Never before have I taken a Spring Break trip with friends and never will I be able to top the last week. It was, in a word, AWESOMENESS.
I'm not sure what my favorite part was. Maybe it was when we went to a John Legend concert in Paris and Kanye West showed up as a surprise performer. But then again, Versailles was pretty awesome, as was going to the top of the Eiffel Tower at night, being surrounded by Ingram's Southern friends, and getting hit on by street artists at Montmartre. "It is a shame you do not pose for me!" Munich was pretty awesome too - Starnberger See, the Starkbierfest, walking around the old city at night, gettin' silly at the Hofbrauhaus, staying up all night with some American soldiers we found in Munich, and getting a job at Retarus for the summer.
And that doesn't even start to dive into the types of trouble we got into. Good trouble, as always, but trouble nonetheless. For instance, I tried to take a bottle of Champagne to the top of the Eiffel Tower because we wanted to pop some bottles at the top. No dice. The guard, who didn't speak English and was very rude (but then again I was very drunk), made me go hide my huge beer and bottle of Champagne in the nearby garden. I thought my alcohol was a goner, however the French wine-snobs clearly thought that my 2 euro bottle of Champagne was an insult to their palette, and my alcohol was safe and sound when we got down. We got into far more trouble in Munich than we did in Paris. I told Ingram two things about the city - I had never, ever felt uncomfortable walking around at night and I had never, ever gotten my ticket checked on the U-bahn. Both of those things happened within a matter of 24 hours. I'm pretty sure Ingram is just bad luck.
Our first night in Munich we decided to go to this little Mexican place that was down the street from my old apartment. I'm pretty sure I've had the same blonde, old, slightly haggard looking waitress every time I've eaten there and I'm sure she's gotten sick of me ordering my jumbo mojitos and stumbling out sloppy every time I'm done with my meal. Needless to say, Ingram's southern drinking habits have rubbed off on me and we walked out of the restaurant and down to the altstadt where I tried to explain the history of Munich's buildings. We talked to everyone we saw - young men, old men, the girl who worked at Haagen Daaz, etc. Eventually we came across two old Turkish men and instead of just telling us where another bar was (like we needed one... right) they wanted to take us there. It got really uncomfortable, especially since they were old enough to be our fathers. We ended up ditching them by ducking into a nearby bathroom and I explained, in German, to the waiter that we needed a side exit NOW. He snuck us through the kitchen, Mission Impossible style, and we paid him for his escape services. The next day after coming back from Salzburg, GI fucking Jane stopped us on the U-bahn and asked for our tickets. Of course we didn't buy tickets because, of course, I never get stopped. I whipped out my long-distance train ticket from Salzburg prepared to play the "stupid tourist card" and praying she would be lenient. For some reason I'll never comprehend, she accepted our long distance train ticket as valid and we didn't have to pay the 40 euro fine for being a schwartzfahrer.
The Starkbierfest had trouble written all over it from the start. Imagine this: 13% alcohol beer, served in liters, in a hall full of drunken Germans in lederhosen who are singing "itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini" at the top of their lungs and dancing on tables. We sat next to two seemingly sweet old men who looked exactly like my father.. well they did, until they started trying to pull down my shirt. I don't understand it. We were old men magnets the entire trip. I'm going to sum up the night by saying that I have more bruises than I can count and my lips hurt from kissing too much. Good thing those were separate instances - I got the bruises from falling off of the table (because naturally we climbed on top of them to dance) and my lips hurt, well, for the obvious reason. Four hours of making out will do that to anyone.
Hm. I'm noticing a trend. All of our "trouble" also involved alcohol. Good to know. Magically, Ingram and I didn't get separated and nothing was lost or stolen, so it was definitely fun trouble and not bad trouble.
I'll write more about our trip later, but if you're über bored definitely listen to the song "Cowboy und Indianer" on youtube and learn the dance. After two liters of Starbier it is the best. song. ever. The dance that accompanies it is pretty awesome too.
I'm going to give my liver a break for awhile and go get some homework done...
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Monday, March 16, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Poison Ivy
The summer internship search has begun at Wharton. It's not called job-hunting, it's called "recruiting." It's like we're ten years old again and picking teams for a dodge ball game and everyone is secretly hoping they won't be the last person left. What an awful process. I want a recruiter that picks their interns with the same approach Herb Brooks had for hockey. He didn't pick the best players, he picked the right ones. Crazy? The US Olympic Committee certainly thought so. In the end, he pulled off the biggest upset in hockey history in a game we now refer to by one noun only - miracle.
Somehow, I think I'll have a hard time convincing a UBS recruiter that my lack of 4.0 is analogous to beating the snot out of the Russians.
Since I'm pretty sure I'll end up unemployed and living out of a box in a few years, I have decided to write a book. I'll post it chapter by chapter, and feel free to leave comments (even mean ones.) So here it is, the introduction to Poison Ivy, by Elizabeth Schneider.
Introduction:
I believe you should give credit where credit is due. This book would never have existed without one rather special writing instructor of mine – Kristine Bender*. She was my inspiration. She inspired me to prove her wrong. Indeed, Poison Ivy is my personal salute to the University of Pennsylvania and their worthless writing requirement that taught me absolutely nothing about writing: Cheers.
To begin my tale, I guess I should start from the beginning, it’s a very good place to start (or so I hear.) When you read, you begin with A-B-C. When you go to college you begin with “regurgitate this information on the next test and you will get an A, or maybe a B, or maybe a C.” At least, that is how the writing program is structured at Penn. I understand the need to study different forms of writing. However, I don’t think following cookie-cutter outlines is effective way to learn how to write. Enter: Kristine Bender, a graduate student on a power trip with a no-nonsense curriculum, and you have a very spicy recipe for conflict.
It was the perfect storm of ingredients. As a freshman I was naïve enough to believe that I could help a teacher see the error of their ways and stupid enough to pick a fight about it. My argument was grounded on the principle that forcing students to write in a pre-packaged, outlined form doesn’t help them to develop better writing skills. Instead, it makes them master imitators, purely parroting the teachers’ wishes. The following example is not the first time I clashed with Kristine, and certainly wasn’t the last. The assignment was simple enough; write a narrative with a moral. While writing I came across a roadblock. Great thinkers have been arguing about morality since the beginning of time. If they hadn’t come up with a solution, I didn’t see why I had to.
So, I wrote a narrative about one of my many less-than-perfect actions. Then came the one moment, the climactic sentence, the part where I would assert my moral superiority - the part that I never wrote. Instead, I concluded with, “There is no neat, gift wrapped ending to this tale. Instead, I leave the lesson for you to ponder, discard it as rubbish if you please, or find your own meaning within it. The end.” I thought it was a mature way to end an unrealistic assignment. Kristine thought otherwise. My essay got a C - for “… failing to meet outlined objectives.”
So in part, this book is motivated by revenge. This is for Kristine Bender, who constantly told me, “No, you can’t.” With this work (and my middle finger straight up) I say, “Watch me.”
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Comments are always appreciated!
Somehow, I think I'll have a hard time convincing a UBS recruiter that my lack of 4.0 is analogous to beating the snot out of the Russians.
Since I'm pretty sure I'll end up unemployed and living out of a box in a few years, I have decided to write a book. I'll post it chapter by chapter, and feel free to leave comments (even mean ones.) So here it is, the introduction to Poison Ivy, by Elizabeth Schneider.
Introduction:
I believe you should give credit where credit is due. This book would never have existed without one rather special writing instructor of mine – Kristine Bender*. She was my inspiration. She inspired me to prove her wrong. Indeed, Poison Ivy is my personal salute to the University of Pennsylvania and their worthless writing requirement that taught me absolutely nothing about writing: Cheers.
To begin my tale, I guess I should start from the beginning, it’s a very good place to start (or so I hear.) When you read, you begin with A-B-C. When you go to college you begin with “regurgitate this information on the next test and you will get an A, or maybe a B, or maybe a C.” At least, that is how the writing program is structured at Penn. I understand the need to study different forms of writing. However, I don’t think following cookie-cutter outlines is effective way to learn how to write. Enter: Kristine Bender, a graduate student on a power trip with a no-nonsense curriculum, and you have a very spicy recipe for conflict.
It was the perfect storm of ingredients. As a freshman I was naïve enough to believe that I could help a teacher see the error of their ways and stupid enough to pick a fight about it. My argument was grounded on the principle that forcing students to write in a pre-packaged, outlined form doesn’t help them to develop better writing skills. Instead, it makes them master imitators, purely parroting the teachers’ wishes. The following example is not the first time I clashed with Kristine, and certainly wasn’t the last. The assignment was simple enough; write a narrative with a moral. While writing I came across a roadblock. Great thinkers have been arguing about morality since the beginning of time. If they hadn’t come up with a solution, I didn’t see why I had to.
So, I wrote a narrative about one of my many less-than-perfect actions. Then came the one moment, the climactic sentence, the part where I would assert my moral superiority - the part that I never wrote. Instead, I concluded with, “There is no neat, gift wrapped ending to this tale. Instead, I leave the lesson for you to ponder, discard it as rubbish if you please, or find your own meaning within it. The end.” I thought it was a mature way to end an unrealistic assignment. Kristine thought otherwise. My essay got a C - for “… failing to meet outlined objectives.”
So in part, this book is motivated by revenge. This is for Kristine Bender, who constantly told me, “No, you can’t.” With this work (and my middle finger straight up) I say, “Watch me.”
---
Comments are always appreciated!
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