8. Open Topic

Place de la ConcordeHow many times do you have to walk by a place before it becomes a part of you? Before you begin to own it? I’ve started running along the Seine by my house, and very quickly each of the iconic monuments began to take a new shape as they became more and more familiar. I start out on the Pont Bir Hakeim (described in detail in a previous post), run past the Eiffel Tower, dodging tourists and traffic, and as I continue I cross the invalids with it’s long avenue of trees, and the Pont Alexandre with its four gleaming gold statues, next comes the Assemblée Nationale, and then the crowning glory of my half-way point, the Pont de la Concorde with the view of the golden tip of the Obelisk of Louxor, the Jardin de Tuileries, the Eglise de la Madeleine, and behind, the white domes of Sacre Coeur. The way home takes me past the Petit and Grand palais, remnants from one of the Universal Exhibitions, the gold statue of a torch above the tunnel where Princess Diana was killed, the Palais de Tokyo with its accompaniment of punk skateboarders, and finally the sloping lawns of Trocadero let me know that it’s time to start the final spring home. Each one of these places began as a recognizable landmark, seen on various touristing expeditions or on long walks through the city, but as I began to pass them several times a week, they were transformed by familiarity. Certain aspects became dulled, their shapes become less and less important, and I begin to only notice the parts that are important to me. The glimmering top of the Pont Alexandre, the height of the Eiffel Tower over all the other buildings as a mark as how far I’ve come. But most of all, each place accumulates the thoughts and feelings that go along with that part of the run. The Eiffel Tower is at once the pure joy of beginning ot run, the distraction of other pedestrians, and te promise of relief at the end. The Pont Alexandre is a burst of encouragement—I’m almost half-way there. And the Concorde, the immense plaza, the two fountains, the columned arcade, the greenery of Tuileries, is a welcomed sigh of relief, a smile, and a quickened pace as I turn around towards home. This is why it was so important to me to spend so much time in Paris instead of traveling, because you learn to see things in a different way when they belong to you, when they are part of a routine, than when you only see them just to see them. I wanted to know Paris as home, not as a destination. I wanted to see it through the dim darkness of a native, occasionally illuminated by a brilliant spotlight to show you the beauty of the place where you live, that you too often forget for the worries of daily life.

The aliens are coming!I consider myself to be a generally paranoid person. I worry about germs, am generously cautious and wary of strangers. I'm that person that, if they find a bruise on their body, would spend hours anxiously googling symptoms of really random diseases. However I never attributed my paranoia to me being American until I traveled to South America. Seemingly everyone in the study abroad program, upon arrival to Buenos Aires was beginning to get sick. I made a joke (only not really) about not wanting one of my classmates to sit next to me out fear that I could possibly get sick as well and my professor turned to me with a very perplexed look on his face. He asked me if I really thought I would get sick from just sitting next to someone who's sick. I told him yes, I really do. He laughed and said "You Americans are just so paranoid." He went on to quiz me about what other ways I believe I would get sick if in contact with a sick person. When I mentioned that if I share a drink and/or kiss someone who's sick, I will in fact get sick, he laughed and told me that "you guys have problems."

This wasn't the only time that my own paranoia has been attributed to being American. He said, that we're quick to think the worst, before thinking the best. While traveling Brasil I was doing a tour with madmadmad and one of our friends, when the guide came behind me and touched me on my back as a way to gesture hello. I'm not exactly sure whether or not I clammed up or if I shook his hand of my shoulder, but he walked a little bit a head of me, turned around and asked me where I was from. When I told him I was American he responded that in Brasil, everyone can tell an American by the way they react if they're touched. I'm not exactly sure why I dwelled so much on what he said and why it truly bothered me, but I began to wonder if my behavior towards strangers (and foreign strangers, if that makes any sense without sounding overwhelmingly ignorant) was hindering me from making any kind of relationship of value with other people. I don't know why, but it's almost as if I've become overly cautious since coming to Argentina, which I might divulge into a little more in my following post. There were two distinct instances in Brasil where my paranoia would get the best of me. While riding the bus, there was a girl from Brasil who overheard my friend asking for directions to a neighborhood called Santa Theresa. She decided to introduce herself and told us where to go, which was nice of her. When she offered to take us to Santa Theresa, I got a little suspicious. When she asked us to come up to her apartment so she could drop some things off, I was a little concerned. When she offered to take us to Santa Theresa, in the rain, in the dark, through sketchy streets with no lighting, I was almost in tears when madmadmad and my friend said yes. The entire trek to Santa Theresa I was convinced she had friends waiting to kill us. You could not convince me otherwise. So walking through the rain with no umbrella in the dark up very large, wet steps, trusting in some woman who we didn't know seriously was freaking me out and I could feel my heart pounding through my chest. After a lot of back and forth between me and my friends, her pleading that she's not crazy and doesn't want to hurt us, she pulls the "I know that this isn't normal in America, but you have to trust me!!" By this time I was over the whole being American=we suck and hate everyone. Boo to that. What's the problem with being cautious? So I lived that night despite seriously believing I was going to wake up with my kidneys gone and in a tub full of ice.

Two days later a woman overheard madmadmad, my friend and I speaking in English. She introduced herself, said she was living in California and was interested in going out for the night since all of her friends and family were working the next day and she was on vacation. Naturally, I was perplexed. I thought to myself, why would a young attractive woman want to be friends with a bunch of college kids who think drinking Capirinhas all day was their idea of an authentic Brasilian experience. Surprisingly I was the most talkative with her at first and very much interested in getting to know her, until she offered to buy us drinks. An alarm set off in my head and I was plotting in my head ways to avoid her. She stated that since her husband is American, she knows that Americans tend to be standoffish towards strangers and that she wasn't trying to hurt us and not to be afraid. I insisted she not buy us drinks and she responded that it is the Brasilian thing to do. I guess the American thing to do is be paranoid. I blame the movies.

During the previous "Open Topic", I spent the majority of my blog writing about how I was ashamed of myself for not experiencing the "true" London. I was embarrassed that after living in this expansive city for over a month I had little to share about the city and its real beauty; the beauty that only the full-time citizens can know. I hadn't spent my time wisely and my time was only wasting away. Well, I am proud to announce that shortly after writing that blog I decided to immediately take my own advice. The couple of months after having written the blog have found me with stories to tell and enthusiastic memories that I will take back to New York.

I began by taking the "typical tourist route" and making it a point to get all the tourist "attractions" completed first. No stop in London is complete without making a visit to the largest Ferris wheel in the world--- the London Eye! Created by British Airways and erected in 2000, this 135 meter tell eye is known for giving the most beautiful panoramic views of the city. On a clear and sunny day, which can be extremely rare for London, this slightly expensive "ride" is well worth the cost. When you are standing in your semi-spacious capsule looking out over the London skyline you really get a feeling of why people appreciate this city. The greenery is overwhelming and peeking through the tops of trees you can see the most beautiful and historical buildings. The most noticeable building from the eye was of course, Parliament and the infamous clock tower Big Ben, which was the next stop on my list.

Across the bridge and sitting alongside the River Thames stood Parliaments clock tower. Although I could not make it inside the Parliament building I was still able to clearly hear its famous bell toll. Little known fact, the only time you can call the clock tower Big Ben is when the clock strikes upon the hour. When the bell rings on the 15, 30, and 45 it is in fact a different bell all together! 

Next stop was Buckingham Palace. Unfortunately, I did miss the changing of the guards (that's what happens when you don't plan your trips and you spontaneously decide to go to the palace!) but the palace was nonetheless magnificent. Other stops along my tourist-y tour of London included the Tower of London; this uniquely well-preserved medieval castle of Henry VIII, Trafalgar Square which is home to the National Gallery and Nelson's Column, a river cruise of the Thames which brought us to Greenwich home of the Royal Naval College and the Queen's House, and of course to the famous shopping districts of Piccadilly Circus, Oxford Circus and Regent Street. 

St. James Park

After the exhausting tour of "tourist London" I found myself still wanting to get in touch with the "real Londoners"; the people who live their day to day lives in this marvelous city. Many people believe that to meet true Londoners one must to go a pub or go clubbing but quite frankly I believe it is the opposite. Instead, on the rare occasion of a sunny and warm day, head over to a park. To be honest, any park. My favorite, I have found, is between either Hyde Park or St. James. You can sit there all day with a good book or some music, (don't forget your lunch!) and just people watch. Students, business men and women, the older generations, everyone alike flock to these parks looking for a relaxing time and some good conversation. 

If ever you find yourself in London I do recommend the tourist-y sites, but try not to miss out on a day in the park. Plan a relaxing, no-stress day to do absolutely nothing and meet the real London. The London that is calm and fresh; and meet the real people who are simply loving London!

scratched signI had always wanted to go on a, no the road trip—the American road trip, the cross country ride that takes a group of friends from the cold (eternally) east to the sweltering south through the dry southwest, over the mountains and into Balmy California. It’s a figment within the American Dream, a journey that made Louis, Clark, and Jack Nicholson’s career. The ride is never easy but its always life changing.

I never went on said trip in the United States. Gas got too expensive. One needs to be at least twenty-five to rent a car. Weeks after landing in Argentina I began to fantasize about driving along the south American coast. Windows down. Music blaring. Running out of cigarettes. The open road. But when I finally verbalized my plan in a casual “so what are you doing for Spring Break” conversation I was shut down by a simple question: “Do you know how to drive stick?” Of course I don’t. I don’t even like to drive very much. I get tired and bored easily. What I liked about my road trip idea was just that, the idea. There were plenty of other fun things to do over break; a car would just complicate things.

It was that disappointment that made renting a car with a group of friends in Bariloche that much more exciting. We picked up a list of rental places at the tourist office and “A Rent-a-Car,” in all of its blissfully ESL redundancy, was the first one with vehicles available. Our group of five sat in the small office within a one-story galleria. We paid a soft-spoken balding man in cash and gave him the numbers of my passport, my friend’s drivers license, and a third companion’s credit card number. But we paid in cash. It was thirty pesos a day split five ways. Our white Chevy sedan had a broken radio and windshield wiper. It took Alex, the only one of us who had any experience with a stick shift, twenty minutes to pull onto the street. This lapse was duly noted by the nice man who’d just trusted the vehicle to us.

We had rented that car for four days, from Sunday to Wednesday, but we only had it for two. In two days we drove to Colonia Suiza, a strange mock-village inhabited by chocolatiers and artisans (“artisan” is thrown around a lot in this region) and scaled the hills and narrow roads around Mount Tronador. Destination-wise these trips were dull. Mount Tronador is the highest peak in the region but all we saw of it was water falling—albeit beautifully—down its southern side from a viewing point bounded by Lincoln-log-like railings. Before the waterfalls was the main attraction, a waning glacier lying in a murky lake. Looking back, I equate these sites with the highway gimmicks of the fabled road trip. The World’s Biggest Donut. A sandwich with Jesus’ face toasted into it. Blank, the Eighth Wonder of the World. But before we got to the glacier we sat in the car, rolling uncertainly up and down narrow roads listening to music from portable speakers I’d bought in Bariloche, worrying about how little gas we had left and having a great time. A key part of the American road trip is that the journey outbalances the inevitable disappointment of the destination.

We made it all the way back to our hostel before the clutch gave out. Sure Alex wasn’t a pro but we figured the car had been a lemon to begin with and we fell asleep thinking we’d just trade it in for a fresh vehicle the next day for our trip El Bolson. Yet when we got to A Rent-a-Car we learned that in Argentina, when they think you broke the car, you have to pay for it. Now came the next part of the journey—the guilty call home. Mom, I took (well figuratively) the car, it broke, can you help? One girl called her father, a car enthusiast, who told her it was ridiculous that we’d be charged for breaking the clutch—we hadn’t driven it long enough for the damage to be all our fault. Another parent wasn’t so understanding. “You fucking rented a car?...and you didn’t get insurance?” Well we weren’t sure if had gotten insurance or not but that parent, a mother, was also the one who stayed on the phone with her daughter, found a lawyer friend in Bariloche and promised us that we would get away with it. And we would have if it hadn’t been for those meddling Argentines at A Rent-a-Car who promptly charged the damage to the credit card we supplied before it supplier could reach her mom to ask her to close the account. That fact that our fate had been partially decided by a joint account made us all feel younger and not in the way that the road trip is supposed to.

In the end we rented another car at Hertz. The same day that we lost our first vehicle we took that second one down Route 40 (arguably the Route 66 of Argentina) to El Bolson, a village three hours south of Bariloche which experienced a large influx of hippies in the seventies making it touristy and unique at the same time. The spike in be-dreaded wanderers and weed didn’t make me feel like I had traveled back in time but instead that I’d come upon a place that had ceased to travel through time or had taken its own route at any rate.

When we returned that car the next day we were confident that we wouldn’t be charged for any damages but the burnt chemical smell in the cabin betrayed us and we were in fact charged the exact same amount to fumigate as A Rent-a-Car had asked for an entirely new clutch. We left Hertz with plans to contest the charge to Visa and grimly aware of the fact that in Argentina they make you pay for you mistakes. And this was how the road trip and indeed my trip with my friends ended. That morning two of them left for Mendoza and the next day I left for Parque Lanin up north. There is always a dramatic parting and a low point in the road trip. But we had made plans to separate before our spirits and wallets were sunk. This parting was merely hectic.

Before we parted we all agreed that the cars or “the car” had defined our stay in Bariloche. And maybe that is all the American road trip is finally about.

BarilocheSo for spring break we went to Patagonia. I flew down to Bariloche with a group of four and then a friend and I took buses back, stopping in another small town in Patagonia, Neuquen, and Mendoza then back to Buenos Aires; 31 hours on buses total. In Bariloche we thought it would be a good idea to rent a car. Without getting into the details, they are kind of embarrassing let me just say it wasn't a good idea, and I recommend never renting a car in Argentina again, even if you feel you have a strong grasp of stick shift driving. Well we were all in our rental car, driving from Bariloche to a small hippie town a few hours away named El Bolson. We were stopped a checkpoint. It is strange to be in a country with things like checkpoints; I guess anything compared to a military dictatorship feels un-invasive. Of course we had left our passports at the hostel under lock and key, like good exchange students, far away from the risk of loss or theft. Of course we did not expect a checkpoint. We were pulled over, asked for our passports, told our driver's licenses were not enough, that as far as they knew we were traveling illegally through Argentina. It wasn't as bad as it could have been. Our first instinct of course was to call the program director and ask her what to do. Of course they told us they had no phone and our cell phones had no reception, just to add to the illegitimacy, at least to us, of the whole experience. In the end we were left with little choice. Fill out and sign their forms in triplicate and register at the immigration office the next day or be full on detained. We filled out the forms, and went to the immigration office in Bariloche the next day and nothing really came of it; the deskman at the immigration office took the forms, and made copies of our passports for their records and that was it.

Karlovy Vary: The Inspiration For This Blog Post.

"Life is a bitch, and then you die." We've all heard this phrase before, and to some extent, I once despised it. Yet, as I've gotten older and (hopefully) wiser, I've come to learn that it's actually rather accurate, for most of the global population. However, after walking around today in the town of Karlovy Vary, or Carlsbad, listening to a group of upper-middle class tourists whining and complaining that they couldn't go to all of their planned attractions in one day thanks to limited hours of operation because of the Easter holiday, complaining about how it was "just not fair", I was strangely annoyed. What sense of entitlement, we western-civilized inhabitants have.  I blame this pre-conceived notion that we all deserve to get what we want and the notion that we will receive happy endings on Disney. Yes, that's right. You heard me correctly. I blame the House of Mouse. Disney led us all to believe that we all deserve happy endings that end with us living happily ever after with our one true love. Reality check: The economy is in the crapper, people are losing their homes, cars, jobs and more, the national divorce rate is at an all time high, and our country is trillions of dollars in debt, resulting in woes for everyone. How is this relevant you ask? Because if life was in fact, fair, the already rich oil giants wouldn't be getting richer while the rest of us pay the price (though a nice silver lining of the economic crisis, is the sharp decline in oil prices, thanks to no one being able to pay!). The reason I'm even writing this is because I'm tired of hearing everyone and their mom (including my own, thanks very much) complain about how life isn't fair. You're completely right! IT'S NOT FAIR.GET OVER IT. There's always going to be someone with more money than you, someone a hell of a lot better looking than you, someone more successful than you in their endeavors, and complete jerks that have everything going their way. But FAIR doesn't drive the world, does it? Is it fair that children starve in African countries while we live a life of excess and travel? Oh, because HEAVEN FORBID you can't get your back massage on a national holiday because the spa is closed. Or is it fair that good people die from incurable diseases? No, it's not, but would you like to know something? No one ever said it was. We were just taught since childhood that good always triumphs over evil, and that everyone always gets what they deserve. We were lied to, plain and simple. However, that shouldn't stop us from bettering ourselves, now should it? If anything, it should push us to strive for the best, for what we think we do deserve: To live better and make the world a better place than it was before we left it. Our narcissistic minds can take comfort in knowing that no matter how unfair that we think our current predicaments may be, there is always someone out there who has it far worse than we do. So, in closing, remember to treasure what you DO have, and stop complaining and start living. This is life; It's not perfect, but that's what makes it all the more exciting.

Last week I turned 21 while on an epic voyage through Patagonia. Ironically enough on my actual birthday this city girl found herself on a walkabout of sorts, trekking up a mountain without a trail, scaling boulders, chancing the tall grass teeming with unknown danger, and finally arriving at the top, triumphant and naked, bellowing in the gusty winds, with the Andes on one side and Fitz Roy on the other.

birthday view

Coming to Argentina I knew my 21st birthday was going to fall right in the middle of our vacation time. When I found out that the day—which is typically dedicated to barhopping and inebriation—would instead be spent hiking and camping, I wasn’t really sure what to think. Oddly enough, I was the one that advocated going to Patagonia in the first place. At the same time, however, I had anxieties that Mother Nature would fall short of the fabulously chic birthday scene I always imagined for this milestone in my life. Foolish as I was, I decided that I would celebrate my birthday “for real” when I returned to Buenos Aires.

We arrived in Patagonia at the El Calafate Airport—the only thing in the middle of an immense mountainous valley. Leaving the tiny hanger in the dark, we could immediately feel the boundlessness of the land and the absence of city lights. That night we stayed at the Marco Polo Hostel, a bright orange casita, with puppies bounding about, friendly foreigners, and general happiness in the air.

The first few days were spent exploring the wilderness of El Calafate: horseback riding into the backcountry, hiking through the woods, and climbing the ice glaciers. Immediately we all realized the disparity between the physical shape we were in, and what the week’s activities would require of us. I recall a particular level of anxiety following the glacier hike, which left me in a heavy sweat, stripped down to a tank top with no reason to feel any warmth at all—other than the abnormally rapid beating of my heart.

After surviving those initial ventures into nature, however, I started to take on a sort of zeal for such activities. I began criticizing my friends who suggested cutting out the camping section of our trip—assaulting their characters and calling them “pansies” and other unmentionable names. So it was decided that we would persevere on by car, first to El Chalten where we would hike and hostel, and finally to Chile to the National Park, Torres Del Paines, where we would camp.

The day was April 5th, the four of us were in need of a car to get to El Chalten, but none of us were old enough to rent the car. We decided to walk into the car rental, guns blazing and confident, and hope that they wouldn’t notice that I didn’t turn 21 until the next day. As we sat nervously in the rental place, opposite the adolescent agent who kept one hand held over his infected eye, it became evident that we weren’t as slick as we’d thought. But fortunately for us, here in Argentina, rules are more like guidelines, and shortly thereafter we drove away, feeling like bandits, in our a white Volkswagen golf.

El Chalten was a beautiful, charming place three hours from El Calafate. The town became home to a series of wonderful misadventures (including the accidental breaking and entering of a hostel we mistook as our own) and the scene of my immortalized naked hike. The pueblo had one bar, a cerveceria, which brewed its own beer and served as the soul source of nightlife. The owners became rather of fond us after we spent much of our time in the quaint little spot, and on the night of my birthday the waiters named me Rosita, and brought me colorful drinks, and birthday brownies for the table.

Though we’d become quite attached to that little town, we couldn’t really imagine going back to the cerveceria another night, and thus we carried on. We drove for hours in the rain—and eventually in the dark—on broken dirt roads, the car packed to the ceiling with our luggage and foodstuffs. When we finally arrived in the national park, we were exhausted from travel, and quite honestly unsure of our ability to set up camp in the dark, so we slept in the car, in our sleeping bags, unable to move more than an inch.
It was only about four hours till daylight, and as our accommodations didn’t lend themselves to a peaceful slumber, we got up early, and went in search of the perfect spot to camp. It was still raining when we started driving, but as we ascended further into the Andes, we rose above the rain clouds where the sun shone brilliantly on the endless mountain ranges and snowy peaks. Stepping outside the car to admire the icy summits (which seemed miraculously within reach) we were hurled over by the forceful winds careening across the landscape.

We spent an embarrassingly long time constructing our pre WWII tent, and eventually decided that one tent would suffice for all us. Looking around, all that could be seen were the regal Andes, and what I imagine to be the bluest lake ever. It seemed that we were the only ones in the world. We discovered secret sanctuaries, and mysterious waterfalls, and eventually all built up the courage to jump into the glacier water. After nearly losing sensation in our legs, we air dried ourselves on the giant rocks, in the frigid air, which felt amazingly warm to us.

The next day we drove back to El Calafate. Not surprisingly, I accidentally booked my return flight to Ushuaia, the southernmost city in South America—also known as “the end of the world.” But eventually I made it back to Buenos Aires, after taking an interesting detour, and seeing what’s on top, and what’s at the end.
I canceled my plans for a belated birthday celebration in the city—it seemed unnecessary at that point.

BTW: check out this link: http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090427/ap_on_re_eu/eu_odd_switzerland_nude_...

"VOTERS BAN NUDE HIKING IN ALPS: SUNDAY APRIL 26"

For my Spring break trip I went with three of my roommates to Amsterdam and then to Dublin. We originally planned on visiting england first, but the stress of planning so many destinations forced us to book our flights last minute, and to skip out on the first destination for monetary reasons. One the reasons planning the trip was so stressful was that each leg of the trip required us to fly another airline. All three of these airlines has different baggage requirements. Since the airlines we flew were budget airlines, they required you to pay to check a bag. Since we were feeling particularly stingy after booking so many flights and hotels, we decided to only check one bag between the four of us. We all stuck the rest of our stuff in backpacks and carried it on. The Tram in Amsterdam: A mode of transportation I became very familiar with...The first flight was Transavia, and they had the fewest baggage requirements, allowing everyone to check a bag for free. Air Lingus allowed for a very heavy checked bag, but extremely light checked bags. This meant that we had to rearrange all of our stuff within our suitcases, and stuff the large bag to the brim. Ryanair had the toughest baggage restrictions. There was the highest charge to check a bag, and then checked bag had to be very light. We tried to put only light clothing in the checked bag, but still ended up rearranging our suitcases once again at the check-in desk. The end result was that we had simply packed too much stuff for their baggage requirements, and few of my friends were stuck checking there carry on bags at the gate at extremely high prices. Hotels were another big issue. One of my friends had booked a hostel for the four of us in Amsterdam and a hotel for us in Dublin. Upon closer inspection we found that the hostel was not going to be suitable. The biggest criticism of the hostel was that it was completely infested with rats, and guests often found there suitcases filled with the filthy rodents. I did some online research and found that we could stay at the Best Western, a four star hotel, for just about the same price. When we arrived I was shocked at how beautiful the hotel was, until we realized that it was not actually in the city center as advertised. We needed to take a 25 minutes and 4 euro tram trip to visit anything in the city. The tram also ended at midnight, forcing us to take several very expensive cab rides. The hotel in Dublin was no better. While it was located in the city center, it was far from a four star hotel. The hotel was dingy, smelled like curry, and had the most uncomfortable beds I had ever slept in. In comparison, some of my friends stayed in a much more affordable hostel that was extremely comfortable. I had an absolutely amazing time on my spring break trip. I didn't allow any of these set-backs to affect the time I had in the cities I visited, but it really did show me how important it is to plan ahead. The farther in advance you plans your travels, the cheaper and easier the trip will be.

the much beloved fried cheese

It’s about time I write about one of my biggest loves – food! Up until a few months ago, I have never had a bite of Czech food. Sure, I’ve heard of and had goulash, but isn’t that originally Hungarian? Anyway, Czech food remained a bit of a mystery to me, as most of the emphasis was placed on the spectacular and cheap beer.

On one of our first nights here, our entire dorm went to a nearby restaurant for some Czech food. I ordered a potato-chicken-cream sauce medley, and oh, was it glorious. It was hearty and heavy and delicious. And vegetables? It seems that every veggie dish comes soaked in butter or baked with a thick layer of cheese on top.

With the temperature in Prague still hovering around 0 Celsius, this type of food is exactly what you need to brave the winter chill. Every dish is comfort food, drenched in cream, topped with cheese, or paired with potatoes. Those sausage stands at Wenceslas Square offer an amazing alternative to the typical late night (or early morning) snack of pizza and chips. There’s nothing like ending the night with a warm Bavarian sausage with a generous splash of mustard on top. And for the few, lonesome vegetarians out there, there is the tasty option of having a fried cheese sandwich. A thick slice of Edam cheese, it is fried to perfection so that the center is warm and stretchy. For the topping, you can choose from mustard, ketchup, or my favorite, tartar sauce. Yum.

It is all finger-lickin’ good, but rather dangerous for the waistline, especially when beer is the drink of choice. But it sure does get you through the long winters, and with snow still falling this time of the year, I can now see why Czech food is as heavy as it is. But I must conclude this blog post now, because it is stirring up an intense craving for some of that hot, melted cheese.

Golden Stinky TofuChou dofu, its literal translation: stinky tofu, is a popular roadside snack in China and Taiwan. The distinct smell can be described as both mouth watering and repulsive. I remember smelling this fetid dish in New York when I was a child. As I walked down Main Street in Flushing, Queens holding my mother's hand my other hand would be strategically placed over my nose. My relatives all loved eating stinky tofu and I could never understand why. For those of you that haven't smelled stinky tofu before, I am not sure words can accurately describe it. Think of your favorite scent, the scent you feebly close your eyes and take in to try and prolong. Whether its freshly baked cream puffs from Beard Papa's on Broadway, or your significant other's t-shirt, just imagine it. Now think of the exact opposite. It should begin to smell like rotting summer garbage.

Stinky tofu, usually fried, is prepared by marinating chunks of tofu in brine consisting of fermented milk, meat, and vegetables. The specific features of stinky tofu depend on the area of preparation. The classic golden fried color is the most popular but black Hunan-style stinky tofu is a treat as well. Wooden carts containing a weathered wok, boxes of packaged tofu, jugs of oil, and various spices and sauces line the streets of Shanghai as migrant workers struggle to make a living.

In honesty, I have never tried stinky tofu before. Partly due to my slight soy allergy but mostly due to my wanting to puke every time I smell it. Some of the other NYU study abroad students thoroughly enjoy it and encourage the rest of us to brave it out. The students that are more in-tune with their Chinese heritage or travel to East Asia often say the smell doesn't do it any justice. The rest of us hold our breaths and rush past street vendors as they prepare the dish for throngs of adoring foodies. It has gotten to the point where the task of trying stinky tofu has become the short end of losing drinking games in NYU Shanghai. It is considered a foul dish in popular TV culture. Andrew Zimmerman commented on his show, Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmerman, and said stinky tofu was “overpowering with its rotten taste.” The Amazing Race Asia had its contestants eat a big bowl of stinky tofu as a challenge. The same stinky tofu that is so popular here in China. I have another 3 months here and in that time I do plan on trying stinky tofu, whether its under the influence of friends or possibly alcohol.