Well, the day has arrived. The first Scamp is on his way back Stateside, and the trio has been split up. Now, Kyle may not have contributed much in terms of posts, but his website-maintaining abilities will never be forgotten.
We toasted our last day together with delicious döners, although Paul had to get his to go. Seems that odd Saturday feeling has started to infect him on Wednesdays, too. Weird.
Now that the semester is winding down, we figured we’d share some photos of our travels over the past few months.
So, as you may be aware, the ScampsAbroad crew plus our favorite honorary member, Sarah, were in Stockholm last weekend. It was a great time – we were treated to a traditional Swedish dinner and a fantastic boat tour of Stockholm by Kyle’s family friends, we met up with Johannes and his girlfriend and saw Stockholm from a peer’s perspective, we beat the system and practically stayed a third night in our (very nice) hostel without paying, we tried the new McFlurry. But the coolest thing we probably did was go to the Vasa Museum. Which brings me to the question that this post is trying to answer: Why is this Stockholm’s biggest tourist attraction?
First, a little background. The Vasa was a ship commissioned by King Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden in 1628. It was to be the grandest warship in his fleet, which was super important because Sweden was apparently fighting everyone and their second cousin at this point in time. But, literally, he was fighting his own cousin, the former King of Sweden and now-King of Poland Sigismund, and there were some major issues there (typical 17th century quarrels…you understand). So anyway, this ship sets sail in 1628 to great fanfare and celebration, travels about 25 minutes and less than a nautical mile, and then is diabolically sunk by…a gust of wind. Turns out the engineering was, to put it kindly, less than satisfactory, and the ship didn’t have enough counterweight in the ballast to balance out all of the guns it had on deck. So this ship, which was basically supposed to single-handedly defeat Poland, was sunk by a gust of wind. Nice work, shipbuilders. So everyone who turned out to watch this majestic moment in Sweden’s history just sort of shrugged and went home, and the ship sat on the bottom of the Baltic Sea for 333 years until someone found it in 1959, and it was brought to the surface in 1961.
Because the Baltic Sea is so brackish and cold, the ‘Shipworm’ (which eats the wood of shipwrecks, and is thus so creatively named) doesn’t thrive there, so the Vasa was in remarkably good condition when it was recovered. It offered great insight into 17th century warfare and nautical practices, as well as general way-of-life, due to the preserved personal items of the people on board. So, yeah, it’s historical value is pretty high. But, really, Sweden? Your biggest and most heavily-advertised tourist attraction is one that celebrates your own nautical incompetence? ”Come, look at this ship! It’s probably one of the worst ships ever built! For real! Yay, us!” Not that the museum wasn’t really cool, or very informative, or un-fun. It just strikes me as a little backwards, that’s all.
If you’re ever in Stockholm, I’d definitely recommend going, if only for the priceless jokes that come from learning the story of the Vasa. Our favorite came after we learned that King Gus had already gone to Poland, waiting to greet the ship when it arrived. Can you imagine how he felt when it never showed up, not to mention when he got the letter explaining what had happened? ”Guys, come on! This is super embarassing! God, all that trash-talking to Sigismund, and now this? I look like a total idiot!” Needless to say, good times in Sweden.
London, that “biggest, and…greatest, town on earth ” according to Conrad. Everybody knows a little bit about London: the setting of various Guy Ritchie films; homes of Arsenal, Chelsea, Fulham, Tottenham, and West Ham football clubs, currently residing in the Premier League; and current residence of Lady GaGa (gonna have to verify this with in-house celebrity expert, Bridget). Thanks to Ryanair’s €20 round trip deal, it has also recently been visited by yours truly.
Sure, I did all the touristy bits: walked by Big Ben, Parliament, and the London Eye; went to the Tate Modern, saw the looneys try to draw crowds at Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park, got lost in the mind-bogglingly complex labyrinth and mass of goal-oriented bodies that was Canary Wharf on a Friday lunchtime, got lost on a double decker bus, got haggled over in Brick Lane by maitre d’s of different Indian restaurants, watched Countdown, and had a horrible Chinese buffet for lunch.
But I’d had enough of the things you can read about in the guide books. Time to get a taste of the famous London nightlife (only, please, no knife crime). Only one place to go: Camden, where the swankiest and hippest go to cavort and revel.
Or so my cousin told me.
Agreeing to meet up with her in a nearby pub, we then concocted a plan to go to indie club Koko. However the £20 cover charge soon put the kibosh on that. As the grumblings grew amongst the local university students that maybe we should head over to Leicester Square, someone piped up with, “Well, I’ve never been to this club, but I’ve heard it’s good…” Now anyone who knows anything should have gone home right then. The Purple Turtle was a sight to see. It bills itself as a great live venue for alternative music. There was nothing live about this place on the Saturday we were there–with a DJ handling all the musical entertainment–but there certainly was alternative out the ying-yang. “Stay Beautiful” night was just a hot tranny (in some cases, literally) mess of leather, pleather, seemingly impossible piercings, platform shoes, questionable dance moves, a hodge-podge of ironic vintage store purchases, and enough hair colours to rival Walt Disney’s felt tip pen collection. Needless to say our group, in jeans, collared shirts, nice jumpers, and sneakers, felt slight conspicuous. But we paid £7 a head to get in there, so we figured we’d get our money’s worth.
After a few drinks, we were feeling the tunes, and someone from our group jumped up on-stage with the other more non-traditional dancers who were digging on the vibes. The DJ immediately stopped the music and announced, “To the bloke who looks like he’s at a football match, please stop dancing and get off the stage.” Presto, we’d found a new game: what kind of insult can you get from the DJ. Next up a kid in an England rugby shirt got up on stage, and the reaction was even quicker from the spin doctor: “Would the Rory McGrath-look-a-like, please get off the stage.” And refused to start the music again until he had departed. After much prodding, I finally got up the courage to get up there, secretly thrilled at the upcoming biting insult. Alas, it was not to be, for after ten seconds of getting up on the stage I was yanked down by a security guard without so much as a sneer from the disc jockey. Oh well, you can’t win (lose?) them all.
Don’t worry, loyal readers, Kyle has been adequately admonished for his lack of posts here on Scamps Abroad, but until he gets his act together and actually writes an update, Paul and I have got your backs.
I knew The Worst Jam Session In The World couldn’t last forever. I knew that eventually, the people outside our tent would have to put down their acoustic guitar and bongos and go to bed. I knew I shouldn’t be jealous of Johannes, sleeping peacefully through the whole thing. I knew that it was 4:30 in the morning and they had been playing for two or three hours, singing about nothing, and that in 5 hours I would be on the train towards Heidelberg, a shower, and an actual bed. I just couldn’t bring myself to believe it. Tired, freezing, unbathed for four days, and thoroughly South American ska’d/German reggae’d out, this was the first time I just wanted to go home.
Not that the open air music festival was all bad. Far from it. Cool bands, good food, seeing people I hadn’t for five years, serendipitously meeting my host parents in front of the concert stage. All these things were great. And all the credit to the Germans; when 1,000 or so of them decide to camp in a field and have a party, they are going to enjoy themselves despite downpours and terrible Brazilian heavy metal bands. When Stereo MCs took the stage, the crowd transformed themselves into a giant rave club, with everyone in rain jackets and wellingtons. It was quite the sight.
All in all, a great weekend. Except for the guitar and bongo act that decided to play a show right outside our tent.
So it seems I am unable to travel from one country to another without some sort of crisis. Case in point: Barcelona. The trip was absolutely fabulous: great people, beautiful city, fantastic weather, beach, sightseeing, nightlife, all of it. I had the best time. Then it comes time to leave, and here’s where the excitement begins.
During our last day in Spain, we drop our stuff off at the main train station around noontime. The sign on the left luggage area says 24 hours, so we pay for our locker, leave our backpacks/passports/iPods/etc., and go on our merry way. We have a wonderful day checking out the Olympic park, Gothic Quarter, and the Sagrada Familia. We have decided to save money by not booking a hostel for the evening; our bus to the airport is at 3:45 AM and the metro stops running at midnight, so it just wouldn’t have been worth it. So, after dinner at Wok to Walk (gahhh so good) and some nighttime strolling around Barcelona, we’ve made our way to a square to sit around, people watch, and kill some time.
Until Sam realizes his wallet is missing. We had been warned about pickpockets, told to take the necessary precautions, blah blah blah. But we were still careless, and there you go. So, a slight damper put on the evening, we decide to head back to the train station a little earlier than planned…around 11 PM. We get there, and realize two things 1) the train station closes at 12, so we’re going to have to wait for our bus outside. For 3 hours and 45 minutes. 2) The left luggage room is closed. Closed! Apparently, the 24 hour sign meant that you have the locker for 24 hours, not that the place was open all day. So…great.
We search frantically for a security guard or someone to try to convince them to open the door. Sam finds one first, but he doesn’t speak English. Fair enough, so Sarah saves the day by stepping in with her Spanish skills. But no go. He doesn’t have the key, and even if he did, I suspect he wouldn’t help us. He didn’t bowl me over with his friendliness or willingness to help or anything. So Sam, Sarah, and I are standing there with no idea what to do. We can’t fly without our passports, and the left luggage station opens at 5 AM, and we’d miss our flight anyway. So we’re trying to be logical and think about waiting until 5, getting to the airport, and buying new tickets home. But we’re all panicking.
I go over to where Nora has been napping and explain the situation to her. As I’m talking, I see a custodian go over to the door of the Left Luggage area to unlock it. Cutting off mid-sentence, I sprint over to where he is, waving our locker key in the air. I’m so flustered I even forget the Spanish word for ‘please,’ so, good crisis skills, Bridget. I get a response of “no, no, no” and the door shut in my face, and I’m standing there absolutely shell-shocked. He comes back out and asks me a question in Spanish that I obviously don’t understand, and I just stand there, staring. I literally can’t react.
He repeats his question about 4 times, until Sam shows up. Sam’s taken a bit of Spanish, so he at least gets the main gist of this guy’s query. Apparently, the first security guard told Sarah that the station boss was in his office (he couldn’t have mentioned this sooner?) and how to find him. She had to go around the corner and knock 3 times on a green-felt bulletin board-type thing, because apparently the Barcelona main train station is run by the Wizard of Oz. She told him our predicament and he radioed to the janitor that I was talking to that some stupid kids didn’t check the opening hours, so that’s what he was asking me about. Sarah runs over with the original security guard, who has permission to let us in. Hooray! We can get our stuff! At this point, all the frustration and worry from the past 20 minutes catches up to me, and I burst into tears. Of course, I held it together when everything was going wrong, but as soon as everything’s okay again, that’s when I start crying. So I, having the key, go into the luggage room and, half-crying/half-laughing, get our stuff out of the locker. I think the Spaniards thought I was crazy.
We booked it out of there as fast as possible, and then proceeded to sit and wait for a bus for 3 hours and 45 minutes, and while waiting, I decided something. I’m going to learn some Spanish.
Well if there is one thing scarier than being sick away from home (as my housemates who got malaria when we were in the Gambia can attest to), it is knowing that you could have avoided the next Bird Flu due to a vast ocean sitting between you and the pandemic if it weren’t for good old Spain. (Okay this is probably not scarier than getting malaria in a third world country).
I’m not one to be a fear-monger, but HEAD FOR THE HILLS!
AS LONG AS THE HILLS DON’T HAVE ANY PORK PRODUCTS.
Other than that, I am happy to report everyone here at ScampsAbroad are in good health. Except for Kyle’s allergies acting up every now and again. And I seem to experience a headache and dry throat ocasionally on Saturday mornings. Puzzling…
This past Tuesday the weather was absolutely gorgeous, so a few friends and I climbed to the very top of the Heiligenberg, and it was probably one of my favorite days of this experience so far.
On the top of the mountain we found the Thingstätte, an amphitheater built in the 1930s by the Nazis, which I didn’t even know existed. According to my extensive research (thank you, Google), “A Thing was an ancient Nordic/Germanic gathering of the people, in an outdoor setting. The Nazi Thing gatherings were to be held in specially-constructed outdoor amphitheaters, called (in the singular) Thingplatz or Thingstätte. Here, the people would gather for Völkisch meetings and to view theater and propaganda presentations written especially for the Thing style.” Although the original plan was to make about 1200 of these sites, only about 45 were actually built.
It was a crazy moment for me. I’ve obviously learned about the Holocaust in school. I’ve been to the sites of two different concentration camps. I’ve been to the Holocaust museum in DC. But I suppose because this was so unexpected, it touched me differently. There we were, hiking and laughing and enjoying the day, and then there it was, inauspicious and yet a reminder of such a sensitive period of history. It made me stop and think for a second, and those moments are rare and appreciated.
I think all this sunshine might be getting to my head.
