Thesis

I have done a terrible thing. I have submitted a proposal for my thesis project, and it has been accepted. I will, in theory and with the grace of whatever force looks over students, submit for consideration a project based on cultural heritage tourism to receive my Masters degree.

I am suitably terrified, yet excited. Mostly because this has led me to return to Prague for research, with a side trip to Cornwall. I wouldn't try and figure that out with a map, because the logic of the itinerary requires a special kind of logic that only I, and some members of my family understand. So, I'm off in a few weeks, once I've managed to finish a few other papers and prep myself with the models of my project.

Meanwhile, I have promised to begin the list of dream trips to take after this one. I have a passport to fill and some ideas. Shall we?

1. A pilgrimage. As of right now, El Camino de Santiago. Thanks Hollywood, for offering this suggestion. There's also the California missions, but I've done a few. I'd like to visit some of the calendar based pilgrimages and feast days of my favorite saints, but the pilgrimage is a big one. As may be known, I'm not Catholic, nor do I subscribe to any particular religion, but I do want to do one of the larger pilgrimages, if only for the experience.

2. Central/South America. Never been south of the equator, and I think I should spend more time in the Western hemisphere.

3. A warm island. I once went to Hawaii, and it was lovely. After several trips to the UK and ROI, I wonder at times what it would be like to lay out on a beach and enjoy the sun and waves, enjoy the natural beauty of the water and local ecosystem, and generally not feel an urgent need to see things.

4. Asia. Oh yes, this is vague and lacks focus, but I'm working on it. I want to see Japan, and Vietnam, and China, and plenty of other locations. The rankings and reasonings change often enough, so I'm reliant on finding companions and a reason to go.

Finally There is Rain

Oh dear, it has been some time since I updated. And what a wondrous state of affairs I am in.

Well, I am no longer in Dublin. I spent my week in the fair city seeing as much as possible, and evenings at the theatre. If I recall correctly, I managed to visit: Guinness Storehouse, Irish Museum of Modern Art, Kilmainhaim Gaol, Archeology Museum, Yeats Library, National Gallery, Shopping, Book of Kells, and other Trinity Treats, and of course, the National Museum of the Leprechaun. Really, there is a leprechaun museum. And that's just during the day.

My evenings were spent at the theatre. We saw "Arcadia", "Importance of Being Earnest", an evening literary pub crawl (including scenes of Beckett) and I caught an evening of "Bookworms" at the Abbey. Nothing quite like finally experiencing the theatre I've only ever read about. And there was the Bloomsday walk on the 16th.

And there was the day trip to Newgrange! A day of special rocks and dirt with oodles of power and import.

Of course, all of these things deserves a greater period of reflection and consideration. But right now I am exhausted. For now I am in Galway, and finishing my first full week of classes. Yes, after a week of Dublin I hopped a train to Galway with my companions and arrived on the west coast for a month of education.

My shiny white card identifies me as a temporary student of the National University of Ireland- Galway, and my days are filled with music and literature. I have periodic lectures and charming workshops in sean nos dancing, and eventually singing. I promise that all of this is far more exciting and interesting and filled with charming anecdotes, but I am tired, and the sun hasn't quite set. I promise over the weekend a fuller account of my activities, and my own reactions, in addition to my scheduled trip to the Aran Islands.

Hibernia Alone

And with a "see ya, kiddo" I am adrift. The only left to do is to pass through security, find my gate and wait. I am alone for the moment in Dulles Airport uncertain of what to expect.

I have only flown alone once before, from Lugano to Prague, the rare trip where I had to do everything totally alone, with only the promise of a friend's presence to look forward too. At the very least, I only had to fly for three hours, with a layover in Zurich. This time I can look forward to a two hour layover in New Jersey, and a six hour flight to Dublin, and then wandering through Customs and Immigration, recovering my just underweight bag, and finally into a cab and off to a hostel. Mostly by my lonesome. I had company yes, but there was no green canvas bag providing the answers should I lose my way.

Which meant that I simply could never become lost; I would always known what came next and how to function in any crisis.

Of course, this is all in the past now. The six hour flight is done, the cab was hired and paid, the hostel booked and checked in, and two full days of touring have passed since a moment of blind panic. I am in Dublin, in a hostel in the middle of Temple Bar, and I am safe. My room is secured by the knowledge of my roommates, and my own caution. My feet ache with the miles of tourist tracking, and I am back in my element. I'm still in a foreign country, and I need to eventually move my slightly underweight bag from one side of the island to the other, and try my hand at day trips, but those are minor inconveniences of the future. For now, I am fresh from an evening of "Arcadia", Guinness, Gaol and art. Tomorrow I have museums and further touring to accomplish, and the hopes of a trip to the Giant's Causeway or Newgrange.

The important thing? I'm in Ireland, and the sun has never stopped shining.

Waka Waka

Let's face it, I'm not into sports. I went to a football school for undergrad, attended my fair share of games, and was bored almost every time. I couldn't stand the assumption that group television time must be spent watching the games. I do enjoy attending major league baseball games, but only for the Chicago teams, and after one evening at U.S. Cellular Field I doubt if I can be convinced to go back without a large group to defend me. I can't get into basketball, lacrosse does nothing for me, I really only enjoy the opening ceremonies to the Olympics.

But I love football. Futbol, football, soccer, however you say it I love that game. I love it because it's fast paced, continuous play. I love that it demands skilled foot work (and I'm a dance nut), I love that it's the only sport that the whole world plays and the fans. Oh the fans! Deeply passionate, at times vicious, and filled with a love of the game. I love the chants, I love the songs. I don't know any other sport that can sustain a sub-genre of pop music on semi-annual pop songs, or at least a collection of songs that I enjoy and want to listen to more than once. I love being at games, or watching them with a group on TV; mostly because I actually know what's going on.

I mention this, because it's World Cup 2010, South Africa. The last time I was abroad it was the Euro Championships, which began mere days after I left Switzerland (a host country). This year I started my viewing with the USA-England game; a charming group of gentlemen decided to put up screens in DuPont Circle for the presentation of all the games. I arrived with my brother in time for the Argentina-Nigeria game, and it was fabulous. Huge group of people, approaching too hot, not enough space, who could ask for more? As it turns out, I could ask for an air-conditioned bar, with seating and rowdy fans for the actual US-England game, complete with chants disparaging the Queen and BP. Nothing like disaster based national hate.

I had a great day, to say the least. The Cup is up and running, and I'll be leaving the country in two days. Luckily I'm headed to Ireland, so I'm sure to still have an opportunity to see as many games as I want, provided I don't cheer for France, ever. It's a good thing I was reminded that Ireland was ousted by France before I commit any fan faux pas.

Land that Time Forgot

I have this issue with summer, and really any period of my life that lacks a regular schedule, with solid deadlines or regular meetings. I lose all sense of time; I roughly keep track of days because suddenly my parents are around and want to engage in "chores" or I realize a beloved television show is on. However, I lose all sense of how close certain events may be. Like now; it's June 2, I have less than two weeks before another extended jaunt abroad, and my sense of the reality of the situation? Not happening. I've been cleaning the rooms I inhabit for days, adding new organizational structures, and vaguely remember to put items in a box for "Ireland", knowing they may become useful. I get periodic e-mails reminding me of my classes, or the need to register, and I know I need to act on them, but I have books to put on shelves and those floors won't clear themselves.

And so my giddy sense of anticipation has been completely subverted by the lazy days of summer that grip me. The sun shines, summer storms flare up, and the tadpoles threaten the lives of the goldfish. Friends reappear from colleges, and I somehow manage to ignore the call of a summer job, knowing that I can't maintain employment when I'm leaving...eventually.

I recall two years ago, in the run up to Switzerland I spent my days thrilled, soon, soon I would be on my way, gone for a whole semester. I packed, and repacked; new luggage was purchased, textbooks sought and found, and a little bit ignored because it was winter break and even I can't sustain that level of excitement longer than a few days without regular reminders like Italian class, or a roommate going with me. This time, I have no prep classes, I have some distance from my fellow travelers and no contacts abroad to remind me of the glories of the future. So instead, I clean, I assemble, I wonder why I'm so concerned about cute summer clothes when the average temperature in Galway in July is 65 F.

And then I think, it's too hot to work, I'd rather see a movie.

Clearly a Sign

From the Washington Post, the horoscope for the birthday March 20, 2010:

"You'll have the means to see more of the world this year. Moves are favored, as is travel, especially long distance. A change of venue brings something fresh and fiery to your personal life. Look for love where loving people gravitate, and you'll be basking in the affection of a very attractive someone this summer."

Now, I am by nature a vaguely superstitious person. I get a weird feeling when I step on cracks in pavement. I refuse to say the actual name of the Scottish Play except under very specific circumstances. I have few rituals that must be performed, but most were related to theatrical performances, and now that I spend less time in the theatre they have become unnecessary.

However....I do like my horoscope. I don't really jive with most forms of divination, but I like having a little note in the newspaper each day to justify why I do or not do things on my to-do list. And on my birthday I like to pay special attention. I mean, it's my birthday, surely the one day when a horoscope is speaking directly to me (and everyone else sharing my birthday).

What do I take from this particular horoscope? Simple. When I turned in my application to Galway a few days later, that I would be accepted and it would be decided that I'll be spending a month in Ireland. But why stop there? I doubt I'll be moving in the next year, and Ireland certainly qualifies as long distance. I should like to do more I think.

So off I go to Milwaukee in a few days to kick off my year of travel and discovery. Then to plan in earnest for Ireland. And if I do manage to bask "in the affection of a very attractive someone this summer", well.....I'm not one to complain. But I'm much more excited about seeing more of the world.

And Away Again!

Or in theory, at least. I have managed once again to get ahead of myself in the planning stages of leaving the country. I haven't even submitted an application but I'm already functioning under the assumption that I will be frolicking with leprechauns for half the summer.

Indeed, it is true. Safely settled in graduate school (George Mason, pursuing MAIS-Folklore) I have been lured again by the siren song of study abroad, this time to Ireland. Or at least that's the general idea. I still need to finish and submit my application.

And that's where the first problem lies. 500 word essay? An evening. Letter of Recommendation? Only needs the asking. Insurance policy, number, and primary physician? We'll pause here.

You see, Spring Break is a magical time for the full-time student. A week off to catch up on research, visit the dentist, throw open the windows and breathe in the sweet smell of freedom before returning the darkness that encourages aforementioned research. Spring Break, and the application deadline of March 25 also falls just before one of the more terrifying rites of passage in my life: individual health insurance.

I will be turning 23 soon, and on that day my health coverage under my parents plan will expire totally and completely. Last week I submitted an application to some charming insurance company, but I haven't heard anything yet. Thus, part of my application remains blank, taunting me with a thousand worries. Should Galway happen, this will not be my first time abroad. This will be the first time under new health insurance, in a system I don't quite understand, and don't even know how a medical crisis abroad would work. I've been safely covered by military health care my entire life. In Switzerland I knew I could go to any hospital, and be just fine, but more than that I knew if my wanderings took me near Heidelberg or Naples there was a base I could walk onto and request preventive care at, my right as a military dependent.

And now I'm an independent. Hoping I receive coverage soon, for my own sake, more than this trip's. In the meantime, I still have half a semester's worth of work to manage, and the rest of this application. Priorities must be negotiated, and right now the sun is shining, it's 60 degrees, and I will be attending a talk on Jane Austen adaptations involving zombies, vampires, and sea monsters this evening. Friends are in town to fill my evenings with stories of campuses and future plans, and Randolph needs a new scarf. So away I go to work on enjoying the here and now, with visions of a summer away dancing through my head.

Domestic Affairs

Today is the campus Study Abroad fair, a time I used to greet with the delighted anticipation of what I could do, and where I could go. However, I’m graduating in May, and there are no more semesters for me to go away. Facing the prospect of graduation, with no real plans for grad school as of yet, nor of a job, I’d love to get away again.

As I left the fair, with one brochure for a possible graduate school, I realized I still want to go to Newfoundland with a good friend, and that dream may have to be put on hold with new developments in her life. The list of countries I still want to visit grows daily, and I’m planning on visiting Boston for conference in December.

It’s Boston that’s troubling me most of all. I realized, as I walked home that I know very little about my own country, much less continent. I’ve spent so much of my life looking for ways to use my passport that I have barely looked within our borders. I suppose that I shouldn’t so much look at this time in my life to get out and see the world, as a time to look at home. I’d like to move abroad for a few years, maybe find a grad school or a job overseas, and with all that focus, it’s turning the U.S. into the exotic.

So I’ll go to Boston in December for a few days, and then I’ll come home to manage the problems I’ll inevitably be handling then. And I’ll be spending the remainder of that break probably at home researching and planning for the next step. With any luck I’ll be in Greece for Spring Break. And throughout all of this, I begin to look for the places I don’t know. I always prided myself on my knowledge of different areas and cities in the States, but then are the moments where I realize I know entirely too little about some places. I think I shall have to remedy this.

The Tribes of England

Some weeks late…

I think that we Anglophiles come in two distinct tribes: tea and pints. Those followers of tea and crumpets seem to be eternally enchanted with the Royal Family, consider Shakespeare the paragon of playwriting, and believe wholeheartedly in having a hat to match every sundress for Ascot. The pints care more about catching the Euro Cup finals, keep track of Gordon Brown, and look more at the reality of what England is and was.

I have, and always will, proudly describe myself as an Anglophile. My Facebook list of “Favorite TV” is basically a program listing for BBC America, and I can find my way on the Underground better than I will ever manage DC’s Metro; it’s general knowledge in my dorm that any question about the English can usually be answered by me with a fairly high degree of accuracy. Not that I’m bragging, or encouraging the image of my pomposity.

The difficulty I am having is figuring out where I fit; I keep one eye on the royals, and another on Gordon Brown. Most of my Anglo-centric time is spent on film and television; I read a lot, I watch a lot of movies, and then I read some history. Having spent an equal amount of time in pubs and teahouses, I find myself equally comfortable in both.

So maybe the answer to my dilemma is not nearly as complicated as I think. Maybe the only way to find out how I fit is simply to move to the UK. After all, I like it there. The food is pretty good. I don’t mind the rain.

Although, Wales is pretty cool too.

The City of a Thousand Walking Tours

I remember the last time I went to Oxford I was about to start my sophomore year of high school. It was summer, and the family was taking a day trip. I was struck by how crowded and busy the city seemed compared to Cambridge.

I returned last weekend, really for lack of anything else. I considered Liverpool for my free weekend, but Oxford seemed just as good. I traveled with another girl from the group, just for the security of another body. We left London from Paddington Station, and got to Oxford mid-morning. The plan was to drop out bags at the hostel, and then find out if I could make it into the C.S. Lewis-J.R.R. Tolkien walking tour. Thus began the weekend of walking tours.

Now, I am a fan of the aforementioned authors. I’m reasonably interested in seeing the places they worked. I expected with the recent release of film versions of “Lord of the Rings” and “Narnia” that this may be a fairly full tour. My ticket brought it to roughly ¾ capacity. Well, that’s fine; it’s early in the season! We arrived during exams and graduation! So off on our little tour.

Later that evening friend and I decided on the Ghost Tour. This was packed with people; ghost tours tend to be very well attended in my experience of tours, and this guy was really good. Not much to say about that, other than after the tour we ended up at the opening of the new Jamie Oliver Italian restaurant. Excellent experience and good food, although I normally shy away from celebrity chef places.

Now, the next day, which was the last day (brief excursion you see), friend wandered off to a Castle; I decided to skip the childhood home of Winston Churchill in favor of the “Inspector Morse” tour.

I am not particularly fond of Morse. There’s only one episode I really liked, and I tend to leave the room when the DVD sets come out. Imagine my surprise when I discovered the assembled horde of tourists waiting for the Morse tour. So many, in fact, that two sweet old ladies needed to be summoned from the Tourist Office to handle the group. We were split into two groups just under twenty each. I never imagined the popularity for the old detective; there were English, Scots, and Americans in my group, and although there was a trend towards a certain age, there were a few of us young’uns to shake things up.

And so I returned from Oxford, pausing briefly to see the Dodo. I realize this doesn’t sound terribly exciting. I really think I just walked for two days looking at the same buildings and hearing a different story about each one. But it’s nice to get away from London for awhile, even if the street were lined with glitter and other signs of celebration for the end of exams.

Fate and Fashion

I am a great believer in providence; last week in Salisbury I wandered into Boots for a bit of cosmetic shopping. I walked out with a coupon for half-price sunglasses. Yesterday, my sunglasses broke.

I should explain these sunglasses; I found them in the mall one August day nearly three years ago while out with a friend. She and I picked up some cheap, heavily $6 sunglasses. They were simple, black plastic frames with cherry details. For the first time, I became attached to sunglasses. I’ve never been able to hold onto glasses before, but something about this pair stuck with me. I used to get upset if I couldn’t find this pair and had to resort to the magic bin of half-broken glasses in the house.

I noticed the break on the right frame a year ago. It was just a small fissure, then a chink, and then, yesterday, I removed my glasses from my head where they had been serving the usual role of “hair-band”. Imagine my surprise at the new-found flexibility of my plastic frames. And then the lens popped out.

Being in London, I would have thought this would be fine; sun doesn’t exist here, right? Unfortunately we’re in the middle of a heat wave. I know this because the Tube announcements in the morning inform commuters that they should all be carrying around bottled water to keep hydrated. I always trust my public transport systems.

Luckily, I have this coupon- half price on any pair (excepting Ray-Bans). So I wander into the local Boots after visiting the Guardian with the group, find the glasses, pick up a pair, try them on, and think “well, maybe…” And then the price tag: £30. The mind boggles. I look at other price tags: 20, 30, 39, 43, and 50 quid. The numbers astound me, and even with the coupon the exchange rate makes me cringe. Then I stumble on the magic pair: £5. They’re the cheapest available pair. Maybe not the best shape for my face, maybe not the best thing ever, but they are the new sunglasses. I’ll have to toss the old ones, but at least tomorrow when I go to Bath, I won’t be blinded by the blazing English sun. Except the heat wave is ending soon, so I may end up blocking out the English rain.

One City, So Much to Say

It’s nearing the end of my second week in London, and my third in Great Britain. I’ve decided on a peaceful night in as I have to be up and out early for a foray to Oxford. The good news is that the Inspector Morse tour runs pretty near to hourly, so I don’t need advance tickets.

I’ve been busy to say the least. Every morning class at nine, ending at one; lunch break, then afternoon session at three; more often than not I’ve been at the theatre or some other evening event. I don’t know anytime when I’ve been busier; I must admit it’s rather exciting to live a life where I spend my days jaunting through museums and chatting with authors, and then the evening at book launches and the theatre. If it weren’t for the exchange rate I could get quite accustomed to this life. I have a little flat in Islington, and I have begun to adore public transport. As much as I miss my car at home, I like knowing that I’m never too far from shopping, entertainment, and parks. I’m a short train ride from most of the country, and it’s quite a lot of country to see.

This week I went to see “Pygmalion” at the Old Vic, starring Tim Piggott-Smith. I may have finally gotten over the trauma induced by “Jewel in the Crown”. Last night was Regent’s Park for “Twelfth Night”. That really is a fun little play, and one of the better shows this trip. Part of this program includes a focus on Shakespeare’s plays, which is why we saw 12^th, and “Midsummer” last week. Still have a “King Lear” to come. I have never been so, well, bored by Shakespeare. I didn’t much like certain aspects of “Midsummer”, “12^th” was good enough to entertain and I’m not thrilled by the prospect of four hours standing at the Globe for “Lear” (“Midsummer” was three hours as a groundling. My knees did not function for the hour following the show). Actually, I’m most interested in wandering off to the National Theatre one night to catch “Revenger’s Tragedy”. I rather enjoy the idea of seeing something contemporary to Shakespeare, but slightly less familiar. And it’s the cheapest ticket that involves real seats.

I’m rather excited about taking this weekend. I spent the day wandering the city until my tired feet demanded I continue my exploration of the BBC. I’ll get out to a quieter city, have a few good photo ops, and come home Saturday evening for some grocery shopping (maybe), and spend Sunday at museums and finally some theatre on my own terms. Perhaps the best bit of London is knowing that the majority of the museums are free. Hours of free entertainment in a city that lets Americans hemorrhage money.

Nearly a Month!

I am remiss. I should have said many things in the past, uh, month. But I have been a bit busy in the mean time, I assure you. So, a recap:

I got home, safe and sound; British Airways again delivered good food, and fabulous movies. My time at home was filled with visiting relatives and friends, and somewhat stunted. I arrived home on May 2, very late, and departed on May 19.

This time, I flew into London, and didn’t continue on to the continent. Instead, I found myself in a rental car with my parents, struggling to stay awake as we headed to Wales.

I should explain my newfound fascination with Wales. I’m of Welsh descent, and of all my ethnic extractions, it’s the one I cared least about. I mean, it takes a lot of effort to be Irish and English, keeping up with all that history, and the folk songs and traditions. Not to mention the cultural tensions. And then, I had the whole Polish thing; defending my heritage from those who would mock me. Doesn’t leave much time for Wales, which hasn’t been to verbal in the last few centuries to make me take notice.

And then came Russell T. Davies, and his new “Doctor Who”, and spin-off of “Torchwood”. Now, I’ve been a Whovian for some years, and really love the old series and its endless quarries; but the new one seems to find it necessary to highlight Cardiff, and all of “Torchwood” is set in Cardiff. My interest? Piqued. And that’s how I found myself in a hotel in Bridgend for four days.

The second day (because the first never really counts), I saw iron works and the Big Pit coal mine. The second day was Cardiff city, including the Doctor Who exhibit. The fan girl in me giggles at the memory. Third day was Swansea and castles, and Arthur’s Seat. Fourth was Caerphilly and driving back to England and Swindon.

I remember lots of sheep and rocks from the country, and the simple beauty of the place. I really did love Cardiff, and would love to go back for an extended time. Much as I love London, Cardiff is just so much calmer and easier to live in, I think.

Which brings me to now; I’m in London, in the little one room apartment I get to myself for the next three weeks. I arrived last Sunday to start my second study abroad program. I get to stay settled in one city for a month, and really get to know London.

It’s been a busy week. I’ve been up early and home late everyday, and each day is packed with walking tours and shows and all sorts of goodness. It feels as though I’ve done so much I could never really catch up on everything, and certainly not tonight. I have to be up for a Stonehenge excursion early in the day, and I’m feeling a bit under the weather at the moment. Could be all the rain, or any number of things, like my lack of proper rest these few days.

I’ll give a better update, and my feelings on being back here soon. Suffice to say, I’ve seen David Beckham live, and on the day of his 100 caps. Life is good.

I'm Going to Go Back There Someday

This is it everyone, the night before I fly home to the United States. It’s hard to believe that it’s been fourth months (well, close enough) in Europe. I’m still not entirely sure that I had classes. I have a few memories of wasted hours spent staring at a blank document for some “assignment” to remind that I did have academics demands on my time.

Now, as I sit in my room, all of my very heavy luggage waiting downstairs for the morning bus to Milan, I keep thinking back on all the things I’ve done, the things I have yet to do, and the changes that occur within a single semester.

Living in Riva has been very much like living in a bubble; news from the outside world reaches us through the internet and e-mails from home, and none of us are terribly rigorous about reading the news, much less talking about it. I see the same group of people everyday; 27 other students, three teachers, an RA, and sundry architects circle around us, but this group of 27 was together quite often. Too often some might say; I’m surprised by the way this semester has ended or the friendships that exist. I have learned over the years that pledges of parties and constantly hanging out and eternal friendship usually end as lovely memories and broken promises. High school taught me that lesson three years ago.

In the end, I don’t truly think much about the changes of group dynamic or friendships made and broken over a given span of time. I’m thinking more about how I have changed since January. I remember visiting Nice that first weekend in February; that was the first trip I took while here, and the first time I had ever arranged for a hostel or train transport. I was travelling with two people, and I couldn’t say I knew either one very well. Looking back, I was so tentative about that trip, and so ill-informed.

At dinner the conversation tended towards packing; I have never taken a trip in the United State without a reasonably sized suitcase for checked luggage, no matter the duration of the trip. Now, the thought of taking something larger than a backpack for a weekend, or even four days seems so excessive. How could I possibly need so many clothes for such a short time? Even while packing today I had to throw away my normal pack-rat tendencies. I’m still wondering if I should go back and throw out more items.

I know that the "me" going home tomorrow is different from the one who left in January. There’s nothing quite like a semester in foreign lands to force the maturation process in humans.
I know that Saturday morning I will be thrust back into reality with acres of paperwork and other responsibilities and pressing concerns. Until that time, I have a full day of travel to isolate myself with the in-flight entertainment, and the rest of tonight to consider the semester that has passed and the person I have become.

Here’s to hoping that British Airways doesn’t strike tomorrow.

Et in Arcadia Ego

We have entered the lazy golden days that herald the end of spring semester, and the beginning to the long, lovely summer.

Of course, now that I’ve begun higher education, and my first tentative steps into the “real world”, the blissful empty days of summer tend to mean: find a job/internship, make arrangements for the next school year and beyond, and squeeze in a few adventures with friends when you can spare the time. This year is means a month in London, followed by five weeks working at camp before needing to pack to go back to Tech for my senior year. Down at Tech, I would be in the full thrall of the final days of classes, and preparing for exams. Technically, I’m doing that over here as well.

But, I am still in Switzerland, and the sun shines down on our little valley. And for a few hours, I can ignore the call of my essays and the 18 hours of travel that await me in a week as I finally return to the States.

I am surrounded by my fellow students, but we have all succumbed to the lethargy that sunshine brings, and so we all venture forth to the garden, and soak up the April UV-rays, enjoying the slight disconnection that being in a foreign country creates.

Which is why I spent five hours of my Friday, the day after I took two exams, and with several essays still to go, laying out on the lawn reading Camus’ “The Plague” and burning my back and shoulders to a crisp. And for those five hours of roasting and reading, never once did I think about the troubles and tasks that await me inside the villa, and within the next few weeks. All I could think was that there must be something wrong with stretching out in a tank top and short and reading something called “The Plague”.

I should clarify; I don’t find a problem with settling down for some serious tanning with works of what I am led to believe are “great” literature. That’s my usual summer schedule; the difficultly lies with the subject matter. In my family, my father is notorious for finding and reading books about the plague (and I do mean the bubonic type). This is usually a source of much amusement among the children, and has created an aversion to anything plague-oriented. And yet, I was drawn to a plague-book, albeit not one that also dealt with the medieval period. I suppose it’s simply a sign that I will eventually turn into my parents, but for now, I shall enjoy the sun and self-imposed ignorance of responsibilities.

It really is just like a BBC miniseries

I have this image of Venice in my head based entirely on the BBC; most notably “Brideshead Revisited” and “Casanova”. Thanks to the BBC, I see Venice as a city of sun-dappled piazzas and coffee shops. Gondolas float by gently, steered by men in striped shirts with flat straw hats, sometimes singing. The sky is blue interspersed with a few fluffy white clouds, and the water is the most beautiful jade color. All the buildings seem to be held up by pure faith, and are in some quaint state of decay; delicate structures of plaster that you’re fairly sure can’t possibly be where people actually live.

It turns out Venice is exactly like that. Remarkable, really; Venice is the only city that actually fits the idealized view. And I didn’t see everything actually; completely missed the interior of the Doge’s Palace and the Accademia.

The recap goes something like this: Woke up before dawn was even an option, and got on a train for Venice; arrived around noon, checked into the world’s most “interesting” hostel, and decided to go searching. I had no idea what I was supposed to see in Venice, other than a vague notion of this “San Marco” place, and the Rialto. Luckily signs were everywhere to point me towards things. From the hostel to the Rialto I wandered through cramped streets, twisting with no great sense of where I was going. Every thoroughfare was packed with tourists, and I was fairly close to not enjoying this as much as I would have liked, and then I could see down one alley the edge of a really big bridge. Follow instinct, I discovered the Rialto; white and shining in the sun, even covered in shops and tourists, spanning the green waters of the canal. Clearly, I was going to be surprised.

From the Rialto visit I followed signs to San Marco. I emerged from the darkness of the alleyways into an open space, bathed in sunlight. And then there’s the Basilica, golden with mosaics, and edged in a variety of marbles. Next to the Basilica is the Doge’s Palace, and beyond is the open water, and a few islands.

I spent six hours simply walking to get a feel for the city, and when I finished for the day I was exhausted. I still had no idea what I would do for the remainder of my trip. As it turned out, I met some girls at breakfast on the second day who were studying in Barcelona, and originally from Chicago. We bonded over knowledge of neighborhoods, and I ended up spending the day with them. This happened mainly because I joined the three of them to share the cost of a gondola ride.

Yes, I was excessive and went for a gondola ride. Arguably the best decision ever. Rain was expected for the duration of my trip, but while we were on the canal, nothing but pure sunshine. Our gondolier, Marco, was friendly and informed, and I got the memory of being on the canal. After that we wandered the city, got a late lunch, did some Rialto shopping, and finally visited Santa Maria della Salute.

The third day only really counts as a half day, as I needed to get to the train station by mid-afternoon. I had originally thought to visit the Doge’s Palace, and actually go inside something. When I reached San Marco’s, I discovered the piazza covered in four inches of water. Yes, the rain I had been promised had delivered, but at night when I was safe in my bed. In another city, waking up to a sunny day after a rainy night would have little or no consequence. Venice is not “another city”; it’s below sea level, and so a night of rain leads to flooding. San Marco was covered, and the only way to the Doge’s Palace, or into the Basilica was on a series of platforms only four feet wide. You try shuffling several thousand tourists across a single platform path four feet wide, and not lose your patience. I gave up on my thought of the Doge’s. I managed the interior and museum of San Marco’s, but I think I will someday make it back to Venice, before it finally sinks. For that reason, I turned away from San Marco’s, wandered to the Rialto, and then found a quiet spot to enjoy the sunshine. Sunshine and spring weather has been in short supply of late, so simply sitting outside was lovely.

Just before I left I paused in the church next to the train station to let my feet rest, and my back recover from wandering with a heavy backpack. It was a lovely little baroque church, and wonderful to simply sit and enjoy the peace of the building. I’m somewhat burnt out on churches and museums at this point, so being able to sit with no need to admire some aspect of a building because someone else told me it was important was a bit of a treat.

I left Venice with some lovely memories, and a mind to return someday. I have just less than two weeks before I fly home, so the time for reflection has begun. Venice is my favorite Italian city, and the only one I think I would like to return to within the next few years, given the opportunity.

Living History and Fictional Cities

This is a rather important week for Virginia Tech, as one might imagine. I get to spend the anniversary of April 16 very far away from home, and most of those that I really want to be with at this time. We’ll be marking the anniversary in our own way over here; I’m not sure how just yet, but we’ll be remembering and thinking it over.

That said, I had a moment today where I recalled something I wanted to discuss.

The great difficulty with Europe is that absolutely everything was important at one time or another. You can’t go very far before tripping over a UNESCO World Heritage Site, or some local icon, or anything. When we took our Italy trip some months ago, this was obvious; Rome is littered with all the “Roman” stuff, which basically amounts to what Eddie Izzard refers to as “a series of small walls.” Of course, these small walls are the remnant of one of the greatest civilizations, but that’s all there is. At the time, we marveled at the realization that we were standing in the Roman Forum, where all sorts of marvelous figures had walked, lived, bartered, and set off to conquer lesser civilizations. I couldn’t quite feel the same sense of wonder at the time. A few too many tourists were in my way to feel the wonders of walking with Augustus….some 2000 years late.

Germany was different; it’s harder to find areas left as they were centuries ago, or the streets that you’re fairly certain some emperor or other was one.

And then we got to Nuremberg. On our way out of the city the group paused at the old Nazi Parade grounds. It’s not half so impressive today as it looks on the History Channel, filled with crowds and troops. Now it’s empty, and overlooks a high school soccer field, with a more impressive professional soccer league stadium just beyond. All around the stands there are fences and warning signs, with crews attempting to bolster the structure. There’s nothing to prevent the casual visitor from climbing all over the stands, and eventually you find yourself standing just where Hitler did as he inspected the troops and made his speeches.

This was the time I got chills; there’s nothing I found creepier than standing in the exact spot, on a virtually unchanged structure, and knowing exactly what happened on that spot. In Rome everything is a bit broken down, so seeing the grand glories are more easily achieved for me through film. Nothing looks like it does in the movies. Nuremberg has been left unchanged, except for emptying out.

I’m planning on spending the weekend in Venice, and as I plan for that trip, I have a newspaper clipping of author Geraldine Brooks explaining which fictional character she would spend a week as. I’m not too interested in Ms. Brooks, but she matches my answer perfectly. She describes the week Charles Ryder spent in Venice with Sebastian in “Brideshead Revisited”. I reread this passage just before leaving for Riva, and was surprised when I realized that the story of the fortnight in Venice is barely more than 3 pages in a 300 page book. And yet, it’s one of the most beautiful scenes of the book, and the BBC adaptation.

I, however, will not be 19, in love, and working towards my destiny as an artist on this trip. I’ll be 21, and trying to forget just how much work I have to do in order to enjoy a city I’ve seen and heard about in so many books and movies. This is the other side of travel; finding the places I’ve read about in fiction, trying to find out if those marvelous cities that inspired so many writers could have a similar effect on me.

Country Hopping Should be a Sport

Some six years ago I spent four days in Germany, basing my travels out of the city of Pforzheim. I remember being slightly giddy at the novelty of being able to cross the border into France and thus spend an afternoon in a different country. I did that again for this trip.

On our way from Freiberg to Heidelberg, Fabio drove us into Strasbourg, the very same city I visited six years ago, and luckily there have been no new conflicts about Alsace-Lorraine, so it’s still France. Everything was just as I remembered it, but now I had educated guides to tell me about the historical significance of the area. And this time I was more able to appreciate the wonders of European borders.

On our way home at the end of the Germany excursion we ended up passing through Austria, then driving along the Liechtenstein border. The novelty of that experience was lessened by the pause at the world’s most terrifying rest stop. It was simply called “Heidiland”, and resulted in absolute terror for the group. Austria did look rather lovely for the five minutes I was there.

Now, some context for these musings: when I returned from Dublin, I called home from the Milan airport. I was asked “What country are you in?” My response was a bit more elaborate, explaining that I had woken up in the Republic of Ireland, passed through Italy, and finally ended the day in Switzerland. Border crossings are terrifically easy, so country-hopping has become so normal to me. I don’t get to do this at home. At the same time, I never encounter the same language difficulties so prevalent with country hopping in Europe. It’s remarkable to travel around with polyglots; the ability to switch between languages so quickly is so amazing to witness, especially on the scale required here. I mentioned to a friend on the bus that it was impossible to do this sort of country-hopping in North America. I don’t think I could manage to drive from Canada to Mexico in just one day. And unless I began in Montreal, I wouldn’t have to know a language other than English for the entire trip, until I reached Mexico.

The United States is a remarkable place, in its sheer size and minimal language requirements. I appreciate the ease of this, but I do love the variety of culture available in a day trip through Europe.

Uber Alles?

I may never get a chance to say this again without certain friends of mine claiming a moral victory: I really like Germany. Germany is a really cool country; and it’s pretty impressive that it can do so much and be so prosperous in such a comparatively short time. It’s been just over sixty years since most cities in Germany were obliterated by Allied bombings, and now it’s beautiful.

I think part of my affection for Germany stems from the simple fact that I feel comfortable here. I mentioned once that I loved Prague because I felt at home in the city, and Dublin was even better, if only because of the prevalence of the English language. I really am a Northern girl at heart I think, even if I grew up in the South under the most technical of terms. This seems to be a worldwide impression, as I am never happier than in a cold, damp city that feeds me sausage.

I understand the appeal of stretching out on a beach sipping sangria, and can’t deny the allure of absorbing UV rays, but I really am happier in my coat and scarf, braving the downpour for a coffee run. That’s not to say that I don’t like beaches, I just happen to like the northern ones, like Scotland or Canada. There’s something very appealing about Viking country, as well as the landlocked areas of mountain and river.

Simply put, Germany is a fabulous place. I’m feeling a little overwhelmed from this trip. We began in Riva, drove to Freiberg, then a day in Strasbourg (France), on to Heidelberg, day trip to Rothenberg, on to Bamberg, day trip to Nuremberg, then finally Munich; all of this over nine days. It’s a punishing schedule, and prohibitive to really getting a feel for a city or seeing many sights. I had lots of fun, and more than a few cultural experiences, and I can safely say that I’ll need another jaunt into Germany sometime in my future.

This trip belonged to the Political Science aspect of the semester, so I spent most days in meetings and watching power points about environmental policy and sustainability. Germany is all sorts of wonderful compared to many other countries with regards to sustainable development, and yet we’re still in trouble. As if that wasn’t enough fun, part of the trip including a visit to the BMW factory and seeing some of the research laboratories. I don’t really understand cars, but I do so love the nice machines that go fast.

Outside of the educational program, I had a full range of cultural experiences, mostly culinary: pastries everywhere and sausage. I have never eaten so well than those street vendors with delicious sausage. I must make a passing reference to the beer: it exists in Germany. As for the history; there’s lots. We saw quite a few rebuilt cities as a result of World War Two, and it’s amazing to consider the state the country was in only sixty years ago. And now it’s prosperous and pretty, as well as a world leader in environmental policies.

I Went Down to Dublin Town, to See What I Could See

I think some of my earliest memories involve books; specifically very detailed children’s books like Jan Brett’s, and in particular one about the production of the Book of Kells. I remember from those bygone days a certain fascination with the intricacy of the Celtic knot work. I got older, and my interest grew. My favorite history comes from the British Isles and Ireland, and when I finally realized jewelry could be more than plastic, I always drifted towards the Highland Games and Irish festivals to find the local jewelers who always had the best options for cheap, pretty knot work. Even now I have a ring of a dog in the Irish style. It never fails to attract interest.

And then there was the music. I like pretty much everything under the sun, but I never had much interest in going to concerts because I never liked any band enough to want to spend the money. That changed freshman year of college when I discovered Great Big Sea, a Newfie band that plays a mix of original works and traditional songs, often of Irish descent. With them came Gaelic Storm, again a mix of original works and tradition.

Suffice to say, there’s a personal interest in Ireland: the people, the culture, the history. Add to that the family background. The Irish side of the family is the only one I can actually claim to know much about. So, a weekend trip to Dublin should have been a good time.

Dublin is pretty much the best thing ever. I’ve had lots of great experiences; Prague was wonderful, I loved Nice, but Dublin is great.

First off: English is everywhere! I don’t speak Gaelic, and it’d be nice to learn the language, but that’s not happening anytime soon. Better than that- oodles of history and literature! Do you know how many Nobel Prize winners hail from Dublin town? There’s Yeats, Beckett, Heaney, Shaw…everyone except James Joyce is on the list. It’s rather impressive to look at the notable graduates from Trinity. Oh, and Trinity. I thought I liked Oxford, but Trinity is just too beautiful, and they have the Book of Kells! My favorite medieval manuscript is right there!

Um, Second- Guinness and Jameson’s. Both of the original distilleries of the city have shut down, but the shells and tour remain. I love visiting distilleries; they’re such fun, and every employee is happy to see you. I like seeing people content with their careers. Then you get out to the pubs, and there’s always music, frequently live, and lots of friendly people and the locals all get confused when the poor little American girls ask for Guinness. It would appear that girls do not drink beer in Europe; far more appropriate for women to take wine or something else. No one mentioned this. I’ve never had such good fun.

Our first night out my party met a number of wonderful people, including one gent who offered us the use of his Masters in Irish history to give us a tour of Dublin. Very nice to be taken around and have 1916 and the process of Home Rule explained.

This is a bit muddled, so let me clarify the past weekend:

Wednesday: Fly out of Milan, and get to the hostel. Kinley house is very nice, and has a bed for tired little students.

Thursday: Up and out. Discover the hostel is next door to Christ Church. We find our way to the Kilmainham Gaol, which dates form the mid eighteenth century; notable for holding many a political prisoner, especially the leaders of the Easter Rebellion of 1916. Out and around to visit the Guinness storehouse; the top level provides a 360-view of Dublin, well-labeled with Joyce quotes. After that it was Grafton Street, and the great quest for fish and chips. Remarkably, it’s far easier to get a kebab than fish, but fish we found! I also discovered that half the convenience stores sold Tim Horton’s doughnuts, further confirming my conviction that Dublin is the greatest city in the world. After food back to the hostel for naps before trying out Temple Bar.

Friday: I did some private exploring in the morning, discovering the Oscar Wilde statue, several parks, and finally Trinity and Kells. No end of wonders, and then across the Liffy. I met the group and our Irish guide at two for touring, and some museums before hunger sent us into Hard Rock. Do not doubt the wonders of a Hard Rock Café; it’s far classier than succumbing to the lure of McDonalds. Again, another evening discovering the local flavor.

Saturday: Rain. Oh, it had rained before, but this was annoying. As was the discovery that on the weekend Dublin Castle is only open 2-4:45. So much for that. We ended up at the Library to see the W.B. Yeats exhibit; pretty good, and lots to be known about Yeats’ mysticism tendencies. Ahhh….the origins of celebrity interest in mysticism religions better left to people who actually understand what’s going on. Well, maybe not. Yeats seemed to know what was going on. Out from there to attempt some shopping and other wondrous activities before Jameson’s. Not my favorite distillery, mainly because it wasn’t active. I like being able to smell the process, and see the whiskey being made, rather than just finding the end product in the gift shop. Still, learned a lot about whiskey I hadn’t known. Irish whiskey is always distilled three times, providing a smoother flavor, and the peat taste of Scottish whisky comes from the roasting process of the malts. Final night of exploring local culture, but not before meeting a boy from New Zealand and a girl from Australia; both were very nice, and I learned quite a lot about higher education. Amazing the power of the hostel.

Sunday was home again, leaving the Emerald Isle. As beautiful as it is in the mountains, I miss Dublin. I’d like to go back and get out into the countryside, maybe the Ring of Kerry and Galway, but that will have to wait for another day. My list of cities still to see or return to continues to grow longer. I may need to get a job with Frommer’s or Lonely Planet to achieve this. Or just find a nice pile of money to support my increasingly expensive needs. Did I mention the Republic of Ireland has one of the highest costs of living in the EU? Might need a work visa, and be prepared to settle for a time.