tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2548182448442045002024-03-13T14:39:00.041+00:00The Loch Tess MonsterTess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.comBlogger59125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-40116208659370135452012-08-15T23:22:00.003+01:002012-08-16T14:48:09.219+01:00You say tomato...<div style="text-align: center;">
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You can't find tomatoes like these in Edinburgh or Minnesota. </div>
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That's right, I've moved yet again.</div>
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Ever since June, I haven't managed to stay in one place for more than a fortnight. Iceland to Scotland to Germany to Scotland to The Lake District to Scotland to Minnesota to New York City to Minnesota and now to....</div>
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COLUMBIA, MISSOURI! </div>
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I often get asked, "Why Missouri?" Sometimes in language more colorful than this produce.</div>
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The answer: grad school. It's been less than two months since I graduated college, yet I'm already in grad school. It's exhausting just thinking about it, but that's what coffee is for. I'll be needing a lot of it for my latest academic endeavor, journalism. </div>
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It seems obvious now, but it took me until my second to last semester of undergrad to realize that the one constant in my college career was journalism. I may not have stayed in the same country, but I wrote on every paper or blog that they would let me put my byline on, so it was time to make it professional. Hence I'm currently down in Columbia getting a master's in magazines at University of Missouri (called Mizzou fondly or cult-like depending on how you see it.)<br />
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I know I'll fit in here because Mizzou's colors are black and "MU Gold" or what I like to refer to (and wear too much of) as mustard. <br />
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I haven't felt this enthusiastic about something in awhile and not just because it means I'm staying in the same spot for two years as opposed to my two week habit. </div>
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Obviously, this means this blog will change a bit. I suppose it can no longer be considered a "travel blog" and I might have to retire the beloved Loch Tess moniker since I'm nowhere near a loch, let alone a lake right now.</div>
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I'm still working on another pun. So far my best is "In the Boonies," but that won't help me make friends in Missourah (by the way, according to my new friend from St. Louis, no one actually says Missourah except people who aren't from it. Therefore, I will only use it ironically. I'm a hipster after all.)</div>
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As for the blog's direction, it's now more of a life style blog,
although I hesitate to use that term because I'm not planning to post on
how to raise children or can things. Expect what it's like to live in CoMo (still not sure if I can get behind this acronym), traveling (I've already been to the State Fair!), and whatever else I can scrounge up between reporting real news. You can read my first story as a real newswoman h<a href="http://www.columbiamissourian.com/stories/2012/08/14/william-foley-enjoyed-singing-spending-time-family/">ere. </a><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My fellow j-school classmate, Gwen, sporting her farmers' market find.</td></tr>
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These photos are from the Columbia Farmers' Market, which is thus far my favorite thing about the city. If heirloom tomatoes had a lineage, I'd join. Sorry, terrible tomato joke. Turns out the farmers are actually better at marketing:</div>
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Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-86281366391169969392012-07-09T18:42:00.000+01:002012-07-09T19:05:21.327+01:00Fit for a King<br />
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Just an hour away from Berlin lies a city where art is in statue form,
not graffiti and the biggest controversy was a windmill (okay, I'm downplaying the city's history just a bit, but more on that
later.) Welcome to Potsdam, a pastoral retreat from Berlin for over 300 years. </div>
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Both Anneke and Caroline wanted to show me their version of Potsdam, so I
went twice. Each trip was emblematic of the friendship I have with each
girl. Anneke and I had a royally good time frolicking throughout
nature and historically sight seeing Fredrick the Great's many palaces. Meanwhile, Caroline and I did what we do best, cafe crawled.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Welcome to my humble abode.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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Anneke and I had an argument over semantics about the difference between
a castle versus a palace. I claimed that a castle was a defensive
fortress, whereas a palace was a place for monarchs to demonstrate their
affluence and power, conspicuous consumption at its finest. Sure
enough, Fredrick the Great built The New Palace after The Seven Years
War to glorify Prussia. It was only used to impress other monarchs and
foreign dignitaries, who were probably overwhelmed by the baroque
architecture into agreeing into whatever Fred wanted. <br />
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This is the entrance to the Sanssouci Gardens, or Fred's version of Epcot in my opinion. There are Roman Baths, a Chinese Pagoda, and bucolic fields that make you believe you're in rural Germany, so why bother leaving?<br />
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Sanssouci was Fred's summer palace for a laid back time away from the ostentation of the Berlin court. Yes, this palace isn't conspicuous at all. A rival of Versailles, sans souci translates to "without concerns" in French, although I'm sure Fred's royal gardeners would beg to differ. A weekend up north at the cabin hardly compares. <br />
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This windmill may look quaint, but it caused quite the controversy at the time it was built (note: this isn't the original windmill, which burned down in the 1940s and had to be reconstructed.) According to my tour guides, Fred's architect mislead him into believing the windmill would be quiet. Fred was so perturbed by the noise that he tried to sue his architect for lying to him. He didn't win. It's hard to be King of Prussia sometimes. <br />
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If only I could "travel by map" like in "The Muppets" because the actual park took over an hour to walk through.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Dutch Quarter of Potsdam.</td></tr>
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Caroline and I cafe crawled throughout many country's cuisines: Austrian cakes, Mexican hot chocolates, and eventually French crepes (not pictured because sometimes I do actually eat my food, not just photograph it.)</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two of my favorite words in the German language.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And you thought frappucinos were decadent.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As Caroline said, why go to Vienna when you can get their delicious cakes in Germany? </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Potsdam, formerly part of East Germany, didn't always look so adorable. The city gained international fame when it was used for the post-WWII Potsdam Conference, but became isolated during the Cold War. The Berlin Wall cut the city off from West Berlin and made getting to East Berlin an ordeal, cloistering Potsdam away. The GDR tried to rid the city of signs of Prussian militarism and successfully demolished what Potsdam is famous for in the process. After the fall of the Wall, a period of re-establishment occurred: Potsdam became the capital of Brandenburg again and its famous landmarks were restored. <br />
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This is my last post about Berlin. I raise a toast of cocoa to my generous hostesses, Anneke and Caroline, for making sure I was well-fed in baked goods, properly cultured at local festivals and museums, and able to navigate the Berlin public transportation system and German language. My futon is always open back in the Midwest, where I can introduce you to the culinary delicacy that is the cheese curd. <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jHRxf8Ymwt0/T_r3gHVFeaI/AAAAAAAACP0/naBp98WG6Jk/s1600/DSC_0449.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jHRxf8Ymwt0/T_r3gHVFeaI/AAAAAAAACP0/naBp98WG6Jk/s400/DSC_0449.JPG" width="265" /></a> </div>Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-71643541776017465412012-07-05T20:10:00.002+01:002012-07-09T19:05:59.629+01:00Waffling Around Berlin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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After June 14, I had nowhere to live.<br />
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Inexplicably, my university owned flat lease ended mid-June, despite how my graduation wasn't until late June, and I thought I was bad at math. With not even a couch to call my own, I decided to sleep on a friend's. So I temporarily "moved" to Germany for eight days, after all it had sun to Edinburgh's rain and gave me the chance to reunite with my two good friends, Anneke and <a href="http://booksbakingberlin.blogspot.de/">Caroline</a>.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anneke pictured at one of our many waffle outings.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Caroline pictured on the foundation of our friendship, the cafe crawl.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm no longer the wide-eyed tourist.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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This was my second trip to Berlin. Last September, I played tourist-<a href="http://lochtess.blogspot.com/2011/09/auf-deutsch-bitte.html"> seeing </a>the Brandenburg Gate, <a href="http://lochtess.blogspot.com/2011/09/es-schmeckt-gut.html">drinking </a>in beer gardens, <a href="http://lochtess.blogspot.com/2011/09/in-memorium.html">contemplating</a> the city's history, <a href="http://lochtess.blogspot.com/2011/09/berlin-ist-arm-aber-sexy.html">discovering </a>its alternative art world, and <a href="http://lochtess.blogspot.com/2011/09/deutschland-in-details.html">falling in love </a>with its edgy but inviting personality (click the links to read my posts from that trip).
This June, I wanted to live in Berlin like the locals did and luckily , I had some of the most accommodating natives to show me how
that was done. </div>
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Firstly,
you must embrace public transportation because Berlin is a huge city and every type is available:
trains, metros, trams, buses...I'm sure Berlin will be the first to get
flying cars at this rate. Make sure to bring some patience (or at least a book to read) because I took up to two hours of public transport a day. Thankfully, the trains are more punctual than Alice in Wonderland, but if you're running late, the stations are so well equipped you could live in them for weeks.
They even have bakeries open at midnight, which I took advantage of for a
late night cake, of course. Berlin understands my needs.</div>
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Next, find a neighborhood you want to make your own and eat accordingly. <img border="0" height="265" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ATNR0iuvOyU/T_OTf-b-g1I/AAAAAAAACG4/X18SwLotoJ0/s400/DSC_0390.JPG" width="400" /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Wt-H0AwPPKA/T_OTeo_-M8I/AAAAAAAACGw/4bfoORGaGM8/s1600/DSC_0175.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Wt-H0AwPPKA/T_OTeo_-M8I/AAAAAAAACGw/4bfoORGaGM8/s400/DSC_0175.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Kreuzberg has been evolving along with the city. Although only formed as an official Berlin borough in the 1920s, it's been through more cultural shifts in a century than most country's have in their entire history. Before WWII, Kreuzberg was the center of Berlin's industry and newspapers, but the area was left bombed out and enclosed by the Berlin Wall on three sides afterward. The Wall didn't stop the alternative scene from getting in, so Kreuzberg became the epicenter of Berlin's punk rock scene. After the Wall fell, more people poured in, making Kreuzberg the youth capital of Berlin and home to a burgeoning rap scene, dive bars, and the hipsters that come with it. </div>
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Sure enough, the activities Anneke and I partook in when roaming around Kreuzberg fit the hipster bill- we saw her friend's graphic design show, ate vegetarian kebabs pictured above (yes, they exist and may be even better than the original),went to a very loose adaptation of <i>Alice in Wonderland</i> at the English Theatre, and capped it off with a beer at laid back bar that would be crawling with scensters in any other city, but because these places are everywhere in Berlin, you can actually enjoy a nice beer and conversation.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Since it's Germany, they serve pretzels not bar nuts.</td></tr>
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Right next door is Friedrichshain. With a similarly war torn history, Friedrichshain is now gentrified: full of cup cakeries, cafes, and a surprising amount of Americans. </div>
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The neighborhood makes for a fun stroll, with five new restaurants to try on every street or snarky graffiti in every corner.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I did indeed take this advice.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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My favorite neighborhood is Prenzlauer Berg, a rare borough that hasn't changed much since its inception in the late 19th century. Developed as a home to artists and intellectuals, the population largely remains the same and lives in the original buildings, which managed to survive both WWII and post-war re-development. </div>
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However, I go for the waffles.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Breakfast always", this is my kind of place.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A vanilla waffle drenched in custard and cherries. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anneke's vanilla AND chocolate waffle, is that legal? With applesauce and cinnamon. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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To be patriotic, Anneke and I tried to keep up with the Euro 2012 and went to Prenzlauer Berg to find a bar to watch the Germany/Denmark match since public viewings are a great way to feel part of the Berlin community. Except, we are so obsessed with the waffles at Kauf Dich Glucklich that we ended up watching there. Yes, soccer and waffles, it's almost blasphemous. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At least I ordered a beer to be slightly less girly.</td></tr>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Nc0Uduksz6s/T_XU5Ayo9HI/AAAAAAAACJ8/FKWYmK3oduE/s1600/DSC_0172.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H-oby09Phqs/T_XU6qI2KFI/AAAAAAAACKE/CXtWeXyXiLE/s1600/DSC_0180.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IXk9wN3TKZ4/T_XiDztxM3I/AAAAAAAACLo/_-rl2pG4hjU/s1600/DSC_0378.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IXk9wN3TKZ4/T_XiDztxM3I/AAAAAAAACLo/_-rl2pG4hjU/s400/DSC_0378.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Of course, we had to order another waffle. This one is a chocolate waffle with bananas.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anneke, feeling slightly smug about our public viewing location. </td></tr>
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Finding a neighborhood I love is something that takes me quite awhile in a city I live in, but to find my favorite neighborhood in a foreign city in less than a week is almost a miracle. Fortunately, Berlin has a lot of choices and I had lovely hosts to help me narrow it down. <br />
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</div>Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-5354587902795725642012-07-02T17:45:00.005+01:002012-07-02T17:51:10.431+01:00We come from the land of the ice and snow, From the midnight sun where the hot springs flow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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On most vacations, your biggest concern is remembering to reapply sunscreen. In Iceland, not only do you have to worry about the midnight sun and geysers burning you, but volcanoes erupting, falling into craters, continental rifts, and glaciers. There isn't vacation insurance for this, so bring along your sturdiest hiking shoes and a hearty viking attitude instead.</div>
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<b>THE BLUE LAGOON</b> </div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-286xRLluOhE/T_G34wVgUoI/AAAAAAAACCU/0c7yuTpinLQ/s1600/IMG_0952.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-286xRLluOhE/T_G34wVgUoI/AAAAAAAACCU/0c7yuTpinLQ/s400/IMG_0952.JPG" width="400" /></a> </div>
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I know it looks like Lexie and Kathryn are on Neptune, but it's actually the Blue Lagoon. As one of Iceland's famous hot springs, The Blue Lagoon is like a giant hot tub, but one that's totally natural and smells of sulfur. Consequently, it's like no other spa experience. We covered our faces with a silica mud mask and scrubbed them with volcanic ash all while swimming around in the saltiest hottest natural water I've ever been in. </div>
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<img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LFYOuqpJ3Ko/T_G31nd6XoI/AAAAAAAACCE/7JLJ8naDQJA/s400/IMG_0929.JPG" width="300" /> </div>
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The country's abundance of hot springs is part of the reason the vikings
settled in Iceland over a thousand years ago. Today, they are used to heat hot baths throughout
Reykjavik, the Icelanders hangover cure, and for controversial thermal
energy. </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-64pLXN0M4jw/T_G33eyGnAI/AAAAAAAACCM/0hSlzSxpt54/s1600/IMG_0951.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-64pLXN0M4jw/T_G33eyGnAI/AAAAAAAACCM/0hSlzSxpt54/s400/IMG_0951.JPG" width="400" /></a> </div>
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Who knew something that looked like anti-freeze could be so relaxing?</div>
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<b>WHALE WATCHING</b></div>
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Whales come in many forms in Iceland. You can either see or eat them, I went for the former. Unfortunately, whaling is totally legal in Iceland and one of the biggest tourist traps. The whaling industry propagates the myth that whale is a national delicacy, so tourists trying to be "authentic"order it and the vicious cycle continues. I prefer whales in the ocean, not on my plate so I went on a whale watching tour instead. </div>
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Despite how we had all paid to go on a whale watching trip, one woman literally shrieked whenever a minke whale surfaced, as if she was shocked they existed. Then again, I've heard that whale watching tours off of other coasts, such as Cape Cod, result more in watching the color variation on the waves than whales, so the fact that we saw five whales in under an hour was quite impressive.<br />
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We also saw a true national delicacy, the puffin. I apologize for the poor photo, I had the wrong lens and the birds are small. One woman on the boat was unpleasantly surprised by this because she mistakenly thought puffins were the size of penguins or maybe she thought they actually were penguins. I don't think they're going to make any inspirational documentaries narrated by Morgan Freeman on puffins anytime soon.<br />
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<b>THE GOLDEN CIRCLE</b></div>
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After three days of going to Reykjavik art museums depicting the beauty of nature, I thought maybe I actually see it for myself. In half a day, you can see some of Iceland's most stunning natural wonders on The Golden Circle bus tour. Since I rode the school bus for a decade, I'm not usually one for bus tours with their guides who almost sound like robots and tight schedules and this one was no different in that respect. I wasn't sure if my guide was still working on her English or just thought rhetorical questions were effective, but every time she spoke to us she said, "You may be wondering what such and such is..."Well, actually I wasn't, but you might as well tell me now that you're at it. However, the natural wonders made up for it.</div>
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First, there was the Kerio crater formed by a volcano. When in doubt, everything in Iceland was formed by a volcano. </div>
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Next up was the original geyser, what all geysers get their name from. </div>
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Although geysers are like natural tea kettles and everyone waits for them to spout, it was still delightfully unexpected when it did erupt. <br />
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Even more fun to watch, all the spectators. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's 176-212F. </td></tr>
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The most impressive sight was Gullfoss or the Golden Waterfall.</div>
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On sunny days, there's a double rainbow as you can see, but sadly, I didn't find a pot of gold at either end.<br />
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During the 20th century, they thought about using the waterfall to generate electricity and its owners (can you imagine owning a waterfall?) rented it out to foreign investors to no avail. However, the controversy generated one of Iceland's most romantic heroines, Sigríður Tómasdóttir, who threatened to throw herself into the falls if they proceeded. Now, it's preserved so unsuspecting tourists can accidentally take a tumble if they aren't paying attention. <br />
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Lastly, we stopped at Þingvellir National Park, the sight of the continental rift and the original parliament, coincidence? <br />
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The Golden Circle tour ended up being one of my favorite parts of the entire trip because it proved that there really is no country like Iceland. The land almost looks like Mars sometimes. I can't imagine living in a place with active <span class="il">volcanoes</span>, but the Icelanders are hilariously lackadaisical because everything that could've gone wrong in the past decade- <span class="il">eruptions</span>,
financial collapse- has and they've survived more stalwart than ever.
As the slightly pessimistic bus tour guide said, "Iceland was formed by a
<span class="il">volcano</span>, so who knows if we'll be here tomorrow." </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The famous and gorgeous Icelandic horses.</td></tr>
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Thank you again to Lexie and Kathryn for letting me tag along. You two are the best travel companions I've ever had the pleasure to sight see with. I hope we can gallivant around Europe together in the future.</div>
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This is my final post about Iceland. It's almost been an entire month since my trip, yet I'm still blogging about it and could continue to do so, except I have even more photos and stories to share from other travels so perhaps I should write about them next. Expect more posts than usual as I attempt to catch you up on all the stamps in my passport from June.</div>Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-71722624937349135262012-06-24T18:26:00.003+01:002012-06-24T18:31:07.215+01:00There is a Light that Never Goes Out<br />
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What's cooler than an Icelandic glacier? Reykjavik hipsters!</div>
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I always knew that Iceland was beloved by hipsters. After all, the beautiful video for Bon Iver's "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TWcyIpul8OE">Holocene</a>" was shot throughout the breathtaking vistas of the country. But as much as the bearded hipster yearns for the living his Thoreau-with-microbrew aesthetic in a remote cabin built off a volcano, that hipster is nowhere to be found in Iceland itself. Rather, the only thing American and Icelandic hipsters have in common is the flannel shirt. </div>
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With a population of roughly 320,000, you wouldn't expect so many
hipsters, but Iceland is literally (bar) crawling with them. After all,
the sun barely sets in the summer so the "night" life is ideal. The midnight sun helps to shine a light on what makes Reyk hipsters different.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's where I hang my Converse out to dry too!</td></tr>
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Firstly, street art. Depicting everything from trolls picking their noses to geek glasses sporting chickens, the graffiti is more interesting than what you'll find in the museums. The weirdest graffiti often covers a whole building, denoting a hipster haven. <br />
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However, sometimes it's covertly hidden down an alleyway or painted on a cheeky fire hydrant because the real hipster doesn't want to be found.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do you think the wink is meant to be ironic?</td></tr>
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Secondly, the record store. <i></i><span class="st"><i></i> </span></div>
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As if the country's landscapes weren't starkly beautiful enough, they inspire some hauntingly gorgeous music too, such as Bjork and Sigur Ros. Consequently, Reykjavik has been selling vinyl before it became fashionable to do so again and no bar is complete without a hipster DJ set or live band. </div>
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Thirdly, flashmobs. </div>
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I'm not sure if I was visiting during a special festival week or if Icelanders just love playing music on the sidewalk, but I kept stumbling upon seemingly spontaneous concerts. Each time felt unique to both Reykjavik and my vacation. <br />
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First, there was the youth orchestra.<br />
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Who needs an ipod when you can have a live tuba as your soundtrack?<br />
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Second, there was the so-hip-it-hurts men's choir outside the bar. Pints still in hand, they precariously set up some bar stools to stand on and then started serenading the crowd of bemused locals and pleasantly surprised tourists with traditional Icelandic music for 20 minutes. They certainly had the talent of a professional choir, but never set their beer down. Perhaps this was their post-rehearsal vocal relaxation exercise? </div>
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By the way, I don't think they were dressed specially for the event. That's how Icelandic men dress normally- slicked back duckbill hair style, tailored oxfords, and dark wash denim. You'll never look so dapper, so don't even try.</div>
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Sometimes hipsterdom can be depressing because you know you'll never fit in and you aren't supposed to, but even tourists have a chance at being part of the scene. Our hostel, Kex, was the epitome of trendy. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There's nothing a Kex receptionist can't do.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No, this is not a photo from <a href="http://theselby.com/">The Selby</a>, it's just the lounge on my floor. </td></tr>
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Out of the three hostels I've stayed at throughout Europe, none had a
gastropub on the premises before. Kex's was a good one too because
even locals grabbed a dinner and drinks there. <br />
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I never really had to worry about blending in though because I was with my two boss bitches (I'm not being crass, that's the highest compliment I could pay them), Lexie and Kathryn. They bar hopped like pros, sang along to the new Beach House album playing at all the record stores, and knew where the in-crowd ate (see them slurping up delicious pho below.) They were more than hip enough for Reykjavik. Only their sweet Southern accents gave them away.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lexie, the Michelle Williams look alike.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kathryn, master of wearing solid colors.</td></tr>
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Reykjavik is a hipster paradise, except it defies one part of the hipster credo- exclusivity. Rather, everyone can get involved- see a flashmob, hear some Jonsi, touch a gorgeous wool sweater, taste the latest it-food, and feel like they're part of something special. After all, it's a small country, so the more the merrier.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZhyNSCAdL2Q/T-bekcdwL4I/AAAAAAAAB7w/98Z4_WT4eQQ/s1600/DSC_0337.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZhyNSCAdL2Q/T-bekcdwL4I/AAAAAAAAB7w/98Z4_WT4eQQ/s400/DSC_0337.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-77083252717927055012012-06-15T21:30:00.000+01:002012-06-16T00:55:43.980+01:00Cheeseburger in Paradise<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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See that bird pathetically attempting to fly? That's a puffin. It's one of Iceland's most prevalent birds, both in the ocean and on your plate. As my Thomas Cook Pocket Guide said about Icelandic food:</div>
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“Seabirds are fairly common on the menu, with puffin being the most prevalent. Often served smoked, the taste has been compared to veal....Pickled ram’s testicles served commonly as a sort of pate, and cod chins or cheeks, taken from the fish’s head, are legacies from the days when almost anything was considered edible.” </div>
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The only puffins I ever eat come in cereal form and I don't even eat fish. So naturally, I was quite wary of the culinary offerings of Reykjavik. </div>
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Except then I got to Reykjavik and found more American diner food than I
can in the States. I have a sneaking suspicion that this might be because
of the US military base established in Iceland around WWII. Even though it's now defunct, Icelanders have a developed a penchant for American-style burgers, fries and brunch and after not having them for over five months, I didn't mind. </div>
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If Don Draper were Scandinavian, I'm sure he'd frequent Grai Kotturinn
(or Gray Cat). I'd say the cafe was going for a retro vibe, except I'm
pretty sure they just haven't changed the decor or menu since the 1950s.
With thick buttermilk pancakes accompanied by crispy bacon and waiters
with attitude, you feel like you're in a New York City diner and sure
enough, there were even New Yorkers there. While I was pouring maple
syrup everywhere, two seemingly interchangeable groups of Big Apple
natives came in for bagels and smeared more than just cream cheese
around, but also gossip about the Lower East Side art world. It's definitely worth a visit for pancakes and people watching.</div>
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However, Icelanders are no stranger to fast food themselves.</div>
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Hotdogs aren't just famous in Iceland because they're one of
the few cheap eats, but because they're a delicacy in their own right.
Bæjarins beztu serves the best, complete with ketchup, sweet mustard,
fried and raw onion, and remolaði, a mayo-relish sauce. It was too sweet for me, but sweeter on my wallet, so I'm not complaining. <br />
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I even found the Icelandic version of the Dairy Queen chocolate dip cone. Although, instead of soft-serve ice cream, it was filled with skyr- a strained yogurt similar to Greek yogurt. The cone started melting before I could get an in focus photo, but trust me, it was delicious.</div>
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Reykjavik's cafe culture is equally unique. </div>
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Like the rest of the city, the cafes open up late, but stay open late too. Cafe Babalu is a hipster haven with its kitschy decor, delectable cheesecake (more American food done better from across the Atlantic), late hours and therefore bottomless coffee refills. Lexie, Kathryn, and I spent hours there conversing over cake. Sitting in cafes all day isn't a nuisance, it's expected in Reykjavik and since that's one of my favorite hobbies anyway, I gladly obliged.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All mochas are called Swiss mochas in Iceland, making them extra decadent.</td></tr>
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Kaffitar is the Icelandic equivalent of Starbucks, except with better coffee. It's one of the few chains Iceland has (well other than the omnipresent Dominoes, Subway, and KFC), with locations in The National Museum and Keflavik airport. The cafe's colorful decor gives you as much of a jolt as espresso does. </div>
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By seamlessly combining a retro throwback atmosphere with the cafe culture, Mokka is the epitome of the hipster dining scene in Reykjavik. It's one of the oldest cafes in the city and has the chic minimalist lighting and leather booths of the 1950s to prove its longevity. </div>
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However, it hasn't stayed in business for over half a century because its hip, but because the drinks and desserts are some of the best in the city. Hot chocolate shows up on a lot of Reykjavik cafe menus, but Mokka's is particularly rich and warming on one of the city's windy days. </div>
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From all of my traveling, I've become a waffle connoisseur of sorts. I was never that impressed by the typical American waffle drowned in maple syrup. However, in Europe, waffles don't even pretend to masquerade as breakfast, but dessert and I can't resist dessert. Consequently, I have to try all of the waffle variations. For example, Germany's waffles are smothered in custard and berries. Mokka is especially known for its waffles, so I had to taste Iceland's take on them. Their waffle is served with a generous helping of whipped cream and strawberry jam, which is as tasty as it sounds. Although, to be honest, German waffles are still my favorite.</div>
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I didn't expect to eat three cheese burgers in Iceland, but if there's one thing I've learned about this country is to expect the unexpected.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M9pt7YSiGX0/T9vKHD8IoyI/AAAAAAAAB3c/1ZtkEItoB9g/s1600/DSC_0279.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M9pt7YSiGX0/T9vKHD8IoyI/AAAAAAAAB3c/1ZtkEItoB9g/s400/DSC_0279.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-57065479786946369592012-06-12T19:47:00.001+01:002012-06-12T22:33:14.398+01:00I Wear My Sunglasses at Night<br />
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This is Reykjavik at 6pm. </div>
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This is Reykjavik at midnight.</div>
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This is Reykjavik at 3am.</div>
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This is me and my friend Lexie in Reykjavik at 12am, just to prove this actually happened because Iceland still feels surreal to me. </div>
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This is Iceland and it is like no other country I've ever been to.</div>
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Actually, this is a relief map of Iceland, but just because you can map the melting glaciers doesn't mean they make sense. </div>
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The sun literally never sets on Iceland during the summer, but metaphorically the country has been a bit overcast with both an economic crash and volcanic eruption within two years. However, because Iceland is the land of the vikings, they persevered and bask in the midnight sun and for a few days last week, so did I. </div>
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Why Iceland? First off, I blame my friend Isaac, who went two summers ago and hasn't stopping talking about it since. When I admitted to him after the trip that I found Iceland a "tad overhyped", he replied, <span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text">"Well of course it was overhyped, you've been around me for two years." Next, I'll blame my dissertation (which I can blame a lot of things on, it should be feeling pretty guilty by now), which was on Neil Gaiman's <i>American Gods</i> and therefore forced me to read a lot of Norse mythology. We would know nothing about Loki's antics (nor could Tom Hiddleston portray him so charismatically in "The Avengers") if it weren't for thirteenth century Icelandic historian Snorri Sturluson, who wrote the only narrative source of Nordic myth in <i>The Prose Edda. </i>As if I hadn't read enough of it for my dissertation, when I found out the original medieval manuscript is housed in Reykjavik, I had to go and geek out over every other Odin reference too (see dorky photo above.) However, the tipping point was when my friends Lexie and Kathryn booked their plane ticket and I asked if I could tag along.</span><br />
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The insanely hip Kathryn (left) and Lexie (right) are pictured above. I hadn't seen them in person for two years and the last time we were in Tennessee, so I couldn't wait to get back together with them in Reykjavik of all places. With their cool haircuts and chic sweaters, they blended right in with the hipster population of the city. Kathryn even got spoken to in Icelandic sometimes and introduced us to her Icelandic friend Olli (who she met when he studied abroad in Murfreesboro years ago), it was like being with a native. And Lexie's sheer enthusiasm meant we saw everything, met everyone, and never skipped dessert. In short, they were the perfect fellow adventurers. </div>
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And adventure we did. Iceland is a country of crazy juxtapositions. My daily itinerary is hardly believable: <br />
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Last Tuesday: I flew in to Keflavik Airport in the late afternoon,
drove through roads bordered by volcanic rock on the way to Reykjavik,
met Kathryn and Lexie for the first time since 2010 in the hostel, and
spent the evening loitering in hipper-than-thou cafes where scenesters
drank beer called Viking. Yes, really. </div>
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Last Wednesday: I bathed at the natural hot spring, The Blue Lagoon. Most spa experiences don't have water that stinks like sulfur or offer you scrubs made out of volcanic rock, but that's Iceland for you. We returned to Reykjavik refreshed, but starving and indulged in the Icelandic delicacy that is the hotdog.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I bathed in that and didn't turn into a Martian.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The table had specially built-in hot dog holders. They take fast food seriously.</td></tr>
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Last Thursday: We museum hopped. At the National Museum, I learned that
Iceland converted to Christianity in roughly 1000 AD, so there was no
chance of me seeing Thor when I was there. At the National Gallery, we
saw art depicting Iceland's natural wonders, evidently, the real masterpiece of
the country. Then we got some living culture when we caught Olli's band
playing The Harpa, the government funded concert hall that looks like a
honeycomb. After, we pub crawled until 3am (hence the "sunrise" photo),
but don't judge me because apparently on weekends, Icelanders go out
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Well, I guess Thor still exists as your heating repairman.</td></tr>
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Last Saturday: I saw Snorri's manuscript, not that I could understand
any of it, but I got a nerdy thrill out of seeing the origin of Norse
mythology and essentially my dissertation. Then I went on the famous
Golden Circle bus tour and saw the usual: the original geyser, a waterfall, and the continental rift. </div>
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That's Iceland in a nutshell and it is a hard one to crack. Whales, hipsters, and every geological formation in my freshman year textbook all exist in one country. Are you in shock yet? Because I still am. I'll have plenty of posts to work through it because I took over 600 photos. These are just the bullet points and I promise to go into more detail than the Icelandic Sagas. The hot dogs deserve their own post, although don't worry, I won't write one.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m9r2nWj28IY/T9cfy5R2P2I/AAAAAAAABsg/vmqTUIyYNE0/s1600/DSC_0257.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m9r2nWj28IY/T9cfy5R2P2I/AAAAAAAABsg/vmqTUIyYNE0/s400/DSC_0257.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-78680443769541405152012-06-04T23:41:00.002+01:002012-06-05T00:49:40.196+01:00Life's a Beach<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There's something both fantastically foreign and familiar about going to the beach in Scotland. <br />
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Familiar: The beach vacation is a family staple in the Malone household. My mother spent her childhood summers nearly drowning off the New Jersey beaches while her "chaperoning" cousins sunbathed and my dad grew up on Lake Michigan, which might as well be an ocean for its expanse and majestic nature, all that's lacking is the salt. After moving to landlocked Minnesota, they missed the ocean and made sure to ride the waves a few times a year. However, now that I'm gallivanting across Europe, not the Eastern Seaboard, I miss out. 2012 marks the first year I'm not going to Nantucket with the family, a vacation we've been going on for over a decade now, because I have to start this little thing called grad school. I thought I was going to completely miss squishing my toes in the sand this summer, but St. Andrews came to the rescue.</div>
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Foreign: In Scotland, it's not uncommon to sport flannel during the summer. If anything, Edinburgh's proximity to
the Firth of Forth only perpetuates this volatile weather of gale force
winds and bipolar days of sunshowers. It's not the first place you'd
expect to don a bikini and even if the weather is inviting, the
Edinburgh beaches usually aren't. Although I've been to the sea in Edinburgh <a href="http://lochtess.blogspot.co.uk/2011/03/she-sells-seashells-by-seashore.html">before</a>,
you don't exactly want to dip your toe in water when a factory is up
the shore. If there's one good thing about St. Andrews' distance, it's that its beaches are tranquilly removed by contrast. This coupled with its laid back student culture and ice cream
parlors makes it the perfect place to become a beach bum. All you need is a
day when the sun and surf are up and fortunately for me, they were on my
visit last week. I may not have had time to spend a day tanning on a
towel with a good book like I would on any other beach day, but I did
take advantage of walking through the waves on the East Sands. There was something
perfectly natural about getting my feet licked by the waves like I do
every summer, but also a little surreal because I'm still in Scotland.</div>
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Walking the beach was my favorite part of visiting St. Andrews. Yes, I've been to dozens of beaches before and waded through multiple oceans, but the sheer novelty of doing so in Scotland made it special. I can finally stay I've been in the North Sea.<br />
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St. Andrews doesn't have a plethora of attractions, but the few it does are packed with a history and beauty that is both an anomaly to the rest of the country, but quintessentially Scottish. If you've never been to Scotland, St. Andrews is worth the train ride and even if you're from here, it makes for the perfect diversion. I hope to one day go back, even if just to try all the ice cream flavors at Jannettas. <br />
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This is my final post from St. Andrews, but there will be more beaches in future posts. The next time I blog, you'll see a whole other ocean. </div>
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Despite being the patron saint of Scotland (his cross is what's depicted on the country's flag), St. Andrew himself never even went to Scotland. Well, at least not when he was alive.</div>
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Legend has it that St. Andrew's relics were supernaturally brought to St. Andrews from Constantinople during the tenth century by a man named Regulus (nicknamed Rule). However, when you fact check this story, you realize that the only thing regulated about this man was his name. Historically, he could've been a fugitive Irish monk (Harrison Ford should've made that movie) expelled along with St. Columba in the 500s, but it's more likely that the bishop of Hexxam, Acca, brought them back from his Roman tour when he founded a see at St. Andrews in the 700s. What's in a name though? Dates matter more, so locals favor the earliest founding date possible. St. Rule may never have existed, but this church pictured above called St. Rule's Tower does. </div>
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Regardless of whether the monk it was named after ever existed, St. Rule was too small for future monks, so St. Andrews Cathedral was built in 1158 and was the largest cathedral in Scotland, but not for long. For a building that took over a century to build, it barely stayed intact for more than a hundred years. Part of it blew down in the 1200s, this is Scotland after all. Then there was a fire in the 1300s. However, it wasn't the elements that destroyed it, but the Reformation. After John Knox gave an impassioned sermon the cathedral was "cleansed" and left in the ruins you see today.<br />
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Ironically, the cathedral probably gets more attention in its dilapidated state than it would've of if left in its full glory. The grounds are now fastidiously manicured and one of the most popular tourist attractions in St. Andrews. <br />
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The cemetery is almost larger than the cathedral grounds. Yes, more photos of graves on this blog. I swear I'm not that morbid, Scotland just has a lot of cemeteries.<br />
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Just in case you were unsure if you were in St. Andrews or not, there's Tommy's tombstone, whose death seems more of a loss for golf than his family.<br />
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The sea adds the delightful pungent smell of fish, making the cemetery all the more atmospheric. <br />
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Just down the beach is yet another Reformation victim, St. Andrews Castle. Once the ecclesiastical center of Scotland, it's now left in ruins. Unfortunately, I don't know as much history about this one because I wasn't willing to pay £5 to look at decrepit stone. However, each stone was chipped away in various sieges, culminating in the murder of Cardinal David Beaton by the Protestants. The political treachery, martyrdom, and dramatic scenery would be ripe for a Hollywood action movie.<br />
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If there's one thing St. Andrews taught me, it's that every stone in Scotland has a story. </div>
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St. Andrews was the first place I'd ever heard of in Scotland. Not for
its golf, but its university. It always had a table
at every college fair I ever attended, promoting itself as the small
liberal arts school with a brogue. St. Andrews was good enough for
Prince William, but too far away for my parents to even let me pick up a
brochure when I was 16. Oh the irony that I'm in Scotland anyway.<br />
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St. Andrews may have whetted my curiosity about Scotland like a good
whisky whets your palate, but when it came to picking a university of
study abroad at, St. Andrews never even occurred to me. It may have beaches, but there was something more alluring about
Edinburgh's reputation for the black plague, Harry Potter, oh and the
really good English literature department (I was going to study after all) that made me pick it instead. I
continued my St. Andrews ambivalence by not bothering to visit it up until
this past Monday. What can I say? When you have gale force winds in
relatively sheltered Edinburgh, going to the seaside isn't exactly your
first thought. But with sun and too much free time than a 21-year-old
should ever be allowed, I thought now was the time to finally see why
all my friends declared St. Andrews "delightful" and said I "had to
visit."<br />
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On Monday morning, I left Edinburgh in a panic. All the trains were running late at Waverly and I started to wonder if it was even worth the trouble. Yet after I finally got on the train going towards Dundee and the conductor called out our stops in towns with quaint names like Queensferry and Ladybank, I knew I had made the right choice to get out of the chaos of Edinburgh. The train ride was one of the most tranquil I've ever taken, with view of the Firth of Forth. After growing up in the State of 10,000 Lakes and every Malone vacation ending up by large bodies of water of some sort, it was calming and familiar to see the sea. Although my placid attitude broke when I realized with excitement that we were taking the famous Forth Bridge over the water, something I'd only ever seen from Calton Hill before. <br />
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[I would go back to St. Andrews just for Jannettas ice cream.]</div>
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With its hour plus train ride and then fifteen minute bus ride (there isn't a train station in the town itself), St. Andrews is a true escape. The cute small town is full of cheesemongers, charming bistros, and history everywhere you step.</div>
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The campus (which is spread throughout town) had some intriguing history, after all, it's the third oldest English-speaking university in the world. </div>
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The religious history of the city is even more intriguing. Even though it was named after the patron saint of Scotland and was once the ecclesiastical center of the country, St. Andrews was also the center of the Scottish Reformation's violence. City landmarks often note victims of both Catholic and Protestant schisms. Patrick Hamilton was one of the Protestant martyrs as you can read the plaque below. However, only 18 years later, the archbishop of the city was executed by Protestant reformers. What is now an adorable town was cataclysmic 500 years ago. <br />
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[Superstition holds that if you step on this spot you will fail your degree at the university. So after students graduate they make sure to jump up and down on it.]<br />
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[I may be entering the real world, but that doesn't mean I'm more mature.]</div>
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Although I wish I had visited St. Andrews sooner, I'm glad I decided not
to study there. While you can feel like an accomplished visitor by
taking in the entire town in a few hours, it could get awfully
claustrophobic. Although I've heard
the university thrives on kooky traditions (like jumping in the sea on
May 1) that you don't get at schools in large cities like Edinburgh. But
the world gets even smaller, I heard more American accents there than I
have in Edinburgh for the past five months, not a huge surprise given
how much they market the university to American students. I didn't go
abroad to meet more Americans, although Edinburgh does have its fair
share and some of my closest friends are from the States. I've had friends who loved it, but St. Andrews makes for the perfect afternoon away for me. </div>
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[This place sounds fun.]</div>
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Even though I spent a mere three hours in St. Andrews, I have a post for each hour there. Expect a couple more in the next few days.<br />
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<br />Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-46442168970052382542012-05-26T13:27:00.000+01:002012-05-26T19:22:01.290+01:00Miracles Happen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Despite this Dean Gallery sculpture's proclamation that "There Will Be
No Miracles Here", finding the aforementioned gallery was an actual
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Although I've lived in Edinburgh for almost two years now, I rarely venture outside of the university bubble. Then again, a lot of this city is centered literally around the university, so you can't really blame me for that. Nevertheless, there are areas of town with nary a library addled and over-caffeinated student to be found and every so often, it's nice to remind yourself that said world exists, especially when you're right about to graduate and enter it. </div>
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Roughly two miles from the university, the Village of Dean is one of those areas. A former grain milling hamlet for over 800 years (how often do I get to write that? Sometimes I love living in Europe.), it's now a place where people shell out serious dough (sorry, couldn't resist a bread pun) to live in one of the quaint converted mills and home to The National Galleries of Scotland modern art museums, fittingly called Modern 1 and Modern 2 (or the Dean Gallery.) <br />
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A few weeks ago, my friend Sophia and I decided to take advantage of the beautiful weather to make the trek out to the one museum I hadn't been to in this city and because what better way to spoil the sun than by seeing depressing modern art? In all honesty, I don't know how to handle this abundance of sunshine. Reading books in my flat has been traded for barbeques on the Meadows, but I can only cope with so much sun stroke. So a few hours sojourn in an air conditioned art gallery is a welcome escape. (And city secret, no one is in the museums when the weather is perfect.) There's an Edvard Munch exhibition on at The Dean Gallery right now and what better way to temper the pleasant weather than by looking at prints reflecting anxiety?<br />
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However, finding the museum was almost more confusing than interpreting modern art. Four years of university has taught me how to read secondary criticism, but not maps. Sophia and I just assumed the way would be obvious once we got past Prince's Street, but when what should've been a ten minute walk turned into twenty, we realized how wrong we were. Medieval villages may be cute, but they are impossible to navigate. No wonder why it was called The Dark Ages. After stopping a few locals who had no idea there even was a museum in the area, we stumbled upon a friendly English couple. They turned out to be tourists, but this was to our benefit because they had a map on them and therefore a better understanding of the area than we did. They chided us for not having a map of our own, we claimed we were "locals." It was a bit embarrassing, but we turned a corner, literally, and there was the Dean Gallery. Of course, we came back through an entirely different route than the one we came in with. I was convinced that finding the gallery was a one time event, after all, miracles don't happen every day.</div>
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The next day I triumphantly reported to another friend who had been urging me all along to go to the museums that I could check off The Modern Art Museum from my Edinburgh bucketlist and told her how great the Munch exhibition was (it's on until Autumn, so I recommend you go if you get a chance and are better at directions). Then, she informed me that The Dean Gallery was one of two museums and we had missed the main one. Suddenly, it dawned on me why all the signs called it "Modern 2", so much for my close reading skills.</div>
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So Sophia and I went back yesterday to finally see Modern 1, with written directions. This time we got there without a wrong turn and I took the time to admire the picturesque architecture on the way over. It ended up being more aesthetically pleasing than the actual art housed in Modern 1. Nevertheless, I can say I've been to BOTH modern art museums now.</div>
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If you've read my recent posts, I get lost quite a bit. However, as the installation at Modern 1 says, "Everything is going to be alright." </div>
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<br />Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-18951725284164902082012-05-23T12:42:00.001+01:002012-05-25T12:03:03.584+01:00The Weird West<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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No, I have not become the protagonist in <i>True Grit </i>in search of the Wild West and Tom Cheney. Despite what the signs say, I'm not in the American Southwest. I'm still in Edinburgh and believe it or not, so is this Wild West Town. </div>
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The Wild West Town is a true anomaly with no obvious purpose other than kitsch. Absolutely none of it makes sense. Tucked away in the posh Morningside neighborhood known for housing the famous authors of the city, it's the last place you would expect to find something so delightfully tacky. It's certainly not an area that attracts many tourists, so why put a tourist attraction there? Especially one that is so hard to find once you are actually in Morningside. Directions: Wander down alley that leads to charming residential street, make friends with a cat, see more feline friends than cowboys, decide to give up, stumble upon what appears to be a parking lot, find yourself in the Wild West. The geography of this city never makes sense to me, but this takes the cake (or should I say horseshoe ring?). And I haven't even gotten to the part where Scotland confused itself Santa Fe. Well, Edinburgh loves quirky tourist attractions.<br />
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[Odd to see my local Minnesota bank in Scotland. If I had known it existed, I probably wouldn't have signed up for the inconvenient Bank of Scotland, but sadly, Edinburgh's Wells Fargo doesn't appear to have an ATM anyway.]<br />
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This is a city of stories though, so sure enough there is a story behind this oddity. The Wild West Town was solely designed for commercial purposes. Built by Michael Faulkner in 1996, it was a gimmick to inspire people to buy the Southwestern furniture originally sold in the area (or so the internet tells me because I have no idea what Southwestern furniture looks like. I doubt people use spittoons anymore.) Luckily enough, one of the workers was a former Euro Disney employee hence the "authenticity." (It does remind me of Park City, Utah, a real former "Wild West" town that I <a href="http://lochtess.blogspot.co.uk/2012/01/mild-west.html">posted on</a> earlier this year.) That was the last bit of luck they had because the furniture business petered out, as did the Springvalley Cinema that was hidden there (although the area looks like a movie set already, so why watch a film?), now all that is left is auto body shops covered by these Western facades. No wonder I mistook the area for a parking lot initially. </div>
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Now the Wild West Town's function is seemingly to amuse bored students having a wander to the chagrin of the mechanics who actually work there. I felt like an outlaw wandering around snapping photos in someone's work environment, thankfully, no one threw me in the jail. I guess The Wild West Town does capture the ambiance of that inspired it in the end. One of the workers chuckled at me and said, "You aren't the first." Only in Edinburgh would people completely accept that their place of employment looks like a Disney ride. After all, the city does have a castle at its heart just like the Magic Kingdom.<br />
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There's nothing to do there but take photos and muse in the sheer strangeness of it all. To paraphrase Neil Gaiman, it's like a roadside attraction. You aren't exactly sure why it's there and why you had to find it, but you did and even though it wasn't what you expected, you're still glad you went.<br />
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I thought I knew Edinburgh, but it gets weirder and more wonderful by the day.<br />
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</div>Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-76566714127859776422012-05-21T13:12:00.002+01:002012-05-21T14:56:31.715+01:00The Secret Garden<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's impossible to live in Edinburgh without pretending you're in one
of your favorite novels. When I ordered my graduation robes from Ede
& Ravenscroft (Est. 1689) the other day, I felt like I was ready to
join the trio at Hogwarts and then I remembered that Harry and Ron never
actually graduated. Oh well. As long as the novel I'm living vicariously through isn't <i>Trainspotting</i>, all is well. However, I never expected to find myself in <i>The Secret Garden.</i></div>
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Yesterday, it was uncharacteristically nice in Edinburgh (read: it
actually felt like spring), so I knew I had to take advantage of
Scotland's legal but unattainable drug, Vitamin D. It was a welcome
reward after a week spent cloistered in the library cramming for my
final sit down exam EVER. That's right I'm done with college (although I
don't graduate until June 28, so you'll have to wait to see me look
like a dementor in those aforementioned robes). So what did I decide to
do with myself on a completely free Sunday afternoon with no work to do and
no newspaper to edit? As a relapsed English literature student, I went
to read, of course. Even though I'll never have to overanalyze another
novel again, I can't help myself. However, on days like this the Meadows
is over-run with people who believe the park is actually a beach-
complete with bikinis (overly keen Scots, it was only 55F yesterday!),
volleyball, and the detritus of discarded cans of cider and the
occasional condom. After nearly getting beheaded by a stray cricket ball
yesterday, I knew the Meadows was about as relaxing as a game of
dodgeball. </div>
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I sought a quieter locale and took a tip from my friend <a href="http://schietree.wordpress.com/2012/05/14/the-semi-secret-garden/">Helen</a>,
who only recently discovered the secret garden even though she's an
Edinburgh native! The Secret Garden is one of those pesky secrets that
actually isn't so clandestine as it seems. It cheekily hides on one of
Edinburgh's busiest and more commercial streets, The Royal Mile. I'm
embarrassed to admit I've walked by it half a dozen times on my way to
usher a visiting friend to Arthur's Seat or for overpriced fudge. After
all, you wouldn't think much about a random close (Edinburgh slang for
alley) next to a Starbucks. Usually, they lead to a parking lot or
potentially murder (there's even an Ian Rankin murder mystery named
after Fleshmarket Close), not a secret garden. </div>
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But if you're looking for it, Dunbar's Close (okay, I gave the secret away. I can never join Fight Club now.)
is actually quite welcoming. It's a relic from the past or even another
country. The 17th century garden was named after the owner of nearby
tenements (the one part of this story that is less than romantic), but
was stuck in the past and fell into disrepair until The Mushroom Trust
(yes, really) revived it in the 1970s. It's a charmingly manicured
Italian garden, which is both atypical and quintessential Edinburgh
simultaneously. Yes, it looks nothing like the rest of the city, but if
there's one thing I've learned about Edinburgh after living here for
nearly 2 years, it's that it's full of secrets. You can never quite know
it. Edinburgh is a place of perpetual discovery if you're looking. <br />
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[It also has some of the best views of Calton Hill. You feel removed from the city, but right smack in it at the same time.]<br />
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I didn't find Colin Craven, but I found something much better.<br />
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It was the perfect place to get lost in the city and my book (Chad Harbach's <i>The Art of Fielding</i>,
which reminds me that reading for fun is possible.) for a few sun
soaked hours. I had a bench all to myself and only a dozen or so
visitors between, who were mostly tourists. Somehow, Dunbar's Close is in their guidebook, but none of the locals know about it. I think the few who do would like to keep it quiet. (So much for my big mouth on this blog post.)<br />
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I have over a month left in Edinburgh and I haven't seen the half of it, which will keep this blog plenty busy (after all, I need something to keep me occupied between now and graduation. I feel unemployed.) Expect (hopefully) daily discoveries. </div>
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<br />Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-74429851437521180852012-05-07T12:46:00.001+01:002012-05-07T12:56:49.220+01:00My Paris<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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Right now, every moment in my life feels monumental. I wrote my last
English Literature essay ever last week. I take my last sit down exam
ever on May 18, good ridden to blue books. I turn 22 on June 11 (I take donations of
cupcakes, preferably red velvet). And finally, I graduate from the
University of Edinburgh on June 28, which still seems far away. That's a
lot for two months. I'll be an "adult" after, whatever that means. It's a bit daunting, to say the least. </div>
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As exciting as this all is, it's very easy to find myself looking at my
planner more than what's around me. This is when I pull up my photos
from Paris. I spent my too brief trip trying to take a non-cliche photo
of one of the most photogenic cities in the world and the best way I
found to accomplish this goal was to search for details: that balcony
set up with a cute table I could picture myself eating a baguette on
(hey, I didn't say I stopped thinking in cliches), the lamp post that
had more personality that whatever it was lighting up, or even just a
reflection in a puddle (which what the last photo of this post depicts). </div>
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Paris is an easy city to get overwhelmed in.
The winding streets are so picturesque that sometimes you don't even
notice you're lost. There's more culture than anyone can absorb in a
lifetime there, yet I still tried to pack it into less than week.
Delving into the details saved me though. Searching for the beauty in
the banal
ended up being more interesting
than what I saw in museums and gave me something more unique to bring back than just another postcard of a painting. </div>
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My goal on every vacation is to not feel like a tourist and finding things myself that locals don't even notice because they see it every day is one of the best ways to do this. I made my own Paris.<br />
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This will be my last Paris post, but I'm planning to extend its theme.</div>
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If I can find
the hidden gems in Paris, then I should look for them in Edinburgh too.
I'm not someone who pessimistically counts down the days and thinks to
herself, "This will be my last latte at Artisan Roast ever." However,
Edinburgh really is a city I've made my own and it's worth photographing my Edinburgh before I leave it. So just like I
showed you "my Paris," for the next few posts I will show you "my
Edinburgh", as well tying up loose ends around the parts of Scotland I
still need to see. </div>
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<br />Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-39151679603966281602012-04-30T13:18:00.000+01:002012-04-30T13:24:57.482+01:00Yes, They Really Do Wear Berets<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Hate to break it to you, but the stereotype of the Parisian wearing a beret does exist. Pictured below in all his cliche-ridden glory:</div>
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Normally, when I travel I like to debunk stereotypes. After all, if you could learn everything about Europe from visiting Epcot, why would you bother going to real place? For example, despite how my German class last summer led me to believe that Germans couldn't live without bread, when I actually visited Berlin <a href="http://lochtess.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/es-schmeckt-gut.html">I learned</a> that Germans only start the morning off with rolls if they have visitors to impress. Nevertheless, sometimes stereotypes exist because they're true. Fortunately for Paris, most of the cliches are in their favor. Like Gil Pender proclaims in "Midnight in Paris", Paris really is beautiful in rain. So here I am to verify a few more stereotypes.</div>
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<b>The Parisian Waiter:</b> France is a country that prides itself as much on its food as its art,
food almost is an art (as demonstrated by the title of Julia Child's
famous cookbook, <i>Mastering the Art of French Cooking</i>) and the waiters are the curators of it. They aren't broke college students trying to make an extra buck for beer runs (they work at Starbucks). This isn't a part-time job for them, it's a career and like all careers, there's a craft to it and certain amount of respect demanded from it. So just like you wouldn't run screaming through an art museum (unless it was performance art), here is one simple rule for how not to irk your Parisian waiter so you can enjoy the delicious slice of chocolate torte above:</div>
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1. <b>NEVER seat yourself.</b> In France, the customer is not always right, they're at the bottom of the hierarchy and must defer to the waiter. They know what's best for you. Regardless of how many open tables there are, this is not musical chairs, you must be directed to your seat by your waiter. My mother and I witnessed an American couple learn this the hard way Cafe de Flore. It was a quiet afternoon at the famous cafe with only old Parisian men reading papers (yup, that cliche is in full force too), so there were plenty of tables to enjoy the legendary chocolat chaud at and this couple sat themselves at one. Unlike my mother and I, who got a table from the waiter and were served within 15 minutes, this couple was ignored for 15 minutes until the husband was so annoyed that he huffed out of the cafe with as much attitude as a Parisian waiter ironically. Where were the waiters? They were giving this couple the silent treatment until they left and then the waiters started laughing and rolling their eyes at each other. See, the waiters do have a sense of humor, except the joke is on the customer if they don't follow the rules.</div>
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The Luxembourg Gardens is the place to people watch in Paris. The artists sketching, check! The old men playing chess like it's a competitive sport (well, to them it is), check! If you want a relaxing afternoon and some intriguing characters to observe, look no further. </div>
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However, even if Parisians wouldn't like to admit it, Paris is a tourist city and sometimes it's fun to mock your fellow travelers. After all, my goal is always to mistaken for a native (not so sure if this was accomplished when some Spanish tourists stopped me to ask if I knew where the Starbucks was. Sorry, it's not like all Americans have a GPS in them that locates the nearest overpriced corporate coffee chain.) So I couldn't help but laugh at this tourist at the Rodin Museum who looked exactly like the bust he was staring at. </div>
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The birds of Paris exhibit all of the stereotypes of their human counterparts. <br />
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The royals may have been ousted from the Luxembourg Gardens, but this bird has all the attitude of Louis XIV. <br />
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Like many Parisians, birds enjoy relaxing in parks too. Despite how most statues have spiky crowns to prevent birds from perching (and inevitably pooping) on them (as pictured above), the pigeon below didn't mind risking being impaled. </div>
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Like lovers strolling the Seine, these duck paramours
were enjoying the view too. However, I'm concerned about their precarious placement. Perhaps
they're about to embark on a suicidal leap? <br />
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Part of the experience of going to Paris is people watching. I know it's not a good trip if I don't feel like a total slob after seeing so much "je ne sais quoi" Parisian chic around me. It's one stereotype that the Parisians live up to.Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-24668586328636519522012-04-22T14:26:00.003+01:002012-04-22T14:28:11.552+01:00Hands by Rodin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The Rodin Museum is a rarity in Paris. </div>
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Instead of wandering in a maze of dimly lit rooms to look at statues cloaked in veneration and dust like at most museums, the main exhibit is outdoors. Most of the museum's statues are kept in a garden that offers more than just a beautiful relaxing walk and a breath of fresh air from the crowded museums, but also gives another layer of interpretation to Rodin's work. These sculptures depict humanity's fundamental emotions and struggles and therefore
shouldn't be under protection inside. They need to be
exposed to the elements just like we are. <br />
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However, it's hard to convey the imposing physical presence of seeing
"The Thinker" in its full over-sized glory through a photograph.
Sculpture is one of the few art forms that really cannot make an
impression when searched on Google Images. Nevertheless, to give myself a
little project whilst at The Rodin Museum and give you something to
appreciate Rodin's talent with, I decided to focus on photographing the
hands of his sculptures, impressive in their verisimilitude. <br />
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Or this man who had no appendages.</div>
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Just for its change of scenery, The Rodin Museum was one of my favorites in Paris. Like Gil Pender (yes, I am going to reference "Midnight in Paris" in every post about this city), I may not have read a 2-volume biography on Rodin either, but I can appreciate the beauty and gravity of his work.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BWQ0QwcCgck/T5QGZVGxqGI/AAAAAAAABPw/pjUcK6U0SA8/s1600/DSC_0254.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BWQ0QwcCgck/T5QGZVGxqGI/AAAAAAAABPw/pjUcK6U0SA8/s400/DSC_0254.JPG" width="400" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GngAvKXkIEM/T5PwCLpW4AI/AAAAAAAABPQ/_QlaxHFyvp0/s1600/DSC_0254.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div>
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GngAvKXkIEM/T5PwCLpW4AI/AAAAAAAABPQ/_QlaxHFyvp0/s1600/DSC_0254.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a>Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-69253460357209301872012-04-19T11:20:00.018+01:002012-04-19T13:22:23.275+01:00L'art pour l'art<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5X0Vzmt3RmA/T4_n325oMBI/AAAAAAAABHA/33yv8g_84NA/s1600/DSC_0029.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5X0Vzmt3RmA/T4_n325oMBI/AAAAAAAABHA/33yv8g_84NA/s400/DSC_0029.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733055797481975826" border="0" /></a>What is art?<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SahzOvwPA3s/T4_o54_xUYI/AAAAAAAABIU/xCySdYQvJ_g/s1600/DSC_0099.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SahzOvwPA3s/T4_o54_xUYI/AAAAAAAABIU/xCySdYQvJ_g/s400/DSC_0099.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733056931915977090" border="0" /></a>This pretentious question gets bandied around college courses as often as a ping pong ball during a game of beer pong. I tend to tune out whenever someone starts distinguishing between "high" and "low" art because it seems like such a pointless discernment, doomed from the beginning. However, I found myself asking that question when in Paris.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M4MtS-qvTiI/T4_xiaD2API/AAAAAAAABK8/6yxhZ-B2P9U/s1600/DSC_0030.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M4MtS-qvTiI/T4_xiaD2API/AAAAAAAABK8/6yxhZ-B2P9U/s400/DSC_0030.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733066424079220978" border="0" /></a><br />With one of the highest concentrations of art museums in the world, it's impossible to go to Paris without taking in a painting or 2,000. Art aficionados that we are, my mother and I went to a museum or two almost every day (except the day when we decided that getting lost in Saint Germain was an art form in itself.) The Centre Pompidou (pictured above), The Musée d'Orsay (pictured below), The Musée de l'Orangerie (which contains Monet's large water lilies and for once I agree with the terrible Inez character in "Midnight in Paris," they are overwhelming to see in person.), and The Rodin Museum (although Carla Bruni wasn't a tour guide, I'm sad to report.) Consequently, the only things I can stare at for any length of time this week are bad Paul Rudd comedies.<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AxQIFM-JCJE/T4_2rn3EZKI/AAAAAAAABMc/g9u4ZOucyNc/s1600/DSC_0112.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AxQIFM-JCJE/T4_2rn3EZKI/AAAAAAAABMc/g9u4ZOucyNc/s400/DSC_0112.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733072079960695970" border="0" /></a>As much as I appreciated seeing Toulouse-Lautrec's sketch marks at the d'Orsay and art I couldn't even understand at the Pompidou, by the end of the trip I was walking through museums like they were a check-list. Degas's dancers, check! Tourists crowding around Van Gogh, check! I even managed to miss some of the biggest checks like Manet's "<span class="st">Le déjeuner sur l'herbe</span>"- the highlight of the entire d'Orsay for my mother. I was completely missing the point as well. The temperature regulated rooms were regulating how I viewed the experience of seeing art- long lines for tickets, the irony of shoving fellow spectators to see a painting of a tranquil pond, and spending more time reading descriptions than looking at paintings.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VWuSDLLsqlc/T4_n4UcpUcI/AAAAAAAABHI/xbnKvZoWBek/s1600/DSC_0056.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VWuSDLLsqlc/T4_n4UcpUcI/AAAAAAAABHI/xbnKvZoWBek/s400/DSC_0056.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733055805413478850" border="0" /></a><br />A sampling of the Pompidou.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F084FK6FcT4/T4_o4OsvCdI/AAAAAAAABHk/n1138eK4YBI/s1600/DSC_0077.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F084FK6FcT4/T4_o4OsvCdI/AAAAAAAABHk/n1138eK4YBI/s400/DSC_0077.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733056903381977554" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bmkhvESZhGg/T4_xjr3rtVI/AAAAAAAABLg/1zn0AbzbkwU/s1600/DSC_0050.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bmkhvESZhGg/T4_xjr3rtVI/AAAAAAAABLg/1zn0AbzbkwU/s400/DSC_0050.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733066446039922002" border="0" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WnKXc6CSjDQ/T4_xiwJzMDI/AAAAAAAABLI/9Rgtc4dt4Xk/s1600/DSC_0045.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WnKXc6CSjDQ/T4_xiwJzMDI/AAAAAAAABLI/9Rgtc4dt4Xk/s400/DSC_0045.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733066430009782322" border="0" /></a><br />[This actually isn't abstract art, it's a very definable object, I just shot it this way to confuse you. Can anyone guess what this sculpture is in full?]<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-znrtn_Vu5Do/T4_xjRmANkI/AAAAAAAABLU/BpAOSPYJzb8/s1600/DSC_0049.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-znrtn_Vu5Do/T4_xjRmANkI/AAAAAAAABLU/BpAOSPYJzb8/s400/DSC_0049.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733066438986446402" border="0" /></a>However, the best "art work" is probably the view.<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AK1w4RY09Ws/T4_xkPDLD_I/AAAAAAAABLs/Na6UQA1C-V0/s1600/DSC_0074.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AK1w4RY09Ws/T4_xkPDLD_I/AAAAAAAABLs/Na6UQA1C-V0/s400/DSC_0074.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733066455483355122" border="0" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9--Ne5Fl-xs/T4_xx6i5POI/AAAAAAAABL4/fTx7CMXTiu4/s1600/DSC_0075.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9--Ne5Fl-xs/T4_xx6i5POI/AAAAAAAABL4/fTx7CMXTiu4/s400/DSC_0075.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733066690497428706" border="0" /></a><br />From the Pompidou's balcony, you can start to see some of the city's alternative art. Say hello to the Cheshire Cat.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SbBDP_l6w20/T4_n43YJZHI/AAAAAAAABHY/rUcqspWa-oY/s1600/DSC_0067.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SbBDP_l6w20/T4_n43YJZHI/AAAAAAAABHY/rUcqspWa-oY/s400/DSC_0067.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733055814789850226" border="0" /></a><br />However, Paris's art scene didn't end with the closure of the brothels, although I'm sure Matisse was sad. It left the squalid studios full of oil paints, misery, and disease and entered the open air. With the sunlight came a slightly cheerier disposition, a sense of irreverence, a bit of cheek. The city's graffiti introduces the humor that is lacking in the museums. <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_PSpIy0wSrw/T4_uBHC2kcI/AAAAAAAABIg/m88XdzU8mr4/s1600/DSC_0102.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_PSpIy0wSrw/T4_uBHC2kcI/AAAAAAAABIg/m88XdzU8mr4/s400/DSC_0102.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733062553504223682" border="0" /></a><br />[I love the irony of such an ostentatious mural being a "secret."]<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QGd0noPRsfI/T4_zSEXIPsI/AAAAAAAABMQ/1Jqetodkbrk/s1600/DSC_0085.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QGd0noPRsfI/T4_zSEXIPsI/AAAAAAAABMQ/1Jqetodkbrk/s400/DSC_0085.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733068342399876802" border="0" /></a>[This man was found throughout town. I wonder what traffic law it depicts?]<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XjEd6MDlaSE/T4_wYq-HRkI/AAAAAAAABKg/4yUeGKIIlP0/s1600/DSC_0379.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XjEd6MDlaSE/T4_wYq-HRkI/AAAAAAAABKg/4yUeGKIIlP0/s400/DSC_0379.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733065157308270146" border="0" /></a>[Translate to, "look at the sky", so I did when it wasn't raining.]<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PizZc_Va9S4/T4_wZJ1pFBI/AAAAAAAABKs/2OnnDWz6QWw/s1600/DSC_0211.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PizZc_Va9S4/T4_wZJ1pFBI/AAAAAAAABKs/2OnnDWz6QWw/s400/DSC_0211.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733065165594235922" border="0" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aR2JbwSP1u4/T4_v_TIeSmI/AAAAAAAABJk/MY5flUHwGws/s1600/DSC_0327.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aR2JbwSP1u4/T4_v_TIeSmI/AAAAAAAABJk/MY5flUHwGws/s400/DSC_0327.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733064721412541026" border="0" /></a>[The expression tromp l'oeil is French so I guess they know what they're doing.]<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-n6HF4FFTptE/T4_wAOdFS3I/AAAAAAAABJ8/Y-gbnmtUc2c/s1600/DSC_0369.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-n6HF4FFTptE/T4_wAOdFS3I/AAAAAAAABJ8/Y-gbnmtUc2c/s400/DSC_0369.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733064737336675186" border="0" /></a>[Jack Russell Terriers and pigeons are the most evident animals running throughout Paris, but the graffiti artists are turning the boulevards into a jungle.]<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HerpsyG8I8U/T4_o5CYfRVI/AAAAAAAABH8/pgRdGdpBGVc/s1600/DSC_0094.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HerpsyG8I8U/T4_o5CYfRVI/AAAAAAAABH8/pgRdGdpBGVc/s400/DSC_0094.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733056917255701842" border="0" /></a>[Oddly written in English, but still ominous.]<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kYrF-PRTL9I/T4_v_4eSD1I/AAAAAAAABJ0/CqfFSPkqoGM/s1600/DSC_0334.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kYrF-PRTL9I/T4_v_4eSD1I/AAAAAAAABJ0/CqfFSPkqoGM/s400/DSC_0334.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733064731436126034" border="0" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-u28X17qFA64/T4_o5hL-iCI/AAAAAAAABII/rwoK7WpZqFE/s1600/DSC_0097.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-u28X17qFA64/T4_o5hL-iCI/AAAAAAAABII/rwoK7WpZqFE/s400/DSC_0097.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733056925524723746" border="0" /></a><br />Parisian artists were harbingers of some of the great artistic movements, and although this legacy must be intimidating for contemporary Parisian artists, they made a movement of their own. There's no audio guide to it, but take a turn down a picturesque alley and you'll find it. Photography is definitely allowed!<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zA4nWMaoXvo/T4_o4gwnO2I/AAAAAAAABHw/FZFTXCgC8wI/s1600/DSC_0089.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zA4nWMaoXvo/T4_o4gwnO2I/AAAAAAAABHw/FZFTXCgC8wI/s400/DSC_0089.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733056908230081378" border="0" /></a>Some of the shop signs could even hang in the Pompidou.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2qIR5Zj_te8/T4_yqXtXmfI/AAAAAAAABME/0lnHcf_SLjc/s1600/DSC_0082.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2qIR5Zj_te8/T4_yqXtXmfI/AAAAAAAABME/0lnHcf_SLjc/s400/DSC_0082.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733067660398664178" border="0" /></a>There's almost a full zoo running across the awnings of Paris.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0vpZP7oB-ew/T4_wAijCxCI/AAAAAAAABKM/cmqmnTv8qDw/s1600/DSC_0377.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0vpZP7oB-ew/T4_wAijCxCI/AAAAAAAABKM/cmqmnTv8qDw/s400/DSC_0377.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733064742730384418" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-89wYpaIbKfA/T4_uBS0S3SI/AAAAAAAABIs/W-xh_3veGcI/s1600/DSC_0134.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-89wYpaIbKfA/T4_uBS0S3SI/AAAAAAAABIs/W-xh_3veGcI/s400/DSC_0134.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733062556664388898" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eBmXiVtiIqA/T4_uCkY5fUI/AAAAAAAABJQ/NDe7isbOyWg/s1600/DSC_0272.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eBmXiVtiIqA/T4_uCkY5fUI/AAAAAAAABJQ/NDe7isbOyWg/s400/DSC_0272.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733062578561187138" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Of course, some may argue that a Ladurée pastry is an art form, I'm one of those people. Although, attempting to eat this thing was a fiasco.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KGNP2kpDNfA/T4_wYDG4OkI/AAAAAAAABKY/h63ktYfiKUU/s1600/DSC_0404.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KGNP2kpDNfA/T4_wYDG4OkI/AAAAAAAABKY/h63ktYfiKUU/s400/DSC_0404.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733065146607614530" border="0" /></a>Paris is one of those amazing cities that has such an abundance of art that you start to take it for granted. However, the real shame would be to miss the art all around you.Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-55635716503052341952012-04-15T10:59:00.021+01:002012-04-15T17:15:18.204+01:00Paris, Je t'aime?<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FMQkYQ87n4Q/T4qrz-lVCTI/AAAAAAAABFQ/OS30EI1wOCE/s1600/DSC_0163.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FMQkYQ87n4Q/T4qrz-lVCTI/AAAAAAAABFQ/OS30EI1wOCE/s400/DSC_0163.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731582385243621682" border="0" /></a>[You can see the Eiffel Tower from almost every part of the city. It became my compass needle, considering I lack any natural sense of direction.]<br /><br />Paris. The City of Lights. The City of Love. The City that wouldn't let me in.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lZYQeDaj7Q0/T4qev90e1vI/AAAAAAAABDQ/3fHM0lS8mHw/s1600/DSC_0125.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lZYQeDaj7Q0/T4qev90e1vI/AAAAAAAABDQ/3fHM0lS8mHw/s400/DSC_0125.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731568022668105458" border="0" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jiA4jG2M9KQ/T4qryjkZlJI/AAAAAAAABE8/EgSi9rrEnjw/s1600/DSC_0153.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jiA4jG2M9KQ/T4qryjkZlJI/AAAAAAAABE8/EgSi9rrEnjw/s400/DSC_0153.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731582360812098706" border="0" /></a><br />When I was 18, as a high school graduation and a "welcome to adulthood!" gift, I went on a trip to Paris with my parents. After eleven years of learning French in school, I was ready to test out those skills. Surely, I had absorbed some conversational French from watching "Muzzy" in class (never mind, that the French aren't fuzzy clock munching monsters). What I didn't know linguistically, I tried to make up for in culture. I created my own Parisian culture syllabi before the trip: reading Hemingway's <span style="font-style: italic;">A Moveable Feast</span> and a biography of Coco Chanel and watching "Paris, Je t'aime","Amélie", and "Marie Antoinette" more than stills of those films are reblogged on tumblr. I understood the language and I had done my "research"; I was ready for Paris to welcome me.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oTKf2jPZskA/T4qevrp0EyI/AAAAAAAABDA/Qqxj1E9ET4Y/s1600/DSC_0079.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oTKf2jPZskA/T4qevrp0EyI/AAAAAAAABDA/Qqxj1E9ET4Y/s400/DSC_0079.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731568017791521570" border="0" /></a><br />[Sacré Coeur as viewed through a sculpture at the Centre Pompidou.]<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xE2Id35So4c/T4qf6uDU-SI/AAAAAAAABEA/btCyB8A2KKY/s1600/DSC_0185.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xE2Id35So4c/T4qf6uDU-SI/AAAAAAAABEA/btCyB8A2KKY/s400/DSC_0185.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731569306925594914" border="0" /></a><br />However, when I was actually in Paris, I felt snubbed. Treating me like an under-dressed party guest, Paris let me into the fête, but totally ignored me when I was there. Whenever I tried to speak French, I would be quickly dressed down to English. As if the humble crêpe I wanted didn't deserve to be ordered in butchered French. Nevertheless, I persevered to see as much as the city as quickly as they did in "Paris, Je t'aime", consequently, by the end of the trip my exhausted parents resented me as much as the city seemed to. I had tried too hard and no one appreciated it, especially Paris.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qTAPwFM0cik/T4qf7igutBI/AAAAAAAABEY/NiZOxpXkdxc/s1600/DSC_0232.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qTAPwFM0cik/T4qf7igutBI/AAAAAAAABEY/NiZOxpXkdxc/s400/DSC_0232.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731569321007559698" border="0" /></a>[My attitude towards Paris after my first visit when I was 18 was similar to this Rodin statue.]<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-n81UJCCCqyU/T4qqwKV9hHI/AAAAAAAABEw/-4mgk8A6CMs/s1600/DSC_0111.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-n81UJCCCqyU/T4qqwKV9hHI/AAAAAAAABEw/-4mgk8A6CMs/s400/DSC_0111.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731581220169286770" border="0" /></a>[Four years ago, Paris was like a sphinx's riddle, something I couldn't unravel.]<br /><br />However, last year, I found myself smitten with Paris again and have Woody Allen to blame. I'm not going to yammer on about why "Midnight in Paris" is amazing, but it's proof enough that I saw it three times in theaters. It was pure fantasy that allowed me to fall in love with Paris again, while realizing it was all a romance, something I failed to do with other French films. So when my mother suggested we travel there for my Easter break last week, I said "oui!" She knew I needed an escape after the craziest two months of my college career (2 essays, 2 visitors, 2 sinus infections, 2 balls, 8 issues of the newspaper to edit as editor in chief, and 1 dissertation- add it all up and that explains why I haven't been blogging) and what's more of an diversion than a country where a cookie is a macaroon?<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2u24q08xMds/T4qf6M2UveI/AAAAAAAABD0/2BnWMRao-cs/s1600/DSC_0114.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2u24q08xMds/T4qf6M2UveI/AAAAAAAABD0/2BnWMRao-cs/s400/DSC_0114.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731569298012683746" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KnKQKSTJBaI/T4qew_E1hSI/AAAAAAAABDo/ziOUaN-gFZY/s1600/DSC_0159.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KnKQKSTJBaI/T4qew_E1hSI/AAAAAAAABDo/ziOUaN-gFZY/s400/DSC_0159.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731568040185005346" border="0" /></a>[Cafe de Flore's chocolate tart, which I ordered on top of their decadent famous hot chocolate, but as Edith Piaf would sing, "Non, je ne regrette rien!"]<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_JFsbuF6VMg/T4qewQ0GnaI/AAAAAAAABDc/CeosJ7dA5M4/s1600/DSC_0131.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_JFsbuF6VMg/T4qewQ0GnaI/AAAAAAAABDc/CeosJ7dA5M4/s400/DSC_0131.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731568027766791586" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I had no expectations for the trip other than eating my weight in pastry and attempting to take a non-cliche photo (achieved the former with daily chausson aux pommes from Angelina and you can judge the latter). I wasn't trying to woo Paris this time, but contrarily, it wooed me. As Andrea, one of my two visitors this past semester, said, "Edinburgh is very gray," so seeing the rainbow in Ladurée's macaroons or cherry blossoms punctuating the Parisian architecture cheered me and opened my eyes to how beautiful the rest of the city is.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fzKGkxGdzH4/T4qsg_cYsbI/AAAAAAAABFo/g7vJwydPeOo/s1600/DSC_0400.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fzKGkxGdzH4/T4qsg_cYsbI/AAAAAAAABFo/g7vJwydPeOo/s400/DSC_0400.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731583158568661426" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-h0UJuJ1S-MI/T4qsgbTQ45I/AAAAAAAABFg/bewds5vLzOw/s1600/DSC_0358.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-h0UJuJ1S-MI/T4qsgbTQ45I/AAAAAAAABFg/bewds5vLzOw/s400/DSC_0358.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731583148866724754" border="0" /></a>I became as fanciful and cliche as Gil Pender: feeling inspired as I walked by Haussmann buildings, drinking wine with lunch, people watching in the Tuileries- in short, giving myself permission to just sit back and enjoy, something that was nearly impossible this semester when I existed from deadline to deadline. Paris reminded me it's okay to take pleasure in the little things instead of panicking over the big things.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1FXCyCCNmWo/T4qrzVGG1_I/AAAAAAAABFI/sMr02054c9Y/s1600/DSC_0117.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1FXCyCCNmWo/T4qrzVGG1_I/AAAAAAAABFI/sMr02054c9Y/s400/DSC_0117.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731582374106814450" border="0" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-idy0p_Hp4K8/T4qxIHYvwfI/AAAAAAAABF4/NHhDBAp0EMk/s1600/DSC_0346.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-idy0p_Hp4K8/T4qxIHYvwfI/AAAAAAAABF4/NHhDBAp0EMk/s400/DSC_0346.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731588228762288626" border="0" /></a>And weirdly enough, I seemed to be getting respect from the Parisians for it. No one ever assumed I was American by default; maybe my trench coat, also sported by the so-chic-it's-annoying Parisians, helped. I had "un peu" of my high school French intact, certainly enough to competently order at a restaurant (and considering how much food vocab we studied in my French classes, that's really all that matters anyway). Even if they eventually switched to English, waiters approved of me trying and sometimes let me interact with them totally in French. This encouraged me to order dessert more frequently than I should've.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YU_TxPpK-NU/T4q1kVCxWlI/AAAAAAAABGQ/SJQe76G3G5s/s1600/DSC_0331.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YU_TxPpK-NU/T4q1kVCxWlI/AAAAAAAABGQ/SJQe76G3G5s/s400/DSC_0331.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731593111511063122" border="0" /></a>Navigating the city was less forgiving. I always used to find Paris's arrondissements <span class="st"><em></em></span>confusing, but maybe that was just because I couldn't pronounce the word. However, once I discovered every street sign has the arrondissement in the corner, I felt let in on a city secret. And even when I got lost (let's be honest here, about 5 times a day), there was always the metro, which was surprisingly easy to use. Once I master a city's metro, I feel less like a tourist. Paradoxically, feeling less like a tourist is always my goal as a tourist, but thankfully, Paris, a city of contradictions, understood that and indulged me.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7TRMY1R5hCw/T4qf8I9nrfI/AAAAAAAABEg/t6vRuihnnVs/s1600/DSC_0295.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7TRMY1R5hCw/T4qf8I9nrfI/AAAAAAAABEg/t6vRuihnnVs/s400/DSC_0295.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731569331329281522" border="0" /></a>With my new found ability to get my way around Paris linguistically and geographically, Paris opened up for me like it never had before. I may not have understood all the French I heard around me, but I was starting to understand the lifestyle. Like the ridiculously whimsical Chagall painting at the Pompidou, I was enjoying the romance and escapism of it all. And as Julia Robert's says in "Notting Hill", "<span class="st">Happiness isn't happiness without a violin-playing goat." <em></em></span><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FmfKGt2Wfvo/T4q3txpwRPI/AAAAAAAABGc/eIr7c98uOMo/s1600/DSC_0069.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FmfKGt2Wfvo/T4q3txpwRPI/AAAAAAAABGc/eIr7c98uOMo/s400/DSC_0069.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731595472832840946" border="0" /></a>I've fallen in love with Paris, as you should see from the next few posts!<br /><span class="st"><em></em> </span>Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-18597450539928190082012-01-09T17:37:00.007+00:002012-01-09T18:23:21.518+00:00The Mild West<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3b9DXSNWs9E/Twsm4nG2lDI/AAAAAAAABBw/rj7LmXmLD7Y/s1600/IMG_0623.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3b9DXSNWs9E/Twsm4nG2lDI/AAAAAAAABBw/rj7LmXmLD7Y/s400/IMG_0623.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695688907752379442" border="0" /></a>I apologize for my blogging absence. First there were exams, when I was so busy and brain addled that I could barely write my own name let alone a blog post. Then I flew home on the most boring transatlantic flight ever where the in-flight entertainment system died within an hour of takeoff (no bad Katherine Heigl films for me) and my reading light didn't work. I swear it was cruel karmic payback for putting my takehome exam off for so long that I nearly pulled an all-nighter. Finally I was home and ready to write in something other than a blue book and then I got the stomach flu. I recovered in time to eat my weight in cheese during Christmas, as you do. I was hoping to take photos of a beautiful Minnesota white Christmas, except we never got one. The weather is so warm that I'm forced to admit that the only reason why I'm wearing flannel is because I'm a hipster, not because it's cold out. But finally I have something to share with you that isn't contagious, the father-daughter ski trip in Utah we took before 2012!<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1TvZAQ1GveA/TwsndGMgPUI/AAAAAAAABCg/HaZ9-5K3Z1Y/s1600/IMG_0643.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1TvZAQ1GveA/TwsndGMgPUI/AAAAAAAABCg/HaZ9-5K3Z1Y/s400/IMG_0643.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695689534572870978" border="0" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3a7DpSViXqQ/TwsncgIuoJI/AAAAAAAABCU/ZuBTUUxkrIo/s1600/IMG_0641.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3a7DpSViXqQ/TwsncgIuoJI/AAAAAAAABCU/ZuBTUUxkrIo/s400/IMG_0641.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695689524356489362" border="0" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eMH3EoSvGl8/TwsmTtjkTnI/AAAAAAAABAE/bajmcU6eSyU/s1600/IMG_0590.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eMH3EoSvGl8/TwsmTtjkTnI/AAAAAAAABAE/bajmcU6eSyU/s400/IMG_0590.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695688273828269682" border="0" /></a>I say ski trip, but a snow globe probably had more snow than Park City did, as you can see from these photos. The skiing itself was like the Dairy Queen menu. The first day it was akin to a blizzard, snow mixed with nice rocks to crunch over every so often. I like softserve, but I don't appreciate skiing on it. This was the result of the second day when it rained in the morning and warmed up enough in the afternoon to induce sundae style ski conditions. Day three was a crunch cone from hell as ice pellets smacked into my face. We finally got good ski conditions on our last day and by that I mean gale force wind in the morning, sheets of ice to glide over, but at least sun. Global warming, we got the message.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AscfVm9ooIU/TwsncL2TI7I/AAAAAAAABB8/MpX1TxtQtis/s1600/IMG_0626.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AscfVm9ooIU/TwsncL2TI7I/AAAAAAAABB8/MpX1TxtQtis/s400/IMG_0626.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695689518910481330" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NQIdLy5jv_I/TwsncR0hC1I/AAAAAAAABCI/3bhqRzSUco4/s1600/IMG_0636.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NQIdLy5jv_I/TwsncR0hC1I/AAAAAAAABCI/3bhqRzSUco4/s400/IMG_0636.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695689520513616722" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-F9Yg-W9A6Gk/TwsndUwAvZI/AAAAAAAABCo/jM3LXJSxrz0/s1600/IMG_0649.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-F9Yg-W9A6Gk/TwsndUwAvZI/AAAAAAAABCo/jM3LXJSxrz0/s400/IMG_0649.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695689538479898002" border="0" /></a>What the slopes lacked in entertainment, the city and tourists made up for. If you didn't know this already, I'm the real life version of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. While running late to a dinner reservation one night, I ran into a girl I took racquetball with during my sophomore year at GW. It's a small world after all. Therefore, it was no surprise when my dad and I shared a chairlift with two Glaswegians. I can't avoid the Scots! With my luck, I was sure I was going to run into Robert Redford (years ago, my mother claims to have spotted him on the chairlift) or Aaron Eckhart (who I saw going incognito with a strategically grown beard over his famous chin a few years back). Sadly, neither celebrity nor snow materialized.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1drtispVQ2M/Twsm3mWAxAI/AAAAAAAABBU/djt86QShYpo/s1600/IMG_0620.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1drtispVQ2M/Twsm3mWAxAI/AAAAAAAABBU/djt86QShYpo/s400/IMG_0620.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695688890367656962" border="0" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--HLUurrOVRM/Twsm36dq7-I/AAAAAAAABBo/enXAreCDMhk/s1600/IMG_0622.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--HLUurrOVRM/Twsm36dq7-I/AAAAAAAABBo/enXAreCDMhk/s400/IMG_0622.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695688895768489954" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LWKHy6t7AzY/Twsm3PwGmSI/AAAAAAAABBM/pCuOdjbEmIY/s1600/IMG_0615.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LWKHy6t7AzY/Twsm3PwGmSI/AAAAAAAABBM/pCuOdjbEmIY/s400/IMG_0615.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695688884303075618" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-q9L92dhrkCY/Twsm2yw35PI/AAAAAAAABBA/ThoneGGjbMM/s1600/IMG_0611.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-q9L92dhrkCY/Twsm2yw35PI/AAAAAAAABBA/ThoneGGjbMM/s400/IMG_0611.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695688876521678066" border="0" /></a>Although the bottom of my skis looked a little worse for the wear after that trip, it was nice to get a change of scenery. I fell victim to my pattern of shooting upward when in cities, but the sky is so brilliantly blue over the Rockies that I hope you'll forgive me. Park City is as commercial as its Hollywood Sundance film festival, but I appreciate good paint jobs and Western kitsch in any form.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cTvCoElfgU0/TwsmVF-SigI/AAAAAAAABA0/T4ne2Fxqd_w/s1600/IMG_0610.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cTvCoElfgU0/TwsmVF-SigI/AAAAAAAABA0/T4ne2Fxqd_w/s400/IMG_0610.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695688297562671618" border="0" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JOTD6Loi_A8/TwsmTzYuwVI/AAAAAAAABAU/UJVODyVbBGM/s1600/IMG_0594.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JOTD6Loi_A8/TwsmTzYuwVI/AAAAAAAABAU/UJVODyVbBGM/s400/IMG_0594.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695688275393429842" border="0" /></a>Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-33275023540110164342011-11-21T19:00:00.008+00:002011-11-21T19:58:53.505+00:00Finding You Know Who<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NTbTlrxKPTg/Tsqg6LFwXtI/AAAAAAAAA8Q/DDT9H8OpZZs/s1600/DSC_0020.JPG"><br /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tbLOzgc6Spc/Tsqn1WCMWZI/AAAAAAAAA_g/RlheN5nDIck/s1600/DSC_0066.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tbLOzgc6Spc/Tsqn1WCMWZI/AAAAAAAAA_g/RlheN5nDIck/s400/DSC_0066.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677534815143614866" border="0" /></a><br />I apologize for not blogging for awhile. What can I say? I was busy finishing up essays and finding Voldemort.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GjXPVHd3Mlw/Tsqn2C4-sKI/AAAAAAAAA_s/dxiRJCPnz3s/s1600/DSC_0064.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GjXPVHd3Mlw/Tsqn2C4-sKI/AAAAAAAAA_s/dxiRJCPnz3s/s400/DSC_0064.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677534827184566434" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kf9-ktLzbEs/Tsqimu8yP0I/AAAAAAAAA9I/981HNsnK4pY/s1600/DSC_0036.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kf9-ktLzbEs/Tsqimu8yP0I/AAAAAAAAA9I/981HNsnK4pY/s400/DSC_0036.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677529066575642434" border="0" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LFWaFZ78hFU/TsqkKYHLKrI/AAAAAAAAA-M/KdrE-4bloDI/s1600/DSC_0051.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LFWaFZ78hFU/TsqkKYHLKrI/AAAAAAAAA-M/KdrE-4bloDI/s400/DSC_0051.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677530778432121522" border="0" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--V1T0pcEH3I/TsqkJWXDb8I/AAAAAAAAA-E/cNONmuf2z6s/s1600/DSC_0050.JPG"><br /></a><br />Before you think I've gone mad and blurred fiction with reality, I should probably clarify that I found Voldemort's tombstone. Actually, Tom Riddell's tombstone. Close enough.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I8oqUvdzEgY/Tsqn2ny7bcI/AAAAAAAAA_4/LbN9K34Z3Bw/s1600/DSC_0063.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I8oqUvdzEgY/Tsqn2ny7bcI/AAAAAAAAA_4/LbN9K34Z3Bw/s400/DSC_0063.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677534837091298754" border="0" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-X_S4hWxHFkE/TsqkId82A7I/AAAAAAAAA9o/EPB58Q9L734/s1600/DSC_0041.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-X_S4hWxHFkE/TsqkId82A7I/AAAAAAAAA9o/EPB58Q9L734/s400/DSC_0041.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677530745639666610" border="0" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Z0OB-5V2lOw/TsqlazLzTLI/AAAAAAAAA-k/Def1tGMAewc/s1600/DSC_0060.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Z0OB-5V2lOw/TsqlazLzTLI/AAAAAAAAA-k/Def1tGMAewc/s400/DSC_0060.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677532160088820914" border="0" /></a><br />It wasn't that hard to find. If the trio had me around, they would've found the horcruxes in under an hour.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--nysBAeFZNs/TsqlbX_aw4I/AAAAAAAAA-w/fUJ8tZTTCMs/s1600/DSC_0070.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--nysBAeFZNs/TsqlbX_aw4I/AAAAAAAAA-w/fUJ8tZTTCMs/s400/DSC_0070.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677532169968993154" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-L-4SBd63yZM/Tsqg5AB7KbI/AAAAAAAAA74/5DFAHS73rfs/s1600/DSC_0017.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-L-4SBd63yZM/Tsqg5AB7KbI/AAAAAAAAA74/5DFAHS73rfs/s400/DSC_0017.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677527181374990770" border="0" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XmX98tkke4I/Tsqg4XCqySI/AAAAAAAAA7w/Fm3dxQEk8HA/s1600/DSC_0015.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XmX98tkke4I/Tsqg4XCqySI/AAAAAAAAA7w/Fm3dxQEk8HA/s400/DSC_0015.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677527170372258082" border="0" /></a><br />I have to admit I cheated. I knew exactly where to look. The particular cemetery, Greyfriars, is right behind The Elephant House, the cafe J.K. Rowling wrote part of Harry Potter in. I think it's no coincidence that there just happens to be the Dark Lord's moniker chiseled on a headstone, albeit in a slightly different spelling.<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SXdfNU6jqGI/Tsqg4PgsBeI/AAAAAAAAA7k/-q3Kr1LnrN4/s1600/DSC_0009.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SXdfNU6jqGI/Tsqg4PgsBeI/AAAAAAAAA7k/-q3Kr1LnrN4/s400/DSC_0009.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677527168350684642" border="0" /></a><br />When I found it, I didn't shudder and gasp, "Oh no, it's He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!" I cackled like Bellatrix Lestrange. This was a quintessentially Edinburgh moment. Just like you can see the Castle from nearly everywhere in the city, Harry Potter relics are almost as ubiquitous. However, I haven't really been out and about in the city in awhile, unless the city is only encompassed by my flat, the library, the newspaper office, Tesco, and a few select cafes. Those have been my haunts since November started and I literally mean haunts. I would float in looking less rested than Nearly Headless Nick and proceed to get crabbier than the Bloody Baron as I settled in to write two 2,500 word essays and brew up a list of 15 secondary sources for the annotated bibliography due for my dissertation. This is even more boring to list than a History of Magic lecture, so imagine a fortnight of it.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ie-8pPTG8ro/TsqilakG6SI/AAAAAAAAA8w/IlFD31wWnts/s1600/DSC_0031.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ie-8pPTG8ro/TsqilakG6SI/AAAAAAAAA8w/IlFD31wWnts/s400/DSC_0031.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677529043923560738" border="0" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CLpDyGbMjt4/Tsqik3L_EXI/AAAAAAAAA8g/1I88DhJ7mzc/s1600/DSC_0026.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CLpDyGbMjt4/Tsqik3L_EXI/AAAAAAAAA8g/1I88DhJ7mzc/s400/DSC_0026.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677529034427142514" border="0" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xcQyyLFK9oQ/Tsqlb7tKO1I/AAAAAAAAA-8/o2pmfrDZ_LM/s1600/DSC_0071.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xcQyyLFK9oQ/Tsqlb7tKO1I/AAAAAAAAA-8/o2pmfrDZ_LM/s400/DSC_0071.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677532179556088658" border="0" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NTbTlrxKPTg/Tsqg6LFwXtI/AAAAAAAAA8Q/DDT9H8OpZZs/s1600/DSC_0020.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NTbTlrxKPTg/Tsqg6LFwXtI/AAAAAAAAA8Q/DDT9H8OpZZs/s400/DSC_0020.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677527201523719890" border="0" /></a><br />Consequently, I feel like I've been living in Edinburgh, but not really experiencing it. This needed to change, so today I got my shoes a little muddy and found a reason to write such a post so laden with Potterhead references.<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EE8KyFd-Q8I/TsqlcJIsnTI/AAAAAAAAA_I/C7ykEjXBV8U/s1600/DSC_0072.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EE8KyFd-Q8I/TsqlcJIsnTI/AAAAAAAAA_I/C7ykEjXBV8U/s400/DSC_0072.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677532183161249074" border="0" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fKh2unjiG8A/TsqinfAjIHI/AAAAAAAAA9Q/pcSaX4VCpIk/s1600/DSC_0039.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fKh2unjiG8A/TsqinfAjIHI/AAAAAAAAA9Q/pcSaX4VCpIk/s400/DSC_0039.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677529079476330610" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-W8OjLTp_pdQ/Tsqg5VS5lkI/AAAAAAAAA8E/HwYtrtPIRqQ/s1600/DSC_0019.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-W8OjLTp_pdQ/Tsqg5VS5lkI/AAAAAAAAA8E/HwYtrtPIRqQ/s400/DSC_0019.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677527187083335234" border="0" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Goo-uhoeszw/TsqimSIzCFI/AAAAAAAAA84/ajU6Osf5zXc/s1600/DSC_0033.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Goo-uhoeszw/TsqimSIzCFI/AAAAAAAAA84/ajU6Osf5zXc/s400/DSC_0033.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677529058841397330" border="0" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--V1T0pcEH3I/TsqkJWXDb8I/AAAAAAAAA-E/cNONmuf2z6s/s1600/DSC_0050.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--V1T0pcEH3I/TsqkJWXDb8I/AAAAAAAAA-E/cNONmuf2z6s/s400/DSC_0050.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677530760781983682" border="0" /></a><br />It feels nice to be back in Edinburgh.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CbyzwU4ntwU/TsqkI_hLaxI/AAAAAAAAA90/B-0TFS2omTs/s1600/DSC_0042.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CbyzwU4ntwU/TsqkI_hLaxI/AAAAAAAAA90/B-0TFS2omTs/s400/DSC_0042.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677530754650434322" border="0" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XLwAHeN4Q-s/TsqkIIHaPvI/AAAAAAAAA9c/2aeyN9-qqG8/s1600/DSC_0040.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XLwAHeN4Q-s/TsqkIIHaPvI/AAAAAAAAA9c/2aeyN9-qqG8/s400/DSC_0040.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677530739778404082" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LpG0c6rDAK0/Tsqlabl0zcI/AAAAAAAAA-Y/Sj4KZI-d-VE/s1600/DSC_0057.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LpG0c6rDAK0/Tsqlabl0zcI/AAAAAAAAA-Y/Sj4KZI-d-VE/s400/DSC_0057.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677532153755520450" border="0" /></a>Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-49311654733697717492011-10-31T21:19:00.015+00:002012-01-13T21:47:42.600+00:00I've got a halloweenhead head full of tricks and treats<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mJZtqbYx3PI/Tq8XcLy_aMI/AAAAAAAAA4s/a0wjrbcldmM/s1600/DSC_0150.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mJZtqbYx3PI/Tq8XcLy_aMI/AAAAAAAAA4s/a0wjrbcldmM/s400/DSC_0150.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669776228853180610" border="0" /></a>Being a university student is hard. It entails long essays and even longer hours to finish them. It's no wonder some of us turn to binges to get through it. No, I'm not talking about alcohol binges, but something even worse, sugar binges.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BsLGixkJP6Q/Tq8Xa2wZ22I/AAAAAAAAA4I/sipYa0_N8Hs/s1600/DSC_0159.JPG"><br /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/---AHXxnjeVE/Tq8Zx31RBSI/AAAAAAAAA54/xsrEU9uBsjo/s1600/DSC_0093.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/---AHXxnjeVE/Tq8Zx31RBSI/AAAAAAAAA54/xsrEU9uBsjo/s400/DSC_0093.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669778800474391842" border="0" /></a>[Non-alcoholic apple cider is one of the many things that cannot be found during UK autumn, so Amy brewed up some <a href="http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/13370/mulled-apple-juice">mulled apple juice</a>. It's not quite pressed bitter apple juice, but it has its own charm.]<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NRbDtSgG7wY/Tq8Zwb8XMjI/AAAAAAAAA5Q/TuVvYX29IwI/s1600/DSC_0118.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NRbDtSgG7wY/Tq8Zwb8XMjI/AAAAAAAAA5Q/TuVvYX29IwI/s400/DSC_0118.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669778775808094770" border="0" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6D6H7tdqNG4/Tq8ZwOyqiLI/AAAAAAAAA5E/Ek6XFdNFDr0/s1600/DSC_0132.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6D6H7tdqNG4/Tq8ZwOyqiLI/AAAAAAAAA5E/Ek6XFdNFDr0/s400/DSC_0132.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669778772277758130" border="0" /></a><br />I'm sure you're well aware of the symptoms. You can feel a sugar binge coming on when you have an essay deadline coming up. Suddenly you feel an urge to look at Nigella Lawson's website instead of JSTOR articles. Nigella is very demanding and if you're going to serve her domestic goddess you'll need to sacrifice some butter and a pair of pants the next size up. Some may claim that butter is the most sinful of foods, but since we take our orders from the head domestic goddess, Julia Child, the real cardinal sin is to use margarine.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D1ZJFk5mqgg/Tq8Zwgb_7mI/AAAAAAAAA5c/jyIFAk2tGgE/s1600/DSC_0102.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D1ZJFk5mqgg/Tq8Zwgb_7mI/AAAAAAAAA5c/jyIFAk2tGgE/s400/DSC_0102.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669778777014529634" border="0" /></a>[Nerdy photo alert: Look Poppy's in the kettle!]<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4qDgc20yg_Q/Tq8cCuFVibI/AAAAAAAAA6M/Z6uOvZtnzBQ/s1600/DSC_0146.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4qDgc20yg_Q/Tq8cCuFVibI/AAAAAAAAA6M/Z6uOvZtnzBQ/s400/DSC_0146.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669781288938473906" border="0" /></a><br />[Poppy's banana bread is from a Tesco recipe amazingly! I couldn't find the exact one, but <a href="http://gastronomyblog.com/2009/05/31/banana-bread-with-chocolate-and-candied-ginger/">this</a> is quite similar. The key is the ginger and chocolate chips that converted a banana bread loather like me.]<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-96-EcxYcAzg/Tq8XbN8MveI/AAAAAAAAA4U/MfrziA4nCCk/s1600/DSC_0147.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-96-EcxYcAzg/Tq8XbN8MveI/AAAAAAAAA4U/MfrziA4nCCk/s400/DSC_0147.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669776212248804834" border="0" /></a><br />The next symptom is empty cupboards. Just like when you finally revisit your chosen essay question only to find you no longer know what it's asking (what is "the cultural exchange" anyway?), when you finally find your recipe you realize you have no flour, *gasp* butter, or even sugar. You learned from the Three Little Pigs that trying to borrow a cup of sugar from the neighbor is never a good idea. Off to the grocery store you go and hey, it's kind of on the way to the library.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-198y-VDx5cY/Tq8ZxTbZN4I/AAAAAAAAA5o/op71YJwVi0I/s1600/DSC_0094.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-198y-VDx5cY/Tq8ZxTbZN4I/AAAAAAAAA5o/op71YJwVi0I/s400/DSC_0094.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669778790702200706" border="0" /></a>[S's family has recently relocated to the deep South and to embrace her new surroundings, she's fallen in love with Paula Deen. Paula's<a href="http://www.pauladeen.com/recipes/recipe_view/chocolate_gooey_butter_cookies/"> gooey butter cookies</a> are indeed gooey and were soft and chewy for an entire week!]<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Acnguujfohc/Tq8VrhZK2uI/AAAAAAAAA3k/L_dLLb-LazU/s1600/DSC_0168.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Acnguujfohc/Tq8VrhZK2uI/AAAAAAAAA3k/L_dLLb-LazU/s400/DSC_0168.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669774293325241058" border="0" /></a><br />The third and final symptom, when even a salad cannot save you, is when you guilt trip your friends into joining in the on the bacchanal baking. You use the ultimate purveyor of panic, Facebook, and send a message enabling everyone to take their stress out by vigorously creaming some butter and sugar around at your flat. You give the event a catchy title because you cannot come up with one for your essay, "Bakeathon!"<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BsLGixkJP6Q/Tq8Xa2wZ22I/AAAAAAAAA4I/sipYa0_N8Hs/s1600/DSC_0159.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BsLGixkJP6Q/Tq8Xa2wZ22I/AAAAAAAAA4I/sipYa0_N8Hs/s400/DSC_0159.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669776206025317218" border="0" /></a><br />[My apple something, we have arguments over whether it's a crumble or cobbler, is buttery bliss. The original <a href="http://tastykitchen.com/recipes/desserts/blueberry-crumble-bars/">recipe </a>asks for blueberries, and although they're the best filling, for this time of year you have to embrace the apple. ]<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ppFmL3aYJ4U/Tq8Vs_fjk3I/AAAAAAAAA38/s0jGv5P1exg/s1600/DSC_0161.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ppFmL3aYJ4U/Tq8Vs_fjk3I/AAAAAAAAA38/s0jGv5P1exg/s400/DSC_0161.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669774318584959858" border="0" /></a><br />[Gingham? Apple dessert? I'm practically a Midwestern farm wife!]<br /><br />As expected, everyone is just as frazzled as you. They can't find all the books they need in the library, but they have found Tollhouse chocolate chips.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D9qJvNAusgk/Tq8VryCppmI/AAAAAAAAA30/0aLiitxriN0/s1600/DSC_0166.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D9qJvNAusgk/Tq8VryCppmI/AAAAAAAAA30/0aLiitxriN0/s400/DSC_0166.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669774297794192994" border="0" /></a>[Amy, nice and relaxed- a sign of a good sugar binge, I'd say.]<br /><br />It's time to face the facts, your kitchen is covered in powdered sugar and you're definitely on a sugar binge.<br /><br />Rx: Brownie/cookie/cupcake/muffin of choice taken with some dough.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BsLGixkJP6Q/Tq8Xa2wZ22I/AAAAAAAAA4I/sipYa0_N8Hs/s1600/DSC_0159.JPG"><br /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wSqI0AWKD8Y/Tq8Vqm39UyI/AAAAAAAAA3c/w9-e3d8jDCo/s1600/DSC_0169.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wSqI0AWKD8Y/Tq8Vqm39UyI/AAAAAAAAA3c/w9-e3d8jDCo/s400/DSC_0169.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669774277616685858" border="0" /></a>[She was so content that she started knitting!]<br /><br />I sound like I really know these symptoms well, don't I? I must confess, I am a sufferer of sugar binges, as are some of my good friends: Amy, Poppy and S (who declined to be featured on the blog). Misery loves company so we all got together at my kitchen a few weeks back and spent as much time baking as it takes to write an essay. Sugar highs and fun ensued and we decided to make this a tradition. With the number of essay deadlines in upcoming weeks, it's safe to say this will become a long withstanding tradition. Look above for links to our recipes.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-56CEgq1XY3c/Tq8TWTrNOfI/AAAAAAAAA2o/-3OGvn0_r9M/s1600/DSC_0040.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-56CEgq1XY3c/Tq8TWTrNOfI/AAAAAAAAA2o/-3OGvn0_r9M/s400/DSC_0040.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669771729842289138" border="0" /></a><br />We already felt compelled to form a recent support group before the essay deluge by binging on some brownies while carving pumpkins. Maybe it's not best to use a knife while on a sugar high, but we had to make Halloween scary for us in some way. <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HygwguL41KA/Tq8TXOOyP3I/AAAAAAAAA20/4y31ehZQ2YA/s1600/DSC_0034.JPG"><br /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nBEb9HZE_Mk/Tq8VqFYj3iI/AAAAAAAAA3M/bB55cGQxU7A/s1600/DSC_0035.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nBEb9HZE_Mk/Tq8VqFYj3iI/AAAAAAAAA3M/bB55cGQxU7A/s400/DSC_0035.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669774268626624034" border="0" /></a>[Getting ready to roast the seeds. Make sure to add a healthy dose of salt.]<br /><br />I wish I could blame shakiness from a sugar rush for my uneven carving, but really this is why all of my high school art teachers marked me down for craftsmanship. Can you tell what my design is? It's meant to be a witch! Doesn't look like one? Fine, we'll call it "modern art." It will fit in with my nonfunctional radiators.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GNuu3Xv-tfw/Tq8TVxICG8I/AAAAAAAAA2Q/nlLmmmT7s5w/s1600/DSC_0042.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GNuu3Xv-tfw/Tq8TVxICG8I/AAAAAAAAA2Q/nlLmmmT7s5w/s400/DSC_0042.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669771720567954370" border="0" /></a><br />I know we'll need much more cathartic cooking to get through exams too so expect more posts that will make you want to get the oven going and sacrifice to the butter trifecta: Julia, Nigella, and Paula.Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-56691343133025225532011-10-17T16:14:00.013+01:002012-06-04T23:59:18.555+01:00Your Autumn Sweater<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-T5sjwlFZcYo/TpxKRpxacGI/AAAAAAAAAzo/ve0PuIlRDXI/s1600/DSC_0051.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664484098456580194" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-T5sjwlFZcYo/TpxKRpxacGI/AAAAAAAAAzo/ve0PuIlRDXI/s400/DSC_0051.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C0aScI6Rxzs/TpxKSSNfqPI/AAAAAAAAA0E/0OicVMai3X8/s1600/DSC_0054.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664484109311781106" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C0aScI6Rxzs/TpxKSSNfqPI/AAAAAAAAA0E/0OicVMai3X8/s400/DSC_0054.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Fall doesn't exist in Edinburgh.<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LnmYC-mJ9e8/TpxKRyfjXvI/AAAAAAAAAz0/91pJ4nKPqmk/s1600/DSC_0052.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664484100797587186" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LnmYC-mJ9e8/TpxKRyfjXvI/AAAAAAAAAz0/91pJ4nKPqmk/s400/DSC_0052.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ym3lCo92kR8/TpxJJmKwGaI/AAAAAAAAAy8/PNS6gXByv-k/s1600/DSC_0022.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664482860538534306" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ym3lCo92kR8/TpxJJmKwGaI/AAAAAAAAAy8/PNS6gXByv-k/s400/DSC_0022.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
You must be scratching your head right now and pondering the paradox of how Fall isn't found in Edinburgh when ruby red leaves are pictured in this post. Let's get literal here, Fall isn't a concept in British English. To the Brits, "fall" is just a verb, not a word that entails pumpkin beverages, carving, and colors.<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Lf3ty-KqFj8/TpxLxwvqXaI/AAAAAAAAA0k/kExQ7WENMQg/s1600/DSC_0085.JPG"><br /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9kNipSsaNbc/TpxHp7CG8MI/AAAAAAAAAyQ/pKoqjjgewvQ/s1600/DSC_0007.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664481216871985346" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9kNipSsaNbc/TpxHp7CG8MI/AAAAAAAAAyQ/pKoqjjgewvQ/s400/DSC_0007.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 266px;" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V8UvYpWi_0U/TpxHpAKSCMI/AAAAAAAAAyI/gmTi4xhsntk/s1600/DSC_0006.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664481201068574914" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V8UvYpWi_0U/TpxHpAKSCMI/AAAAAAAAAyI/gmTi4xhsntk/s400/DSC_0006.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 266px;" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-t99i2GTv4jM/TpxHoQcLW_I/AAAAAAAAAxs/xC1vE1prinM/s1600/DSC_0002.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664481188258733042" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-t99i2GTv4jM/TpxHoQcLW_I/AAAAAAAAAxs/xC1vE1prinM/s400/DSC_0002.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bGOpvQrbLY0/TpxHqKVgqZI/AAAAAAAAAyc/ENldJ3LhB8Q/s1600/DSC_0008.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664481220979894674" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bGOpvQrbLY0/TpxHqKVgqZI/AAAAAAAAAyc/ENldJ3LhB8Q/s400/DSC_0008.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 266px;" /></a><br />
They call it Autumn. It's not as quaint here as trips to the apple orchard or getting lost in a corn maze back in America though. The only foliage to crunch over is the leaves that turn into a slippery sludge more detrimental than delightful due to all the rain we get. As I type, the weather outside my kitchen window is the downpour that probably inspired J.K. Rowling to create dementors.<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mK70yblLXHE/TpxLy6bek1I/AAAAAAAAA08/cpcFXb0kj-s/s1600/DSC_0091.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664485769375290194" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mK70yblLXHE/TpxLy6bek1I/AAAAAAAAA08/cpcFXb0kj-s/s400/DSC_0091.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Lf3ty-KqFj8/TpxLxwvqXaI/AAAAAAAAA0k/kExQ7WENMQg/s1600/DSC_0085.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664485749595725218" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Lf3ty-KqFj8/TpxLxwvqXaI/AAAAAAAAA0k/kExQ7WENMQg/s400/DSC_0085.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gk8K9NJuGgE/TpxLyGe8xPI/AAAAAAAAA00/yYpcbAppyIw/s1600/DSC_0086.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664485755431208178" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gk8K9NJuGgE/TpxLyGe8xPI/AAAAAAAAA00/yYpcbAppyIw/s400/DSC_0086.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
Despite the lack of pumpkin spice lattes as Starbucks (they foolishly assume that their new creme brulee macchiato will suffice, it doesn't), you can still feel Autumn creeping on in, quite literally. My floorboards creek in the cold- having wooden floors may be aesthetically pleasing, but my chilled feet would beg to differ. My single-glazed windows may give me a nice view of the neighbor's black cat jumping around the garden, but also let the wind in (Scotland has <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-15283013">officially been proclaimed </a>the windiest country in Europe, duh.) Perhaps, the cat is an ill-omen and maybe the flat would be warmer if I stopped engaging with witches' familiars so close to Halloween.<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5WMv0bb4HEo/TpxKTU4zEFI/AAAAAAAAA0M/IuVOWDNLIeg/s1600/DSC_0060.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664484127210147922" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5WMv0bb4HEo/TpxKTU4zEFI/AAAAAAAAA0M/IuVOWDNLIeg/s400/DSC_0060.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I5_SjuH-PPc/TpxJKWdKg9I/AAAAAAAAAzE/rPDlJcloTjo/s1600/DSC_0024.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664482873500664786" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I5_SjuH-PPc/TpxJKWdKg9I/AAAAAAAAAzE/rPDlJcloTjo/s400/DSC_0024.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
Superstitions or not, I've come to the conclusion that the flat's many radiators are a piece of modern art- hideous and completely nonfunctional. Right now, my flatmate and I just laugh and pull on another reindeer cardigan, but we'll need to sort this out before winter really hits because the flat will only be inhabitable for actual reindeer then.<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5WlK6mYM2tc/TpxJLBTCCaI/AAAAAAAAAzc/DUh3jcgMA-0/s1600/DSC_0039.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664482885000890786" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5WlK6mYM2tc/TpxJLBTCCaI/AAAAAAAAAzc/DUh3jcgMA-0/s400/DSC_0039.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-siu-Wkr0K0I/TpxKTmz8d9I/AAAAAAAAA0Y/9hBBa0N49J0/s1600/DSC_0066.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664484132021630930" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-siu-Wkr0K0I/TpxKTmz8d9I/AAAAAAAAA0Y/9hBBa0N49J0/s400/DSC_0066.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uCh77W2g_1U/TpxJJSgOi5I/AAAAAAAAAys/0fRZKaRlXG0/s1600/DSC_0020.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664482855259900818" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uCh77W2g_1U/TpxJJSgOi5I/AAAAAAAAAys/0fRZKaRlXG0/s400/DSC_0020.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
Until then, I found another trusty mustard piece of clothing to keep me warm (thank you Topshop for enabling my mustard obsession with your amazing duffle coats) and bought a hot water bottle (yes, they still sell them, I was surprised too.) And if worse comes to worst, there's always tea. Now, I understand why the British embraced it so much.<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kVW_E4PxpMk/TpxJKi-XiiI/AAAAAAAAAzQ/if1aKboYkK0/s1600/DSC_0035.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664482876861155874" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kVW_E4PxpMk/TpxJKi-XiiI/AAAAAAAAAzQ/if1aKboYkK0/s400/DSC_0035.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-13731108009031904802011-09-30T09:33:00.012+01:002011-10-01T09:01:32.419+01:00Deutschland in the Details<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zfVnGWznONs/ToWQgf1Q7EI/AAAAAAAAAxg/-GA6gpEj2Ng/s1600/DSC_0180.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zfVnGWznONs/ToWQgf1Q7EI/AAAAAAAAAxg/-GA6gpEj2Ng/s400/DSC_0180.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658087394836016194" border="0" /></a>Three weeks ago, I was eating pastries on a daily basis and not due to stress eating, but for "cultural enrichment." Three weeks ago, I was embarrassing myself by trying to speak a language I barely knew, now I embarrass myself by speaking about poetry I barely understand in class. Three weeks ago, I got to have coffee with two of my closest friends and now we have to settle for virtual coffee over Facebook chat. Three weeks ago, I was in Berlin and I miss it.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YR-Pv8bzFFY/ToWQfodtDxI/AAAAAAAAAxI/hLBUgYctFUg/s1600/DSC_0265.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YR-Pv8bzFFY/ToWQfodtDxI/AAAAAAAAAxI/hLBUgYctFUg/s400/DSC_0265.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658087379973246738" border="0" /></a>I will always look back fondly at my time in Berlin. I've never had so much fun and felt so welcomed on any other "big European city vacation" that I've been on. You know, the one where the proportion of the maps exploding all over your hotel room is inverse to the rubber on the soles of your shoes as you traipse all over town. Normally, those vacations are a war of head over heels. My head tells me I need to appreciate every somber memorial and art museum even if it means I have to walk six miles to do so, but my heels tell me to sit down for a few minutes and enjoy another art form, a slice of torte. Inevitably, a strange compromise happens by the end of the trip: I can barely walk because I've climbed up the steps of every church I was supposed to see, but my waistline remains intact because of this, even if I probably ate more macaroons than Marie Antoinette. By the end, I'm utterly exhausted. However, when you visit two natives, they can tell you to skip the East Berlin museum, but see the East Side Gallery instead and they'll make sure you get your calories with the best strudel offered.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S_zx578kjiI/ToWQf3iYZuI/AAAAAAAAAxQ/nz5ki4G-DTY/s1600/DSC_0276.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S_zx578kjiI/ToWQf3iYZuI/AAAAAAAAAxQ/nz5ki4G-DTY/s400/DSC_0276.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658087384019396322" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1NIsBdLWzPE/ToWKZ3EdmVI/AAAAAAAAAvo/ccBCdr-RFV0/s1600/DSC_0183.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1NIsBdLWzPE/ToWKZ3EdmVI/AAAAAAAAAvo/ccBCdr-RFV0/s400/DSC_0183.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658080683744926034" border="0" /></a><br />However, it wasn't just having person tourguides in the form of my best friends that made Berlin so inclusive, but the city itself. Unlike a lot of the other major European cities I've visited where culture seems to have stopped in the 19th century or the 1920s and they are still capitalizing on the cafes where Hemingway threw back some wine and punches, Berlin is constantly generating culture. This is partially in efforts to reinvent a city whose legacy was mostly sordid in the past century and unite a community that was once forced to be divided. Regardless of the symbolism behind Berlin's barraging cultural scene, it's a lot of fun to be part of something as its happening. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QIgZISAcZP4/ToWQgGWv1eI/AAAAAAAAAxY/My74dgfVs2U/s1600/DSC_0281.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QIgZISAcZP4/ToWQgGWv1eI/AAAAAAAAAxY/My74dgfVs2U/s400/DSC_0281.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658087387997132258" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZyadYstHPTQ/ToWDSmgdV3I/AAAAAAAAAuo/ZMTlZCumVZw/s1600/DSC_0095.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZyadYstHPTQ/ToWDSmgdV3I/AAAAAAAAAuo/ZMTlZCumVZw/s400/DSC_0095.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658072862458468210" border="0" /></a><br />These happenings can be highbrow as polemical art or as lowbrow as karaoke on a sunny Sunday afternoon in Mauer Park, but everyone can witness it and in most cases get involved. When you find yourself in one of these seemingly spontaneous creations of culture as a tourist, it's like finding the Holy Grail of traveling. You have stumbled upon something not to be found in the pages of guidebooks or recommended by the concierge, but something unique. Something that may only be occurring at this one point in time, a part of history even if it's just a street parade. You are not discovering a statue that was dug up centuries ago and sneezed on by a tourist from Phoenix just yesterday that you could've better seen on a postcard, you're discovering something that not even everyone in that city will know about. In can be summed up in this one little phrase, "only in Berlin." It's that rare moment where you feel like a local and sometimes cannot even be achieved when you're actually a local. <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6B-NSKKsRRU/ToWMIfKtkwI/AAAAAAAAAwA/LkNpq0eEj94/s1600/DSC_0201.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6B-NSKKsRRU/ToWMIfKtkwI/AAAAAAAAAwA/LkNpq0eEj94/s400/DSC_0201.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658082584294167298" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S_zx578kjiI/ToWQf3iYZuI/AAAAAAAAAxQ/nz5ki4G-DTY/s1600/DSC_0276.JPG"><br /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-q2F3RTX4szM/ToWMH_ItgeI/AAAAAAAAAv4/7rVKd-SoiDs/s1600/DSC_0199.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-q2F3RTX4szM/ToWMH_ItgeI/AAAAAAAAAv4/7rVKd-SoiDs/s400/DSC_0199.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658082575695839714" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YR-Pv8bzFFY/ToWQfodtDxI/AAAAAAAAAxI/hLBUgYctFUg/s1600/DSC_0265.JPG"><br /></a>In Berlin, I experienced this magical moment multiple times. At the aforementioned karaoke in the park, which is such an "only in Berlin" event that tourists now flock to it. French tourists singing American pop songs may not seem like the most German experience, but at the end of the day, who cares who's singing, where else would they be singing other than Berlin?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6WrhQ1FZLls/ToWQfXftHII/AAAAAAAAAxA/hUEZWTobAx8/s1600/DSC_0219.JPG"><br /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ug7IMRbGH94/ToWDTXHWjVI/AAAAAAAAAu4/j31ke60d-ds/s1600/DSC_0102.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ug7IMRbGH94/ToWDTXHWjVI/AAAAAAAAAu4/j31ke60d-ds/s400/DSC_0102.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658072875506502994" border="0" /></a>[The karaoke viewing crowd on a "lazy" Sunday.]<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NxqXQB14nUw/ToWDTGjbUgI/AAAAAAAAAuw/z0NkK44BHew/s1600/DSC_0101.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NxqXQB14nUw/ToWDTGjbUgI/AAAAAAAAAuw/z0NkK44BHew/s400/DSC_0101.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658072871060853250" border="0" /></a>[The karaoke is so popular that even this baby found a way to show off his moves.]<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZyadYstHPTQ/ToWDSmgdV3I/AAAAAAAAAuo/ZMTlZCumVZw/s1600/DSC_0095.JPG"> </a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UNloSt-ikhE/ToWKZsFsbsI/AAAAAAAAAvg/afeKVNjUICY/s1600/DSC_0182.JPG"><br /></a>Another incident was sort of a meta historical moment. A once-in-a-lifetime street parade that was at the same time celebrating the 125th anniversary of the famous Ku'Daam Straße (or street.) We had only heard about it a few hours before, but it was was better than the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade with its mythical animal balloons. Even better yet, was the Japansese tourist who just walked right into the parade and no idea what was going on, boy, was he in for a magical moment.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NZUipNJrhCM/ToWKY0sbLfI/AAAAAAAAAvQ/f8fcCy-hEvU/s1600/DSC_0124.JPG"> </a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-El8puKb8n9U/ToWKYgq7MVI/AAAAAAAAAvI/vmX7JRjKZnY/s1600/DSC_0116.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-El8puKb8n9U/ToWKYgq7MVI/AAAAAAAAAvI/vmX7JRjKZnY/s400/DSC_0116.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658080660552364370" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ccxduMaeCqA/ToWDT8cQpEI/AAAAAAAAAvA/xOf7OfqO6TI/s1600/DSC_0111.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ccxduMaeCqA/ToWDT8cQpEI/AAAAAAAAAvA/xOf7OfqO6TI/s400/DSC_0111.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658072885526307906" border="0" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZyadYstHPTQ/ToWDSmgdV3I/AAAAAAAAAuo/ZMTlZCumVZw/s1600/DSC_0095.JPG"><br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zfVnGWznONs/ToWQgf1Q7EI/AAAAAAAAAxg/-GA6gpEj2Ng/s1600/DSC_0180.JPG"><br /></a>Both Anneke and Caroline admit that Berlin can a bit isolating if you let it be. The universities are not centered on communal drinking (sorry, I mean societies) and are so literally far away from the city center that making friends is almost happenstance. Yet if you're willing to go and explore, you can find or make your own community.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P0CbdqqE2Ds/ToWNdhS9nuI/AAAAAAAAAww/gs-u9sILJRs/s1600/DSC_0220.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P0CbdqqE2Ds/ToWNdhS9nuI/AAAAAAAAAww/gs-u9sILJRs/s400/DSC_0220.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658084045154524898" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EYg6wg48P3U/ToWNdbupZEI/AAAAAAAAAwo/73MZoTQOR0Q/s1600/DSC_0219.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EYg6wg48P3U/ToWNdbupZEI/AAAAAAAAAwo/73MZoTQOR0Q/s400/DSC_0219.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658084043660026946" border="0" /></a><br />I certainly want to make the effort to go back to Berlin as soon as possible. After convincing my parents that a plane ticket would be the best Christmas gift, I might find myself back in Germany a few months from now. Ideally, around Christmas given that Germans invented the holiday's better traditions.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ke5D7u8jzmM/ToWNc1jDM2I/AAAAAAAAAwY/9znOBwMei5Y/s1600/DSC_0215.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ke5D7u8jzmM/ToWNc1jDM2I/AAAAAAAAAwY/9znOBwMei5Y/s400/DSC_0215.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658084033410839394" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wm4b3i3uxUc/ToWNdKRa33I/AAAAAAAAAwg/-mr82KhKHQM/s1600/DSC_0218.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wm4b3i3uxUc/ToWNdKRa33I/AAAAAAAAAwg/-mr82KhKHQM/s400/DSC_0218.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658084038974037874" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ObHJjQfpAxE/ToWNd4sTnUI/AAAAAAAAAw4/Z0wsTefOCS0/s1600/DSC_0226.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ObHJjQfpAxE/ToWNd4sTnUI/AAAAAAAAAw4/Z0wsTefOCS0/s400/DSC_0226.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658084051434839362" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Wxx0uYd_oYc/ToWMIgJ-qAI/AAAAAAAAAwI/Y5UzQ4qs7E0/s1600/DSC_0202.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Wxx0uYd_oYc/ToWMIgJ-qAI/AAAAAAAAAwI/Y5UzQ4qs7E0/s400/DSC_0202.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658082584559527938" border="0" /></a>In the meantime, I must thank Anneke for being one of the most accommodating hostesses ever. She forsook her own bed and her thesis to make sure I was comfortable and had a good time. I wouldn't have enjoyed exploring Berlin half as much if I didn't get her helpful historical tidbits about every street corner. And I never would've been such a glutton if she hadn't helped me check various German vocab words so I could order food for myself. Caroline was equally a cultural and culinary enabler. Twelves hours of marathon eating wasn't nearly enough time to spend together. Both of you are welcome to my spare mattress back in Edinburgh.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UNloSt-ikhE/ToWKZsFsbsI/AAAAAAAAAvg/afeKVNjUICY/s1600/DSC_0182.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UNloSt-ikhE/ToWKZsFsbsI/AAAAAAAAAvg/afeKVNjUICY/s400/DSC_0182.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658080680797302466" border="0" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NZUipNJrhCM/ToWKY0sbLfI/AAAAAAAAAvQ/f8fcCy-hEvU/s1600/DSC_0124.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NZUipNJrhCM/ToWKY0sbLfI/AAAAAAAAAvQ/f8fcCy-hEvU/s400/DSC_0124.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658080665927364082" border="0" /></a>Well, that's the end of this current batch of Berlin posts. I hope there are more in the future. Look forward to posts about the city I'm actually inhabiting right now soon enough!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Lwm22asWEVI/ToWMI_T85pI/AAAAAAAAAwQ/Jl6z8ni8rQI/s1600/DSC_0210.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Lwm22asWEVI/ToWMI_T85pI/AAAAAAAAAwQ/Jl6z8ni8rQI/s400/DSC_0210.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658082592922855058" border="0" /></a>Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-75183488442555795582011-09-20T08:31:00.014+01:002011-09-20T16:13:48.352+01:00In Memoriam<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ipCztRuQYaM/TnhGifR0-pI/AAAAAAAAAtA/gF-0jlw0zRk/s1600/DSC_0017.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ipCztRuQYaM/TnhGifR0-pI/AAAAAAAAAtA/gF-0jlw0zRk/s400/DSC_0017.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654346890489428626" border="0" /></a><br />Berlin is a city that will never forget what's happened there. Some of Berlin has attempted to generate new symbols of freedom and community over landmarks that were once symbols of oppression and hate, as you saw in my last post. However, for as many symbols that needed to be redefined and reclaimed, there were many that needed to be brought to fruition. WWII nearly eradicated the physical city, but Berlin would not let it eradicate the memories associated with it. These things needed to be remembered, even if they had to be rebuilt to do so.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yFe3q7YgcQo/TnhFH8KWEMI/AAAAAAAAAsQ/7awoNrXielU/s1600/DSC_0067.JPG"><br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0VdDfgnBALs/TnhGiDpOI6I/AAAAAAAAAs4/HYUMhRV5sQk/s1600/DSC_0014.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0VdDfgnBALs/TnhGiDpOI6I/AAAAAAAAAs4/HYUMhRV5sQk/s400/DSC_0014.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654346883071353762" border="0" /></a>The Reichstag was one of the first symbols of Germany to be destroyed by the Nazis. The "mysterious" fire in 1933 gave Hitler a convenient excuse to disband the 1919 Weimar Constitution. The building was never used during the Third Reich, but still considered to be a major symbol and was further destroyed during the Red Army's air raids in 1945. Due to the confusion of the Cold War city limits, the head of West Germany was actually moved to Bonn and therefore the Reichstag was just another bombed out building. It was not until the Reunification that the Reichstag's significance was realized once again. After essentially gutting the entire building but its facade, the Reichstag is now home to the Bundestad or the German parliament. It has gone full circle as a symbol, evoking history with its exterior, but very much a part of contemporary Germany with its interior.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2fk1MZa7cJM/TnhKRlBEyHI/AAAAAAAAAtg/kpuqJln6h70/s1600/DSC_0028.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2fk1MZa7cJM/TnhKRlBEyHI/AAAAAAAAAtg/kpuqJln6h70/s400/DSC_0028.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654350998018508914" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ja1Au6ZC3Gs/TnhGiye5snI/AAAAAAAAAtQ/w1KUMH2XWHk/s1600/DSC_0065.JPG"><br /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rTatu9is_NU/TnhKSxgbf_I/AAAAAAAAAt4/-1Wk2uFENGQ/s1600/DSC_0041.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rTatu9is_NU/TnhKSxgbf_I/AAAAAAAAAt4/-1Wk2uFENGQ/s400/DSC_0041.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654351018551115762" border="0" /></a>However, the Reichstag is not just a place for government, it also gives the public one of the best views of the city from its dome. Reminiscent of a beehive, it really is at the center of the city.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JaxMa68lC5o/TnhWaMcT-nI/AAAAAAAAAuI/4cJ8DvonbII/s1600/DSC_0031.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JaxMa68lC5o/TnhWaMcT-nI/AAAAAAAAAuI/4cJ8DvonbII/s400/DSC_0031.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654364340180220530" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KamHTZCLrvs/TnhWateb6uI/AAAAAAAAAuQ/PNiF9_rIwWs/s1600/DSC_0020.JPG"><br /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OEzI2YRKgUw/TnhKSUEESvI/AAAAAAAAAtw/Exd5hR4Way8/s1600/DSC_0040.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OEzI2YRKgUw/TnhKSUEESvI/AAAAAAAAAtw/Exd5hR4Way8/s400/DSC_0040.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654351010647526130" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xxjK_A4WMos/TnhKRwdbs2I/AAAAAAAAAto/n5HTqMw-F7o/s1600/DSC_0037.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xxjK_A4WMos/TnhKRwdbs2I/AAAAAAAAAto/n5HTqMw-F7o/s400/DSC_0037.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654351001090241378" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2fk1MZa7cJM/TnhKRlBEyHI/AAAAAAAAAtg/kpuqJln6h70/s1600/DSC_0028.JPG"><br /></a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hb-bowlkbfI/TnhKTKxDJ0I/AAAAAAAAAuA/bFa1EF0Ev2o/s1600/DSC_0042.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hb-bowlkbfI/TnhKTKxDJ0I/AAAAAAAAAuA/bFa1EF0Ev2o/s400/DSC_0042.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654351025331709762" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KamHTZCLrvs/TnhWateb6uI/AAAAAAAAAuQ/PNiF9_rIwWs/s1600/DSC_0020.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KamHTZCLrvs/TnhWateb6uI/AAAAAAAAAuQ/PNiF9_rIwWs/s400/DSC_0020.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654364349047499490" border="0" /></a>While the Reichstag is both a resurrection and reinvention of Germany and a very concrete symbol, not everything is so straight forward. There is no easy or obvious way to define the Holocaust and although I can never comprehend how Germans attempt to reconcile with it, the Holocaust Memorial is a very intriguing interpretation. It has weaved its way into the fabric of the city, particularly its subconscious. You will find no direct invocation of the Holocaust, the whole memorial is very abstract.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cqJHin7COOk/TnhCYjKLhyI/AAAAAAAAAr4/t9oxHfbJE4g/s1600/DSC_0068.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cqJHin7COOk/TnhCYjKLhyI/AAAAAAAAAr4/t9oxHfbJE4g/s400/DSC_0068.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654342321685890850" border="0" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uB2WNFL0Ujg/TnhCZYm6bdI/AAAAAAAAAsA/zcD1Wk1Bb6g/s1600/DSC_0069.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uB2WNFL0Ujg/TnhCZYm6bdI/AAAAAAAAAsA/zcD1Wk1Bb6g/s400/DSC_0069.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654342336033484242" border="0" /></a>It starts out as a rather ominous maze, visually arresting, equal parts foreboding and inviting.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jAMRZx5nUOk/TnhFIA-K1RI/AAAAAAAAAsY/rGCGcTMW6Yg/s1600/DSC_0077.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jAMRZx5nUOk/TnhFIA-K1RI/AAAAAAAAAsY/rGCGcTMW6Yg/s400/DSC_0077.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654345336165684498" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mcuw8bWnnms/TnhFITjcpRI/AAAAAAAAAsg/y2bdv-qApPE/s1600/DSC_0079.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mcuw8bWnnms/TnhFITjcpRI/AAAAAAAAAsg/y2bdv-qApPE/s400/DSC_0079.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654345341153879314" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yFe3q7YgcQo/TnhFH8KWEMI/AAAAAAAAAsQ/7awoNrXielU/s1600/DSC_0067.JPG"><br /></a>However, once you enter you quickly feel claustrophobic. The pillars keep rising and containing you in the darkness. If it is sunny out, the shadows loom and cannot help but cover you, I can only imagine how overbearing it would be if it were as gray as the columns are outside. You are aware others are around you, but cannot quite see them. The stone surrounds you, leaving you with just your thoughts. It becomes a stifling and tense environment. If you really lose your senses and fail to pay attention to where you walk, you can stumble as the ground is gradient. These are just the immediate physical and mental responses to wandering your way through the memorial, it doesn't even begin to explain the emotional and psychological toll. However, I'm sure you will be able to read into that. It's something that must be experienced for yourself. Anneke and Caroline both had very different, but haunting interpretations of how the Holocaust Memorial makes you feel. One thing is for certain, it's very powerful.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JbJZf0kORXg/TnhFHmIDJ8I/AAAAAAAAAsI/n1faS9KLjwg/s1600/DSC_0074.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JbJZf0kORXg/TnhFHmIDJ8I/AAAAAAAAAsI/n1faS9KLjwg/s400/DSC_0074.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654345328959367106" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C-Y5RxseN30/TnhFIR3116I/AAAAAAAAAso/7SYMr4KUH3I/s1600/DSC_0082.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C-Y5RxseN30/TnhFIR3116I/AAAAAAAAAso/7SYMr4KUH3I/s400/DSC_0082.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654345340702545826" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cqJHin7COOk/TnhCYjKLhyI/AAAAAAAAAr4/t9oxHfbJE4g/s1600/DSC_0068.JPG"><br /></a>Other memorials are equally as impacting just by showing what is not there anymore. The Bebelplatz (in the Mitte district, the heart of Berlin) is home to the Nazi Book Burning Memorial. At first glance, you could walk right over it. It is only when you stand right on top of it that you can really appreciate the depth of it. The window looks into a room of blank bookshelves, painted a pristine white, but are utterly claustrophobic and clinical. It has the effect of a morgue. Once again, I will let you read into the symbolism of this. Yet at the same time, it has the look of a museum display case, which makes me hopeful that something as horrible as book burning has been left in the past.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--ioJBj8VGho/TnhIfIUBvOI/AAAAAAAAAtY/eaMDc5rcrBk/s1600/DSC_0169.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--ioJBj8VGho/TnhIfIUBvOI/AAAAAAAAAtY/eaMDc5rcrBk/s400/DSC_0169.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654349031808285922" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vdL9C_uoApY/TnhCXNLXDjI/AAAAAAAAArg/paxfJgDWpDI/s1600/DSC_0051.JPG"><br /></a>Having once lived in DC, a city of memorials, I can say that Berlin's are especially affecting. Their abstract, yet potently symbolic nature, immediately includes the visitor. The visitor is not just looking at the something they could've better seen on a postcard, no rather, the visitor is experiencing something. Even better, each visitor will have their own experience and leave with an individualized understanding of what they saw. Berlin's memorials are about attempting to comprehend and reconcile what the city has taken part of or at least witnessed and that should be the purpose of all memorials.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uB2WNFL0Ujg/TnhCZYm6bdI/AAAAAAAAAsA/zcD1Wk1Bb6g/s1600/DSC_0069.JPG"><br /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KJFbn-iMcT4/TnhffYSxvaI/AAAAAAAAAuY/sblywr1vgxk/s1600/DSC_0030.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KJFbn-iMcT4/TnhffYSxvaI/AAAAAAAAAuY/sblywr1vgxk/s400/DSC_0030.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654374324865449378" border="0" /></a>Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254818244844204500.post-84034264616942361732011-09-15T09:39:00.015+01:002011-09-15T10:59:39.307+01:00"Berlin ist Arm, aber Sexy."<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2BMn_8Kav08/TnG7R0oy30I/AAAAAAAAAm4/MCvBTed85Qg/s1600/DSC_0110.JPG"><br /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9q8buxqPwe0/TnHDKtXbZEI/AAAAAAAAAqI/wuubSEhX8Tg/s1600/DSC_0341.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9q8buxqPwe0/TnHDKtXbZEI/AAAAAAAAAqI/wuubSEhX8Tg/s400/DSC_0341.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652513596070650946" border="0" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-G0zSlld8lhE/TnHDLf86xvI/AAAAAAAAAqg/s5NsK_N1tQ8/s1600/DSC_0349.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-G0zSlld8lhE/TnHDLf86xvI/AAAAAAAAAqg/s5NsK_N1tQ8/s400/DSC_0349.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652513609649669874" border="0" /></a><br />Berlin's walls have more stories to tell than most. They were pelted with bullets, if not completely destroyed, during WWII. They kept two worlds from crossing both literally and metaphorically. Although most of the city's sordid history is now in the past, the scars of violence pockmark it. Germany is nation that will never forget what's happened on its soil, but in order to successfully forge a new identity, one cannot destroy the past or merely cover it up, but one can transform it.<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KS-563m27kY/TnG91tJLeBI/AAAAAAAAAnw/st3ELm92g1s/s1600/DSC_0221.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KS-563m27kY/TnG91tJLeBI/AAAAAAAAAnw/st3ELm92g1s/s400/DSC_0221.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652507737675495442" border="0" /></a><br />[Berlin's famous Synagogue, rattled with bullet holes in certain spots.]<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aQ85HdGsxeQ/TnG7QxudOmI/AAAAAAAAAmg/0Dhwbhevaqg/s1600/DSC_0098.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aQ85HdGsxeQ/TnG7QxudOmI/AAAAAAAAAmg/0Dhwbhevaqg/s400/DSC_0098.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652504904227175010" border="0" /></a><br />Berlin has used art to assuage its troubled history. The city is coated in murals in effort to assert its new identity or to finally give one to those who were not allowed to have an identity before. They're unavoidable as they collage metro stations and buildings. The effect is that every pedestrian, from a native to a tourist, understands that Berlin is a city that must be allowed to express itself. Naturally, this has engendered pure art as well. Not every piece of graffiti makes a political statement, some are just aesthetic attempts to make Berlin beautiful again.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CSxk8DRtQCA/TnG_RwpELRI/AAAAAAAAAoY/1FEVuC61-64/s1600/DSC_0280.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CSxk8DRtQCA/TnG_RwpELRI/AAAAAAAAAoY/1FEVuC61-64/s400/DSC_0280.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652509319162506514" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VqECW28SaWg/TnG_SBpn3_I/AAAAAAAAAog/ByR4H4iDAhA/s1600/DSC_0282.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VqECW28SaWg/TnG_SBpn3_I/AAAAAAAAAog/ByR4H4iDAhA/s400/DSC_0282.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652509323728248818" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZFNE0uRPcCk/TnG92QK_AjI/AAAAAAAAAoI/NQSl_48_ySo/s1600/DSC_0238.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZFNE0uRPcCk/TnG92QK_AjI/AAAAAAAAAoI/NQSl_48_ySo/s400/DSC_0238.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652507747078308402" border="0" /></a><br />[Look! It's Gatsby in Berlin!]<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CRrjYT75R6w/TnG91LLCphI/AAAAAAAAAno/AkCV41e2zFk/s1600/DSC_0203.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CRrjYT75R6w/TnG91LLCphI/AAAAAAAAAno/AkCV41e2zFk/s400/DSC_0203.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652507728556500498" border="0" /></a><br />The city motto can be found in the title of this post, "Berlin ist Arm, aber Sexy." This translates to, "Berlin is poor, but sexy." The motto was coined by Berlin's mayor, Klaus Wowereit. It's one of the poorer major European cities, with a large debt from reunification efforts and a mecca for the starving artist cliche. Yet instead of this economic backdrop leading to riots and protests, Berliners enjoy their biergartens and thriving local arts scene more than ever, thus leading to the serendipitous motto. Consequently, I found Berlin to be one of the cheapest European city vacations I've ever taken, with a lot the amazing opportunities I was able to take part of being completely free. Berlin has created an arts community that everyone can benefit from regardless of whether they have money or not. The murals are only a side-effect of this.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uPDdvdCp02Q/TnHL1Q_NTPI/AAAAAAAAArY/RGtZHq8CNuI/s1600/DSC_0064.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uPDdvdCp02Q/TnHL1Q_NTPI/AAAAAAAAArY/RGtZHq8CNuI/s400/DSC_0064.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652523123280268530" border="0" /></a>[Wowereit's campaign ads for the upcoming Berlin elections. He is a member of the Social Democratic Party and one of the few openly gay German politicians, famous for coming out before the 2001 mayoral election by saying, "<span lang="de">Ich bin schwul, und das ist auch gut so.</span>" ("I'm gay, and that is good the way it is.")]<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pfNfQeNT_pc/TnG7QpzFzKI/AAAAAAAAAmY/xBMDurBQO5o/s1600/DSC_0034.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pfNfQeNT_pc/TnG7QpzFzKI/AAAAAAAAAmY/xBMDurBQO5o/s400/DSC_0034.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652504902099127458" border="0" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FK7wsDmC5h0/TnG92MzPsZI/AAAAAAAAAoA/gbNf8HDl4sw/s1600/DSC_0232.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FK7wsDmC5h0/TnG92MzPsZI/AAAAAAAAAoA/gbNf8HDl4sw/s400/DSC_0232.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652507746173432210" border="0" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cHbOStfQFJQ/TnHFmk3pr3I/AAAAAAAAArI/4IZefbSDeeY/s1600/DSC_0366.JPG"><br /></a>[A famous arts collective that has been fighting eviction from this building for a few decades now.]<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TyHZOntq61s/TnG91xaIYiI/AAAAAAAAAn4/bMqS5EoB_jg/s1600/DSC_0229.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TyHZOntq61s/TnG91xaIYiI/AAAAAAAAAn4/bMqS5EoB_jg/s400/DSC_0229.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652507738820338210" border="0" /></a><br />[Apparently the "sky" over Berlin includes these angel-donkey-dog things. If anyone has a clue of what these are, let me know.]<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZkNFu8OBhy4/TnHFloSr-yI/AAAAAAAAAqw/Z1U0O9IWiW4/s1600/DSC_0355.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZkNFu8OBhy4/TnHFloSr-yI/AAAAAAAAAqw/Z1U0O9IWiW4/s400/DSC_0355.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652516257588312866" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KS-563m27kY/TnG91tJLeBI/AAAAAAAAAnw/st3ELm92g1s/s1600/DSC_0221.JPG"><br /></a>Perhaps the best token of Berlin's free-for-all expression is the East Side Gallery. It is at its most basic a communal mural and at best a memorial to freedom. Using the former Berlin Wall as a canvas, the East Side Gallery consists of 105 paintings by international artists. Commissioned in 1990, it's a symbolic gesture to give East Berliners a chance to express their creativity. For West Berlin, the Wall was always a place of artwork and protest, but East Berliners couldn't cover up the oppressive gray until now. What resulted is no longer a depressing piece of history, but the largest and longest lasting open-air gallery and a must-see for an art aficionado or politico buff.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D2C2DtKuEU0/TnHFm7z3F7I/AAAAAAAAArQ/rK92uqy65ig/s1600/DSC_0372.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D2C2DtKuEU0/TnHFm7z3F7I/AAAAAAAAArQ/rK92uqy65ig/s400/DSC_0372.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652516280007595954" border="0" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pfNfQeNT_pc/TnG7QpzFzKI/AAAAAAAAAmY/xBMDurBQO5o/s1600/DSC_0034.JPG"><br /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cHbOStfQFJQ/TnHFmk3pr3I/AAAAAAAAArI/4IZefbSDeeY/s1600/DSC_0366.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cHbOStfQFJQ/TnHFmk3pr3I/AAAAAAAAArI/4IZefbSDeeY/s400/DSC_0366.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652516273849479026" border="0" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eqIyJo1QLVo/TnHFmQyOFzI/AAAAAAAAArA/BtPcMquKCTw/s1600/DSC_0360.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eqIyJo1QLVo/TnHFmQyOFzI/AAAAAAAAArA/BtPcMquKCTw/s400/DSC_0360.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652516268457989938" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2c7FN4vAbO8/TnHDLG085fI/AAAAAAAAAqY/t41SpmU3mcw/s1600/DSC_0346.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2c7FN4vAbO8/TnHDLG085fI/AAAAAAAAAqY/t41SpmU3mcw/s400/DSC_0346.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652513602905368050" border="0" /></a>[Louis XVI]<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oVxzRzXzrFI/TnHDK3QphBI/AAAAAAAAAqQ/BE4XKsmUMMM/s1600/DSC_0343.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oVxzRzXzrFI/TnHDK3QphBI/AAAAAAAAAqQ/BE4XKsmUMMM/s400/DSC_0343.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652513598726571026" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9q8buxqPwe0/TnHDKtXbZEI/AAAAAAAAAqI/wuubSEhX8Tg/s1600/DSC_0341.JPG"><br /></a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dP1Q4P3vYT8/TnHDLsHQDHI/AAAAAAAAAqo/bQrkU_gKSTI/s1600/DSC_0353.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dP1Q4P3vYT8/TnHDLsHQDHI/AAAAAAAAAqo/bQrkU_gKSTI/s400/DSC_0353.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652513612914232434" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fmRKFkC9fbk/TnHB8pJq-tI/AAAAAAAAAp4/A8paXq1E_GY/s1600/DSC_0339.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fmRKFkC9fbk/TnHB8pJq-tI/AAAAAAAAAp4/A8paXq1E_GY/s400/DSC_0339.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652512254909414098" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cmks1HE0a9A/TnHB8wShaKI/AAAAAAAAAqA/YtDFuvjF6Nc/s1600/DSC_0340.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cmks1HE0a9A/TnHB8wShaKI/AAAAAAAAAqA/YtDFuvjF6Nc/s400/DSC_0340.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652512256825583778" border="0" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZvyGG83tmmE/TnHB8NfrKlI/AAAAAAAAApw/FwsFH2oItj0/s1600/DSC_0337.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZvyGG83tmmE/TnHB8NfrKlI/AAAAAAAAApw/FwsFH2oItj0/s400/DSC_0337.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652512247485508178" border="0" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-n9yIMKGRgJU/TnHB7-y0_sI/AAAAAAAAApo/A9gre0ObbHc/s1600/DSC_0332.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-n9yIMKGRgJU/TnHB7-y0_sI/AAAAAAAAApo/A9gre0ObbHc/s400/DSC_0332.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652512243539312322" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3ZdxxwnF20c/TnHAjYd01mI/AAAAAAAAApQ/ZUr-uNHaB40/s1600/DSC_0327.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3ZdxxwnF20c/TnHAjYd01mI/AAAAAAAAApQ/ZUr-uNHaB40/s400/DSC_0327.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652510721422186082" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-U4vf7oCoK80/TnHAjEqU4nI/AAAAAAAAApI/kot4QrFNgd4/s1600/DSC_0324.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-U4vf7oCoK80/TnHAjEqU4nI/AAAAAAAAApI/kot4QrFNgd4/s400/DSC_0324.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652510716105908850" border="0" /></a>["Man love," as two American hipsters called it.]<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-A3v1wVQn_-4/TnHAi-l4xNI/AAAAAAAAApA/vLqRBFlvC4o/s1600/DSC_0320.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-A3v1wVQn_-4/TnHAi-l4xNI/AAAAAAAAApA/vLqRBFlvC4o/s400/DSC_0320.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652510714476676306" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xqmrtQ5fXJ8/TnHAiVtYj-I/AAAAAAAAAo4/cmGRLbqGbzo/s1600/DSC_0319.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xqmrtQ5fXJ8/TnHAiVtYj-I/AAAAAAAAAo4/cmGRLbqGbzo/s400/DSC_0319.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652510703502266338" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J5f_wNER_ME/TnG_SUzS1jI/AAAAAAAAAoo/xOMTf-5LJ-c/s1600/DSC_0301.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J5f_wNER_ME/TnG_SUzS1jI/AAAAAAAAAoo/xOMTf-5LJ-c/s400/DSC_0301.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652509328869086770" border="0" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lDdVxwH28Oc/TnHAjma8QGI/AAAAAAAAApY/k9YB51EKB9s/s1600/DSC_0328.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lDdVxwH28Oc/TnHAjma8QGI/AAAAAAAAApY/k9YB51EKB9s/s400/DSC_0328.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652510725168185442" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VqECW28SaWg/TnG_SBpn3_I/AAAAAAAAAog/ByR4H4iDAhA/s1600/DSC_0282.JPG"><br /></a><br />Berlin has plenty of art hanging on museum walls too (and I highly recommend the modern art museum for a fantastic pop art exhibition featuring all of Andy Warhol's Marilyn's, stunning and numbing to see all at once), but you'd be missing the real creativity if you spent all your time in a temperature-controlled room. Berlin's art is living and breathing, exposed to the elements and everyone. At first the plethora of graffiti is shocking, but it has helped save the city from its history and even its economy. Who ever says art has no purpose, should go to Berlin.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ukPjIWgfEY4/TnHFl2kD41I/AAAAAAAAAq4/Y_MZgRKuc6E/s1600/DSC_0358.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ukPjIWgfEY4/TnHFl2kD41I/AAAAAAAAAq4/Y_MZgRKuc6E/s400/DSC_0358.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652516261419279186" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_W4fh4uJUbs/TnHB7q80DpI/AAAAAAAAApg/CUCqTDxuk6k/s1600/DSC_0329.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_W4fh4uJUbs/TnHB7q80DpI/AAAAAAAAApg/CUCqTDxuk6k/s400/DSC_0329.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652512238212484754" border="0" /></a>Tess Malonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652679268550611634noreply@blogger.com2