Grand European Adventure in pictures

Personally, I had no idea I'd taken so many photos. Granted, it's been more than a week and a half for me of traveling through Europe and seeing as my experience took me all around Europe, there were bound to be a great quantity of photo moments. But nearly 2,000? I certainly couldn't have called that. And even once widdled down to a manageable number, I have been able to compile a scrapbook of just under 200 photos, looking back at every single image in the process of choosing the most universally attractive photos has allowed me to relive an experience that (despite happening as recently as today) feels miles and ages away from when and where I am now.

After traveling through an extensive maze to navigate to the underground and the overground trains in Roma, all just to make it in time for a flight back to the UK, I am exhausted. And after searching through all my photos from the trip, I'm even more tired.

So here are just a few of my favorite photos that I took while in Europe this past week and a half:

According to Denise, there was a festival for the release of the new annual Christmas beer in København the day I arrived. Couldn't find it, but did see this lovely collection of unopened cans.

The most well-known monument of København is the state of Den Lille Havfrue. She's surrounded by tourists taking photos, including this guy (and me, as it just so happens).

 Still in København, we hang out on the body of water separating the royal residence from the København Opera House. This little dog in the photo was so hyperactive that it followed bikes everywhere and did hand stands.

Onto München. While I was disappointed in the biergartens being closed during the winter season, I found the setup of the unused garten very gorgeous.

Later, I climbed to the top of Peterskirche, which boasts some spectacular views of München. Though I was wiped by the end of the climb, it was worth the slightly aching limbs.

I will refrain from sharing many photos from Dachau, but I think this one is pretty interesting - it contains preserved barbed wire from decades ago that was used to keep inmates within the confines of the camp.

Back into the city center is the Viktualienmarkt with fresh produce and other random artisinal foods (some made by an angry farmer's market man).

Not long after, I was on my way to Wien, where my friend Dom showed me around quite a few places and through back alleys that were just gorgeous.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart...in no way underrepresented in Wien.

Following the Mozart craze, however, was my exit from Wien and my entrance into Roma. As you may or may not know, the drivers in Italy move way too quickly and don't look for pedestrians. But their fast moving vehicles make for good photographs.

In trying to get situated with Italian culture, I found myself exploring a market just off the beaten path near the Protestant Cemetery. There were kitschy items, food items, a small bookstore, etc.

And just to cap off this little insight into my time in Europe, this is a photo that I believe wraps up some difficult to convey emotions that were inspired by every stop along my European adventure. There's the warmth of street lamps, the classic looking buildings, etc. The feeling of history.

At this point, I've had to wish Europe a fond farewell. Starting a few hours ago when I left the city of Roma, I've lamented at not being allowed back in (unless I were to buy another plane or train ticket).





Yet returning to the UK was one of the most extraordinary and comforting feelings of my life. And when I really think about it, for the time being these photos are enough. Europe is a great continent to visit, but that doesn't mean we have to cry over it. We should rejoice in its photogenic beauty.

And that we shall.

European highlights, a retrospective

In several hours this long awaited and long lasting European adventure will be over. From the screen of my laptop computer weeks ago to the experience of actually being here, in the thick of things, now, the continent has become something special to me, more closely tied to things like the Roma Termini train station or other means of connecting the city with the rest of the world.

The rest of the world. It becomes a focus only because I rest reasonably far away from general civilization. When you actively choose to visit a graveyard, you also inactively choose not to visit anywhere else of historical significance during that time.

But in the interest of sharing a series of some of the most fascinating stops while I've traveled through Europe the past week, I'll explain why stopping by the Protestant Cemetery in Roma was worth being alienated briefly from the rest of the world.

Protestant Cemetery, Roma

I don't know whether or not my decision to come to Roma was more based off of a livelong fascination with the city (which I can attest for the existence of these many many years), or a more recent fascination with the life of John Keats.

Would it be fair to say that my reasoning is a bit of both? Going to the burial place of Keats at the Protestant Cemetery near Piramide Metro Station in Roma, I was calmed and pleased by the presence of so many others at the plot where stood "all that was mortal" of the love of my life.

I spent a few hours in the place. And while it may sound silly, it became one of the highlights of my entire journey around Roma and around Europe. There was just something so ideal about being in a quiet, funerary spot.

Prater, Wien

Alternatively, the Prater theme park (of sorts) in Wien, Austria, is not morbid of quiet however it has become quite abandoned in recent years due to a lack of enthusiasm by the general public. The Prater was one of the first amusement parks (if not the first) in the world and includes attractions like a ferris wheel and various rollercoasters, gift shops and food stands.

It wasn't the most fancy or architecturally stunning location in the city, but there was something about the history of it and the casual existence of it just within the city confines that felt special somehow. It's a theme park in a city. It's quiet and slightly abandoned. But it still has a lot of heart. I could feel that heart just walking around.

Dachau, München

Despite the distempered responses I've received since writing about my experience in Dachau - including those which did exactly what I explained was most disheartening about being "half-Jewish," as I call myself (and will continue to do regardless of dissenting opinions) - I would still like to list the experience of traveling to the concentration camp at Dachau among my most valuable experiences in Europe. And actually, as one of my most valuable experiences of all time.

To anyone who questions my authenticity or the connection I have with what occurred on the ground of that place so many years ago, I say that maybe it actually is none of your business. Maybe I shouldn't have shared it. Because, in truth, what I experienced and what anyone experiences when visiting Dachau, is a connection between themselves and whatever higher power strikes them as concerned, regardless of denomination and regardless of personal history.

In response to those who believe I have no right to align myself with my Jewish ancestors because I was brought up with different beliefs, let me just say that I still take issue with this argument. Though I appreciate the input and definitely understand why some might take offense, I still believe that everyone is the harbinger of their own cultural alignments, as aided by their upbringing and personal convictions and no one in the world except oneself has any right to dictate otherwise.

I am half-Jewish in the cultural but not religious sense. And there are plenty of non-practicing Jews who would likely align themselves similarly. Just because I don't follow the religion doesn't mean I deserve to lose the ability to explain the aspects of myself that aren't correctly described by a geographical location. My family were Eastern European nomads, but what characterized them within their culture was their Jewish community. It's not just a word denoting religion, but also the customs that surround that religion and don't necessarily need to be passed on through the religion. Still, I appreciate the alternative viewpoint and hope for peaceful coexistence. But I digress.

Den Lille Havfrue

To take away a bit of the stain of the more dramatic aspects of this post, I'll return to the very first part of my trip which was to the beautiful non-denominational statue of Den Lille Havfrue (The Little Mermaid) in København.

As someone who has long appreciated animated films and the fairy tales that are their source material, seeing this statue in person and remembering the history of the story and the man behind it (Hans Christian Andersen), made it one of the most important moments of my European voyage. It wasn't a personal or familial connection like Dachau, nor was it a quiet contemplative one like the Protestant Cemetery or the Prater. But it was a place to reflect on an object that is of personal significance to me - that has brought value and direction to my life for years. I guess you could say the same of some of the other places I visited, but in a strange way a Little Mermaid statue seems to be a good symbol of what I want out of life. The peace of storytelling and a quiet place to partake in it.

Thank you, Europe

Even while writing this blog I've been through some ups and downs. And Europe itself showed me some of those, depending on the hour and the day and the location. But overall the experience was irreplaceable and invaluable. I could never have wished for a better introduction to Denmark, Germany, Austria and Italy. And I will have quite a bit of trouble leaving tomorrow.

Kind of feeling European

There's a lot of Italia that I'll never get to see. Or, at the very least, there's a lot of Roma that will never reach my eyes save for in photos.

It's hard traveling to a new place. You make an itinerary full of sites to visit, perhaps (like me) you even try and find local eateries and cafés, shopping and market streets or individual boutiques to pop into along the way and back. This kind of meticulousness requires discipline and patience: the discipline of finding potential experiences to partake in, and the patience to avoid getting frustrated if things don't work out exactly as planned.

I tried not to go overboard with touristy plans while on my grand European adventure. I wanted to avoid places that would become elaborate traps to traveling salesmen and purveyors of precious replicas of the leaning tower of Pisa. In the end it was worth the effort.

My experience has made it so just turning a corner in Roma is like stepping into a fairytale. Like I explained to my friend Diana, this place makes me think I'm in the middle of EPCOT at Disney World. It's too idyllic, too quaint, providing too many subtle luxuries to explore. And by that I don't mean name brand or odd rip-off prices on handbags. I just mean the luxury of a calm life among the artificially planted trees and the erratic drivers of this, the Eternal City.

Together with Diana - and a bit on my own yesterday - I found myself enjoying the experience not necessarily of exploring the more frequented locales in Roma, but of looking past the most well-known places and exchanging them for new, humbler experiences.

Yesterday, while walking through the town toward the Piazza del Popolo, I found a man creating street art on a curb along the road. I marveled at his little creations. That chance encounter, more than any other experience of a similar magnitude, was something to love about Roma. It was a clear cut example of coming to a city and seeing culture play out casually. This was how a real Roman (granted, an eccentric one) lives. Not catering to English-speaking mouths all the time, but feeling content with potential miscommunication, instead, he tried to make conversation with me and share his art.

It was this experience, along with the rest of my evening which was spent wandering the streets near the Piazza di Spagna, that helped me to figure out what it is I love most about traveling.

And it's not the fascinating sites that I've been noticing on TV and in movies since I was five.

What I enjoy most about traveling is allowing myself to become a part of the place I'm in, inextricable from its residents. I want them to look at me and automatically assume I'm a local, or at least not brush me off as a tourist. It hasn't been easy - but as many moments as there are when you feel completely ill at ease in a new city or country, there will also be moments to remind you that you do have the capacity to belong.

It can be hard to reach this state of integration, especially when you're surrounded by people who've gotten used to the omnipresence of foreigners traveling to their shores and occupying the seats on their metro lines. They're frustrated which makes me frustrated. But we don't have to be frustrated at at all.

It can be extra hard when you decide to go to places like the Vatican. With all the tourists, pan handlers, swindlers and homeless or disabled people begging along the street, you almost lose that sense of being in a real place full of history and culture rather than an imagined one.

The best part of being in Roma, and being all over Europe in fact, has been that moment of realization at every single stop on my journey when I've reminded myself that yes, I am in fact in a foreign country and I can feel comfortable and knowledgeable here. In just a short amount of time I've turned a vague notion of this city into something tangible. I've learned how to use the Metro and how to navigate through the twisty streets.

As someone who goes to the Disney parks a lot at home, I can easily find myself confusing glossy fiction to reality. I mean, when a person in a giant mouse costume is part of your weekly entertainment schedule, you almost become lost in the idea of romanticized realities.

But the truth of Italia, and Europe so far, is that it has the capacity for that romanticism, but without the kitschy reminders that it is fiction. Because it isn't fiction. It's flesh and blood. It's alive and well. It may be a foreign country and feel like a rollercoaster ride, but it's nowhere near that kind of novelty attraction. Because it's unpredictable and simply real.

I truly believe it's the moments away from the expected, wandering the streets of an unknown city at night or simply exploring aimlessly with the hope of finding something or someone worth getting excited over, that make traveling worthwhile. And wherever I've been (at least in the last week), I've taken the initiative to make those aimless wanderings happen.

So I don't really mind if I stand on the periphery of the major tourist attractions. Even if I don't get to say I've been inside [insert landmark here], I can do one better. I've felt what it's like to really be a part of [insert city here (i.e., København, München, Wien and Roma)]. And that's all I really wanted anyway.

Ich liebe dich, Wien

Today was all kinds of scuzzy turned to all kinds of beautiful. I woke up at least once an hour on my sleeper train last night. Having a compartment to myself, I was comforted in knowing my belongings and myself would be safe, at least from the terrors of other passengers. But certainly not from the vengeance of a moving train on an uneven track.

When it jolted, I jolted. When it swerved, I swerved. When it stopped at a station, my eyes would open briefly and beg to close again before the five hour nap was through.

It certainly wasn't enough time to feel refreshed, or even moderately less tired. At 3:45 am, I developed a migraine headache. By the time I woke to my alarm which I'd set the night before, it was 4:55. There was no turning back now.

The train stopped in Vienna at 5:45 am. I was forced out quicker than a speeding bullet (Superman, get it?). And being hesitant to hasten toward my hotel at such an early hour, I resolved that I'd walk slowly and experience the city at dawn.

Little did I know that slowly meant turning a 25 minute walk into an hour-long trek. With suitcase, purse and bag of food goodies in hands, I trudged through the open air on Landstraße. As I searched for a street on which to turn on, I made several wrong choices and ended up backtracking every step of the way.

But it was all worth it to see this beautiful city. Vienna is the birthplace of many Classical composers, and even just by walking through museums and looking at souvenir shops, you can tell this city has never given up on its culturally enriched past.

Walking through the city center is as pristine as an Orange County suburb. I make this comparison because when I am home, I rarely see any graffiti or ill-treatment of my city. And if I do, it is rectified moments later.

This is how the entire area of Vienna that I traveled through felt.

The first few hours were spent eating apfelstrudel at the Café Museum with my friend Dominik. While we've been penpals for years, this was our first opportunity meeting since he is from Austria and I am from the United States. It was a great opportunity not only for renewed friendship, but for the chance I had of seeing the city of Vienna with a local.

From then on we traversed the wide spaces of the Viennese town (city) center. We walked through and past Austrian government buildings, saw a palace, went on a ferris wheel, enjoyed traditional foods and went to a museum dedicated to the music of the city.

It was all very ideal.

I can't even begin to express my amazement with this city. I still subscribe to the belief that London is my raison d'être, the only city in the world where it absolutely 100 percent makes sense for me to live the rest of my life. But after just a short time in Vienna, I feel a deep respect for this city as well. For it's wealth of history, for its monuments and grandness, for its cleanliness, for its comfort.

While I don't know that I could live here, I do know I could visit again.

A day was just not enough. It started off so early that I assumed the time would be plentiful. But along each step of the way, I discovered the hours were growing less and less. My time with Vienna was becoming scarcer.

In a day I'll be moving onto Rome. Ordinarily I'd be thrilled at the prospect. Actually, I am quite thrilled. Rome is a city that I've longed to experience for years. Italy is a place I've wondered about for much of my life. And finally, by tomorrow afternoon, I will be right there.

But I am sorry to leave behind Vienna. To say goodbye to my friend Dom who went through all the trouble of showing me around the city today. To wave farewell to all the pretty buildings and the Opera House. I haven't even been here for 24 hours and I feel attached.

That being said, it's time to move on. And I'm excited. But I will be back to this city someday. I can just feel it.

Arbeit nicht macht frei

It's past 8:30 pm and I still have a few hours of waiting around before I leave on my train to Wien (Vienna). I'm sitting in my hotel, the same spot I was in yesterday, using the internet instead of buying a coffee at a Starbucks nearby and using theirs. I can tell that the man at reception is unnerved that I've been here for over three hours. He has good reason to be. For all he knows, I'm staying here all night without paying for a room. But alas, that is not true.

In an effort to economize, and to experience something new and strange, I've booked myself into an overnight train from München to Wien. It leaves at 11:40 pm and arrives at a brisk and way-too-early 5:45 am in Austria. I don't know that I'm mentally or physically prepared. But there's a bed on a moving platform that has my name on it, and I'll hopefully be sleeping on it very shortly.

With the prospect of a new city tomorrow, I am having a bit of trouble reflecting on what's already felt like quite a bit of time in Germany. I may only have arrived here just over 24 hours ago, but I feel as if I know the city (as a confused and wandering tourist, anyway).

In less than two days I've bought a dirndl, climbed to the top of the tower of Peterskirche (St. Peter's Church) near Marienplatz. I've gotten lost multiple times in various parts of the city, I've figured out the public transportation in the city, I've had an apfelschorle in a stein at Hofbrauhaus. It's been a touristy, yet personally fulfilling adventure.

Then today I went to Dachau.

And I think that's what I'm going to focus on for the rest of this blog, because not focusing on it wouldn't capture the significance of going to a place like the KZ-Gedenkstätte Dachau.

I'm half Jewish. And (too) many times, I've been told that I'm not Jewish at all. I'm not born of a Jewish mother, but rather a Jewish father. And therefore, according to whatever traditional or historical or religious precedent, I'm not Jewish.

That's fine, I wasn't raised Jewish. But regardless of distinction even by the greater community, I identify as a Jew. At six years old when my friends would ask me what my ethnicity was - because, let's face it, you can't tell by looking at me - I would answer "I'm half Jewish and half Japanese."

Back then, I wouldn't get weird looks. No one knew what any ethnicities existed so they didn't protest when I called "Jewish" an ethnicity. But 14 years later, when asked the same question I answer more along these lines:

"I'm half Japanese and half Eastern European Jew."

And now I get the weird looks.

Because, first of all, I don't look like I'm white. Maybe I do look like a halfie (what I call people who are of mixed race - it's a term of endearment coming from me, not like "mudblood" or anything), but that doesn't mean I avoid incredulity from others when I admit to being part European.

Secondly, I don't have any particularly Jewish traits or indications of being of the culture. I don't practice the faith, so I don't appear to be Jewish.

And thirdly, is "Jewish" really an ethnicity anyway? Isn't it a religion? People who are "Jewish" by ethnicity are Israelis? Or something.

Yeah, this was never clarified for me as a child or as a grown-up.

Therefore, I am Jewish. And I will forever call myself Jewish. When my future children ask me what their ethnicities are, I will say "you are a quarter Japanese and a quarter Jewish and [insert whatever my male counterpart is here]."

Now that I've explained the issue of my classification of ethnic backgrounds, I will go on to explain Dachau. The experience, the ramifications, et al.

I had resolved to go to the Nazi concentration camp at Dachau practically the moment after I decided I was going to visiting München. You may find this strange. Dachau isn't a tourist attraction by any ordinary standards. You might find it in the tour books, but you won't see it among the top attractions. Maybe they wouldn't even call it an attraction.

And it's not. It's a memorial site to a horrific place. The kind of thing you want to forget, not be reminded of when you purchase The Idiot's Guide to Munich.

I got there around 12 pm. By then, there were already several groups of German secondary school students walking around with their teachers and making the silent grounds into a school playground. I avoided them as best I could.

The memorial site itself is tasteful. Things are kept in their original condition or restored to recreate the environment that might have been present at the Dachau of the 1930s and '40s.

And while it doesn't exactly make you feel like you're there, experiencing the terror of the Nazis upon the Jewish people, it does make you recognize the magnitude of what happened at this sort of place.

The site consists of various chapels and memorial sites, a recreation of prisoner barracks, a museum within the mechanical building, a hallway filled with prison and torture cells and two crematoriums.

Crematoriums.

I don't think the gravity of this experience really occurred to me until I read the word "Crematorium" on the map guide.

It was cold today. I walked around on the unpaved roads, my heels digging into the gravel. My boots made loud sounds. I felt as though I sounded like a prison guard. More than once, I scared myself with the sound. It made the place seem more real.

I read an information plaque that explained the roll call that took place at Dachau. Prisoners would be taken out of their barracks regularly and counted one-by-one to make sure that none had escaped. If one did, they would be left out in extreme weather wearing only their work uniforms until someone might confess to the disappearance of whomever they had lost track of.

The biting cold dug through my coat and I tried to place myself even more in the shoes of these prisoners. How could I, in two layers, not handle the November chill, but they, wearing only thin cotton, face the same temperatures with strength despite lost pride and lost comfort?

Walking through the rest of the camp, I learned bits of information that I'd never considered about the Holocaust. One item which stunned me the most was the concept of standing cells. As a form of torture, prisoners might be kept in prison cells split into four 2 1/2 ft x 2 1/2 ft squares. It wasn't enough space to sit or lie down, just stand.

It seems a small bit of the worst the Nazis did during the war, but in the same way I read Eating Animals a couple of years ago and saw the page in the book that depicted the amount of space a chicken in a factory farm had to move around (it was literally less than an A4 or 8 1/2 x 11 piece of paper), the idea of confined space gave me just enough of a realization to be disgusted and absolutely defeated.

You'd think the whole experience would have defeated me. Certainly the crematorium. And the gas chamber. And the area where the medical buildings were - which were also murder grounds for those who were slowly dying.

But it wasn't.

Many times while walking through Dachau, I thought about myself. And before you deem me selfish, let me clarify.

My great-grandmother on my paternal grandfather's side came to Ellis Island from Austria-Hungary in the early 1900s. None of her immediate family members came with her. She made a life in New York City, but left many behind. A similar situation happened with my great-grandfather on my paternal grandfather's side, though he came from Poland.

These two people, my great-grandparents, came from large families. But after the war, nothing was heard of them ever again.

And to think, just a spur of the moment decision to not get on those boats heading westward, and my grandfather, my father and I would no longer be here.

But that wasn't that struck me the most. The real punch in the gut when visiting Holocaust memorials or seeing movies about what happened to the Jewish people in the 1940s is the thought of what my life would have been like had the year 1941 actually been the year 2002 or 2005 or any year I've been alive.

My mom once told me a story about going to see Schindler's List in theaters with my grandmother. Since the movie came out in 1993, I must've been just under or over a year old at the time of its release.

According to my mother, my grandma was overcome with tears at several points during the film. She reportedly called out my name ("Rachel") during scenes where families were being separated, children from their parents, etc.

I certainly don't see myself in those films. Being a few generations detached from the horrific experiences of the Jews in World War II, I somehow feel I'm exempt.

But then I look at the men in these movies and I immediately think of my dad. And thinking of my dad in that context does make me think of myself. And my sister. And my paternal grandparents. And my cousins and aunt and uncles. And my niece.

Because we all have Jewish blood. And by the determination of the Nazis, we'd all have gone to concentration camps just like our distant relatives before us.

It's these thoughts, and these alone, that made Dachau too much to bear.

As the tears welled up, I made it a point to keep them away. I didn't want to feel vulnerable or destroyed by this place. While my relatives, the ones I never met, deserve the respect of my admiration and love for them, the memory of this place warrants a more powerful reaction. Not breaking down and weeping, but going on and proving the Nazis wrong. The Jewish people are not what they might call vermin or worthless scum. We are people. And we are strong.

I say "we" because I feel so strongly that it is a "we." In the same way that the Nazis considered all people of Jewish descent to be Jewish (and therefore unworthy of life), I believe anyone of Jewish descent is Jewish and therefore worthy of some degree of respect. Respect, at the very least, to the extent of calling us Jewish if we so choose.

And I so choose. I may look more Asian than white. But I am most definitely Jewish.

I bought a mezuzah today. It was simple and of course its religious significance is partially lost on the agnostic in me. But as I walked away with my German mezuzah, I felt solidarity with my people. My people.

Tonight, I leave München. I walk away from the place where I've seen and experienced Bavarian culture. I enter a new place with a slightly different frame of mind.

But I will never leave behind my thoughts of Dachau. What sustains me is my belief that I was brought into this world not by sheer dumb luck, but because I was blessed to be here in some way.

I was blessed to be born Jewish and Japanese. I was blessed to find my own religious path. I am blessed to be in München. And I am blessed to be moving on, but always looking back.

Contradictions and stress, happiness nonetheless

Let me set the scene for you. I'm in an ethnic neighborhood near the central station of München (Munich), Deutschland (Germany). It's past 10:30 in the evening and while it is a very seldom occurrence, I occasionally see people and cars pass the two gaping windows facing the street that make up the walls of my hotel.

There is no wi-fi in my room, which means I'm essentially confined to the public breakfast room on the bottom floor at the front of the accommodation, near the reception desk. They've just changed shifts, which means there's a new man and a new musical mix filling the room. Before it was some compilation of uninteresting avant-garde European songs. Avant-garde may be more a description of art, but it's the only thing I can think of to describe this stuff. New age, maybe? Anyway, I digress.

Now the music echoing through reception has a calmer American standard vibe. We may be in Germany, but there is no hint of nationalistic or continental pride. There is, however, pride in a good tune. A good tune like "The Way You Look Tonight."

The warm yellow light of the ceiling lamps illuminates the room, drawing in attention from the few passersby. I am sitting on my laptop and I can feel the gaze of those who avert their gaze from the streets into the lovely and quiet looking hotel.

It feels a bit counterintuitive to be in this place in this space in this city. The place being a neighborhood filled mainly with Middle Eastern immigrants. The space being the casual and cozy hotel where I've settled for the night. The city being Munich, one of cultural tradition and metropolitan success.

I spent a lot of today just wandering around and getting a feel for the city. The air was brisk, but it invited me in as I walked through the Englischer Garten from the closed Biergartens on the northern end to the Christkindlmarkt that is under construction in the Chinesischer Turm toward the south.

I hadn't planned to spend an hour in the place, but walking through the garden was like walking through a wood. Temporal space seemed to grow a bit fuzzy. It was just maze-like pathways through and past trees and ponds, lakes and rough rivers. The floor was muddy at points, cement at others, completely incomprehensible and impossible to predict.

A similar description aligns with my experience in München thus far. I got here this afternoon around 12:30. But getting off the plane was confusing in itself when there was no customs officer to question me and stamp my passport. I went to an Information booth and said my first words of German (my go-to phrase, the well-known "Sprechen sie Englisch?"). Apparently if you're traveling within the EU you don't get a stamp. I don't think I hid the disappointment on my face as well as I thought I had.

The confusion did not end however, as when I got to the S-Bahn train which I'd planned to take to the city center, I could not figure out how to use the machines to buy a 24 hour pass. This was followed by my resulting daze when I tried to figure out which train to board.

Getting to the city, however, was the most tumultuous path in the figurative Englischer Garten of my premiere day in München. The train station itself was a confusing compilation of twists and turns and random trains to random locations that weren't even listed on my train map. The exits led to streets I hadn't heard of, and even street names were elusive and hard to pin down.

It took me at least 20 minutes to find my hotel. After making at least two or three wrong turns, I finally arrived. My next goal was to make it out of my room before nightfall.

This is where the Englischer Garten comes in. Despite the great amount of confusing pathways in the wooded land, I had little trouble finding my way around. The walk was long, but it made sense.

What doesn't make sense to me yet is München itself. I only have one more day here and I wish I had more time to get to know it. That being said, when I went to dinner at the Hofbräuhaus tonight and sat at a table by myself eating käsespätzle, I realized that I just can't do this lone traveler thing for very long. A day or two will be fine, but if I were planning a week-long trip (or more) on my own, I'd go stir crazy.

Everything today has been all a jumble. But I've loved every minute of it. And I guess that's the irony of the experience. Like being alone and loving it but hating it at the same time, and like walking through a garden that is both a maze and a clear path to a definitive destination, this experience is all kinds of confusing. It's all kinds of contradiction.

But it's great.

I can't stress that enough. I am incredibly happy. And I only intend on being happy for the remainder of my time on the European mainland.

The little girl goes to München

This is the point at which I enter my first leg of lone traveling. After several wonderful days of exploring Copenhagen with my friend Denise - seeing the sights and the major thoroughfares with plenty of back alleys and smaller joints thrown in - I now enter the part of my trip where I will be experiencing things without the comfort of a constant tour guide and host.

It's a little scary entering this portion of my journey. Until this point, I've been calmed by the fact that everything was relatively stable and simple on my end. I didn't have to do much research about Copenhagen before I got here, didn't have to figure out how to live in a foreign environment without the help of a new local, didn't have to burden myself with the extra responsibility of a hotel stay.

Now I will have to disembark from airplanes and find trains. I will have to get off trains and find hotels. I will have to leave hotels and find the sights I've written down for myself. I will have to locate food on my own, interact with people who don't speak English on my own (or people who do speak English, apparently it's a common thing in Europe nowadays) and simply enjoy my own company without feeling sad over loneliness.

I don't know that I'm ready.

It hasn't been very many days, but I've already started to feel like I know Copenhagen. Walking the streets today from Kongens Have to the Hans Christian Andersen museum near Rådhuspladsen, I almost got lost wandering through the streets. I knew the general direction I had to be headed in, though, and as I window shopped and strolled past bakeries and cafés and bars in heavy quantities, I relaxed and enjoyed the ambiance of the city.

It was raining today, which you might expect would make things only more difficult. But despite the weather and the circumstance of exploring the city on my own whilst avoiding my own map and trying not to look over the buildings too much to find a landmark by which to find my way back to where I'd come from, I truly enjoyed having the chance to feel like a local. No longer was I wandering the streets with my head poised toward the skyline, a camera hanging around my neck. I could finally be semi-anonymous, without a distinction of class, ethnic or cultural background.

But as soon as this feeling started, I was already planning my escape. And tonight I spent a few hours looking through plans for my arrival in Munich.

Looking forward, I'll only have a couple of days to experience this city. Less than a couple of days, actually. But I am determined to make adequate use of them.

I've set forth an itinerary that will require me to casually hop from place to place throughout my day and a half. I've dotted my map with little circles to signify various locations I'd like to visit and coordinated in my mind on which days each activity will take place.

I'm trying desperately to cover all the ground I can, to see all that is possible of a city that I've never been to before. And I have faith I will succeed.

It took me a while to realize my travel style. Since I've always had my dad or my grandma planning trips on my behalf, it's been hard to take on the role of responsible adult. Even as I was walking through the Hans Christian Andersen museum today I kept thinking how much of a child I felt. As I walked past animatronics and murals depicting his fairytales, the wax figures disturbed me and I had to run away. Trouble was, I had no one to run to. No leg to hold onto and no shoulder to hide my head on.

Essentially, this stands as an allegory for much of this holiday of mine. I'll be doing new and fascinating things, but if whatever I employ myself with becomes too scary or too much of a burden, I will not have anyone to fall back on. It's just me. At least for the next stop and a bit in the future.

But if anything, this will remind me how to be self-sufficient. Because as mature as I purport to be - an old lady of sorts who has the temperament and energy of someone much much older - I will always be a mama's and a daddy's girl. I will always thrive from companionship.

Yet I embrace the chance at shedding that skin. And as I close this off and enter the sleep before my travels to Deutschland on my own, I bid my friends and family a short-term adieu and share a little hopefulness that tomorrow will bring an even more clear and thoughtful essay on the experience of being a lone traveler in a beautiful and exciting new place.

Diverse Denmark

When I was first introduced to Denmark, it was by my friend Denise who has lived here for over a month already. She told me about how many of the people living here are blonde and blue-eyed (as would be expected - we're in Scandinavia). And they're also a very nationalistic and tradition-rich people who rely on broader culture for their own familial celebrations and experiences.

This is a dumbing down of an extensive description of the Danes that was given to me by Denise (and of course it's lacking in insight to many other traits of the Danish people, both that she mentioned and that I've discovered in being here). But in a moment, I'll explain to you why it's relevant (and why I'm not simply insulting the Danish culture by calling all of its people homogenous).

 I completely omitted one of the really fascinating places I visited in Copenhagen yesterday. As we wandered to and fro through the city, seeing lots of sights and eating food and being general sightseers, we planned a walk through the independent state of Christiania. If you're not from Denmark or you haven't traveled here, perhaps you haven't heard of it.

In the 1970s, a group of squatters took over some military barracks and despite attempted police intervention to kick them out, their influence grew until they'd created a small community in Copenhagen called Christiania. The place is home to craft item selling, organic (and some vegetarian) cafés and restaurants. It is entirely self-sustained through the profits from these industries. And with a growth in public popularity - particularly that of tourists, it seems Christiania is alive and well and thriving.

But walking through this part of Copenhagen (or I guess it's not technically Copenhagen, but anyway) serves to remind you of the many cultural difference between people that color the place they live. Copenhagen as a city (and I'm assuming Denmark as a country, though I haven't traveled much through it) is very quaint and pretty quintessentially European. There are flat buildings that are painted in rosy fall colors like yellow and red. There are cobblestoned streets. There are flags for the country flying everywhere. There are cute families everywhere, pushing prams and being reliably beautiful together.

But in Christiania, near the city center however slightly too far off, there is a sense of counterculture (however misplaced) that makes the place worth a comparison to the more traditional aspects of London.

First and foremost, this is a place known for its drug trade. Signs upon entering Christiania require you to not take any more photos. While I'm sure people disobey here and there, I stashed my DSLR away before I could be tackled to the ground by a hippie. I managed to obtain a mental image very quickly and efficiently, just by walking around and taking in the atmosphere.

The place is covered in art and murals and (probably) decorative graffiti that turns the commune into an art gallery at the drop of a hat. There's no order or uniformity to this style. Even the stalls in the market portion of Christiania were in disarray to some extent. The control that exists in Denmark - a place where there is socialized medicine and a workable welfare system that makes living standards incredibly high and circumstances very promising - is lacking in the alternative-thinking Christiania.

It can be a hard concept to grasp, especially when, within a few moments, you can walk from Christiania back into the Copenhagen you know. It's almost mind-bending.

The mind-bending would not reach its end until this morning when I went with Denise to an alleged Christmas "market" in Bispebjerg that she'd found advertised online. It turned out, the market was just a single stall set up in a woman's backyard. She stood there with her items looking cheerful and ready to help any customers, while we - being surprised by this blatant false advertising - tried to hold back expressions of confusion.

In the end, I walked away with an adorable 5 kroner (just under $1) purchase of a Winnie the Pooh booklet written in Danish. And despite the disappointment in arriving for a Christmas market and finding a little yard sale, it was nice to interact with a real Dane and see yet another aspect of the culture.

You could say that all these people are alike. That the people selling jewelry and marijuana in stalls are somewhat akin to any other Danish person (even though they'll counteract that statement by saying they're not actually Danish), but a little jaunt into the various environs of the city proves otherwise. This city may have a very defined nationalistic culture and they may have quite the obsession with their own state flag, but it's also home to so many different types of people.

Just today we went to a little restaurant in town that had wonderful falafel sandwiches. The family running it were clearly of Middle Eastern descent, but they casually spoke Danish to each other. Two worlds colliding seamlessly.

So with those three examples - and possibly others that I'm omitting out of tiredness and because I've fallen asleep at least two times while writing this - I hope that I have made the world privy to a little slice of society here in a city (and country) that I barely know. At the very least, I hope to have done the place some justice. Because in my experience here, I've tried to embrace the incredible pride of the Danes, but also recognize that there are so many different people living within this small space. It's a dichotomous existence. And it's something I really appreciate.

The morning after

I don't know what I did to my body yesterday. I know this title would suggest I was up to some serious mischief - being a typical teenager in a country where I've already reached the legal drinking age, and taking part in a jovial and irresponsible manner. Well that's not what I mean, even if I've tried to mislead you early on.

The morning after for me consisted of aches and pains and anxiety about whether I'd actually be able to take another day filled with activity. But the morning after led into the day after, and it worked out pretty swimmingly.

That was a pun. "Swimmingly," I mean. Because one of the first stops of the day was the statue of Den lille havfrue (The Little Mermaid in Danish). She sits out at Langelinji Pier, looking over the water, pensively and quietly...while tons of tourists gather around snapping photos and making awkwardly stoic faces to remember the moment forever.

We spent a few minutes there doing what is called for by the "foto moment" sign posted near the statue. As if we could ignore the proposition with dozens of other people not so much admiring the mermaid, but vaguely looking at her through a camera lens and moving on.

But that's beside the point. After stopping by this, the most touristy of tourist sites, we moved through the rest of the day as efficiently as the train system in Denmark (is this reference lost on anyone? Everyone? Sorry).

Every stop along the way was done with the necessary concentration, but not an excessive amount of time spent. We walked through and past monuments, saw beautiful sites from a palace to a cathedral to an opera house to an art exhibit. We walked past a bunch of hippies selling and smoking marijuana, and ate at a vegetarian café.

And all in a day's work.

It's weird that I'm so lethargic and sore right now. This is how I felt last night, even this morning as I woke up with a crick in my neck and a mysterious ache in my left wrist (still there, but hopefully going away sooner rather than later). But throughout the day, even when I knew in the back of my mind the pains were still there, I was somehow able to simply ignore it.

This must just be the case when I go on vacation. Whereas at other times in my life, I may walk a mile or two here or there every one or two days, when I'm visiting a new place I spend practically every moment of my time exploring. And when that means making few stops, and maybe just short ones for a quick bite of a pastry or a cup of hot chocolate, it's unfathomable to think I can keep myself standing on both legs for all the remaining time.

But I have. For two days now. And I will. For many more days to come. And in three more countries.

I don't know if I should be more excited or frightened. Maybe there is a limit to how much my body can stand. Perhaps one of those days I have planned consisting of tons of great walking tours of various cities will have to be sacrificed in exchange for a warm bed and a heating pad for my calves.

On the other hand, I don't think I could ever let that happen.

When I started making the plans for this trip, I didn't factor in the sheer amount of activity I will be partaking in with such a short amount of time spared to each location. I just made the plans with a sort of wistful hopefulness that everything would turn out wonderfully.

There have obviously been hiccups. But at the moment I can't think of anything more rewarding than all of the experiences - the good, the bad and the super super weird.

Even if the morning after a long day of tourist-ing I feel like my body is broken and worn out, I am so glad that I even allowed myself to put this much strain on my delicate nerves. Maybe it'll teach me to handle these days without holding my emotions in the balance. And it'll allow me to look at Den lille havfrue without any hint of concern for my pained feet, my arthritic wrist, my aching shoulders and back, etc.

I'm glad that at least today, I totally forgot about it.

The Copenhagen fairy tale

It's 1 am and in the last day I've only had about four hours of sleep. So forgive me if the words that come out of my head and travel into my fingers fail to impress or move you. They will, hopefully, amuse you. And hopefully that amusement won't arise simply because of faulty grammar and an inability to express myself coherently (therefore creating a sort of ridiculous jumble of words that sound like something Lewis Carroll might've come up with).

Lewis Carroll, not a very fitting reference to be making considering I am in Copenhagen, land of the Danes. He lived in England, where I'm from originally (if you count studying abroad as "originally"). Anyway, as an American turned Brit turned Danish traveler, I will try to amend my error. Rather, my jumble of words might resemble something Hans Christian Andersen would've come up with.

Which brings me to the actual point of this blog today.

I came to Copenhagen with the express purpose of enjoying the cultural offerings of the city. For years it's topped my list of places to go in the world. It always seemed like such a clean, friendly, beautiful and magical destination. I say that without the slightest hint of irony. Because I've always associated this place with a sense of fleetingness and whimsy.

Why, you ask?

Well, Hans Christian Andersen of course.

I don't think I ever quite grasped the amount of pride this little (not literally little, he was pretty tall) fairy tale writer from Odense had inspired within the Scandinavian country of Denmark. But after coming to the city and literally only being here for a day, if it wasn't clear to me now then the only reasonable explanation would be that I haven't been looking.

As my friend Denise showed me around the city today, we went past Tivoli, a theme park that is situated within Copenhagen and allegedly inspired Walt Disney in his creation of Disneyland. Right near Tivoli stood a statue of the man himself - H.C. Anderson as he is called here - sitting with a book in his hand and looking over the magical land that is this brightly lit park for childhood romanticism.

Not my photo, but it gives you an idea of the statue.

It seems appropriate, that the guy responsible for creating some of the most beloved fairy tales of all time, these pinnacles of youthful romance, would sit facing a literal encapsulation of the dreams he possibly had every night of his life. Andersen represents more than just an author behind some of the greatest stories in history. He's an icon, an allegory, representing something far greater than himself. A feeling.

I think that's why I love him so much. And why after all these years, I've continued to hold Copenhagen at the top of my list of most important cities to eventually visit.

This place is more than just an idyllic and quaint city within a greater cultural expanse. To me it's greater than any other part of Scandinavia. It has a particular significance. And that significance is Hans Christian Andersen.

When I waded in my grandparent's pool as a child, my Poppy swimming laps and looking/admitting to being a walrus on one end of the pool and my dad playing shark (or was it dolphin? I can't remember) to my Little Mermaid, I had a feeling of the carefree beauty in life that gets lost somewhere between the massive piles of homework, the budgeting off of finances and eventually the most daunting of choices in life when you become an adult.

The problem with me is that I refuse to ever lose that child that resides deep in my heart. In fact, I do nothing to hold her down. She often forces herself to the surface and takes over, dictating my passions and my needs even when my mind tries to take the reigns and steer her in a more responsible direction.

She's the one who gives me these hopeful ideas of beauty in a new place. The little girl in my heart wants to believe that Disneyland isn't just an imaginary world contained within a theme park in southern California, but that maybe a real magical fairy tale land exists.

It makes sense that in a place where Hans Christian Andersen lived, a place that helped him to become the renowned creator of so many beautiful fictional worlds, this kind of idealistic vision of fairy tale life might actually exist.

Or that's what I've convinced myself of. And after a full day in Copenhagen, while it's not Disneyland by any stretch of the imagination, I can see where the two collide, where my visions of the wonder of fairy tales and magic and childhood and romanticism collide. Because they're all present in Hans Christian Andersen. In the way he looks out over Tivoli Park. In his grave site which tonight was surrounded by little glittering plastic butterflies and flavored with a taste of incense in the air, burning at his figurative feet. It may not be a literal fairy tale, but it feels just as beautiful as one.

And I'm satisfied. And I'm eager for more.

I didn't know what I was in for coming to Copenhagen. And certainly there have been bumps along the way. But it's these little bits of beauty that make it exactly what I expected: just perfect.

La belle Edinburgh

Edinburgh, you have treated me quite well. And I thank you.

On this, the last full day of being in this beautiful European/British combo-city, I can't help but feel happy looking back at what the weekend has brought me.

Friends, new experiences, lovely reminders, physical fitness, confidence, among so many other things.

Today I felt myself focusing quite a bit on all of these things, trying to meld past experience with new ones, taking in all that the city had to offer and restoring myself before my long journey back to the beautiful city of London.

It's strange to think that after such a short time, I've found myself so well-acquainted with this place.

Walking to the Scottish National Gallery this afternoon, it became extra clear to me how much of a "my own backyard" sort of town Edinburgh had turned into. My friend Dana, who lives and studies in Edinburgh this term, was unsure of where to go. But by putting our heads together - her knowledge of the city and my fleeting awareness of it from a past visit - we found the place.

And inside was my favorite painting.

A few years back when I went to Edinburgh for the first time, I didn't see a ton of the city. But what I did explore, I saw in depth. My dad and I went to Edinburgh Castle, the Royal Mile, and a bit of the New Town section of the city. And in the middle of these things stands the Scottish National Gallery.

We walked in and the rooms were gorgeous, but unassuming. Most of the works on the walls were not from the particular movements of visual art that we enjoy, but we appreciated them just the same.

Then I came upon a painting by François Boucher called "A Pastoral Scene (La Jardinière Endormie). It's a Rococo painting by the artist, depicting a woman sleeping in a forest-esque setting with a cat in her lap and a man beckoning to her with flowers and a longingly watchful eye.

There was something about looking at this painting again today that just made the world collapse in on itself around me.

The first time I saw it, I'd never come close to being in love. I'd never even been incredibly romantically inclined, unless you count celebrity crushes. But in such a short amount of time, I feel I've seen and felt so much. Enough to make it so this particular venture into the world of the painting was like an adventure back into the last few years of my life, as well as perhaps a clairvoyant insight into the future ones.

I don't know if that makes any sense. But after hours of looking at the tableau, I was convinced of the clarity that was held before me. Maybe it was a culmination of the experiences of the day (or the weekend). In such a short amount of time, I've become a much more well-rounded person, friend, traveler, acquaintance, etc.

I've tried so hard to experience new things and yet to hold onto the past in a way that doesn't hinder me, but teaches me the value of things old and new.

When I came to Edinburgh, I was here just to get a little taste of a foreign culture. Being in London no longer feels foreign to me. I know where to get my groceries and my toiletries. I know the best ways to get around the city and I can walk back to my accommodation from quite a few different key locations around the place.

But now I realize that no city needs feel foreign to me.

Even with just a little memory like the feeling of a painting I admired so much a few years ago, I feel like this city belongs to me in some way. It fits into the grand scheme of my life more than so many other places and experiences have. I wish I could feel this strongly for every place I've ever visited.

But in the interim, I just rejoice at being able to hang out in Edinburgh and discover the city on my own terms, in a way that feels glorious and beautiful, if familiar.

So I sojourn back to the city that holds my heart, my studies and most of my belongings while in the UK, not simply with nostalgia for a time visiting Edinburgh. Nor just with excitement at returning to a place I know so well. But with a bit of a combination of the two.

I'm just happy to have had all these experiences. Each and every one of them.

Arthur's Seat in pictures

I'm not one for climbing. Not for physical endurance or tests of strength, efforts towards becoming a healthy and finely exercised individual. It's just not my speed, my forté, my raison d'être, if you will. But when I was looking through travel information about Edinburgh, slash when I'd heard from friends about where to go when visiting the city, I realized I'd been neglecting such a huge part of it. And I'm glad I've finally been to Arthur's Seat.

On the way up, I took too many creeper photos of people sitting along the grass at the foot of the hills leading up to Arthur's Seat. No shame.

My friends and I saw two roads diverge in a wood. We took the one that was traveled because we're not adventurous.

If you look toward the left bottom of this photo, you will see a girl named Danielle who at this point on the journey was slightly lagging behind.

You will also see pretty views, the only reprieve to a long and tiring climb up.

And more pretty views, that you will only appreciate if you can catch your breath for a moment at landings as you ascend the jagged rock "stairs" to the top of Arthur's Seat.

But the breathers make everything more easy, and the challenge makes it worthwhile.

Because then you see this.

And you see people. Lots of people.

But also just this.

And on the way down, while it may be almost as treacherous as the climb up, things are looking "up". Punny.

These two roads did not diverge, and we still took the one more often traveled.

Nearing the bottom, things remain just as pretty. Oh, Edinburgh. No more words need be said.

As we walked down from Arthur's Seat, I started being my sarcastic self and telling my friends about how there were two kinds of people in this world. There are the people who watch television and the people who partake in physical fitness. They are two very distinct types of people. They do not overlap (okay, they do, but at this point I was feeling so physically strained and sedentary that I couldn't even imagine myself as a living breathing human being, just a couch potato).

I, understandably, identify with the television watchers. Since we were descending, we were passing hoards of people still making their way up to Arthur's Seat. These two boys passed and heard what I was saying, laughed and took pleasure in my ridiculous commentary. And in the same moment that I thought about how pleased I was to have amused someone I didn't even know, I also thought about the falsehoods in my own statement. Or at least my ability to disprove them in that moment.

Because today, I did ascend Arthur's Seat. And it was wonderful. And I could've watched footage of it on television somewhere, I'm sure. But I didn't. I was an active participant. Maybe those two worlds can come together once in a while.

Brighton in pictures

Another day, another 24 hours spent not doing the work I desperately need to apply myself toward. It has been quite the eventful weekend, but not because I've done anything worth getting good grades for. On the other hand, I've come to believe that an experience is worth the strain on my blood pressure that will occur tomorrow and during intervals throughout the rest of the week. Because today, I got to go to Brighton. I wish I had known the beauty that existed there before now, but at least I discovered it today. I hope you will enjoy as well.

First, I must confront you with a little glimpse at my walk this morning. On the way to the center where we planned to meet to board our bus to Brighton, I followed this lovely construction working man on my typical route which I use to go to the local Sainsbury's and to my university. It is quaint, no? No. But I digress.

Skipping all the hullabaloo in the middle, our group of American students (on tour with the university facilitating our study abroad program) ended up in Brighton by 12:00 pm. My friend Danielle and I set off walking around the beach and grabbing pebbles from the ground as part of our wonderful exploration.

We admired the rusty undercarriage of the Brighton Pier and stumbled ever-closer to it as the light waves crashed onto the pebble shore.

And then we climbed and touched the rusty railing with our shoes and our palms in an attempt to become a part of Brighton Pier, if only for a moment.

We kept wandering - and I apologize for sharing so many photos of this same location with you - along the beach enjoying the scenery before heading off to the Royal Pavilion where a tour had been organized for us at 12:30.

In the Royal Pavilion gardens, we encountered this musical performing group who were selling CDs outside to passersby. Then we headed into the place for our tour. Unfortunately there will be no photos of that due to photographic restrictions within the palace (sad face).

After the Royal Pavilion tour, we walked toward North Laine. But before arriving there we found this hippie van where they were sharing samples of scents from a store called Lush that sells handmade cosmetic products while eagerly spreading their message about not partaking in animal testing (yay!).

After the stopover at the hippie van, we went to North Laine where there were rows of eclectic shops and stalls (and a ton of people as well). It was a bit crowded, but a lot of fun - and it only spurred our interest in returning to Brighton as soon as possible.

Walking back in the direction of the beach, we went past some mural art. The colors were vibrant and there was one that involved Smurfs. Unfortunately, I did not take a picture of the smurf mural. But I'm sure you can imagine its greatness.

We kept walking and I happily encountered this boy who was playing with some sort of string juggling toy on the side of the street. He was quite talented and quite fashionably dressed as well.

After a brief stint through the South Lanes (I don't remember the actual name of the area, but it was in essence another small selection of boutique shopping streets), we went back toward the Pier to head to the bus for our trip back to London.

What felt like way too little time in Brighton was spent exploring a new city and gaining a new appreciation for the various environs of London-town and England in general. There really is so much to see in England, and after planning an extravagant voyage through Europe, and preparing for a trip to Edinburgh next weekend, it was nice to step back and look at my own country for a little while. After all, this is my country now. I really believe that.