thatnight.net

I was a mess before our trip to Ocean City, Maryland. Usually before a trip, I’m driving myself crazy making sure we have a place to stay and at least a rough budget worked out. The four boys I went with decided to put me to the test and not let me plan anything. No times – we would leave when we woke up and come home when we got sick of the beach. No hotels – we would worry about sleeping when we got tired.

I don’t think I ever got sick of the beach. After the three-hour drive, we arrived at the ocean, found cheap parking, ate cheap food, and dove in. It was proabably the first trip we’ve taken this summer that it didn’t rain, and the ice cold saltwater (in addition to the smooth beaches) was a much-welcomed change from the rocky bay and warm, gross pool. Since none of us slept the night before, we fell asleep on the shore for two hours. We were completely drenched in sun and sand. It was fantastic. And as a sidenote, the only thing more gorgeous than the beach were a couple of the guys I went with who I rarely see without staff shirts.

At night we walked the boardwalk and shopped, of course constantly taking pictures of ourselves pretending to be sexy and really being stupid.

By the time midnight rolled around, we were still at a loss for where we’d be staying that night. Walking towards my car, Gokhan spotted a Turkish flag hanging on the outside of a large, yellow house. After yelling in Turkish to a group of people on the front porch, we walked over and they welcomed us. We talked for three hours and decided to get an early start to camp. We left at 3:00am and got back at 6:00am, giving us a good four hours of sleep before we needed to be on duty.

Overall, a short, relaxing, and very spontaneous trip. Click here or below for the slideshow.

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New York City was my first traveling experience while at camp and still may be considered my favorite.

We went the night of the 4^th of July and made it to the city in less than three hours. I was the most excited I’ve ever been, to finally be traveling someplace in a different part of the country with friends and without any regard for time or having set plans.

Fireworks exploded along the highway for practically the entire ride there. We drove past several towns, and at one point, from the car, we could see over six fireworks shows in different directions and distances surrounding us.

The hotel itself was one of those skyscrapers you see in photos of Times Square, with the brightest lights and biggest posters advertising cologne and coke and Broadway. This is the view we had from our hotel room, which was about 40 floors up.

I was traveling that weekend with Guy, Hannah (both from England), and John (from South Africa). Since that initial trip, Guy and John have been on every trip with me. I’m staying with them when I travel again to New York after my job ends, and also staying with Guy when I go to England in January. I’ve become so close with them for several reasons, primarily that they’re the definition of chivalrous when we go out, taking twice as much care of me than I would have expected from people I just met this summer. That, and they’re hilarious.

After showering in our glorious bathroom, we boarded the super-elevators which were newly installed and made of glass and faster than Disneyworld’s Tower of Terror. I never got used to them.

We walked the streets surrounding Times Square, which were surprisingly calm and quiet even after the giant 4^th of July celebration. The bars were still wide open, and we quickly found a nice little place with very few people.

Of course I was worried when we approached the stoic bouncer. I’m not 21. Hannah was. Guy is 20. John is 19. We let the boys go first. Guy handed him his international ID, followed by John. The bouncer looked them over, tilting their foreign cards and asking simply, “Where you guys from?”

“England.”

“South Africa.”

The bouncer nodded and looked at me and Hannah. He looked back at the boys. “Are these ladies with you?”

Hannah said yes in her thick northern-British accent. I nodded, wondering if maybe this bouncer thought I could be from England. Or maybe South Africa. He nodded again, smiled at the boys, and said, “Welcome to the city. You buy these ladies a drink.”

From then on, as if every club somehow knew we had already been carded and labeled as international, we strolled in and out of several bars without being stopped or questioned. The waiters and bartenders smiled and asked us questions and wished us a happy 4^th. We took pictures of everything, as always, and strolled together until we were so exhausted that we decided to grab huge slices of pizza and walk back to the hotel. I walked with John and we laughed as Guy stopped several random cabs just because he could and as Hannah sweetly stopped at groups of police officers and they beamed at her as she asked questions in her adorable accent. It was 5:00am.

We woke up at 10:00am and went shopping. The streets were much more crowded and much louder – the typical image of the city. We were all practically holding hands to keep from getting ripped apart and separated. New York is definitely not someplace that you can cover in a day, or a week for that matter. After saying goodbye to the majestic beds in our hotel room, we vowed to return after camp. It was then, also, that I knew I would be traveling for the remainder of the summer with this group of people. There isn’t a better bonding experience than being thrown into New York City with a group of people you’ve just met.

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You know those moments, where as you’re living them you’re absolutely certain that you’ll look back and laugh at them later as they’re being described to wide-eyed friends, even though if anyone dares laugh at the seriousness of the situation as it’s occurring you will promptly stab them with a ring of keys? I had one of those in Washington. There were probably close to three key stabbings. I was filled with so much terror that it took me well into the night to stop shaking, let alone laugh.

We arrived in D.C. around 11:00pm. Every time I’ve visited the city in the past, the days have been sunny and peaceful and full of historicalness. I was obviously fooled by the daytime D.C. I remembered. The city at night was packed with drunks. There were fights on the corners and stumbling, perverted men groping for the groups of sluttish girls wearing three-dollar, alcohol-soaked halter tops across their chests. Any music was drowned out by the sirens of police.

I kept close to my friends. There were twelve of us. I was the only person in our group from the United States, or North America for that matter. Between us, we covered America, France, Turkey, Russia, England, Holland, Australia, Ukraine, Azerbaijan, Africa, and the Czech Republic. I wedged myself between two of the guys I was with and kept my eyes locked forward.

We quickly lost interest in Washington night life, and wanted to head back to the hotel after about an hour of walking through hell. Unfortunately, the subways were closed. Cabs were taking advantage of both the drunken crowds which have no regard for money and the sober crowds by charging insane amounts of cash for a trip to safety. It was then that I voiced my brilliant idea, which was not brilliant at all, but more stupid than any of the 16-year-old girls asking my international friends for cheap drugs.

I suggested that since cabs were so expensive, a few of us would take a cab back to the hotel, where I would get my car out of valet, and then return to the decided location to retrieve the rest of the group. It was never a smart idea. I realized that as soon as I stepped into the smoky cab.

Upon reaching the hotel, I begged Steph, the Australian boy, to drive back with me. I could not handle driving alone. We managed to get there without incident. I pulled up and unlocked my doors. I then realized that only five came back in the cab, including me and Steph, and that there were six more people that I needed to transport back. Therefore, as I drove, there were eight people in my little car. Three in the front, five in the back.

Fire trucks and ambulances continued to race down the streets, making it nearly impossible to get anywhere. I was breaking what felt like a hundred traffic laws at once, including having too many people for the number of seatbelts, having alcohol on my breath from tasting one of Maaike’s (from Holland) Dutch coolers, and, oh yeah, I left my license in the hotel. Police were swarming.

As I approached the crowded, one-lane main street, yet another ambulance attempted to squeeze by. I pulled close to the double-parked cars on my right, almost running over an especially large, black police officer. He peered into my car. My heart stopped. I hissed to the car, get down.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, LADY?!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“I’M WALKING RIGHT HERE! YOU CAN’T SEE ME?!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

He marched away. Tears swelled in my eyes. I have a thing about being yelled out by big men in terrifying situations. I drove on, looking for a side street to turn around in.

I turned into an alley and moved slowly to avoid the crowd. The two boys huddled in my passenger seat mockingly repeated my reaction to the large cop. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Upon reaching the end of the dark alley, I noticed a cab stalled at the end. No flashers. Just stopped. A man briskly approached my car, holding a cell phone. I quickly wound up the windows in the car, hoping to breathe among the buildup of body heat. He stood by my window.

“Yo, hey, some fuckers just pulled a gun on us in this alley. In that cab.” He pointed ahead and began pacing alongside my car.

I stared. My mind raced. Ok. So, random man, some guys threatened to kill you in this here alley. Therefore, you’re going to stop your cab right in the middle and trap another group of people in this nightmare.

My car stirred with confusion. Guys, shhh. I cracked my window and yelled at the cab ahead.

“Please move! PLEASE! MOVE!” Nothing. “MOVE THE GODDAMN CAR!”

I could feel the tension in the car. I don’t yell, especially in a terrified mixture of anger and fear. The worst-case scenarios made their way into my mind. Twelve years later, when the cab finally scooted to the right side of the road, I crushed the ignition and sped towards my beautiful, calm hotel room.

For the rest of the ride home, my hands shook and my heart pounded and I think I may have literally lost my mind. I blocked out any chatter happening in the seats behind me and after several random turns down dark streets arrived in a place in the relative vicinity of the hotel. Out of the car!

I stomped into the lobby, caught the valet, and threw him my keys.

“My car. It’s down there. On a street that has buildings and lights and the flashers are on and it needs parked. Please.”

In the safety of my room, my friends made every attempt of calming me down and making me laugh. “Rachel,” they said, “don’t you realize how amazing of a story that was? You’ll be laughing about this tomorrow.” I curled up in bed that night, completely oblivious to what was happening in the room, and thanked God that nothing happened to my friends or my car.

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Click here or below for the slideshow:

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Click here or below for the slideshow:

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I’m so backed up. Usually, during the school year, I have the time to blog every day but nowhere near the content. I spend hours in my dorm room, wishing for repeats of SVU and hoping that whatever paper I owe within the next 24 hours will write itself. Quickly. So I can edit it.

Right now, I want to write in-depth entries about the ten year old boys I teach that are better lacrosse players than any high school players I’ve ever seen. I want to write an analysis of the dodgeball tournament that was held today between the two different age groups. I’d love to post the hundreds of photos I’ve taken here, and while traveling, and describe each one in full detail. I want to type on and on about the lightening storms and what people wear and how happy I am to see certain people smiling and the car rides that last for hours and the relationships and the parties.

I feel like my mind is on overload trying to store every detail of every moment so that when I finally regain my unlimited laptop access I’ll be able to type for days until everything is caught up.

I’ve actually taken to writing on paper.

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The “all camp dance” happens every two weeks and is accompanied by a theme, which none of the kids regard. The counselors, coaches, and staff, however, usually go all out and spend at least the hour beforehand putting together a costume that will at least somewhat pass as recognizable.

Last night’s theme was “superheroes and villains.” While many created their own alter egos, my initial response was X-men. After hunting for white paint, tape, and gloves, I managed to become a pretty believable Rogue. My night was spent dancing, taking pictures, and removing my gloves for the little boys who insisted that I drain the life from a camper or coworker immediately.

But even though I was happy with how my costume turned out, I knew I couldn’t walk around as Rogue all by myself. I asked John to dress up with me.

And he turned out to be a pretty hot Wolverine. As a couple, we were unstoppable.

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Washington was incredible, as I knew it would be. Twelve of us drove to the city last Friday night (five in my car, seven in a van) and arrived at our hotel within three hours.

And the hotel! It was amazing. Guy, the boy from England who I often travel with and one of my closest friends here, came through again with his unbelievable discount. Our rooms were five star, first class luxury in the middle of the city for the price of a student hostel in the middle of nowhere. Free toiletries from Bath and Body Works. Twenty-four-hour valet service. There was a sauna.

Saturday was spent running around the city, trying to squeeze in as much sightseeing as possible before we could go out on Saturday evening. I got to wear my new black Calvin Klein dress. And really, wearing that dress on a Saturday night while walking through an incredible city on the arm of a gorgeous international boy would make any girl as giddy as a schoolgirl. A schoolgirl who was able to leave school for the summer and travel with amazing people. I was the only American in my group and it was fantastic.

I have so many little stories to type up about the weekend, as well as my entire trip to New York city, which was equally incredible and still not down on paper. Or screen. I also would like to must begin writing one post, with corresponding pictures, for each of the people I meet or work with here. Even though I hope to keep in touch with them beyond this summer, I don’t want the strong memories I have of them to fade, especially if I’m unable to travel as much as I wish in the future. How’s that for cliché?

Even on the days when I’m extremely homesick, I know that I was so right to have made the decision to come here.

So, more to come. So much more.

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I hate shopping. I’ve never liked trying on clothes. My favorite jeans are well over four years old now, and there are several pairs which have rarely seen the light of day.

Yesterday though, I shopped like I never shopped (or wanted to shop) before. For me, that doesn’t mean spending an absurd amount of money on clothes that I will probably never wear more than once, but rather driving to several stores and carrying around multiple hangers and answering “yes, please” when being asked if I’d like a fitting room. Normally, after an hour of browsing, I would have sprinted away from the outlet center, frustrated with boredom and the realization that I just don’t need clothes.

But I needed clothes.

When I accepted this job, I didn’t think I’d be traveling on the weekends with groups of beautiful people from other countries who know more about the American metropolitan areas than I do. They always look perfect. When I packed to come here, the only thing remotely (and hardly) acceptable to wear outside of the camp was a khaki skirt and several very unexciting tank tops. I am ashamed to say that’s all I had to wear in New York. It was fashion murder.

So yesterday, I’m standing in a fitting room, my hair a tangled mess from the constant contact with fabric, surrounded by dresses and skirts and tops that are black and bright blue and dark green and silk and covered in straps and cascading with material. Thoughts are running through my head as I pull and lift and straighten everything over me. How the hell do I tie this thing? Am I supposed to buy shoes to go with this? Is this size small dress seriously too big for me? NICE!

I don’t know why, but I never thought I’d have the opportunity to wear the kind of bright, beautiful, flowy things that I’ve seen on Sex in the City. I’ve never gone to clubs and bistros with people who spend their time traveling the world and going to clubs and bistros.

For what it’s worth, I bought an amazing little black dress from Calvin Klein that I would have never dreamt of buying unless I knew I was going back to New York or dreamt of wearing if I hadn’t lost ten pounds since I got here. And I also bought the shoes, and the makeup, and the earrings to go with it. For the daytime, I bought a brown vintage babydoll dress.

Seeing the word “vintage” still kind of freaks me out.

Although I didn’t have the most fantastic time running around yesterday, clueless about something that people devote their lives to, it felt amazing not buying jeans and graphic tees from Old Navy.

This weekend: Washington, D.C.

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The city was absolutely incredible. The people I went with were amazing.

We didn’t actually pull up until about 10:00 at night. While we had originally planned to stay in a very cheap motel outside of the city, one of the boys I’d gone with, who works at a Marriott in England, got an unfathomable discount at the Marriott Marquis in the middle of Times Square. Everything that followed was completely spontaneous. Twelve hours was not enough.

It’s necessary that I go back there. I’m going to spend a few more days in the city with the same group of people during the time between the last day of my job and the first day of school.

These public computers are killing me. I feel like I’m not doing this post justice without pictures. And I still have to go into much, much further detail. Actually, feel free to completely disregard the above update. Thanks.

It seems like every one of my international coworkers has taken at least a year off of school between high school and college (”university”) to travel the world before completing their education. It was the same thing with the international people that I met in the city. When and why did America fall out of this movement? Why is it that everyone in this country is in a complete and total rush to finish school and get a job? Is finishing everything a year earlier really that much more beneficial?

I really need to travel more. Working with all of these kids my age who have already been to Europe and Asia and Australia and everywhere makes me feel terribly sheltered. I might have to go to England when I get out for Christmas break. It’s becoming more of a plan, rather than an idea, every day that I’m here.

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