Czech Yo' Self: Prague and the Bursting of the Bubble

I'm currently writing this post from my balcony, where it's approximately 18 degrees Celsius, 6:28pm, and sublime. The entire sky of Rotterdam has been set aglow with a soft, peach-colored haze of sunlight. Birds are chirping from a nearby rooftop, and a light breeze is wafting the scent of freshly-bloomed cherry blossoms through the lush green leaves basking in the radiant warmth and sporting a healthy springtime sheen.

I just returned from Prague, and despite three nights of alcohol-induced insanity, I've never felt better. It only makes sense that despite the exhilaration of travel, the incurred bodily costs accumulate and leave one tired, sore (if you eat shit down the stairs in a club like me) and in need of recovery.

                     You'll need all the recovery time you can get if you drink this

And yet, this time at least, I don't feel tired. Quite the opposite in fact. It's not that Prague wasn't a heart-racing, adrenaline/alcohol-soaked spectacle of an adventure. It truly was. It's instead, because the thrill of the material world can never persist as long as the thrill of discovering something useful about yourself.

How I even ended up in Prague on less than 24 hours notice is a mystery to me. I just kinda heard from two friends – Ginder from London and Liuna from Texas – that they'd be going, contemplated the logistics, for a moment, and then booked a departing flight four hours from the time I clicked, "Confirm Flight Booking" with Ginder, Liuna, Tushita, and Chelsea.

                       Great time with Tina, Liuna, Tushita, and Chelsea but.....

                                  Bros gotta keep each other from going insane

By most accounts, I'd consider myself a spontaneous person. Like the rest of the world however, I often wrestle with the little voice in the back of my mind that says, "You can't do it."

You can't do it, you've got a case study to do for Supply Chain. You can't do it, you don't have enough money. You can't do it, you've gotta work out tomorrow.

Yeah, little guy? GTFO. 

Assuming you're a human being like the rest of us, your existence has come pre-loaded with two legs (since we're assuming you don't have a birth defect or something), a brain (however proficient), and an inherent desire to do what makes you happy. But so often, as we are creatures of habit, the little voice is enough to prevent any able-bodied, sufficiently financed person from breaking out of their comfort zone.

                                     

Another friend here at RSM named Jeff "Son of Jet" Li recently wrote a fantastic blog post on the concept of bubbles. A bubble is a machine of monotony; it consists of your daily routines, your comfort with the familiar, and your "average day" type stuff. Put another way, imagine an actual bubble or glass dome that covers your hometown, your workplace, or wherever it is you spent the majority of your time. It's clear, meaning you can see the world around you. You can see the exciting stuff that occurs outside the bubble or dome, and yet it takes a conscious effort on your part to leave the bubble and get there.

                                                   Burst that shit

Don't get me wrong, having a routine is unquestionably beneficial. At the same time, I've found that a routine can be equally poisonous to personal growth. It can imprison you within your bubble or darken your glass dome to the point that you don't even see what's happening in the world around you.

In that sense, Prague was symbolic of me not only leaving my bubble, but shattering my metaphorical glass dome into millions of little shards and stepping over them barefooted before taking off in a dead sprint, headlong into a world able to be seized by all those who seize the opportunities bequeathed to them. 

I've recently made the curious observation that I often forget I have senses, and have since concluded that this is yet another negative effect of bubbles. Sight, smell, touch, hearing, and taste are all diluted in bubbles. You can only see the same things and eat the same foods for so long before your brain grows tired of once-fascinating stimuli.

All of that changed in Prague.

The city is a sensory paradise. From warm sweet bread at the Easter markets to the most aesthetically-pleasing architecture I've ever seen, Prague was pretty much a picture-perfect postcard of quintessential Europe. The people are incredibly friendly and kind to tourists, the nightlife is an absolute blast, and everything is cheap, convenient, clean, and 21 year-old study abroad student friendly. There is nothing pretentious about Prague; no gaudy gimmicks to attract masses of tourists; no pretenses, just authentic appeal.

                           If you don't enjoy this, what's not having a soul like?

With the help of Liuna's friend Tina, another exchange student studying in Prague and potentially the world's finest amateur tour guide, we walked through spine-shiveringly beautiful public gardens on the hills near the royal palace. We watched an insanely-talented street guitarist play a tear-inducing acoustic version of U2's "With or Without You" on Easter Sunday.  

We also raged face at the infamous Prague Pub Crawl and the Karlovy Lazne Ice Bar, where I was personally tackled by Manti Te'o's girlfriend on a set of beer-soaked stairs, subsequently crumpling into a drunken heap in full view of hundreds of international partygoers. We took shots of Bohemian absinth and – as a consequence –  met people from all over the world. 

At any rate, it's not as if you must do the same things listed above to have a good time in the city, but there's undeniably a synergistic sense of awe in being able to party like any 21 year old should one day and drink in the view from the Charles Bridge the next.  

                                           One of the coolest places ever

I'm hopelessly in love with Prague, and if I had to put a finger on the tipping point where my initial affection transformed into enamoration, it was probably close to the sunset on our first day in the city.

We found ourselves walking amongst stalls in the market square wolfing down kielbasa and sipping effervescent spiked cider. Music was coming from all sides and the scent of various designer colognes and perfumes blended seamlessly with the sweet aroma of sugar bread. Tour groups and locals alike dotted the cobblestoned streets, steadily dispersing as the sun dipped below the rooftops of the gold-accented cathedrals and buildings. 

                               "Fairy Tale Land of 2 euro cocktails"- Tushita

From the corner of my eye, I spotted a haggard street performer mixing a large looped piece of rope in a soapy bucket. A few younger children stood nearby, obviously expecting something of him, so I took a moment to watch what he'd do. From out of the bucket, the man took the rope and swung it in a large semi-circular arc, producing, of all things I could've stopped to see, the largest bubble I've ever seen. The younger kids all looked up, mouths agape as if they'd just met Batman, as the massive translucent sphere floated upwards, its membrane rippling in the light wind. 

I watched the bubble float for awhile. Maybe a minute. Maybe ten minutes. I really don't know. I knew I had to catch up with Tina though, and so I hurriedly strolled off, tearing my eyes from the bubble. It might still be floating really. 

All I know is this: I would absolutely love to burst my bubble again and return to Prague someday, if only to have the opportunity to watch bubbles again.

Thanks for reading ya'll. Until next time,

Drew 

Ode to Club Bed

                     Likely the only non-incriminating photo of Club Bed in existence

For lack of a better phrase, Club Bed Rotterdam is everything your mother warned you about. When you crowd obscene numbers of 18-25 year old international university students – most of whom are already intoxicated – into a venue that sells cheap alcohol and plays ratchet music in a sultry, dimly-lit dungeon of a dance hall, odds are, shit's going to hit the fan on a weekly basis.

In fact, the metaphorical effluence will typically stream forth like some hormonal Niagara Falls, inundating the aforementioned fan in a veritable river of debauchery and loose morals.

That's precisely why we love it.

I think I speak for everyone when I say that every Tuesday, after an arduous day of class, drinking Irish Coffee, and watching documentaries, Club Bed provides a much-needed break from taking a break. It's quite literally, the weekly shitshow that drags you down from your cloister atop the Ivory Tower into a world of grit, grime, and self-imposed alcohol intoxication.

I know what you're saying: why not just study instead, right? This sounds crazy, but it's hard to study when everyone you know is out on the town, drink and drug-induced dopamine pouring into their bloodstreams, dancing on table tops, and bonding over conversations that can only occur when any semblance of sobriety is torn asunder.

The magic of Club Bed lies in its ability to make you aware of the fact that, instead of studying, you're chain-smoking cigarettes and dancing awkwardly in front of complete strangers, some of whom look like they might be human traffickers. Put another way, Club Bed is pretty much an opportunity to blackmail yourself into actually being productive for the remainder of the week.

Seriously. You wake up in the morning, perhaps with no recollection of the previous night's events. You're then forced to confront the reality that you've had your fun for the week, and therefore, must atone for your sins by putting in hours at the library. I think we can all agree, for the most part, that school isn't fun. Thus, one must take solace in an evening of merrymaking, however grossly disproportionate, if one hopes to avoid burning out on school/losing their soul entirely.

Surely, there are healthier ways to have fun. You could do yoga, go for a walk, draw, or play guitar, but all of these require effort. It's simply much easier, as a 21 year-old student studying abroad, to cut corners and let the five euro convenience store wine accomplish the task for you.

Moreover, if there's any further redeeming quality to Club Bed, it's this: I never once imagined that I would be drunkenly biking around a city like Rotterdam at 4:00a.m., narrowly avoiding errant car mirrors, and fleeing angry crack junkies, all with a person who was a complete stranger only weeks prior intermittently vomiting and losing consciousness while holding on for dear life on the back of the bike.

Going through such an experience with someone forms an inexplicable bond that persists, even into sobriety. It also makes for a great story that can be whipped out at any time in the future for some good old-fashioned nostalgia and laughter.

I feel like Club Bed brings everyone back down to Earth and there will always be a spot in my heart (and likely, my liver) for the place not because it enables the consummation of carnal vices, but because it helps you develop a wholesome discipline with yourself; an ability to self-deprecate and avoid the insidiousness of Holier-Than-Thou hubris which all too often, negatively affects relationships.

You can have ten degrees on the wall, drive a Beamer, and wear Cartier watches, but at Bed, you're just another person out to have a good time like anyone else in the world.

Until next Tuesday, thanks for reading ya'll.

-Drew

  

  

Spring Break: Top 3 Lessons I Learned in Morocco

It's 11:30 a..m. at the Wakka Wakka Hostel in Marrakech, Morocco and I've just been woken up by the imam's call to noon salat – prayers– echoing from atop the Al-Khoutoubia Mosque (the city's largest) about four blocks north. Even from inside the hostel, I can hear the normally hazy, sun-soaked city Hemingway so adored being assaulted with rain.

And that was fine with me, since I knew I wouldn't be leaving the hostel bed anytime soon. It seriously felt as if someone was power-washing my intestines, shooting me repeatedly in the head, tugging at the tendons behind my eyeballs, and holding a space heater over my entire body...all at the same time. Food poisoning is no joke, especially in a city like Marrakech, and I promptly checked into another room at the hostel while my friends flew to Barcelona, as I knew there was no way I was going to enjoy even a city like Barcelona if I didn't have the full physical capacity to do so.

                      Accurate depiction of what I saw above me in the hostel bed

 I spent the next 17 hours tossing and turning in some type of sleepless waltz, staring up at the intricately painted Arabian ceiling tiles, feebly sipping from my dwindling supplies of fresh water, and confronting my own mortality in my head. "You'll never be normal again," said my brain. "Dude, just kill me. Now." implored my lower back. Whenever sleep mercifully came, it wasn't long before my Finnish roommates, three girls, came stampeding into the room to talk about, oh I don't know, something Finnish, thereby interrupting the much-needed slumber

Then, one of them started snoring. I kept thinking about how much I miss South Carolina at times, and my dog, and my family, and my friends, and in a moment of insanity, I balled up a pair of my dirty socks and prepared to launch them right at the Snoring Scandanavian's dome...

 But then, I realized something.

 Prior to Marrakech, the Moroccrew lived in complete ecstasy. We paid 100 euros each for six days in a palatial beach house overlooking the turquoise waters of the Atlantic. We had internet, comfy beds, sprawling estates of land by local standards, and we were all 20-22 years old, on Spring Break, with probably a quarter of all the hard alcohol in Africa chilling in our fridge.

                                          This view cures all that ails ye'

To even ask that it get much better would be obscene. Couscous cost three euros. Fresh fish caught by the locals could be haggled down to ten euros for four large fish. Shopkeepers and cab drivers practically fell over one another to help us out.

Yes, food poisoning sucked. But in some ways, it was an integral part of the Morocco experience. In fact, I can't wait to go back to Morocco because the place taught me a few things about myself and about other people. Some of these ring true for places other than Morocco, and of course, and I do not mean to make the claim that I'm somehow a "more enlightened" individual now that I've only briefly passed through the country.

However, seeing as not that many people from America think 'Morocco' when they think of exotic travel locations, I think it's about time this hidden gem of a country gets the recognition it deserves.

The Top 3 Things I Learned in Morocco

3: Don't Be Afraid of "Sketchy-Looking" People. 

Sure, they might actually maintain a collection of jewelry fashioned from human bones. They might have cataracts in one eye like the "Bridge of Death" guy from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. They might seem like loud, aggressive, and otherwise, untrustworthy people. But when they have the power to solve one of your problems, walk right up to them and state your case. You don't really have a choice. Half the time, the only reason they look "untrustworthy" in the first place is because Morocco lacks basic sanitation in some locations. When there isn't clean water, let alone fluoridated water, and the national drink is a mint tea filled with enough sugar to crash a 4th grader's endocrine system, people will more often than not, be missing a few teeth.

                            Pretty much what our parking attendant looked like

Even more importantly, to judge someone's character, trustworthiness, or knowledge of right and wrong based solely on their physical appearance is undoubtedly the most superficial thing you could ever do. I met shopkeepers in Taghazout wearing grease-soaked, sweat-stained "NBA/Super Bowl/Stanley Cup Champions" shirts emblazoned with a losing team's logo who were more friendly than people in Downtown Denver. Treat the "sketchballs" the same way you'd treat anyone, and I guarantee, you'll be surprised what friends you can make and what stuff you can get for free.

2: Learn to Haggle Like a Pro

     

When you visit the souks, any souk, odds are, you'll find people from foreign countries selling well-made things for cheap. For example, I got a totally cliche Berber tribal poncho that looks like something out of "D-Bag Backpacker Magazine" for 100 dirham (ten euros), even though the shopkeeper told me he'd normally triple that price for a non-French or Arabic speaking tourist.

It doesn't have to be an adversarial encounter either. When I returned to the shop the next morning to buy a few trinkets and souvenirs, the same shopkeeper, Ali, promptly invited me to some back room. For a second, I thought, "This is it, I'm getting shot in the bag of the head and robbed right now." However, I then revisited point #5 in my head and became a man. 

Four younger Moroccan guys sat around a hookah spouting fruity smoke while sticks of ocean-scented incense wafted tendrils of thinner smoke across the candlelit room. Ali offered me coffee and tea, and then told the other four that I spoke Arabic. Immediately, their faces lit up. They started asking me questions about America, about where I studied Arabic, about whether I had any Arab ancestry, and if I was enjoying my time in Morocco. We talked at length for about half an hour, and before I could pay for any of the articles I'd selected, they began heaping bracelets, scarves, stickers, and jewelry towards me, urging me to take whatever I wanted. 

I gave them a few things in return, picked out a scarf and two or three trinkets, and then found them all on Instagram before leaving the shop 

 The point is, no vendor is going to sell you anything they don't easily make a profit on, or that they could just as easily pay for out of their own pocket. Plus, take a genuine interest in their lives, even if you can't speak the language, and you'll be handsomely rewarded.

1: Be Willing to Give

I'm not saying you should give all your money to a homeless Moroccan person; I'm saying you should be willing to give generously, whether it be time or money, genuinely and without the expectation of anything in return. Tithing is huge in Islam, and helping out a homeless person in a busy city square is the quickest way to ingratiate yourself to local shopkeepers and restaurant owners. What's more, the Moroccans do not forget a face, and you can be assured that they will, at some point, return the favor ten-fold.

It would've been oh so easy to peer down from our spacious veranda overlooking the beach and feel superior; to gather some sense of entitlement from the fact that we, as tourists, are essentially supporting the livelihood of these people who have next to nothing. But then, everyone hates you. 

When our group made the day trip to Paradise Valley, a utopia of cliff-divers and Garden of Eden scenery, we could've just given our cabbie the bare minimum. Instead, when he took us to a number of scenic spots in the mountains, a local garden which made its own honey, and a cliff near the sea where we got to watch a ball of fiery Moroccan sun set behind the furthest point of the horizon, we gave him nearly double what he was asking. 

                           The group with Abdulrahim, Cab Driver of the Century

Parting with dollars or dirham is so much easier when you realize that you're paying a pittance in proportion to what you're getting to experience. I don't even remember how much the cab ride was, but I definitely remember how delicious the jar of Eucalyptus Honey that was made right in front of me tasted. I remember jumping from a ten meter cliff into emerald waters, and playing Asshole with friends as we shared rum around more than the money I spent.

                            Couscous: The food so nice, they named it twice

And so, I refrained from throwing a fastball into this snoring Finnish girl's head. Instead, I went out into the hostel lobby, shakily sat down on the cushioned seats, and made friends with a few Germans who were in Marrakech getting ready to head back to Munich. When it was time, I gathered my things, headed to the airport, and watched as the city became smaller and smaller in the window. On the plane, I met Elizabeth, an attorney from Chicago who works in The Hague. I also met Jeffrey and Yani, two forty-something Dutchmen who regularly leave their wives and children to travel the world together. 

What started as an awful way to end the trip to Morocco became another amazing day, and even now, I realize that Morocco was not just a vacation, but a full-on crash course in human relations more useful than any university class. It was a way to peel back the curtain and truly marvel at how, often times, the people with nothing are the most willing to give everything.

Till next time ya'll, thanks for reading.

Drew