Decaying Glory. Reclaimed Glory.

Oh heavens, Kat and I experienced the single most luxurious day on this trip so far. We ended up staying another day in Amsterdam on account of a couch surfing mix-up in Rotterdam, and instead of spending all day making another tour of sugary Dutch morsels, we made discovered Dutch cultural luxury.

First we went to FOAM, one of the photography museums. They had this totally kick-ass exhibition by a South African photographer, Guy Tillim, called Avenue Patrice Lumumba. Lots of streets in Africa were named after the Congolese politician who was democratically elected as the first Prime Minister after Congo gained independence from Belgium in 1960. Many other African countries also gained independence around this time, such as Mozambique, Angola, and Benin. They built many new modernist buildings that symbolized the hope in the post-colonial future. Lumumba was then assassinated--no, secretly executed--in January 1961 and the idealism of a truly independent Africa faded. The modernist buildings that were used as government offices, luxury hotels, and schools decayed over the years and now stand as mementos of forgotten ideals. Guy Tillim photographed these buildings as symbols of the "inability to make Lumumba's dream a reality".

The photographs were amazing. Face flat amazing.

In one of Arden's travel guides to Amsterdam, I read about Sauna Deco. It said that almost everything from lamps, to railings, and stained glass windows were rescued from a 1920's Parisian department store that was undergoing a renovation. It was beautiful and absolutely decadent. They had two dry saunas, a steam bath, an infrared sauna, a cold water pool, an outdoor terrace, and cafe with fresh squeezed juices.

I've never been to a sauna before and the nice lady explained the lay-of-the-sauna-land by way of a series of goofy diagrams that really should have been in the Sunday comics instead. They began after the preliminary strip down and towel wrap.

step 1: rinse off in cold shower

step 2: enter the world of heat. if you lay down in the sauna, then sit up for 2 minutes before exiting the room to help with circulation (ie. don't pass out)

step 3: rinse off in cold shower

step 4: walk around for 8 minutes, preferably outside in the fresh air

step 5: jump in cold pool and swim, after taking a cold shower, of course

step 6: sit down for 10 minutes

step 7: start all over again

It was a constant rotation of hot and cold that kept shocking the system. And it was amazing. First it was the dry room, pool, then the wet, then a salt scrub-down, pool, then the foot bath, pool for two complete rotations that lasted for four hours. Around 7pm we had to call it a day because we were so hungry, but really, this could have gone on till closing at 10pm. We stayed away from the infrared sauna because, dude, what the hell is that? Sounded like cancer ready to happen.

There was virtually no one else there when we first arrived, and it was easy to imagine that we were living in an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. Plus it was nice to not feel self conscious as we putzed around trying everything that was offered. We emerged, several water weight liters lighter, so amazingly relaxed that I almost biked into a sign post. Nice to meet you, just call me by my middle name. It's Grace. It's nice to have one absolutely self-indulgent day on vacation...or two-we've already scoped out another bathhouse in Baden-Baden, Germany.

Stuck Like Glue

Sometimes I like to hear myself type, the soft thud of the keyboard is strangely appealing. So just keep that in mind as I write the obvious in order to hear myself type.

Kat and I have spent virtually every moment of our day together since I arrived in Copenhagen on May 25th. We sleep side-by-side in a small tent, we read over coffee together every morning, we talk a lot about anything and everything. We don't really interact with many people other than ourselves in the course of a day while cycling. This must be what it feels like to have a twin sibling, there's just not a lot of separation.

And the amazing thing is that we don't really get on each other's nerves at all. There are times when I'm tired and grumpy and vice verse, but we've learned each other's moods and how to take it all in stride. It's been a long while since I've learned the ways of someone other than a family member so thoroughly. I can not imagine how this trip would progress if we didn't get along as well as we do; that field we traversed beside the autobahn would have been the absolute worst experience ever. So, traveling companions--chose wisely.

Second Wind

We set off tomorrow to head south to Rotterdam in search of Dutch rockabilly music, and then Eindhoven to scope out the best industrial design school in the business. Then we'll head down the Rhine river through Germany and France and finish the second leg of our trip in Basel, Switzerland. We've learned a couple things after the first bit; namely, that we both really hate to clandestinely camp. After a long day of riding, all you really want is a squishy bed where you don't feel there is a possibility, however remote, that lighter fluid could be poured over you while you sleep. So, we have planned out our route and pace beforehand and have organized couch surfing places to stay along the way. Thank heavens for couch surfing.Ah yes, speaking of music. I wrote earlier about wanting to collect one album from each country that we go to on this trip. In Denmark, the representing band was Under Byen. In Sweden, I learned that they are the third largest exporter of music, under Britain and America. We have all heard of Abba, Ace of Base, The Cardigans, and The Hives, so for this country I nominate Suburban Kids With Biblical Names, mainly because I like the name which was taken from a Silver Jews song. I think Jens Lekman is my favorite Swedish musician but I knew about him back in the States. One of the criteria for this band search is that the band selected should speak in their native tongue, forget this English stuff. But seriously! It's really difficult to find a Swedish speaking musician, it's English all the way. One blog, Swedesplease, is helpful in finding new music from Sweden.

Even though we've already been through Germany a bit, I didn't find any that I thought interesting and put it off till we go back later this week. For some reason I have gotten it into my head to find a Dutch rockabilly band. Kat's tattooist said that they had quite a large scene down in Rotterdam but that simply didn't exist in Amsterdam. Hopefully he's right.

Evil Eyes Of The Shrimp

Although Kat and I are in the midst of an exercise extravaganza, we keep shooting all of our body perfecting efforts in the foot. Despite the fact that we spend on average of 9 hours on our bikes a day, we haven't lost that much weight. We've been eating so much ice cream, apple cake, chocolate, morning pastries, and stroopwaffels which wholly counteract all of our exorcising. Oh yes, one Dutch food that I did forget to add to the list is stroopwaffel. You can get them in the grocery store, but they are best fresh from the daily fish market. I know this seems like a terrible place to find a fresh waffel, yet the trick is to quickly purchase it from the waffel winklewagon, quickly run to the next block so the smell is gone but the caramel is still hot. Essentially they are comprised of two very thin flat waffelcone wafers with a thin layer of gooey caramel in between.

When we began this whole thing we had a strategem to get fit. We were going to get up, pack up camp, stretch, do sit-ups, eat lots of fruits and vegetables. We planned to finish this trip basking on the beaches of Croatia to get rid of our unflattering sports bra tans. I would then be able to confidently meet my boyfriend at the airport in Greece with a bouquet of flowers and a totally new bitchin body. This was the plan.

We have yet to do any stretching after packing up camp. First it was because it was freaking cold; then it was because we had to flee before the rest of humanity woke up and fuss at us about our clandestine camping; then it was because of the obscene amount of bugs we would inhale while we breathed into our stretches. We decided that a yoga class would do us well. I must confess that I feel a little dubious about yoga in the same way that I feel about a white boy with dreads, tribal tattoos, or the fact that I could never wear a sari with a straight face--none are aspects of my own cultural background and therefore, I'd feel completely disingenuous to co-opt them into my life. So while I can't deal with the spiritual aspect of yoga, I do love the stretching.

Kat, her sister, and I went to a Bikram yoga studio. Now, Kat has done quite a bit of yoga and was familiar with the Bikram style, all of which she purposely withheld from me, the yogic novice. When her sister found out which one we were going to, she said with a frown, "Oh. That one's quite hard." Kat figured that it would be way better that I have no idea what I was getting myself into because otherwise I'd loose the nerve to attend the class. Bikram is known as "Fire Yoga", is practiced in a room heated to 105 degrees and is more like a workout than deep stretching. Man, I just learned that it was developed by this spiritual yogi guy and a "Los Angeles, California company". This seems really strange to me, two completely opposing ideas joining together to create a new style of yoga. It would be like Donald Rumsfeld, Marlboro Man, and the CEO of Texaco combing their powers to create Captain Planet, instead of Earth, Wind, Heart, etc. Doesn't seem right.

Anyway, back to the yogic sauna. I have never in my life sweated that much. The tops of my feet had little beads of sweat. My light grey leggings slowly became dark grey as my shins began to sweat. Sweat dripped into my nose as we bent down into triangle pose. Oh god. It was so gross. I fared slightly better than the two skinny guys in speedos in front of me. Sweat dripped off of their elbows like an old moss covered fountain in Italy, a slow yet decidedly steady drip the entirety of the 90 minute class.

We took a cold shower afterwards but we kept sweating all day long, and it wasn't that hot outside. Our core body temperature had been elevated several degrees and short of jumping into the cold North Sea, we wouldn't be cooling down for some time. All in all, I'm glad we did it but none of us would ever go back.

As is our counteractive tendency, we followed up our body cleansing experience with a night full of toxins. Back in Austin, Kat and I used to go out a lot, but on this trip we have really only gone out once; that was in Sweden with Jo and we were so drunk that we could only make it as far as the trash cans which was pictured in the last post. Kat's sister, Arden, just graduated from art school in textiles on Friday and we had to go out to celebrate. The two British guys that Arden is in a fledgling folk band with, a third British guy and his wild Indonesian girlfriend, and us three American girls filled out our party for the evening. That's one thing about going out in Europe, it's always a fabulously international affair. The sun doesn't really set until about 11pm right now, so party-time doesn't start until around midnight with a pre-festivities drink until 1am. Then we were off to a bar with a cheesy Dutch cover band playing songs by the Eagles, Pearl Jam, and Stevie Nicks, because the other option of yet another Michael J tribute dance party cost 15 euros to get into. Seriously. 15 euros to go dancing to pre-recorded music. Totally bogus in my book. Then we went to another bar with more cheesy Dutch music and lots of dancing. Bars don't close until 4am here so you can get another good 2 hours of naughty fun in before they turn on the lights and play Frank Sinatra's It's Over.

During this whole time we were instructed that under no circumstance could we "fuck with the band" in any way. Repeatedly. Do Not Fuck With The Band. According to Arden, the band is a very delicate balance of forces which could all fall tragically apart if say, one's friend or sister tries to "make it with the band" (ie. get some serious booty). Thus, the band and all libido should be checked at the gate. Let me set the record straight by saying that the pot can not call the damn kettle black. Get my drift? Booty within bands, booty outside of bands, booty in general. It's happened throughout history--Fleetwood Mac anyone?

The next day we felt a little like we had all been in a train wreck, and then only way to fix that was to spend the day lying in the park and eating, of course, ice cream. I can tell I'm getting older because the day after is getting harder and harder. I know, I know--the smallest violin is playing somewhere in the background for our sad, sad life.

L-R: Kat, Kat's sister Arden, me, and Gary the wise cracking Welsh dude who's in the band. By the next morning we dubbed him Gary Google, not to be confused with another British guy, Gary Glitter. In fact, the title of this post is an ode to Gary. He was listing off things that frighten him such as keyrings heavily loaded with keys, 1 o'clock on an analog watch because of the way the hands look on the clock face, the fabric of policemen's uniforms, and shrimp because of their evil eyes.

Kat and Heinki, master Dutch tattoo artist

Us on our day trip to Marken.

Onslaught Of Pictures

Before I begin this onslaught, let's have a little geekery shall we? Etymology of onslaught: is a modification on the Dutch word aanslag, the act of striking.  While in Holland, might as well use mangled versions of Dutch words, no?

"Reunited and it feels so good..."

I finally made it to Copenhagen after the most hellacious Delta flight ever.  Felt so relieved when I saw lovely Kat in the airport.  Here we are actually sitting on top of a public urinal along a canal in Copenhagen.  Our 'character building' began early in the trip.

This is our 'home' in Helsingborg, Sweden.  After the one and only drunken night on this trip so far, this was as far as we made it in search of a good camping place.  We made it as far as those trash cans on the right.  We stayed here a couple nights.  The sea is to the left of the photo.

We saw this graphic in the elevator at the train station in Sweden.  Um?  Riding an elevator can occasionally be quite irksome, so it seems.  I really love diagrams. 

Fixing Kat's flat tire in the German rain after a night of camping in a field of manure.  Our tools for getting the tire off of the rim can be seen by my feet--a credit card and a key.

This is what the first two weeks of our biking trip looked like.

So when it finally warmed up and stopped raining, we were so, so happy.  Kat, farmland, and Germany.

Just above Berlin we came to an impasse.  The map looked like we crossed the river, yet there was no bridge.  There is a little boat, to the right, that goes back and forth all day along between the two docks, toting cyclists across for 1 euro.  I don't think I understand why they don't just build a bridge, but I have to say that the whole affair warmed my heart by how cute it all was.

Oh my good lord.  We finally made it to the center of Berlin after getting lost for two hours in the suburbs and stopped at the first damn beer and bratwurst joint we could find.  We're a little tweaked out at this point.

One of the 'beach houses' on the western coast of Holland that we went to on a day trip from Amsterdam.  

Questionable Foods

One of my favorite things to do in a foreign country is to go to the grocery store. It's really a cultural experience in itself. Kat and I were doing a little pre-dinner shopping in Amsterdam and seeking pepperoni to put on our mock pizza, we came upon the lunch meats. Our discovery was too great that we had to get photographic evidence. Look at it! It's different meats compressed into the face of a bear! The face of a freaking bear! It was however, rather cheap at only 79 cents.

The alternative traditional Dutch sandwich for a young child is that of peanut butter and chocolate sprinkles, called hagelslag, smeared on toast. We have discovered that a big box of these sprinkles also works wonderfully on ice cream, with peanut butter and apples, and on top of the granola we have been carrying on our bikes from Copenhagen.

In fact, speaking of toting certain foods across several boarders, our friend Skip was walking across America last year. Walking. He generously tried to offer us his dried lentils that he had been carrying on his back from Virginia to Texas. Haha, I suppose for long distance travelers there is just one food item that seems like a good idea to have, yet is never eaten and yet can't be thrown away.

The one food item that Kat and I both miss a great deal is the Danish Rye bread that is super cheap all over the country. The beautiful thing about this bread is not the taste. It is the amazing amount of fiber that they pack into one loaf. Seriously, intestines have never had it so good as after a large sandwich made with Danish Rye. I would absolutely love to find a recipe for it because ever since we took that ferry over to Germany, there has been no fiber love to speak of. None.

Passing Of Eras

Michael Jackson's death is not only headlining national news in the States, it is also the case in Holland. Amsterdam has gotten back on the MJ bandwagon after so many scandal ridden years that left one to believe that to be a Michael J fan was to be in the utmost of bad taste. The coffee shop that we spend the first 1.5hrs of each day reading and drinking the most expensive Americano ever, was playing a day-long MJ tribute. The guy who pulled up next to me on his bike at the red light was blaring Blood On The Dance Floor. And there was a dance party in the square on Leidseplein tonight that had every hip swaying. I do love myself some dancing in the streets.

Kat was saying this morning that she was really sad about the whole affair, to my dubiously raised eyebrows. I felt way more sad over the death of Heath Ledger than Michael J for some reason. However, I do think it's a passing of an era, especially for our generation who came of age during Thriller.

I have to post my favorite Michael Jackson song that I first heard during the Michael J 50th Birthday sing-a-long at the Alamo Drafthouse earlier this year; a favorite despite my better judgments.

Tunnel of Bug Love

Dude, before I go on, Michael Jackson is dead! And for that matter, Farrah Faucet died too. Jeez, all the major pop icons are meeting an early grave this year.

Kat got a tattoo the other day! Last year she got some small script on her wrist and now she has added the outline of jasmine flowers. Ever since we started this trip she has gone back and forth on the whole matter, whether to get it en route or just to wait till we return to Austin. There is something to be said about getting the tattoo while in the process of this whole bike affair because even if the image itself loses meaning over time, it will always signify this specific moment in her life.

I don't know if Kat mentioned this or not, but in Berlin, a shopgirl recommended a certain tattoo artist up the street. As is customary, we went to check her out. The shop is called ElfenZauber, which I feel should have prepared us beforehand. The name translates into "Elfen Magic". Elfen Magic! After pouring through all of their photos, I feel like the one below really sums up the whole experience.

Although among the many wall photos like this, I learned they also specialized in realistic tattoos of demonic girls, or boy, I can't tell. And then in the middle of that, one could also get quite a good rendering of Britney Spears circa "Hit Me Baby, One More Time". Kat talked to her for a while, pulling out all her inspiration photos, but it just wasn't a good fit.

Off we went to Amsterdam in search of ink. After scoping a couple artists out on the internet, we found Heinki from House of Tattoos, and went to talk to him. Whenever Kat and I have first walked into any tattoo parlor, people always seem to be really gruff--haha, it was totally like walking up to meet the Billy Goats Gruff on the damn bridge! But then with our charm and soothing voices, and Kat got him on the same stylistic page, we slowly coaxed out Heinki's flamboyant side, and yes, it was fabulously flamboyant. When it was time to do the deed, he was confessing his Madonna fan status and showing us youtube videos of Britney Spears' and Beyonce's real singing voices. He also told us stories of he and a friend traveling to perform freak shows at parties; burning each other with irons and stapling themselves...the 'burning' was just a little red die on the bottom of an unplugged iron and well, the stapling was real. He told it with this sighing air of, 'oh, the silly things we did when we were young'. Kat's tattoo turned out really well and unfortunately we have pictures, we just can't get them up on this computer. Ugh, slow computers.

Heinki

We both talk about possible other tattoos we would get in the future, because you know, once you go black ink, you never go back. And I think it's quite telling about our personality differences, because all the images she chooses (trees, botanical root systems) are really grounding, whereas mine (air balloons, boats) are all about flight.

Speaking of body alterations of a less permanent nature, I got a haircut. Apparently certain things (ie. haircuts) are really cheap, while random other things (gallons of house paint) are crazy expensive; 20 euros and 50 euros respectively.

Kat and I in Vondelpark. What you can't see in the background are hundreds of stoned people passed out in the sunshine. We are miraculously still awake because we have not just finished a joint, but an entire bottle of fizzy red wine (bought at any supermarket for 2 euros. Best stuff ever, called Lambrusco. Just saying.)

You see those rather large sunglasses we both sport? They are no longer a fashion choice, they are, after yesterday, a matter of necessity. We took a day trip along the eastern coast to a little town called Marken. It was really supposed to be this 9 hour loop, but it was so wonderful and sunny at the cafe we stopped in for coffee, that we just sat and read our books for several hours. A foiled day trip. Map found here.

It was the best day trip ever though because for the majority of the time the bike path is actually on a strip of land that cuts through the ocean. It's fantastic. Periodically the land widens and there are the cutest little coastal towns ever. It was such a lovely day that all these sail boats were out on the water and oh dear, just breathtaking.

However, I have never ridden through that many bugs before as on that strip of land in the ocean. Tons of them! They are these little green guys who are no bigger than mosquitoes and look like crickets. They jump up, catch the wind that we were riding through, and land on our clothing. Every once in a while we would have to brush off a whole nest of them off of our shirts. The sunglasses were mandatory as a bug shield and when they slammed against the large frames it sounded like a woman lightly hitting your lens with her nails, over and over. Poor Kat came back with a rather sad face from the cafe toilettes during our reading extravaganza. She said that when she briefly lifted up her shirt, a hundred bugs fell out. Unfortunately she was wearing a low cut shirt that acted as a funnel tunnel of bug love.

What To Tip When There Are No Cows

Rather boring subject:

There comes a time at the end of a meal, or in our cases a rather extended reading/coffee date, when you must pay.  Easy enough, taken care of.  Then what?  Do we just saunter out into the Dutch sunshine?  Or do we leave a tip?  Frankly, this has been super stressful trying to figure out what to do.

So, we've asked around and this seems to be the case:

Denmark--tips are built into employees paycheck and you only tip a little if you "want to be nice"

Sweden--same

Germany--comparable to tipping in the US

Holland--again, built in to paychecks and it's usually the tourists who tip.  Totally acceptable to saunter away without another thought. 

Greece--you tip on the dollar.  So if your meal is 7.40 then you only tip 60 cents!  It's true.

Drunk Dutchmen

Yesterday Kat and I rode to the sea.  It's totally freaking flat here!  And after hauling ass and our stuff all over the place, it was like riding on a rainbow.

View Trip to the Sea in a larger map
One of the various differences between Kat and myself is the immense pleasure she gets out of seeing any barnyard animal, whereas the most I can muster up is, "Oh, well, that's adorable..."  We happened to take the 'Cow Path' route to the sea, passing by acres of goats, sheep, miniature horses, and of course, cows.  It was as if we had reached the end of the rainbow and it was a land full of cuddly animals instead of pots of gold.  "Awwww, Rachel, look at the cute little goat!  Just look at 'im!  I love his big ole ears!  Awwww!"

We passed a field of horses with one white guy sprawled out away from the other horses.  Neither of us grew up near a farm and weren't sure if he was sleeping or just dead.  It was like the one guppy in the tank at Walmart who is near the filter and for the first couple seconds you can't tell if it's swimming in circles, or it's dead little body is just getting tossed about by the flow of water.  It didn't look promising.  I was riding along looking at it and it started to get up.  He was alive! What I saw was this...

What Kat saw was this...

Understandably, we were both captivated.  Kat stopped riding in her tracks while I just stared, kept riding and crashed right into her.  The funny thing when one is crashing into another body of matter is that one forgets all motor functions.  I completely blanked on the fact that I should break.  Breaks?!  I couldn't even locate them on my handlebars.  I hit her and swerved into the reeds growing on the side of the road which masked the algae-infested moat that bordered each plot of farmland.  All for The Last Unicorn.  

Luckily it was sunny and I dried out pretty quickly.

Despite being a mountain raised girl, I get especially excited about seeing the ocean.  When my mom and I went to the coast of Portugal last year, and we went down to the beach, I kept yelling, "Mom!  We're on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean!  How cool is that?!"  Hahaha, this was right before a big wave crashed over the rock I was standing on and got submerged in that Atlantic Ocean up to my knees.

I had a similar feeling when Kat and I finally reached the North Sea.  It was the ocean!  How fabulous!!!  There was a wide fine-sanded beach with double rows of 'summer homes' right within spitting distance from the water!  

On the way home we went back through Haarlem, to hit up the super cute ice cream shop for a second time since the employees had undergone a shift change and we could slip in undetected for another helping.  Haarlem is the under-rated sister of Amsterdam, complete with canals, and terribly charming but without all of us tourists.  While riding around trying to find the ice cream shop, we had to pull over to make way for an ambulance and stopped alongside a makeshift table with several empty bottles of champagne.  At that moment a well dressed Dutchman with a camera slung across his camera came out of the town house and started speaking to us.  He told us that the city wanted to build a three story underground parking garage right where we were standing.  However, they had just defeated the proposal, and because he was a lawyer on the case, he held a celebration in front of his house which was to explain away all the empty bottles.  

Kat and I eyed each other to escape as he recounted this random story and kept readjusting his belt.  We're used to people never talking to us unless they work at an information desk, so we were a little skeptical about our verbosely drunken Dutchman and his faulty belt.  Not talking to strangers is just the Northern European way of life.  He stopped his legal story, looked directly at Kat and said, "What is a nice American girl like yourself doing on a shit bike like that?"

She was standing over her bike, the chain drooping miserably.  After the hours spent fixing and refixing her bike, we both just had to laugh.  "Just one minute.  We'll fix it."  For the next hour he pulled and prodded the derailleur, running inside to grab several different tools, all the while we got to meet his wife and two sons as they slowly returned home.  His oldest daughter had just graduated from high school and to his amazement had been partying straight for the last week and had yet to come home.  None of the family whom we met seemed at all phased that their dad had just befriended to young American girls.  Amazingly he actually fixed her bike.  It was a slightly bent metal bit that wasn't allowing her chain to 'glide' through the derailleur.  It simply was not 'gliding' properly.  

We had to celebrate.  He brought out another bottle of wine and a parting gift.  He had recently finished recording an album and gave us each two, one for us and one to bestow upon someone back home.  So, be aware, we might be giving one of you a Dutch album with a recording of Wichita Lineman very soon.  

Kat's bike now rides like a cloud, we have cd's of Dutchmen singing country tunes, and have had more than our share of ice cream cones after our trip to the North Sea.

Style--I simply must

Today we are going on a biking day trip to the sea and possibly a little Van Gogh Museum, but we can't leave until Kat's sister comes back in a bit with the house key.  Kat's still asleep, the classical music is playing, and I shall take this time to indulge in some reflections on style.  

So far we have been to Denmark, Sweden, Germany, and Holland and each country seems to have a different idea about personal style.  I have never seen such a stylish capital before Copenhagen.  Everyone is gorgeous and well dressed.  Everyone.  Beautiful.  Even the more grungy kids are stylish.  There is a specific look among the ladies who bike that Kat and I noticed and to which they have dedicated an entire blog, Cycle Chic From Copenhagen.  Right now they have posted a lesson on how to bike in skirts and dresses.  The specific Copenhagen look that we noticed is short dresses/skirts, long leggings, cute shoes, hair pulled back on the crown of their head in a messy teacher bun, and no makeup (mascara at the most, but otherwise a bare face).  

The whole city seems to be comprised of designers and architects and so it must be in order to be aesthetically pleasing down to one's person. The H&M (since we first began H&Ming our way around Europe) in Copenhagen is chalk full of leggings of every color. I curse the fact that I didn't buy any when I had the chance because I can't find any decent leggings in mainland Europe.

Germany is a different story all together.  Germans are much like their shoes: 

Sensible. Germans are sensible.

There really is no distinct style here, not even in Berlin.  While there are fashionable, Karl Lagerfeld, and beautiful, Claudia Schiffer, people from this country, Germans seem to be of a more hearty stock with broad working hands and broad Wurst bellies.  Fashion does not play an important role in daily society here.  Granted, we haven't gone to Munich yet, where the Bauhaus and "form follows function" have never gained a foothold over gilded interiors.  Maybe in that city can one find a pleasant sense of German fashion...maybe.

Heiliggeist Kirche

The Dutch in Amsterdam are more on par with Copenhagen in terms of style.  Although here, people seem to wear more colorful outfits.  Here too is a large cycling population and that means outfits that you can easily move in.  I've seen a lot of leggings with a long t-shirt on top, like in the picture below--slightly more tomboy than the feminine look in Copenhagen.

From DamStyle

Now, as for Sweden.  I really don't know when I have ever seen such an array mullets.  Seriously.  Men, women, kids--it doesn't matter who's head it's on.  I can't say that I even noticed anything below the neck in order to comment on Swedish style because they captivated me with their hair.  Sweds are exceptionally tall, I did notice that trait since my eyes had to revolve up a bit more in order to see the hair.

Dutch Dollhouse

Kat and I have been taking it super easy for the last two days.  It's amazing how tired you become by simply being in a foreign country.  When my sister was getting ready to study in Spain all last year, they warned her about being rather fatigued the first couple weeks from the stress of not knowing the language or the customs.  It's true.  Fatigued.  

Kat's sister is frantically completing her graduation design project that is due next Friday.  We have the house to ourselves and we've been taking full advantage by cooking Bratwurst and watching movies from her absent roommate's small video collection.  Last night it was War of the Worlds and the night before was The Contract, both of which got Kat to passionately yell at the screen "Run away you morons!  Giant alien is going to kill your asses!  Runnnnn!"  We were drinking a lot of 2 Euro wine that night.

During the day we went to the Rijksmuseum which is undergoing a huge restoration project for the main building and only a small portion is on display until completion in 2010.  They have the creme de la creme of their collection on display such as paintings by Vermeer and Rembrant.  One of my favorites was the ink on canvas below The Battle of Terheide by Williem van de Velde.  You can see the large version here.  Freaking amazing because it's this large scale canvas that is done with tons of little lines and it's just simply beautiful.  

The other amazing thing we saw were the Dutch dollhouses which are a history lesson in economic classes in themselves.  Popular during the 17th Century, they were commissioned by house owners, to be a direct replica of their own home and not playthings of the young.  Everything was exactly recreated to miniature scale: spoons, porcelain from China, wallpaper, clothing, dolls, heating pads.  The largest dollhouse they have on display right now was ordered by a wealthy Amsterdam woman who spent as much on this one replica below, as would cost to buy a nice home on one of the canals here in town.  You can see a larger scale picture right here.

Apparently the more dolls (down to the servants) and items you had in miniature, combined with the level of skill with which they were executed, the more wealthy you were. The dollhouses seem to be a more direct reflection on your yearly income then your actual house. There are more detail photos and more info about them here.

Oh, art travelers tidbit: Depending on how many museums you want to go to, it might be worth while to get the MuseumKaart which gets you into the Amsterdam exhibitions for either free or really cheap.  The catch is that to get it dirt cheap you have to be under 25 and a student, in which case you'll only have to shell out 15 euros.  They are valid for one year if you plan on coming back to this fair country for art hopping.

Kathleen on the Swedish and rose tattoos.

I have somehow downed a huge dose of culture on this trip. High on my list of cultural awesomeness is Johannes' mom, who's name I will apparently never be able to remember. I sort of like her better as "Jo's mom" anyway. She is quintessentially mom, and to me, quintessentially Swedish. 

She says "Neeehhh, neh Johannes (Jo-han-nes), neeehhhh" like its sentence glue, sticking together her very cute way of speaking english fragments. She kind of rushes into the room, like a little happy tornado, talking to everyone and laughing and offering lots of bread and drinks and pastries while getting out sweaters and slippers and showing you where the three pink towels she left out for you are. It is kind of amazing. I get the feeling that this is a Swedish custom, to make sure your guests are absolutely taken care of, and fattened. I learned that weekend that it is necessary to always bring with you a little treat for your host - even if, as in Jo's moms case, its your sister who you see every single day - you still need to bring a little something. As well, after each visit you must call within a day or two (two at the latest, Jo got fussed at because he had waited two days to call his Aunt, it was a very big deal) and "Thank them for the latest". How darling! "thank you for the latest" I just love to say it. 

Johannes is a writer, and his mom had just finished her book on my last visit, so it could just be that story telling runs in the family, but I like to think that this is a Swedish thing too. She told lots of stories about going to school in Sweden, and throwing huge parties that she would sel entrance tickets to. Likewise, shes a great audiance. Everytime I told a story, it seems pretty well recieved and she never ever disagreed. That was until I said, "I cant wait to be in Berlin, we will eat tons of bratwurst... I'll get my tattoo..." to which she cut me off with "NEEEEEHHHHHH!". It was so out of charactor that we all just laughed. All but she of course, who was already describing an old, wrinkly tattoo of a rose she once saw on the rear of an older woman at the sauna. "It just hung there! But lucky for her, she couldnt see it". 

I am really glad that I met her, and saw how friends treat eachother. How hosts treat guests. I think I have mentioned this before, but it really threw me off when people where "mean" to me in both Sweden and Denmark. She reiterated what the danes had said, that it is just a cultural difference. There is just none of this, "hiiiii, how arrrreeee you?" sweetness, fake or not, that we have in the states. As evedence to the blunt nature of conversation, she told us that just that morning, when she (being the amazing Swedish hostess) had gone to the store in search of meds for Rachel (who was sick with a cold), asked the man at the store if that had any natural medicines, to which he replied with a snort, "I dont believe in that shit". Not, "Oh no, I am sorry" but just a clean, strait answer. 

I cant remember who said it, but I was told that it is because the Swedish keep their friends for life, so why would you be nice to everyone you meet? You have to be selective. I like to think that that is true. But all in all, I still like when my coffee shop boy says "hi" in the morning with a smile. 

Oh, and needless to say, I didn't get a tattoo in Berlin.

Ramifications of Post-War Berlin

I love going to visit friends in between long stretches of being on the road.  It's a huge break from the wonderful traveling stresses of trying to figure out where things are or where you will sleep that night.  It's a mental sigh of contentment, if you will, before picking up one's luggage and resuming the journey.  Yesterday Kat and I decided that we had enough of the experimental living situation that we stumbled into in Berlin and took a train straight to Amsterdam where her sister, Arden, is currently going to art school.  We got in after a 7 hour train ride and proceeded to stuff ourselves with tons of vegan food at Arden's dinner party.  Mental sigh.  Belly sigh.

Back to Berlin.  It took us forever to find our way to the center of Berlin four days ago, after days of small German farming villages.  The tour book we picked up in Rostock was fabulous and I highly recommend getting a biking route map.  It saved us a ton of time and frustration and also spared us from biking along major roads.  There is a series of books that map specific biking routes around Germany that are quite fabulous.  They're called BikeLine and we already have two of them; one from Copenhagen to Berlin (which we just finished) and one from Mainz, Germany to Basel, Switzerland (which we'll be doing a little later).  They also have little tips and history bits about the small towns that you ride through, but it's all in German so we missed all of that.  

The book was great until we got to the outskirts of Berlin and it was like we were just plopped down to figure it out on our own--there weren't anymore handy bike signs at all.  The bus stops luckily, all had big Berlin maps and we slowly figured out our way from there and found the house of our couch surfing host.  It was awesome because he lived really close to the center of town.  It was not awesome because we didn't know what we were getting into.  It was a co-op living situation that had a revolving door of residence and a rather open door policy with couch surfers.  It was filled with a bunch of early 20-something Americans discussing the alcohol content of different beers and the 'cultural ramifications of post-war Berlin'.  Because we were dead tired and in no mood to mentally masturbate, we just wanted to gag all over their greasy hair.  Oh dear, I'm being nasty.  Everyone had to make a mad-dash at the end of the night to grab a cushion to sleep on.  Party goers got the shit end of the stick and had to settle for the hard wood floor.  The first two nights we got lucky, the third we were not. 

Aside from that, Berlin was awesome.  We went to the Museum The Kennedys--go all the way to Berlin and find an entire museum dedicated to an American family.  Amazing.  The lady at the counter explained that after President Kennedy goofed up his German language skills with the "Ich bin ein Berliner" speech, Germany just loved him and thus a museum was built.  They also had a special exhibit that compared photos of Kennedy with similar photos of Obama.  I felt like a total sentimental schlep because I kept getting all teary-eyed with emotion.  

We also tried our hand at theater again.  We thought it would be an excellent idea to go to an opera.  Apparently there were two operas playing: Figaro by Mozart and Das Versprechen.  Recommended by a lady at a hotel information desk, we saw Versprechen.  Ten minutes into it we realized that they would not be breaking out into song and that this was not an opera in any sense of the word.  We had no idea what was going on except that it was an entirely depressing play (on account of the down tempo music, the frantic wailing, and displays of alcoholism).  Strike two on our theater card.

We also happened to be in town on the 17th of Juni.  There's a wide boulevard that cuts right through the Central Park of Berlin, called the Tiergarten, named after this date.  We stumbled upon a big parade/march/demonstration of thousands of students walking along the road protesting something that again we had no clue about.  It was really cool to see all these students marching; I mean, they just kept coming, a never-ending stream.  I just googled it...

The Uprising of 1953 in East Germany took place in June 1953. A strike by East Berlin construction workers on June 16 turned into a widespread uprising against the Stalinist German Democratic Republic government the next day. The uprising in Berlin was violently suppressed by tanks of the Group of Soviet Forces in Germany.  In spite of the intervention of Soviet troops, the wave of strikes and protests was not easily brought under control. Even after June 17, there were demonstrations in more than 500 towns and villages.~wikipedia

Oh, I love riding a bike around a city!  At first I was petrified about riding around Berlin, trying to haul-ass and keep up with the flow of traffic.  Then we came upon an old man, groceries hanging out of his saddle bags, slowly peddling along and I got the message to just take it easy.  Because if an old man feels comfortable enough to ride his bike along and trust that cars would give him enough room, then by god, I too would relax.  And it's true, cars are way more kind towards bikers in Berlin then they are in Austin, Texas.  

I Am Your Information

Berlin is a slightly difficult place to navigate. The same damn road has possibly three different names within a 7 block span. Crazy. Even if you are say, 3 blocks away from an information center on your rather small Berlin map, if may take 30 min to find it: 10 min per block, seems like a lot...hahaha, it rhymes! Anyhow, today Kat and I found a way around this conundrum--just stop in any nice hotel in the area and pretend to be a guest who is terribly lost, which is partly true. Even in our state of bike disarray, they take pity on us and say, ´Why yes, but I am your information center. Where do you try to go?´ To which we reply, ´Why, we have been searching for H&M for ages. Where shall it find itself?´


Bottom Line: Nice hotels, saving grace for lost, weary travelers.

Side Note: We ended up going to four H&M´s all over Berlin today, and yet we found nothing to help us feel girlie. Sigh.

Changes in Attitude, Changes in Latitude

After biking 241 miles, both of our bodies have changed in visible ways.

On the good side: We have chiseled triceps! And our biceps are slowly following suit from having to hold our bodies up while we ride. When there´s no one else on the road and we can ride along side each other and talk while sitting more upright, this is the time when they get the best workout, as opposed to when we´re hauling ass and we drop down to the lower handle. Oh, the curved road-bike handle bars are the best for long distance riding since they offer the most varied hand positions.

The backs of our thighs, our hamstrings, are crazy buff. Last night I finally took off my leggings and sat with my feet drawn up to my butt, and my hamstrings just stick right out of my legs! As in, there is a significant bulge where I previously had none. It´s a little on the ´not hot´ list in my opinion.

On the bad side: Our butts are getting flat! I´m used to having a bit of a bubble butt and frankly, it´s the one big round thing on my body that I actually like. I´m in the Jennifer Lopez camp on this one. But now, the thing is getting flat. I´d like to think that it´s because of the fact that I´m getting totally buff, but who knows. My other round thing, my belly, is definitely in tact on account of our daily morning pastries and afternoon ice creams, complete with lots of whipped cream.

Dude! We´ve Arrived In Berlin!

I can´t believe we´ve arrived in Berlin! We´ve biked 388km (241 miles!) from Rostock to Berlin!

Copenhagen-Gedser-Rostock-Berlin 3

http://www.bikely.com/

We´ll be here for three days and then on to Amsterdam, via Hamburg.

So...about the Autobahn field story I left off with.

There were no signs from the ferry station to the center of Rostock. Having slept on the benches in the cafeteria of the ferry, we were sore and irritable and just wanted coffee and a pastry in order to regroup and figure out the best way to bike to Berlin. We took a wrong turn and ended up on the side of the German Autobahn, which really doesn´t have a speed limit and thus, is an incredibly stupid place for any cyclist to find themselves. We stopped for a minute and two old German men pulled up to fuss at us about getting off the highway. It´s been almost 6 years since I studied here, without any previous German language. While I´m surprised how much I do remember, I certainly didn´t understand exactly they were saying, except the general gist of `Get the Hell off the highway!´

After that several other people honked at us, and feeling the impending doom of being on the Autobahn, we decided to not retrace our path up the entrance ramp, but to abandon ship to the previously mentioned construction field.

We soon orchestrated a sort of call-and-response song. One of us would fall in the wet muck and squeal.
´Oh my god! Are you ok?!´
´Yeah, I´m ok. Stupid field.´
´Ok, cool.´

Then soon after that the next person would fall and squeal and it would all start up again. It got tiring after a while.

So we shortened it to.
Squeal...
´I´m ok. I´m ok.´
Squeal....
´I´m ok. I´m ok.´
Squeal....

You get the gist.

Now, I´d like to take a pause to compare Swedish and German mentalities. I´d like to compare our Swedish audience on the train (us being inept with fastening our bikes} with the Germans fussing at us to get off the highway. One party just watched as we fumbled around while the other were all too happy with telling us exactly what we were doing wrong.

Hahaha, cultural differences.

The following story only appears because Kat mentioned it, and I only write it because I have been thinking it for some time now. As much as I adore Kat, I absolutely detest her bike. She researched and purchased one of the best long distance touring bikes available, the Surly Cross Check. It has great ´frame geometry´ and is made out of steel, which is supposed to absorb more vibrations and leave one´s bones feeling less rattled. But the blasted thing keeps breaking! In Copenhagen the chain broke. On this trip the back wheel keeps going freaking flat! We had to ride 30km and blow the tire up every 15min until we could get to the next ´big´ town and get a new tube. However, once we got to the big town we learned that the one and only bike store closed at noon on a Saturday. Dude, European store hours are very different.

So, instead of a new tube we´ve had to patch her tube up three times already. Unbelievable.

Oh! The first time we had to patch the bloody thing....
It was late in the evening on the first day of biking, the same day as the Autobahn field. It´s not legal to camp anywhere in Germany like it is in Sweden. We didn´t want to pay for a campsite and we just kept riding in hopes of finding a really great free, hidden yet safe place to sleep. We went over a railroad track and a few minutes later her tire was flat. I´m total shit about dealing with anything when I am tired. It´s one of my lesser known bad, bad traits. I was totally frustrated and didn´t want to deal us trying to fix her tire. There was a large field by the side of the road and we decided to just stay there the night. We trudged through the field, our shoes getting wet all the way through, and picked a spot slightly hidden by the trees. While we´re trudging, I noticed a smell. We set up camp and finally laying down I notice a smell. We freaking slept in an old crop field covered with manure.

The next morning it was raining and we had to battle to get her tire off the rim. For the longest time we tried the handle of our hairbrush. Didn´t work. After 30min we rigged up a system of using a key and a credit card. Now, after three times of this, we´re pretty fast at it, although her poor rim is not a scratch-free as it once was.

My boyfriend and his brother, Conner and Dan, built this kick-ass bike and taught me how to fix it. It hasn´t fallen apart once. So in a ninja fight between a fancy bike and a handmade bike, I´d place my money on the handmade one any day.

Die Deutche Leute!

We're finally in Germany. Alas. I have a slight thing for the Germans after having studied here about 5 years ago.

Anyhow, to update on our progress. After the last time I wrote, we biked up to see our friend Johannes in Viken, about a 45 minute ride up the coast of Sweden. He and his mom were wonderful! His mom was hilarious and nursed me back to health and Jo made us Swedish meatballs (boiled potatoes, meatballs, and lingenberry sauce(it's sweet)). We lounged about all day and basked in the fact that for the first time in several days, we were warm! Amazing how a bed feels after the ground for so long. Divine. The only word for it.


We biked back to Helsingborg and high tailed it on the train to Malmo. We had to pay for an extra ticket for our bikes on the train. There was a special car for our bikes with fold down seats. We couldn't figure out how to fasten them in, and we kept doing the usual 'uhhh? Like this? uhhh?'. There were about 4 people on the opposite wall staring at us. We had a freaking audience but no one offered any help! Seriously.

It was so rainy and cold in Malmo that we biked around a bit, thought about biking to Trelleborg, where our ferry to Germany was leaving at 11pm, then quickly threw that idea out the window and took the bus. That whole day kind of blends into the next really since we caught a couple hours sleep in the ferry dining area.

There weren't good signs from the ferry into town and at one point we ended up on the autobahn-the highway. Some older men pulled over and fussed at us to get off and not get killed. Then all these other trucks started honking at us. I felt like that was a good example of the difference between Swedish and German culture. Swedes keep to their own-sometimes to a fault-and Germans get all up in your face when you don't do something correctly-again, sometimes to a fault.

Now I come to our least glorious moment on this trip so far. After being fussed at to get off the autobahn, it seemed like a good idea at the time to cross this big field on the side of the road to the little biking road in the distance. First problem. Big ass hill from the road to the flat part of the field. We slid down the hill, trying to feebly keep a hand on our bikes which were far faster than us. Then the field that we were crossing was more like a construction area that they just threw grass seeds on and which have been growing unhindered for 2 years-terribly high. And it was wet and oh my god....

Little library is closing in 15 minutes (hours: from 10-12 and 13-15pm)...hahaha.
To be continued....

Unprepared For Swedish Weather

I wouldn't say miserable is the right word. Not even unpleasant. Maybe uncomfortable is the best word to use for our trip thus far.

We started out when it was cold and slightly rainy. It's funny what goes through one's head at a time like that; I was totally trying to negotiate with the weather. Ok, ok, I can handle wind but absolutely no rain. Fine. Be that way, I can survive the rain but under no circumstances can I deal with the dreadfully gray day. If you're going to rain on me at least give me some blue sky and occasional glimpses of sun. Nope, no, no. Absolutely my last offer. I won't budge any more than that.

As if that would do anything what-so-ever.

We took the ferry over to Sweden--from Helsingor to Helsingberg. It was super fast and cost less than a cup of coffee, 20 kroner. We got here around 8pm and then set out to find some place to sleep. We knew that you could camp anywhere but we never bothered to really look into it; are they serious about anywhere? What about in the city? Do people bother you? I mean really? We decided to go outside of town a bit and hopefully run into some field or a park.

The place we chose ended up being behind an elementary school, wedged between a birch forest and the sandbox, about 50 from the school itself. We waited a minute to see if anyone came by and then set up camp because it was twilight by that time and freaking cold. We nestled in out sleeping bags and about 20 minutes later we heard voices. We picked a place that was out of the way! And there was no path through the woods. No reason to come over. It totally freaked us out. It was a little scary after that with the absolute worst scenarios running through our heads. I think Kat's bad thought took the cake: someone could come a pour lighter fluid over our tent and set it on fire. Oh it was awful! Needless to say, we didn't get very much sleep at all and at the first light of day we took off into town. (oh, and the voices were just two parents and a little kid...hahaha, but really. freaked us out.)

We asked at the tourist office the next morning about the details of camping anywhere and the lady scoffed at us when we asked about being safer in the camp ground or anywhere else. Safety is just not an issue here.

We rode our bikes into the hills around town the next day, which was flag day and again, for the umpteenth time since I've been here, it was a holiday and everything was closed. Our friend, Johannes, his cousin and her boyfriend came into town and we all went to watch the soccer game between Denmark and Sweden. Seems like the only places to drink around here are Irish pubs. Ha, oh the drinking Irish. Sweden ended up losing and to drown Jo's tears, we went to yet another Irish pub and kept drinking. It was a lot of fun and because Kat and I haven't been drinking much at all and because we've been eating fruits and bread a lot, we got tanked. Couldn't even make it very far outside of town to camp that night. In fact, we didn't even make it past the center of town, next to the ocean. We pitched our tent right on the grassy promenade by the sea and promptly fell fast asleep. I only really woke up to voices calling Swedish dog names as they sniffed around our tent. Whoops. But totally safe and totally fine.

Today it's cold and windy again and I've developed a cold. I hoped it was just a killer hangover, but nope. My throat is raw and sore and I'm totally achy all over. Sucks. We've decided to head south in the next week or so in search of warmer weather. I think it's just the shitty weather, not enough clothing, and having to spend so much time outside that has left my immune system in the gutter. But I have faith that warmer weather will be the best cure.

Oh! This morning we finally 'bathed'. I figure I can make it about 3 days before it's essential that I bath in some way. We camped out in the handicapped bathroom at this cultural center and washed our hair and feet in the sink. Amazing how clean hair can make one feel like a new person. We've been changing socks and underwear daily and brushing our teeth, but really, because it's so cold, we both have on pretty much our entire collection of clothing. So changing our clothing is not really an option...mixing up exactly which shirt is next to my skin is the only option I have. I day dream about being girlie again one day...