I am leaving in a few hours for a long weekend in Vienna and Prague and it occurs to me that I haven’t written about the Latern Hike, Paris, the Mountain, and certainly not about last night…this is gonna have to be quick.

Last Wednesday night, the students/professors went on a latern hike. Basically, it’s a 30 walk up a (at least) 45 degree incline to a pub, and it weaves through the Olympic ski path from the 70s. I figure, if I can go 30 minutes on the precore, I can certainly do this- what I didn’t count on what the extremely thin air (we Floridians have exactly zero experience with this phenomenon). We were rewarded at the top with beer (and some lovely ice cream for me), along with some yodeling by these two guys with a guitar and accordian. One of them was our guide and he was at least 60 years old. He had two of the girls up there and after kissing my roommate on each cheek, does something which every boy on the trip now uses as a pick-up line:

Old Pimp (to Lea)- You have such long eyelashes. Are they real?

Lea- Uh, YAH.

Old Pimp- No!? Hold on, let me touch them. (reaches towards them) Close your eyes.

She does this and he reaches down and kisses her on the lips! Dear lord, was she suprised/horrified/embarassed. From then on, he was THE PIMP.

Julie and I went to Paris this weekend, which is my new favorite city. I don’t like museums that much, but am infatuated with the Musee De Orsay, it’s near the Louvre. They are inundated with Monets, Renoirs, and Van Goghs. Ridiculous. I had the best time with the Mona Lisa, walking from one side of the painting to the other, exclaiming “she’s still looking at me…she’s still looking at me!” For once, Julie looked at me like I was insane. The other highlight was Versailles, and not even the stupid palace (which was gaudy gold and musky smelling), with it’s hall of mirrors (a real let down, the postcard looks better). We took a trolley around the grounds (beautiful) and walked around Marie Antoinette’s country home. I am in love…with a house. We saw two married couples having their pics taken and that’s when we decided that we were coming back after our weddings and hiring a french photographer. It looked like something out of a fairy tale. The farmhouse had a roof made of straw, it was like Hansel and Gretal!

That was basically Paris; Julie saw Spiderman (with French subtitles) and I stumbled around the city looking for aspirin because I was completely dehydrated after our Versailles escapade (my father ALWAYS warns me about that happening. ha.). Oh, and we decided that we now love Disney. This happened while we were waiting for the trolley at Versailles. There were no lines (Europeans don’t believe in lines; old ladies are constantly cutting in front of me at the supermarket), not enough leg room in the carts, and they waited like ten minutes to depart (after everyone had boarded). The tram workers at Disney would have left these guys in the dust, literally; they are super efficient. And the bathroom facilities, my god! They had like two bathrooms at the whole palace, which had SO SO many visitors (mostly Japanese). We went to this small shopping strip and I stopped by a cafe to use the bathroom. The lady working there gives me directions…to the McDonald’s bathroom. Apparently, everyone in the plaza goes to the three stalls at the Mickey D’s. What is this?? I waited behind 10 women to use the bathroom. Insane. Disney is the bomb when it comes to shoving around large groups of people.

Yesterday, I went up the north mountain in Innsbruck, via three cable cars (called gondolas). The view was spectacular and I ran into my UNO girl! Background: Last time I was in Europe traveling, I ran into the same pig-tailed University of New Orleans girls EVERYWHERE I went. Rome, Paris, Prague, the trains, the middle of nowhere in Cinqueterre. I never talked to her, knew her name, she was just the pig-tailed girl. This year, the pekinese-face girl is always around; I started the first weekend in Zurich and hasn’t stopped. She seriously has a face that resembeles a pekinese dog.

Last night, at the weekly professor dinner Dr. Oli, the lady, and Dr. Dys decided they were soulmates bc of their shared love for The Sound of Music. Nevermind that Dr. Dys is gay and his partner was across the table, shaking his head in embarassment (”don’t encourage him!”). There was a huge thunderstorm, so we stuck there, taking shots of schnapps and listening to them ramble on about how they are going to have a “production” at Stetson. They were giving all the teachers roles, it was hilarious. Afterwards, Dr. Oli (the guy) accompanied me to the bar; he promised his students he would go. And go he did…he drank them all under the table! Seriously, though, they had already had a bunch to drink when we arrived at 10:30. He took shot after shot, he was a real sport. Everyone was so impressed. He tells me, “these kids are in for a surprise. They think I am going to be drunk, but I bet I can drink more than 90% of them.” He was right. They were obliterated and he was fine. I had seven shots, in a remarkably short time, and was also not drunk. Tolerance, way up. I was surprised. I left at 1:30 and they were still going strong, the girls especially. 23, 18, 20- these are the number of shots three of them had taken when I left. We’re talking tequilla shots. I was like, please god let them make it home without dying of alcohol poisoning.

My last episode was back at the dorm. I had three of the guys walk me to my room but they wanted to smoke out on the way there, so we had to stop by their room. I received my first lesson on the different types of weed and how they work, I guess that’s what you call it.

“see this (pointing to the pipe), that’s the paraphernelia, and this (the pot) is the contraband. and it’s relatively simple, just smoosh this down, there it goes, and light it up.”

It was really funny, despite its reflections on the American youth. Then they started telling me about their “band,” Roses, which is on a “European Tour.” Basically a concert is where they play imaginary instruments at different bars in different cities. Their first album, is named Flughes (in honor of our bus, the Flughafen).

“Kristina, Roses has played everywhere!” they exclaim and proceed to use the computer speaker as their microphone, shouting out the window. “we have played in Interlocken, TWO concerts in Rome, SEVERAL in Amersterdam, we play in Innsbruck last week. It’s all for the fans! We played while skydiving! What band do you know that has done that?!”

Roses? I reply.

“Yes! Exactly! There is no other band to name! What’s the name of our new album?!”

Flughes?

“YES! FLUGHES! ROSES IS BACK!! We’re not in the states yet, but every good band starts in Europe, you understand?!”

Wow. Yes I do.

I made it back to my room, still laughing.

By monday afternoon, I had accounted for all but two students- everyone had an interesting time coming back.

Gage and Melody spent over 20 hours getting back to Innsbruck. They began their journey sunday morning at 10am, from Florence. They ended up on the wrong train which took them two hours south to Rome. They spent all of 20 seconds in the city before jumping another train north…one that happened to have “engine trouble” on the way up, which caused them to miss their connection in Bologna. The ended up in that station for SIX hours waiting to take the 10pm overnight train. They met up with two stetson girls in this time and the four of them tried to find beds on the night train. This baby was packed- the hallways were so cramped the conductor didn’t even check for tickets (refer to the “sign you’re in a shitty train” entry). When they tried to buy water from the beverage cart lady, she refused to sell it to them. I know, I don’t get it either. The woman actually stuck her hand in Melody’s face and told her No. If these kids had a machine gun, they would have used it. They got home at 4am Monday.

The best story was Anna and Alex. They didn’t make it home until 6pm Monday. They were supposed to take the Sunday overnight from Florence but here’s where they screwed up. They had three bottles of wine that evening, before heading in a daze to the station, only to discover that Anna lost their train reservations. In times like these, you would (if sober): 1) board the train and find a free seat or 2) find another train to take. However, Anna and Alex were beyond drunk and decided the best plan of action was to stay the night in Florence and have another bottle of wine. They took the train out Monday morning.

Oooh, I have a fun fact for you. I was talking with my roomie, Julie, about grandmothers. I asked her how she addressed letter to them: if she put their name or “Grandma.” I personally just put Grandma.

Julie says, “well, I can’t put their name, really, because they have the same name.”

Oh, what’s that?

“Nancy Creech.”

Nancy…but what’s the other one’s last name?

“Nancy Creech.”

Wait a minute.

Oh yes, it’s true. Julie’s grandmothers are both named Nancy Creech. And get this, you’ll never believe me, her grandfathers are both Robert Creech. Everyone on the train was like, “now we understand what’s wrong with Julie!”

Her parents met in college, while sitting alphabetically, and their parents had the same exact names. Incredible. What are the odds?! There are none. Her parents had to go through a bunch of paperwork when they married, to prove their weren’t related, because it’s against the law. I can’t even fathom it. It’s not like me, a Jones, marrying someone will name-matching parents, it just doesn’t compare.

I told Julie that if she’s lying to me and tells me tomorrow that it’s a joke, I will be completely heart-broken because this is the most facinating thing I have heard in ages.

Ok, so we make it to Florence and things start to pick-up. We found our hostel and actually, right outside of the place, we meet an awesome Belgium girl named Margot (don’t pronounce the “t”). She had been traveling alone in Italy and was ended her stay in Florence. She was short and petite, like all Europeans, and she had a head full of brown ringlets (she looked more like Shirley Temple than Tara!). She spoke perfect English…we really enjoyed her company there.

Not too many problems in the city. We attempted bargaining in the marketplace and I picked up a couple of belts, two pieces of art, and a musicbox. Very nice.

We had the best Chinese food there. Really, I’m not kidding. We were lost, trying to find this scrumptous italian restaurant, gave up, and ended up walking into the asian joint. I had pineapple chicken; I’m all about pairing pineapple with different meats, like ham on pizza.

We returned to Innsbruck Sunday, after spending the ENTIRE day traveling. I hate Italian trains. We were stuck without seats, for a few hours, and devised a backwards plan to get home by switching trains several times (at least we had seats on these new ghetto trains).

None of my stories compares to what other students went through.

Sign that you’re on a shitty train: the conductor doesn’t bother to check for your ticket (obviously, you have much bigger problems if you subject yourself to this ride). Number of shitty trains I went on this weekend: 3.

What a weekend. My God. I don’t even know where to start. It began on Wednesday afternoon at Dachau (one of the concentration camps in Germany) and was a succession of highs and lows. At the train station in Munich, while I was wondering around looking for English magazines that were under 10 euros, Julie was being offered money by an oldman who thought she was homeless. She was really embarrassed and just kept telling him No in German, while the rest of us were asking her why she didn’t accept it– couldn’t you just guess that we’re business students?

We took the overnight train to Rome on Wed night, which was a sardine can of 6 bunks (three on each side) in a 8 foot wide room. The bunks are made out of cardboard with flannel covering,there was this hospital gown material thing, that folded in half and counted as both a fitted sheet and flat sheet, no blanket. The only way to get air was to open the window and when you are going 80, you can imagine how effective the hospital gown was against the wind.

We made it to Rome and then tried to get to our hotel; they couldn’t fit us all into one cab so Julie and I took one and the boys took another. LOW: The cab driver, after driving a block from the station, stops the car and proceeds to tell us, in Italian, “I don’t know where this hotel is, I don’t know where that street is. I’m sorry. The metro station is over there. Get out.” If we didn’t get him the first time, he repeated it again, in Italian. HIGH: Julie and I proceed to go to the Metro, where two nice policemen help us out. LOW: They also have no idea where the hotel is and we end up taking the wrong, sardine-packed, metro. HIGH: While asking for information, Julie looks outside this wrong subway stop and spots the Colleseum. LOW: The info lady tells me, in a thick Italian accent, “This street, it does not exist.” Huh? “Your street, it does not exist in Rome. No exist. In Italian, the street name, it means ‘nothing.’” She repeats all of this several times, as I am not believing her. Well hot damn, I think, we have been swindled into making online reservations for a fake hotel on a fake street. If this is true, then where the hell are the guys? On the way to a fake hotel? Then, she looks at the Rome street map again and says, “oh, my mistake. It does exist. Here it is,” and proceeds to give me directions. Ha, funny. Very funny. (Semi HIGH)

We spend the day checking out the sites in Rome. HIGH: I got to see Trevi Fountain, The Spanish Steps, and that stone face where you stick your hand in its mouth (from “Only You” and “Roman Holiday.”) LOW: On the way back to the hotel, that night, the subway broke down and we took the taxi drive o’ death, where I sat bitch in the front, in a seat that was stuck at a 30 degree angle, forwards.

Friday morning we went to Vatican City, saw St. Peter’s and Julie and I tried to leave on the 1:30pm train to Florence. Tried. LOW: We are late leaving St. Peter’s to go back to our hotel and by the time we pick up our luggage it’s 1:15 and the train station is 20 minutes away by subway. We catch a taxi, who takes us the GHETTO way to the train station. We run to the track, it’s 1:32, and the glorious train is still there. However, they had already shut the doors, which we proceeded to bang on, and the conductor looks at us and waves. He would not open the door. Only waves. There is another girl, next to us, who has a violin she is waving at him; her orchestra is on the next cart, she is playing that night. The conductor also waves at her. We run to three other doors, where passengers tried to open the doors for us, but they were locked. Two minutes later, the train leaves. We watched it leave, cursing every Italian alive.

We had reservations for that special bullet train, they are mandatory. When we tried to get on the 2:30 train, the ticket guy saw that our reservations were for the earlier train. We tried to play dumb, it’s all in military time so we thought it seemed more plausible that we mistook 13:30 and 14:30, but he wasn’t having it and we ended up having to pay for another damn set of reservations.

We made it to Florence.

One of the great things about being in Europe (for me at least) is that Nutella and Mentos are both really cheap! However, I was totally screwed by the Mentos people because they only put two pinks in my pack of 14 mentos. Two! That’s bullshit. They totally know that everyone likes the pink the best and that, if they could, they would buy packages of only pink.

I went to Milan and Venice this past weekend. It must be noted that all important monuments in Italy are stored in non-descript little buildings. “The Last Supper,” for instance, was situated next to a church in a white building that could have passed for a dentist office. It’s such a contrast to America, where anything with semi-importance is housed behind glass next to armed men. Makes you think about what is really important- and how many thugs really live in the states.

I went to my first wine tasting in Venice and although I was a bit skeptic (seeing as I have hated all the wine I have ever consumed) I ended up buying two bottles of this amazing sparkling stuff. It was so good that I actually drank the first bottle last night. I slipped on my traveling braclets, which work to stop you from feeling sick in ANY situation, and I was in my own little heaven.

The one downfall of the weekend occurred when I tried taking a shower at our hotel. After messing with the temperature lever for twenty minutes, I ended up taking a cold shower- the kind that makes your bones hurt. I tried to pump myself up before stepping in, I HAD to take a shower after running around sweaty Venice all day, but to no avail. It was a half-ass shower where I shoved various body parts in the water spray for a max of two seconds each. I even bent over backwards to wet my hair in a way which didn’t get any other part of me wet. It takes talent, let me tell you. My roommate got in the shower next- only to find out that I had used up all the artic water and now the hot water was miraculously working. These things only happen to me.

The other students ended up traveling to Interlocken for their break. It is a huge tourtist trap for “young people,” as it contains every extreme sport you can fathom. Remember the Road Rules where they head down a hill in a huge clear bubble and one of the bubbles break and the guy almost breaks his neck? Yup, they have those there. Not only did everyone make it back in one piece, they even took the proper trains. This was a step-up from last weekend, when a group of intoxicated kids ended up in Linsbrook, and NOT Innsbruck. Linsbrook, should you ever want to visit, is two hours north of Munich (and not south, where Innsbruck lies).

The showers here are perfect squares. Two sides double as one corner of the bathroom and the other two comprise the clear shower doors. I was in there a couple of minutes ago, trying to warm my constantly chilled feet under the water, and I couldn’t manage to get the sliding doors to shut. They would get close, just not all the way. Yet there I was, trying to shove two things together that won’t fit. Then, completely by accident, I glance up and see what the problem is; a towel is on the corner, between them. A clean towel, actually, that had been left there for me to use. So, without much of an option, I take it down and close the doors.

My feet are constantly cold.

All the students are planning for their first weekend; most are traveling to Venice. I overheard a group discussing lodging options and they were all in favor of renting an RV. Can you guys see this? An RV in freakin’ Venice? They don’t even allow cars there, so I don’t know how it’s possible that they are staying in the redneck mobile. I’m thinking “big time scam” on this deal, I should ask them if they are interested in some oceanfront property out west…

Jogging in higher altitudes is not fun; hell, walking up the stairs isn’t a joyride either. I decided to run back from the university this morning and not only did I have to overcome the altitude problem but I kept intercepting vehicles that were spewing out the most awful exhaust. Basically, my throat burned like a bitch.

After years of searching, I’ve finally found a beer (bier) to call my own. Sport Radler, by Kaiser Bier, is kinda fruity (like Coke with Lemon??) and anyone with a real taste for beer hates it. This means they gladly hand over the bottles bought by mistake. After taking a couple of swigs, it was off to the best restaurant/bar in town, the Hofgarten. It’s located in the middle of a garden and has an outside bar area where you can drink and gaze at the stars. It’s wonderful to come home and not smell like smoke from the bar. You just have no idea.

For the first time I found myself attracted to a European man; I usually don’t go for the accent but there was something about this guy. Ha, in a way, he had the profile of Ricky Martin and the girls I was with ate that up like you wouldn’t believe. He was our bartender and I think what won me over was the strawberry champagne. Yum.

I swear I must be 50 years old now. I went out with some of the students last night, to celebrate a 21st birthday, and they were all chatting about how in their “youth” they used to make bongs out of things like prescriptions bottles, golf clubs, and coke cans. I’m guessing this happened when they were 15…when I was that age the most exciting thing I did was see “Clueless” at the theaters. I’m hoping they will settle down with the intense drinking, though, because at this rate everyone will be at the Krakenhaus (hospital) for liver transplants. Four of the guys, who shall remain nameless, are having a drinking competiton BEFORE class tomorrow morning- at 7am. This is also the time that another group of guys go to bed. One of the students complained to me that the guys come home drunk every night, have stolen the t.v. from the lobby, and use it to watch soft porn in their room at 4am. What the hell? If this isn’t their “youth,” I’m surprised they’re still alive to talk about it.

Did I mention that I (almost) broke the digital camera this weekend? The one that doesn’t belong to me? Yes, I had it in Julie’s backpack at the castles and she let someone else put their wet umbrella in there…a few hours later it wouldn’t focus and only blinked “170″ on the dislay. The troubleshooter in the manual had no solution for this. Theirs was like, “you probably don’t have the flash on, the batteries might be dead, the disk card is upside-down,” and not “you f’d up and left the camera in the rain and now it short circuited.” It gradually started working again and now I can proceed taking more worthless personal pics using stetson’s property.

The american music here is the biggest mix of stuff I’ve ever encountered. One station will play a rap song, an 80s song, and then Elvis. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, other than the fact that it’s all american. Also, while looking through cds at the store, I found “80s Dance Hits” which included only songs from the 70s, such as KC and the Sunshine Band, The Jackson Five, and I Will Survive. They have things like the Cocktail movie soundtrack next to Eminem’s new CD.

Europeans are super thin, like rails with clothes- they have no hips, thighs, or stomach. No wonder they think Americans are fat and call us “hamburgers.” Grocery shopping here is a big race. No one buys more than about four things at a time and we fat americans are used to purchasing cart loads of stuff. The cashiers, who constitute the 1% of fat austrians I think, sit in computer chairs (that swivel) and don’t bag your groceries for you. In fact, you must purchase bags and load the stuff yourself, while the cashier sits on her (fat) ass and shoves the next person’s food ontop of yours. I was scrambling this morning to stop her from putting huge juice cartons on top of my poor bread. How rude.