It’s been a while since I last blogged and a lot has happened since then. I went to Barcelona, Paris with my parents, and Prague with a fever. When my parents came to visit they pointed out the fact that I seem to only blog about embarrassing things that happen to me. They also asked me to include them in my next blog post so here’s a shout out to them — hi Mom and Dad! But they’re right, I do blog about a lot of embarrassing things at my own expense. So to keep in line with my previous posts, I’ll be sure to throw in some embarrassing tidbits today.
Traveling with my parents was great — they paid for everything. Just kidding, it really was great for other reasons too. Like how my dad stopped to take a picture of my mom and I every five minutes. I’m not joking about this. We’d be waiting at a metro stop and he’d whip out his camera. After the second or third metro stop I began to act like I didn’t hear him and look the other way. Sorry, Dad, but metro stops are not that memorable. But all joking aside, we ate lots of yummy pastries, saw a lot of pretty art, and drank a lot of cappuccinos. It doesn’t get much better than that in the city of love.
Prague is a whole other story. The week prior to our weekend trip I was starting to feel run down and by the time we boarded the plane to Prague, I could feel the fever in my muscles. But I wasn’t going to let that stop me from seeing such an amazing city. So I toughed it out during the day and trekked through the 90 degree weather until I collapsed in my bunker bed at night. (It was also a bunk bed, but I referred to it as my bunker bed because it felt like we were sleeping in a bunker.) A sweltering hot (Prague doesn’t believe in air conditioning) bunker in which I shivered as I sweat out my fever. I’m painting a nice picture for you, aren’t I?
I slept on the first bed next to the door in the lower left-hand corner. Some of the guys were nice and handed me tissues — probably to get me to stop sniffling.
Well, one night as I was hanging out in our hostel’s bar (everyone else I came with went out to the bars that night and I stayed back at our hostel) I realized I hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning and it was 10 p.m. and I was hungry so I ordered an English pie and sat in a booth by myself. (English pie was the only real sustenance they offered on their menu.)
While I sat waiting, a guy from Bristol, England I had briefly met earlier sat down next to me and his friend from Ireland sat on the other side. So there I sat, bookended by these two guys drinking their beers, as they proceeded to ask me all about Texas. I’m not sure why they had such a fascination with Texas, but for some reason I could never really get across to them that I had never been to Texas myself and therefore wasn’t very knowledgeable about it. But we talked, and I ate my English pie, and I just remember thinking how ridiculous I felt croaking at these two boys (I was losing my voice at this point) and eating my pie as everyone else around me drank their beers in this bunker bar in Prague.
By the next day I had completely lost my voice and refrained from speaking unless it was absolutely necessary. Not talking was a very weird and frustrating experience. Even if I did try to talk, no one could really hear me and more frustration ensued. So I listened and let people talk at me while I simply nodded my head or gave a thumbs up. While I listened to people, I began to realize how often everyone contributes to a conversation by adding something that they personally experienced. No one asked them about whether or not they liked cookies or had a cousin at camp, but that’s how we all seem to converse — by starting every sentence with the word I. Since Prague, I have gained my voice back and rid myself of my fever (thanks to antibiotics) but I have also tried to use the word I less. I’m not really sure how successful I’ve been thus far, but it’s a work in progress.
I hate stairs in general and fever climbing is even worse, but I’m glad I made it up these.
On a side note, European airports seem to have a personal vendetta against me. Back in high school when I traveled to Greece, I had just had surgery on my torn ACL and had to run across the airport in Frankfurt to catch a plane. It was not fun. While traveling back home from Prague, one of our flights was delayed and I had to run across the airport in Amsterdam with my full blown fever and it was also not fun. Airports: 2, Morgan: 0. Here’s to hoping I don’t have to sprint across any airports on Saturday.
I apologize if you were hoping for more embarrassment, but I haven’t lost my phone in any other canals or come across any other pairs of devil shoes — though I have started wearing them again. Sadly, this will probably be my last blog post about my adventures in Europe (I know you’re all devastated and searching for a tissue box now) but I thank you for reading and I can’t wait to see everyone in less than a week! Au revoir!