April 2018 - Page 2 of 3 - Girls Aren't Funny

Trip to fairytale land but with more cardio

Because Nick and I are so spontaneous and fun (not bad planners who sleep in) we decided last minute (late afternoon) to take a couple trains a few hours to basically the border of Germany and Austria.

We had a purpose, we wanted to see the Neuschwanstein Castle, the fairytale castle Walt Disney based Sleeping Beauty’s palace* on.

*Sidenote: I was trying to brainstorm a synonym for ‘castle’ because that sentence repeated it too many times (brilliant writing skills) and my brain went, “Oh, pastle!” instead of the word ‘palace’ because I’ve been drinking too much (actually quite the opposite, I think I’m dehydrated) (where is this going?). It then autocorrected to “pastry” which was even less accurate and slightly offensive because yes I use that word in my vocabulary a lot more than I would like to admit Google!

After hours of travel we arrived and to our dismay were told the last train going back to Munich was in two hours. This meant we only had two hours to make it up the mountain and down to the station for the LAST TRAIN FOR THE NIGHT. I didn’t know what to emphasize in caps because it was all very dramatic. So the countdown began.

We hiked up the hill, nay, mountain, and soaked in the views. And it was magical.

Not exactly.

I wanted to take the shuttle because I despise sweating but Nick didn’t want to waste time waiting for it. Naturally, I complained all the way up for good measure.

It’s the small things in life that matter – like this splinter here.

Children with their grandparents passed me. At some points, I’d take breaks and say, “Look at the view from here! Honestly, it would be dumb to get any closer.” Yet, we prevailed.

Well, I crawled.

Not only did we hike up to the castle but continued past it. We hiked to the bridge so we could take picturesque photos like this one for your viewing pleasure. (Anything that pushes me physically is usually Nick’s idea) (that sounded dirty).

While we were on the bridge I was finally able to ask someone else to take a photo of us. I felt glorious, maybe even superior, as you know if you’ve read ‘Stop approaching me, I could have rabies‘. The bubble burst when she asked me to take a photo of her. We said goodbye and soon realized we’d overstayed. We only had 30 minutes to get back down the mountain, catch a bus to the station to make the last train.

This, of course, led to Nick and I fighting over whether to wait for the shuttle back down or run all the way down to the bus stop. Did we wait for the shuttle? Did I think I was going to die in that beautiful Bavarian forest? Are Emma Stone/Watson magical people? Yes, by all accounts.

Let me make it clear my hatred for running. When I was in school and we’d have to run a mile for gym class I’d run next to the slowest person on the track and speak loudly when we passed the coach,”You’re doing so well! Don’t worry I won’t run ahead and leave you behind.”

What. A. Star.

I bought running shoes because they were cute, not because I thought I’d do any running in them. (Do you do running?).

I was wearing those said running shoes as I fought against tumbling down the hill. I’d stop every few feet convinced I had appendicitis, or an ovarian cyst or a grumpy tourist stabbed me as I ran past. It was just my body reminding me I shouldn’t be running. It’s bad for my health.

I cursed Nick all the way down (because you do that when there’s no one else to blame) and begged God for Pringles. Fellow tourists stared and thanked their lucky stars they paid out for that fancy tour group. Tour guide Nancy would never make them run back to their bus. Screw you, Nancy.

We saw the bus in the distance and sprinted. It hissed and readjusted with the weight of the last few tourists. We reached out our hands in prayer and/or to wave down the attention of the bus driver. Whoever would respond first, I guess.

But we made it.

We walked into the train station triumphant with five minutes to spare. We bought a full canister of Pringles to celebrate.

We walked by the girl who took our photo on the bridge (she obviously took the shuttle down because there weren’t any leaves and twigs in her hair). I waved at her but she hesitated. I definitely didn’t look like the same woman she met on the bridge. That woman was confident, this woman looked like a sweaty lobster.

Travel tip: take the damn shuttle.

Language Barriers: 72 hours of English

When I boarded the plane that would take me from France to England I was blown away by a simple, “Hello”. Here were some of my initial thoughts when I was reunited with people who spoke the same language as me after several months:

Oh, my god, I can understand what you’re saying
Wow, very polite. Has everyone been this nice and I just couldn’t understand them?
Everyone sounds like they’re putting on fake accents.
Oh, you really do talk like that
Stop doing British accents back at people they can tell you’re lying or impaired.
Am I in an episode of the Crown?
The British version of me is Susan from Narnia
This picture is of me when I was 15 and everyone started calling me Susan and it killed me because everything embarrasses you as a teenager, especially British look-alikes stealing your life. Secrets out: I actually starred in Narnia as a child actor. It’s all behind me now.
So I’m basically a queen
French idiom in a travel magazine: “Butter wouldn’t melt,” apparently it means you’re attractive. Oh, the French and their butter. This was an unrelated thought but an idiom I do plan on using.

Once we landed in England we had to “cross the UK border”. We were then interrogated by a border office who looked like Ron Weasley’s dad. Here were some of his questions and the answers I wish I had given him if I wasn’t sweating profusely:

Q: What is your relationship to each other?
- A: Nothing serious, strictly carnal
Q: Do you know the immigration laws in Europe?
- A: Do you? You don’t sound very convincing.
Q: Break down every country you’ve been to since arriving in Europe with dates and proof of tickets.
- A: Can I slip you some of my Pringles instead? JK I ate them all on the plane. I’m sorry.

I just have to say, I don’t respect people who take their job too seriously. I want someone who goes to work to simply eat the free food in the breakroom and doesn’t give a damn when they find out it’s actually Carol’s lunch. It’s more relatable.

Once we made it out on the other side we took a deep breath and the clock started ticking. We had three days in England and we were ready.

This is me being touristy. I’m trying to crown myself in front of Westminster Abbey except I didn’t realize I was standing in front of the wrong church and the Abbey (the giant fucking Abbey was right next door). I’m a travel expert.

Dream Journal: Hot & layered

I have strange dreams. Dreams that range from a zombie apocalypse to rides in funky spaceships (disco themed). All nightmares. I assumed everyone experienced nightly nightmares, but I found out it is actually a symptom of anxiety in adults (the joy). Anyways, some of them are actually entertaining to the conscious mind.

For example last night I had a sex dream. Before you get all hot and bothered let me explain what exactly happened. As I was about to straddle my lover I realized I was incredibly warm. I looked down and I had on like ten layers of clothes, including a winter coat.

Every time I tried to remove a layer another would appear like a magician pulling scarves out of his sleeve, except nothing like that.

Get it? It’s from the show The Magicians. I admit this metaphor is doing too much.

My lover tried in vain to undress me both to our sweaty demise. Did I mention in this dream we were also in a loft so due to my proximity to the ceiling I couldn’t sit up all the way? This created a stressful claustrophobic experience on its own. Leading to more sweat. In one last attempt, I struggled with a parka only to roll off the loft and be jolted awake.

Sexy? Psh, in my dreams.

Bathroom Breaks: Friendly French woman corners me in line

I like to do this cute thing on a date where when the check is about to arrive I go to the bathroom so he can pay for me. It’s adorable.

I’m totally kidding Nick and I are going even stevens on this trip and I Venmo him half of everything. Sit down and put your pitchforks away. Though I do admire the feminist energy we have going. Let’s burn things! Ahh!

OK, starting over.

While Nick was taking care of the bill I went to find the bathroom because public restrooms in Europe are like good magicians, rare and usually there’s a fee (another great simile).

A man with a stomach ache rushed past me and slammed the one bathroom door behind him. How do I know he had a stomach ache? The length of time he spent in there that led me to a shameful moment just outside that very door.

An older woman stood in line with me and we made eye contact briefly. First mistake. She said something in French with a big smile on her face and I nodded and smiled back. Usually in situations where I mishear people I tend to play a mirror and basically replicate their body language.

It usually works. Usually.

She then went on to tell a joke. I could tell it was a joke because of her cadence and when she delivered the punchline she looked at me expectantly. I overdid it. I laughed at her joke. I belly laughed. I went over the top and she joined in. We were both laughing away like a couple of old friends and I had no freaking idea what she said.

At this point, I was in too deep. I knocked again on the bathroom door but did this man hurry? No, he did not. She asked me a question. I didn’t realize how obvious it was when someone asks a question, the last word lingered and her head leaned in for a response. I said “Oh wee, wee”.

That seemed to make her happy. I thought, oh god what have I agreed to? I strained to make eye contact with Nick across the restaurant. I mouthed “HELP ME!” to no avail.

I heard a flush on the other side and waited with my hand on the handle. He pushed through and I pulled the door behind me to safety.

Moral of the story: Don’t talk to strangers, especially sweet, French, old ladies who have a great sense of humor. Possibly.

Stop approaching me, I could have rabies

Has anyone ever heard of don’t talk to strangers? You get a cookie, you get a cookie, you all get cookies!

Well, apparently it doesn’t apply to talking to me (I’m very good at being strange, I might add). I have been approached so many times for directions, to take photos, to watch laptops and just for a leisurely chat.

While I’ve been traveling Europe this has happened all over. I don’t even speak the language most of the time and I’ve still held entire conversations with just nods and smiles.

When I was in Spain an American woman ran up to me and asked me to take a photo of her and her friends “por favor”. I took the picture and she said slowly, “gracias” as if I was both deaf and/or Spanish? I just nodded and backed away slowly.

This has been going on for as long as I can remember. (Well, maybe after the braces and headgear were removed.)

I graduated college in December, but before I finished I would study at one of the tables outside my school (so magical) but really I’d spend a lot of time in Chick-fil-a (bubble burst).

One time a guy asked me to watch his things and I agreed. Easy enough. He returned and asked if he could sit with me while he ate his lunch. I agreed. We got along and he asked if I’d want to meet for lunch on campus again. I agreed.

We met at Subway (romantic) (no, definitely not). In my naivete, I assumed we were hanging out to discuss literature like a dweeb. He thought we were on a date, to both our disappointments. At the time of said accidental date, I was dating my current boyfriend, Nick (who also, I might add, encouraged me to make friends with this guy).

Basically, I told him about my family in Ireland, he told me about his lifelong dreams, he found out I didn’t want to go out with him and it blew up all over my footlong (no, that wasn’t a dirty joke, it was a Subway reference).

I kicked myself for talking to strangers and we parted ways. But the story doesn’t end there. I bumped into him a few months later at a cafe. I said hi, he said hi, and we both went along on our merry ways. Right? Wrong. He asked about my family in Ireland (aw what a nice guy) and when I planned to visit them.

Then, you guessed it, he asked me to make him a Tinder account. No? You didn’t guess that would happen? Neither did I!

He wanted me to make him dating profiles when I next visited my family in Ireland so he can start dating Irish chicks long distance. Are Irish fetishes a thing? Should I cover up my freckles and resort back to tanning lotion? (My middle school self-disagrees).

So this is when I finally learned my lesson and practiced my bitch face to no avail.

You may think, “Well, hey, that’s not fair. These people are just trying to be nice or you should take it as a compliment that you look so trusting.” Or maybe you’re thinking about asking the nice looking girl next to you to watch your things while you go to the bathroom. Jokes on you, it’s me. And I hate you.

But yes, I’ll watch your things because I’m so freaking nice.

Language Barriers: I should move to France & become a mime

I’ve been pretty good at not picking up any flu’s or viruses so far on this trip despite all of the airports and lack of Germ-X (I will never be the girl with the sparkly, strawberry-scented sanitizer, it clashes with my lipstick).

Me enjoying French Pringles and the high of essential oils while recovering from my ailments.

However, while I was in France I did get somewhat of a cold/sore throat/ ear infection/ the plague depending on when you talked to me during the length of the sickness. I went to the pharmacy to get some cough medicine thinking I could look for over the counter medication with people looking sick on the front of the bottle (classic). No such luck. Their branding was minimalistic at best.

I went to the counter to talk to the pharmacist but she didn’t understand what I needed with simple pointing. What did I do? I basically coughed in her face. I reenacted Romeo & Juliet when he drinks the poison except with more throat grabbing and less stumbling. Also, the scene was more high school play, then Leonardo Dicaprio’s version.

It got the point across though. She wiped my phlegm off her lab coat and asked “Natural or chemical?”. Well, when you put it that way! I asked for natural so I didn’t come off as an American baboon when I had just proven to her I was a highly talented actress that breaks the fourth wall when she needs to.

Maybe I should move to France and become a mime. I’ll never have to apologize for my lack of language skills. In fact, people will tip me for NOT talking to them.

Anyways, I went home and drank the mixture of essential oils and honey reminiscing of the better days when I could drink cough syrup without judgment.

The wind tunnel will serve you now

We decided to venture out for brunch while were in beautiful Nice, France. The weather predicted sunny skies and I was feeling particularly brunchy. You know the feeling, it’s a Sunday and you deserve a freaking quiche.

The cafe, Déli Bo, was recommended to us and we were willing to wait for a table. The host approached us and said ominously, “We only have tables outside.” By this point, rain clouds had rolled in and I waved them away with only thoughts of my quiche.

I soon realized my mistake. The wind left no prisoners. Lettuce from our salad littered the ground like leaves. Napkins floated in the air like birds of dark omen. Receipts floated away – did we still have to pay?

Children and adults alike couldn’t be saved. Strollers rolled away with babies still in it.

Parched mouths reached for their drinks only to find unknown bits and someone else’s hair at the bottom of their glass.

Menus were blown off tables and people would throw up their hands and say, “Just surprise me!”. Waiters shielded their customers’ eyes from debris as they ordered. Quality customer service.

Customers would hold down napkins while waiters placed down silverware in vain – teamwork was at play here.

No one felt like a plastic bag drifting in the wind, but they were certainly attacked by one or two, entangling them like tumbleweeds from the dumpster down the road.

Though there was not a ray of sunshine people donned sunglasses to act as lab goggles to protect themselves.

One intelligent woman used her turtleneck to its full potential by pulling it up and over the lower half of her face. A classic move I’ve now coined, ‘the turtle-shell’. Genius.

It could almost be seen as an experience.

Come dine in the wind tunnel, we’ll blow you away!

Then there would be a moment of pure bliss – the eye of the storm if you will – when the wind would cease, but only briefly. Fathers gripped their children to their chest in suspense.

A family of four who just wanted a nice Nice brunch (see what I did there?) was hit the worst. Waters and juices crashed around them drenching both parents and child. The baby was removed from her stroller only to have her cries carried off by the wind.

Yet there was still a line to get onto that patio of hell. I’d honestly still recommend it. Great quiche.

Nick cowering from the wind. The table in the back left is an accurate portrayal to how we all felt.

Bathroom Breaks: A tale of an airport security guard and a girl

You may not know this about me because if you did that would be weird due to its deeply personal nature, but I always have odd things happen in the bathroom. Wait, that sounded bad. Not like bowel movement related, ok maybe sometimes… The point is sometimes I can’t seem to go to the bathroom like a normal person. Example number one: my right thumb was throbbing as I wrote this because of a bathroom-related incident.

My boyfriend, Nick, and I were deep in the middle of our travels across Europe and we were at Barcelona’s airport heading to Nice, France. We were in a small terminal during Easter weekend, so things were quiet. Too quiet.

When we went through security we were the only ones in line. As I was waved through the metal detector a ding went off and before I walked away the security guard told me I had been selected for a random security check. He pointed towards a mat with two painted feet on it, so I planted mine on top and put my arms out to the side like a mini plane (what a synonym).

When he didn’t approach to pat me down I said over my shoulder, “Why aren’t you touching me?” I regretted the word choice immediately. He grunted and tried to push my arms down put I popped them back up like the brother in a Christmas Story when he was in his snowsuit (just go watch it). While traveling for months out of a carry-on I tended to wear many layers (mystery is sexy).

I looked back and found Nick chugging the rest of the water from the water bottle we always forget to empty before security (liquid bad) as another security guard egged him on (dance, monkey, dance). Eventually, the guard sent me to one of his coworkers to swipe my right pocket and sandwich for bomb residue (naturally) and I left on my merry way.

Once Nick had successfully downed almost a liter of water we found the bathroom soon after. As I was moving down the stairs pretending to be “going downstairs” in a fake-funny way (comedy gold) my sneakers that lost traction years ago made me slip on the squeaky-clean tiles (go janitorial team) and I basically jammed my thumb into the railing (real sexy like though).

I looked around to see who other than Nick shared in this moment of shame and there he was, the security guard, at the bottom of the stairs. He actually shook his head. People do that! People unironically shake their head at you! Oh, and he did it more than once. The bastard.

In my attempt to escape his judgment I turned into the bathroom closest to me. You guessed it: it was the men’s bathroom. Typical. Practically a cliché. Except do most clichés end with a security guard having to escort you out of the bathroom because he had to go get you? He shook his head again of course.

With the language barrier, I think I saluted him (as you do) and walked towards the women’s bathroom to figure out how to break off toilet roll with a jammed thumb.

I’m feeling 22

When I woke up in Nice, France on my birthday my initial thought was, “I’m going to ride a rental bike along the coast with a french baguette dangling between my teeth.” But alas, my dream was not to come true. I looked out the window and buckets of rain poured down.

It literally looked like a movie scene where the behind-the-scenes guy turned on the sprinklers just a little too much. You’re sitting there watching this movie funeral thinking, “There is no way the sky could physically produce that much precipitation.” Well, apparently it can. On my birthday. I’m so special.

So instead of sitting glumly inside, I took inspiration from my girl T-Swift and made a music video. Because I’m feeling 22, bitches.

Wet pants and not the good kind

Let me set the scene. We had just arrived in Nice, France. I had dreamt of this moment ever since I watched a rom-com/action spy movie with Ashton Kutcher. It’s based in Nice. Also, he’s topless, a lot. I’m very cultured.

Moving on.

Topless Ashton Kutcher in the movie Killers. You’re welcome.

After dropping off our stuff (precious, precious stuff) at our Airbnb, we headed to the coast. It was evening by this point and the tide was in, this is an important detail we overlooked. (God, I’ve spent way too much time in Arizona, a landlocked, desert state). I wore a swimsuit underneath my sweater and jeans in the small chance it would be warm enough to swim. It wasn’t. It was cold and no one along the beach was dumb enough to expose any skin to the sea breeze (foreshadowing).

We leaned against the wall that separated the ocean from the city like the locals were doing (we fit in so well). Above the seawall, people looked out from their perch on the boardwalk. Old couples growled at each other, teenagers in roller blades ran them over, the good stuff.

I slipped my shoes off and dug my toes into the sand. My phone was sticking out of my back pocket so I slipped it into my shoe for safekeeping (oh, the irony) while I readjusted my place on the wall.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched a woman play with fire (not literally, actually she was playing with water). She would get really close to the water and then run back to the safety of the sand. I watched a huge wave crash down on the beach and essentially swallowed her whole. Like a 4-D movie, seconds after I watched this woman be demolished I was soaked by the same wave.

To my horror I watched my shoes be pulled out to sea. I grabbed them and plunged my hand inside only to come up empty. Further down the coast, I saw my phone sticking out of the sand like an ostrich (or another animal who burrows idk). I darted after it with my soggy pants and dripping sweater as the crowd above made gasps as they discovered this truth with me.

Imagine a phone sticking out of that. Imagine it’s yours. Share in my horror.

This became a show for these people. I heard faint clapping as I tugged it free and basically dried it with my hair (which miraculously remained dry and still looked damn good that day). Once I secured my phone, I had to acknowledge my drenched body. I remembered I had a swimsuit underneath and began to peel my clothes off.

Remember, everyone else was fully clothed. Because it was cold AF. This is an important detail. Apparently, just because I’m in France doesn’t mean people don’t stare at half-naked women in bizarre temperatures. The entire crowd stared down at me as I shivered and laid out my clothes.

When I thought it couldn’t get worse, another wave hit and the time on my [sun] dryer was restarted. I looked up and the grumpy old couples had turned their anger towards me. I waved as they pointed at me and frowned. Looking back they were probably more concerned with the fact that I was this dumb tourist in a swimsuit in the late winter while the tide was moving in. In my shame and experience with angry, religious people I assumed they had something against my body exposure (sexy).

Effective drying technique until another wave hit.

But the cherry on top, the real crowd pleaser (literally), was when the police came. Yes, the police came. This is when I was able to pull my head out of my ass and realize the tide had risen dangerously high and people weren’t just staring at me for no reason. I took a moment to look around and in my self-absorption, I hadn’t realized all the smart people (and by that I mean basically everyone) had left our section of the beach.

A group of five police officers approached us, one was wearing a motorcycle helmet. (That was an important detail, why the hell was he wearing a helmet on the beach? Protection from sun exposure? Seagull poo? Recognition as actor Ashton Kutcher?) We were then escorted off the beach as my swimsuit gave me the biggest wedgie imaginable (but I wasn’t going to pick it in front of helmet guy! He wasn’t getting the satisfaction).

The crowd watched on from above as we finished Act III. I tippy-toed across Nice’s signature pebbles and stones (wonderful souvenirs) and my wedgie only worsened. Soon my butt cheeks had their time in the sun.

Now that I’m safe from French crowds I have come to terms that water damage doesn’t begin to describe my phone’s experience. So I am now the person who doesn’t have a phone thousand of miles from home. It’s thrilling, it adds another layer of adventure, right? Sure, sure.