And now, ladies and germs...w/out further ado...

The final update.

So, first things first...as promised, Ireland.

Last Wed. After checking into Camden Place hostel in Dublin, we sought shelter from the needling rain in St. Patrick's Cathedral, where we wrung out our hair while listening to the choir perform its evensong. The air was warm, the atmosphere cheerless.

But much merriment was afterwards at the Duke, one of Dublin's top pub(lic house)s. There, we did a pub crawl. A literary pub crawl. Which is to say we spent the better part of three hours splashing through the slippery streets of the city centre whilst swilling Guinness (godawful stuff) and listening to two bowler-hat clad dandys regale us with a scene from Waiting for Godot and tales of Oscar Wilde's wild night out with a crusty gang of silver miners from Denver. Naturally, we were the babies of the group (everybody else was either old, Canadian, or both); but a good time...perhaps too good of a time...was had none the less. We topped off the night with a self-guided tour of Temple Bar.

The following morning, we made the six-hour journey to Dingle Town, a blustery little fishing/former potato farming village tucked cozily away on the tip of the island's westernmost peninsula, known affectionately by our Dubliner cabbie (and most of the country) as Old Ireland. Or, better yet...Olde Ireland. There, we expected to find Gaelic, sunshine and dolphins. Seriously. Dolphins.

Naturally, we found English, bitter cold, buckets of rain and terribly violent winds. Though we'd planned on seeing the stunning coast from atop two rented bicycles, we instead saw it from behing the fogged-up (and slightly cracked) window of a hired van (which means we got very wet). On the upside, we did visit a lovely old Romanesque church where I gained eternal life by squeezing through a very narrow aperture called "The Eye of the Needle." And, after a nip of afternoon tea (and cake) in a cozy little B&B and a self-guided tour of the town's merriest pubs, our spirits were lifted considerably...that is, until we made the mistake of commiserating with a plasterer from Dublin and his Finnish girlfriend, who were both very sad and very drunk. After much talk of unemployment and nuclear proliferation, we decided to call it a night.

Luckily, the sun came out the following morning, and we got to take our much awaited (and much belated) cycling excursion to the dramatically picturesque Slea Head. There's no use in attempting to describe it...but hey. That's what cameras are for.

That same day, we returned to Dublin. On our bus ride from Dingle Town to the train station in Tralee, we spotted a diminuitive Gaelic-speaking person with a wool cap and a stubbly red beard, i.e., a leprechaun. And on the train ride from Tralee to Dublin, we shared our berth with a schizophrenic American expat living in Cork who was tenaciously engaged in lecturing a simple-minded ex-serviceman named Patrick on the proper way to write Nationalistic verse. It was a long ride.

On Sunday the 2nd, we left the Emerald Isle for England. Upon returning to London, we made a beeline for the Texas Embassy near Trafalgar Square, and sought amnesty from the Continent's cuisine in a basket of chips, a heaping bowl of queso, and two margaritas. Katie was delighted to discover a Baylor flag (sic 'em) and half of Waco's names scribbled on an upstairs wall.

From there, we went to Oxford, where we were warmly received by the Rosenbaums, who are generously allowing us a room in their flat. Monday consisted of Harry Potter and slow-motion shopping. That evening, we dined with the 'Baylor in Oxford' group in the great hall at Christ Church and, after zipping through the private gardens that inspired Alice in Wonderland and watching a gang of gray-bearded cheese-heads with jingle-bells tied 'round their ankles prance around to a traditional English air, we accompanied some of our new friends to a local pub.

On Tuesday, we had another go at London, only to end up defeated and sorely deflated. We attempted to catch the changing of the royal guard at eleven, but our plans were thwarted by "a person under the [Victoria Line] train" (translation: the public transit authorities were in the act of peeling somebody off of the tracks, and so we missed our train...the British do know how to be delicate). From there, we moved on to Madame Tussaud's wax museum, only to find a five-hour wait. Our attempt to circumvent the queue by ordering and printing our tickets online fell flat; but, feeling quite clever, we went ahead and got our advance tickets for the Tower of London. Of course, there were no ticket lines at the Tower of London, but rather, only one, massively long line (the wait must've been four hours) to see the Crown Jewels. Rather than queuing up, we made our way up to Brick Lane for some fine Indian Food, which soothed our souls but hurt our hearts. The evening did, however, end on a rather good note; on our way to see Oliver! in the West End, we happened by the red carpet premier of "The Ugly Truth"...and so, Katie got to snap a few photos of Katherine Heigl's back.

Today, after a nasty confrontation with a salesman at a local music store, we (or, to be fair, I) calmed our(/my) nerves by taking a walk along the nature route that inspired C. S. Lewis to become a Christian and strolled along the Thames, where incorriagably cheerful Britons, with their crooked smiles and their river boats and their fists crammed with bread crumbs for the geese, helped restore my faith in humanity.

Well, that about does it...tomorrow, we'll (hopefully) board a plane bound for Houston. I suppose some closing remarks are in order, but, to be frank, I'm mentally kaput.

...so...

...until next time...

S. & K.

Sorry 'bout that. We got timed out.

To finish the exciting little bit about the cab ride in Rome...

...after backing over the curb and up onto the sidewalk, he defied the protestations of the caribinieri and made a sharp left, squeezing in between a deluge of opposing traffic and the broken tram car. God, it was scary.

Off to London...when we return...Dublin, and Dingle Town. Bye for now!

Top o' the mornin' to yeh.

It's been some time since our last post, and there are reasons for this...the foremost bein' the fact that we missed our flight from Rome to Dublin Intcont'l, which was scheduled to depart from the outdated, outmoded, and altogether dinosauric Ciampino airport at 10:50 on Tuesday morning. This, of course, delt a crushing blow to our morale, which, at that point, was already sinking beneath the eternal city's myriad abuses of our trust.

And I'm not out to make excuses for us, 'cause it's our own fault that we missed the flight. Having grown quite accustomed to breakfast on the terrace at Ganymedes's Palace, we decided we'd eat before boarding the commuter bus to Termini Station, from whence we planned on taking another bus to the actual airport. Yes, we had a plan; but the plan ran aground.

First off, Alessandro was a bit late laying out the spread; then, the first bus took forever to get to the station; and then, the layout of the station itself confused us to no end, so we ended up walking about aimlessly for about twenty minutes before freaking out and grabbing a cab.

The wrong cab.

This cabbie was a maniac. True...the cliche says that cabbies are agressive drivers. But this guy...this guy...this guy attempted to manouvre past the caribineri attending to a stalled out street-tram by weaving through a torrent of opposing traffic, putting the cab in reverse, cutting the wheel sharp and to the right, hopping the curb...

How we made it there alive I'll never know. But we did...and after discovering that we'd missed our flight, sulking for a good twenty minutes, bucking up and reserving seats on another plane going out the next day, and taking yet another bus back into the city, we decided to drown our undeserved sorrows in soda pop and golden-brown batter at the local Hard Rock (yes, the Hard Rock still sucks).

But enough of that. The Emerald Isle, for what it's worth, has more than met our expectations (which, I might add, were mighty high). Naturally, upon our arrival in Dublin, we set out in the general direction of our hostel with confidence only to end up lost and confused. But everybody...and I mean just about everybody...went well our of his/her way to set us on the right track. On our first bus, we met the Irish equivalent of our dear old Uncle Bob, who cackled, quoted Shakespeare, and showed us to our stop; the driver of our second bus pulled over upon realizing we'd gotten off at the wrong place and yanked us back aboard; we even got a free ride from an unusually magnanimous cabbie.

Out of time, to be continued!

Buona sera!

Bedtime at last. It has been a long, long day. It seems we've finally hit our wall. No, no...that's a bit of an understatement...

Ahem. We're all but dead. But we keep moving...and luckily, tomorrow's travels will take us to Ireland, that emerald-green corner of the English (with emphasis on the English) speaking world. Oh, to speak English and actually be understood. 'Tis a beautiful thing.

But...rather than talk about today (or tomorrow, for that matter), we'd be better off starting somewhere 'round Friday, right? Right! Okay. Here we go...

Friday. First off, we dropped in on Michelangelo's David at the Accademia. He's a piece of work, that David; Katie and I were both thoroughly impressed to think that something like that (that being David) could come from a formless gormless hunk of marble. The exhibit, which juxtaposed some of Michelangelo's earlier, unfinished works with photographs taken by New Yorker Robert Mapplethorpe (the guy who did Patti Smith's stuff), did a good job of bridging the gap b/w the temporally remote aesthetic ideals of Renaissance men and our more modern idea of art. In a nutshell, it was neato, and if you haven't seen it, you should. There. Done geeking out.

But speaking of geeking out, that is precisely what I did (and I do it well) after Katie and I viewed some photography by our friend Kendall Hook (which was on display in a Florentine restaurant...cool, huh?) and grabbed lunch at a delicious little panini place called the Oil Shoppe. Katie was wise enough to return to the room and nurse her aching self. I, however, pressed on to the Palazzio Strozzi to visit an exhibit entitled "Galileo: Visions of the Universe from Antiquity to the Telescope." 'Nuff said. Yes, they did have one of Galileo's fingers...and from what I can tell, he did not trim his nails. Not once.

Later that evening, after watching the sun set on Florence from Piazzale Michelangelo, Katie and I ate a very good meal at a place called Acqua al Due. Should you ever go, get the steak cooked in the weird blueberry-based sauce. To die for.

And that was it for sweet, little Florence...from there, it was on to big, bad, sketchy Rome. Oh, yeah.

On Saturday morning, we took the train to Roma Termini and went from there to our hostel, the aptly named Alice in Wonderland (yes, it's a weird name). Actually, we never got a chance to find out whether or not the place was, in fact, aptly named...when we got there, we were informed by the propietor (to our wonderment) that a pipe had busted in one of the walls of our room and that the whole joint was six feet deep in the drink. And so, after accompanying him on a cab ride through the bristling Roman 'burbs (literally bristling...there are antennas everywhere), we arrived thoroughly confused at our current place of residence, Ganymedes's Palace. That's right...palace.

And it certainly is nothing if not palatial, with a squeaky-clean yet cozy white interior highly reminiscent of my Grandma Jo's apartment and the scent of silk and pure Kashmiri bath salt hanging in the air. The place is run by Alex and Tom (a.k.a. Alessandro and Tomas), two scruffy yet sweet sophisticats who give a breakfast on the terrace every morning and who look (and act) as though they've taken more than a few cues from The Birdcage (Tom, at least, is the spitting image of Hank Azaria's character; he even does the cleaning...barefoot).

So, firmly suspecting this our latest digs to be a popular Roman getaway for gay couples (and a good one, at that), we boarded the rattling bus and hit the town. And as soon as we hopped off at Piazza Venezia (Tomb of the Unknown Soldier), a graybeard dressed as a Roman centurion grabbed Katie by the hair and thrust a plastic sword at her jugular. Rather than beat him off, I took a picture; and as my reward, I got the same treatment (except two of them grabbed my hair...it kinda hurt). But what hurt the most was when these ruffians charged us five euro...each...for the photos. Et tu, Roman street entertainers.

Yes, the eternal city is oh-so sketchy. We've come to find what a 'Roman Holiday' really means...it means to visit the city in late July, only to find that all the Romans are on holiday, i.e. gone. Gone to parts unknown for a multitude of reasons (the economy, the heat, the Germanic tribesmen...nobody really knows), many of the merchants and shop-owners and restauranters have closed their doors for a coupla weekends, leaving us to munch on pizza covered in sprouts and tuna pasta (y'know...the stuff from under the heating lamps). Oh, and the pope did not make his scheduled appearance at the Vatican on Sunday; rather, he was off in the mountains somewhere, taking some air or skiing or who knows what. Needless to say, we were a tad bit bummed...but nearly so bummed as the Irish couple who stood waiting beneath his balcony for a solid thirty minutes before finally losing hope.

However, despite these minor annoyances, Rome is still Rome. We toured the Colosseum, the Palatine Hill, and the old Roman Forum...we visited the Vatican, both St. Peter's Basilica and the fantastic museums (this, admittedly, took us a couple of tries...we did the Basilica on Sunday, only to find the museums closed...doh). And today, we did the rest of the biggies: Trevi Fountain (the water looked inviting, but we resisted the urge to take a dip, fearing the karate moves of the Valentino-dudded caribinieri), Trajan's Column (it's really quite tall), the Pantheon (loved it), the real Piazza Navona (no, not my apartment building in Austin...yeah, it's called Piazza Navona...so lame), and the Spanish Steps (for the life of me, I can't tell why they're so famous). We even saw Pinocchio. He was sitting all alone on a bench, looking quiet hot and unhappy...much like most every other tourist in Rome.

Tonight, we attempted to conclude our sojourn in Rome in the wacky medieval neignborhood of Trastevre, with a meal at this super shady restaurant called Two Fat Guys (more like a private residence, really...as far as I know, it's not even registered with the city). We read about it in a NY Times article and even found the place (a kitchen, a few plastic tables, a string of paper lanterns...not especially conspicuous), only to get turned away at the door by a pot-bellied, twinkly-eyed man with bristling mustachios. Ouch. However, our spirits were again lifted when we managed to stumble upon another, similarly thoroughly local spot, where the beaming wait-staff/proprietors spoke not a lick of English yet served us heaping plates of noodles and pot roast with gusto and where we received a lesson in how to really eat pasta (the Italian way) from a coupla grandparents sitting directly to our left.

Thus, we ended our time in Italia with full hearts and full -- perhaps fuller -- bellies. Rome, though wack, will be missed.

And tomorrow...Ireland!

Bye for now.

All the best,

S. & K.

Hello, all...time for an update!

Here's a shocker: for once, we actually have free, fast internet (and cable tv)...in...our...room. In our room! No, ladies and gentlemen, this is not some fancy-schmancy resort hotel up in the wine-drenched tuscan hills -- this is a hostel. Luna Rossa Rooms, to be exact, but a hostel all the same. Should you ever wish to come to Florence on a relatively tight budget, book this place on hostelworld.com. Young, entrepreneurial Marco will fix you up.

Speaking of Marco...it seems that one fourth of Italy's population is christened Marco. Our other Marco, the nephew of the proprietess of our hostel in (s)easy-breezy little Vernazza (our temporary "hometown" in the Cinque Terre), gave us a surprise when we told him that we were ready to pay and, rather than taking our money, he cheerily handed us a corkscrew. No, this was not an anachronistic outpouring of old-world, family-style hospitality...this was babel, a complete and utter failure to communicate, on both our part and theirs. We got it all sorted out in the end...but only after a frenzied game of charades and big smiles. That was Monday, I believe...

Really, it's like they didn't expect us to pay. Of course, it wasn't really like that, but such is the fairytale magic of the Cinque Terre...the panoramas are so spectacular, the aqua-blue water so clear, the food so good (and relatively cheap, to boot), it all seems utterly unreal (Katie, for one, must've called the place unreal north of a hundred times...yes, she took lots of photos). We had a fairly typical visit: on the first day (Monday), we hiked in between the first four towns and ate dinner in the third; later that night, we hung around Vernazza, seeing as the town was celebrating some sort of religious hoiday...the chitlins were sack-racin', the grown-ups were preparing a fireworks show, the toothless old ladies were wending their way through the town's one street in the wake of a friar bearing a big, crucified Christ statue...in a nutshell, it was quite a sight. On the second day (that being Tueseday), we hauled our big, lumpy backpacks to the beach turtle-stylee for a good half-day of sand and pebbles and sun. Unfortunately, that was all the time we had for the Cinque Terre; and so, our bodies all caked with sea salt, we barely caught our first train, sorta missed our second, and, by some divine will other than our own, we managed to catch one, final train heading to Pisa Centrale to La Spezia (not our train, mind you...just a train).

At this point, we were feeling invincible...heck, we were feeling spontaneous! So we decided to abort our plan to head straight to Florence and instead hopped off at Pisa to take dozens of cheesy leaning tower pictures in the company of dozens and dozens of equally obnoxious tourists, who, like us, were hell-bent on perfecting their own cheesy, leaning tower pictures.* At Pisa, you musn't photograph just the tower...you must photograph everybody photographing the tower as well (it took me awhile to convince Katie of this simple truth, but, with time, she came around). Fittingly, we finished our photo shoot with cheap pizza and coca-cola.

Later that evening, we arrived in Florence, birthplace of the Renaissance, aka birthplace of the rebirth place (Katie insists that this is not funny...she's probably right). On Wednesday morning, I got an early start and made my way to the U.S. Consulate, where a small African-Italian child attempted to break my left ankle. Luckily for me, he failed. After about an hour of inane paperwork, I got my emergency passport, which, sadly, looks quite fake (I'd just rather not get beat up at the airport...you understand).

Afterwards, Katie and I rendezvoused at the famous San Lorenzo market, where we slammed down a couple of cappucinos before putting our poor, aching feet through hell at the Uffizi Galleries and Ponte Vecchio, oldest bridge in Europe. Later that afternoon, rather than giving it a rest, we opted to climb all 436 steps to the top of Il Duomo (oof), atop which we were rewarded with a great view.

Today, we spent the morning taking a walking tour of the city, where, as usual, we felt very uncool mingling among impeccably dressed Europeans. Our nice yet rather distracted tour guide was careful to inform us that even the Florentine caribinieri (local police) all wear uniforms specially designed by Valentino. Go figure.

This afternoon, we took a train to the antique Tuscan town of Lucca and rode bikes atop the city's ancient walls. After returning to Florence, we ate (more) Italian food (it never really gets old, y'know) and drank big, towering fruity cocktails at a place called Art Bar (special thanks to Paige and Julia for the reccommendation).

Tomorrow, we've got another full day in Florence; and on Saturday, we head to Rome!

Whew. Okay. I think that's all for now. So until next time...

Ariba derci!

Kampermans

*Note: there are trains constantly running b/w Pisa and Florence...I don't wanna leave y'all w/ the impression that we were actually all cool and spontaneous, 'cause we weren't, and we're not. Ciao!

Buon Giorgno, from Italy's Cinque Terre!

Finally, a fully functional keyboard! Seeing as I now have no excuse, I'll do everything in my power to make this entry easy on the eyes.

Italy, for one, is nothing if not easy on the eyes. Katie observes that it is impossible to take a bad picture in this country; as such, she manages to take about three or four photos every minute. And so, we move like snails, but hey...come August 6th, we're gonna have one super stop animation film to show you guys.

But backing up...

When we last left off, it was Wednesday night...Katie and I, having fully acclimated ourselves to the Spanish pace of life, were in Barcelona, munching on heaping (free) plates of peas and jasmine rice and wandering through the moonlit Las Ramblas del Mar w/ a group of our fellow hostelers. On Thursday morning, we bought trays of fresh fruit at a huge streetside mercado and dragged our smarting, sunburnt selves up several flights of stairs to Gaudi's wacky Parc Guell, home of one of a kaleidoscopic array of colored tile and one of the world's longest benches. After freshening up a bit, we proceeded to wander through the labyrinthine Gothic Quarter for a long, long time in search of the Holy Grail of Spanish department stores, El Corte Ingles, where we'd be sure to find the object of our questing -- Aunt Jen's paella pan. Find it we did...but only after visiting the wrong Corte Ingles. Turns out there's loads of 'em...a fact we should've inferred from the metro walls, where, day in and day out, we beheld miles and miles of sheer square yardage devoted to naught but the store's very own poster boy, a sterotypically Latin cheeser w/ killer dimples, bleached teeth, and a mane of flowing, blowing hair. Doh.

Later that night, we attended a "cooking class," which was light on the cooking and heavy on the sangria-making (and drinking...but you probably guessed that much). We did, however, pay next to nothing for the chance to learn how to make a very tasty paella from a very sassy chef and meet a lot of very fun Aussie/Kiwi lasses (Kiwi means New Zealander, something I learned only after asking them whether or not they flew out of Kiwi. Again, doh).

Speaking of paella, the second part of our mission-- the part in which we had the thing shipped back to the states -- began in earnest on the following morning, Fri. the 17th. After saying goodbye to Mambo Tango (I, for one, was sad to go), we commenced to haul our 10 kilo backpacks through the sweaty streets of Barcelona for north of an hour, looking (and asking...in bad Spanish) for a post office, or oficina de correos. After checking into another hostel, we found one at last...and, after taking our numero and waiting patiently (and optimisically!) for a good while, we were told by the bubbly cashier that we'd need a box. And no, heavens no...they do not sell boxes at las oficinas de correos in Barcelona. We'd have to get our box at a box store...a tienda de las caixes, if you will.

And that is what we did. We found the box store and descended the stairs to the basement, where we took another numero and watched as the box guy measured a stroller (sans baby) for a good fifteen minutes. After another fifteen minutes of deeply serious conversation w/ the owners of the stroller, he smiled, handed them our box, and turned to us. Needless to say, we were there for a long time...but, in Spain's defense, everybody is very friendly, even if everything happens manyana. After finally leaving the box store (we had to package the thing ourselves) we returned to the post office and finally had it shipped. Special thanks must be given to our friend and fellow Mambo Tango-er Melanie, who stood shoulder to shoulder w/ us through the whole ordeal. I, for one, am happy to have done my part in bringing good paella to future Kamperman family cookouts.

After the post office, we hit the beach, which was very public. I'd close my eyes to listen to the waves lap against the shore to hear nothing but the voices of solicitors (the Indian men sell beverages, the African men sell purses, the Chinese women attempt to rub your feet...it's a very exact system...no Texans, yet). Regardless, much fun and sun was had. Later that night, Katie and I did more tapas and watched the magic fountain show, which, as far as I know, isn't magic...but it sure ain't far off.

On Saturday morning, we did our laundry before leaving Barcelona for Girona Airport, where we ate more McDonald's and caught our flight to Venice. Venice, Venice...decadent, cheesy Venice, an antique city of winding canals full of water taxis and decadent, cheesy Italinan men. Still...Venice, in spite of it all, is very beautiful, and we had a good meal (pasta and seafood...quite a combo). What's more, we happened to catch Venice on a very good weekend, that of the Redentore festival...as such, we got to see some pretty amazing fireworks explode over Piazza San Marco.

After only one night in Venice, we hopped back on the train and chugged toward Cinque Terre on the Italina Riviera, a string of five little fishing towns connected by a rocky sea wall and lush, green terraces where they grow just about anything and everything you could possibly imagine. Even the view from the train window was spectacular. On the platform at Vernazza (our own, little "hometown"), we got thoroughly bamboozled when a short, curly-headed Italian woman looked me dead in the eye and called me "Shon." In a flash, this lady referred us to a friend of hers standing off aways before leaping aboard the hissing train and disappearing for good. Her friend, Eggie (sounded like Reggie, but without the 'R') proceeded to cheerily lead us to her sister Ana's house. Ana, however was not available, so her teenage son Marco had to descend several flights of steps to whisk us away to our room, where we must've stood for a quarter of an hour trying to unlock the intricately locked door(s). It was a funny family affair...one that made the subsequent disappearance of my passport much more tolerable.

Which brings us to today, a day full of stunning panoramics and delicious pasta. But unfortunately, since I'm technically off the grid (it's like I don't exist!) I'll have to let Katie do all the lawbreaking. That's all for now...thanks again, and until next time.

Ciao!

K/S

Oof. Hello, all! This ought to make for an interesting entry, typograpically speaking...the keyboard I'm using appears to be lacking its enter keys, semicolons, hyphens, etc...so we'll have to make do with elipses. Lots and lots of elipses. That, however, is the only complaint I can levy against our current digs, Mambo Tango Youth Hostel in Barcelona, Catalonia...the ingeneously pierced staffers here are all into community...they play reggae at all hours, hang Canadian flags from the banisters, and talk openly about vibes. What's more, they both organize mixers and observe rules, respect being the foremost...so it's possible to both socialize and sleep (not all at once, of course...but you get my meaning). Just last night, we were referred to a very local tapas bar where we munched on creepy little squids, bug eyed prawns and (of course) heaps of sliced ham in the company of a Canuk, two Aussies (brothers, in fact), a couple of enamored expats working for NATO in Belgium, and a Brazilian journalist. Eclectic, no? BUT...before I give y'all the dish on Barcelona, I'd better talk about Pamplona and the Running of the Bulls. 'Twas loads of fun. Loads. Every man, woman and child was sporting spiffy white pants and red kerchiefs and making a pass by the town's cathedral to honor the town's patron saint, San Fermin. So, after dudin' up accordingly, we joined some friends from the train and hit the old town, where we stayed up late into the night...not nearly so late, however, as many of the local youth, who were already sitting atop the barrier when we got there at seven the following morning to watch the encierro. We tried to catch a glimpse of the action by peering out from in between the slats, but ultimately, saw nothing (I did hear the tinkling of a cowbell as the steers rushed by). Afterwards, we squeezed into the packed arena to watch a horde of drunken buffoons go toe to toe a with an angry, young bull. Much to the crowd's approabation, the bull won...after bucking four or five contenders, he was escorted out of the ring by the mounted picadores and a big ox. We didn't stick around for the bullfight...seeing as we had a train to catch, we spent much of the day seeking shelter from the sun, which was bearing down quite hard and hot, exacerbating countless hangovers. Around six o'clock, we boarded the train to Barcelona...most everybody aboard, us included, still wore his/her kerchief in a futile attempt to hang onto that one, precious little piece of the fiesta for just a little while longer. 'Course, our train was delayed...we were well on our way when, all of a sudden, the damn thing grinded to a halt and, inexplicably, started moving backwards, toward Pamplona. Oddly enough, nobody aboard the train seemed to be too happy about it...go figure. But anyway...after checking into Mambo Tango quite late, we hit the hay and slept soundly, in spite of the positively equatorial humidity. The following day (Tuesday, I believe), we ambled up and down Las Ramblas (fresh fruit, fresh cut flowers...a market of the senses, no doubt), popped into the city's centuries old Gothic Cathedral, and took a tour of Antoni Gaudi's Sagrada Familia (well worth the price admission). Today, we did Fat Tire's bike tour of the city, which took us from the former residence of Ferdinand and Isabella to the beach and the wine dark Mediterranean. Whew...well, I think that about covers it. Tonight, we plan on enjoying a much appreciated free meal here at Mambo Tango...here's hoping whatever we eat doesn't eat us (or look at us, for that matter). Hasta luego!

¡Hola!

Okay...since our last attempt to update was thwarted by an expired timer, I'll try to be brief...or breve, as they say here in España. Ha...

Anyway...Madrid, i.e. MadTown (extra appellation courtesy of Dr. Linda), was totally mad. We indulged in a couple of afternoon siestas and did our best to synchronize our biological clocks w/ the Spaniards', but it's no use -- these people can subsist on no sleep whatsoever, I'm convinced of it. They're especially good at savoring/sucking on life's simple pleasures...unlike (many of) us Americans, they know how to pace themselves. Which isn't to say they're espeically efficient...but hey. You can't have your postre and eat it, too.

The cuisine leaves something to be desired. My first meal in Spain consisted of three pieces of toast, a slice of lunch meat, onions, hard-boiled eggs, and half a jar of mayonaise. ¡Que delicioso! Tapas (deep, deep, deep fried bar foods) are generally good, but oh-so greasy, and paella is...well, paella.

Still, the food is cheap, as is the sangria...and the shopping is out of this world. Such sales, such rebatas! Such is the stuff of deflationary depressions. The sites were generally good; Spain's royal palace, official residence of Rey Juan Carlos y Reina Sofia (whose name, by the way, is attached to the very cool modern art museum that houses Picasso's Guernica) is in many ways more impressive than Versailles. On Friday, we journeyed up into the nearby Guadarrama Mountains to visit Franco's chilling, TimBurton-esque basilica, the Valley of the Fallen, and the 16th century royal monastery that inspired it, Philip II's El Escorial. Yesterday, we met up w/ the Baylor in Denia group for paella and a foot-aching, philistine romp through the Prado. It was so good seeing our friends, but we're both more than ready for a respite from beautiful art.

At night, we sipped sangria at tables lining the arcades of Plaza Mayor, did some first-rate people watching, and failed (on multiple occasions) to find this one club. ¡Que lastima!

The hostels were very good. At MuchoMadrid, we chatted it up in the breakfast room w/ some Aussies who showed us video footage of some poor, young mozo getting his skull cracked by an angry bull in the streets of Pamplona...

...and that is where we are headed next. Heh. But never fear...neither I nor Katie intend on running. Katie has tripped over her own feet one too many times on this trip, and I...I've got my great uncle's build, and at the ripe old age of twenty. Much love, Uncle Bob...much love, all. We've got a train to catch. Until next time!

Salud,

S. & K.

Buenos Dias!

Oof. España at last. Katie would like you all to know that she is glad to be back.

Somehow, we managed to catch our 7 a.m. flight from CDG Airport in Paris to Madrid (we did wake up 3:50 in the morning). And so here we are, on the 7th floor/flat of 59 Gran Via making good use of some much appreciated free internet.

After finally escaping from Bayeux, Katie and I, despite having neither bathed nor changed clothes in a solid 24+ hours, soldiered on to Musee dÓrsay to ogle beautiful French Impressionist paintings about which we knew next to nothing. Well worth a visit, though...so long as you do your homework and make sure your camera is charged (ours wasn't -- it died with our pride somewhere in Bayeux). From there, we topped off the day with dinner in Montmarte and a hike to the lover-strewn steps of Sacre Couer, where we admired the mind-blowing panorama while eating ice cream and listening to the French massacre "Billie Jean" (they do try, and more often than not they succeed).

Monday was a day for which our feet will never forgive us. We processed through the ambulatory at Notre Dame (Katie does a superb Quasimodo impression), took in the soaring stained-glass at Saint-Chappelle, and got utterly lost in the labrynthine Cimitiere du Pere Lachaise, where I laid some sugar on Oscar Wilde's tomb (trust me, it's the thing to do...I've got the facial herpes to prove it). Then, after wandering through the Latin Quarter, we tried our very hardest to look posh sipping beverages on the terrace of Les Deux Magots, one of the Lost Generation's favorite cafes. Katie, however, spilled her coffee and spent the better part of an hour daubing at her dress with a Tide-2-Go pen -- much to the waiter's amusement (in his defense, he took a very good photo). Finally, after arriving at the justly famous Rue Cler market two minutes too late, we settled for cheese, chocolate, and a bottle of cheap wine from a nearby grocery store and ended up on the banks of the Seine, where we were mistaken for locals by severely confused river-boating tourists and ordered to "Chug it! Chug it! Chug it!" by none other than...the police.

On Tuesday, we and about fourteen thousand other tourists descended on Versailles like a gaggle of geese on a junebug. The interior of the palace was (IMHO) a bit much, but the gardens were well worth the price of admission.

Before entering the grounds, we dined at a nearby McDonald's packed with pretty, smiling French people doting on their pretty French babies and speaking that pretty, French language of theirs. It's strange (and not a little bit sad, considering how well we were treated in Paris) to think that, at the end of the day, Hewitt Drive conquers the world...

Indeed she does. Until next time...hasta luego.

S & K

Bonjour!

Salutation, from Bayeux, Normandy, one-time home of William the Bastard (i.e., the Conqueror). It's a tiny medieval town highly reminiscent of that opening scene from Beauty and the Beast. What's more, it's positively bursting with historical significance; Bayeux was the first town to be liberated from the Nazis by the Allied forces that landed on the beaches of Normandy on June 6th, 1944 (Katie, being the history major she is, had to remind of the date). It emerged from two world wars virtually unscathed. As I type this, I can hear cathedral bells pealing in the background.

Katie and I caught the Eurostar from London to Paris last Thursday the 2nd. As you've probably surmised, we barely made it. Our hostel, the Montclair Montarte, is situated in the 18th arrondissiment (district) of the city, just a short, steep climb away from the steps of Sacre Couer, highest point in France. Largely populated by Slovenians and histrionic, west-coast Americans, it's charming nonetheless.

After getting roughly four hours of sleep (between the two of us, mind you), we woke up relatively early on the 3rd, hopped aboard the metro, and hit the Louvre, where we ogled such masterpieces as Venus de Milo, Winged Victory of Samothrace, Delacriox's Liberty Leading the People (the one from the cover of the latest Coldplay album), and (of course) the Mona Lisa. I attempted the smile, and got nothing but an embarassing photo to show for it.

Later that evening, we took a bike tour of the city. The Tour de France it was not; I laid waste to most of the city's traffic cones and incurred the wrath of many a Parisian motorist. We chased the sunset all the way to the Seine, where we hopped aboard a riverboat and made the mistake of not refusing the tour guide's offer to wine (we had to get back on the bikes afterward...you do the math). Still, we made some friends and got a truly capital view of much of the city's superfluous (yet stunning) statuary. Later that night, we watched the Eiffel Tower sparkle.

Then, on the morning of the 4th, we decided to celebrate that precious, Franco-American ideal liberté by visiting the D-Day museum here in Bayeux. Unfortunately, in an ill-starred attempt at spontanaity, we neglected to buy our return tickets to Gai Paris and, after looking at a 70m long tapestry, munching on croissants, and banging the tambril with the denizens of Bayeux, we returned to the little train station to find it...closed.

But hey, despite the dirty clothes and puffy faces, getting stranded in a town that looks like a Van Gogh painting ain't so bad. Speaking of which, we are off to Musee d'Orsay. Thanks again...au revoir!

-- S & K

Hallo!

Here we are in Londontown, sitting in the lobby of the Royal Bayswater Hostel on Bayswater Rd., looking out onto leafy-green Hyde Park. Having just spent two and half hours on the top deck of a big, red bus, we figured now would be a good time to enjoy some AC and bring you up to speed...

On the way to Houston, the Kamperman family paid a lovely little tribute to the late, great King of Pop; we sang all the hits and every one of your old favorites, a capella, sans accompaniment.
And so, ears ringing and hair standing on end, Katie and I boarded flight BA 106 for Heathrow Airport, London, UK, where our still-tender ears were soothed by the sound of many, many British accents. The flight itself was very smooth and rather uneventful, other than the fact that our tickets got upgraded from coach to business class. Katie in particular was thrilled by the coat hooks, night masks, and a little English boy named Benny sitting directly to her left (who, incidentally, stole her blanket and gave her a good mid-flight ribbing in a fatigue-induced fit of passion).

Upon arrival in London, we took the Heathrow Express to Paddington Station, and from there we strolled through the sun-drenchedstreets towards our hostel, Smart Hyde Park View. This place was smallish; the lobby was full of facial hair and Polish schoolchildren, and the room (which was, of course, in the basement) was perhaps a cupboard in another life. Charming, none the less!

After checking in, we rode the tubes to Wimbledon, where we bought GA tickets and sat on Henman Hill w/ the local yuppies to watch our fellow American Andy Roddick squeak past Aussie Lletyon Hewitt after five total sets. Whew!

From there, we trotted over to Westminster to see the soaring, faux-Gothic facade of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament up close. After munching on some traditional English fare (steak and kidney pie...mmm) in a cozy, wood-panelled dining room, we crossed the bridge and hopped on the London Eye to see the sun set over the sky line. Finally, after snapping a few more photos, we headed home to cozy up w/ four strangers (albeit friendly ones) in an 8'x8' space that couldn't have been intended to lodge anything more than cleaning supplies.

And so here we are, getting ready to pass through the deep dark of the Chunnel into the City of Lights. London was great, and we WILL be back. Until next time!

Cheers,

Sean and Katie

Hello, world! Here begins the account of our journey to eight* great European destinations...

Tomorrow's the day! We're set to depart from Houston Int'l Airport at 7.55 p.m, and we're due to land in London some time around 11.00 a.m. on the 1st. There's so much to do, and have we done it all? 'Course not. But hey...sometimes you've just got to know when to go.

Naturally, we've hit our fair share of pre-trip snags. I went to the trouble of ordering us two International Student ID Cards for the sake of getting a discount on our railpasses; yet predictably, I forgot to order the railpasses themselves. Looks like it's gonna be p2p (that's point-to-point) for us! And Katie, in an effort to edit the details of our stay at the duly popular St. Christopher's Inn (i.e., hostel) in Paris, actually cancelled the entire reservation.

So in other words, we are about as ready as we'll ever be. After all, if we were any more ready, it wouldn't be a bona fide European adventure, now would it?

No. It most certainly wouldn't.

Until next time!

-- Sean

*Katie would like to inform you all that we are technically traveling to a total of five countries and seventeen cities (give or take a few). I insisted on sticking with the number eight for no reason other than my utter inability to come up with a title that didn't include some lame reference to a current pop culture phenom, and she'd like you to know that. That is all.