Since Jaime and I have lived in Germany, we have not had many visitors. With this said, you can imagine our excitement that my husband’s best friend Luis, his brother Jesus and their friend Jeremy would come visit us for 2 weeks. We took advantage of their visit and decided to take some time off and show them some of our favorite European cities and enjoy a new one together. We began our journey by spending an evening in Munich, then boarding an overnight train to Amsterdam, followed by a 3 day trip to Paris.
There we were, in Munich…4 men and me. We were ready. We were packed. We had all of our tickets and reservations confirmed and we were all carrying a ton of cash to party our nights away in the city I consider my second home…Amsterdam. With a few hours to kill, we decided to introduce our visitors to a little joint called the Hofbräuhaus. Well, maybe it’s not that little. But it’s the most famous pub in the world and it has been there since 1607, but this is beside the point. After taking the tram, we walked down a few cobble stone roads to get there. We sit, eat and drink a liter when suddenly I notice I can’t get my foot to move. At first, I think that I have gotten my toes stuck somewhere. After three attempts to lift my foot, I hear a tear. “OH NO, I torn my jeans” is my first thought. (Somehow at this moment I predicted the future.) But when I finally slid from my seat, I realized that my shoe looked like it was talking. The bottom half of my spiky tipped flats had ripped. As I tell my husband, and my other traveling partners, they laugh it off and tell me we will take a cab to the train station instead of walking and taking the tram. Although, I am relieved, I am extremely disappointed that this has happened. Sure, I packed more shoes, but my flats literally went with everything…EVERYTHING! (Note: if you are a woman/girl reading this, I know you get it. If you’re a dude, imagine your favorite beer, the beer that will never let you down being discontinued. You picturing it? It’s like that.) I jump off the cab, walk into the train station, pull my luggage from our locker and put my sneakers on. Completely defeated I say one last goodbye to my shoes and chuck ‘em and don’t look back. I mean, I was going to Amsterdam and Paris, I was sure to find more there. Right? At this point I board my overnight train to Amsterdam.
We arrive in Amsterdam at 9 am. Not feeling refreshed, ready for a shower and being greeted by the herbal scent of pot. We attempted to check in, but our room wasn’t ready. SO…What is the first thing boys want to do in Amsterdam at 10 am? Go down the Red Light District of course! (Well in all honesty, they weren’t being pushy, but really we all just wanted to take a shower badly before we walked into a respectable establishment.) We popped into a bar and had a beer. I had bragged about my love for Duvel during the last two days and thought it would be a great idea for them to try it out. As we sipped on some Belgium beers and indigenous brewed Heineken, I decided to go to the restroom before we continued on our walk in the city. About 30 minutes after we left the bar, the boys decided they wanted to visit The Amsterdam Dungeon. This is definitely not my scene, and I was not willing to spend 20 euro on something I was not interested in, so I said, “I’ll wait this out at this café here and write”. As I sat down at the Societe Wunderbar. I felt a cold breeze come in and looked for my black Michael Kors cardigan, but suddenly it was gone. I looked in my bag, under my jacket, and there is was…not. I immediately think “Did I drop it?”
Photo: Courtesy of Jesus Ortega
When I see Jaime, Luis, Jeremy and Jesus again, I mention to them that I think I dropped my cardigan. Jeremy says, “Did you leave it in the restroom at that bar?” and I said, “No I don’t think I took it off.” When we look at pictures when we were sitting at the bar, I noticed that I still had it on, right before I went to the restroom. At this point, I figured I took it off at the bar and left it. Any other time, I would have gone back, but I was exhausted, I was covered in sweat, I was sleep deprived and I would not dare ask the boys to walk me all the way back from where we came from just to get my sweater when we were so close to our room and we were 15 minutes away from check in and blissful showers. I just shook my head and said “Are you fucking kidding me? I loved that sweater…Ugh”.
Finally, we were in Paris! We were on our last day of our trip and decided that we would visit Jim Morrison’s grave, Notre Dame Cathedral, and the Louvre. We had spent the whole day, walking, eating, shopping and finally we arrived at the Louvre. I have spent my whole life waiting for the moment I would arrive here. (But we will talk about this really soon, back to my story). We walked around the Louvre for a few hours, and were amazed at how beautiful it was, not just the objects inside, but the building itself – it was breathtaking. As we are getting ready to leave, I tell the boys, “I’m going to the restroom and then we can head out”. After waiting in line for what seemed like forever, it is finally my turn and as I pull my pants down, as predicted in Munich, I tore the crotch area of my jeans. As I stand there (squatting) I laugh. Of course, this would happen to me. I mean, Munich took my shoes, Amsterdam blitzed me out of my sweater and Paris would have my pants. I return to the boys and I tell them “Well, I made a New Year’s Resolution to no longer go shopping, but I think it’s time to break it…” As they stared at me confused I finished by saying “…I tore my pants.” Now, Jaime was no longer laughing. He shook his head and most likely thought the same thing as I did, “You came to see the Mona Lisa, with a huge hole in your crotch”
Has this ever happened to anyone else?
OH WAIT: I know what your thinking….”She took this long and didn’t say anything else about her trip”. No worries! More stories to come in the following days.