“Come by and see me at my coffee shop,” the note on my Facebook wall said from one Jonathan (my Travel Love from Zagreb) who was now residing in Amsterdam.
As soon as I received that message, a little glimmer of what I felt in Zagreb shot through me. I had sent Jonathan a message earlier in the week, keeping it real casual because I didn’t want to come off as that crazy girl he shared one night with way back in September in a foreign country.
White widow. Northern Lights. Casey Jones. Joints. Spliffs. Pipes. Hash, hash … more hash.
My eyes were wide. I had seen it all before, in the pretty glass case displays, but had forgotten. For anyone who enjoys a occassional puff of the wacky tobacky, being in Amsterdam is like being a kid in a candy shop.
“Oh my goodness,” I said, as we sat down in the dimly lit coffee shop, teaming with smokers of all ages, most of whom spoke immaculate English.
“Love it.”
“I know!” N said, grinning ear-to-ear.
An hour later we emerged from Smokey’s, taking in the fresh night air, headed to dinner.
Over a bottle of delicious Chianti and some amazing Italian food, we toasted N’s 30th and made plans for the next day — a canal tour of the city.
We awoke, refreshed the following morning, headed to Smokey’s for a pre-brekkie pow wow, to breakfast, and then the canal tour.
After the hour-long tour (side note: while the boat ride is pretty, it is expensive for what you get, and most of the time you are already passed the topic of conversation since the same stories are in four different languages), we checked out another coffee shop (B had wanted to find the Dampkring, made famous by “Ocean’s 12,” but was unsuccessful), and then I introduced B and N to the magnificent and delicious kebab (a staple of my backpacker diet for the past month). Naturally, they loved it.
Harmless, yes?
It was the next day I felt the “get the hell out of Amsterdam” vibe kick into full gear.
We had just finished lunch, following the discovering of Dampkring, and my leg was hurting. Innocently, I reached down to rub it as we were walking along.
Oh my god. My leg. It had become indented. Concave.
“Holy crap,” I announced, fear ripping through my body, “My shin collapsed. It is concave.”
Continue reading “Paranoia”
I sat in the lobby of Eden Hotel in Rembrandt Square, waiting patiently for B and N to walk through the rotating doors.
It had been a long trip from Berlin, made longer by the fact that I was so excited to meet up with two of my best friends in the entire world. In Amsterdam.
I had been looking forward to May 8 for more than a month. It was in Madrid when I received a message from N informing me she and her husband were in fact going to holiday in Amsterdam, celebrating her 30th birthday and their five-year wedding anniversary. I changed my entire route in order to meet up with them, naturally.
After all, B and N knew me from a very different time in my life. It was during the T years they had met me, when I was always sad. Moving into Dulaney Valley was one of the best decisions of my life because it introduced me to them … a couple who were around my age and lived (get this) across the hall from me.
On days and nights when I felt the world falling down around me, when I could barely get myself out of bed, let alone muster a smile, I would crawl across the hall to their door, be let in and instantly feel better. There were so many times I would just be in the room with them, head buried in my hands, sobbing because of the person I had become and mourning the loss of my happiness. They would comfort me. They would tell me everything would be OK.
In a time when I lost so many friends because of the wreck of a person I was, they always stood by me, offering hugs, support, a shoulder to cry on. In the past 10 years of my life, they are two of the only people who have remained a constant. And for that, I am eternally thankful.
I am not a big fan of Amsterdam. The last time I was there I had to kindly escort myself out of the city. I had consumed one space cake too many and thought I was going to have to check myself into the hospital (ahhh … paranoia).
Seriously.
I may love Madrid, but Berlin … man, it comes in a close second.
Seriously.
It may have been really cold … and windy … and rainy in Berlin, but after escaping Borris‘, I was hit smack in the face with all of its awesomeness.
First, it was Hostel Aloha. It didn’t even bother me I had to climb countless flights of stairs each time (it’s all about building endurance, right?). The hostel was awesome. The people there were awesome. The breakfast was … you guessed it … awesome. (I’m talking fresh bread, Nutella, bananas, PEANUT BUTTER!!!!)
Then, it was the New Europe free tours. I took the East Berlin tour with Paul (an Israeli I had met in Prague) my first day in the city and it was fascinating. I am not one for countless churches or museums, but the minute you start talking about World War II and Hitler, I get really into it. At one point, we stood where Hitler’s bunker was, the place where he killed himself. Now, it is a parking lot surrounded by some nicer Communist apartment buildings. (Quite fitting cars now park where Hitler took his last breath, if you ask me.)
Later on the tour, we stood where a vicious gun battle had broken out once Communism had taken hold. I looked from a mural depicting everyone smiling because of living a Communist lifestyle to the reality — columns and walls riddled with bullet holes only recently covered up. And then, the Wall. Well, the remnants. And then … Checkpoint Charlie. Reconstructed, but still Checkpoint Charlie.
The next day, I fell deeper in love with the city. Armed with my 48-hour train pass and my iPod, I took the Sbahn to the Zoo (home of Knut, the once adorable baby polar bear who morphed into a moody grownup) and walked back to Alexanderplaz. A hefty walk. But, beautiful. The sun had come out for the day (!!!) and the weather was mild, so walking through Tiergarten was perfect.
That evening, Berlin got even better with Chris (@TheAussieNomad) arriving from Amsterdam and joining me for a pub crawl. The pub crawl, not so great, but Chris’ company was.
The next morning, he checked into Aloha and we headed to another walking tour — this time of the colorful graffiti and squatter haunts of Berlin. Even in the pouring rain and cold, it was fascinating. We walked around “beach” bars, went to a warehouse riddled with colorful graffiti and artists’ studios, and learned about the sub-culture that makes Berlin really interesting and different from … oh, most places.
We even went to an indoor skate park near an old train depot that was bombed during the war.
And then, there was Chris’ and my search for the perfect kebab. We found it at Mustafa’s. A delicious combo of chicken, fried veggies and potatoes topped with spicy goodness. Loved it.
Even that night, just making pasta and hanging out with everyone in the hostel was a good time.
Sadly, the only day with sun was my first real day in the city. It was hard for me to leave — I wanted to experience more of the sub-culture of Berlin — the graffiti laden beach bars, the markets — but the sun never came out enough to make it possible.
My first day in the city, I had met two Aussies who were planning to be there for a week.
“That’s a long time,” I had said.
“This city is absolutely amazing,” they replied.
At the time, I hadn’t felt it. But, by the time my train to Amsterdam was pulling up at the station, I knew precisely what they meant.
Berlin, I will be back. Promise.
Up until Berlin, I was a couch surfing virgin. Yup. Never had I slept on anyone’s couch via the very cool CouchSurfing.
I had planned on surfing during my travels, not just to save a little cash, but because I have heard nothing but raves about the experiences people have had … the insight into cultures they receive … the friends they made.
I should have known better when I agreed to couch surf with Borris* (yes, I am changing his name, this is a rare case) in Berlin.
Why?
Continue reading “I’ll always remember my first time … Couch Surfing”
Today is Monday, June 7. Today marks the completion of Month Three of my travels.
It’s been a wild and crazy ride so far. I have journeyed to: London; Dublin and Galway, Ireland; Madrid; Valdelavilla, Spain; back to Madrid; Monfrague, Spain; Budapest; Brasov and Cluj-Napoca, Romania; Krakow; Prague; Berlin; Amsterdam; back to Madrid; Merida, Spain; Lisbon; Lagos and Faro, Portugal; San Ambrosio, Spain; and now … Rwanda. To sum up the experience thus far as amazing sells my adventure completely short. I don’t think any words can come close to the moments I have had, the people I have met, the places I have seen, the lifetime friends I have made.
And you know what?
I owe it all to the following: my parents, my blog and Twitter.
It’s funny … for years I have been searching for something … and I never knew what.
There were plenty of times in my 20s when I would talk to my mom and say: I wish I could meet people I shared something that could truly bond us.
She would always say the same thing: “D … you need to find a hobby … find like-minded people, and then the friendships, the connections, they will flourish.”
I would always fight back and tell her the only hobby I had was writing and I had no clue how I could turn that passion into a friendship with others.
I never understood … until I returned from Croatia. Then, one night, after I had realized I wanted more to my life than what I had, I was recounting my experiences in that amazing country and something happened.
I wrote it down.
More specifically, I started a blog.
It was my second attempt at a blog. The first one I started I only kept up with at irregular intervals and often struggled to get my point across … I had no direction, no idea of what I wanted to really write about.
But, this time … there was something different.
Something clicked.
I suddenly knew I wanted to tell my story. Even if people didn’t want to read it, I wanted to write it. That night, a work night, I got up out of my bed, grabbed my laptop, and wrote my first blog post. And, started my personal Twitter page.
And, then everything fell into place. I began to meet people who liked to travel. Who liked to write. Within a few weeks, people had started to read what I had to write. They started to follow me on Twitter.
Like “Field of Dreams” and the infamous quote “If you build it, they will come,” all of the sudden people were coming, to read what I had to write.
I had found my niche.
The days I felt empty and frustrated because of my work, I simply could turn to Twitter or write, and instantly, I felt better. The new community I had took away some of my unhappy and left me feeling inspired, feeling good about who I was and the new direction I wanted to take with my life.
When I hit my lowest point, the day I finally admitted to my family and friends I was absolutely miserable in the life I was living in Atlanta, it wasn’t nearly as hard — I had my parents, a family on Twitter, an army of readers on my blog, who supported me … who told me everything would work out.
Then, it became a quest. I had to continue traveling if I wanted to continue writing. I had met so many wonderful people on-line (and you know exactly who you all are) … and then I was writing more, booking travel, quitting my job …
So, today … I want to admit this:
Mom, you were exactly right.
Find your passion, your hobby, and you will meet friends. And, since I have begun this wild and crazy adventure eight months ago, I have found exactly what it is that moves me, that lights a fire in my heart — writing and traveling.
Fortunately, there are so many people out there with the same fire, the same passion.
It is because of my parents encouragement, my blog and Twitter I have met friends I never imagined would be in my life … people whose paths crossed mine because of our love of travel and writing. It is because of my discovery of my passion/hobby (which was always in me but never truly tapped until recently) I am here today. In Rwanda. Living a life I could only have dreamed of less than a year ago.
So, thank you to the blogger community. Thank you to my Twitter family. Thank you to my parents for always pushing me to find what truly ignited my spirit. I am here today because of all of you and have never felt more blessed in my entire life.
Proost. Salud. Salude. DooSahnGeeRay.
Prague.
One of the most colorful and stunning cities I have ever encountered.
This visit to Prague marked my second time in the city. The first time was eight years ago when my frame of mind was, well, crap (see “‘Twas the night before London“). It is the only city I have been back to thus far that conjures up memories of myself as a very different person.
I can recall bits and pieces about my first visit. I stayed at the Clown and Bard. I walked across The Charles Bridge, up to the palace. I peeked through the gates of the Jewish cemetery. I ate pizza and drank Bud (the mmmgood Czech version). I went to Kutna Hora to check out the Sedlic Ossuary.
And then there were the memories that popped back into my brain while I was there.
Some of those little memories were OK. Like, remembering I went to get sushi near the Charles Bridge. Or, that I stopped into an internet cafe to check e-mail.
What wasn’t expect were those lovely supressed memories. The ones that, when recalled, make me feel like bitch-slapping them across their ugly little faces.
I was on my Prague walkabout when it hit me.
It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon, May 1, so the city was buzzing with celebrations. I had just walked through Prague’s largest cemetery and had turned down another road when, BAM! Right there, smack in my face, was a building.
The Communist-era building hung, gray in the air, rusty and sagging, in front of me. The little porches looked as if they were hanging by nails, as if a foot coming down on it would cause its demise.
I knew this building.
I had come across this building the last time I was there. When my sadness reflected off of the sad structure. I had stood next to this building on Valentines Day, 2002.
A pile of stress and tears due to T (the man who I allowed torment my heart for years), I had walked outside of Clown and Bard to find a phone card so I could call him. Wish him a Happy Valentines Day.
It was nighttime and cold, and I was outside, searching frantically for a pay phone so I could call him and send him my love before he went to work back in Baltimore.
I walked and walked, my desperation growing every minute that passed without coming across a phone.
Then, I walked by the old, depressing apartment building.
It gave me the chills. It intimidated me. It made the area seem so … creepy, so foreboding.
I held the phone card in my hand, an airbrushed little girl with blonde ringlets spilling out of her head. I remember being jealous of her.
I bet, when she grows up, her boyfriend will love her.
I picked up the phone and dialed T’s number.
And then the memory is gone.
Blissfully. Perfectly. Sweetly.
I was brought back into the moment. Walking in Prague. Enjoying the sunny, warm day. Headed to the Lennon Wall.
Creating new memories that won’t be supressed.
Prague was my free therapy.
I didn’t want to go to Auschwitz. In fact, I had been dreading the trip to the concentration camp since I knew I was going to be in Europe. Maybe “didn’t want to go” is not accurate. I wanted to go … but knew it would be an experience that would be achingly painful.
As a child being raised Jewish, I was fortunate enough to meet many survivors of the Holocaust. And, as former actress, I was fortunate enough to have a part in a play “Who Will Carry the Word?” that dealt with 20 women attempting to survive in Auschwitz. Between being Jewish and being in a play about the Holocaust, I had learned a lot.
I knew going in to Auschwitz how bad it was there. I knew what to expect. And yet, after I watched the short film they show at the beginning of the tour of the camp, when the doors to the camp were opened and I saw the “Arbeit Macht Frei” metal sign above the entrance, my eyes and nose stung with salty tears.
Man, this tour was going to get me.
“Are you OK?” Stephan, a Scottish guy I had met the night before at Tutti Frutti, asked me, placing his hand on my arm after we exited the gas chamber in Auschwitz.
“Yeah,” I said. It was only then, when the “yeah” came out choked and strained that I realized I was far from OK.
On my second full day in Krakow, I decided to do my walkabout. I knew there were places I wanted to go — mostly the locations on the map marked with a Jewish star, also known as the Jewish District.
I know Poland is seeped with a terrible history as it relates to Jews (and many other religions, cultures, etc.), and it makes my heart heavy to think that such a beautiful place has such sad stories behind it.
The Jewish District is one of those places. Lined with kosher and Jewish restaurants and shops, the area oozes charm, personality and beauty.
And, then there is the darker side. The side that hurts me and makes my chest feel tight.
Continue reading “Being Jewish in the Krakow Jewish District”
When someone questioned me as to why Poland, my answer back was “why not?”
When I first decided to go to Krakow, it was because of the city’s close proximity to Auschwitz, as someone who identifies myself as Jewish it was a place I felt necessary to visit.
I had heard mixed reviews about Poland. Some people had said the country seems sad and a gloom permeates the air continuously. Clearly, those people have never actually visited the country, because I experienced nothing like that at all.
My time in Krakow came on the heels of the tragic plane crash in Russia. In fact, as I walked up to my hostel I careened into one of the funerals.
My hostel, Tutti Frutti, was on one of the main drags in Old Town. Across the middle of the road were lines draped with the Polish flag and black flags of mourning, hanging solemnly.
But, despite all of this, people remained upbeat.
My first day in Krakow was mainly about catching up on sleep. In the evening, I walked around a little and grabbed dinner, and then met a crew of Serbians in town for a pharmaceutical congress. A group of about 15 of us headed out for sheesha, clearly chasing other patrons out of the cozy Middle Eastern bar with our loud voices.
For hours, we sat there, enjoying the sweet concoctions — cappuccino and milk; mint and water; apple and rum — and singing Serbian songs. Well, they sang, I watched and smiled, thinking to myself how lucky I was to be in the moment with them.
I ended up in Krakow for nearly four days … taking in the city, its charm and beauty and doing some exploration mixed with some intense “getting to know me” moments, some of which took me by surprise.
D Travels 'Round