Hey y’all. I know we haven’t posted in a while, so, yes, it is weird that you’re actually reading this. Most likely you’re someone that Ben or I have bragged to about the blog.
Anyway, I’ve started a summer storage company at Emory University. It’s called student sherpas.
CHECK IT OUT: http://www.studentsherpas.com/emory
Our stay in Paris
We got into Paris early in the morning. My beatles book, with everyone’s contact information was left on the train, so we agreed to return to the station the next day to see if the french train people found anything. After the station, we took the train to the notre dam area, a location we turned into our “home base” during all of our stays in paris. Ever since our last day in Barcelona, my (ben’s) right ball had been hurting. It had gotten much worse and I was kind of getting scared. When i told ari, he tried to comfort me by telling me an anectdote:
“yeah man, my old friend from ramah was playing volleyball and fell on his ball and he had to get immediate surgery or else he was gunna lose it. shit was called testicular torsion or something.”
After that story, i frantically began searching testicular torsion on the internet, fearing for my ball. i read that if in fact i had it, it was too late because i had waited more than 24 hours. I then called ari’s dad, starting the conversation “Hi Mr. Frankel, I’ve been experiencing severe pain in my right testicle.” Ari’s dad told me that it would be utterly irresponcible of him if i didnt go to the hospital. Next, we stopped in at several restaurants, asking if i could use their bathrooms so i could check for a symptom of less dangerous possibility - something of the appendecis. none of these french assholes would let me in, unless i was a “BAYERRRR,” so i finally ordered an ice tea, used the bathroom, and walked out before they charged me. I was finally convinced that even though it was my last day in europe, I would have to go to the hopstial. We went to a tourist booth right by the church of notre dam and asked for directions to the nearest hospital. “just about 15 feet behind us.” DAMN WHAT A COINCIDENCE. So we tried to find it, at first passing this big building called hotel de dieu (which transates to “god’s hotel.” Ari and I both thought, wow, what a pretentious moron for naming his hotel that. Turns out that was the hospital (which i guess is a bit morbid.) I was impressed by the french healthcare system. Ari and i approached the counter, and tried to tell them whati was experiencing. Much was being lost in translation, until ari grabbed his nuts, and made a twisting motion withh is arm. “AHHHHHHH” the french clerk sighed. and then he immediatly glared at me and said “explosion?!?!?” ari and i both laughed and shook our heads. We sat down in the waiting room, watching olympic handball and waterpolo. I thought what caused my problem was wearing my hugo boss briefs to bed. Therefore, ari and i spent much of our time discussing how much money we could sue hugo boss for if i infact did have to lose a ball. it couldve been a landmark case. Anway, they called me in, and moved me into this one room where a guy with one huge eye asked me to take of my clothes. During my stay at the hospital, i was asked really weird questions, such as “have you expereicned,uhhh, any, uhh wet penile emmisiosn??? or “did you have any loose discharge of the penis?” the answer was no, so they moved on. I would approximate that 6 people 4 male, 1 female, 1 butch, touched my balls that afternoon. It was by far the most “lucrative” day i had in europe in that sense. I had a sonogram, which basically felt like someone was licking my balls for 45 minutes. Then they moved me to another waiting room, then another. THroughotu the process, ari was a very good friend and waited in the waiting room, watching the olympics for about 4 - 5 hours. They kept telling me that surgery was a probability, until the end, when the chief of surgery came in, grabbed my ball, and went “I AM POSITIVE, IT IS AN INFEcTION. NO SURGERY IS REQUIRED I PROMISE.” You ahve no idea how happy i was. I didnt need surgery and i didnt have to spend then ight in the hospital. Ari brought me a schwarma and a coke which i ate quite happily. We left the hospital around 8 oclock, with xrays and a prescritipn and went to the pharmacy to pick up the pills. Next we went to the internet cafe to tell our friends to come hang out with us. Ari decided he would leave to pick up heavier clothing and drop off the xrays while i stayed at the cafe. One thing that i have learned is that it is never good to seperate from ari. I waited at the cafe for about an hour and a half and then just went back to the hotel. Ari apparently was at the internet cafe but we didnt see each other so i met him back at the hotel around midnight. a fitting way to spend our last night hha. The next morning we woke up at around 10, then went to the train station to find the book. it wasnt there. then we boarded our last parisian subway and got on a train going to the airport. there was major construction and confusion so we had to leave the train and get on another one. we were both quite worried we would miss our 2 oclock flight. we ended up making it right on time, ending our european adventure. Our flight was good but sad. when we touchdowned in new york i really felt quite upset. ari thanks you were a great travel partner. i couldve have wished for anyone better. thanks and PAYCE YOU ARE CANK
Our Final Night Train
We pulled in to our cabin to find that the beds we paid so damn much for were actually chairs. Our cabin mates were two Spanish-speakers with very poor English skills.
One was an old Spanish man, the other a young Brazilian dude. We genially chatted for a while about travel, Spain, etc. until the beds were finally set up for us by a train attendant. That’s when the old Spaniard left us for a drink at the bar, and we three just chilled in the cabin. A little later the Brazilian and I went for a beer at the bar, where we found the old man sipping on espresso. The tab was on him as we continued talking as before for a long while until the bar closed. I slept deeply, but not enough.
Tired but nonetheless excited, we are in Paris once more. Our hotel is nice, and is conveniently located inside the city this time and not in a suburb. Up until now we’ve been recovering and clocking in some time at the cyber café, but once we’re done blogging it’ll be time to make the most of our final day in Europe.
All of our Parisian friends from the first time around are getting a phone call tonight, and one of them might even be lucky enough to inherit the remainder of my Eurail pass.
The final countdown
Our final day in Barcelona we woke up late and met up with our Danish friends at the standard meeting place, the McDonalds located across the Ramblas from our hostel.
They walked us over to the train station to consign our bags, only to find that there was no consign. So Ben and I spent a solid half hour searching for a business that would hold our stuff, trying everywhere from the Picasso museum to nondescript cafés until we finally found a bike rental shop with a young Dutch girl working the desk who agreed to. We kept the valuables on us, but left the rest with her. We had until 8 before she closed up.
So we found our friends at the beach and soaked up the last little bits of Barcelona beach before leaving. By 7:30 we were beginning to panic, having been looking for the bike shop for the past hour. Fortunately, Ben knew the name of the hotel on the same street, so we hailed a cab and got it to take us there. 7:45 we’re geared back up and on our way to the train station.
It was a somewhat unsentimental farewell to Barcelona, spent complaining about the service in the restaurant at the train station and watching the timetable uneasily out of the corner of our eye. When we finally got on the train we allowed ourselves to relax and reflect.
The entertainers on las ramblas
Las Ramblas is the central artery of tourism in Barcelona. Though ultimately just a street, it’s one of the places to see. On both sides it’s bordered by news and candy stands, little shops, and most importantly entertainers.
Many of them dress up as famous people or as iconic figures, then get paid by people who want to take a picture with them. Ben put it well: “how bad do you have to be at everything to have a job like that!” They essentially get paid to dress up like idiots. And it’s not as if they stay in character either; one can often find them taking a break to smoke a cigarette or eat lunch right in the place where they normally “perform.”
Not all of them are that bad, just most. A few of them are somewhat theatrical. For example, there’s a man who paints himself entirely in white and sits on a toilet. He does his best to make it look as if he’s dropping a deuce, and if given a coin he farts. A regular Heath Ledger.
Only two acts out of the many that we’ve seen redeem the honor of Barcelonian street performers whatsoever. The first is a man who does an impeccable robot, staying frozen until he’s paid, at which time he goes through a series of robotic movements, usually making fun of the person who just paid him. The second is a group of absurdly jacked tumblers who performed feats of athleticism I’d never before seen in person: barrel rolls and flips, one-handed springs backwards and forwards, and, most impressive of all, stacking on top of one another in elaborate formations.
By far the most successful of the street entertainers is a con artist with the classic game of three overturned boxes, in one of which he puts a marble. He shuffles the boxes and if you guess it correctly you get twice back what you bet. The way this works is that he does a couple easy ones to get people enticed, then when there’s enough bets on one particular box, he switches the marble at the last second before overturning the box and keeps all of the bets. In fact, on one occasion I saw a man cheat by looking under the box to confirm there was a marble there while the man collected bets; then, with a flourish, the con artist moved the ball before turning over the surefire box and kept the bets once more. This, like the crane game at a carnival, is a total trap. Though it hurts me to say it, the money may even be better spent being dropped in to a cup in front of a man pretending to defecate in public.
Couple more days of Barcelona beach life
Once we discovered the beach at Barcelona there was no going back. We’d spend the first half of the day going to this or that site, then the rest of the day at the beach, kicking it. There are few greater pleasures in Barcelona to be had than enjoying a euro beer on the hot sand while you watch the waves crash against the shore. The beach is definitely where it’s at, as far as Barcelona is concerned
El tercero dìa
Antoni Plàcid Guillem Gaudí i Cornet is a source of tremendous Spanish pride, and for good reason. He was a famous art nouveau architect who lived from the late 19th to early 20th century. His work is extremely distinct and one of the most important components of Barcelona for tourists and locals alike. So we decided to hit up Gaudi’s crown jewel: la Sagrada Familia.
We took a metro to what on the map appeared to be a close by stop, but turned out to be a good 1,3 kilometers away. Coming out of the metro I got my first taste of Gaudi. The building looked like it could house the alien hive from Contra III: tan, smooth and curvy with all sorts of odd shapes and colors thrown in to the mix. For a vague hint of this style check out Archetypus cafè in Edgewater.
La Sagrada Familia itself was somewhat disappointing. The outside was awesome, the style we’d seen in the first building taken to an all new extreme and applied to a church, which meant incorporating religious iconography. Huge, elaborate, curvy columns supported the curvy steeples, on which were located crosses composed of ovals rather than rectangles. Promising, but when we paid the exorbitant fee of 8 euro we entered to find almost all of it was under construction. That’s not to say that the scaffolding, running at least 20 feet deep, 40 feet wide, and all the way to the ceiling, wasn’t without its own charm. It formed a sort of spider web of orange steel, but it wasn’t what we paid 8 euro to see.
Next door to the church but still on the grounds was a little building dedicated to explaining some of the intricacies of the architecture. It showed some of the techniques Gaudi deployed that gave his columns and other parts of the buildings the curvy (and I hate to be so repetitive), organic feel that they’re famous for.
Once we managed to pry ourselves away from the air conditioning we made our way over to the most important destination of all: the beach. It was about a fifteen minute walk from the hostel: first past the Ramblas, then a monument to Colòn (Columbus), then along the highway past a modern art piece composed of stacked blocks colored in pastels (some with stripes and dots as well), then finally past a dock filled with hundreds of boats until you get on to a straightaway for the beach.
The sand is actually sand and not rocks (for the first time so far), the water is greenish blue, brackish, dirty and cold. It reminded me of family trips to the Jersey shore from back in the day. And after picking a cool pair of Danish girls to sit next to, I partook in the same classic activities as I once did on the Jersey shore: swimming around, doing handstands in the water, and trying to resist the push of breaking waves.
Just chilling on the beach with our new friends I enjoyed ice cold beer vended by locals who carouse the beach with coolers. If you don’t take any shit, it’s a euro a beer. If you’re hungry, other vendors sell samosas and potato chips at the same price. More upscale vendors sell massages and drugs.
We rode home on the back of our Danish friends’ rented bikes and all agreed to meet up later for drinks at the Nevermind bar.
Nevermind was recommended to us by the owner of our hostel and was supposed to be a pretty hip punk bar with good music, extreme sports videos projected on the walls, and “the best mojitos in Barcelona.” All of the above turned out to be true and we had a great time. It was even better when at the end of the night we left and had forgotten to pay for any of our drinks.
The night ended on Las Ramblas around four in the morning when the girls gave us a ride on the back of their bikes back to our hostel then headed back to theirs.
Barcelona (Bar tha lo na)
We woke up around 11:30 and set out for an Internet cafe to try to organize our day. Rather than walk the five minutes over to the rambla, we thought we’d look for something closer to the hostel. Asking around, we landed on one very dirty, old man who at first, as seems to be the case more often than not when a local doesn’t understand my accent, thought I was asking to buy pot from him.
When I explained, “yo no quiero marijuana. quiero un cybercafé” he understood and took us through a series of small alleys. In such cases, where the threat of being mugged is eminent, Ben and I look at one another and make sure that we’re both “ready” in case something goes down. Ready to grovel on our knees or ready to take out five overmuscled criminals we never bother to make clarify. Finally, we arrived at a real hole in the wall run by a middle aged Arabic man watching some sort of Arabic television news report.
The Internet was cheap, but the ambiance of the café left something to be desired. Most of the time we were there a six and a half foot tall, poor speaker of Spanish and English, black man with half-length dreads that made him look a lot like DL Hughley He was threatening to kill the owner of the Internet café, who apparently had robbed him. Finally, they worked some arrangement out where the accuser got a free half hour of Internet and the promise never to be cheated again.
In the end I’d made a list of places I wanted to see in Barcelona so we got some lunch then decided which to hit when. First we went to the MACBA, a modern art museum located quite close to the Ramblas. That day it featured a perticular artist whose style was to observe daily, mundane occurences at very interesting perspectives, the title being extremely important to the piece. On the first floor we watched a movie that seemed vaguely parallel to the Holocaust, but in a very modern art sort of way:
When we walked in we saw a group of men dressed in tight black leather pants, tight leather jackets with silver bands on their arms, silver shirts and a black and silver mask. Cut to several shots of people in excruciating bondage, being tied in such a way that they’re stuck in extremely uncomfortable positions, not to mention the abrasions from the ropes that by that point had caused profuse bleeding in their wrists and ankles. These images were accompanied by a groan of suffering, and it was revealed that each of the images was inside only one cell in a whole series thereof.
Back to the black and gray soldiers who are marching in step towards a woman in a green dress. She was forcefully taken by the black soldiers and tied to the front of a series of hospital beds that were chained together. Soon to fill each of these hospital beds would be a pair of people of a type that were targeted by NAZIs, first the lame (three people with absurd and horrible contraptions on their legs that enabled them to limp), then the homosexual (two bald men stroking each other’s rediculously long and scraggly beards as they stared in to each other’s eyes), then the Amazon women (a stocky women in a warrior’s uniform and helmet with a bow and arrow). Cut to a shot of a table full of people sitting down to a meal. The table is dense with barbed wire, so each has to be extremely careful how they reach for their glass, fork, knife, etc.
It was at that point that things began to get even weirder. A circus composed of all of the meat and potatoes elements (bearded woman, Siamese twins, midget, strong man, etc). They passed a man dressed in a white suit and a white hat with a yellow piece of cloth hanging out to one side, and convinced him to join their parade as they danced down the street. They take him to a rooftop where the strongman performs a fire breathing show, then set all of their plates of food on fire.
Dinner was followed by a dance in which one of the Siamese twins attempts to seduce their newest member, while teh midget vainly chases her twin in circles. At that point, out of fear of falling asleep, we left.
Outside we watched a crew of teenage, shirtless skateboarders strut their stuff, that is what little stuff they had. The most impressive trick we saw landed was a kickflip; at least they never quit.
That night we went to a bar we’d heard about from Larissa called called LP, a vintage styled bar with cool music and cool people. We found it disappointingly empty at 12 but struck up conversation with two other travelers that were sitting next to us, one with short black hair that looks like Bret from Flight of the Concords, the other of whom had long blond hair. Bret was from London and the beach boy from Edinburgh.
It became apparent from the beginning that Bret was a bit sharp-tongued, always contradicting his friend and having nothing good to say about anything except for Southeast Asia, which, according to both of them, is backpacking mecca. After a while we decided to check out another place, so we four walked around until we were asked directions by two young, cute southern French girls. Turned out we were both looking for the same bar, so we walked together until we settled for an overcrowded, overheated joint close-by.
At a certain point Ben and I could no longer stand the heat and went to look for another place. When we passed by our hostel we gave each other a look of guilty pleasure and the other place turned out to be our room, where we promptly, antisocially passed out.
Sweating Balls...
from the get go. After the Internet cafe I returned to the station for a little bit before heading back out to get shawarma. Coming down the street I ran in to who else but the Croatians, the ugliest of whom had the nerve to ask me “Are you still upset that no one came home with you last night?” to which I replied with a scowl for lack of a clever comeback. They directed me towards a shawarma restaurant which it took me another five to ten minutes to find. When I finally landed, the damn attendant took fifteen minutes to prepare an order that I didn’t want to stay, when I had asked for it to go. By the time I finished my food and found out the time I had only ten minutes to get back to the train platform before our train left.
So, belly distended with slow-roasted lamb and french fries, I sprinted back to the station in the noon heat. Then, finding a righteously indignant and anxious Ben with his bag on, we sprinted together to the platform. We tried to descend in an elevator to the track, but it was so full that it wouldn’t move with Ben and I in it. Nearby we tried to use stairs but they just took us out of the station, so we sprinted back up the stairs to the elevator and made our train with literally one minute to go.
Needless to say, we were dripping. Red in the face, our hair matted up with sweat, and breathing heavily we found our Danish friends from the train station relaxing comfortably on the train. Another fifteen minutes of passing to and from the front of the train with my bag until I finally settled down with Ben in an empty couchette. Each time I would pass this one man standing in front of the window in the particularly narrow hall of the couchette car in a blue shirt who looked at me with an expression that indicated that it was some great discourtesy to have to move past him on the train, and each time I squeezed past him, first apologetically then eventually indignantly.
Ben and I basked in the glory of the air conditioned and private couchette car for all too short before some Southern-French interlopers crashed our party, pressing in until the car was at full capacity, four young men and two old ladies. They mostly gossiped among themselves while Ben and I silently suffered with our sudokus.
During a forty minute layover we walked with our bags down to the waterfront and had lunch in a little Spanish restaurant. Ben ordered burgers and sausage, changing his mind about the sausage once he finished his burger. A triumph of my Spanish that I was able to get them to take it back at no cost.
Our first train ride was luxurious compared to the local train to Barcelona we transferred on to. This was spent with the Danish girls, sweating unceasingly and collaborating on or competing with one another in sudoku between catnaps. Two and a half hours later we finally arrive in Barcelona, where we find that there’s a 200 person queue to book trains to Malaga and to Paris. F that.
So we split up with the Danes and went to the Internet cafe to locate our hostel and to retrieve the phone number from my email. We were told that if we didn’t call them before showing up, we wouldn’t be able to get in to the apartment, so I was concerned when I was unable to get through to them by phone or email. We decided to risk it and took the metro over to the Ramblas, the thoroughfare of tourism in Barcelona. Our hostel was located a short walk from there.
We were let in by some people living in the same building then were pleased to find that an attendant was in the hostel to check us in. She was a very cool, young venezuelan with exceptional English skills (though she courteously entertained my Spanish just for fun). We sat talking for a while together after she showed us the room, and she suggested that we check out this particular bar called Nevermind, which her friend owns.
We showered up and headed out, shortly afterwards meeting a young deutsche blond named Larissa. She was nice enough, and even took us to a good tapas restaurant for dinner. Just a few bites in to my cheese plate I feel ready to vomit and head downstairs, where I poised myself for action (doubled over the sink). It occurred to me that I was dehydrated, so I went back upstairs and had some water. We left and I bought a large water, but recovery was slow. Since Ben was tired from traveling and I was sick to my stomach and weak, Ben and I headed back in with promise not to abandon Larissa so early the next time we see her.
Our hostel was miserably hot, sleeping in underwear we still broiled through the night. We didn’t yet realize just how hot this city is though
In spite of Beat
Beat had it all planned out for us. Yet, in spite of his overwhelming competence and unprecedented levels of hungness, we managed to screw ourselves over once more.
We took a train to Mulhouse, at which point we had a 40 minute layover before the connecting train to Montpelier. Only seconds after leaving the train, “O shit; I left the phone in the train.” We rush for assistance, and they are quite helpful.
They call the phone, the terminus of the train, and even the janitor aboard the train, but all to no avail. Recovering an International Blackberry from the seat of a train filled with people was a bleak proposition from the get go. As these efforts were being made, time pressed closer and closer to our connecting train’s departure, but Ben refused to leave without some closure on the phone issue.
We agreed that I would leave him in Mullhouse with the plan being for him to take a later train. Only there was none, which I found out eight hours later in Montpellier at the cybercafé. I booked myself a single for the first time in all of our trip to Europe.
Fortunately, my solitude was offset by a friend that I made on the train ride, a student of poli. sci. who helped me to understand the French announcements made by the conductors.
She helped me land in Montpelier around 7:30 then gave me her number for us to chill with her Croatian friends later that night. Around 10:00 we met up on the train platform where her Croatian friends pulled in to. It was six of us; we first dropped their stuff off in their hotel, chilled a while while they got ready, then caroused the town with store bought liquor until the late morning.
I was very pleased to have made so many friends in Montpellier, having been concerned when Ben and I separated that we’d be bored. Around 3 in the morning or so they ran in to trouble sneaking the whole group upstairs in to a double under the watchful eye of the hotel doorman.
It’s beyond me why another teenager would care if a bunch of budget travelers pile in to one room together. I can only invoke Lev’s rule of inverse importance yet again: the less important the job, the more seriously the employee takes it. They asked if one of them could stay with me, which dissolved awkwardly when they asked me to choose, I refusing to take part in such a demeaning and awkward spectacle. In the end they paid a little more for a three person room and I crashed in the hotel room with the TV on so that I would wake up in time for this morning’s train.
At 6:15 I spontaneously rise and walk doanstairs to find the time, because my accomodations room did not include a clock. I discovered from MTV that it was 6:15 so I made my way over to the station, where Ben and I planned to meet at 7:00. I’m early, so I look for Ben a while then begin to worry that his train never came through. Getting a croissant upstairs, I see him chilling with his guitar; and so we were back together again.
The celebration was cut short when we saw that we needed a reservation for the 7:20 train to Barcelona and that it was full, forcing us to wait until 11:30 for one that only requires a Eurail pass. So, bleary-eyed and shabby, I’m in the cyber café killing some time before we can FINALLY hit up Espana.
You may recall...
…that instead of going to Barcelona that fateful day in Amsterdam we ended up going to Copenhagen, Denmark because all of the trains to Barcelona were booked. Well, yeah.
How we were saved from this situation is largely thanks to the exceptionally competent booking agent that we happened upon in the train station. Our first attempt to book something over to Barcelona was unfruitful, dealing with a relatively young redheaded girl who was only able to find us a twenty five hour train to Barcelona leaving at 6:00 tonight and arriving at 7:00 there. Horrified by the prospect of a twenty five hour train ride again, Ben and I agreed to try to find another destination somewhere in between that could break it up so as not to lose as much daytime. To no avail we tried Rome and Munich, both of which would’ve entailed ridiculously long train rides to Barcelona, not solving our problem.
We tried our luck with the next clerk, not yet aware of how much the man he was. His name was Beat Wizemann, and his badge was decorated with one flag for each language that he spoke fluently: english, spanish, italian, german, and french (imagine a man with his linguistic prowess choosing the menial job of printing tickets for far less educated travelers like Ben and I). He informs us that the train that the other lady advised us to take was actually booked, and so we had no way of arriving in Barcelona tomorrow.
We ask him if there was a way that he could help us decide on a middle destination in which to spend the night. The champ whips out a map, on which Ben throws his palm down over the area in between Switzerland and Spain and says “something in this region.” Couple clicks at the computer and he has our entire itinerary planned for us.
We are leaving for Montpelier tomorrow morning, which he told us is thriving with language students, exactly the type of people Ben and I want to see: young and English speaking. Then we’ll pull in to Barcelona the next afternoon, where we’ll chill out until our day long excursion to Malaga for a scuba diving trip, punctuated by an overnight train on the way there and back. Finally, we’ll go from Barcelona to Paris, where we’ll spend the night before returning home.
"The best zoo in all of the world
O that’s right, you’re from New York; so maybe the Bronx Zoo is better” The pitch was appealing enough, and so Ben and I decided to spend our afternoon at the Basel Zoo while we waited for our Lea, our Swiss friend, whom we met in Nice, to come to town with her friend Eileen.
The zoo here is fantastic, featuring all sorts of really big, really cool looking animals. Spent a good few hours there just cruising around and laughing at the animals’ wacky antics. The monkeys were fascinating. They had these puzzles in their cages composed of multi-leveled boxes with holes in the floor of each level as well as hey and apples. They had to use their fingers or reeds that they picked up from around the cage to scoop from holes in the sides and fronts of the puzzles to eventually drop the fruit through the holes on the bottom of each level to the bottom level in to which they could reach and grab their reward.
Ben left earlier than I to make our appointment with Lea and Eileen, because I didn’t want to miss out on the rhinos. Eventually I left the zoo and got superlost meeting up with them. But when I finally made it to them I saw Ben sitting with the two blonds and some sort of ice cream sundae which I was informed was actually an ice coffee. In Switzerland, ice coffee can be as much as 12 franks and is much closer to a coffee ice cream shake than an actual coffee on ice.
We enjoyed one another’s company a while then split up with plans to go to a cool beach bar that night. Ben and I headed back to the hostel then grabbed dinner at the painfully redolent of home “City Liner” kebap joint. For those who don’t know, there was a point in 10th grade where getting [mozzarella] sticks” or “[chicken] tenders” at City Diner was a biweekly event.
Back at the YMCAHQ we changed then went back to Barfüssenplatz to meet them, where we found a men’s beach volleyball tournament was taking place. Though the age old beach volleyball adage goes “bump, set, spike,” this game had some real flare to it, including a number of blocked spikes, fake-out spikes that turned in to lofters, and outlandish saves. Very exciting, and free.
We got a text that they were there and we found them talking to two Swiss dudes, one of whom was named Timur. After five minutes of listening to their Swiss-German banter, we were relieved to find that they had their own plans for the night, and so we four began to walk over to the beach bar.
At the bar we heard from one of the bouncers that a Thai Boxing competition was taking place nearby. I couldn’t resist. Convinced the rest of the group, and we even got in for free. The place was a caricature of machismo, a giant tent with a gaudy purple light on top, featuring a bar, a car exhibit, and then the red, white and blue ring in the middle.
We noticed near the cars a cretin of a man that looked like he belonged in Harry Potter. His face looked as if it were sagging forward off of his skull a little bit and his ears pointed out perpendicular to his head, no doubt a condition of the almost daily beatings that his face takes. His massive body was shirtless and dripping. We got a picture of us with him, me in a headlock and Ben with his arm around the guy. My shirt will have to be laundered more than once to rid it of the man-juices that it’s absorbed off of him.
When we finally took our seats with our drinks and the show began, the lights dimmed and firedancers atop giant archways at either end of the tent began an elaborate dance. Out of the far archway came a German fighter, short, stocky, blonde, 1m 7dm and 167 kg. His opponent was a taller, darker, Swiss at 1m 9dm and 167 kg of unchecked agression. Naturally, the Swiss was the crowd favorite.
As they squared off, you could see that the Swiss was hungrier, slamming his gloves against the German’s in an attempt to intimidate him. The fight was fairly one-sided in all three rounds. The German audaciously swallowed a slew of punches and roundhouse kicks to his head and body, looking worse with each strike. When the decision finally came in, the Swiss stood up on the ropes and elicited a response from his fans.
From the fight we went back to the beach bar, where we ordered some drinks and sat down talking for a long time about many subjects. I was given an absured personality test by Lea:
“You’re walking in the forest. You come to a strawberry field, but there’s a fence. How high is it?” (Lea)
“sorry?” (Ari)
“how high is the fence? (Lea)
“Don’t touch it, it might be electric” (Ben)
“I would imagine a couple of metres would be necessary to protect from most woodland animals.” (Ari)
“OK, so do you climb it?” (lea)
“no problem. (Ari)
“how much strawberries do you take?” (lea)
“I could only eat like a kg before I get sick”(Ari)
“ok. a kg. and then a farmer comes and yells at you, what do you do?” (lea)
“I pretend not to speak his language.” (Ari)
“would you come back and do it again?” (lea)
“yes.” (Ari)
So I was told that the gate is my inhibitions, and they’re high because of how high the gate is. Strawberries are my sex drive and it’s low because I only took a kg. The farmer is my conscience, and I’m out of touch with it. Or maybe, I countered, the fucking gate has to keep animals out, the strawberries make you sick if you eat too many, and fuck the farmer. It’s a good thing those girls are studying art history and not psychology.
At the end of the night we all went back to the YMCA to play guitar and sing for a while, which devolved in to lying in laps and chilling in the late morning. Despite how well Eileen and I were vibing off of one another, despite how eminent a consumation of our attraction seemed if only for a second of privacy, we were torn apart by Lea, who called a cab on the sly. In a desperate attempt as Eileen is literally walking out the door, I call after her “i have something for you in my room.” lame-
Crank up the Basel
Our final day in Gimmelwald was spent mostly playing pool while we waited for our clothes to dry in this special room with clotheslines and some sort of dehumidifier (in other words the fucking slowest way of drying clothes I’ve ever seen, taking eight hours just to do two loads).
Caught a gondola to a bus to a train and finally arrived in Basel around 21:30 or so. Our hostel, the YMCA, is located literally less than a minute from the train station, making it easy to find (or so you would think). It actually took us a good fifteen minutes to realize that it was on the opposite end of the station from where we got out. Surmounting this intellectual Olympus, we finally rolled in to where the cowboys and police men roam and checked out our digs. For an eight bed dorm it was unusually comfortable, and the place definitely has character (each wall being split down the middle between obnoxious colors, and all of the furniture in a minimalist, modern style), this of course justifying a few extra franks on the bill.
It wasn’t long before we got back out to the train station and asked around for some places to celebrate Swiss Day. One group of three girls on bikes explained that they were quite unpatriotic but they were going to a cool outdoor bar that we were welcome to join them at if we decided to nix the pursuit of red and white. And so we did.
Took the tram to a wide alley, the walls of which were decorated with graffiti (mostly Swiss save the occasional sprinkling of English words like CRACK, GHETTO, or G THANG). Occasionally there’s a loud hissing sound from the other side of the wall followed by the combustion of a lone firework in the sky. Even the coop, Switzerland’s main supermarket chain, sells them. The alley took us to a skate bowl located in the middle of an old, abandoned-seeming parking lot.
We crossed a portion of abandoned tracks over to a bar in the distance, playing some filler electro music and crowded with people of all ages. We’re introduced to some other friends and all is well. I look over at Ben to see some middle aged woman patting him on the chest and shoulder and I inquire what happened. Apparently, he had been grabbing his beer when he was stricken with a painful sizzle on his underarm; the bitch had burned him with her cigarette.
Shortly after we decided to check out the rest of the scene, beginning with a heavy metal club outside of which people tended fires made in garbage cans and wheelbarrows. Ben and I enjoyed the company of some other locals, who explained to us that Switzerland used to have similar cannabis policies to the Netherlands; it was only four years ago that it became illegal once more.
Once we had our fill of them we made it over to the nearby electro outdoor dance floor, which was bordered by a wall of wooden platforms of the kind forklifts fit in to so that heavy material can be lifted. Very cool.
Then we all sat down and chilled out, talking about American music and movies, etc. Ben, eager to escape the forty minute walk we were doomed to by the no longer running trams, asked one of our friends how he was getting home. Once he explained that his friend was giving him a ride, we knew that we were in. It was only a matter of time before we were cruising with the window down and the Jurassic 5 up.
In Switzerland it’s very common to whistle at, blow kisses to, and shout at girls that you pass; these dudes were no exception. I would like to hear of even one case in all of history where making kissy faces at a girl from the car window has lead to any action.
Got home late, ready to sleep in after an eventful first night in Basel
hiking alone
Our last full day in Gimmelwald, i decided that i should make the most of the beautiful place i was in. I asked this Texan, charlie, who had been staying there for the past couple of weeks, what some good hikes were and he informed me of a few, and gave me a map of the mountains i would be hiking. Excited about my hike, i quickly gathered all of the essentials, a water bottle and my ipod, and left our mountain hostel…with the map conveniently located on my bed. After about 30 minutes i realized i was without direction, but decided to keep on trekking. At about the 45 minute point, i really became enveloped in switzerland’s nature, and started a grueling hike to the top of some peak. It was unbelievably tiring. (You all know what kind of shape im in.) Luckily, I had my Beatles music throughout the entire hike. However, some of the lyrics proved someone foreboding and ominous. The two times my ipod disconnected were right after the lyrics “all good children go to heaven” and “no where to go.” While these lyrics might sound quite innocuous, in the mountains, completely isolated, they were a little freaky. At the hour mark i had my first hiccup when the trail that i had been following just ended. I examined the grounds nearby looking for my trail, and ended up stepping in cow shit, which completely swallowed both of my feet. It was really, really gross. After running through about 15 consecutive feet of manure, i found my path again and continued on it for about 1 and a half hours. I was looking for this restaurant on the mountain that i had heard about, and at one point, i even saw it in the distance, but the trail i was on didnt take me there. Instead, it led me to a deserted horse stable, which was also pretty spooky.
At this point, i had no idea where i was going, and hadnt seen a person in about 2 hours. I was kind of nervous that i was just going deeper and deeper into the mountainous wood. Despite my panicked state, i did get a chance to really take in the scenery, which was nothing short of remarkable. Never have i been such a part of nature, and never have i been in a place like that before. There were rock cliffs to every side of me, wild flowers of every color, powerful waterfalls, lush,green grass. It was so beautiful.
Anyway, about 30 minutes after the stable, my trail ended again. At this point i really started freaking out, because my water was almost out, my phone was almost drained, and i had no clue where i was going. Then, miraculously, i saw three heads in the distance, maybe a mile or two away, but they were on a different trail, maybe 30 meters up the mountain. “That was the only way,” i thought to myself, as i began the arduous treck up the steep incline. It took about 15 minutes of painful exercise to finally reach the fenced in trail. To hoist me up, I grabbed onto the fence marking the trail, and ZAPPPPPP, i felt a shock rush through my body and i flew backwards. Fuck, i was just badly shocked. this is an electric fence, and what the fuck do i do now. I took a few steps back, and dove through the fence as fast as i could. I made it. I hiked on that trail for about an hour and a half - 2 hours and then i finally saw a small town in the distance. That was one of the biggest feelings of relief ive had in a while.
Often throughout the hike, i had to walk on these thin paths through the trees, and once, this thin trail was blocked by about 5 cows. Quite nervous, i slowly walked towards them, causing them to walk in front of me. Eventually i ducked through them. (I have this on video) As i approached a main town, where i would look for a bus to my hostel, it began to rain. And as i exited the forest, i saw a rainbow, and i swear to god, it ended at the tram station. As soon as i got in the station, i saw 6 other people from my hostel, and was informed that there is a gondala that will take us home. THANK GOD!!!!
hiking alone was one of the scariest but also one of the most thrilling and unbelievable things ive done in a long time. Im gunna put pictures up when i can…………
ben
Quiet Mountain Town
Gimmelwald. Population: 100. Mountain Hostel, Gimmelwald. Population: 50. Accounting for one third of the total population of Gimmelwald, the Mountain hostel is a small community in which people chill, hike, drink, and relax in the outdoor hot-tub, which runs on wood cut by guests. Guests who are so inclined are permitted to mow the lawn, flower the plants, chop wood, etc. It’s the type of hostel people stay at for weeks at a time (more of a small community in it of itself than a place to crash and throw your stuff down).
We left Balmer’s yesterday around six and caught a train to a bus to a gondola that let us off twenty meters from the Mountain Hostel. We met some fun Texans along the way, indicative of the types of people we’d encounter when we made it to the Mountain hostel. Last night was spent singing and drinking communally to accompany Ben’s guitar playing. When people started to turn in Ben and I played pool for a few hours.
Took a hike this morning to the forest of the top of the mountain on which we’re located. Gimmelwald is an extremely peaceful, clean location, smack in the middle of Swiss Alps. Wake up and look at your window at a range of snow-capped mountains, and contemplate a waterfall or a crag for a while before having breakfast in the hotel restaurant. Maybe then go for a hike, the direction you choose doesn’t really matter because everywhere you go you encounter untouched, natural beauty.
In fact, Ben and I are gonna get on that. Will check in soon.
