... And I'm Back. Anyone Miss Me?

     Alright! I have finally finished reading my book! Now I am subject to another year of agony waiting for the next one. Oh, well, I'll content myself remembering how amazing "Words of Radiance" was and how emotional I felt while reading it as I return to the world of the living and the social.
     A note to travelers: If you have a good face, find a restaurant where a member of the opposite sex who is about your age will service *ahem* I mean serve you. I went to the student district for dinner the night after my arrival in Cologne and wandered into one place that sold a cheap calzone and was soon seated by a pretty girl and then served by another looker, both of whom were probably there on after-school jobs. Anyhow, despite my inability to speak German, they were keen to attend me and deliver an obscene number of complimentary bread rolls with my meal. The next night, hoping for a repeat, I came in and was served by an older woman. The service was blatantly normal and, more important, I only got half as many rolls. Now, maybe someone was dropping hints the night before or maybe I’m reading too much into it and the kitchen just happened to have a bunch of spare bread that night. I don’t know for sure, but, hey, what have you got to lose for trying? If it works out, you have pleasant company and everything works out better. If not, well, it’s a normal night.
    As I’ve traveled more and more I’ve noticed how, wherever you go, people are generally the same. Yes, the sense of humor and maybe the values change, but people still have the same basic traits. They laugh. They cry. They cheat. They steal. They love. Everything. I have discovered very little else about these different places. During festivals and other cultural events, yes the differences will be stark, but otherwise not so. I guess that the only real benefit to travel is for business, special markets, study, and bragging rights.
    I’m saying this because Cologne turned out to be a very normal city with people going about their daily lives (as they did in Rome and Venice and London and… well you get the point) without a care for the architectural and cultural wonders around them. Well, I wasn’t going to follow their example. Determined to enjoy the city’s exoticism, I set off to the Hiroshima Nagasaki park.

 I got there and, aside from enjoying the cherry-blossom (aka sakura) trees and imagining how fun it would be to go swimming in the reflection pool, I was not especially moved. Damn. Instead of enjoying the scenery as I wandered the park, I wondered if there had been a celebration recently, as I noticed dozens of beer caps, several fire cracker husks, and a used condom strewn over the hill here. Entertaining, disgusting, and yet disappointing. Well, let’s try whatever’s next.
    I walked through the shopping district and stopped by three very nice, grand churches and each one failed to move me. I ducked into a clothing store wanting to see if the styles actually looked anything like what they wear in New York as the sign outside advertised, only to discover that, despite the male mannequins in the window, they only sold girl’s clothing and, no, it looked nothing like the New York fashions. Only then did I realize just how bored I was. I had just seen a great church, but I really didn’t care. I had just walked unabashed and alone through a woman’s   clothing store and didn’t bat an eye. Maybe it was only my periodical depression hitting me again, but I remembered feeling the same way in Rome as I strolled about the ancient ruins. I might just be a homebody, I thought. I don’t want to be, but maybe I am.
    I soon came to the mother of all churches in Cologne: the Dom. It was impressive and beautiful, with it’s imposing scale, impossible to capture on my camera without having to cross to the other side of the street across the plaza, and the mesmerizing streaks of black on the stone that looked like burn marks crawling down the church’s spires.

However, I was still unmoved. I stepped inside and the awe-inspiring vaulted interior failed to strike any admiration in me other than for the difficulties involved in building the place. I just felt that it was too big. It was just too grand and imposing and dark for me to believe that anyone could properly feel a spiritual connection to a deity in there. It all just seemed rather impersonal.

    Disappointed and dejected, I returned to my hostel to discover that I had totally forgotten to fill out the FAFSA and CSS Profile (necessary forms for applying for university financial aid) and that the deadline was in three days. Whoops. Well, that meant an early start the next day. In the meantime, I had a date with the girl I’d met in Rome. To be brief, it was cuddly and cozy despite the rain until we met up much later to go for drinks with her Mexican friend and two Australian guys. By the end of the night she left with an Aussie and I left, again, disappointed and dejected. I had a feeling that this would be a recurring theme during the trip. So, drunk and fatigued, I returned to the hostel around two in the morning to find the lights out and everyone asleep, or so I thought. I had just taken my shirt off and hung it in my locker when the bathroom door behind me opened, illuminating me and revealing yet another attractive girl. A little stunned and not just a little muddled, I started stammering a quiet apology, saying that I would get out of the way while she just sort of stared. Then a couple of shadows to my right stirred and spoke out to me. The girl from the bathroom moved to them and sat on their bed and they invited me over, so I deposited myself on the floor. These three (two girls and a guys) were all from Spain and were quite keen to talk to an American (I’m beginning to wonder why, I mean, what makes us so different?) and I realized that I still wasn’t wearing a shirt. I hugged my legs and crossed my arms over my chest as if I were some shy, half-naked girl. At least I felt like one. The guy introduced himself as Gael, the girl from the bathroom was named Adela, and the other girl was Paula, all visiting from their university in Granada. They offered to take me out drinking with them the next night. “Sure!” I said. “I’d love to.” I could always use good company.
    The next day I settled myself into a nearby Starbucks, buying a mug of tea as an excuse to stay there (the hostel’s internet was pathetic), and started to work. I did the entire FAFSA and CSS forms in one go, doing my best to estimate our financial situation from what I knew and could gather from my parents across the pond. I did not leave my chair for six and a half hours. I didn’t really notice the time pass by, but I was stressed and even a little frightened, as this would have been my only chance at affording some of my universities. I could not believe that I had been so careless. Anyhow, after sitting for so long, skipping lunch, estimating the wazoo out of our funds, and being threatened with imprisonment and a hefty fine if any of the information was fraudulent, I was hungry, tired, and terrified of my unstable psychological state. I was only too eager to later go out for a few beers on the town with the Spaniards. We hopped from bar to bar, me mostly chatting with Adela who, wouldn’t you know it, was studying journalism and wrote a current events related blog. So we talked about music and writing as we walked through the shopping district, discovered that the pub-crawl that someone had suggested to them was rather pricy, and strolled with beers in hand (yes, it’s apparently legal in Germany to drink in public) back to the student district and its surplus of bars. Some time during our second stop, Paula started talking about a massage machine. Now, their English was passable, maybe even good, but I don’t think that she quite knew what she was saying when she called it an “orgasmatron.” Gael and I were almost on the floor laughing. From there we met with some of their other Spanish friends for cocktails (had my first mojito) and proceeded from there to yet another bar. Things were far more… interesting that night and I left satisfied and giddy.

Is This Going To Be A Recurring Thing?

    The week started out normally. I went through classes, chatted with friends, and then reenacted the Battle at Helms Deep with the guys in archery. Wait, no that’s not normal at all. Now that a bunch of new guys in my year have joined in, things have become more interesting. One of them, James, has this thing about getting everyone to loose their volley in tandem and I have to say that it’s pretty fun. We would take turns calling the commands “Ready, Draw, Fire,” and maybe put a little spin on it. James had us aim and draw and then kept saying “Steady, Steady” imitating Aragorn, while we were trembling with the bows tensed against our outstretched arms. Well, one of the year ten girls ended up being the old man in the movie, as she lost her grip and the arrow impaled the target while the rest of us watched, startled. When my turn came, I acted bored. I yawned. “Ready.” Deadpan voice. “Draw.” Full on war bellow. “FIRE!” Someone (I think James) yelped as the arrows flew to their marks. My voice was still ringing about the room when we lowered our bows. They asked me to call it again, so I called the commands in a high-pitched, Mickey Mouse-esque voice before my signature, battle-cry “FIRE!” command. We played around a bit with seeing who could fire arrows fastest, competing for the high score each round, and quoting everything we could from “The Lord of the Rings.” I feel somehow gratified, accomplished even, when I see a bunch of jocks and athletes being geeks, even if the credit should go to James.
    The next day I discovered that I wouldn’t be around to compete in the house singing competition. Yeah. The poor girl directing us was not happy about that considering how we needed a certain number of guys involved. Still, I think that they were better off without me as they ended up winning first place for the small group category.
    Soon after, a storm swept over England. I don’t know when the school’s roof was last inspected, but with the winds picking up to tropical-storm speeds, the roofing tiles turned into spinning projectile blades of stoney death. The school closed and locked all of the doors heading into the main building-flanked areas, such as the parking lot and the terraces (our lawn) for our safety. However, it backfired a little when I was running back from the gym with Clement and Emily on Wednesday. While I was in there failing to get big, the storm had reached a fever pitch outside. I think that it might have been raining, but when the three of us ducked outside to get back to our dorms, the wind was so harsh that I could not feel the raindrops over the needles of wind driving into me. I felt kind of bad for Emily. Clement and I were having trouble keeping our balance in that gale, but I could see this taller person teetering like a drunken sailor or maybe swaying like one of the tall pine trees from home that rock back and forth right before the tempest uproots them. We knew that the main door was locked as we passed the terraces, but thought that maybe one of the side doors would offer us shelter. When the first one failed us, Emily shouted “I’m going this way back to house!” preferring to run around the building.
    “Yeah!” we shouted back to her, pretending that this was some horrible natural disaster or maybe a battle zone as we assumed Schwarzenegger accents. “Get out of here! Get inside! Get to safety!” To be fair, I would not have braved that side of the building, as it faced the teeth of the storm. Instead, Clement and I battled our way to the next door, me acting as a human shield for him against the wind, our eyes scanning the sky for homicidal roofing slates. The door was locked. We looked at the next door. The sign said it was locked. We ran up slippery stairs to another door. Locked. Ran back down the slick steps. I nearly broke my neck coming down as the wind picked up even further. “We gotta get out of here!” Clement shouted. Realizing our lack of options, we turned to the path Emily had taken. I did not “brave” that path. I ran through it laughing and joking about the wind and saying how much fun it was until the rain found me, after which I ran head down and whooping. I handle fear either one of two ways: I either get furious and want to fight or I start laughing. We burst through a side entrance near the assembly hall and, as I was towing the door shut, Clement shouted “Holy shit it’s nasty out there!” Once we started walking, we realized that the assembly hall was full of kids practicing for the house singing competition and noticed them staring at us. Whoops. Walking back to our dorm, we skirted the parking lot. I happened to look just in time to notice a sleek black car right before a slate slammed point-first into its hood. Looking at the sizable dent left in that sheet of metal, I’m amazed in hind-sight that I stopped while I was outside to take a picture of another slate imbedded in the lawn. Yep. Blonde moment.
    Anyhow, the reason I wasn’t going to be around for house singing was because I was heading to Germany! I was excited at first and glad to be going on another adventure. Except that my excitement was kind of minimal. It was strange. I had only the smallest of thrills that faded by the time I got to the airport. When I got to German customs, the officer there asked me what I was there for and I hesitated, not knowing for sure. I finally said sightseeing after he prompted “pleasure?” What am I here for? I wondered. Why Germany and not, say, France? Just because a friend I’d made in Italy wanted me to visit?
    I received a varied and very strange welcome to Germany. First off, the people were helpful and friendly (unexpected due to the stereotypes that everyone has set for Germans), every car on the train looked like it could be first class, even though it was only a regional rail, and we passed a rather chubby girl very blatantly changing in front of her window as the train raced by. The train could have been just a little bit faster right then in my opinion. Anyhow, as we passed the landscape, I couldn’t help thinking that Germany just looked like a more heavily settled part of Massachusetts, the state I hail from. However, darkness soon settled and, aside from losing the landscape, I also seemed to lose most of the fluent English speakers. It was as if they had all gone to bed with the sun and I was left in the center of Cologne, like in Rome, running around at night trying to find my hostel. At least this time I knew that I had one booked, but a booking doesn’t matter if you can’t find the place itself before check-in! The website had accurate directions to the hostel from the other train station in the city, but not from the one I arrived at, so I got to experience another confusing, stressful night as I ran through the student district to the main street, down some sketchier streets, back to the main street, past a church, ended up in the student district again, and then FINALLY found the hostel, all due to directions given in broken English/my own lack of German.
    After checking into the hostel, it didn’t matter that I was standing in the lobby of a well lit, clean, respectable establishment among friendly people. My heart was still racing from the run, hands still twitching and eyes alert as if waiting for someone to attack me. It was past 11pm and I had not taken that long day very well. I wandered into the dining room, hoping to find some food, and was disappointed. Before turning to leave though, I heard a familiar song come over the radio. I turned and stared at the speakers as they played “Hey There Delilah” and I felt my body loosen and muscles ease. I detest this song. I have always found its vocals annoying, the lyrics unimaginative and shallow, and the music itself just shy of boring. Yet it was familiar. To me that night, as I felt the bag on my back dragging into my shoulders, the smell of the city still in my nose, and the fear of missing check-in still fresh in my mind, that song could not have sounded more beautiful and relaxing to me than Faure’s Requiem. It was like a piece of home; a memory of safety, security, and stability. So there I stood, listening until the last generic, beautiful chord faded out.
    I was just settled into my room when another guy walked in. I started chatting with him and he introduced himself as Constantine, a Romanian come to Cologne to study the violin in university. After complimenting his name (I mean, really, that’s just a cool name that reminds me of Roman emperors and ancient cities), I discovered that he had an audition the next day for an international academy. He asked about me, so I told him about planning to study film production and then he asked how one got noticed in that industry. I told him about internships, the power of a good school’s name, and how, more importantly, you often need good connections. He said it was much the same with music and we both lamented how unfair it was that incompetent, well-connected people tend to get better jobs than the learned, able workers. Ten minutes later, a girl walked in and, once she introduced herself as someone from Colorado (what are the chances?), said that she was doing film production and her mother’s friend was a television producer, so this girl already has an internship. Now she’s transferring to UCLA, but got rejected from USC. Why? Because her grades were insufficient for USC (a lower tier school), but her aunt was a significant alumni of UCLA. Constantine and I shared a look and gave morose laughs. Again, what are the chances?
    Aside from trying to cool my frustration, the room was boiling and I’m pretty sure that I was coming down with a bug, so I drank enough water to drown a baby seal (or maybe an otter) between tossing and turning in bed, dreaming of a just world where meritocracy and pixies ruled. Hey, I did say that it was a dream. Don’t blame me if it’s weird.

Forget All Of You

I just got a copy of "Words of Radiance" by Brandon Sanderson. I know that you were expecting me to post a blog this week and I was half-way through writing it when this book came in. I'll try to finish it, say, during one of my history classes where we only revise our essays and coursework, but other than that, I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS BOOK FOR ALMOST A YEAR!!! FORGET ALL OF YOU! I'M READING THIS THING NOW!!!

Thank you and good night.

Play Ball!

    Our archery coach took us to the European Archery festival soon after Academy Day. We watched impossible seeming shooting, I learned a bit more about bows, decided that I was not interested in shelling out the money for a hobby (I already do that enough with singing and karate), and became horrifically nauseated on the bus, as per usual on any of these trips. Damn these narrow, winding English roads. I’m sorry Britain, but you’re just a mess of crisscrossing, smooshed-together roads and pavement that MIGHT have made sense three hundred years ago when they were still cowpaths. What was it Doug Stanhope said? “Hitler did his best to help the UK and level that country flat so that they could start over, like some extreme country makeover. And what’d the Brit’s do? They spat in Hitler’s face and built it back brick by brick exactly the way it was eleven hundred years ago when it didn’t make sense.” Thank you Doug. Screw you car sickness.
    Anyhow, the next day was when I was supposed to go to Manchester for a debating competition, but, between you and me, I just really didn’t feel like it. Aside from not wanting to miss a day of classes, I just couldn’t be bothered with it. I mean, debate’s fun and all and I want to go to Manchester, but I just don’t think that I would have gotten as much out of it as I would have by listening to my media teacher talk at the class for an hour or listen to students chatting and ignoring my English teacher… I think I made a terrible mistake. Opportunity for adventure and luxury: Strike out.
    WHY DIDN’T I GO TO MANCHESTER!?!? A note to any traveling student in England: Even if you actually have work to do that has any impact on your future (which I don’t this year), when a teacher offers to take you to Manchester for the day, letting you skip classes and travel and listen to a bunch of nerds have at each other AND if he offers free train fair and a pizza at the end of it all, GO TO MANCHESTER!!! Oh, and to you nerds out there, I do not use the title in a condescending manner. I identify as a geek myself and many of my friends are nerds. Settle down.
    So yeah, that happened. And two days later, I failed to redeem myself in competitive house debating in school, as my team lost miserably in an argument where we were in favor of keeping the internet around. I mean, how could anyone lose an argument like that, huh? If you have me on your team, that’s how.
    The next day, our English class departed for London to see “King Lear” (my personal favorite of Shakespeare’s plays) which, I can tell you, was not for free. Nor was the production as good as what I had seen in Boston last year, despite the larger budget and it being directed by Sam Mendes. Oh well, it was still good and entertaining. Aside from that, we walked about London for an hour, trying and failing to find a cheap or at least reasonably priced restaurant, with me annoying everyone else with insistent questions like “What’s that building?” or “Is that the London Eye?” or “Does anyone else feel like this tunnel is the kind of place where someone would be waiting to mug you at night?” It rained all day and of course I’d forgotten my umbrella. It doesn’t matter that everything I wore was water-proof. The main thing is that I missed another opportunity to be a gentleman and offer my umbrella to another, preferably a cute girl. I’d even set it aside that morning and everything. Oh well. Another opportunity to chat with a girl arose on the train ride back when one of my peers noticed me jotting some thoughts into my notepad (I carry it everywhere) and asked what I was writing about. When I said how I was taking some notes about an idea I’d just had to include in a book I’m trying to write, she asked me to explain it. Now, normally, I get ludicrously excited whenever someone asks me to describe my stories to them, especially this book, which I started last April. Hell, just ask my friend Hunter back home. I was quite literally jumping around his living room in elation as I talked about it for maybe fifteen minutes. I’m not even sure if I bothered to breathe as I bounced off of the walls. Well, remembering that, I tried not to get too excited this time and, also aware of how geeky I sounded (yes, this time it might have been a bad thing), I tried to dial it back. Instead of acting all cool as I’d intended, I sort of jumped around in fits and spurts of exhilaration, slowing and sometimes even stopping right in the middle of a thought. Glad as I was that she was paying attention, I was only too aware of how painfully awkward I was being. Opportunity for chatting with a girl: Strike two. She turned around for an instant and I pretended to forget my train of thought. When she turned back, I asked her about travel and soon we were browsing each others pictures on our phones and telling stories about them. Opportunity for chatting with a girl: Well, at least I hit the ball.

    The next day my history teacher, while lecturing us about Queen Elizabeth, was keen to explain the dangers of investing in exploration voyages, such as the ones going to the new world at the time. “This is a dangerous prospect, going into uncharted land,” he said. “Some of those ships may never come back. Some of them may be eaten by the natives.” He suddenly turned and stared right at me and I suddenly started to crave a haunch of wood-smoked history teacher. Instead, I had yogurt for lunch, which the English love pointing out to me is pronounced “yah-gert” not “yo-gurt.” I have yet to hear the end of this two months later.
    I visited the gym with one of my day-student roommates, Declan. When I started to drink some water from my bottle once we were back in our room, Declan grabbed the bottle and upended the whole thing in my mouth, holding it in place for the water to pour in. Not wanting to spill anything and somewhat motivated by the unspoken challenge, I began to chug. Now, have you ever noticed how everything is funnier when you either can’t breathe or are in mild pain? Well, aside from his chanting “Go go go” in my ear, he stopped to ask a question. “Is it coming out of your nose?” In any other situation, I’d probably just look at him as if he’d asked me if Germany was a part of Korea. Instead, in my suffocation-induced delirium, I cracked up. I sprayed water all over the room, getting his desk, the spare bed, and, of course, him. We were both laughing like maniacs until he noticed that I’d managed to soak his blazer too. Whoops.
    That night, I came down with a fever. Again. I have failed to mention this earlier, but I seem to have been sick every other week or so since I’ve been in England. Just when I thought myself safe for a while after three uninhibited weeks, it struck and, of course, the first thing that I ever lose is my voice. I had to miss all of school on Friday. Turns out Declan wasn’t too sore about the blazer, because he brought in his 3DS for me to mess with that morning without me knowing. When I came back to the room from six hours in sickbay, he and Sam leapt up to greet me, “Matt’s alive!” Declan said.
    “God damn it, Matt’s alive!” Sam exclaimed as they practically shoved me into my own bed, ordering me to heal. Declan then presented me with the 3DS and insisted that we were watching the latest episode of “Naruto” on my computer. Now, I don’t tend to watch much TV, anime, or play many video games anymore, but I’m a sucker for those semi-magical ninjas and “The Legend of Zelda.” Te he he. After they ensured that I wouldn’t be productive for the rest of the weekend, they left me to rediscover Hyrule and recover. The next day, I got another great present.
    I walked into our housemother’s room after breakfast for check in and I noticed a pet crate on the floor. “Um, Rebecca,” I asked. “What’s with the carrier-” I stopped short as a bowling-ball of fur poked its nose from around the corner of the arm chair. “Oh my God! Is that a rabbit?!” She said yes to me and I said to myself “Screw bed rest! Bunny rabbits take priority!” I sat in that room with some of the other guys for maybe three hours, chatting, coughing, and playing with Bobby the Rabbit. I don’t know about you guys, but I say that if there’s a new pet in the house, go mess with it no matter what. Then again, I’ve been kind of pet-starved since I came to England. I probably weird out the locals near Tescos when I ask every dog owner I meet if I can pet their animals. Who cares. The perturbed looks are totally worth it!
    Anyhow, I’m sick again as I write this, so I’m going to call it a night. Apparently I’m to see the doctor in the morning. Yay. After only becoming ill twice last year, this rapid succession of maladies is beyond frustrating. For your own sake, stay away from me. For my sake, some company wouldn’t be uncalled for. It’s a good thing that most of the guys in the dorms around here don’t seem to understand much about personal hygiene. They’re totally unconcerned with a bit of coughing and that suddenly suits me just fine.
    As a side note: A special “Thank you” to Vladimir Putin. “Thank you, Mr. Putin, for essentially invading the Ukraine. This was totally necessary! Just bring about World War Three while you’re at it, why don’t you?”
    Best of luck to the nationalists. Even with the rioting and corrupt government in Kiev, each country and its peoples have the right to sort out themselves and their ideals without external interference. I mean, how is a massive war going to profit anybody? I get that Russia has a history of  conquering to Ukraine for its farmland, but I thought we'd gotten past that after the Cold War! Strike one Russia. Anyhow, good night. Enjoy this sample of English humor that I found on the train.