter to make them round.” And he said ohhhhhh and gave me the right thing. So I’m fine now.

At the other Corte I bought a AA battery charger, because the last two times I brought a US one, I fried them on accident. Figured I might as well suck it up and get a European one so I don’t have to worry about it. The 3rd Corte is a massive bookstore, which I’m pretty sure I’m not allowed to go inside, since the last time I did, Bri and I ended up paying exorbitant “your suitcase is too heavy–what the hell do you have in there?” fees at the Charles de Gaulle (Paris) Airport.

None of these trips happened at the same time, of course, so the sales force got to see me return again and again and again. That’s all right. They’ll probably see me tomorrow too.

Today I hiked down the road that my hotel is on until the road ended (2.5 mi) and back. That was fun, but I realized belatedly that my hiking shoes are all ripped up on the inside (how does that happen?) and now the backs of my heels are threatening to get blisters. No matter! Blisters or no blisters, a-hiking I will go. El Corte Ingles has a parafarmacia stocked with bandaids, so I’ll be just fine. (Toldja they’d see me tomorrow.)

I also wasted some time going to Atocha at about 7pm. This was stupid of me and I should’ve known better. I was thinking, “Oh, I’ll reserve my train tickets in advance like a good girl” when I should’ve been thinking, “Everyone’s out of work by now, bet the train station is *crazy town*.” You have no idea how packed that place gets. Especially since I’ve stood in that monstrous line before. Well, I got there and took a number from the paper number distributor dealy, and I got A410. I waited for 15 excruciating minutes while they helped A198, A199, A200 and A201. I was still 209 numbers away. At 3 minutes per person (which is *fast*), that would be something like 10 hours to wait. So I left. I’ll try tomorrow. I’m a little disappointed, because my initial plan was to get to El Museo Del Prado first thing in the a.m. and now it looks like I’ll be trucking over to Atocha instead. Oh well. As long as they can beat a 10 hour wait, who am I to complain. =)

Plaza Mayor is the same as I remembered–pretty, and somehow both busy and relaxed at the same time. However, the place where I got my SIM card last time was no longer there. (I wandered around every side street for an hour or two before I finally conceded its disappearance.) I was forced to go to the FNAC and switch my plan from Avena to Movistar. (pronounced “movie star”.) But at least now I can call the US even if I don’t have an Internet connection, so that’s a good thing. (And with an internet connection, Skype is a good thing!)

Now I’m sleepy, but I’m trying to stay up until at least 10 so I can keep a decent schedule, and maybe wake up without my alarm clock.

We checked out of the hotel and bought our last D.C. Metro ticket and took the red line to the Amtrak station. I stood in a long line for my will-call tickets, only to discover that they could only be retrieved through self-service kiosks, not actual persons. (Who’d-a thunk?)

Next, we grabbed a table at Au Bon Pain and ordered breakfast right on time… they switched the menu over to lunch right after we ordered. (In case you’re interested, “lunch” began at 10:13 am)

Nothing much of interest took place until we got on the train, and from that point on, nothing much happened at all. What was supposed to be an hour and a half trip dragged into a 3 and a half hour trip. (A threeeeee hour toooouuuur…)

The deal was, our train was supposed to leave at 10:55 am, and as long as we rolled into Richmond before 2pm when Enterprise closed, they’d come pick us up at the Amtrak station and everything would be hunky-dory.

Nothing was hunky-dory.

The train was late arriving, late leaving, and stopped on the tracks for prolonged periods of time at random intervals. At one point, the train in front of us stalled on the tracks and proclaimed a “state of emergency” (!!!) and we were of course stuck behind them for quite some time.

I kept in contact with Enterprise througout (”We’re moving!” “No… we’re not.” “Yes! We’re inching along again!” “Er… scratch that.”) and although they dispatched a cashier to pick us up (and she waited in good faith in front of the Amtrak station for a full 15 minutes after the whole Enterprise branch shut down) we were still inching past Asheville when she had to give up and call it a day.

So, when we finally detrained (that’s a word Amtrak uses – not sure if it’s real, but hey) in Richmond, we were tired, hungry, crabby, and afflicted by a killer case of cabin fever.

We taxied to the airport ($41), which had the only open Enterprise location, and I was hit on by our cab driver, Pedro, who slipped me his phone number on a pink business card and made sure I knew where he’d be clubbing later. (???)

At the Enterprise station, more excitement ensued once I discovered that they couldn’t open my reservation because only one computer could pull up a record at a time, and the *closed* enterprise station still had it up on *their* screen. Yay. Plus I got to have some fun airport taxes, additional airport fees, and so on and so forth until I’d added another $75 to the fee. Joy.

Finally, we pulled onto the highway in our barely-dented 2006 cherry red Toyota Corolla and headed for the hotel, which turned out to be conveniently located next door to an Olive Garden. We walked over to the O.G. and got some grub (me: eggplant parm w/ gorgonzola fettucine, rob: pepperoni & sausage pizza, andy: cheese ravioli w/ meat sauce) and came back to the room feeling a little less stressed.

I went to the lobby to ask for towels (we only got one) and to ask what kind of fun stuff was going on in Richmond on a Sunday evening. Everyone agreed: you could go to the movies, or you could stay home. Rob, Andy and I conferred and came to a quick group decision: movies it would be.

We were, however, wrong. We went to two movie theaters, one in a shopping plaza and the other in a mall. Although all the stores were closed, every single parking space was filled because every breathing inhabitant of Richmond, Virginia was at the theatre.

We decided to cruise around randomly instead, and as luck would have it, we came across a Dairy Queen. (And an adventure. But you knew that.)

Andy orders first (chocolate fury blizzard) and the cashier (young girl) says, “Is that all?” Fair question, I guess, if a bit odd – after all, there were three of us.

“No,” I answer, and nudge Rob. He orders next (snickers blizzard) and the cashier says, “Well, is *that* all??”

Oookay. “Er, no,” I answer. “I want a blizzard too. Is that okay?”

She tosses her hair and answers, “I guess. But if you would’ve asked me an hour from now, I’d be really pissed off.” (!!!)

Once we (finally) got our blizzards (oh yeah – mine was cookie/brownie/cheesecake) we sat outside on picnic tables and spent a couple hours in heated discussions of world politics, Generations X and Y, the pros and cons of space exploration, higher taxes versus national healthcare and improved education systems, and whether the 80s or the present day is more “me” oriented.

I have to say that I find it really cool that my brothers are the sort of people with whom one can have “real” conversations. I’m very proud of them – especially when they know enough about what they’re talking about to argue with me, and tell me things I didn’t already know. They’re pretty cool guys.

So anyway, now we’re back in the hotel room. Andy is boring Rob to death (near as I can tell, Rob’s desperately trying to suffocate himself by lying face-first into the mattress) with the most recent installment of the History Channel’s “Revolution” series, and I did promise Rob that I’d let him check his email.

Til next time!

Today we got up and visited the Louvre. This was Bri’s first time and he was a little overwhelmed by the sheer amount of *stuff* crammed into such a large space. Whatever your interest is, the Louvre is bound to have a room (or wing, or entire floor) dedicated to that area.

Next we went to the Eiffel Tower. Too impatient to stand in the ridiculously long ticket line for the elevator ride to the top, we stood in the shorter (and free) do-it-yourself, walk-up-steps line.

We made it up as far as you could walk–just under halfway–and I thought I would die of an asthma attack. Good Lord, that’s a lot of stairs. The view was spectacular, however, and worth every step.

Near the Eiffel Tower is an unofficial viewing area, just on the other side of large, oblong fountain pools. (I believe this is near the Trocadero stop.) Here you can get a Kodak-perfect photograph of the tower while noshing on the hot, fresh crepes and chocolate. Yum!

We rounded out the evening with a trip to the Arc de Triomphe at night, to see it (and the Eiffel Tower, which you can also see from here) all lit up at night. The lights on the Eiffel Tower do patterned flashing at regular intervals, which is neat to watch.

Our hotel was right by the Arc de Triomf (yes, spelled like that–the Catalán instead of Castellano kept tripping me up, too) so that was one of the first sights we saw.

Next we went to the Art Museum which looked more like a palace than anything. One of the current exhibions was of fairies, and reminded us of our friend Margarita in Cincinnati. Wish she could’ve seen it. The Place Espanya was neat and gave a nice view. I could see La Sagrada Familia in the distance and it totally whet my appetite for Gaudí archetecture. I cannot wait to see it up close.

We went to the Poble Espanyol, which let me just say was AWESOME. If you ever get to Barcelona, you must check it out. It’s a massive, sprawling trip backward through time, representing various cities in Spain’s past. We had a delicious dinner and left when it was dark, only to come across a wicked cool fountain light show.

The sun was shining, the castle on Main Street was very blue and pink, and the park wasn’t too crowded. There were even storybook stained glass windows and a fire-breathing dragon in the dungeon. I was surprised by the number of things (signs, etc) that were in English, for example a store that was simply called “Gifts”.

We headed into Frontierland (guess that’d be hard to translate into French) and did the Thunder Mesa ride. Afterward, we went to Phantom Manor to see how different it was from the Haunted Mansion here in Florida. The gravestones were pretty cool.

In Adventure Isle, we played on the big pirate ship and did the Pirates of the Carribbean ride. I opted not to go on the Space Mountain ride, and instead wandered around taking pictures.

We caught a parade, rode the train, and then did the Rock ‘n’ Roller coaster, Star Tours, It’s a Small World, and the Storybook ride, which was really neat.

In between all this, we also checked out EuroDisney Studios, which was not nearly as exciting as one might hope. I think we were there maybe half an hour and I took something like 2 pictures.

Alice’s Curious Labyrinth in DisneyLand was my favorite attraction. The hedges were shoulder-high and there was a little castle to climb inside in the center of the maze before finding your way back out.

I did some laundry, made my goodbyes to Venkat and Anjali, and headed back to Paris. (I just can’t keep away.) I mostly trolled around doing nothing, enjoying outdoor cafes and the like.

Also, so far I haven’t seen any fountain drinks anywhere. Unless you count beer on draught. Just cans and bottles. And don’t think you can get a bottle of Welch’s Grape, either. The closest juice-like concoction I’ve found is Orange Fanta.

Venkat heads to work, and I head to the train station. For some reason, I decided that I’d buy my Amsterdam ticket to save a Eurail slot (I only get 15). So we go to the ticket counter, and the guy asks “26 or under?” “Um, sure,” I respond craftily. He sells me the ticket for $20. I had already purchased a reservation for $10 when I had planned to use the Eurail, but this was still less than the 50 Euro price. Of course, once I got on the train, they checked my passport, and busted me for being over 26, so I had to pay the difference, which was 35 Euros. So I screwed myself out of 10 Euros. And then later that night, as I was leaving Amsterdam, I realized I had to use today as one of my days anyway on my Eurail ticket, so I should have just kept my original Eurail reservation to start out with. So I actually screwed myself out of 50 Euros. All of which leads to the moral of the story: Don’t try to cheat the system. The system is Master. I did not win.

So anyway, I’m on the train to Amsterdam, and I forget what I said to the woman next to me, but I must’ve startled her by speaking, because she jumped about a mile. In doing so, I noticed she was clutching a long strand of dark brown, wooden beads. I wonder if they were religious and I caught her mid-prayer?

Today I’m wearing my “Toro Beso” shirt, featuring a (cartoon) bull kissing a cow. Naturally, I start to overanalyze it. The toro is black (as one might expect) and the cow is black and white spotted (also as one might expect.) However. Kristin, who lives on a milk farm and therefore ought to know about such things, told me that the color represents the type of cow, meaning that there are all-black cows and bulls that are black-and-white spotted, and that generally like sticks with like. In other words, my cow and toro are doin’ the mixed-race thang, which is funny (for me) on many levels.

Sooner or later, the train arrives and I discontinue contemplating the jungle fever of spanish cows. I detrain (or whatever the rail word for “deplane” is) and immediately head off in search of the Monday Morning Market, which I learned about from the lady next to me on the train. (And with whom I did *not* share my cow musings, else she might have strangled me with the prayer beads.)

First, let me give you some background info. Relevant, I swear. If you know nothing about the topography of Amsterdam (much like myself before I showed up on the train) then what you ought to realize is this.

Amsterdam is mostly water.

It is a city lined along the banks of several horseshoe-shaped canals, each nestled inside the other, so that the outermost canal is very long indeed. The train station is in the middle of this Chinese box. The market is on the outermost canal. Luckily, it is possible to weave your way across the canals through a series of (unconnected) bridges.

Amsterdam is also singular because for every person you see, you see at least twenty bikes. There were multi-level parking garages, all of which were packed with bikes. 10-speed type bikes, not motorcycles.

Each traffic light has a car light, a pedestrial light, and a bike light. The bridges are lined with bikes. The lamps and signposts are tethered with bikes. The streets are strewn with bikes. And you’re likely to get taken down when crossing the street if you don’t keep your eye on the bike lane. It’s absolutely crazy, but in a very cool way.

So anyway, where was I? Ah yes, the market. I was directed to the right location by a very nice gentleman sporting dreadlocks and the traditional Amsterdam Scent. He said he was on his way there himself and I would be welcome to follow him. He made it about three blocks before stopping by the canal for a smoke break (yes, a “smoke break”) but by that point, I could see the next bridge and the market across the water, so I went on ahead.

The market was very cool. The first part was ultra flea-market-esque. My mom would’ve really liked it because most of the tents were true flea market material. (In her words, “I want to see other people’s junk, not tables of beanie babies.”)

Toward the other side were tents with food. I don’t know what it was that I ate, but it was a hot, fresh, bread-ish thing, and very tasty. (I didn’t recognize anything in any tent, but as long as it was vegetarian, I was game to try it. Although, with the pastry, they asked me if I preferred hot sauce only, or sweet and sour sauce (???) and they stared at me like I didn’t know good eats when I said, “Um… neither?”

Next, I went to the Anne Frank house. There was a sign posting “No Bags Allowed”, so I couldn’t go in since I was backpacking. I probably wouldn’t have made it in anyway, since the line wrapped down the block, turned the corner, and kept on going. (I’m told this is the usual way of it.)

Next I went by the Westerkirk Church. I am assuming “kirk” means “church”, since I think “kirsche” means chirch in German. But who knows.

Besides lots of signs for Heineken, Amstel, and various herbal cafes (including the “Energy” cafe, which at first seemed to be a bit of an oxymoron, until I learned that in addition to the usual marijuana options, they also served their own brand of energy drink, and for this reason posted a large sign with a can of Red Bull in an red circle with a line through it.)

Anyway, in addition to all this, I noticed that Amsterdam was very gay and lesbian friendly. Many European cities are gay and lesbian friendly, which is nice, but Amsterdam *especially*. There were souvenir kiosks that catered to this demographic, and lots of streets with buildings titled things like “Hotel Rainbow Palace”.

Speaking of palaces, I did see the Palais in Amsterdam as well as the Nieuwe Kirk, and the National Monument, Waag, and Mme Tussauds. I also saw a cop cruise by on a bike. Not a motorcycle, as I mentioned, but your ordinary, pedal-pumping bike. I actually never saw any cops *not* on bikes… none on foot and none in cars.

A public restroom was very difficult to locate, and I ended up banking on KFC on the supposition that all American fast food chains have bathrooms. I was not disappointed. (Where else can teenagers express their angst in magic marker graffiti?) This bathroom cost 50 cents and I had to check my bag before I could go in. Shockingly (although pleasingly) this just might be the nicest and cleanest bathroom of my European experience thus far.

After this little side trip, I wandered around some more, and came across a tall, old church. Only in Amsterdam would the other side of the street contain a coffee shop and a sex shop, side by side, facing the church. (I guess that makes it more convenient. Head into the sex shop, and when you wake up the next morning, stumble next door for some coffee, then across the street to repent your wicked ways.)

Back to the bathrooms. (I apologize for all the toilet talk in this particular post.) Near this church is also where I came across a guy urinating in the street. I couldn’t exactly see him (although I could unfortunately smell him) because he was inside some kind of spiral shaped metal wall. The wall extended from about knee level to shoulder level–covering the necessities, I suppose–and the opening overlapped enough that you wouldn’t accidently glimpse the genitalia of the person inside. From the nonchalant way other people were standing around (and from the smell of the street) I can only assume he really was supposed to be peeing on the sidewalk, and that that is what the metal circle was for.

Another thing I noticed about Amsterdam (I swear this has nothing to do with bodily functions) is that in general, prices are not posted. When cruising past a souvenir stand, if I see a postcard I like, I have to go in and specifically ask. Likewise with the Internet cafe and anything else.

I ducked into a soup kitchen and ordered some soup. They asked if I preferred white or brown bread (brown) and if I wanted butter or pesto (um…pesto?) and then they served up a steamy cup of spinach soup, but not before putting a healthy scoopful of tomato soup in the middle of it. It turned out to be really good, although halfway through the soup I felt my cheeks and forehead heating up (sigh… add pesto to my ever-growing list of food sensitivities.)

So I headed on down the street and decided what I really needed was some coffee. I go into a coffee shop and order a caramel mocha. The guy behind the counter says, “Where are you from?” “Florida,” I answer. He then says, “You don’t look like you’re from the States. Your eyes are like chocolate and your skin is like caramel. I can’t look at you too much or I’ll want to eat you.” I bared my teeth in a smile, said, “We’re all colors there,” and asked, “How much is the coffee?” Two other women came in shortly after, and as soon as his attention was diverted, I escaped.

Amsterdam, I might add, is not as fashion forward as France, for example. I saw many bizarre outfits such as jean miniskirts with moon boots. (Guess they didn’t go out with the 80s here) or knee-high fur boots complete with furball tassels (???) and lots of clunky cowboy boots with otherwise trendy dresses. (Also not having died with the 80s here is the colored mascara. I saw many a woman with bright blue eyelashes. And like in France and Spain, Manic Panic is making a mint–women of all ages sport hair in unnatural shades, especially cherry, magenta, rust, and grape.) I later met someone from Holland who said you can always tell an American because he’s wearing tennis shoes, rather than some flavor of boot.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re asking yourself, “So what do they speak in Holland? Hollandaise?” No, my friend! What they speak is Dutch. And I don’t understand a word of it. The same guy who informed me about the boots also said, “In Amsterdam, we don’t say ‘Cheers’. We say, ‘Cheese’.” Or something like that. I told you I can’t understand Dutch.

I sat on the waist-high stone bank of a sidewalk flower bed for about an hour, trying to will my cell phone to work (no luck, then or ever) and pretending I could feel the sun on my (idiotically) bare legs. Naturally, Florida girl only packed one pair of khakis and loaded the rest of her suitcase with shorts. It’s August! How can people live in a country that’s cold in August???

All that sitting around (and failed mind-control) worked up an appetite. I have no idea what they eat in Amsterdam, so I slipped into an Indian restaurant. (No, I don’t think Amsterdam is in India. I just like the food.)

The waiter came up to me with a huge grin, and I was immediately wary. “Let me guess,” he says, and closes his eyes. “You are from… Florida. And your name… starts with… an E.”

Humph. As if I didn’t know that i’m lugging around a bright blue bag with a name tag the size of Texas. Single women, beware. Amsterdam men live to flirt. And they’re not very clever at it.

Once again, I flash a tolerant smile (which kills him–he’s dying for me to ask how he knows, and I’m not even going to mention it) and I order the vegi biryani.

Every time I bit into a white raisin, it surprised me. It was kind of funny. Mine also had maybe cashews or almonds in it. I’m not sure because I’m not very nutty (no comments please) so I admit I ate around those bits. I know, I know, vegetable biryani clearly indicates that I fell off my “I’ll only eat European food in Europe” high horse. What can I say. It was next door to Tio Pepe’s Mexican Restaurant, but I wasn’t too sure about Mexican food in Holland. This place at least had employees that could conceivably be from India. Plus the meal came with free aloo mater. What more could you ask for?

So that night I take the train to Vienna. The train station bathroom costs 50 cents (here I go again with my bathroom diatribes) and there was a man in it, which confused me. Come to find out, he was manning the station, which at the time I found to be odd. (But, as my travels continued, I realized this was the norm.) This is also where I got yelled at for my shoddy German. “Sprechen sie Englisch?” I asked, wanting to find out what he was doing in the ladies room. “No, I don’t speak English!” he screams at me in rapid-fire German. “If you want to speak English, go to England!” He glares, then adds, “Or America!” as if it’s some horrible insult beyond all imagining. “You are here, and here we speak German! So speak German!” At this point, he stops to catch his breath, red-faced, hands on hips.

“Um, okay,” I answer brilliantly. “Uh… danke.”