Euros Ate My Dollars

In addition to our legal concerns, our journey to Prague elicited another unexpected challenge. We’d commandeered a flight through RyanAir, a cheap intra-European airline. To keep flight costs low, they levy many nebulous “fees,” and enforce strict regulations, including a weight limit of 15 kilos on any checked bag. At last weigh in, our suitcases were 22 and 18 kilos. That meant, in order to avoid the exorbitant per-kilo overage fee, we had to shed ten kilos — or 22 pounds — of weight.

We attacked the challenge with fervor, as nothing motivates us more than the potential to save money (well, except for food, my greatest motivator). The problem required two steps:

1. 1. Operation: Purge
   We unloaded the contents of our luggage onto the floor of our room and started throwing stuff away. Anything we hadn’t yet used was gone. I ditched a pair of holey jeans I’ve been clinging to (I have this problem where I can’t throw jeans away. It’s like I view them as old friends, or trusty sidekicks, that stick with me through thick and thin. It explains why I have 15 pairs in my closet, but only wear two). I won’t say that Ben has been carrying around a two-pound tub of facial moisturizer, but if he was, I would have convinced him to ditch that too.
2. Operation: Reorg (you can thank Ben’s lessons in corporatespeak for that title)
   We looked at our remaining belongings: how can we fit all of this into our suitcase, carry-ons or on our person such that our suitcases weigh 15 kilos? It was like a puzzle! What followed involved much inaccurate weight guestimations and ridiculous suggestions: what if I wore all of my jewelry? Is that suspicious? Multiple belts? The low point was when I sat in front of my bag for 15 minutes stubbornly convinced there was a way I could conceivably wear two pairs of shoes.

In the end, our backpacks were nearly ripping at the seams and we were both wearing multiple pairs of paints and pretty much every shirt we own. We were so padded our arms stuck out from our bodies and I could barely bend my knees. As we stiffly approached the check-in desk, we knew we were still over weight, but had resigned ourselves to being OK with only paying for an extra three kilos.

We heaved our luggage onto the scale and watched with bated breath as the neon green number flashed on the screen. The moment of truth arrived: WE WERE ONLY ONE KILO OVER. Ben and I couldn’t help but cheer at the news, and now consider the accomplishment one of the greatest victories of our trip.

We received a few strange stares when we boarded the plane and started shedding layer after layer of clothing, and the stewardess was a bit confused as to why the seat next to us was piled high with shirts. It didn’t help that I accidentally hit the “call attendant” button while flinging sweaters over my head. Twice.

Our trip to Prague wasn’t as simple as a single plane ride. It was only after an eight-hour bus ride, another bus ride, a plane, a trolley, a train, a metro and a tram that we found ourselves at the door of our hostel in Prague.

Three things happened within the first few hours of my arrival in the Czech Republic that solidified my love for the country, forever. The first happened as we were waiting for the train from Brno to Prague. There, we picked up some gyros for the equivalent of 2 USD. Not only were they delicious, we were coming from a place where the driest, crummiest sandwich will run you 7 USD, minimum. Tastes like savings!

The second occurred when we were greeted by the friendliest hostel receptionist I have ever encountered and she immediately invited us to a Czech Christmas cookie baking workshop that evening. I was like, HELL YEAH. Then Ben was like, BUT I’M LE TIRED. Then I was like, GOOD MORE COOKIES FOR ME.

Despite our exhaustion, I insisted that we stay awake for the treats. Apparently, Czech people take great pride in their Christmas cookie tradition. Families often bake up to 20 varieties, and all vie for who can bake the best tasting and prettiest cookie. A Czech girl who had spent some time in the States compared it to the competition that exists between the tacky Christmas lights homeowners. We spent our evening learning how to make two varieties of Czech cookies, eating the imperfect ones (and all the perfect ones reserved for Christmas Eve dinner that we could get our hands on), and licking the bowls, much to the horror of the Czechs, who insisted that no one does that except for little kids. So I didn’t tell them that sometimes I buy rolls of raw cookie dough with no intention of baking it.

After baking cookies, we wandered downstairs to the hostel’s pub to check out the scene. It was here that I discovered the final, and possibly most lasting, fact that will endear the Czech Republic to me for eternity: the beer is cheaper than water. Seriously. A bottle of water costs about one euro. The beer? about one U.S. dollar. ONE DOLLAR. And I’m not talking about a wimpy pint of beer; I’m talking about a giant, half-liter-sized mug of beer. I’m ALSO not talking about some sorry excuse for beer that actually tastes like pee. They offer quality pilsners, hefeweissens and dark brews for cheap. It was going to be a very merry Christmas indeed!

There exists a golden ticket to the great chocolate factory known as the European Union, which allows its bearer to legally remain for up to 3 months inside a mystical zone containing all countries that have signed the so-called “Schengen Treaty.” The golden ticket’s name is the Schengen Visa, and if you’re caught without one, you are subject to being deported, and possibly banned for the future, from the European Union. Acquiring a Schengen Visa involves a lot of paperwork and processing fees, but given the dire consequences of being caught without one, it’s probably worth the investment. Of course, that’s really only a guess, since neither of us bothered to get one.

That’s not to say that we didn’t try! Before leaving home, I called the U.S. State Department to inquire about the mysterious Schengen Visa, and to find out if we really needed it. Some readers may find the following content disturbing.

State Dept Lady: “U.S. State Department, how can I help you?”

Ben: “Hello, I’m planning to spend six months in Europe, and I’d like some information on the Schengen Visa.”

“The what visa? Can you spell that?”

“Um, sure. S-C-H-E-N-G-E-N. It’s a pretty major Visa requirement for European travel.”

“Hmm, Schengen Visa… you know, I don’t see anything about that. Are you sure there IS such a thing as a Schengen Visa?”

“Yes, I’m quite sure there is such a thing. I’m trying to find out if I need one for my particular trip.”

“Hold on just a moment, sir. I’ll look that up right now.”

“Ok, thank you.”

(several moments pass)

“Sir, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“OK, great. According to Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia…”

I’m sure Wikipedia was a cornucopia of reliable information, but I never heard what “facts” bored teenagers had managed to create in the Schengen Visa entry, because this was the moment I hung up the phone, and accepted that Brittany and I were now on our own.

We’ve now made it almost four months without any Schengen trouble, but upon entering the Czech Republic last week, we had our first scare. We were the last passengers from our plane to join the queue for customs, but were pleased to see that the Czech authorities processed the line quickly. When it was our turn at the customs counter, we handed our passports to the guard in charge. He opened both for an examination, and it quickly became clear that something was wrong.

Rather than giving us the same quick stamp as the other passengers, the guard held my passport close to his face, frowned, and started furiously typing something on his computer. We both know we weren’t supposed to be traveling without the Schengen Visa, but we had sort of hoped that the authorities would take the same stance as the U.S. State Department. That is, an inability or conscious refusal to accurately perform one’s job. But it now appeared there might be no such luck, so Brittany and I exchanged concerned glances, and tried to put on our best happy/clueless/no eminent threat to national security smiles.

For several tense minutes, the guard looked at the passports, then the computer, then the passports, etc. He seemed unsure as to what to do, and glanced around several times as if looking for support from fellow guards. But at this point, we were the only three people left in the airport customs area. Finally, he sighed, stamped the passports, and fished some documentation out of a drawer. He handed this to us with our passports, and we saw that it was an informational pamphlet on the Schengen Visa. I would later read in the pamphlet that Brittany and I fell quite clearly into the column of international traveler labeled “ILLEGAL,” but at that moment, I pocketed the pamphlet and booked it for the exit before he could change his mind.

As we disappeared into the cover of the thick Brno fog, we both knew that we were now officially outlaws. The rest of our time in Europe must now be spent avoiding border checks at all costs, which means no more air travel. Instead, we will be forced to focus on crossing international borders on the sketchiest roads possible, and desperately evading any person who appears, from a distance, to possibly be in uniform. It may be difficult, but it’s all part of our new life on the lam.

Because we are painfully behind on our updates, I am not going to go into too much detail about our time in Marseille. I’ll start off by saying it does not deserve its reputation as a seedy, working-class city, unworthy of a stopover. Our time spent in Marseille turned out to be some of our favorite days in France. Ben was sold on the city as soon as we broke out the guidebook (once it became apparent that we were stuck there for a couple days), and discovered that the Chateau d’If is in Marseille. The Chateau d’If is the island prison made famous by The Count of Monte Cristo — you know, the protagonist is framed by his best friend, sent to prison, where he meets an old man, yada, yada, yada.

Fish for sale at the fish market. This picture has little
relevance to the written material, but is awesome.

So our first morning in Marseille, after visiting the old port’s active fish markets, Ben and I hopped a boat to the island. The Chateau d’If was actually built as a fortress to protect the port of Marseille (which has been an active port for more than 26 centuries), but was shortly thereafter turned into a prison (because it’s hard to escape when you’re stuck on a rock in the middle of the ocean). There were several other famous, and nonfictional, tenets of the Chateau, including the notorious man in the iron mask and the captain of the ship that brought the plague to Marseille. Oops!

Since the fortress was not originally intended to hold captives, the rooms on the first and second floors are actually quite spacious and nice, with fireplaces and windows looking out onto the Mediterranean (of course all the non-wealthy riff-raff prisoners were kept in the below-ground dungeons). I considered inquiring about the upper rooms as a cheap accommodation option, before realizing there probably wasn’t an outlet to plug in my laptop or a wifi connection, so I discarded the idea. (By the way, the French call it weefee.)

Chateau d’If

Upon returning to the mainland, Ben surprised me by suggesting that we splurge for our four-year anniversary by going out for a nice seafood dinner on the waterfront. Since I can’t remember ever eating anything other than street vendor sandwiches and spaghetti cooked on a hostel’s hot plate, I was elated by the idea. That night we scrounged together a couple of semi-decent outfits — a task harder than anticipated as all nice clothes I brought have been ruined by constant wear and sink-scrubbing. Oh wait, Ben will want me to clarify that he was not wearing an outfit. He was wearing pants and a shirt.

Money-saving tip for those considering European travel: many French restaurants offer fixed price “menus,” three-course meals that often turn out to be cheaper than ordering items a la carte (the best deals can be found at lunch!). I quickly ordered the menu that included the poissons du jour, when I found out that the fish couldn’t be fresher: the owner had picked it up herself at the fish market that afternoon.

As Americans who regard free water as a basic human right, we’ve been surprised by the cost of water in European restaurants. Only occasionally will it come free in a small carafe. More often, they charge exorbitant prices (up to six euros!) for a tiny bottle. Our guidebook informed us that in French restaurants, the water is generally complimentary, but Ben wasn’t taking any chances. Unbeknownst to me, one of the first French phrases he’d picked up was “de l’eau du robinet,” or “tap water.”

When our waiter brought us our bottle of house wine, he asked if we also wanted some water. “De l’eau?” he said.

“Oui,” Ben replied, and then after a moment’s hesitation, “um, l’eau du robinet, s’il vous plait.”

The waiter stopped, looked curiously at Ben, and started chuckling to himself before turning to retrieve our tap water. He was still laughing when he returned.

“L’eau de robinet!” he said, setting the carafe and two glasses down with a flourish. I buried my face in my hands, trying to remember a time when guys used to take me on proper dates and what it was like to actually splurge.

The next day was spent looking up Prague’s temperature, subsequently buying more warm layers, visiting a few more Marseille highlights and attempting to communicate with the city’s large Greek immigrant population (although they were mostly just confused when Ben greeted them with a “yiassou!”)

We’re doing our best to catch up on the blog, but here’s an enticing tidbit to keep you reading: on New Year’s Eve, a Barcelonian police officer whacked Ben with a nightstick. Happy New Year!