Day Twelve: Getaway Day

Hello! After a more-than-three-week absence, I am continuing with Winter Vacation!  With only a couple weeks left in France, I might be posting a lot less as I spend as much time as I can actually living, and what posts I do make will be current, real-time posts instead of recounting my vacations.  But since there are only a couple days left of my Winter Vacation, I will try to finish that one, at least. Once my contract ends, I will continue recounting my vacations here, as I think those vacations still have stories to tell that can't be recounted in pictures alone.  So, in conclusion, stay tuned!  It's gonna be a hodge-podge couple of weeks!  And without further ado, here's Day Twelve.

Day Eleven: We Paid for That?!

Holy crap, no one move: we woke up this morning, and no one had stolen any of our food!  I was flying, angels were crying, and pigs were singing or something like that.

Day Ten: I Would Walk 500 Miles

Is it really worth it anymore to complain that food got stolen?  No?  You’ve started taking it for granted?  So have I.  (In case you were wondering, it was my yogurt.)

Today we dedicated to Petrín Hill and the buildings we only wanted to see, so we steeled ourselves to walk clear across the city to the bottom of Petrín Hill, and we traipsed merrily along for about six blocks until Verity realized she had left her phone on her bed in the hostel: big no-no, especially when yogurt and pears weren’t even safe (and I’m putting away the bitter now).  She retraced her steps, promising to meet me at the funicular stop using public transportation so that we would theoretically arrive in the same place at the same time.

Day Nine: Did We Really Do All That?

I’ve had enough.  This morning, two of Verity’s four pears were stolen, and now you get to suffer through a rant, so fasten your seatbelts kids: this could get punctuation-y.

Why Is Six Afraid of Seven? Because Seven Eight . . .?

Day Nine is beyond ridiculously long, so I’ll combine only Days Seven and Eight and deal with not completing the joke in the title of this post.  (Rule 4, right?)

Day Seven: Impenetrable

The morning of our last full day in Budapest dawned clear and bright, and I rejoiced, for we would be journeying up to the other vantage point overlooking the city: Buda Castle.  While we ate breakfast, there were two other girls sharing the kitchen with us, and they asked us the requisite questions: where were we from?  How long were we in Budapest?  What would we recommend to do there?  And we bounced the questions back to them.  They were working as au pairs in Geneva, Switzerland (as I had gathered from the American-sounding one when she asserted that they should get a massage, as they wouldn’t be able to afford one in Swiss francs), and one was from Brighton, England while the other was from Washington, D.C. (ha!  I knew it).  They seemed completely amiable, and I found the southern English accent endlessly entertaining, but one niggling nuance bugged me: either consciously or unconsciously, the American girl would slide into a British vocal pattern.

Day Six: Spa/Snow Day!

I woke up the next morning with one thought and one thought only: SPA DAY!

Day Five: In Communist Russia, Tram Rides You!

The day dawned bright but not too terribly cold, and after rejoicing over a traditional tourist breakfast of muesli, yogurt, and a fruit, we headed downstairs to the reception desk in order to ask for directions to the Communist Statue Park.

“Are you sure want to go there?” the receptionist asked, half-standing from his chair. “It’s really far away, and it is really cold.”

“We know,” we answered brightly, hoping to preclude any other attempts at dissuading us.  To no avail.

“There’s a private bus that goes right there, but it’s expensive. . . .” he trailed off, and we nodded.

“We know.  Do you know how to get there through public transportation?”

Even if he didn’t do it physically, he totally heaved an eye roll mentally.  “Hold on one minute.”  He eventually wrote down (illegible) directions to Memento Park/Communist Statue Park (from now on CSP) and advised us to buy a day transportation pass before we finally trooped out of the hostel, teeth pulling complete.

Days Three and Four (Catchy Titles Inside)

As I'm sticking with vow to actually blog this whole vacation before the next one, dangnabit, I decided to combine these two.  Hope you don't mind too much.

Day Two: Dear French Karma: Really?

I spent the night huddled under an extra-thick duvet and a blanket as well as in my thermal pajamas and a sweater.  So much for hotels being better than hostels.  After a disappointing breakfast (and an even more disappointing shower), I head to the train station to see when the next TER to Sessenheim was.  TER trains work like the Metra in Chicago: you buy a ticket for whenever you need to use it, and it doesn’t tell you the train number, time, or direction.  Therefore, I had to ask a SNCF person which direction and which time to look for.  The nice man told me the next train was at 10:54, direction Haguenau.  Okay, fabulous.  I had a little over an hour to kill, and as pretty as I found the Strasbourg train station, I felt like I should, y’know, see Strasbourg itself.  So I booked it to the cathedral to take a quick spin, and wow, I’m glad I did.

Day One: Travel Curse, Be Gone!

A vacation couldn’t possibly be a Becky vacation without a travel problem, and so far this one hasn’t disappointed.

Pre-Trip Brouhaha

You'll be pleasantly surprised with the fact that I (almost) faithfully blogged throughout (almost) all of the Winter Vacation!  That means you get an actual chronicle of my vacation.  You can commence your celebrations.  Or running away: I'll only judge you a little bit.