You may have noticed that I haven’t posted a new blog in awhile (the “you” refers to my mom). Though the last two posts bemoaned the fact that finding a job during the Great Recession is tough, I now have a job, thus the lack of posting. I moved back to South Bend to work at a news station as a production assistant. It’s pretty bottom rung, but I love the work and the atmosphere of the news station, so I’ll just count it as a step toward my future.
Of course, moving to Indiana and starting a job is not without adventure. First, I had to find an apartment. South Bend apartments range from the run-down (recently busted for meth) to the over-priced ($1200/month for a one-bedroom!), but I finally managed to pick one that suited me perfectly. The complex itself has a castle theme, complete with turrets and flags and medieval-looking street lamps (or how I imagine street lamps would look in medieval times if they had electricity). The complex has about 700 apartments divided into sections with quirky little names like The Royal Huntsman’s Court, Coachman’s Trail, and The Royal Vineyards. I managed to score a prime spot in the best building—The Enchanted Forest. That’s right, I live in the Enchanted Forest. Giving my address to strangers at the post office or bank does not come without a smirk or a raised eyebrow. People want to add a “street” or a “road” to the end of the name, but my address is simply “The Enchanted Forest.” Songbirds fly in to dress me each morning and woodland creatures clean my apartment while humming catchy tunes. My mail is delivered on horseback and fairies prepare my meals. Good thing I don’t live on a second floor apartment, or else I would have to grow my hair out in order to have guests over.
In reality, my apartment is very cute and I’ve done a fairly good job of making it homey. I like living alone, except I have to have people over once in a while to bring me back to reality. Too much alone time, and I start losing sense of social graces. Living by myself definitely has it’s perks – watching whatever I want on TV, never having to wear pants, drinking milk straight out of the carton. However, it’s a little strange to laugh out loud by yourself while watching The Office. It’s even stranger when I’ve become so comfortable with it that I start talking to the TV. Every once in a while, I’ll take a step back, re-evaluate, and return to some sense of civility – I’ll put my pants back on, close the bathroom door while showering, stop singing what I’m doing, and open the blinds to give myself encouragement to stay this way. I keep thinking that getting a cat will improve my hermit-ways, but I don’t know if talking to a cat is much better than talking to a television.
To break in my apartment, I’ve had a few get-togethers, and they have been fairly successful. I’m getting better at cooking, though I still manage to make a mess doing the simplest things, like reheating soup on the stove. My first dinner party involved chili and Funfetti cake. The chili turned out great, and all was going well until I cut the cake. As a lifted a piece out of the pan, it pulled away a very noticeable and very long hair from the middle of the cake. Horrified, I pulled it out as quickly as possible, hoping no one would notice. I looked up to see John Minser staring at me, looking partially disgusted, and partially amused at my baking faux pas. I took that piece for myself, and made a mental note to more securely tie my hair back when cooking.
The job is going well, and I’m doing fine living on my own. It’s good to be back in South Bend, where I still have a lot of friends and am familiar with the area. Though I had hoped to end up in a big city (ideally Chicago), this is turning out to be a great transition. Now it’s time for me to go feed the unicorns that live outside my apartment…
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Decoding the Job Hunt
If you read my last post, you might begin to understand my frustration in job searching. But the broad reasons I gave are just the tip of the unemployed iceberg. There are countless annoying, ridiculous, senseless, and just plain stupid qualities of the job search that are present regardless of the job market. So if you are an undergrad and want to be discouraged out of graduating, or if you are employed and want to reminisce about how stupid interview etiquette is, then read on.
Emails (or, back in the “old days”, letters) sent to a potential employer must be written in a code that expresses what you want without really saying it. For example, if I am applying for a job at NBC, I send a cover letter that begins something like this:
“As a senior marketing and television major at the University of Notre Dame, I am interested in NBC’s East Coast Page Program. With its worldwide audience, variety of programming, and innovative achievements in new media, NBC is an ideal company to begin my career. I am specifically interested in the Page Program because of the opportunities it provides to explore different departments at NBC and because of its history of successful participants.”
So what did that really mean? Allow me to decipher for you:
“Dear NBC,
I am educated and unemployed. You are a thriving company. I will work for pennies. Hire me.”
Now what’s frustrating is that I can’t actually say that. It would save everyone a lot of time if I could just say, “Look, I have the skills and the education to do this job. Look at my resume and see for yourself. I want this job. Hire me.” But I can’t, because that is improper etiquette.
In the middle of the cover letter, I tout my skills and experiences with the help of a thesaurus because I’ve already used “skills” and “experience” 5 times. Basically, I elaborate on my resume, but wouldn’t a busy HR person rather just glance over my resume than read a lengthy paragraph about how I became so proficient in Final Cut Pro? It says in bold print on my resume that I am proficient in Final Cut Pro. Do they need proof? Is that the reason I need to explain exactly how I rose through the ranks of my college’s television station to become an editor extraordinaire?
Then there’s the last paragraph, which looks like this:
“If selected for the East Coast Page Program, I would commit myself to representing NBC with excellence and hard work. Thank you for your consideration. If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me at…”
Translation:
“Please please please please please please please hire me!”
So put it all together, and this is what a decoded cover letter is really saying:
“Hey you, I am educated and skilled. I want this job. Check out my resume. I’m begging for this job!”
Think of how much time we could all save if it were that simple? HR people could take longer coffee breaks. I could use the time I spent looking up synonyms for power adjectives to work on my reel. And at the end of the day, the best person would probably still get hired, because when it comes down to it, they will just look at your resume and who you know.
If you are lucky enough to get an interview, you must learn to speak this mysterious job etiquette code. First, you dress the part by wearing that suit you got for just such occasions, but since you’ve never worn it, you have to take the tags of and get used to how uncomfortable suits are. Then, you pack up your folder with your resume, references, and reel, and head on over to the office. This all sounds doable until you get in there and they ask you something ridiculous like “Why do you want this job?” They’re expecting an answer that flatters their company and expresses your childhood dreams of working at a production house in the old B.F. Goodrich warehouse, so that’s what you tell them. But etiquette aside, the answer would be, “Because I need to make money and gain experience wherever I can get it.” The game goes on for 15 minutes to 3 hours, however narcissistic the employer is, then you leave and wait for their hiring decision.
And you wait.
And wait.
Still waiting.
After a couple weeks of waiting, you haven’t heard a yay or nay from this company. You start to second-guess yourself. Did I flatter them enough? Did I compliment their floor tiling? Did I have a firm handshake? Was it weird that I was wearing a suit and they were wearing jeans? You need an answer, but calling and demanding one would be poor etiquette. So, you send an email that reads something like this:
“Dear Mr. Blank,
I am still very interested in the job opening with Company X. If there is anything else I can do to help with your decision, please do not hesitate to let me know. Thank you!”
Short, sweet, and completely false. By this time, you have given them your resume, cover letter, work samples, list of references, and you’ve taken the special test that all their employees have to take. Unless they need a neck message, there is absolutely nothing you can do to help with their decision. You know what this email really means, and so does the employer. It means, “I’m still here and unemployed!”
Finally, just when you’ve forgotten about the interview, they send you an email saying, “Thank you for applying to the position of X. We had a record number of applicants and can honestly say that the decision was very difficult. Unfortunately, we will not be able to hire you at this time. We will keep your record on file for any future openings.”
This is the job equivalent of “It’s not you, it’s me.” They did not have a record number of applicants, and the decision probably wasn’t that hard, but at least they tried to sugar coat a rejection. What they really mean to say is:
“This other kid was way better than you. Plus, his uncle works here. Sorry, but not really.”
And then the whole vicious cycle of etiquette and lies starts again.
Emails (or, back in the “old days”, letters) sent to a potential employer must be written in a code that expresses what you want without really saying it. For example, if I am applying for a job at NBC, I send a cover letter that begins something like this:
“As a senior marketing and television major at the University of Notre Dame, I am interested in NBC’s East Coast Page Program. With its worldwide audience, variety of programming, and innovative achievements in new media, NBC is an ideal company to begin my career. I am specifically interested in the Page Program because of the opportunities it provides to explore different departments at NBC and because of its history of successful participants.”
So what did that really mean? Allow me to decipher for you:
“Dear NBC,
I am educated and unemployed. You are a thriving company. I will work for pennies. Hire me.”
Now what’s frustrating is that I can’t actually say that. It would save everyone a lot of time if I could just say, “Look, I have the skills and the education to do this job. Look at my resume and see for yourself. I want this job. Hire me.” But I can’t, because that is improper etiquette.
In the middle of the cover letter, I tout my skills and experiences with the help of a thesaurus because I’ve already used “skills” and “experience” 5 times. Basically, I elaborate on my resume, but wouldn’t a busy HR person rather just glance over my resume than read a lengthy paragraph about how I became so proficient in Final Cut Pro? It says in bold print on my resume that I am proficient in Final Cut Pro. Do they need proof? Is that the reason I need to explain exactly how I rose through the ranks of my college’s television station to become an editor extraordinaire?
Then there’s the last paragraph, which looks like this:
“If selected for the East Coast Page Program, I would commit myself to representing NBC with excellence and hard work. Thank you for your consideration. If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me at…”
Translation:
“Please please please please please please please hire me!”
So put it all together, and this is what a decoded cover letter is really saying:
“Hey you, I am educated and skilled. I want this job. Check out my resume. I’m begging for this job!”
Think of how much time we could all save if it were that simple? HR people could take longer coffee breaks. I could use the time I spent looking up synonyms for power adjectives to work on my reel. And at the end of the day, the best person would probably still get hired, because when it comes down to it, they will just look at your resume and who you know.
If you are lucky enough to get an interview, you must learn to speak this mysterious job etiquette code. First, you dress the part by wearing that suit you got for just such occasions, but since you’ve never worn it, you have to take the tags of and get used to how uncomfortable suits are. Then, you pack up your folder with your resume, references, and reel, and head on over to the office. This all sounds doable until you get in there and they ask you something ridiculous like “Why do you want this job?” They’re expecting an answer that flatters their company and expresses your childhood dreams of working at a production house in the old B.F. Goodrich warehouse, so that’s what you tell them. But etiquette aside, the answer would be, “Because I need to make money and gain experience wherever I can get it.” The game goes on for 15 minutes to 3 hours, however narcissistic the employer is, then you leave and wait for their hiring decision.
And you wait.
And wait.
Still waiting.
After a couple weeks of waiting, you haven’t heard a yay or nay from this company. You start to second-guess yourself. Did I flatter them enough? Did I compliment their floor tiling? Did I have a firm handshake? Was it weird that I was wearing a suit and they were wearing jeans? You need an answer, but calling and demanding one would be poor etiquette. So, you send an email that reads something like this:
“Dear Mr. Blank,
I am still very interested in the job opening with Company X. If there is anything else I can do to help with your decision, please do not hesitate to let me know. Thank you!”
Short, sweet, and completely false. By this time, you have given them your resume, cover letter, work samples, list of references, and you’ve taken the special test that all their employees have to take. Unless they need a neck message, there is absolutely nothing you can do to help with their decision. You know what this email really means, and so does the employer. It means, “I’m still here and unemployed!”
Finally, just when you’ve forgotten about the interview, they send you an email saying, “Thank you for applying to the position of X. We had a record number of applicants and can honestly say that the decision was very difficult. Unfortunately, we will not be able to hire you at this time. We will keep your record on file for any future openings.”
This is the job equivalent of “It’s not you, it’s me.” They did not have a record number of applicants, and the decision probably wasn’t that hard, but at least they tried to sugar coat a rejection. What they really mean to say is:
“This other kid was way better than you. Plus, his uncle works here. Sorry, but not really.”
And then the whole vicious cycle of etiquette and lies starts again.
Monday, August 10, 2009
What the Class of '09 is Thinking
It's now been 3 months since I've graduated. I'm living at home with my parents, without a job, and have been out of contact with 20-somethings this entire summer. After working hard all throughout my school life--taking the right classes, getting good grades, going to the right school--I have not obtained what I had been promised--employment in my chosen field. My generation was brought up in a society of encouragement and can-do attitude, where we were promised that we could accomplish anything with a little hard work. Too bad the previous generations screwed that up for us. Now I, along with all the other marketing, political science, english, and other non-accounting majors out there, am stuck in life limbo. We have outstanding resumes, glowing recommendations, and great experience. We have dreams of apartments and city life inspired by Friends and Sex and the City. We have goals of career-oriented success that is symptomatic of my generation's competitive, ambitious, and somewhat entitled nature. Yet, most of us can't even get an interview.
Though the economy is the largest contributor to the class of 2009's plight, the system of job applications is also at fault. Help-wanted signs are not just posted in store fronts, but on websites as a sort of national casting call. When thousands of bright young hopefuls submit their well-polished resumes to the same job, it's the ones who are familiar to the HR director who get noticed. It's all about who you know, but in an age of instant communication, familiarity has many facets. There's the real-life in-person connections--coworkers, friends, family, professors. At this point in my job search, these sources have been tapped out. I've used all the advice they gave me and applied to the job openings they told me about, but nothing worked out. The next level is fellow alumni--using Facebook, LinkedIn, and the ND alumni directory, I can search and stalk any registered alum in any given field. The problem is, so can everyone else. These sources have also become tapped out--they are tired of giving advice, and quite frankly have no new advice to give in an economic situation they are trying to come to terms with themselves. While they would love to help a fellow alum, they simply can't. The third level of familiarity is everyone else in the world. Social networking sites make getting to know someone without their knowledge pretty easy. With just a name and company, I can find out the HR guy's favorite band, girlfriend's name, high school mascot, etc. So you could say that I know him. And if it's really all about who you know, shouldn't I get noticed among the thousands of resumes he has to sort through? It seems these sources are tapped out, too. I guess when your job is to look through all the applications that are flooding your inbox, it's just easier to hire your best friend's nephew than to look for the best person for the job.
Maybe now you are beginning to understand the frustration in unemployment. Granted, I have it much better than some--I am very fortunate to not have loans to pay off and to have parents who support me and let me live at home. This just isn't how I pictured my life at 22. My twenties are being wasted away in a high school throwback. I have potential; I've prepared for a career and now I'm ready to start one. I submit at least 30 applications a week. If I'm lucky enough to hear anything back at all, it's usually an automatic message that says the company isn't hiring at this time, but promising to keep my resume on file. I'm throwing all my personal information into cyberspace and none of it is boomeranging back. It all seemingly gets lost in this cyberspace abyss, though my junkmail has increased. I'm working every day to look for a job, and though I might not be finding anything, I am doing my best. Which leads me to the next section of this essay...
Don't tell me what I should be doing. This goes mostly out to my mom's friends, my dad's golf buddies, my grandma's church friends, the guy at the bank, the receptionist at the doctor's office, and everyone else who feels the need to put their 2-cents in. I realize I might sound cruel and unappreciative, and I know that most people bring up the job thing for lack of something to talk about, but please, talk about the weather instead. Here is my explanation:
1) Do not tell me what job search engines to use. Do you honestly think I haven't heard of mandy.com already? I have explored every crevice of the internet, so unless you just invented a job site that is guaranteed to hire me, don't bother.
2) Do not assume that because I majored in marketing, I want to go into sales. I am not a people-person (can't you tell?) and in this economic climate, sales is the last thing I want to do. Also, I want to go into videography or television production, so don't make me give up on that just yet.
3a) Do not say "It's all about who you know" and...
3b) Do not push your contacts on me. I have figured out by now that networking is key, but unless you personally know Al Roker, I don't care that your uncle's best friend's cousin has a quaint little marketing company in Kansas. Also, I don't like feeling like I owe you for something I didn't want in the first place.
4) Do not say "Man, I wish I had time like you have. Being unemployed sounds great." How insulting of you to think I want to be in this situation and that it's ideal or enjoyable for me to be squandering away untapped potential and thousands of dollars of education. You're job may be hard, but you have one in an economic climate when so many others don't.
5) Do not look at me with sympathy or treat me like I am pathetic. The worst part of this is feeling like a sad example of the nation's downturn. I am not pathetic. I am working on finding work. If I had graduated any other year, I would have work, so do not assume that I am lazy or unqualified or pathetic.
The moral of this story is don't bring up the job thing. If you truly have a connection or know of an opening in videography or television production, then by all means, let me know. Otherwise, this is my problem to solve, not yours. To all those in the same situation, this sucks, huh? We've been dealt a horrible hand, but I guess we just have to play it out. To quote one of the less annoying comments people make about my situation, "At least you're not alone." With more people applying to grad school, that option might be more difficult than expected, too. At least I have plenty of time to bump up those GRE scores...
Though the economy is the largest contributor to the class of 2009's plight, the system of job applications is also at fault. Help-wanted signs are not just posted in store fronts, but on websites as a sort of national casting call. When thousands of bright young hopefuls submit their well-polished resumes to the same job, it's the ones who are familiar to the HR director who get noticed. It's all about who you know, but in an age of instant communication, familiarity has many facets. There's the real-life in-person connections--coworkers, friends, family, professors. At this point in my job search, these sources have been tapped out. I've used all the advice they gave me and applied to the job openings they told me about, but nothing worked out. The next level is fellow alumni--using Facebook, LinkedIn, and the ND alumni directory, I can search and stalk any registered alum in any given field. The problem is, so can everyone else. These sources have also become tapped out--they are tired of giving advice, and quite frankly have no new advice to give in an economic situation they are trying to come to terms with themselves. While they would love to help a fellow alum, they simply can't. The third level of familiarity is everyone else in the world. Social networking sites make getting to know someone without their knowledge pretty easy. With just a name and company, I can find out the HR guy's favorite band, girlfriend's name, high school mascot, etc. So you could say that I know him. And if it's really all about who you know, shouldn't I get noticed among the thousands of resumes he has to sort through? It seems these sources are tapped out, too. I guess when your job is to look through all the applications that are flooding your inbox, it's just easier to hire your best friend's nephew than to look for the best person for the job.
Maybe now you are beginning to understand the frustration in unemployment. Granted, I have it much better than some--I am very fortunate to not have loans to pay off and to have parents who support me and let me live at home. This just isn't how I pictured my life at 22. My twenties are being wasted away in a high school throwback. I have potential; I've prepared for a career and now I'm ready to start one. I submit at least 30 applications a week. If I'm lucky enough to hear anything back at all, it's usually an automatic message that says the company isn't hiring at this time, but promising to keep my resume on file. I'm throwing all my personal information into cyberspace and none of it is boomeranging back. It all seemingly gets lost in this cyberspace abyss, though my junkmail has increased. I'm working every day to look for a job, and though I might not be finding anything, I am doing my best. Which leads me to the next section of this essay...
Don't tell me what I should be doing. This goes mostly out to my mom's friends, my dad's golf buddies, my grandma's church friends, the guy at the bank, the receptionist at the doctor's office, and everyone else who feels the need to put their 2-cents in. I realize I might sound cruel and unappreciative, and I know that most people bring up the job thing for lack of something to talk about, but please, talk about the weather instead. Here is my explanation:
1) Do not tell me what job search engines to use. Do you honestly think I haven't heard of mandy.com already? I have explored every crevice of the internet, so unless you just invented a job site that is guaranteed to hire me, don't bother.
2) Do not assume that because I majored in marketing, I want to go into sales. I am not a people-person (can't you tell?) and in this economic climate, sales is the last thing I want to do. Also, I want to go into videography or television production, so don't make me give up on that just yet.
3a) Do not say "It's all about who you know" and...
3b) Do not push your contacts on me. I have figured out by now that networking is key, but unless you personally know Al Roker, I don't care that your uncle's best friend's cousin has a quaint little marketing company in Kansas. Also, I don't like feeling like I owe you for something I didn't want in the first place.
4) Do not say "Man, I wish I had time like you have. Being unemployed sounds great." How insulting of you to think I want to be in this situation and that it's ideal or enjoyable for me to be squandering away untapped potential and thousands of dollars of education. You're job may be hard, but you have one in an economic climate when so many others don't.
5) Do not look at me with sympathy or treat me like I am pathetic. The worst part of this is feeling like a sad example of the nation's downturn. I am not pathetic. I am working on finding work. If I had graduated any other year, I would have work, so do not assume that I am lazy or unqualified or pathetic.
The moral of this story is don't bring up the job thing. If you truly have a connection or know of an opening in videography or television production, then by all means, let me know. Otherwise, this is my problem to solve, not yours. To all those in the same situation, this sucks, huh? We've been dealt a horrible hand, but I guess we just have to play it out. To quote one of the less annoying comments people make about my situation, "At least you're not alone." With more people applying to grad school, that option might be more difficult than expected, too. At least I have plenty of time to bump up those GRE scores...
Friday, July 24, 2009
Yahners vs. Europe Part 4: St. John's Pyrotechnic Party
At this point, you might be thinking "Geez, another installment of Yahners vs. Europe? Hasn't there been enough wacky European adventures?" Perhaps, and this same thought might have crossed each of our minds as we were on vacation, but we still have two more stops to make. Just deal with it and keep reading.
Our drive to the coastal towns of Cinqueterre started off fine. We navigated our way through the highway and to the main roads. When the streets got increasingly narrow and decreasingly even, things got a little dicey. We were using my GPS for directions, and so far, she had steered us correctly. But I should have known something would go wrong. She did once tell me to turn right at the end of a cul-de-sac, so I knew that she had a mean streak. We started driving through a very small town none of us had ever heard of when the GPS told us to turn right. The only street to the right was a narrow cobblestone alley that was too curvey to see where it led. Despite what now seems like an obvious mistake, we trusted the GPS, and to the shock of the old men sitting outside, enjoying their cappuccino, we went up the street. The road was so narrow that you could reach out of any window and touch a building. The people we passed gave us strange looks and it gradually dawned on us that this wasn't right. However, it was possible to turn around and the GPS kept encouraging us to go forward, so go forward we did. Pretty soon, we came to a dead end. The GPS insisted that the correct way to drive was through the house immediately in front of us, but we were sick of her shenanigans. After carefully maneuvering around, we were able to drive back down, where the old men were still sitting outside, probably wondering why the dumb Americans just drove up their neighbor's driveway.
Unfortunately, our driving woes did not end there. Though they weren't as narrow as the road we mistakenly took, the roads that actually led to the town were pretty tight. At one point, a van was coming the opposite direction and we both realized it would be impossible for us to pass each other. We stopped and waved the van on. The van stopped and backed up to let us through, but in doing so, backed off the road and got its back tire stuck in a ditch. Several Italians came from out of nowhere to help the poor van drivers, who turned out to be German tourists who spoke no Italian. We tried to help, but being American tourists who spoke little Italian and no German, we couldn't really do much. Dad tried helped in trying to push the van out of the ditch, but nothing worked. We felt bad for the German tourists stuck in the little town of Pignone with their paper road map, but there was nothing left for us to do. We turned on our GPS, carefully turned around, and tried once again to find our way to Cinqueterre.
After way too many extremely sharp turns and uphill climbs, we finally made it to the town of Monterooso al Mare, one of the 5 towns of the Cinqueterre. Our hotel was very modern and very close to the beach. Cinqueterre is beautiful, with clear blue water, colorful flowers, and hiking trails between each town. It was a nice place to relax during all our sightseeing.
Though they are beautiful, the beaches of Cinqueterre aren't your typical sandy beach. It is all rocks and the water is freezing, so getting up the courage to go swimming took a while. After walking barefoot on thousands of little stones, you would be struck by ice cold waves. Jumping in didn't make it better, and inching in just gave you more time to reason out why you shouldn't go in at all. The first day, nobody went in past their hips. The second day, my dad and I were determined to swim out to a big rock and jump off of it. After Alex decided he was too much of a pansy for this adventure and went back to the hotel, my dad and I edged into the water. We fought the cold and made it to the rock, which was kind of difficult to climb because it was so slippery. But jumping off was a ton of fun and made the effort totally worth it. After jumping I was all smiles and having fun until my dad said, "What happened to your face?!" Apparently, I'm not as cool as I think I am since I got a bloody nose upon hitting the water. Nevertheless, we jumped again (mostly so my mom could take pictures) then swam back to shore to warm up. Once at shore, my dad and I realized that the barnacles from the rocks had cut our legs up pretty badly and we were both bleeding. We are really hard core.
Our second night in Cinqueterre, we headed into the old part of Monterosso al Mare to see the celebration of the feast day of St. John the Baptist. It had started earlier in the day with a Mass and a concert in the church--typical religious stuff. Then, it progressed into not-so-typical religious stuff, including a sack race and fireworks. The fireworks display did not seem very well-prepared and was the most frightening fireworks show I've ever seen. After the local children placed floating candles in the sea (it was very beautiful), everyone gathered by the beach to watch the fireworks. I figured the fireworks would be going off at another beach. Wrong. The fireworks were being lit at the beach where the big crowd was. These fireworks were so close and so big it looked like we were being attacked. Not all the fireworks went up in the air. Some (mistakenly) shot off into the ocean or on the ground. While my mom and I cowered, Alex and my dad cheered. Amazingly, no one got hurt.
To continue the pyrotechnic spectacular, there was a giant bonfire the next night. It was held on the same beach that the fireworks were set off at and it was the biggest bonfire I've ever seen. It makes sense, though, since you know how St. John just loved bonfires...and fireworks...and sack races...
Even though we only stayed there for 2 nigts, I could go on and on about Cinqueterre. The seafood is delicious, as are the lemon products. The hiking is awesome (though a little steep sometimes). The scenery is beautiful, the towns are quaint, and the people are very friendly. It was nice to see a part of Italy I hadn't been to before, and especially nice that it hasn't been jaded by too much tourism yet. From Cinqueterre, we went to Rome--my favorite Italian city and the exact opposite of Cinqueterre.
Our drive to the coastal towns of Cinqueterre started off fine. We navigated our way through the highway and to the main roads. When the streets got increasingly narrow and decreasingly even, things got a little dicey. We were using my GPS for directions, and so far, she had steered us correctly. But I should have known something would go wrong. She did once tell me to turn right at the end of a cul-de-sac, so I knew that she had a mean streak. We started driving through a very small town none of us had ever heard of when the GPS told us to turn right. The only street to the right was a narrow cobblestone alley that was too curvey to see where it led. Despite what now seems like an obvious mistake, we trusted the GPS, and to the shock of the old men sitting outside, enjoying their cappuccino, we went up the street. The road was so narrow that you could reach out of any window and touch a building. The people we passed gave us strange looks and it gradually dawned on us that this wasn't right. However, it was possible to turn around and the GPS kept encouraging us to go forward, so go forward we did. Pretty soon, we came to a dead end. The GPS insisted that the correct way to drive was through the house immediately in front of us, but we were sick of her shenanigans. After carefully maneuvering around, we were able to drive back down, where the old men were still sitting outside, probably wondering why the dumb Americans just drove up their neighbor's driveway.
Unfortunately, our driving woes did not end there. Though they weren't as narrow as the road we mistakenly took, the roads that actually led to the town were pretty tight. At one point, a van was coming the opposite direction and we both realized it would be impossible for us to pass each other. We stopped and waved the van on. The van stopped and backed up to let us through, but in doing so, backed off the road and got its back tire stuck in a ditch. Several Italians came from out of nowhere to help the poor van drivers, who turned out to be German tourists who spoke no Italian. We tried to help, but being American tourists who spoke little Italian and no German, we couldn't really do much. Dad tried helped in trying to push the van out of the ditch, but nothing worked. We felt bad for the German tourists stuck in the little town of Pignone with their paper road map, but there was nothing left for us to do. We turned on our GPS, carefully turned around, and tried once again to find our way to Cinqueterre.
After way too many extremely sharp turns and uphill climbs, we finally made it to the town of Monterooso al Mare, one of the 5 towns of the Cinqueterre. Our hotel was very modern and very close to the beach. Cinqueterre is beautiful, with clear blue water, colorful flowers, and hiking trails between each town. It was a nice place to relax during all our sightseeing.
Though they are beautiful, the beaches of Cinqueterre aren't your typical sandy beach. It is all rocks and the water is freezing, so getting up the courage to go swimming took a while. After walking barefoot on thousands of little stones, you would be struck by ice cold waves. Jumping in didn't make it better, and inching in just gave you more time to reason out why you shouldn't go in at all. The first day, nobody went in past their hips. The second day, my dad and I were determined to swim out to a big rock and jump off of it. After Alex decided he was too much of a pansy for this adventure and went back to the hotel, my dad and I edged into the water. We fought the cold and made it to the rock, which was kind of difficult to climb because it was so slippery. But jumping off was a ton of fun and made the effort totally worth it. After jumping I was all smiles and having fun until my dad said, "What happened to your face?!" Apparently, I'm not as cool as I think I am since I got a bloody nose upon hitting the water. Nevertheless, we jumped again (mostly so my mom could take pictures) then swam back to shore to warm up. Once at shore, my dad and I realized that the barnacles from the rocks had cut our legs up pretty badly and we were both bleeding. We are really hard core.
Our second night in Cinqueterre, we headed into the old part of Monterosso al Mare to see the celebration of the feast day of St. John the Baptist. It had started earlier in the day with a Mass and a concert in the church--typical religious stuff. Then, it progressed into not-so-typical religious stuff, including a sack race and fireworks. The fireworks display did not seem very well-prepared and was the most frightening fireworks show I've ever seen. After the local children placed floating candles in the sea (it was very beautiful), everyone gathered by the beach to watch the fireworks. I figured the fireworks would be going off at another beach. Wrong. The fireworks were being lit at the beach where the big crowd was. These fireworks were so close and so big it looked like we were being attacked. Not all the fireworks went up in the air. Some (mistakenly) shot off into the ocean or on the ground. While my mom and I cowered, Alex and my dad cheered. Amazingly, no one got hurt.
To continue the pyrotechnic spectacular, there was a giant bonfire the next night. It was held on the same beach that the fireworks were set off at and it was the biggest bonfire I've ever seen. It makes sense, though, since you know how St. John just loved bonfires...and fireworks...and sack races...
Even though we only stayed there for 2 nigts, I could go on and on about Cinqueterre. The seafood is delicious, as are the lemon products. The hiking is awesome (though a little steep sometimes). The scenery is beautiful, the towns are quaint, and the people are very friendly. It was nice to see a part of Italy I hadn't been to before, and especially nice that it hasn't been jaded by too much tourism yet. From Cinqueterre, we went to Rome--my favorite Italian city and the exact opposite of Cinqueterre.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Yahners vs. Europe Part 3: I Would Give My Right Arm To Be In Tuscany
After picking up a rental car in Venice and figuring out how to make the built-in GPS speak English, we hit the highway, which was full of tunnels and speed racers. We made it to Siena, where we stayed at the Hotel Caterina. The hotel was beautiful, with a garden overlooking the Tuscan hills and rooms with the charm described in the many Tuscan travel books that are now so popular. After receiving a parking ticket, we figured out that we should park in the hotel's parking lot instead of at the bus stop. An American man staying at the hotel noticed Alex's ND hat and snorted "Notre Dame fan?" to which my brother replied, "Yeah, my sister just graduated from there." The angry man said, "Oh yeah, got a job yet?" "Umm, no, still looking. It's a tough market right now," I responded, trying to sound friendly and wondering what this guy's problem was. "Right, I guess," the man retorted. He then proceeded to tell me how he's such good friends with that travel book guy, Mike Steves. I'm assuming he meant Rick Steves because I get my close friends' names wrong all the time, too. Or perhaps Rick has a brother who writes a less popular travel book series. Whatever the case, the man dropped the Steves thing when I mentioned that I had met Rick Steves' son since he was in my class at ND. He then decided to tell me about how close he was with the Jenkins family. When he found out I didn't know any of the Jenkins kids who are currently students, he seemed a tad triumphant. We kept running into this guy throughout our stay and he kept being weird.
We spent our first night in Siena walking around the city, checking at the campo and watching a basketball tournament. Siena is really beautiful, and it was cool to see at night since I had only been there during the day before.
Since we had a car, we decided to do some traveling throughout Tuscany. The first trip we made was to Greve in the Chianti region. On our way out of Siena, we stopped at a gas station. Apparently, you can't pump your own gas in New Jersey because of the Italian influence. We were surprised when a man greeted us at our car and, not only pumped our gas for us, but also offered us some candy from a little dish. The way to Greve was not on a highway, but on curvy country roads. It was a very uncomfortable experience that left me wishing we had taken the train instead, but my dad is a great driver so we made it there in one piece (but perhaps a little greener...). Greve is a very cute town--small and quaint with lots of wine shops. We sampled some traditional Tuscan pasta with wild boar sauce and tasted some wine at one of the enotecas.
Later that night when we had gotten back to Siena, my brother and I went to the Torture Museum. I had previously been to the Torture Museum in San Gimignano, which has a focus on the death penalty, but this one's focus was on crime punishment. They are probably my favorite museums in Italy because they are so unique and nearly always empty and very accessible and entertaining.
The next day, we took a train to Florence, since we decided that driving to the city might get a little tricky. I warned against going to Florence--the city is jaded and has as many tourists as Rome with half the size. Siena's cathedral is prettier and Rome's food is better, so there's really nothing good about Florence (except that it's better than Pisa. Don't even get me started on that wasteland). Despite Florence's lack of authentic Italian charm, it is something you should see. We saw the David, which is quite impressive, and the Duomo, which is only impressive on the outside. The best part of the day was the Salvatore Ferragamo museum, which housed some of Ferragamo's most eccentric and elaborate creations, as well as the shoes of some famous actresses, such as Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn. The shoes were made of everything from antelope to zebra, including lizard, sea leopard, and sting ray. In case going to this museum made you feel too frivolous, the sign outside assured tourists that all proceeds go to funding annual scholarships for young shoe designers. I felt much more charitable after reading that.
In Florence, we also stopped at the Festival del Gelato--a huge gelato shop with tons of flavors. Feeling adventurous, I got rose flavored gelato. It tasted like soap.
At this point in our vacation, I began to notice something peculiar about the way my mother read information signs. She would look at it and ask me what it said. I would tell her, assuming she just couldn't see it. But then I noticed that she would ask me to read a sign to her when we were nearly on top of it, and then would seem impressed after I read it. It turns out she hadn't been noticing the English translations directly beneath the Italian description and thought I was really translating the written Italian quite well. I should have let her keep on thinking that, but being the kind, selfless person I am, I directed her to the English translations.
Our last Tuscan adventure was to Montelcino, a charming little hill town. We drove there, but thankfully, the roads were not as devil-may-care as the ones leading to Greve. The scenery along the way was gorgeous, with sprawling vineyards and hills dotted with cypress trees. The town itself was very hilly and had a medieval charm because of its fortress converted into an enoteca. Upon a friend's recommendation, we went to a little family-owned restaurant and got pici pasta with bread crumbs and olive oil. It was a delicious meal, complete with Barry White music playing the entire time.
The next day, we left Siena to head for Cinqueterre, but first we needed to see the cathedral. It's my favorite church in Italy because of its green and white striped marble and the beautiful frescoes. Though I had been to the cathedral before, something was new: at the altar there was a glass case with an elaborate object inside and a sign that simply said "Il Braccio Destro di San Giovanni Battista"--the right arm of St. John the Baptist. It was very cool, but kind of took us by surprise since we weren't expecting to see any dismembered saints that day. After seeing this, our time in Tuscany was complete and we headed to the coast.
We spent our first night in Siena walking around the city, checking at the campo and watching a basketball tournament. Siena is really beautiful, and it was cool to see at night since I had only been there during the day before.
Since we had a car, we decided to do some traveling throughout Tuscany. The first trip we made was to Greve in the Chianti region. On our way out of Siena, we stopped at a gas station. Apparently, you can't pump your own gas in New Jersey because of the Italian influence. We were surprised when a man greeted us at our car and, not only pumped our gas for us, but also offered us some candy from a little dish. The way to Greve was not on a highway, but on curvy country roads. It was a very uncomfortable experience that left me wishing we had taken the train instead, but my dad is a great driver so we made it there in one piece (but perhaps a little greener...). Greve is a very cute town--small and quaint with lots of wine shops. We sampled some traditional Tuscan pasta with wild boar sauce and tasted some wine at one of the enotecas.
Later that night when we had gotten back to Siena, my brother and I went to the Torture Museum. I had previously been to the Torture Museum in San Gimignano, which has a focus on the death penalty, but this one's focus was on crime punishment. They are probably my favorite museums in Italy because they are so unique and nearly always empty and very accessible and entertaining.
The next day, we took a train to Florence, since we decided that driving to the city might get a little tricky. I warned against going to Florence--the city is jaded and has as many tourists as Rome with half the size. Siena's cathedral is prettier and Rome's food is better, so there's really nothing good about Florence (except that it's better than Pisa. Don't even get me started on that wasteland). Despite Florence's lack of authentic Italian charm, it is something you should see. We saw the David, which is quite impressive, and the Duomo, which is only impressive on the outside. The best part of the day was the Salvatore Ferragamo museum, which housed some of Ferragamo's most eccentric and elaborate creations, as well as the shoes of some famous actresses, such as Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn. The shoes were made of everything from antelope to zebra, including lizard, sea leopard, and sting ray. In case going to this museum made you feel too frivolous, the sign outside assured tourists that all proceeds go to funding annual scholarships for young shoe designers. I felt much more charitable after reading that.
In Florence, we also stopped at the Festival del Gelato--a huge gelato shop with tons of flavors. Feeling adventurous, I got rose flavored gelato. It tasted like soap.
At this point in our vacation, I began to notice something peculiar about the way my mother read information signs. She would look at it and ask me what it said. I would tell her, assuming she just couldn't see it. But then I noticed that she would ask me to read a sign to her when we were nearly on top of it, and then would seem impressed after I read it. It turns out she hadn't been noticing the English translations directly beneath the Italian description and thought I was really translating the written Italian quite well. I should have let her keep on thinking that, but being the kind, selfless person I am, I directed her to the English translations.
Our last Tuscan adventure was to Montelcino, a charming little hill town. We drove there, but thankfully, the roads were not as devil-may-care as the ones leading to Greve. The scenery along the way was gorgeous, with sprawling vineyards and hills dotted with cypress trees. The town itself was very hilly and had a medieval charm because of its fortress converted into an enoteca. Upon a friend's recommendation, we went to a little family-owned restaurant and got pici pasta with bread crumbs and olive oil. It was a delicious meal, complete with Barry White music playing the entire time.
The next day, we left Siena to head for Cinqueterre, but first we needed to see the cathedral. It's my favorite church in Italy because of its green and white striped marble and the beautiful frescoes. Though I had been to the cathedral before, something was new: at the altar there was a glass case with an elaborate object inside and a sign that simply said "Il Braccio Destro di San Giovanni Battista"--the right arm of St. John the Baptist. It was very cool, but kind of took us by surprise since we weren't expecting to see any dismembered saints that day. After seeing this, our time in Tuscany was complete and we headed to the coast.
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Yahners vs. Europe Part 2: The Glass Island
Venice is a beautiful city, containing rich history, unique structure, and wonderful culture. However, what stands out most to me is Venice’s narrow, labyrinth-like streets. I guess when there are no cars, a grid-structure isn’t all that necessary. But after lugging suitcases around the cobblestone streets for an hour, trying to find our hotel, the charm of ancient streets had worn thin. We eventually found the hotel (and found out that we had been near it all along, just not on the direct street to it). Our hotel was over 1000 years old, though it had modern comforts. Still, my mom complained that it was “dingy” and continued to note that all the hotels in Italy seemed “old.” I guess when you come from a country that’s only about 250 years old, its tough to get used to hotels that have been built further back than you can track your ancestry.
After a long day of traveling and getting lost, we didn’t want to bother with searching for a good restaurant, so we picked the first one we saw. It was a horrible introduction into Italian food, because it did not taste like Italian cuisine—more like Beefaroni. I guess we had made the classic tourist mistake of going to a restaurant with a “tourist menu.”
The next day we made another classic tourist mistake—accepting a tour. Actually, we didn’t so much accept a tour as we were forced into it. While my mom and brother were still getting ready for the day, my dad and I went to the hotel front desk to ask what water taxi we should take to get to the island of Murano. Immediately, the man at the desk was on the phone and 5 minutes later, Paolo showed up, saying he was ready to take us to Murano. My dad and I just kind of stared at him for a second, not really knowing what to do. We didn’t want to pay for a taxi—a water bus would be just fine. However, we felt obligated to take the taxi since Paolo was already there, so my dad got the rest of the family and we followed Paolo out the door. It turns out that Paolo was not the taxi driver—his job was to lead us to Stefano, who would give us a private ride over to Murano. Once we reached Murano, we expected to pay Stefano and be on our way. However, as a scraggly looking Italian man helped us onto the dock and started talking about the glass gallery’s “promotional season,” we realized that we had gotten into more than just a taxi ride. We were given a private tour of the Marco Polo glass gallery—it was incredible to see the chandeliers being made and the endless amounts of glass sculptures throughout the gallery. We even got to meet the master craftsman who is the 6th generation to make gold etchings onto glass. It was all very lovely, but we couldn’t help feeling nervous the entire time about the cost of this tour. We hadn’t paid anyone yet and surely all three Italian men would get a cut. How much could this cost? 300 euro? 500 euro? The glass sculptures themselves were 1000s of euros, so a tour of the gallery must not be cheap. We tried to put that out of our minds and just enjoy the tour. We disappointed our guide when we didn’t buy anything, but after being bamboozled, we weren’t in a purchasing mood.
After exploring more of the island of Murano (which is mostly just glass galleries), my mom found a vase she really liked and bought it. The man selling it wrapped it up in about 50 layers of tissue paper and bubble wrap even though he said the glass was like “Bruce Willis because it is unbreakable.” The rest of the photos from that day make it look like we adopted a little Venetian baby, all wrapped up in blankets.
We saw all the traditional sites of Venice—St. Mark’s Square, the Realto Bridge, the Cathedral, etc. After spending 2 days in Venice, we checked out of our hotel and waited to see the damage done to our bill by the glass tour. There was no charge. Turns out we weren’t as hoodwinked as we thought. Every purchase after that was justified by “Well, we got that tour for free so…”
After a long day of traveling and getting lost, we didn’t want to bother with searching for a good restaurant, so we picked the first one we saw. It was a horrible introduction into Italian food, because it did not taste like Italian cuisine—more like Beefaroni. I guess we had made the classic tourist mistake of going to a restaurant with a “tourist menu.”
The next day we made another classic tourist mistake—accepting a tour. Actually, we didn’t so much accept a tour as we were forced into it. While my mom and brother were still getting ready for the day, my dad and I went to the hotel front desk to ask what water taxi we should take to get to the island of Murano. Immediately, the man at the desk was on the phone and 5 minutes later, Paolo showed up, saying he was ready to take us to Murano. My dad and I just kind of stared at him for a second, not really knowing what to do. We didn’t want to pay for a taxi—a water bus would be just fine. However, we felt obligated to take the taxi since Paolo was already there, so my dad got the rest of the family and we followed Paolo out the door. It turns out that Paolo was not the taxi driver—his job was to lead us to Stefano, who would give us a private ride over to Murano. Once we reached Murano, we expected to pay Stefano and be on our way. However, as a scraggly looking Italian man helped us onto the dock and started talking about the glass gallery’s “promotional season,” we realized that we had gotten into more than just a taxi ride. We were given a private tour of the Marco Polo glass gallery—it was incredible to see the chandeliers being made and the endless amounts of glass sculptures throughout the gallery. We even got to meet the master craftsman who is the 6th generation to make gold etchings onto glass. It was all very lovely, but we couldn’t help feeling nervous the entire time about the cost of this tour. We hadn’t paid anyone yet and surely all three Italian men would get a cut. How much could this cost? 300 euro? 500 euro? The glass sculptures themselves were 1000s of euros, so a tour of the gallery must not be cheap. We tried to put that out of our minds and just enjoy the tour. We disappointed our guide when we didn’t buy anything, but after being bamboozled, we weren’t in a purchasing mood.
After exploring more of the island of Murano (which is mostly just glass galleries), my mom found a vase she really liked and bought it. The man selling it wrapped it up in about 50 layers of tissue paper and bubble wrap even though he said the glass was like “Bruce Willis because it is unbreakable.” The rest of the photos from that day make it look like we adopted a little Venetian baby, all wrapped up in blankets.
We saw all the traditional sites of Venice—St. Mark’s Square, the Realto Bridge, the Cathedral, etc. After spending 2 days in Venice, we checked out of our hotel and waited to see the damage done to our bill by the glass tour. There was no charge. Turns out we weren’t as hoodwinked as we thought. Every purchase after that was justified by “Well, we got that tour for free so…”
Sunday, July 05, 2009
Yahners vs. Europe Part 1: The Hills Are Alive
Ever since I spent a semester abroad in Rome, my family has been planning a trip to Europe to experience the sites for themselves. The time for the great Yahners in Europe adventure came on June 11th, or so we had planned. We arrive at the Cleveland airport in plenty of time to make our flight to Philadelphia, where we would get a flight to Munich. Unfortunately, due to weather on the east coast, our flight to Philly had been delayed nearly 4 hours already, which would cause us to miss our connection. Super. So, after some pouting and rebooking for the next day, we grabbed our suitcases and went home. It was kind of a huge let down since we had totally closed the house down—shut all the doors, gotten rid of all the food, set up our vacation answering machine. Fortunately, our flight the next day was not cancelled or delayed and we made it to Philly in time to catch our flight to Munich. What’s even more exciting is that we saw Al Roker of the Today Show in the Cleveland airport. Alex said it was a sign that I was supposed to talk to him and ask him for a job. Though Al Roker seems much nicer than Matt and definitely nicer than Ann, I was too nervous to bother America’s favorite weatherman.
We arrived in Munich and hit the ground running since we now only had one day in the city. Our main goal was to find the statue of Maximillion II. My great grandparents used to live near Munich and owned some sweet nightclubs. I guess these nightclubs were so cool, that the guy who designed the statue of Max that would go in the square gave my great (or great great?) grandparents the original model. This model now sits in my grandmother’s house and before we left my mom was looking at it and almost broke it. When I had visited Munich, I searched for the Max statue but did not find it. After asking the concierge at the hotel about it and consulting a map, we finally found Max. The statue is permanently in the middle of a square, but currently in the middle of some sort of carnival. It was difficult to get a picture with him with all the food tents and beer steins around us, but it was cool to see the giant version of what we’ve always been forced to admire at Oma’s house.
We were so exhausted from the flight that we needed to take a nap. However, my dad can’t nap or sit still ever, so he went down to the lobby and made a new German friend—Peter—who bought him a beer. I was actually surprised at how much German my dad remembered from his summer studying in Austria, but he did pretty well, or at least pretended to and we didn’t know the difference because none of us speak a word of German.
After a day in Munich, we took the train to Salzburg, Austria. The first thing we did there was take the Sound of Music tour because we are tourists and love busses. The tour was actually very nice and focused more on seeing sites around Austria than it did on just the movie. However, during the bus ride from place to place, they blared songs from the film as loudly as if they were a rap song with some heavy base. My eardrums were nearly shattered by an overly loud rendition of My Favorite Things. The best thing about the bus tour was Barbara. Barbara was cranky and apparently didn’t really want to go on the Sound of Music tour, though I don’t know how you could mistakenly get on this tour thinking it was something else considering the side of the bus had a giant picture of Julie Andrews singing her heart out. Barbara continuously complained to her spineless husband that she wanted off this bus immediately and wanted to take a different bus tour. At one point, the bus started slowing down due to traffic and Barbara started to get up, saying “Let’s get off now, come on,” but the husband advised her to wait until the bus actually stopped moving and got to a parking spot before she debussed. Finally, after much complaining to her husband and the tour guide, Barbara was let off in the middle of the street where she wandered off to something else to complain about.
During our next day in Salzburg, we took a lift up to the top of a mountain to see some great views and do some hiking. Since it was so high up, the air was pretty thin and the hiking was a little difficult. Therefore, when Alex asked my mother to hike a little more down the trail, she refused. He tried convincing her by saying, “But there’s a cross up ahead. We could just go to there.” She responded with, “I don’t care if God himself is up there, I’m not hiking up that hill.” And that was that.
The steep incline and thin air was not the only thing plaguing my mother on the top of the Austrian mountain. There were also large black birds flying around that, according to her, would peck your eyes out given the chance. When one bird landed close to us, I got my camera out to take a picture. Just as I was setting up the shot, something scared the bird and it flew away. I looked over to my mom who had several more rocks in her hands, prepared to throw at any more dangerous birds that should come our way.
Though the views were enough to keep us occupied on the mountain, there were also signs with old Austrian folklore on them, mostly having to do with gnomes. The tales made little sense and didn’t really have a moral at the ending. They were mostly just about hikers finding gnomes and then these gnomes might be nice, or they might be mean, or they might just go on their merry way. Obviously, the Austrians are still working on the craft of story telling.
Once we went down the mountain, we went to the Mirabelle Gardens, where my mom made us reenact some scenes from the Sound of Music and we had a contest to see who could name all the Von Trapp children (no one got more than 2). We also visited the Augustiner, where my dad regaled us with tales from his youth studying abroad, which inspired my mother to tell stories of her youth studying in Ellet. All of the stories were unwelcome by my brother and me.
After eating lots of pretzels and sausage (which my mother described as looking like baby belugas), gazing upon the snow capped mountains, and hearing more about the Sound of Music than I ever cared to, it was time to leave the German speaking region and head onto Italy. According to my dad, this also mean it was time for me to “remember all that Italian because that’s the only reason we brought you on this trip.” Ah, family memories.
We arrived in Munich and hit the ground running since we now only had one day in the city. Our main goal was to find the statue of Maximillion II. My great grandparents used to live near Munich and owned some sweet nightclubs. I guess these nightclubs were so cool, that the guy who designed the statue of Max that would go in the square gave my great (or great great?) grandparents the original model. This model now sits in my grandmother’s house and before we left my mom was looking at it and almost broke it. When I had visited Munich, I searched for the Max statue but did not find it. After asking the concierge at the hotel about it and consulting a map, we finally found Max. The statue is permanently in the middle of a square, but currently in the middle of some sort of carnival. It was difficult to get a picture with him with all the food tents and beer steins around us, but it was cool to see the giant version of what we’ve always been forced to admire at Oma’s house.
We were so exhausted from the flight that we needed to take a nap. However, my dad can’t nap or sit still ever, so he went down to the lobby and made a new German friend—Peter—who bought him a beer. I was actually surprised at how much German my dad remembered from his summer studying in Austria, but he did pretty well, or at least pretended to and we didn’t know the difference because none of us speak a word of German.
After a day in Munich, we took the train to Salzburg, Austria. The first thing we did there was take the Sound of Music tour because we are tourists and love busses. The tour was actually very nice and focused more on seeing sites around Austria than it did on just the movie. However, during the bus ride from place to place, they blared songs from the film as loudly as if they were a rap song with some heavy base. My eardrums were nearly shattered by an overly loud rendition of My Favorite Things. The best thing about the bus tour was Barbara. Barbara was cranky and apparently didn’t really want to go on the Sound of Music tour, though I don’t know how you could mistakenly get on this tour thinking it was something else considering the side of the bus had a giant picture of Julie Andrews singing her heart out. Barbara continuously complained to her spineless husband that she wanted off this bus immediately and wanted to take a different bus tour. At one point, the bus started slowing down due to traffic and Barbara started to get up, saying “Let’s get off now, come on,” but the husband advised her to wait until the bus actually stopped moving and got to a parking spot before she debussed. Finally, after much complaining to her husband and the tour guide, Barbara was let off in the middle of the street where she wandered off to something else to complain about.
During our next day in Salzburg, we took a lift up to the top of a mountain to see some great views and do some hiking. Since it was so high up, the air was pretty thin and the hiking was a little difficult. Therefore, when Alex asked my mother to hike a little more down the trail, she refused. He tried convincing her by saying, “But there’s a cross up ahead. We could just go to there.” She responded with, “I don’t care if God himself is up there, I’m not hiking up that hill.” And that was that.
The steep incline and thin air was not the only thing plaguing my mother on the top of the Austrian mountain. There were also large black birds flying around that, according to her, would peck your eyes out given the chance. When one bird landed close to us, I got my camera out to take a picture. Just as I was setting up the shot, something scared the bird and it flew away. I looked over to my mom who had several more rocks in her hands, prepared to throw at any more dangerous birds that should come our way.
Though the views were enough to keep us occupied on the mountain, there were also signs with old Austrian folklore on them, mostly having to do with gnomes. The tales made little sense and didn’t really have a moral at the ending. They were mostly just about hikers finding gnomes and then these gnomes might be nice, or they might be mean, or they might just go on their merry way. Obviously, the Austrians are still working on the craft of story telling.
Once we went down the mountain, we went to the Mirabelle Gardens, where my mom made us reenact some scenes from the Sound of Music and we had a contest to see who could name all the Von Trapp children (no one got more than 2). We also visited the Augustiner, where my dad regaled us with tales from his youth studying abroad, which inspired my mother to tell stories of her youth studying in Ellet. All of the stories were unwelcome by my brother and me.
After eating lots of pretzels and sausage (which my mother described as looking like baby belugas), gazing upon the snow capped mountains, and hearing more about the Sound of Music than I ever cared to, it was time to leave the German speaking region and head onto Italy. According to my dad, this also mean it was time for me to “remember all that Italian because that’s the only reason we brought you on this trip.” Ah, family memories.
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