As we dove deep into planning our six week European adventure, we talked about all the places we were interested in visiting — for me, Paris is always at the top of the list but not so much for Justin. At the top of his list was London. London is a beautiful city, with a rich (and bloody!) history, full of people who speak English and a theatre scene that can’t be missed. Yet, every time I hear the name of the city, my heart starts to race in a panicky way and my mouth goes a little dry. I haven’t been to London in over a decade, but the last time I went was also one of the worst travel experiences of my life.
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In elementary school, I used to tell people that Schwartau was the shortened version of my real last name, the Ellis Island version given to my ancestors when they immigrated to America. My real last name was Schwartauburgerhifinfiner. My friends believed me, for years. But it’s not true.
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August 20, 2005. I was 20 years old, had 6 years of French under my belt, and got to fly international first…
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Someone recently told us that they thought Bruges was beautiful but like a museum. We didn’t really know what they meant and had no preconceived notions about the town. (Well, not many, at least. All I ever think of when I hear “Bruges” is Colin Farrel’s thick Irish accent saying, “Bruges is a sh*thole” and Voldemort saying, “It’s a fairytale town, isn’t it? How’s a fairytale town not somebody’s f***ing thing?”