My Travel Horror Story: Some Serious Schadenfreude

(The bloggers over at Sass Attack, And the Pursuit of Happiness, and The Hotfessional, in their infinite wisdom, have decided to sponsor a contest dealing with travel horror stories. Great, a chance to relive my nightmares.

Naw, it's awesome. Thanks guys!)

After five months studying abroad, I have racked up an unsettling amount of character-building travel stories. Whether it’s sinking calf-deep in a peat bog on the isle of Skye or spending eight hours dozing straight up in a hard seat in a Bucharest airport, my misadventures have not only given some talking points that none of my friends can match, but the confidence to know that nothing can break the girl that survived months of Scottish food. However, there is one experience that stands out, scenes of which still haunt my dreams. This is my story.

Spring was beginning to spread over Europe, its fingers just creeping into the University of Stirling, my home away from home. But I wasn’t there. No, I was roving the Continent. After a few days of reveling in the sunshine and giggling shyly at the strangely attractive young priest of Rome, my friends and I were wrapping up a rather lackluster visit to Berlin. Germany, while not possessing the manically happy national personality of Italy, had treated us well. Still, Scotland was calling us back—my two friends had finals to complete and I had lodgings to find before I was kicked out of my flat.

Our flight was leaving that evening from Frankfurt, which was a relatively short train ride from Berlin and a mere hop-skip-and-jump for three world travelers. Our confidence was such that we leisurely enjoyed our breakfast at our hostel, packed up, and wandered over to the local internet café to check on train times. J, who organized the trip, hopped on one of the computers and began tapping away as N and I lounged over our bags.

“Oh, [expletive]!” J breathed.

And that’s when we knew the [expletive] hit the fan.

It turns out that there are two Frankfurt airports in Germany—the close one and one that was seven driving hours away from Berlin. Guess which one our flight left from.

By now, it was eleven o’clock in the morning. The flight left at seven-thirty in the evening. We were, quite possibly, screwed.

We held a quick conference, J in tears over her airport mix-up. After assuring her that it was a mistake that any ignorant American could have made, we researched planes, trains, and automobiles. Finally, we figured that the surest way to reach the Frankfurt-Hahn airport was by renting a car and racing across the country. Germany had the autobahn, right? We were sure to fly.

Oh, the naiveté of youth.

We quickly reserved possibly the only automatic car in Berlin and ran about two miles into the city to claim it. After waiting for a painful half an hour for the rental office to process our order, we began our journey across a foreign country, our entire fate resting on a questionable paper map.

Though I spent most of the drive asleep (bladder issues force me either to sleep or stop every half an hour), I woke up every few hours to observe our progress. We had indeed made it to the autobahn and it was beautiful. I don’t think I had ever pictured Germany like this: rolling green hills and wee villages stapled to the countryside by a steepled church. Gray clouds brought a delicate mist and fat droplets of rain to blanket the highway. It was all beautiful in its own way—but it was less beautiful for J, the only one of us who brought her driver’s license on this trip. Every so often, I would open my eyes in response an anguished cry as J reached the upper limits of her willingness to speed down the highway, perturbed German motorists sullenly sitting on her tail. Her cries would subside to a whimper and, harmonizing with the dulcet sounds of the Phil Collins songs that seemed to be eternally on the radio, I would slumber on.

My friends decided that I might like a picture
of me sleeping. What you aren't seeing is the drool.

When we pulled into a gas station/diner a few hours later, we admitted to ourselves that we would never be able to make our flight. Discussing it over subpar pasta, we decided that we would continue our drive, then spend the night in the airport. Most airlines are required to put you on the next flight if you miss your scheduled take-off. Surely it would work the same here.

We arrived at Frankfurt-Hahn around 11 PM and returned the rental car, now affectionately referred to as “Otto.” A quick check at the airline desk proved that the entire airport was beginning to shut down for the night.

N and me, loaded down with luggage, standing in front of Otto
in the Frankfurt-Hahn Airport.

And it wasn’t a pretty picture.

For those of you who have never had the privilege of spending any time in this airport, please, let me give you a brief description. Picture, if you will, possibly the hardest, coldest floor known to man. Also, please brace yourself for the most exorbitant prices for food and entertainment (I bought a coloring book for $8 dollars) you can imagine. Finally, imagine a nice draft blasting around floor level as you try to get some sleep. Put it all together, it creates one hellish night.

About 4:30 AM, I was shaken awake from my doze by J, tears streaming down her face. The airline (let’s call it Flyin’ Air) desk had just opened and J, planner that she is, decided that she was going to get a head start on organizing our flight home. The first slap in the face was the ticket lady, the only rude German we met on our trip. At J’s inquiry, the Ticket Bitch (TB from now on—it’s only right that I nickname her after a disgusting disease) snapped that Flyin’ Air does not replace tickets on missed flights. Not only that, a ticket to Glasgow was €200, about €193 more than we had previously paid and way above our budget. Finally, TB proceeded to metaphorically kick J in the ovaries by inferring that the three of us were complete asshats for missing our flight. J slunk away, broken, bleeding, and humiliated.

It took me a few minutes to understand what was going on, but once I understood, I immediately became enraged. Who the hell did TB think she was anyway? N, J, and I all stomped over to the ticket booth, ready to unleash the full fury of three girls who had just driven cross country and had slept on the cold ground.

Lucky for her (and maybe for me), another ticket lady had joined TB and that is who I confronted. This woman was totally unlike her compatriot. With a quiet and pitying smile, she confirmed that we did in fact have to pay €200 for a ticket, but also broke it to us that there were only two tickets for the only Glasgow flight that day. Stunned and quiet, we shuffled away to regroup.

A few calls to neighboring airports proved fruitless. Any other flight would cost a hardy €600 and an interminable bus ride. Finally, with much internal wailing, I offered to potentially stay behind, hoping and praying that a ticket would become available before the flight left. After all, my friends had a final the next day; I didn't.

So let’s step back and look at what we had gone through in less than 24 hours:

• A leisurely breakfast in sweet, sweet innocence of what was to come
• An overwhelming panic when that innocence was shattered
• The renting of a car and a harrowing ride on the autobahn
• Getting fleeced out of $8 for a damn coloring book
• A less than peaceful night’s doze on a drafty floor
• Being reamed by TB
• The reemergence of that old familiar panic courtesy of the nice ticket lady
• Surrendering to possibly another hellish night in the Airport That Civilization Forgot
  
  

A pretty bleak day. For the next 15 hours, I sweated it out, quietly crying in the women’s bathroom. These were the most painful 15 hours of my life, but I was ultimately given a ticket for €240, which I snapped up immediately. I finally made it home, stomping past my confused flatmates and collapse, unconscious, for a full 24 hours.

What did I learn from this? Well, I don’t think I came away with a true lesson. I did realize a few things about myself, however. I realized that I would shell out any amount of money for childish entertainment if pushed hard enough. I realized that I would sacrifice myself to another night of agony for friends. I realized that sometimes I just need a good cry, but am too embarrassed to do so in front of a bunch of German tourists.

Good for me.

Gettin' Me a Shrimp n' Banana Cocktail!

I was looking through my Scotland pictures today to see if I could find an appropriate desktop background (I was feeling particularly nostalgic), when I came upon this:


Yes, it's a bag of candy shrimp and bananas. What the hell, Scotland? Seriously, this is something I would expect to find in downtown Tokyo, not two blocks away from the University of Edinburgh! And what sort of candy genius decided that shrimp and bananas are a match made in heaven? He/she needs to be sacked.

The scariest thing: we know what the banana shapes are going to taste like, but what about the shrimp??

I'll leave you to ponder that for a while.

I Did It?

Well, we all know that I had to miss a day because of my internet outage, but, judging by this badge, "doing it" means that I had to post thirty times in thirty days. And I did. One day I posted twice. Count 'em. Thus, through thorough rationalizing, I've come to realize that I deserve this badge, dammit. I worked my butt off.

So there.

K.

Peace at Last

Though I sometimes wish that my family would just go away, I don't think that there is a better feeling than sitting with them on a small Virginian island, noshing on pizza, and watching "Hunt for Red October." Even my callous little brother sighs at the tragedy of Sam Neill's wish to see Montana and dying before he gets a chance. Real family togetherness time.

Granted, my brother is busy mocking my ignorance of the movie (it's been years since I've last seen it, and more since I've picked up the book) and my parents are making silly comments to each other. I'm busy asking dumb questions and wondering where I've seen all of these actors and showing my father Tim Curry's costume in "The Rocky Horror Picture Show." Yes, it's about the same as it is at home.

Still, I can poke my head out on the balcony and sniff the strangely beautiful scent of salt grass and sulfurous marsh mud, all while watching the lighthouse revolve. It's amazing how a change of location can resolve every conflict, real or otherwise.

So, from my little nest in the marsh, I wish you and your family a wonderful Thanksgiving vacation. I hope that you have some peace, even if only for a short period of time.

K.

Wet Woollen Wonders

I normally don't put up pictures of myself and referring to my Halloween costume so late after the actual event borders on attention-whoredom, but I hadn't had a chance to comment yet. And as I need to post today and I haven't totally worked out what happened yesterday in my head, I figured today would be as good as any.

See, most of this costume is not mine. The socks, Aberdeen shirt, and Aye, Jimmy hat all belong to my brother. But the kilt... well, the kilt's all mine.

Why I spent $80 on a kilt that I'll rarely be able to wear is hard for even me to explain. That is my tartan (albeit of the hunting family) and that is my clan pin on the lower left-hand side, but the chances of me finding a reason to go to class in this are very far in between. And, dammit, wool is itchy. The last wool scarf I bought is still hanging-- unused-- in my closet because I can't bring myself to put it around my sensitive neck.

Although, wool does smell nice when wet. Kind of like a clean barnyard animal. But that's besides the point.

I think the reason I spent so much money was because I was coming to the end of my stay in Scotland. It was my last day in Edinburgh. For the year. And I stood in the midst of the Edinburgh Woolen Mill, cash on my debit card, and the soon-to-be-mine kilt.

Oh, the temptation was too much. I usually don't get too into retail therapy, but leaving the place I had called my home for five months sort of pushed my reserve out of the window.

I miss the rain that was never too cold or too warm. I miss all those damn sheep. I miss Hamish the Hairy Coo. I miss the unintelligible accents. I miss the lochs. I miss those damn hard assignments. I miss my little room. I miss the amazing highland water. I miss the wonderful public transportation. I miss the year-round, preternatural green. I miss Scotland.

My only recourse: spritz some water on my woollen kilt and breathe in deeply, then dream of my adopted home.

K.

The Kimono Collection Get an Airing-Out

It might be my stomach virus's doing, but I feel compelled to post about something near and dear to my heart: my kimono collection.

I'm not Japanese by any stretch of the imagination, but something about these graceful garments has captivated me. Therefore, as I'm too weak to do much else, I'll put up some of the pictures of my little collection. It requires, unfortunately, that reader uses his/her imagination since my house is in no way a photographer's paradise.

So, we begin!



Though technically not a kimono, this haori is by far the most "useful" to me of the bunch. It's traditionally used as a kimono overcoat, but I wear it to synagogue to cover my shoulders.



A detail from the haori. It's the design that really made me fall in love with this piece. The colors, the trailing ribbons, the way the fans are situated-- very appealing.



Next, my tomesode. Tomesode are worn by married women to formal occasions, such as weddings. I believe that I got this particular kimono because I really wanted a tomesode and this one was cheap on Ebay. Being a student of very little means, I can't be incredibly choosy. No matter, it's simple and I like it.



Detail of the tomesode's embroidery. I believe that it's a lion, but it could be a Korean dog. Whatever the animal, the green color is beautiful.



Here's a rather fetching furisode that has been, unfortunately, been hung rather haphazardly on the wall. It's also unfortunate that the picture had to feature my ancient paper weight of a computer; the hanger is too high for me to reach. Furisode, by the way, is Japanese for "swinging sleeves" and is worn only by young, unmarried women. It is said that in order to attract a husband, women would wear sleeves long enough to flutter when they walked in order to catch a man's eye.



The final kimono in my collection is an uchikake, a wedding kimono. This picture doesn't really get across just how massive this thing really is; it's the width and length of a single twin bed. The hem of the garment is stuffed with cotton, lending to the kimono's surprising weight. My mother is convinced that I will get married in this kimono, but I doubt I would even be able to lug the thing down the aisle.



This is the only obi I own, but I guess that's a good thing as it costs about as much as a really nice kimono on eBay. The length of silk is doubled over on itself, so it's actually about as long as I am tall. It's kind of an obnoxious orange color that doesn't match any of the kimonos I own, but the crane is nice.

So that's the extent of my collection currently, but I am expecting a large box of random kimonos in the near future. If I'm satisfied with them, I'll take pictures.

If you have an interest in kimono and would like to learn more, there are several books I would recommend.

The Book of Kimono by Nario Yamanaka-- My first book on kimono. Some very nice pictures with short explanations dealing with the history of the clothing and how to wear it.

Kimono: Fashioning Culture by Liza Dalby-- I highly recommend this book. Dalby was the first Western woman to become a geisha and, as an anthropologist, has written a brilliant and entertaining history of the kimono.

Kimono by Paul Van Riel-- Not big on information, but has tons of full-color pictures.

I would also say that eBay is a fantastic source for very nice vintage kimonos.

Anyway, thanks for hanging in there with me!

K.

PS. Update: The Llara Brook count is now up to 958 on Google and has (somehow) made it on to WilliamShatner.com.

Preggers Pepper: An Interesting Find

Sometimes you can't think of anything to say on a blog, but then something cool turns up.



An ordinary pepper my father was cutting up Israeli salad turned out to be a mommy pepper, shielding two little baby peppers in her womb. Clearly, these little peppers take after the daddy pepper.

Which makes me wonder: do I feel at all bad for eating a pregnant pepper? And is the phrase "pregnant pepper" really as funny as it sounds?

Answers: no. And yes.

By the way, in case you were wondering, these were fraternal twin peppers. They were sprouting from two different seeds.

K.

PS. Pregnant pepper. Hee hee.

Our Jewish Responsibility: The Darfur Genocide

Never have I been more proud to be a Jew.

At the Save Darfur Now rally in Washington, DC, yesterday, I was shocked and almost moved to tears at the great Jewish response to the genocide in Darfur. I couldn't stretch out my arms without touching someone in a kippah, tzitzit, or carrying a Hebrew-language sign calling for justice for the oppressed.

In reality, I know that I shouldn't be surprised by the outpouring of Jewish support. We are, after all, a people that promised that an atrocity like the Holocaust would never happen again. If we do not protest the genocide of a people, be they Jew or gentile, what right do we have to defend the State of Israel? To expect help from other human beings when the world invariably turns its face away from us? To honor the Torah, which bids us to not stand idle while the blood of our fellow brothers and sisters is shed?

The answer: None. We have no right at all.

And you know what? We haven't done enough.

Where were we in 1994, during the ethnic cleansing in Rwanda when 800,000 people were murdered in only 100 days?

Where were we during the years between 1992 and 1995, when madman Slobodan Milosevic led the Serbs in the slaughter of 200,000 Bosnians?

We Jews need to stop talking about how evil genocide is and do something about it. Send letters to your representatives, your elected leaders, your local news stations, your friends. Spread awareness in any way you can. Lead a fundraiser. Start an organization. Donate money. Protest.

However, for all the ranting in this post, I am genuinely pleased that so many Jews showed up for this rally. Such attendance renews my faith and makes me want to be more active in the fight for justice in Darfur. Thank you to all who showed up and took a stand. Thank you to all those Jews who spoke when others could not, whether it be in Rwanda, Bosnia, or Darfur. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

K.

Appendix I: An apology.

Sorry for the rant. It kind of got out of hand.

Appendix II: Photos

These are some of the pictures that I took from Sunday's rally. Click on the thumbnails for to see them in more detail. (Please excuse the unprofessional layout. I'm not very good at this.)

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.
11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

1) An Israeli flag waving in crowd.
2) Crowd shot.
3) Another crowd shot.
4) Yet another crowd shot.
5) The Reform Jewish movement showed up.
6) An African man who I believe was from the afflicted areas. Throughout the rally, he whispered "Thank you" and "G-d bless you" under his breath to the crowd. Made me cry.
7) A kid in a tree... a personification of the youth movement.
8) "Vegan Jews Against Genocide." I wasn't aware that there was any other kind.
9) "I Saw It. I Escaped It. Stop It Now!!"
10) California Representative Tom Lantos, a Holocaust survivor.
11) California Representative Nancy Pelosi.
12) New Jersey Governor John Corzine.
13) Actor George Clooney (his father, who was a much better speaker, showed up too).
14) Illinois Senator Barak Obama.
15) Rev. Al Sharpton.
16) Activist and Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel.

Appendix III: Links

PBS: The Triumph of Evil-- Rwanda
United Human Rights Council: Bosnia Genocide-- Bosnia
Save Darfur-- Non-profit