5 Years Later: Top 5 things I Miss About Europe

Today, on the 5-year anniversary of taking off on a 6-hour flight to Europe for the first time, I am on my way to the airport for a 22-hour flight to Australia.

I feel like it was another life, that I'm in another life now. Miraculously I'm still the girl who constantly reminds you she studied abroad; who wears scarves like they do in France; who will always find a way to bring up Pistachio McFlurries in Italy; who preaches "in Spain they sleep half the day." I'm still annoying, but at least I can say I'm genuine.

It's been 5 years and I can still say that studying abroad was the greatest thing that has happened to me yet. It taught me how to look at and love the world - always rubbing the dust from my Ray-Bans (#ad - one day, right?) to see someplace new and see it through my version of rose-colored glasses; always learning and yearning for something else.

After returning from Thailand in October (have I mentioned I've been to Thailand yet?) by the grace of God I am now inching a little closer to having traveled fully around the globe as I'm off to Australia. I'm a vagabond, and I'm happy with that. Thankfully I keep great company who will join me.

ALAS: my European adventures will forever be one of the most defining periods for me. So in celebration of traveling further and always remembering what made you who you are (DTW4LIFE), I bring my friends and family, new and loyal readers, lucky procrastinators who accidentally stumbled upon this page through scrolling through google:

THE TOP 5 THINGS I MISS ABOUT EUROPE: 5-year remembrance edition
*with a value-add of tips, tricks, and advice for traveling! Thank you for your time; now read. 

5. Blessings
Remember the Frenchman? Surely you do if you read my blog 5 years ago, but in case you forget or you're new here - man, oh man was this an interesting Frenchman. The dear, elderly gentleman, speaking and confusing me in French was simply basking in the spectacle that is Notre Dame.

Advice: go see it for yourself.

Even if you're not religious, think about the people who built these places. They build them to house the greates,t most sacred being in their belief. They poured everything they could into these buildings and it shows. True, magnificent masterpiece, just like the Greek Temples. 

When I die, bury me in Piazza Navona.
Photo Kred: Korrie Bauer

Highlights:
Sacre Couer, Notre Dame, La Sagrada Familia - all incredible works of art.

If you truly can't stomach it, go to Amsterdam, go to Buddha, get a space brownie and visit Old Kirk. It's a church that was gutted to put in art installations and they get trippy. Now you're worshipping!

4. #VIEWS

Living in Bushwick, Brooklyn where the best view is out of my windows into an ally with an aging Strawberita can, I miss looking out our windows onto the courtyard of our Italian monastery. Or screaming across the balconies of our Spanish courtyard. Or catching the Eiffel Tour sparkling from our shuddered French windows.

Advice: Enjoy the view. Seriously.


3. Ryan Air
To tackle this one, I called in a friend, European roommate and other half of 2012's Cutest Couple: Patricia Holliday.

One of the many "weekend" trips we took was to Pompeii. 
2012's cutest couple climbed Mt. Vesuvius in our matching #RayBans. 

Five years after coming back from Europe and I still haven't been to the west coast (well, I'll be in the SF airport tonight, but that hardly counts).

Patricia, like me, craves the opportunity to just get up and get out.

"Going from Italy to Spain was a whole other ball game than going from like, Maryland to Florida."

Advice: When you're there, book a weekend trip somewhere. ANYWHERE you haven't been yet. And Ryan Air is the comprehensive airline for flying between countries very (very) cheaply. 

2. Edibles 
Patricia is going to stick around to tackle this one, too, considering she's the reigning champ of food porn. 

Yes, McDonald's over the pond was better, but overall there was always something to try. 

"Every restaurant felt like a mom and pop place, [whereas] here: fuck you Applebee's" Patty-Ice agrees, but then corrects, "but also I love your half off apps; never change Applebees."

Sure, America has all the options we could every possibly want, but until you taste the sweet flavor of a Spanish kebab or realize you know nothing you thought you did about gnocchi, you just won't know what good food is.

Advice: leave the country; step two: eat anything at all.

1. Do I really need to spell this out for you? 
Being out of your comfort zone has always given me the greatest feeling of being alive. It's a rush that you just can't get really get when you swipe onto the subway every day through muscle-memory.

You're thrown into the lion's den, for sure, but what is more thrilling than that? When you're too comfortable, it's time to shake things up.

Cité? Cit-ay? I'll take my chances. Let's go.
KB cred. 

"You're not in Jim Thorpe anymore," Patricia lovingly sites my hometown. Having firsthand experience in herself in Mineola, Strong Island, she knows the pains of feeling stifled by a small town. "When you're in a town for a long time, or born and raised somewhere, it almost feels like this is how everything is."

But it's not. And thanks to the internet, we know that. Pictures weren't enough - even reliving mine isn't enough - you have to be there. 

"You go to another city or country and experience something entirely different and it rocks your world," Patricia says. "Sometimes good, sometimes bad, and you realize you're not stuck or trapped."

"The constant reminder of being independent and conquering a new metro system," Patricia remembers, "or finding your way when you don't speak the language. Constantly proving yourself to yourself."

Those are the greatest thrills. 

Other than jumping off a bridge. 

I thought Europe was the beginning for me, but now that I'm off to Australia, I know that I am truly just getting started. As for this chapter - it's finally time to close. But there will be more, believe that, there will be more.

10 Things I Miss About Europe

You knew it was coming.

I had been putting off a real conclusion to this blog. With the conclusion of this blog is the cessation of an adventure that doesn't deserve to be confined to a manageable read. Only the 73 other travelers that joined me will understand what I mean by that, but I'll do my best to try to echo what it feels like looking back on this trip.

I'd need nothing short and nothing limited to something to the effect of A Tale of Three Cities to really get my point across. But Travels of Tara will be my start.

Being in America, even in New York, considered the greatest city in the entire world [with merit], was a hard pill to swallow. I vowed that I wouldn't let my exploratory, energetic, and eager manor that I strengthened overseas go to waste here, but it is still hard. Though there is so much diversity and so many opportunities, there are just some things that America will never be as keen on as Europe.

*Heath Ledger Joker Voice* and here. we. go.

10. The Euro
My avid readers may find this ironic. Way back in the baguette days, I made my position on the currency exchange very clear.

the euro sh*ts on the dollar

I am now retracting it.

I came to see the logic in using a coin for 1 and 2 euro denominations.  "un euro? toma." It's like meter money; chump change. Just take it. We all know that when we have bills, it is a much harder stab on our American money hungry hearts to see it go. Why not make it easier and just make it a coin? Especially when just one of those round metal trinkets can be traded in for a beer.

And the bills? Euro Euro Bills. A 5 is smaller than a 20 is smaller than a 50. Brilliant. So even when I'm 10 euro beers in, I can still find the 5 for the cab driver.


9. The Language Barrier 
Initially, one would not see this as something that one would lament. But oh, do I ever. I miss being in a cafe of Parisians and, knowing full well what they are saying is negative, being able to zone out when I want to or be able to fight back via facial expressions.

They can pretend all day but they can't deny those stars and stripes are fabulous

In Italy, a friend once made mention of how everything sounds so urgent with their inflection. A simple invite turns into an imperative shriek. "WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO TO THE MOOOVIES WITH ME!!!!" How much more likely I am to agree! Everything is like a beautiful song and dance because you can make it out to be that way.

 I miss the way that, however annoying the neighboring conversation may be in volume, the context completely evaded me. In America, when the woman pretending to be 22 when she's clearly 49 is guffawing over mimosas about how much of a headache she has from her wild night, I'm only aggravated at her efforts of stupidity. If she were talking in French, I could just laugh at her wanna-be walk-of-shame ensemble and not have to want to rip my ears off, Van Gogh style. 

Ignorance truly is bliss.


8. Foreign Children
Much like I feel about Miss Middle Age, hearing loud children beg for cookies or to go potty gets old fast in English. But in Italian it's ADORABLE. Especially when you point it out to your American friend and the kid looks at you like you're from outer space. 
I now understand why Angelina is an adopt-a-holic. 


7. Pistachio Flavor
America: home of the free samples, land of the artificial preservatives. All of our junk food from Famous Amos to Skittles are culinary corruptions. They have a longer list of ingredients than Gene Simmons has of partners and they leave you wanting more due to their affordability and abundance of options.

Let's be real, how many times have you fought over the only red Starburst in the pack?

But in Italy, their shiny star of snacks is the pistachio. Who would have thought? This expensive little California-grown nut can be transformed into a frothy green frozen treat. Gelato, McFlurries, you name it.

You order it. You enjoy it.


6. Exotic Chips
Pistachio not exotic enough for you? Dislike the salty but sweet taste? Good thing it's basically only available in Italy. Every country, however, has their own regionally distinct flavored chips. 

The first bag I shoved my gluttonous little hand into was in Paris. Saveur Bolognaise. The bag depicts a garlic clove, a tomato, and a red sweet pepper. The bag holds a blast of unstoppable goodness. 
If that's not necessarily exotic, never fear. Also featured in France is what we liked to call the Turkey Dinner chips. It was nothing short of all the flavor and, by the time you finished the whole bag, an eighteenth of the nutrition.

But the meat packing didn't end there. The first day in Spain I was privy to their hot commodity: jamón. They found a way to harvest all the delectibility of slaughtered pig into a crisp potato chip in a purple bag. 


5. Siesta
What goes up must come down. 

After running around every city looking for the best and the cheapest eats, picking apart every brushstroke in paintings, nothing was better than curling up in our shaggy dorms and knocking out. 

Before class, during class, indiscriminate. 

The way my trip was set up, I had the grace of the angels land me in Spain during the last leg of the trip which mean from 2-5, the entire city of Sevilla closed up shop, went home, and slept. Large Scale Nap time. That is the way every country should be (but never will.) 

America is so worried with staying open 24 hours for convenience. We have everything open on holidays. We are a country of working and providing while they are a country of living. So their economy is falling apart... America is so hung up on money that staying awake to spend it is more of a burden than an enjoyment.
 
4. Everything Is Art

La Sagrada Familia is art as well as a perpetual work in progress.

Bridges built by kings. Museums created from palaces and prisons. Fountains!

Whatever you walk on is the product of a world renowned artist. And it's all in the open for you to touch, photograph, swim in [illegally], or vandalize. But no one does. 

It is so part of their culture to accept and respect Bernini sculptures that spew water. What we consider to be done "behind closed doors" is done on stage. Guys in tight sparkly pants stab bulls to death as people watch and cheer and secretly hope the bull's horn gets a stab. Weekly church goings are at cathedrals comparable to museums. Driving through what armies marched under is simply how you get to the store. 

But it is still so much more appreciated than any of our graffiti or hipster styles.
 
 3. Public Transportation

No time to get a good glimpse of the Paris subway trains.

Here, the announcement "please stand clear of the closing door" suggests that everyone on the platform make up their mind on whether or not they'd like to partake in the current train trip within about 20 seconds, because then the train is taking off.

In Paris, whatever it is they say over the loud speaker directly translates to "you better have all your limbs through that door because we have to be at the next stop within five seconds." And they mean it. 

I've seen backpacks lost and pickpockets succeed because, once those doors are closed, the holy grail could be on the other side and the conductors wouldn't care.  


2. Defined Culture

I have a theory that these colors are meant to
depict the tainted, sinful ways of the human soul
to remind the Pope's entourage to stay in line. 

America is all about improvements, even if that means fixing what's not broken. Though we come no where near having as much cultural background to sit on as the rest of Europe with it's ancient wars and kingdoms, if you walk outside you see nothing but the 20th century. Our nostalgia is confined to our minds and not physically preserved. 

There, they don't care that the Vatican guards look like clowns. Even with their loud pride-esque ensembles they are notorious.

Spain doesn't care that America stole their religious garb and turned it into the icon of racial hate crimes. They still hold their same processions and pay homage to the same beliefs they have always stood on. 

Venice is well aware that it's going to sink into the water and join Atlantis. But they still continue to live in this waterlogged houses and commute on their boats because that is what they are used to and far be it from the laws of nature to tell them otherwise.  



1. Being American 

You never need a special occasion to represent America.

Everyone at one point in their life wants recognition. Even though we strive to fit in, we crave attention and the way to get it is to stand out. Standing out in Europe was absolutely NO PROBLEM WHATSOEVER. As much as I still felt at home and still felt like an expert on their kings and their artists, I never hesitated to represent. 

I wasn't too shy to speak aloud among the dead silence of the Paris trains.

I wasn't going to simply let some guy sit in my overnight train seat that I paid for just because he wants to pretend he doesn't speak a lick of English.  

I became that girl who was constantly saying "Will you take a picture of me?" "Excuse me, can you take a picture of us?" "Oh I have to take a picture of this bird on this sign that I can't read."

a little taste of home

I came home with an American flag scarf that I bought in Florence... come on. 

I guess it's good to be home. But only because absence makes the heart grow fonder.

La Fin de Semana y del Viaje...

Surrounding all the chaos of finishing classes, packing for home, and enjoying every moment I could in Spain before I departed, I completely neglected to highlight the final weekend of my trip.

Destination: Lagos, Portugal.

We went as a group, obviously. FUN FACT: DTW doesn't do anything if we're not all doing it together. All 75 of us.

In all honesty, it was only 60. So, give or take. We signed up with a excursion planner who transported us, housed us, and provided entertainment. 190 euros. DONE.


It was only about three hours outside of Seville. It's like driving to Atlantic City, but much prettier and no drinking or gambling age limit. So IDEAL. And though I love speaking Spanish to locals and improving my vocab, Portugal (who, keep up now, speak Portuguese) are much more English accommodating.

Most likely abandoned by other sea-legless sailor.

First thing they told us that we would be offered an opportunity to go on an Unlimited Sangria boat cruise.

I obviously stopped listening after they said "unlimited sangria" and threw my 25 euro at the guy.

I joyously pranced to the boat, got on like I was a fisherman, had two cups of sangria before some tattooed man strapped a life vest on me.

"You're going to the caves."

OH AM I?

Relatively happy I did. We got on one of those little motor life boats and they hopped through the waves towards the tall sandy, jagged cliffs. And then inside of them.

The insides weren't necessarily "inside." They were just enclosed by walls, but no ceiling. Apparently, the fishermen would have names for all of the different 'rooms' that mocked houses. I can totally relate to their homesickness. Not for home per say, but rather, for land.

As we bounced through the waves on the way back, I noticed myself clenching my teeth even harder as I kept reminding myself it was all mental.

For the rest of this cruise, I neglected the unlimited sangria and sat with my head between my legs, along with my twin who was also feeling the g-force of the waves.

We got back to shore and everyone was singing and dancing on the bus as I sat and prayed that I'd be able to eat something and keep it down.

BUT THAT WAS THE WORST OF IT.

Tara want a burger.

The best of it? Nah Nah Bah.

Nah Nah Bah is this little restaurant that we would have never stumbled upon had we not signed up for our entire trip with the travel guides that we did. And what made this little hole in the wall so fabulous? The World Renowned Toucan Burger.

Yes, you heard me. Voted in the Top Ten World's Best Burger on the meal menu accompanied by either beer or sangria. What could be better? A succulent burger drenched in it's own secret Nah Nah Sauce, bacon, cheese, lettuce, tomato, and pineapple.

After finishing this burger, you're almost too full to get drunk.

Challenge Accepted.

When the sun rose again, I was ready to go. First stop of the day: the top of the cliffs in which we boated to. Much more comfortable of a situation for me. And so beautiful.

I like to live on the edge. I like the view from above.

Flip-flops were perhaps not the best decision. We climbed a cliff, dismounted a hill, and waded through algae crusted banks.

Personally, I liked it better at the top.

Looking down on those damn boats.

It was one thing to see cliffs. It was another thing to go to World's End.

That's right my Pirate wannabe scallywags. I went to the World's End. Portugal, for those of you with little or no geographical knowledge, is the most western point in Europe. That leaves us the opportunity to get to the furthermost west of the country... the longest we had to travel.

As in, we had to take transportation. That was new for us.

the end of the world. the end of the trip.

We arrived at the spot. Sagres. The reason that stupid Portuguese thought the world was flat; looking out the eyes sees nothing but horizon. I don't blame them for living in their fantasy. It was beautiful. Perfect timing for my camera to die. But not enough to keep the DTW fam from memorializing every moment we had together.

It was our last weekend, and as the sun set behind the edge of the earth, we realized our time would soon be venturing out across the open sea to the land of the of-age Native Americans. Some French, some Italian, maybe a little too many spanish Speakers, and every other ethnicity east of us.

 *tear tear*

Or in some of our cases...

*tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tea tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear *

My dear [completely sober] friend Alan

ENOUGH OF THAT.

We had our last night to tend to. In a place called Bill's Garage that we had to weave in and out of alleys to discover.

But world travelers and night hawks that we are, we surely did.

In the morning, we strapped into our weather inappopriate beach attire and went to the beach. Some decided to play frisbee, others soccer. However I along with my bridge-jumping partner and thrill seeker Sebastian, took to the water to play polar bear.

The only two to submerge into the freezing water.

YOPO. [You Only Portugal Once] And we certainly did Portugal well.

And then returned to Sevilla for LA SEMANA DE FINAL.

La Feria

As much as we have loved to party in all the other countries we've been to, Spain has proven to us it loves to party the most.

Last week was the famous Feria de Abril, literally April Fair. It is a week long celebration of life and Spanish culture. It's a fair on CRACK. Rides, foods, tents with their own personal parties, and most importantly of all WAFFLES. Known in Spain as 'gofres', the waffles is a delectable play on the belgium treat smothered in chocolate or strawberry or whipped cream to your heart's desire and is the heaviest drug to which you can get addicted.

I refuse rehab. My addiction is so bad that one morning, I woke up in a cold sweat and drug the most willing human being from bed to accompany me to the fair (which doesn't close until 6AM) to get a waffle.

Best decision of my life.

This isn't just a creepy carnival fair with clowns and dunk tanks like we do in the states. This is a serious celebration. So much so that you don't even wear jeans when you attend; all of the girls, toddlers to twice divorced women wear full on flamenco dresses.

"But how do they ride the rides?" I also asked myself this question. But somehow, they get their tight mermaid-stlye dresses over the leg separator and lift off. No clue...

Los getting loco on the Inverter.

However, I must agree that if I were in that dress there wouldn't be venturing on the rides either.
My favorite: the Inverter!

Basically, there are four rows of four seats in a circular formation at the end of a pendulum. It starts swinging back and forth until eventually, you guessed it, you're completely inverted. And then there's that moment where your seat just buckles and starts swinging and your clavicle gets bruised.

It's AWESOME.

This ride, as well as the lamest haunted house I've ever enjoyed being in, a pirate ship cage, and a bouncing kangaroo ride, were all offering club music to wait in line to.

It is literally just a massive party. And it's awesome.

And it is now on my bucket list to come back in the most fabulous flamenco dress the world has ever seen and ride the Inverter.

The week ended with a 4th of July worthy fireworks show on Sunday night. Made me wanna bring the whole festival to us in July.

Toro, Toro

Men in tight pants is not a sports tradition distinct to American baseball. And man, am I glad about that.

Yesterday, I saw my first bull fight in the bullfighting capital of the country.

Originally, I had no pretense as to what these were and what exactly the angle they were to take.

They don't race. They're not up against criminals. They are dangerous as Hell. So they just wave a flowy cape around?

BASICALLY.

The whole idea is that a family in Spain raises the bull as its own. A pet, in a sense... and sends it to be slaughtered in the ring for honor.

In Italian-American tradition, or at least in my house, we would say "Saus-eege is own." Meaning, alright Spain, do your thing, but I will never sell my dog for honor.


For the past few days there had been one resounding question among the dorm: "What do we wear to the bullfight?" So naturally, we staked it out the arena for the congregation of spectators. They were all dresses as if they were going to church. That's when we realized this is not bullshit. (lol?)

So the day came upon us, we all got fancied in dresses and blazers and khakis and whatnot to appear to blend in as much as possible before we spoke.

I was surprised at the ease in which we waltzed in. We showed our ticket only at the gate we were to go through to get to our seat section and that was it.

When the show started, there was a relatively modest procession of the matadors followed by the caballeros yielding lances in the stadium. The matadors took respective post behind blockades around the outside of the ring and the bull was released.

GAME TIME.

The matadors would pop out from behind their little doors with a cape that was not red, but pink on side and yellow on the other. My brilliant drummer of a friend suggested that they may taunt them with the pink and then turn it to yellow to blend with the sand/confuse them.

Spot on.

The whole point of the round was to see if the bull would fight and kick and ram its horns. If it did not, as the second bull did not, the crowd clapped a continuous tri-beat applause. At this point, they released cows into the arena and the matadors backed off. The point of the other nonviolent heifers was to have the bull herd together with the rest and be ushered out of the arena.

Brilliant.

So after that bull was not up to par, and the family was most likely put to shame and sent to Puerto Rico, they brought out the one with the real fight in him. This bull was HUGE and had a lot of fight.

El toro quiso pelear!

After the crowd gets a little excited to see the matador(s) dance with the bull and their capes, out comes the caballero with his lance. No worries, the horse has armor on. The job of this horse rider is to spear the bull, kind of provoke him and simultaneously impair him.

After the bull is bleeding and finished taking its anger out on the poor caballo, the matador come out with fancy little colored spears.

Then it's all up to the matador to perform. We got lucky enough to see EL PRIMER MATADOR DEL MUNDO in his pink pants of glittering wonder. He had green and red spears; I am assuming he may or not be of Mexican decent. He is certainly not Italian... I've forced myself to have a mental block on all things Non-Hispanic.

So there he was, face to face with the bull, dancing with his spears in the air, awaiting the charge. The bull obliged, and most certainly regretted it shortly after.

Número uno con sus panalones rosadas.

The whole point of the spears, which by the end of the fight total in 6, two at a time, along the spine of the bull. And even after all of the six spears/hooks are strategically and artfully inserted into the bull, it is still kicking...literally. BEHOLD another bull-related expression!

At the point, the bull is exhausted. It has been impaled and hooked and still taunted into running around. Now, the matador takes out the red cape and you know it's about to get real. With the red cape comes a long sword.

Not a little hook or spear or lance; a sword. The bull knows it, but doesn't give up. The matador even grabs the bull by its horns to get it to keep fighting. And the bull, with its infinite stubbornness, does.

We watched this happen to six bulls. But this third bull (second if you don't count Mr. Docile) was one for the books. When that red cape comes out and you know it's a wrap, the bull is stabbed in the head with the sword until dead. This bull went down so dramatically that I regret not having enough camera memory to have videoed it.

His legs collapsed underneath him, he swung his head into the air, spewing blood from his nose, and laid down.

*Que Spanish music of defeat*

*Que ceremonious chariot*

The horses are again employed, much less dangerously this time. They hook the bull up and drag it from the arena as, in this specific fight, other ground keepers come out and shovel up the blood and rake the sand.

...and the next bull is released.

I have to admit, the first bull I saw stabbed and fall onto its little knees kind of struck a chord with me. Then I thought about hamburgers and got over it and was able to enjoy the rest of the show. It really gives you an idea as to what it was like to watch gladiator games, though we knew who would most likely win.

Also have to admit, there were points in which we were rooting for the bull to win.

Next stop: Running with the bulls!

I, Amsterdam

So it was spring break; 10 days off with no plans. All it took was a light kebab lunch for us to decide: we gotta go to Amsterdam.

So we booked it. After a few days of trekking to Spanish beaches and lying along Sevillan rivers, we took two buses, a plane, a train, another bus, and a tram and ended up in the general area of our Amsterdam hostel.

Que my very erroneous belief that I can figure out words in any language through phonics: "Could you tell me where [Court Leeds-ed-war-strat] is?"

"LOL oh Korte Leidsedwarsstraat, of course."

Not to mention our hostel was called "Leidseplein" and we were referring to it as "Led Zeppelin."

At least Dutch people are so nice. There's not time to be mean in their language because words just have too many random assortments of letters that there's no breath to fight with. Or the fact that their whole culture is based around sex, drugs, and rock and roll. We got off the plane with a group of 4 men with choppy haircuts and black studded jackets, walked through the red light district to indulge in a space brownie.

Basically.

So after getting that out of our system, we figured we should get some sort of idea as to what we would spend the next three days doing without burning a hole in our pockets on absolutely nothing [of sustainability.]

Luckily, I stumbled upon the Amsterdam key which provided us access into over 100 attractions, museum, and offers in the city in addition to a 48 hour tram pass.

FIRST STOP: VAN GOGH.

The man I wanted to see ever since I had taken art in Paris, where I had been face to face with some of the absolute most legendary faces of art. But an entire Van Gogh museum? Nothing like that in Paris with all that David running around.

Like I said, Van Gogh. What a guy. He did, after all, cut off his ear for his lover, who may or may not have been a man and art partner, Gaugin. Just sayin', when you live and paint together, sparks fly. And I support. The reason his museum is in Amsterdam is perhaps due to the liberal nature of the city and the controversy surrounding both artists and their mental states, sexual orientations, and methods of art.

Personally, I love it. Van Gogh was one to push the envelope with his style of painting during the realist movement. Instead of portraying things as they are, he chose to portray things through evoking feelings.

Only illegal to take photos if you use the flash (or get caught.)

My favorite painting, Skull Smoking A Cigarette, wasn't supposed to be an anti smoking campaign, but rather a way for him to express the death of artistic freedom through taking formal lessons, as he did not.

BRILLIANT.

Much more famous and recently seen by my own two eyes in Paris (I get around A LOT), is The Bedroom. The bed is outrageously too large in his attempt to accentuate the importance of sleep. Even though I find it ugly ass Hell, I can give him props for trying and his reasoning for it. I'm a fan, Van Gogh.

And that was just the first stop!

We also went to the zoo, several other photography galleries, got a free singing pen from the Heineken store, saw the oldest church in the Netherlands (which was filled with creepy Illuminati like art), and deemed ourselves Amsterdam.

It looked so good I forgot to take a picture before it was half consumed.

In the event in which I make a travel guide for Amsterdam, I would put the Van Gogh museum first and Burger Bar second. Burger Bar exactly what it seems like it would be: place where very hungry young people can go and indulge in the most delectable of handheld foods on either side of the Atlantic Ocean.

If I were a dude, I'd skip the hooker and go right for the explosion of pleasure provided by Burger Bar.

I am so serious.

space brownie.

The first time we went, I got the single burger with cheese, avocado, jalapeños. It is absolutely phenomenal, and was definitely our go-to spot before we discovered Wok to Walk and then had to leave. Had I been there more than four days, I would definitely have gained my weight in Burger Bar concoctions.

The only other food I could recommend would be Baba's space brownies. Good price and very unsuspecting taste. Oh, and you have to be at least 18 to eat it.

So besides the food, the hookers, and the art, the city is beautiful. It is situated in its own coordinates shared with several canals and bridges.

I love bridges.

They don't quite provide the same splendor as the Brooklyn Bridge or the Verrazano, but it's still cute.

bike racks on bike racks on bike racks

For those of you who have been conscious of origins, our city, New York, was formerly New Amsterdam. I can somewhat see the resemblance. The big difference is the fact that everyone in OG Amsterdam is white, Dutch, and speaks English. Their public transportation is much faster, too. Perhaps because it runs above ground. I don't mean above head, but on street level, right along with the cars. I truly questioned the safety of this, but it works so efficiently that it doesn't even matter.

The other major staple of Old Amsterdam citizenship is bike riding. They love bike riding so much (and avoid cars as much as possible since the tram hogs the road), that they have bike garages in place of parking garages.

And coffeeshops.

Such a happy go lucky place! So easy to navigate as well. When we were looking for Burger Bar our second time with our handy dandy blinking tourist badge (aka- map), a nice man gave us directions by sending us down the street, a left, and into the square that has in the center of is what can only be described as a "giant dildo."

Gotta love the Dutch.

Top Ten Gelatz

Yes, I know I'm in Spain now. But if there's one thing I miss about Italy, especially on days under a sizzling Sevillan sun, is gelato. Sweet, creamy, multi-flavored gelatz topped in a crunchy waffle cone.

I'm drooling (or just sweating...)

So, while in Italy, I took careful notes on all of my gelato excursions and came up with what I consider the best. You may want to study this very carefully if you ever venture to Italy.

I pledge my allegiance to Gelato.

1. Biscottino
Oddly enough, it’s not quite gelato. The sign always says “Gelato non gelato,” but two gelatos in a sentence means gelato to me. It’s a lot creamier than the actual gelato, pretty much like a heavy whipped cream. What makes it really delectable is the little crunchy cookies in it. It is oreo ice cream, Italian style. So therefore, better.

2. Walnut
Sounds a little strange, but I swear it is a pleasant surprise. It is the same color of walnuts, kind of helps support the idea of minimal artificial flavoring. Since it’s cold and creamy, I’m not going to say it tastes like a walnut, but I think the reason I like it so much is because it reminds me of when I used to get cinnamon bun batter ice cream (before they discontinued it </3) at Cold Stone and put walnuts in it.

Pit stop in Venice for Pistachio.

3. Pistachio
All I think of in my head when I request this is my Dad screaming through the phone to request this when I go to Rita’s. Rita’s doesn’t always have it, however. Italy does. It is their staple flavor, so much so that McDonald’s has a Pistachio McFlurry. Walnut isn’t quite a walnut but Pistachio is most positively a pistachio. I didn’t think it was possible, but they made a frozen creamy treat salty to perfection. The tiny little grains of ground pistachio aren’t even bothersome. The rich green color is just as natural as the Sicilian taste of the expensive ass nuts. It is my official go-to flavor.

4. Settevelli
This is a magical concoction paying homage to a cake like dessert of the same name. It is a rich dark chocolatey base with what tasted like a sort of whipped cream, but not quite marshmallow, swirl. Definitely my go-to flavor when I needed a quick chocolate fix.

5. Cannoli Cream
Hello? Need I say more?

6. Cinnamon
I actually got this on accident, but what a beautiful disaster it was! So the girl’s like “wanna try this gross rice cherry flavor?” So I was like, YEAH. And I hated it. So I asked for pistachio then a sample of cinnamon, so she just slopped it on my cone. My nerves immediately shot through my face. I thought it was going to be the first gelato cone I would throw out. One lick, however, and I was in love. THIS is where ColdStone modeled my favorite ice cream flavor after: Cinnamon Bun Batter. I don’t know if Turkey Hill has a version of this, but I am surely going to die without it in the States.

7. Cookies
This delicacy is a rarity; so much so that the only place I’ve found it was the infamous “Old Bridge” right near the Vatican. Appropriate; this is a God of gelatos. Not quite chocolate chip and still not chocolate chip cookie dough, but it’s my favorite part of a cookie making experience: the dough. Straight, delectable, buttery floury frothy dough. In gelato form, which I’m assuming means no raw eggs. Acceptable NOW?

King of Gelato. Old Bridge <3

8. Ricotta and Pistachio
Also only experienced thus far at Old Bridge, this doesn’t leave much the imagination. I already explained the way pistachio is a blend of chunks and salt to make an oddly sweet desert. Now stir it up with some delicious ricotta that I was under the impression only the South Beach Diet noted as a scrumptious treat, and you have yet another Holy Relic of desserts.

9. Cappuccino
My favorite ice cream in the states is coffee, but for some reason I was never truly enticed into choosing coffee gelato. Perhaps because the name is just not Italian enough. Cappuccino certainly steps up to the plate. It doesn't quite have the coffee bite like the self named flavor. It's much more creamy, directly simulating the experience of drinking the foamy coffee concoction with triple the calories.

10. Tiramisu
The Italian dessert that, if not made right, will get you drunk in a quite unenjoyable way isn't just at our favorite 24-hour bakery. In gelatz form, it is not layered, but rather a fully combined experience. When you lick into it, you can certianly be fooled into thinking that it actually has a cake like consistency. And no fork needed.