I don't care about objectivity. Portugal is better than France.

A bunch of travelers and I were sitting around the table in the hostel common room in Porto, Portugal. The owners of the hostel were there, too. They were serving us cake as part of their Portuguese dinner. "I have a cake, too!" said a peppy French woman, a fellow solo traveler. She dashed upstairs to her room and returned with a flat piece of bread, glazed with something that looked very sweet and topped with nuts. "In my town, it is tradition to break. Like this!" She raised a fist.

"You pound your fist on the cake?" I asked.

"Yes. Is tradition," she said. She then asked us to clear our glasses of wine (Port wine, of course. A Porto specialty.) and invited the hostel owner to smash the cake with her. As expected, the cake split into several pieces and everyone tried one. It was quite good. I didn't expect to learn so much about France after leaving the country for Portugal.

One of the reasons I came to Portugal was because the hostels are supposed to be among the best in the world. For just $20 a night, I can get a quiet bed to sleep in. Because the hostel scene is so competitive, my booking also often included breakfast. My room had a patio for soaking up the warm sun that shines on the banks of the river this time of year, and the balcony on the roof of the hostel looked out on the city of Porto, which lies across the river from the city I stayed in, known as Vila Nova de Gaia.

Porto is gorgeous. It's not big, but it's built into a cliff. Cars drive up and down its impossibly steep ciffs, and the famous Luis I bridge offered the best views of the city. I've wanted to come here for a while and kept putting it off, but I'm so glad I finally made it.

There was this sandwich called the Francesinha that consists of several layers of cheese and meats. It's coated in this sauce thats equal parts sweet and spicy. And my goodness, is it delicious. It feel like it'd sell well at fairs and carnivals across America. But really, I just want a chance to eat one again.

Easter Monday

The next zombie apocalypse movie could be filmed in Tours, France. There wouldn't even need to be a specially designed set. When I left the apartment I was renting in Tours for the one night I spent in the city, I didn't see a single human until I was quite a ways down the road into the city center.

I wanted to see France outside of Paris, though, so there I was.

To Tours' credit, the city probably isn't always that empty. The day after easter, the only day I spent exploring Tours, is a major holiday in France. Most shops are closed and people are home from work, which probably kept residents home. I did see a woman walking with a baguette sticking out of a shopping bag. It was really... French.

Tours wasn't all bland, though. There are houses in the town center from the middle ages that made me feel like I was in a fairy tale for a moment, and when I wandered across the bridge that crosses the Loire river, I encountered a more rural, agricultural part of France that had a charming church and a pretty view. There were even people in the park on the riverside on their day off. People!

This place would be a lot easier if I knew French

On my last night in Paris, I climbed the steps up to Sacre Coeur, a huge church on a hill. The top of the hill that the church sits on offers the best free view of Paris. I stood on a grassy patch and looked out at the seemingly endless expanse of white six-story buildings and yellow lights. A man walked across the grass and sat near me. He had a motorcycle helmet in his hand. A woman sat with him. They exchanged words in French as they enjoyed their drinks while looking over the city. In that moment, he seemed like the coolest man in the world.

I wasn't too far off from radating that degree of coolness, though. The girl I've been dating was in London last week, and she took the Eurostar to Paris with her friend to see the city for a day. The three of us went on a grand tour of Paris before winding up at the Eiffel Tower, sitting on the Champs de Mars and taking pictures and laughing as the sun cast long shadows on the grass. There was something sort of surreal about hanging out on the grass that evening with someone I'd only met two months prior. Some couples wait their whole lives to see Paris, famed for its romance, together. My parents didn't come together until they were in their 40s. And yet here I was, and it felt pretty normal. Both of us have traveled quite a bit, which might put a damper on how much of a crazy, big deal this should be. I didn't have a motorcycle, though.

That said, Paris should not be famed for its romance. The city is loud, dirty, and I saw at least two homeless people peeing in the streets. I feel like I'm supposed to, but I just don't like French food. I might be too American to enjoy those small portions and limited restaurant menu choices.

Laurel met us in Paris, since at this point in the trip I was still with my parents and grandparents. She flew from Spain. The six of us did have a good time walking the wide boulevards and going out to dinner, but Paris will never be my favorite city.

On the last night in Paris, after I was done looking over the city from Sacre Coeur, I wandered behind the church and noticed that I heard live music. I looked into one of the restaurants, where every seat was full and every single person in the restaurant was singing along in French with the guy playing his acoustic guitar. It looked tremendously fun, but I was on the outside looking in. That's how I feel about Paris, though. Sometimes it feels like everyone loves France, wants to go to France, thinks it's the dream trip destination. By the time my train left yesterday, it was starting to grow on me a bit, but I still don't think Paris is for lovers.

Amsterdam, family style

"Some tourists think Amsterdam is a city of sin, but in truth it is a city of freedom. And in freedom, most people find sin." -John Green

Before I even knew I was taking this trip, my parents had booked their flight to Amsterdam. "Get an apartment near the canal belt," I told them. "That's the really pretty old part of the city." My mother took my advice, and the apartment we rented for the few days we were in Amsterdam was a charming canal house with very step stairs. Old wood floors massaged my feet each morning when I woke up. I met my family in Amsterdam on Saturday morning.

While I found the old canal house charming, my grandparents thought otherwise. They said that the showers were not working right, the closet doors were unhinged, and the rooms were not well lit. Admittedly, the bathroom door came unhinged, which was a problem that needed to be fixed immediately. The apartment owner, however, dealt with the problem promptly. I had a very pleasent stay at the apartment, but my grandparents would likely not give the same positive review. I love traveling with my family. They pick the best restaurants, and the constant companionship is nice. When I do , however, I understand that I give up a few freedoms I have when I'm traveling on my own. The walking pace slows and I am not always the one deciding what I do each day.

The apartment we stayed in was right on was right on the Prinsengracht canal. Since we were only steps from the Anne Frank House, that was the evening activity on the first night. It was interesting to see the famed bookcase and the annex inside what would otherwise have been an old canal house, had a diary and World War II not immortalized the home. Most intersting of all, however, was that Anne Frank was revealed as a teenager, rather than a Holocaust victim. There was a wall of movie star pictures that Anne collected. One day, towards the end of the war, an announcement on the radio asked people to hold on to any writings or pictures related to the German occupation of The Netherlands, as these would someday be historical documents that could be published. Anne, excited by the thought of her journal being published, asked her father to make sure that her writing reached a publisher if she did not survive the war. Her diary was, in part, published as part of a teenage girls' desire to be remembered. While we remember Anne Frank as a Holocaust victim, she was also a teenager with her own personality, hobbies, and interests. This humanization of history, I think, is often forgotten when discussing wars, politics, and international relations.

Outside our apartment, tour boats floated lazily on the canals. The Dutch pedaled their single-speed bikes quickly along the quiet canals. The next morning, we toured the huge Rijksmuseum. I noticed that, based on his self-portrait, Vincent van Gogh would fit right into Portland or Bushwick or any other American hipster mecca. With his beard, felt hat, and vacant stare, he'd fit right in with the oft-mocked urban uppies of North America.

My mother asked a few times to go to the Red Light District. When we finally went last night after dinner, my parents and grandparents were more uncomfortable than I was. I'm not sure what to make of this, but it was certainly interesting to watch their reactions as we strolled through the rows of ladies posing seductively in the tall windows.

Today we're leaving Amsterdam together for Paris. With all the Gouda I ate in The Netherlands and all the Brie I'll eat in Paris, I sometimes feel like I'm on a cheese tour of Europe.

Haarlem Shake

Fresh and well-rested (Heh. Heh.) off the night train, I stepped into the sunshine in front of the Haarlem train station. It was noticably warmer here than it was in Copengahen, and all of the trees seemes to be in bloom. It felt like The Netherlands was greeting me with a warm springtime hug.

I walked through the sleepy town of Haarlem, a small city just 20 minutes from busy Amsterdam, and made my way to the next hostel. Everything here seemed so quiet. A few locals were out on their bikes, riding across town, but there weren't many people around, and everything was very quaint. Above me, a large church rose above the pretty Dutch houses along the canal.

I rented a bike in the city center and rode out of town. My destination was Keukenhof, a very famous flower garden that attracts visitors from around the world, but only during the eight weeks of the year that it's open. On the way to Keukenhof, I pedaled along a canal and suburban houses, but the developed land eventually opened into massive tulip fields, all in bloom. The flowers seemed to change the green earth into a rainbow carpet of blue, white, red, and yellow. The flat land and flower fields expanded for miles. The blooming flowers were a welcome sight, especially since both Connecticut and Denmark were still wearing their drab winter colors. Spring, it seemed, had finally arrived. As I rode closer to the flower garden, there were campers parked alongside the road, presumably belonging to Keukenhof visitors. Their license plates were from across Europe - France, Italy, Switzerland, Belgium.

After a relaxing lunch stop on a cafe patio in Lisse, the town in which Keukenhof is located, I parked my bike with the hundreds of others in front of the flower garden. Keukenhof was worth the hype. The flowers radiated across the huge garden. I'm not someone who's innately interested in flowers, but even I appreciated the beauty of the garden, even as it waged war with my allergies.

I pedaled into Haarlem at around 5:30. I returned my bike and grabbed dinner, turning into the hostel rather early. The next day, my parents were flying into Amsterdam. Their plane landed early. The next morning, I was off to Amsterdam.

Riding the Overnight Train from Denmark to The Netherlands

What it's like riding an overnight train from Denmark to The Netherlands. I don't think this is the night train Jason Aldean was singing about.

Hour 1: Boarded the train in Copenhagen at 6:45 in the evening. Found the compartment on the train that will be my home for the next fifteen hours. Chat with the only other guy in the compartment a Swedesh guy who's riding the train to visit his girlfriend, who lives all the way in England.

Hour 3: An older woman entered our compartment and, when the conductor checked her ticket, she asked for the seats to be made into beds. The conductor then flipped the seat backs up to make six sleeping places, beds stacked three high on each side of the compartment. Shortly after, the German police came on the train to inspect passports. They had a hard time finding my stamp. I listened to the local radio, which had a mix of European pop music and American hits. I casually wonder if making listening to the radio while traveling a priority makes me old-fashioned.

Hour 4: Since it wasn't too late and everyone in the car was sleeping, I watched The Way Way Back on my tablet. It was good, but nothing too memorable. A fourth person joined our compartment. He carried a large backpack.
Hour 6: When the movie ended, I tried to sleep. A group of men were having a loud conversation in the next compartment, and the walls were thin. Lying down was more relaxing than sitting, but the jolting of the train car wasn't entirely conductive to sleeping.

Hour 7: Apparently, I had fallen asleep, since I drowsily awoke when the train pulled into Hamburg at just before 2:00 AM. I have no idea who decides to catch a 2:00 AM train, but there were a few people on the platform.

Hour 8: A while later, in Hannover, the train was stopped for a while as it was broken off and sent in different directions. When I boarded the train in Copenhagen, not all the cars on the train were going to Amsterdam. Some were headed to Switzerland and others to the Czech Republic. This is where the cars split up and joined different engines to take them where they needed to go. The older woman in the bunk below me was snoring quite loudly for a while.

Hour 11: I slept for a while after that. I awoke to the conductor announcing that we were 30 minutes from Cologne. All three of the people in my compartment woke up and packed their things. When the train pulled into the huge German train station, I was the only one left in my compartment.

Hour 13: I switched the beds back into seats and watched the daylight grow brighter. The train crossed the border into The Netherlands, but no one checked my passport. Flowers and trees are in bloom here. Back in Denmark, everything was still in its winter slumber. Here, nature is blooming.

Hour 15: Despite the mildly restful sleep, I step off the train in Amsterdam feeling ready to tackle the day. I bought a ticket and caught a small train to Haarlem, where I'll spend the night. In a real, actual bed this time.

Scandinavian Sun

My flight was delayed three hours leaving New York. Instead of being dissappointed, though, I was really glad that I didn't have to rush eating dinner and getting to the airport. It rained, though. It rained so much in New York that my jacket and shoes were soaked before the trip even began. I shivered as the bus wound its way through Queens to the airport.

The plane finally took off from a foggy JFK, and since I landed in Copenhagen three hours late, I avoided the rain that dampened the city earlier in the morning. It rains on and off here all spring, but today seems to be shaping up to be a mostly sunny. This city, with its bikes and its chilly weather, is quite nice. I've heard Copenhagen described as a big city that still feels small and humble, which certainly feels accurate. There is a strong culture built around cycling. It seems as though there are as many bikes as there are cars, and people were even biking yesterday as really strong winds whipped through the city.

The Danish word hygge (pronounced hoo-guh), is often translated as cozy, though it has no direct translation in English. It's the nice, comfortable feeling the Danes (well, anyone) feel when spending an evening in with friends and family or curled up by a fire during the cold Nordic nights. So many things here just feel so... hygge. The restaurant I ate fried pork in last night was warm and cozy and hygge. The hostel common room, with its earthy wood tables and friendly travelers like me is hygge. This whole city, really, radiates a homely hygge feeling.

The coziness doesn't come free, however. Copenhagen is the most expensive place I've ever visited, largely because of the high taxes on just about everything. While the taxes support fantastic social and infrastructural systems that I only wish America has - things like entirely publically funded college education for all and separated bike lanes running alongside every street - it's sometimes hard to appreciate these structures when the bill at a rather modest restaurant costs $40.

The hostel here is fantastic. The other people staying here are very friendly, and I've spent hours conversing and playing cards with folks from Germany, Turkey, and Engand. That, for me, can be the difference between a really good stay or a not-so-good stay. If I can chat with other travelers about how their world works and how their country functions differently from the United States, I'm having a really good time.