Category: Language Barriers

 

A month ago I decided I wanted to transition this blog into an online magazine. The GAF team is still working very hard towards that goal, but in the meantime, I missed having a platform where I can write.

So I’m back and in a new city. Again. I just moved to NYC! It all happened very quickly and wasn’t planned at all. Essentially I got a remote job and Nick landed a contract for six months and we just took off.

While we were in the process of getting an apartment we hopped around AirBnB’s and hotels. When we reached out to our first host she messaged me back with an ominous warning of “It’s a fourth-floor walk up… can you handle that?”.

I took it as a challenge. Mostly because I forgot “walk up” is a fancy New York way of saying “a shit ton of stairs and no elevator even if you beg the gods halfway up”.

So I arrived with five bags of luggage, two backpacks and a look of determination on my face. The driver, Sean, who unknowingly was acting as a cheaper version of a moving company kindly asked if I wanted help with the bags. Poor man. Poor, poor, guy. It was awful.

Apparently, the apartment building had “high ceilings” so each floor had incredibly steep stairs with at least 30 to a bazillion steps. No exaggeration.

Sean looked like he wanted to run back to the safety of his car. The host probably wanted to close the door in my face.

Then we began the climb with 50-pound bags in the position of our choosing. Sean went for a “head-carrying” position similar to women balancing jugs of water, except with more cursing because he was from Queens.

I hoisted the bags on my hip and essentially dragged it sideways. The host made lots of noises as she watched me ruin her wood stairs.

When we made it to the top I thanked the NYC apartment gods that I wasn’t going to have to deal with those bags for at least two weeks. But alas, the gods had their own plan.

The host walked me through her apartment, she was a designer and it was decorated so meticulously I was afraid to touch anything. Sharp objects everywhere, vintage glassware, white bed linen, etc. Everything breakable or stainable.

“And if you drop even water on the couch it has to be professionally cleaned for $400.”

I audibly gulped and hugged my arms around myself to crush the clutz in me. Within the few minutes there I only managed to gather a few bruises on my shins from bumping into artsy furniture.

Later that night Nick sat down on the couch with a beer. I screamed like I had witnessed a murder.

He lept up and looked around himself as if maybe there was a dead animal he hadn’t seen while lounging around.

“No drinking on the couch. Don’t eat, breath or look at that couch. That couch is only an art installation from now on.”

We agreed and settled into the new place for our first week in the city. But then that fateful Friday, the rain came.

We had just finished dinner and I went to the bathroom. When I closed the door behind me I began to hear the rain. As if it was raining inside. I pulled at the door but it was jammed. I yanked and yanked at the door to no avail. The heavy trickling continued on the other side. It felt like I was in the bathroom at the Rainforest Cafe.

I yelled for Nick and when he released me I was greeted with an indoor shower. The roof was leaking profusely. We gathered all the pots and pans but it was no use. The place was soaked.

The water soaked into the walls and eventually a wall of mirrors, so artfully placed, came crashing down. I’m a superstitious person so I began to count the years of bad luck that surrounded our feet.

Our host came into the apartment to assess the damage. She looked at me with despair and all I could say was,”At least no water landed on the couch!”

We are now in a new location.

I didn’t post yesterday because I was packing for my trip to Amsterdam with my brother and Nick so stop yelling at me guilty conscience and let me live my life!

The key is organizational piles.

The “fun mom” pile wouldn’t be complete without responsible but cute shirts typically from Old Navy. Then you’ve got your “I’ll need this to cover up my erotic vibes” which consists of cardigans and black tights. Then there’s the “when did I become a person who wears leather?” pile which only holds a leather jacket I stole from my 12-year-old sister and a scandalous/business casual leather skirt my grandma bought me.

Did I mention I’m cool?

Anyways that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. We arrived at the AirBnB we’re staying at and two cats stared back at me from the couch. That’s when I vaguely remembered that to get such a cheap place in the city I agreed to petsit the host’s cats. I was confused too.

I took the list of instructions including a recipe for their dinner! Cat pâté! Freaking cat pâté.

Nick is allergic so we’ve been keeping him in a corner. Allergic to cats, not pâté. That man loves a mean pâté. And nice pâtés too.

I feel like I usually get paid with free housing when I pet sit but instead I’m paying her to take care of her cats. I’m great at negotiations. This explains my fear of car dealerships.

Anyways we spent the evening doing what people do in Amsterdam. When in Rome, amirite?

We both know I’m talking about walking in the bike line? Man, they love their bikes here. And they do aim.

When we came home last night we weren’t the most sober we could be. We probably could’ve been more. Just a little more.

That’s what I told myself when I woke up this morning and realized I mixed kitty kibble with hot water and then instructed Nick to mash it together with a fork to make “cat pâté”.

I found the actually pâté in tin cans this morning. I also found that the mush had hardened over night so the cats laughed at me silently while I scraped it out. #budgettravel

You know what they say. When in Rome, make cat pâté?

Update: So I assumed we were taking care of these cats because the hosts were going on their own vacation/they were staying with a friend/ living in a cardboard box while we rented their place.

Wrong.

We walked downstairs and as we were about to walk out, the door to the apartment on the ground floor opened and our host stepped out.

“Have a great day, guys!”

I was flabbergasted.

“You mean to tell me that you are living downstairs and I’m taking care of your cats upstairs?! Are you and your cats on a break? Should I drop off your cats later? I’m sure you guys can work it out over some pâté,” I said.

Except I only said that in my head because I’m a pussy.

Yes, that was a cat pun. Excuse me while I go feed the cats.

 

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.

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.