traveling with friends

Everyone classifies their friends, into neat little groups to keep things simple. There are your friends from home, your friends from school, your friends from Spain. But beyond geographical distinction, there are your soccer friends, your Project Runway friends, your Lost friends (or friend, in this case). But still, one more category, perhaps the most important category: friends you can travel with. Yes, you may think you can travel with just about any one of your friends. After all, it's vacation! Time to relax, and who better to do it with than your friends? Well, there may in fact be many other people who are more qualified travel partners, if Rome is any example of the darker side of travel. Perhaps it was doomed to bickering as Miguel and I arrived on a flight after all the trains to Leo's house had stopped running. I mean, really, who wants to go home from Rome after 8:45? So, maybe it was the hectic last minute scrambling that started everyone off on the wrong foot. Or, perhaps it was the divergent itineraries. Miguel wanted to hit everything on the map, Leo wanted to do the opposite of whatever Miguel wanted to do, and I just wanted to eat anything that looked Italian. Day 1 started with two different plans, two different directions, and ended in two different opinions of what had happened. Put these three people in a small house 45 minutes outside of Rome...with ONE bathroom. If I had thought to bring a videocrew, we would now have a fantastic telenovela, or be three people and a hot tub short of Spain's first Real World. If I thought living with four other girls and one bathroom was difficult...there are no words to finish this sentence, to identify the anguish. I had no idea that guys need at least an hour to get ready. As the tug of war continued, arguments flared, and not in the passive aggressive girl way that I'm used to. There were no bitchy notes, or talking behind backs. Seething wordlessly was not really an acceptable method of combat, nor was heavy sarcasm. Unfamiliar territory, indeed. To keep the peace between the intense name-calling and ridiculous bet-making, I resorted to the old stand-bys: pastries. If your mouth is filled with delicious baked goods, can you really do anything but eat? And also alcohol. Surprisingly enough (or not really surprising at all), we got along great when drunk. The power of Italian wine. As agreed on by the group, this trip could have used more alcohol, more tranquilizers, more pastries, and less attitude. To move on, I can think of only one appropriate phrase: fugehdbowdit. Or something like that.

closed for vacation.

While my lapse in writing may seem strange to you hard-working Americans, I just want you to know: it's August, and Europe is on vacation. Small stores and restaurants are closed, the beaches are full of tourists, and the few that continue to work do so with groaning audible to the entire chilled-out population. Masquerading as a European, I went to the beach, braving the eight-hour bus from Madrid (in August, known as "the beachless ghost town) to Barcelona with Rebecca, former roommate, fellow fake European. Our trip began in near disaster, as we had decided to take an overnight bus to Barcelona, leaving at 1 am. As it was Rebecca's last night in Madrid, we had a nice, leisurely dinner starting at around 9:30...followed by a sprint through the metro system, back to my apartment to get the suitcase that I hadn't packed. This was then followed by more sprinting, barely making the last bus of the night. As we sat in our seats, sweating profusely, awaiting our departure and the beginning of eight fun-filled hours, we thought about how we probably wouldn't do this when we were older. My thought is, of course we wouldn't do this when we're older, because we would know better than to wait to the last minute to get to the bus station and really, to take a bus for eight hours overnight when you can fly for an hour and be done with it. Or to think that we would actually sleep on the bus, which made stops every two hours, complete with lights and announcements. However, coffee, along with some chocolate and churros, heals all wounds. One strange omelette thing later, we were off, leaping into sight-seeing Gaudí action, and then continuing our three-hour lunching tradition. While we definitely did not see everything Barcelona had to offer, we gave a valiant effort in eating as much as possible. I did my best to consume anything that remotely resembled a pastry, given Madrid's, uh, slightly lacking dessert scene. By dessert, I mean the piece of melon or apple they give you at the end of your meal and try to pass it off as a dessert. We sunbathed, drank in public, and meandered as though we had plenty of time. We did our best to embrace Spanish culture: sloowwww dowwwwnnnn. Done and done. After Rebecca left for the south of France, I pretty much laid on the beach for two days...just to make sure that we contributed enough chill. Isn't that what vacation is all about? Oh and don't expect anything too soon, I'm off to Italy, to visit a friend. Europe did get this vacation thing right.