Heading home

I’m at Schippol airport in Amsterdam waiting for my 8:55 a.m. flight home to Toronto. Didn’t get much sleep last night – Friday night in the Red Light District means rowdiness outside your window until 5:30 a.m. By the time 6 a.m. rolled around and I was heading towards the train station, everyone had deserted the streets.

The last four days has not been the greatest.

The contrast of hot and cold temperatures, I suspect, made me sick. It started off with a cold and I think it’s starting to come around to bronchitis. So the first stop back home will definitely be the doctor’s office for some meds.

But Amsterdam went out with a bang.

I took Javiss out for a birthday dinner at Supper Club, a very YOURS-like place in the tourist district. Dave’s co-worker had recommended I check it out and it looked just fucked-up enough to peak my curiosity. From what I gathered, it was like Cirque Du Soleil in a posh club with beds. I immediately pictured that episode of Sex and the City when the girls “go to Bed” and Carrie tells off Berger’s friends.

Five courses, bit pricey, but it was the way to go. Food was excellent, service matched. And they even offered foot and back massages right before dessert. Awesome.

I really enjoyed my time in Europe, but usually when two weeks roll around I feel it’s time to head home. I miss my bed, Dave, my friends, my family. And Wampa!

I did enjoy the romanticism of Paris. London has the nicest people willing to give directions and Amsterdam is very laid-back. But I think Spain won my heart.

Running with the bulls was a huge accomplishment for me. It was great hanging out with Erin and it was also the time where I felt most free and open to meeting new people.

Almost boarding time…

Thanks for reading.

Live Sex! On an elevated velvet spinning platform!

About three hours ago, I went to my first paid live-sex show.
It didn't make me cum, but it made me want to come back.
(That swingers club I went to for that Sun story a while back doesn't count.)
I was walking solo up and down and around the Red Light District, awkwardly passing by the lingerie-claded women pressed up against the inviting doorways, their bodies bathed in blood red.
Side note: I liked watching the boys sitting on the edge of the canal, skipping stones and comparing Cliff's Notes on the hookers.
Second side note: The poor women look like puppies at the pound. "Pick me!"
Attracted to brightly-coloured lights myself, I wound up in front of a neon storefront advertising for "2 euro peep shows."
Basically, there is a circular set up of private booths and you go into one that isn't occupied. A red or green light indicates whether there is someone in there or not. There is a grid of photos of the performers attached to the booth numbers.
I stepped into booth seven. Lucky seven turned out to be mediocre seven.
Some dark haired Russian non-challantly strips down to her thong and then nothing and spins around in the circular bed. She's more interested in the anxious-looking guy across the way than me – which is understandable. Plus, I think I had the "Home Alone AHHHH!" face on too.
I don't feel like I've gained my 2 euros worth, so I steal some masturbatory paper and stuff it in my pocket. Something to blow my nose with later.
I make my leave and walk a few places down the street and end up at Casa Rosso, which boasts its non-stop live sex shows. I figure it's probably something I needed to see before leaving Amsterdam, so I proudly slap down my 30 euros and take my orange ticket and proceed into the theatre (think small movie theatre setup).
I sit at the end of a middle row beside an Italian couple. I notice there are several other couples in the theatre, but the majority are single men.
There is already a show going on where a showgirl grabs five guys and gals on stage and dances individually with each one. She then lays down a rug and whips out her yellow potassium gun – yes, her banana.
I squeal.
Finally! I get to see a banana show.
She peels it halfway back and inserts it up her cooch and one-by-one, invites the participants on stage to take a bite as she tightly wraps her legs around their necks for a few seconds until they emerge with a mouthful of mushy fruit. I did say fruit, right? Not fish?
Anyway, act one completed.
Next up, a brunette performs a striptease and after all the clothes go, a dildo comes out. She shows she practices cleanliness by putting on a condom onto the length of the plastic marital aid and starts inserting it up and down from all angles. Tada. Curtains close.
Act three is a couple. A Russian beefcake and his brunette girlfriend – as the announcer called it – as I also didn't see any condoms used. Club anthems booming through the speakers, she blows him while he fingers her, but creepily looking at the crowd for affirmation. When it comes to penetrating, he jackrabbits her to the sound of the beats. What the? He spreads his legs like a gymnast at one point and lifts her up, tosses her back, grabs her hair.
I realize I just paid for a Cirque Du Soleil sex show.
There was no cumshot, but he did take a bow as the curtains closed. The theatrics!
Next up was a skinny blonde girl with a very girlish face who didn't seem too interested in her striptease, but she did enjoy smoking cigars. And apparently, so did her vagina.
(Insert Home Alone face here again.)
Now, the next couple. Wow.
They were black and both very muscular. He started off with some oral, which lasted a while. She flipped up after a few minutes and exchanged the favour as he seemed to concentrate on keeping his erection. As the bass lines increased, he started having sex with her and at one point, she was holding him entirely up as he was positioned on all fours. He then fucked her in an upside down L-shape. It was crazy. They never slipped up once. It wasn't necessarily sexy – just impressive.
The stamina, the balance, the well-rehearsed moves, all of it.
The final show was a tall blonde woman, possibly German. She was dressed in a bondage PVC outfit and stripped down to White Stripes' "I Just Don't Know What to Do with Myself." Awesome.
Her schtick was pulling miles and miles of neon ribbon out of her pussy. A never ending shoestring. That was just odd than anything else.
Then the house lights came on and everyone started leaving. I tried counting the number of erections, but gave up after a dozen.
I left the Red Light District feeling a strong sense of satisfaction.


Photo: Casa Rosso

London Bridge No Longer Exists

I didn't know that until Javiss told me that.
Apparently, some American tycoon bought London Bridge thinking it was Tower Bridge and there you have it, London Bridge is no more.
This will be short because I'm fading fast.
Currently at St. Christopher Winston hostel in the Red Light District. It's a great little hostel with colourful art pieces on the hallway walls and some rooms are unique "art rooms." Ours is of masked women which freak me out every time I exit the shower.
Our most daring adventure tonight was seeking spicy Indian food. Mission accomplished. And to up the risque ante, it was a place called The Kama Sutra. Anyone knows that Indian is quite possibly the worst you can order before attempting to get it on with someone.
2:38 a.m. Heading to bed. We're renting bikes tomorrow and doing a tour of the Heineken brewery and possibly Van Gogh's museum. London entry can wait. The bass umph-umph from the club next door is giving my brain a hemorrhage.
Goodnight, all.

"En Francais!"

PARIS

Exiting St. Pancras train station in London felt a bit weird because everything was written in English and people around me were speaking it.
After a week of hearing two other languages consistently, it felt odd.
I'm on a Tube double-decker bus en-route to Oxford to meet Javiss and his family. His brother Jeff is graduating from the university for archeology, so it should be a fun party ahead tonight.
But back to Paris.
Two nights in that city – felt enough. I did enjoy my time there, but I sort of didn't see the whole appeal of "Paris, J'taime."
The first night I arrived at the Plug-Inn Hostel I crashed big time. I think I needed it. Got into my shared room with two other girls around 6 p.m. and I meant to only sleep for an hour or two. I woke up at around 10:30 p.m.
I still ended up going out to the Champs Elysses strip and tested out Dave's Gorillapod with picture-taking.
A single woman with a camera seems to attract creepy guys or at least gives a reason for creepy guys to go up to you.
While walking south to Franklin Roosevelt, I watched a clown entertain some parents and kids. I started snapping away. He asked me if I could e-mail me and gave me his address and pointed to his cheek for a kiss. OK, fine, I'm in Paris. Whatever.
And then he went in for the lips. EUGH.
The metro closes around 12:45 a.m. or 1:15 a.m. depending on which areas of the city you're in. I was looking at the map, trying to figure out how to get back to my station, Blanche.
A young guy stood beside me and through my broken French, I conveyed this is where I have to go. He started asking me questions about where I'm from, gave me a high five...and somehow he started to hold my hand. Down the street, he held my hand, while I felt really awkward and uncomfortable.
I wasn't sure if it was a "Parisian thing" so I didn't really want to be rude. Eventually though, I was trying to explain to him that I had a boyfriend and he didn't understand. I told him, "OK, je suis trouvee seul un taxi. Au revoir."
Cabbed it home. I ended up staying near the Moulin Rouge, where all the seedy sex clubs are at. Didn't really mind it.
Day 2 - was a long one. Got up earlier and checked out the Eiffel Tower while gypsies kept trying to sell gawdy gold coloured tower keychains to tourists. Again, played around with the gorillapod. Is it weird that all I could think about was that scene in 28 Weeks Later with the zombies running towards the tower?
Met up with Dominika for lunch at Les Deux Abeilles and wow, when this girl is on a European food tour, she knows her stuff. Amazing egg and tomato dish with ginger and honey lemonade. Season pie for dessert.
Explored the St. Paul area for shopping. Erin told me in Europe that they have government-regulated sales twice a year. Just so happens we came at the right time. Still, I couldn't find anything that fit me properly or caught my eye, and a lot of stuff was still ridiculously overpriced. C'mon, Europe! Cater to the short Asian women!
Checked out the Louvre, don't think I even scratched the surface, but hey, I went.
Went walking...for quite a long time. From the Latin Quarter back to the Eiffel Tower. I think I must've walked 10 km. yesterday.
Tried going into Chez L'Ami Jean, but they shut me out twice during my Parisian visit. Rude about me not having a reservation. Sheesh. "We're all booked up," is what the snooty girl kept saying.
I ended up going to another restaurant with a view of the Eiffel Tower. Terrible. Wrong order, shoddy service, poor food. But I did get to see the tower glitter for a short while, which I have to admit, is a bit tacky-looking.
Today's food choice was much better – sampled escargots and they weren't bad! Tasted like mushrooms, sort of. And a duck confit, which was very tasty. Ah, glad my gastronomic experience ended off well. Also picked up a pack of those macaroons that Dom was raving about, but I think i'll wait until I get back home to dig in.
Didn't really get to meet any new people, but loved that I ran into Dominika while I was there.
"You just can't escape the foul stench of Toronto!" I said as I gave her a hug.
Oi! London next...

To be continued.

Run, Run, Rudolph

PAMPLONA

If you’re reading this, it means that I survived the running of the bulls.

Even luckier, I came out of it completely unscathed.

When I was toying with the idea of checking out the San Fermin festival in Pamplona, I decided early on there was no way I was going to put my frail petite body in the path of six pissed off 600-kilogram bulls.

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment when I changed my mind – it might have been the night Spain won the world cup and all the honking outside kept me awake and thinking that at least saying you ran with the bulls was worth experiencing.

And this morning, I fucking did it.

Like Tom Cruise – into the danger zone.

There are a whole list of rules to follow. One of them is get a good night’s sleep. But after two hours, I woke up and just started worrying and strategizing. It’s like planning for a sport that’s completely unpredictable. No one knows what’s going to happen, if a bull is going to start charging people behind or what. You can only play it smart and as things happen.

On the last day of San Fermin, apparently they bring out the Con Dias, which basically is a herd of pissed off bulls.

At San Sebastian, I met a family from California. The dad, Leon, is an old veteran at bull running – or outrunning, rather – with roughly 20 years under his belt.

I am so thankful I met him.

He told me that he and his buddies would be running again today and to meet him on Santo Domingo St.

But when I went downtown at 6:30 a.m., I couldn’t find him. So I talked to some other people who did the run and tried getting some tips. The police started herding people out of the main streets and closed the big steel gates.

All the gates shut all the non-runners out by 7:15 a.m.

I thought, Oh fuck. Did I just get myself out of the race?

In a panic, I shouted at the policeman: “Ingles?” and started to make the running motion. He pointed to me to go around. I snuck under the wooden barriers in the next block and whew, was back in the game.

And that’s where I ran into Leon.

“Boy, am I happy to see you!” I said.

He calmed me down and gave me some wise advice.

“Go up halfway on Estafeta and stay perfectly still when the bulls are coming,” he said. “Let them pass. And then when they do, if you want to get into the stadium, run after them.”

He suggested a storefront to keep my back to, gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, “Good luck.”

That was the last time I saw Leon.

That sounded worse than intended – I’m assuming he made it out OK and went on to party at a bar at 8:30 a.m. once the run was done.

His advice was reassuring but it still didn’t undo the tight knots in my stomach. I felt my heart racing.

He told me, “Take the fear in with you into the stadium along with the bulls. That’s what it’s all about.”

Five minutes until the first rocket was set to fire.

Everyone with their red hankerchiefs and white ensembles start jogging on the spot and stretching.

8 a.m.

We hear the blast of the first rocket.

That means on your mark.

The second rocket fires immediately after signaling all the bulls are out of the pen. The second one follows that mean that bulls are now running up the steep hill.

In other words, move your ass.

One thing I learned from watching the run from a balcony the day before is these bulls are fast. They might not look speedy on a television screen, but I assure you are powerful, energetic and terrifying when their horns are down and aimed in your direction.

Listen for the hooves. Watch the crowd. If they’re snapping pictures like crazy and screaming, the bulls are not far behind.

And a minute later, I saw everyone running towards me. In the centre of several hundred people were four beasts stampeding while some people were taking shelter in other storefronts; others staying directly in their path, but trying to dodge them.

As instructed, I let them pass. An Asian guy who had been running metres before me came up beside me to take shelter. I put my arm out against his chest so he wouldn’t fall into the hordes of sprinters.

Then we took off running after them in hopes of getting to the collesium. Only problem was many people, myself included, didn’t factor in the two missing bulls, which were behind everyone. The two strays I found out did a lot of damage back there. One of them gored a guy wearing a Santa hat against a barricade.

Third rocket – all bulls are now in the building.

Then finally, fourth rocket – all bulls are safely in the corral of Plaza de Toros. On average it takes about 4 mins. from the first rocket to the last.

The crowd was segregated through a metal fence and many of us didn’t get to make it into the colisium, which is a bit of a shame.

I saw ambulance take someone away on a stretcher.

But it was definitely a rush. I popped into a café where spectators watched recaps of the run. There, I saw the Santa guy getting beaten up and another guy I saw earlier on before the rockets fired.

I would do it again. It was a complete thrill and maybe next time I’d get a bit braver and run alongside the bulls instead of after them.

Pamplona has been great to me.

I look at this white San Fermin shirt that I’ve been wearing for the past three days, stained with sangria and red wine from Tuesday night’s bullfight, I look forward to my new encounter with this beautiful city with six bulls all charging down 10-metre-wide alleyways.

Just keep in mind they don’t call it “dead man’s corner” for nothing.

Ola, Espana

Day 1.
Spanish madness.
Almost equal to the positivity of a Flaming Lips show.
I was sitting in a small café in the Gothic area of Barcelona’s downtown core when Spain scored that overtime goal against The Netherlands. Up until that point, people were fairly low-key, sipping sangria and chattering with people around them.
I was with my friends (and very hospitable tour guides) Erin and Juancho when the tiny enclave erupted with cheers.
Ten minutes later, the streets were full of chaos as we headed towards the core of it all – Las Ramblas.
Fans cladded in Torres jerseys blew those annoying horns while people who lived in the towers three storeys up threw buckets full of water onto them. A guy picked me up, hugged me and spun me around while he was cheering.
Las Ramblas – a narrow island that makes up the main downtown strip – were full of people in red and yellow celebrating; others in orange mourning. All safe, all friendly. Some people draped in Spanish flags jumped onto lamp posts and celebrated that way.
Barcelona being the scooter city it is had hordes of motorcycles and scooters beeping with passengers waving flags as they approached red lights and stop signs. We got back to Erin and Juancho’s friend’s place where they were dogsitting around 1 a.m. and I was woken up by the honking, which didn’t stop until about 4 a.m.
I’m glad I was there to be apart of it.
Erin and Juancho gave me a good sample of Barcelona yesterday, showing me the medieval cathedrals, Las Ramblas and the Metro system. We ate tapas. We saw famous architect Antoni Guadi’s melting buildings. It was a lot of just walking around, which is exactly what I was looking for.
There’s something slightly intimidating of traveling alone – and maybe more so when you’re a girl going solo – but when you dive into it, there’s no better way to go.
Right now, I’m on a train en route to Pamplona.
The countryside landscapes are beautiful.
Coincidentally, I traveled with a girl from Guelph on the plane ride here (She paid $220 for a one-way direct ticket to Barcelona, lucky girl) and I just met Ian, a guy from Waterloo who walked the El Camino de Santiago and is also going to Pamplona.
I’ve made up my mind. I WILL run with the motherfucking bulls on Wednesday.
Wish me luck.

Eh, oh, let's go!

Trying to pack light. En route to Pearson.
Barcelona, allá voy!

Ahoy! Welcome to the first entry to the rest of your life.

I'm creating this blog while I'm travelling around Europe for two reasons:

1. It'll be neat and you geeks can catch up with photos of bulls spearing me ASAP.

2. If I suddenly stop writing in this it'll mean one of two things: a) I'm lazy b) I've been kidnapped and sold to a Slovakian hostel for spare parts.

Either/or, it's win-win.

Stay tunes!