Blast from the past

Well, since I have been having (and continue to have) such a hard time finding an internet cafe where I can upload some of my photos, I will lamely attempt to satiate you all with pictures from a pub crawl I did an Madrid. Apparently the guy who organized it just put all the pictures he took on his website, MADride.

Hanging out with a couple Canadian girls, a Dutch guy, and a pink-shirted Irishman. The Canadian in the foreground is named Devon and the Irishman is named Stuart. For some inexplicable reason that most definitely has nothing to do with the alcoholic beverage I am holding, I don't remember the names of the other two:

Ok, so three dorks walk into a bar: a Dutchman, an Irishman, and an American. Now you add your own punchline!

I will leave you with a question that has been mystifying me lately: Why am I always standing to the left of people? First person to furnish a plausible explanation wins a prize!

Did you know...

...that in Denmark, they sing a song that has the same melody as "She'll Be Coming 'Round The Mountain When She Comes," but the lyrics aren't the same? In fact, they're not even close. When translated, they say:

You can have my recumbent bicycle when I die
You can have my recumbent bicycle when I die
You can have my recumbent bicycle, you can have my recumbent bicycle
You can have my recumbent bicycle when I die

See, this is what happens when you live too close to the North Pole.

That's it for now. I'll post some thoughts on the weekend when I get a chance.

What it's all about

Ok, one more quick post for the moment. Today was one of those days where I sat back and thought to myself, "Now this is why I'm traveling." So I just have to fill you all in.

A little backstory: When Ava and I checked into our hotel in Marrakesh (the infamous Hotel Ali), we started chatting with Chakir, the Moroccan gentleman who showed us our room. He was an affable guy, and he seemed genuinely happy to be showing us around the place. We ran into him several times on subsequent occasions, and he always stopped to chat and see how we were doing. Despite his friendliness, we were pretty surprised when we ran into him yesterday evening and he asked us to come to his house for lunch on Friday (today).

I must admit, my initial reaction was to wonder to myself, "okay, what's the catch?" Sometimes it seems that if anyone in Morocco does anything nice for you, they want something (read: money) in return. So I was a tad bit wary, but it seemed like too unique an opportunity to pass up. In the end, we agreed to meet Chakir today at his home for a traditional Moroccan lunch.

So today, at around 11 AM, we met up with Kamel, another friend of Chakir's who was also staying at Hotel Ali, and caught a cab to the outskirts of Marrakesh. When we arrived at the Mohammed household (where Chakir, his mother, two sisters, two brothers, brother-in-law, and two neices live), we were greeted with the most amazing outpouring of hospitality. We were ushered into the living room where we were served delicious mint tea while Chakir showed us pictures of his friends and family. After a while, his six-year-old neice, Maria, ran in and gave us each a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. When lunch was ready, we were brought upstairs to another sitting room where an incredible lunch spread was laid out. We feasted on fresh salad, bread, potatoes, chicken shish kebabs, and what was quite literally a MOUNTAIN of couscous with a delicious sweet onion and raisin topping (Chakir called this "the couscous of the kings"). Even though we were ridiculously stuffed by the end, we were somehow able to top things off with another round of mint tea and a tasty selection of Moroccan cakes and pastries. Throughout the entire affair, I was just blown away by how nice everyone was, and how they were going out of their way to make us comfortable. Keep in mind that, by this point, we had known Chakir for only about 24 hours!

To me, this entire afternoon was basically a continuous string of magical moments where I felt like I was actually accomplishing what I set out to do: having meaningful exchanges with people of other cultures. Somehow Ava and I were able to connect with this person, whose life has always been so different from ours, and share a few hours of mutual learning and friendship. I know that this will be one of these days that I remember for the rest of my life.

So, what's the next step? Well, as much as I have LOVED Marrakesh, Ava and I have decided that it's time to move on. Tomorrow morning we're leaving on a guided expedition into the heart of Morocco, which will last 3 days and two nights. We're going with a couple of Danish guys that we met a few days ago, and they both seem really cool. Honestly, I have no idea what to expect, but the way things have been going, I can only assume that we'll all have a fantastic time. Hopefully I'll be able to post again when I return, so keep an eye out!

Marrakesh Express

Alright, just a quick post here because I only have a few moments of internet left and it's really slow. I've actually been in Marrakesh, Morocco for the past two days, and all I can say is: HO...LY...SHIT. I have never seen anything like this in my life. This place is so ridiculously different from anything I have ever seen in the USA, Europe, or anywhere else, for that matter.

Ava (the girl I've been traveling with) and I have been staying in the ancient Medina, the walled "old part" of town. It's so incredible...the roads go in a million directions and wind all over the place, so it's impossible to go anywhere without getting to a little adventure. And there's adventure EVERYWHERE. No matter where you turn, you're confronted with new sights, sounds, and especially smells. We've been learning how to haggle with shopkeepers and fend off the hustlers on the street. We've tried so many new foods and seen so many amazing sights. The past few days have been a bit of a blur and I'm not exactly sure how I ended up here, but I am SO GLAD I did.

As a little sidenote, let me tell you about one of my favorite things about Morocco so far. Anyone who knows me well will definitely agree that I'm bit of an orange juice connoisseur. Well, in Marrakesh's Jamaa el Fna (the Medina's main square) you can get a glass of delicious, fresh-squeezed OJ (they slice and squeeze the oranges right in front of your face) for the bargain basement price of 3 DH (Moroccan dirhams). That's $0.34 USD. At that price, I'll take ten, please.

This is definitely one of those places where words and pictures are just not going to do the actual experience any justice. Maybe it's lame, but I have to say that if you ever want to really get a feel for Morocco, you have to come here for yourself. Trust me, if you are looking for even the slightest taste of adventure, you'll find it here.

Andalucian Dream

Preface: I held off on posting this entry for a while, thinking I would have a chance to upload pictures. Unfortunately, that chance hasn't happened, so I'm just going to post everything minus the visual element. Hopefully I'll have a chance to upload pictures in the future.

Well, once again I haven´t been doing a very good job of keeping this blog updated. But this time it's with good reason. I've been spending the past week in the Andalucia region of Spain, and the place has been blowing my mind all the while. Of all the Spanish regions, it's probably the most Muslim-influenced (a result of the Moorish conquests from over a millennium ago), which lends it a unique, Arabic flavor. Although Seville is, on paper, the Andalucian capital, many feel that Granada better embodies the spirit of the region. I haven't been to Seville (I hear it's nice, though) so I can't compare the two, but I will say this: Granada is freakin' sweet. Of all the European cities that I've visited so far, it's definitely my favorite. I like the fact that it's a smaller city, and its setting among the Spanish Sierra Nevada mountains is spectacular. When it's sunny (as it is most of the time), the sky is a beatiful royal blue, and the sheer intensity of the light seems to somehow purify the city. The whitewashed houses and villas of the Albaycin and the Sacromonte (the older parts of town) seem to be whiter than white. It's truly a magical atmosphere.

Granada's centerpiece is the majestic Alhambra, which is a 10th century Muslim palace/fortress perched on a hill above the city. My first encounter with it actually happened only a few hours after I arrived. Once I got to the hostel, I met a Texan named Luis. We got to talking, and he asked if I liked hiking which, of course, I do. So he told me about this spot up on one of the hilltops with great views of the Alhambra, and we set off for it right away. It was a weird little hike...we had to scale a few walls and squeeze through a few holes in a chainlink fence in order to get to the ridge, but once we got to the top, the view was well worth it.

Later that night I met up with an American couple and a trio of Germans (who called themselves "The Vikings" for some reason), and we decided to head out for a taste of Granada nightlife. It was night of ups and downs: on the downside, it was a weekday and there weren't many people out at the bars. On the upside, there were promoters all over the streets handing out tickets for free/cheap drinks. It was pretty funny...we'd show up at a bar, have our super-cheap suds, head back into the streets, get stopped by another promoter, and repeat the process at a different bar. I definitely had my fair share of beer and Sangria for the night, and I didn't spend more than 5 euros. Now that's what I call efficiency.

I spent the next day just wandering around the streets of Granada, especially around the Albaycin. It's full of old, traditional Spanish houses, and the streets are narrow and cobbled and ridiculously labrynthine. I got completely lost trying to find the local plaza, but I got there eventually. Also, since I was out during siesta (2-5 PM), the place was practically empty, which gave it a very mysterious feel. I've grown quite fond of getting lost in these old cities, and Granada is definitely one of my top cities to get lost in.

The next day was the day of my up-close visit to the Alhambra. I wasn't sure what to expect...my guidebook only gave a sparse description, garnished with this enticing line: "Much has been written about the Alhambra, but nothing can prepare you for what you will actually see." Well, they were right. First of all, the place is absolutely HUGE: it took me almost six hours to explore every courtyard, garden, and chamber. Second, every nook and cranny is decorated with exquisite stucco work, wood carvings, and marble accents. I can't imagine how many craftsmen and artisans it must have taken to finish the Alhambra. And third, it's an excellent reminder of Spain's Muslim roots. Overall, it was an awe-inspiring and educational experience, to say the least.

The next two days were mainly spent hanging out and preparing for my next adventure in a region called...

LAS ALPUJARRAS!!!

I'm not exactly sure how I first found out about the Alpujarras. It may have been from surfing websites about hiking in Europe, or maybe it was from chatting up a fellow hiker. The fact is, most guidebooks give the Alpujarras only a passing mention, if they mention it at all. But I was seduced enough by the promise of beautiful Mediterranean vistas and tiny, un-touristed villages that I decided to make it a must-do on my visit to Spain.

So what are the Alpujarras? Basically, we're talking about a mountainous region starting about 45 km east of Granada and stretching west to the end of the Rio Trevelez river valley. It's dotted with several small villages which are linked together by a hiking trail called the Gran Recorrido Siete, or GR-7. The idea is that you walk from village to village stopping for lunch at one, taking a siesta at another, staying at a local hostal at another, and so on. For those who have heard of the Italian cinque terre, I get the impression that Las Alpujarras are essentially the cinque terre of Spain.

I started things off with an hour-long bus ride to Lanjaron, which is known for its fountains (which supposedly possess curative powers). Once I arrived, I wandered around town, searching for the point where the GR-7 picked up. Little did I know that this would not be the first time I would have difficulty locating the trail. I think that Spanish hikers must take a more relaxed attituded when it comes to trail markers, especially when compared to New Zealand. A quick stop at the officina de turismo got me on track, though. I started to climb up through the hills, meandering through olive groves, rural neighborhoods, and little shanty towns. The landscape was very arid...mostly dusty and rocky, with scrub brush all over the place and a few random trees (mainly where there was irrigation). The higher I climbed, though, the more majestic the views across the valley became. It was at this point that I realized that this area of Spain has a very Monet landscape: pretty when viewed from afar, but kind of a mess up close.

Anyways, as I was saying, Spanish trails seem to suffer from questionable marking. And when I say "questionable," I mean "ridiculously bad." I can't tell you how many times I came to a fork in the path, where either direction could have been the true trail, and had to flip a coin, take one route by trial and error, and see where it went. I think I got lost at least 20 times just that first day. At one point, I hadn't seen a trail marker for over 20 minutes, and I was basically relying on my pocket compass to keep me going in the right direction. I asked the driver of a passing car for help: "Donde estas Gran Recorrido Siete?" To which he replied, "Oh, I don't know!" Turns out he was an Australian expat, who obviously spoke English. I was able to convey my dilemma to him, and he gave me some directions, but either they were completely wrong or too complex to follow correctly, because I was lost again in a few minutes. Then, I was lucky enough to randomly run into a British couple hiking through the hills. They had just been on a horse trek, and they directed me to the ranch where they assured me there would be English-speaking people who knew the area well. Once I got to the ranch and got straightened out, I realized that I was about 1 km north of the GR-7. Don't ask me how I got so far off the trail...it's really just a testament to Spanish trail marking.

Once I hit the first village along the trail (a tiny hamlet called Canar), things got a lot better. The trail markings improved a little, and I was able to enjoy the views and the ambience of the town. It was really cool walking through these little villages. You could just observe small-town people going about their daily small-town business. I have always felt that, in order to get the true flavor of a country, you have to get out of the big cities and into the rural areas, and this excursion solidified that opinion.

The next town I passed through was called Soportujar. For some reason I had counted on having some lunch here, but I happened to show up in the thick of siesta, so the whole place was shut down. I abandoned any hope of getting some food and pressed on. By the time I got to Pampaneira (where I would spend the first night), I was starving, moderately dehydrated, and completely exhausted. I stumbled around town for a while, trying to find a decent hostal, but I think my brain was too fried. I tried "donde estas un hostal," but even in this small town, the streets were so convoluted that I kept getting turned around. At one point it seemed like half the villagers in the town square were taking it upon themselves to decipher my broken Spanish and get me pointed in the right direction. Once I finally found a place to crash, I flopped down on the bed and went to sleep, too tired even to eat.

So the first day was a day of mishaps, but the second day went considerably more smoothly. I ascended higher and higher into the alta Alpujarra, constantly stopping to admire the views (and take a big swig of water). I eventually made it to the town of Portugos, where I would spend the second night. This place, more than any other in Spain, had me kicking myself for not knowing Spanish. My hostal was situated right above the town pub, and it seemed like half the village's population was hanging out there at any given time. It would have been so cool to sit down, have a beer, and chat up the locals, but nobody spoke any English, and I certainly didn't know enough Spanish to be conversant. I made a pact with myself right there and then that one day I'll return to the Alpujarras, and by that point I will have learned some Spanish, hopefully.

On the third and last day, I walked to the town of Pitres to catch the bus back to Granada. While I was waiting for the bus, I met an American couple, Joel and Karen from Nashville. (They were easy to spot because they were wearing Chaco sandals and drinking from Nalgene water bottles: telltale signs of Americanism). We hit it off and decided to meet up for dinner back in Granada. It was great to have some quality conversations with them, as their perspective was a lot different from the typical members of the European travel circuit. They were about my age, but they had been married for a while and were doing a trip through Spain before Joel started medical school at KU Med (near my old KC stomping grounds). It was nice to have a brief respite from the typical questions that get asked on the travel circuit: where are you from, where have you been, where are you going, and so on.

So that was my week in Andalucia. Despite all the little hitches along the way, I had a GREAT time. I will definitely be coming back here some day. Now the question is, where to next? Well, previously I had been planning on taking the usual route up the Mediterranean coast to Barcelona. But right before I left for the Alpujarras, I met a girl at the hostel who was talking about wanting to go to Morocco, but wanting to have a travel partner to make the trip a bit safer. I figured that Morocco had a nice ring to it (and it's only 14 km from Spain at their closest point), so I told her that if she could wait a few days, I'd go with her once I got back from the mountains. So, in a few hours we'll be riding the bus down to Algeciras, taking a ferry across the Med, and catching an overnight train to Marrakesh. I had no idea that I would be visiting Morocco on this trip but, once again, that's what I love about traveling by the seat of your pants. You can always turn on a dime and head wherever the winds take you. So hopefully I'll be able to churn out another post from the African continent in a few days! Stay tuned!

¡Viva el gran gringo!

Here's what I love about traveling by the seat of your pants: before I came to Europe, I wasn't really considering coming to Spain. I figured it would be too far out of the way; something I should save for another trip. But while I was in Paris, pondering where to go next, I just thought, "Screw it, Spain sounds nice. I think I'll go." And that was that. If I had planned everything out before I left, there's no way I would have ever made it out here.

Alright, enough advertising for independent travel. As you probably guessed, I'm in Spain at the moment, Madrid to be exact. It's definitely a radical departure from the northern European locales I've been visiting. You can definitely tell that people here are more passionate, and a lot less reserved. I'm pretty sure it has something to do with the powerful Mediterranean sun, which has been out in full force for the past several days. The weather has been absolutely beautiful, with blue skies and light breezes, and highs in the low 80s every day. Beats the hell out of Netherlands weather.

Yesterday I started things off with a trip to the Museo del Prado, which has one of Europe's best collections of 16th-19th century paintings, many by Spanish painters (Goya, most notably). It was nice, but I didn't like it as much as the Musee d'Orsay in Paris. A little too much religious art which, as you might imagine, can get pretty repetitive. And a lot of portraits of expressionless, smirking rich people. However, the Prado is also home to Hieronymus Bosch's famous "Garden of Earthly Delights," which was really cool to see. This guy had to be on LSD or something. His depiction of eternal damnation is awfully creative, even a little hilarious. I'll go out on a limb and say that, among paintings depicting flutes up the ass, pig-nuns, and ice skating in hell, this one is probably my favorite. In any case, when I left the museum, all I could say was, "The Prado...bwuaaah." (That one's for you, Colin).

Later that night I decided to go to a Sunday night bullfight with a couple guys from the hostel. Wow...what an experience. It was incredibly visceral from start to finish. Probably the craziest part was watching the picadors on horseback. Basically, they sit atop a horse weilding a long spear, and they turn the horse so that its right side is facing the bull. Apparently this has the same enraging effect as waving a cape, because the bull charges at the horse and hits it straight in the chest, at which point the picador goes in for a jab with the spear. It's nuts...we could hear the impact (a giant THUD) from way up in the cheap seats. The horse wears some sort of armore that prevents it from getting full-on gored, but the force of the blow is so strong that it often gets lifted off its feet, and it has to lean straight into the bull in order to stay upright. I don't know how they could possibly train horses to do this.

I respect the fact that bullfighting is part of the cultural heritage of Spain, but I don't think I could see myself becoming an aficionado. That said, I can definitely see why it is popular. When you have a really good bull and an equally good matador, it's like they fuse together and become one entity. Even when faced with a charging 650 kg bull, every move the matador makes is fluid and graceful. And its a great example of showmanship at its finest...the matador definitely knows how to get the crowd going, and the atmosphere can be electric at times.

Anyways, I'm running out of internet minutes, so I should hit the road. More to come in a few days!

"I'm French. Why do you think I have this outrageous accent?"

Ah, France. The country Americans love to hate. Despite the fact that it's home to such novel inventions as the croissant, the beret, and a variety of tasty wines and cheeses, it's hard to deny that its reputation among my countrymen isn't so hot. I must admit that, after spending my formative years in a francophobic society, I let all the anti-hype get to me. Indeed, at one point I was considering avoiding France altogether on my European trip. When I mentioned this to my friend Stu, he offered this sobering reminder: "Nate, if you don't go to France, then all those right-wing crazies (who created 'freedom fries' and dumped French wine down the gutter) will have won."

Well, I cerntainly can't have that, so I penciled in a token visit to Paris. And you know what? I liked it quite a bit! I can't say it's my favorite city in the world, but it certainly has its charms and a huge amount of history.

I gave myself three nights in the city, which really is only enough time to see the big-name touristy things. You know, the usual suspects: The Louvre, Musee d'Orsay, Centre Pompidou, Eiffel Tower, Champs d'Elysees, Notre Dame, and so on. I won't go into details on all of them, with a few exceptions:

The Cathedral of Notre Dame: I was genuinely moved by this place. Sure, it's uber-touristy: there was basically a river of people continuously flowing through it. But as I sat down among the pews and gazed up at the stained glass and graceful arches, I couldn't help but think of the incredible sacrifices that must have been made to make it a reality. Back when it was built, survival was still a constant struggle and the spectres of sickness, hunger, and death were never far off. But despite the practical difficulties of simply staying alive, these people built this monument out of faith and reverence. I think that really says something. Maybe I am overly romanticizing things here, but at the very least, I felt connected to the past and recognized the cathedral as a triumph of the human spirit.

The Musee d'Orsay: Of all the big sights in Paris, I was most excited to see this one, mainly because of its extensive collection of impressionist paintings. I'm not exactly sure why, but impressionism has always been, by far, my favorite style. I think it's because the lack of definition, combined with the expressive use of color, allows me to re-create the scene in my imagination in ways that are probably much more beatiful than anything one could find in reality. Anyways, as soon as I got there I made a bee line for the Monet gallery, and I wasn't disappointed. Although all the works on display were great (including the famous "Water Lillies" that everyone knows), I felt most strongly about a lesser-known painting called "Le Givre" ("White Frost"):

To be perfectly honest, the digitized image just doesn't do it justice. You have to see it for yourself. To me, it evokes a sense of peace and tranquility, which is something I generally value very highly in a painting.

I also met some cool people. For my third night, I moved to a hostel in the Montmarte neighborhood, which was really great. Montmarte is the "bohemian" area of town where all the artists and musicians have lived since the mid-1800's, and it just seemed to have a more refined air than central Paris. Anyways, while I was there I hung out with a Canadian named Cleo and an American named Mike. Cleo was basically an itinerant vagabonder, and Mike was a student who, coincidentally, had been to Wash U several times while "on-tour" with his a capella group. We spent the night drinking 3-euro wine (4 bottles...whoops), exchanging "your mom" jokes and listening to music. At one point we were amusing ourselves by "shotgunning" (or, as they say in Canada, according to Cleo, "supering") cigarettes. Don't know what we were thinking there. I was thankful for the hostel's late checkout the next morning.

For my last day in Paris, I left my pack in a locker at the Paris-Austerlitz train station and took a day trip into Versailles. There isn't much I can say about the Versailles palace except this: it's big. I mean really, really big. I guess Louis XIV was looking to create a palace that would symbolize his might and wealth, and he certainly hit a home run in that department. I was especially impressed by the royal gardens. They are frickin' GINORMOUS.

After returning to Paris, I took my first trip on a night train, which I guess is part of the quintessential European travel experience. Oh, I suppose I should mention where the train was going: Madrid. When it wasn't dark outside, the scenery was beautiful. At first I figured I lucked out, because I was in a 4-bed sleeper compartment that was only half full. There were only two unfortunate things about the situation: a) the other guy in the compartment couldn't speak English, and I can't speak French or Spanish, which made for lots of silence, and b) he snored like a chainsaw...no, actually it was more like a jackhammer...well, really it was more like a legion of constipated grizzly bears engaging in paw-to-paw combat, weilding chainsaws and jackhammers. I think he actually takes the snoring trophy from my dad.

So I rolled into Madrid at around 10 this morning, checked into the hostel, and now I'm just going to browse the city a bit. I'll write more when I get the chance. Adios!

Beneluxurious

So when I last posted, I was still hanging out in Utrecht with Anand, and day-tripping around The Netherlands. Unfortunately, I got smacked with a nasty little head cold that kept me from getting any more ambitious than that. Still, we were determined to press on and take part in the Queen's Night festivities on Friday. The Netherlands is (are?) governed by a constitutional monarchy and, as I mentioned earlier, Queen's Night is a celebration of the queen's birthday. The Dutch commemorate this event in the following ways:

• Wearing bright orange clothing (the official Royal color)
• Selling all their unwanted junk on the street in what may be the world's biggest and wackiest yard sale
• Getting absolutely hammered

Walking through the streets during all this craziness was quite the experience. I spent several minutes haggling with a yard-saler who was trying to sell me an orange Jaegermeister-logo wristband. I wasn't interested at first, but he was really working hard to close the sale, and I appreciated his persistence. And I wanted some orange clothing to make me cool like everybody else. So I worked him down to 40 euro-cents apiece, and bought one for Anand and myself. I think it was a pretty good deal, because not only is this Jaegermeister wristband absurdly stylish, but it also doubles as a good iPod protector. Anand bought us some black market Heineken to celebrate a deal well done.

We also got a healthy dose of Americana that night. In one of the squares, some Christian evangelical organization had set up a stage of sorts and was doing an old-school tent revival. I wouldn't think twice about seeing something like this in the States, but in The Netherlands? I was surprised, needless to say. Anyways, the head preacher-guy would sing and shout the typical phrases, and a Dutch guy next to him would translate for the crowd. "Jesus Christ is risen!" "Jesus Krijst op roosijn!" "He is our savior!" "Het op oor saavdijks!" (Note: the Dutch translations I have written may or may not be grammatically correct. In fact, they may not be Dutch at all!)

Anyways, it was a fine way to wrap things up in The Netherlands. The next day, I hopped on the train to Antwerp, Belgium. This city really surprised me. I wasn't originally planning on going, but I couldn't find a decent Brussels hostel for that night, so I decided to give it a try. As it turns out, Antwerp (or at least what little I saw of it) is a beautiful town, with plenty of quaint cafes to hang out at and lots of picturesque cobbled streets and alleyways to get lost in. I'm glad I went.

After Antwerp it was on to Brussels, the so-called "capital of Europe." I wasn't as impressed with Brussels as I was with Antwerp. The main square and gardens were beautiful, but I got the impression that, just below the surface, it was really mostly a working town. All the glass-and-steel skyscrapers reinforced this. I spent most of my time wandering the town with an American named Mike, who despite his somewhat high-strung, semi-paranoid attitude ("I left a book and my toiletries sitting on my bed...anyone could steal them!") was a pretty fun guy. We logged plenty of miles exploring the city, including a trip to the quirky Atomium, which is essentially a 10- story steel representation of a molecule. I'm not sure what it's there for. It was actually undergoing renovation at the time so we couldn't go up in it, but we figured we had to see it after reading the brochure: "Come see the renovation!" That was the first time I ever saw someone touting the fact that an attraction was closed for repairs.

Well, I'm a little behind on my blogging at the moment; I'm actually finishing up my visit to Paris at the moment! I'll write about that when I get the chance. Au revoir!