The End

I apologize for the long lapse since my last update, but considering my previous difficulties with blizzards and volcanoes, I thought it would be prudent to enter the Natural Disaster Victim Protection Program well in advance of my departure date. However, I’ve been safely back in the States for more than a week now and so far no earthquakes, fires or tornadoes have found me, so I think the coast is clear.

Let’s catch up on my last few days across the pond, shall we?

Do you ever notice how you never seem to have time to visit that castle in the town next door, so you just keep putting it off because you can see it anytime? No? It must just be me. Seven minutes away from Brighton by train, there is a little town called Lewes, which is home to your run-of-the-mill medieval English castle, and somehow, I never made time for it. Fortunately, Giulia G. and I scheduled a trip for the Friday before I left, and this was one of the best decisions I made in the last few weeks. I won’t bore you with my standard “awesome sense of history” spiel, and instead I will just give a round of applause to whoever manages the property. The main attraction is the castle’s exterior because there isn’t much left inside, but the grounds are beautiful, and when you stand on top of the tower with a beautiful view that extends for miles, you can pretend for just a moment that you’re not carrying a cell phone in your pocket and that a horse, rather than a train, will take you home. And if you need some extra help getting into that frame of mind, Lewes Castle has you covered. Quite literally. Two floors of one of the medieval towers have been turned into large, walk-in closets filled with medieval dress up clothes for the young and the not-so-young. Giulia and I spent the largest chunk of our visit trying on funky hats and robes and taking ridiculous pictures, and it was one of the highlights of the day.

I picked a good summer to be in England, because how else would I have discovered how patriotic the English can be? A few weeks ago, English flags started popping up everywhere. Cars, windows, you name it, there was a flag. Being the political science student that I am, my first thought was that it was some sort of symbolic support for the British National Party, an extreme right party that is sometimes identified with the flag. However, the term “World Cup” kept floating around, and I put that fine university education I’m supposed to be getting to work to connect the two. The England vs. USA match just happened to be on the Saturday before I left, and fortunately, I stumbled upon a small enclave of familiar American, Iranian and non-English faces in the middle of the crowded and very patriotic English pub. The stares we received when we cheered at the English goalie’s fumble? Priceless. I couldn’t have had a better introduction to this strange sport called “football,” and I’m officially hooked on the World Cup.

I took my final exam on Monday, and after a frenzy of shopping and packing, I had my last supper in Brighton with my friends at the Asian buffet I mentioned a few weeks ago, and then we met up with more friends for drinks on the beach. I almost cried when my friends presented me with going away presents, including a UK flag with all of their signatures, a cute book about this unique town that I’ve called home for the past few months, and a new travel journal (even though none of them knew that I kept a travel journal or that it had recently run out). Thanks again, guys! <3 I couldn’t dream up a better sendoff.

The next day, we gathered one last time for coffee and cake, and many hugs later, I lugged myself and 50 kilos of luggage to London, where I came full circle and stayed over at Riki’s flat. We had a delightful evening at a Caribbean restaurant (people who knew me when I refused to eat anything other than pizza, hotdogs and grilled cheese sandwiches, did you ever imagine I would write such a thing???), and I was awake and out the door the next morning probably before most of you back home had even gone to sleep.

Despite the stack of books, the three complete meals and the extra clothing I stuffed in my backpack, there were no travel disasters. Not one. The plane took off on time, I had a window seat, and despite an unpleasant neighbor, I caught up on chick flicks. Without further drama, my European adventure came to a close.

I’ve had almost two weeks’ distance from England, and I’m far from done with processing and reflecting on the experience, but since I like lists, here are some preliminary thoughts:

Things I’ve learned:
-What zucchinis look like.

-Volcanoes are public enemy #1.

-Karaoke is actually fun, even if I sound like a dying ground squirrel. (Trust me, I’m writing this from Galena, I know what a[n alive] ground squirrel sounds like.)

-Chivalry is really sexy. I’m talking to you, American guys.

-Italians do almost everything together. Laundry, cooking, grocery shopping, bus ticket shopping…and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

-Europeans kiss. A lot. “Hello” and “goodbye” aren’t European unless they are accompanied by a kiss (or two, or three, depending on nationality). I’ve been kissed more this semester than in my entire life (on the cheek anyway…)

-I can survive and thrive in a foreign country, albeit one as easy linguistically and culturally as England.

-I know what it feels like (I think) to be an adult. At Wash. U., I never really feel like a grownup (probably because I still use that word). Yes, I live away from home, but I have the cafeteria a few steps away, my parents are easily accessible by phone 24/7, and I’m insulated from the real world in the people I see, the place I live and the things I do. At Sussex, I cooked for myself, I unclogged my sink, I paid for my groceries (it’s not as convenient as just swiping my student id!), I went off campus multiple times a week (as opposed to multiple times a year, if I’m lucky, at Wash. U.), and I figure out how to get myself from one building/city/country to another. While those responsibilities come with their share of stress and frustration (does anyone remember my rants about black mold?), it also comes with a healthy sense of independence, and I truly hope that is a feeling I can transfer to my life here in the States.

-My mother won’t be happy to read this, but if I had to, I could live there. A few people asked me if I would ever want to leave the States to settle in Europe, and up until mid-May, the answer was always been a resounding “no.” It’s not that I don’t appreciate some of the perks of living in Europe (like efficient public transportation), but in general, I find quality of life to be better in the U.S. (I’m sorry Europe, I just love my air conditioning too much) and of course the most difficult part of the last few months has been being away from all the family and friends that I love. None of that is likely to change, so my preference right now is to stay in America. But I discovered that it’s the people I surround myself with who make all the difference in the world, so if I knew I would be living with people as amazing as the friends I’ve met here, I could do it.

Things I don’t miss:
-Anything and everything about York House (except the porter who almost cried when I left, and while giving me the tightest bear hug in the history of the universe, said “I wish that everything you touch turns to gold.”)

-Windows without screens (but not the cute guys who show up shortly after incidents involving screen-less windows).

-Sinks with two faucets, one for lukewarm water, one for scalding hot water.

-Scrimping and saving for weeks to have enough pound coins for laundry. You wouldn’t believe how difficult they are to come by.

-Being turned away from the gym I pay a fortune to use when I forget a sweat towel.

-Sussex bureaucracy. If it’s not a hassle to get done, you’re doing it wrong.

-Sitting on a bus (even a double-decker) for an hour to get to and from Brighton.

-Unintentionally smoking a pack a day just by breathing.

-Queuing. For. Everything.

Things I miss:
-British English. When I use words like “biscuit,” “revise” and “queue,” I get all of the accomplishment that comes from speaking a foreign language without the difficulty of actually learning one.

-Sinks in bedrooms.

-The BBC iPlayer. Every show that airs on any BBC channel is available for the next week online. For free. I love it.

-Primark. Think Wal-Mart prices, department store quality. What’s not to miss?

-Having conversations like: “What are you doing this weekend?” “I’m going to Paris/
Amsterdam/Berlin/Venice. No big deal.”

-European dinners. I have been fortunate enough to experience mealtimes in a variety of countries, as well as on a regular basis with my friends on campus, and the contrast to American dinners is striking. While I may not have witnessed “typical” European dinners because I was often a guest in friends’ homes, I don’t think I can be accused of being too naïve if I make a few generalizations. The length of the meal is the first hint that you’re not eating in the country that invented fast food. European meals are long and leisurely, and even longer if you’re eating with people you don’t like. At home, we may gobble down our food in under thirty minutes, just in time to catch a Scrubs rerun, but there, dinners can easily last 1 1/2 hours or more. Part of the difference is due to the absence of tv watching and because of the multiple courses; sometimes, there’s an appetizer, a main course, a cheese course depending on the country, and dessert, with plenty of wine throughout. I’m still trying to figure out how Europeans don’t top the list of the world’s most obese people. Perhaps it’s only the presence of food and drink that I wasn’t used to, but European dinners often feel a little more special than American dinners. They’re a perfect ending to any day, and they’re an event, not just another scheduled activity. It’s not that I never have nice and special meals in America, but they’re less frequent than in Europe.

-the English attitude towards alcohol. It’s much more relaxed than the American perspective. The English may drink at inappropriate times, and they may drink in inappropriate places (buses, beaches, theaters…you name it, you can drink there), and yes, they may drink ever so slightly more than the doctor-recommended one glass of wine a day, but they’re much less dramatic about it.

-Hand in hand with the last point, being legal. For about a month anyway.

-Rock beaches. Despite my initial misgivings, I found that they are superior to sand beaches in every way.

-The international community in Brighton. It took me longer than it should have to really tap into this fine group of people, but I’m glad I found my way to them in the end. There’s a sizeable population of foreign students studying in Brighton, some just for a few months, and some for a full degree, but no matter where they’re from or what they’re doing, what sets them apart from other groups is how inclusive everyone is. The dominant mentality is “the more, the merrier,” and this applies to dinners, picnics, parties, clubbing and outings of every kind. If a few people are going out, no one thinks twice about texting or messaging their friends (or people they just met, which benefited me a few times!), with the expectation that friends of friends will come along. In this way, almost everyone knows each other, if not by name than at least by face. From my experience, this is not an American attitude at all. It’s not that Americans tend to be purposefully cliquish, but it just doesn’t occur to most people here to include those outside of their circle.

-My social life, especially in the last few weeks. I had my core group of friends who I saw almost every day for dinner, dessert or a study break throughout my time at Sussex, and then there was the larger group of friends and acquaintances who I often went out with. The only time I was alone in the last two months was when I wanted to be.

-I’ve alluded to it, but just for emphasis: my wonderful friends. Even though I was barely there for five months, I found some amazing people who made the ups and downs that come with starting over in a new place more than worth it. They are the largest reason this was such a good experience for me.

-Waking up with a purpose every day. This is tough to explain, but I’ll try. A lot of time, money, and opportunities were sacrificed for me to have the experience of living and studying in England for the semester, and the only way to make it all worth it was to embrace the experience and everything it could teach me. In a weird way, I gave myself permission to make the here and now the center of my world; not my studies, my social life, others’ expectations, my past or my future, but the present. Sometimes I succeeded, other times, I failed, but I never doubted that I was there for a reason, to learn and enjoy my time to the utmost. It felt like a long vacation from my real life. Although just to be clear, I should point out that this isn’t an absolute truth. Of course I paid attention to my classes, of course I applied for internships in the interest of my future, and of course I didn’t forget about my life in the U.S. It’s just that these issues lost some of their intensity with the physical distance, and now that I’m back home, it’s hard to feel that same sense of purpose with all of these concerns back in focus.

-Lastly, blogging. Constantly writing a summary of my time there forced me to reflect on this journey as I went along. This was valuable in so many ways, and in the process, I created a (novel-length) document that I will look back on in five, ten, and fifteen years to remember this exciting period of my life; in addition, I think it has made me a better writer. Perhaps even more importantly, I’ve gained confidence in my writing from all of your compliments and just knowing that someone other than my parents thought this was worth reading. So, a big thank you to all of you for bearing with me through exams, volcanoes, clubbing and everything else over the past few months. And if anyone has suggestions for any future blog topics, let me know! There’s no topic I enjoy writing about more than myself…

I’m no good at writing conclusions, mostly because as you’ve seen over the past few months, my writing goes on, and on, and on... I don’t know what I would do with myself if I wasn’t typing. So, I will lamely conclude that if you’re reading this, chances are I want to hear from you, so I look forward to seeing and catching up with you soon!

The End

I’ll always have Paris

This may be hard for some of you to believe if you’ve read about my previous travel adventures, but maybe, just maybe, my luck is changing because I made it to Paris last Tuesday without any issues. It’s amazing to think that with only three trains, I can get from Brighton on the island to Paris on the continent, in just a few hours. Guillaume was waiting for me at the station, and I was soon reacquainted with the Paris Metro, which I used much more than I did four years ago, when I was in Paris with my grandparents. The Metro is impressive, right on par with the London Tube. It took one or two transfers to get anywhere from Guillaume’s home, but there is nowhere in the city that the trains can’t take you. I was also impressed with how efficient the system is; we rarely waited more than two minutes for a train. CTA, please take note.

We set off for Napoleon’s tomb soon after dropping my suitcase at his parents’ flat. (Yes, suitcase. Normally, I would just take a backpack for such a short trip, but after the volcano fiasco, I’m afraid to not bring every charger for every electronic I own and minimally five extra pairs of socks and underwear. So much for learning how to pack light while I’m here.) I thought I had seen just about every variation on the “beautiful dome” theme that seems rather prominent in most of the European cities I’ve been to, but I have to give Paris credit, because this building was a work of art. It was obviously built in the neoclassical style (no self-respecting emperor would be buried in any other way) and from the outside, the dome was golden and ornate. I distinctly remember admiring it from afar last time I was there. The inside didn’t disappoint; it felt open and “breathable” compared to some of the other architectural wonders I’ve seen. Around the sarcophagus, there was a wall full of tablets with French inscriptions. Guillaume was obviously not being a good translator, because an American tourist walked by, and with a smug look of satisfaction, told us what the tablet said. “Thank you very much” Guillaume replied, and to both of our credits, we managed to stifle our laughter until he was out of ear range.

Our next stop was a French military history museum. Guillaume complained that many Americans he talked to were under the impression that France has never won a war, and the museum did its best to correct this impression. I am not going to go so far to say it was a biased account of history, but the displays presented a very French point of view. Still, the collection of war artifacts was huge, especially when it came to clothing. I haven’t seen so many uniforms since my days at Catholic school.

For the rest of the afternoon, we walked around a ritzy neighborhood in the city that vaguely reminded me of Michigan Avenue—lots of high-end stores with names I’ve never heard of. We passed by cafes that famous authors once frequented and a beautiful old church called St. Germain des Prés. (Don’t be too impressed with my knowledge of Paris, Guillaume had to remind me of its name!) We stopped by Science Po, the university Guillaume and Mary attend, and it was a shock to see students wearing suits, heels, and mascara, just to take finals. During finals time at Wash. U., sweatpants, tee shirts and messy pony tails are the norm. Different strokes for different folks, as someone once told me (many times)…

I met Guillaume’s lovely parents that evening, and my family will be proud and perhaps a little disgusted to hear that I ate foie gras, which is a fancy French specialty, according to Guillaume’s mom. She had five different flavors for me to try, including fig, grapefruit, and spices. The spices kind was my favorite, and then we moved onto the main course, followed by a cheese course and pastries for dessert. I’ve decided I’ve fallen in love with European dinners, but more on that another time.

The next day, we went to Cité des Sciences et de l'Industrie, the French version of the Museum of Science and Industry. It was pretty awesome. There were exhibits about genetics, astronomy, physics, mechanical engineering and just about every other field of science.
Some interesting tidbits I learned:
-1 out of 1000 neuro-somethings is responsible for all the differences between people.
-Scientists are compiling the medical histories of people in Iceland to study inherited diseases because the community has been relatively insular and stable over generations.
-In the future, clothing could regulate our body temperatures.
It was definitely one of my favorite parts of the trip.

We took the Metro to the Buttes Chaumont neighborhood and ate at a Chinese restaurant. It was a very multicultural week for me, and this counts as culture #2. We then met up with Mary, and after many hugs, we spent some time wandering around the Parc des Buttes Chaumont. It’s a gorgeous green retreat, and for a while, I forgot I was in one of the biggest cities in the world.

Because we hadn’t quite been out in the rain enough (it was like Irish weather—ten minutes of sunshine, ten minutes of rain), we visited the very crowded Père Lachaise Cemetery, which is the largest cemetery in Paris and where Jim Morrison is buried. We didn’t actually go visit his grave because we found a large tree to shelter us from the rain, and that was much more interesting than getting soaked walking around.

We enjoyed delicious hot chocolate across the street and then parted ways for the evening. Guillaume’s mom cooked delicious chicken tortillas (culture #3!) and we had another nice European dinner, and then we watched a South African movie (#4 too many cultures…I’m going to stop counting now). Like I said, it was a multicultural week.

The next day, I felt like I was back in England. We agreed to meet Mary at the Catacombs, but when we arrived, we discovered they were flooded. I guess I used up all my good luck on the trip there. It started to rain just as we missed a bus, and it didn’t stop until the evening, which was unfortunate since all of our plans involved walking around outside. We were troopers for a while and decided to ignore the rain, and for once, our timing was good because we observed a march of striking garbage collectors. It was a truly French experience, so I felt cultured. We walked around for a while, and our experience was characterized by Guilluame getting splashed by a bus and laughed at by an Italian couple. Then, we decided warm drinks were in order, so we regrouped over hot chocolate and tea.

Our next plan of action took us to the Eiffel Tower, where we snapped a few photographs and retreated to the very indoors Musée Guimet, where I successfully impersonated a British student to gain free entry. It turns out EU students in France can get into museums for free, but not American students, so that British accent I’ve spent five months perfecting came in useful. (And when I say “British accent,” I mean Sussex student id card. I knew that piece of plastic would be good for something, someday.)

The museum’s collection of Asian art is extensive. Unfortunately, walking around in the rain had taken its toll on me, and I couldn’t appreciate it as much as I should have. Our next stop was a very French McDonald’s. Now, before you make all sorts of snotty comments about me eating McDonald’s in Paris, you should know one thing: French McDonald’s are classier than American Mickey D’s. How do I know this? Well, the portions are smaller, the menus are larger (they have mini croque monsieurs), and they serve potato wedges in addition to fries. How much fancier can you get?

In the spirit of experiencing as many cultures as we could in three days, we decided to see the movie The Prince of Persia for a taste of Hollywood. I was pleased to see that going to the movies in France does not involve half as many queues as cinemas in England.

We wandered around after the movie, snapped pictures of the Tour Montparnasse, one of the most hated buildings in Paris, and then went to one of Guillaume’s favorite traditional Breton crêperies. I had a delicious egg, ham and cheese crepe with special Breton cider. My only regret is that I wasn’t hungry enough to try a dessert crepe. We bid a fond farewell to Marie and then headed home to watch a French comedy. I didn’t know they even made those, but I appreciated it more than South African humor!

The next day, the weather was of course gorgeous. I’m beginning to think Paris was trying to tell me something. It was a morning full of sad goodbyes, first to Guillaume’s mom, who was so warm and hospitable, and then of course to Guillaume, who was a perfect host. It's unfathomable to me that it may be years before we see each other again. He took me to the station, and we had time for a quick cup of tea before my train left.

Final thoughts on Paris: I am so lucky not only that I have such wonderful friends to show me around, but also in that I saw most of the Parisian touristy sights four years ago. It freed my friends and me to check out places “off the beaten track” as my idol for everything Rick Steves would say, and we could focus on catching up and enjoying our time, without the pressure of checking attractions off of a “must see” list. Thanks again, Grandma and Grandpa! Also, I’m happy to report that just as my childhood cartoons taught me, French people do indeed walk around carrying baguettes, especially on the Metro after work. My faith in stereotypes is restored. This was undoubtedly one of the best three days of my time in Europe, but I’ve been having a good time back here at Sussex as well.

It was good to see my friends here again on Friday night, and I spent probably too much of Saturday observing how “football” (soccer, for those of you reading from across the Atlantic) is played on Playstation. Eventually, it occurred to the guys I was hanging out with to teach me how to play, and a few moments later, I was holding a controller. I haven’t felt so helpless since being stranded by a volcano. Before I knew it, the game was in motion and “my team” somehow ended up with the ball. I started randomly pressing buttons, and then all of the sudden, I apparently scored a goal. The guys I was playing with were kind of impressed. And by kind of impressed, I mean they watched the replay five times, and hours later insisted on showing another friend. However, lest you get the wrong idea, I should probably mention at this point that it was the only goal I scored all evening. Beginner’s luck is a fickle thing.

The weather was lovely the next day. A beautiful day anywhere is a great thing, but in England, there’s something truly special about a warm and sunny day. Maybe it’s because I don’t expect them, or maybe there’s a genuine change in people’s attitudes, but you can almost touch the happiness in the air. Obviously, the day had to be enjoyed outside, so friends and I took a bus into town, listened to live music and hung out on the beach. It was a perfect afternoon, and to top it all off, we went clubbing that night. I met some other really friendly international students as well as a creepy Austrian, who was hanging out in a club alone (warning sign, anyone?) to “find inspiration” for his rock band. A likely story… It was getting light out when I returned home, and this is quickly becoming the mark of a good night.

You might notice that for the first time, I have intentionally referred to this place as home. When I’ve written these blog posts in the place, I often slipped up and wrote “home” to refer to York House or campus, but I always tried to change it, because I never wanted England to be home. “Home” was for years the place I was raised and surrounded by family, or more recently, a specific location at Wash. U. where I was comfortable, happy and close to friends who knew me inside and out. For most of the past four months, England hasn’t met all of these criteria. I had some great experiences and I’ve met some wonderful friends here, but it always felt like too far from my real homes to count. And York House? It’s a far cry from even my freshman dorm at Wash. U. But it’s not so simple anymore. I don’t know whether it’s the generally nice weather, the lack of academic stress, or the knowledge that this all ends in less than two weeks, but all of the sudden, I find myself happy here. I’m finally secure in my friendships, I’m meeting cool people I want to get to know better, and I’m not done finding new experiences. I’m more torn than I ever thought I would be about leaving.

In retrospect, January to June was the very worst amount of time to come to Sussex. If I had been here for fall term and only stayed three months, I would have been more than ready to leave in December, which is sort of how I felt during the spring. But five and a half months is just long enough to truly feel adjusted and comfortable, and if I had stayed for the whole year, I would have had a few more months to enjoy being settled and happy here. Still, I can’t regret my decision because I wouldn’t trade my fall semester at Wash. U. for anything, and I’m lucky that I can still make the most out of the short time I have left in England.

And that starts….now. Yesterday was a girls’ night out and involved an all-you-can-eat Asian buffet, including literally a wall of desserts, as well as Sex and the City 2. It turns out that buying movie tickets online ahead of time reduces the trauma involved in going to the cinema in England. Now if only all of this “carpe diem” stuff would involve studying for my final exam, maybe I could maintain my low stress level…unfortunately, studying too hard anytime soon does not appear to be in the forecast!

I could have danced all night...oh wait, I did!

What’s that you say? I’m supposed to be writing essays and studying for exams at this time of year? Oops. I didn’t get the memo. It’s all England’s fault, really. We’re friends again, and it’s been distracting me with positively unEnglish weather. Almost every day last week, it was sunny and in the 70s, or as England likes to say, in the low 20s. You try studying under such difficult conditions!

By some miracle, I managed to turn in my final essay last Thursday, but before I could start studying for my Politics of Australia and New Zealand exam on Monday, I had to study clubbing. Believe me, in Brighton, clubbing is an art. The observant among you may remember that I tried it in January and came back with mixed reviews. However, a few things were different this time around. The weather was about a thousand times nicer. Never underestimate the influence of a warm evening. Also, in January I went clubbing mostly because I felt it was an experience I should have and I didn’t know when I would have another chance. This time, my friends and I had all had a long week of hard work, and I genuinely wanted to go out.

The night started out sounding like a bad joke, 5 Italians and an American walk into a Japanese restaurant, but fortunately it had a good punch line. I tried Japanese food for the first time, although my sweet and sour chicken tasted suspiciously like the sweet and sour chicken I’ve had at every Chinese restaurant I’ve ever eaten at, so I’m not convinced. We walked around a bizarre fashion show at the Brighton Festival for a while, and then we headed into a club.

Revolution, the club, has recently been remodeled, and it shows. There was a nicely decorated room with a bar and a lounge (and a chandelier!), and another bar and a dance floor next door. My friends and I snagged a table in the nice patio area and chatted over drinks. Although I was not sipping a cosmopolitan, I had a difficult time believing we were in Brighton and not on the set of Sex and the City. We started to get chilly just as the patio got loud and crowded, so we migrated inside to the lounge and drank more while marveling at the things English girls wear. (No offense meant towards any English readers I may have, but take my word for it, your fashion sense is completely unique and worthy of being gawked at by tourists. It’s a good thing.) The girl who showed up in pajamas might have been my favorite, but she wasn’t nearly as entertaining at the girls in the bathroom, who I overheard attempting to speak in Southern accents. The look on their faces when I said “not bad” in my very American accent? Priceless.

Feeling very…well-hydrated, we moved on to the dance floor. The music was decent, and it was an ideal girls’ night out. Early in the morning, Giulia and Martina left (the poor souls had class in a few hours), but Irene and I stuck it out. Not too long after that, some of our guy friends showed up, and we moved down to the spacious (and by this point, hot and sweaty) basement, which I did not even realize existed. We kept dancing until the club closed. Me, closing down a club? Who would have ever guessed? The guys decided they required some greasy food (after all, doesn’t everyone eat at 3 a.m.?), so along with all the other club-goers within a five-mile radius, we stopped by the place next door. By the way, if anyone is looking for an investment opportunity, I recommend getting into the fast food business. The key to success is location; rent property near establishments that sell alcohol, don’t bother opening before midnight, and you’re guaranteed to be a millionaire in no time. We took the Lemon bus back to campus, finally rolling in at 4 a.m., by which point, it was getting light out. All in all, a pretty epic night.

I did some real studying on Friday and Saturday (because lying in the sun with my notebook open counts as studying), and then it was time for another distraction. Giulia, Martina and Irene were going to a tango and salsa lesson they heard about at a dance studio in Hove (one town over from Brighton), so I decided to join them. It may have been more than a little outside the ol’ comfort zone, but I closed down a club; I’m obviously an expert dancer, right?

Well, as it turned out, not so much. My friends and every one of the poor, random strangers I was paired with quickly discovered that I’ve inherited my dad’s two left feet. Thanks for nothing, Dad! In my defense, the studio was sweltering hot, but all the same, I don’t think I’ll be auditioning for Dancing with the Stars anytime soon.

On Monday, I couldn’t put it off any longer, and I took my Politics exam. Despite the nice weather, I think I managed to do enough studying because I felt ok about it. As a reward, I took the train to Paris for the week. I certainly do know how to relax after assessments, don’t I? Against the odds, I had a disaster-free trip to and from Paris, and a blog entry will be posted in the next few days. It’s that or study, so take a guess as to which I’ll do!

An Open Letter to England

Dear England,

I thought we were friends. I really did. But after your behavior (or behaviour, if you prefer) these past two weeks, it’s clear that our friendship doesn’t mean as much to you as it did to me.

I admit, we got off a rocky start back in January when you decided to have the biggest blizzard in years while I was struggling to get to Brighton. I didn’t appreciate that, and it made me wonder what kind of a country you were. But I gave you the benefit of the doubt, I forgave you, and we moved on. I thought my faith in you was justified, because of our lovely spring. With all of the sunshine, I was even beginning to wonder where the fuss about English weather came from. Do you remember that time I was on the continent for spring break and Iceland tried to keep us apart with that giant volcanic ash cloud? I fought to get back to you. I took a maddening assortment of planes, trains and, well, just planes and trains really, all for you. I thought you were happy to have me back, and I promised you that I wouldn’t do any more international travel for a while.

The past two weekends, I have faithfully kept my promise to you. Instead of going to Madrid, Dublin, Prague or somewhere exotic like that, I planned to travel in Kent, which, in case you need a geography lesson, is well within your borders. And what do you do? You rain, and you pour, and you don’t stop! And if that wasn’t enough, the minute I return, you’re sunny, you’re warm and you reek of spring while I’m stuck inside staring out the window, er, I mean, writing papers and studying. Why England, why? There’s a Katy Perry song to describe you, and it’s not “Thinking of You.”

But you know what, England? I didn’t let you ruin my travels. Two weekends ago, I went to London and had a free meal courtesy of ACCENT (remember, that company Wash. U. hires to make sure us UK study abroad students don’t die). The ice cream I had for dessert was delicious and definitely worth the trip.

And then, Riki and her family took me to stay at her in-laws’ magnificent home in Kent. The estate is so cool, it even has its own name and Wikipedia page: Sharsted Court. The house is amazing and has been there for hundreds of years; supposedly, it has a resident ghost, although I did not make its acquaintance on this trip. I concede, England, that you played by the rules that Saturday afternoon, and Riki gave me a tour of the grounds that was uninterrupted by rain, despite some ominous-looking clouds. The grounds have something for everyone. There are woods with beautiful flowers, a maze that one can safely get lost in and perfectly maintained gardens, which include elaborate bush sculptures that I thought only existed in the movies.

Iris’ antics kept me laughing the entire weekend, and Nick’s entire family was very welcoming. We had a great dinner, and I discovered that I’ve acquired a taste for red wine. It was a good night.

But then, England, you showed your true colors. All of Sunday morning and afternoon, it rained. No amount of “rain, rain, go away, come again another day” chanting could convince you to stop. Not that you kept Riki and me from taking a walk in the woods anyway. Yes, it was wet and cold, but it was fun, and I’d do it again. It was a lovely weekend away in the country, no thanks to you!

One weekend of bad weather I could overlook, even if it did come while I was on such a nice trip. But two? I signed up to go on a day trip to Kent with the International Office, and our first stop was Canterbury. There was intermittent drizzle in the morning, although I didn’t mind it so much, since I was mostly inside Canterbury Cathedral, which is gothic and remarkable and there’s really not much more to say about it. However, I am impressed that for 840 years, someone has remembered the exact location where Archbishop Thomas Becket was murdered in 1170, a spot that is marked with a burning candle. How eerie.

I didn’t complain about the cold (well, maybe I did a little) when I wandered through Canterbury with a Finnish classmate. We sipped piping hot tea and then explored the most beautiful river walk I’ve ever seen, complete with ancient medieval towers and trees that are minimally hundreds of years old. And then, because I’m me, we got more than a little turned around trying to find the bus. But on the bright side, we saw the residential area of Canterbury, and we got our exercise speed-walking from one end of town to the other, and then back again.

All of this is to say that I could have forgiven the crummy weather in Canterbury, but for it to downright rain the entire time I was at Leeds Castle is simply inexcusable. Leeds Castle is a medieval castle (obviously), and for a few centuries, it was traditionally owned by English queens. The Tudors even stayed there for a brief time, so I felt right at home among my old friends. It eventually passed into private hands, and in the 1920s, it was purchased by Lady Baille, an American who ended up living in a castle. She’s obviously my heroine and new model for life. Apparently, the key to her success was marrying and divorcing three members of the British aristocracy. I only have a few weeks left here, so I better get on that… She restored and improved the castle throughout fifty years. She must have done a good job, considering all the famous people who came to her weekend parties in the 1930s, and at one point, negotiations for peace in the Middle East took place there. How many castles can add “world peace” to their resume? Or at least “attempting world peace.”

The building interior can’t compete with Windsor Castle or Blenheim in opulence, but I haven’t seen any estates as large or perfectly landscaped since the chateaux in the Loire Valley. And this is why we are fighting, England. Even in the pouring rain, I could see how marvelous it would be to walk around this beautiful place in the sunshine. It’s a long walk to the castle from the car park anyway, and it doesn’t help that half of the castle’s attraction are outside. Why couldn’t I have that perfect day of sunshine, just this once? After a while, the greenery was just too pretty to walk by, so I tried to ignore my numb fingers and take a few pictures anyway, but I don’t think I will ever get over the missed opportunity for blue skies, green trees and a castle. At least until I go back, which I have vowed to do someday.

I think I’ve said all I need to say, England. If you want to apologize, I could use some nice weather this Sunday, when I’m planning to walk to my favorite tiny village for tea. Or better yet, put in a good word for me with your old buddy France, since I’m visiting Paris later this month, assuming I ever finish my papers and exams.

Sincerely,
Elyse

P.S. As a political science student, I should probably say something about the elections that were held last Thursday. Everyone was pretty excited about it here, although the fuss couldn’t compare to the U.S.’s last election. Still, there was a crowd of students watching the results live at a campus bar, so it was obviously big news. It was common knowledge that the Conservatives were going to beat Labour, and although the term “hung parliament” was floating around, I think a lot of people were surprised when no party gained the majority of votes. As a result, the past week’s headlines have been dominated with the party leaders’ every movement and their attempts to form Britain’s first coalition government in decades. After lots of drama, the Liberal Democrats, the largest third party, decided to team up with the Conservatives, which everyone pretty much expected, and Gordon Brown stepped down, much to almost everyone’s relief.

Here in Brighton, I think the large and very liberal student population may have had something to do with the election of the first-ever Green Party MP. However, any joy my classmates may have felt was mostly extinguished when David Cameron became Prime Minister. Sorry guys, better luck next time, but cheer up, he has to call another election sometime in the next few years!

The Isle of Wight: The (Wannabe) English Hawaii

Once upon a time, the British people decided they needed a proper holiday (a British holiday, mind you, otherwise known as a “vacation” in American). Not just a weekend in the country, or even a trip to somewhere exotic like London, but they thought that a relaxing, warm escape was in order. The Caribbean and the Mediterranean were too far away (and who wants to risk running into pirates), so they set their sights on an island a little closer to home: The Isle of Wight.

Queen Victoria started the trend when she built her summer home on this tiny island due south of England, and fashionable Victorians followed, including the famous Alfred Tennyson (“Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”? Yeah, that guy). They convinced themselves that its sandy beaches and fake palm trees (I kid you not) meant that it was warmer than the mainland, and thus, it qualified as a resort destination.

That’s my theory, anyway. Today, tourism dominates its tiny economy, and if the advertisements all over the ferry between Portsmouth and the island are any indication, every family in England takes their two children here during the summer months, where they frolic in the waves and build sandcastles all day.

Unfortunately for the poor Isle of Wight, I have been to the real Hawaii, and it doesn’t quite measure up. Yes, it has beaches, and yes, it might be a whole degree (Celsius) warmer than the mainland, but that doesn’t make it a tropical paradise. Still, the island is not without its charms. While the palms trees struck me as cliché and cheesy, there is a definite resort feel to the place, especially in the towns on the seafront. The beaches are nice, not rocky like Brighton’s beach, and it gets points because it doesn’t smell like dead fish. Most of the island is green, and there are plenty of woods to explore. One of the first things our group did after exploring one of the beaches was to hike in the southern part of the island. Yes, you read that right, I went hiking. Please stop rolling on the floor laughing. It was a fine and uneventful hike, and the most interesting thing I saw was a broken printer. In the middle of the woods. I don’t get it either.

After lunch at a cute tea shop in a cottage, we drove to the other side of the island and went on a two-hour walk on top of some breathtaking cliffs. It was a gorgeous sunny day, and after some close calls on the steep hills, the group made it to a village, which didn’t seem to consist of more than a beach and a mini amusement park. I walked down to another beachfront and saw more cool cliffs, which happened to be multicolored. Then I rode a chairlift that looked like it had seen better days back to the top of the cliff. I’d show you pictures, but I was too busy clutching the safety bar for dear life to get out my camera.

And that was it. It was not the most exciting of trips, but I figure the Isle of Wight is somewhere I never would have gone by myself, so I’m glad I can say I’ve been there, done that, and I’ll probably never go back.

I’ve more or less settled back into a school routine, which isn’t as difficult as it sounds since most of my courses are wrapping up. For instance, next week, I’ll be in class a grand total of one hour, although to be fair, that’s partly because my lecturers are going on strike. Again. You’d think I’d use the time to write the huge essays I have to turn in and study for the huge exams I have to take, but no, it’s much more fun to write blog posts and put pictures on Facebook.

When I returned to Sussex from my adventures on the continent, I was almost convinced I had gotten lost again and arrived at the wrong campus. Instead of the overcast, chilly, empty ghost town I had left behind, I was greeted with sun, warmth, chirping birds, and a multitude of students who must have been recently evicted from their apartments napping in the green grass. Unfortunately, this new and improved Sussex also includes some more unwelcome signs of spring.

I came back from the gym early yesterday afternoon, and as my room was stuffy, I cracked open the (screen-less) window for a few minutes. I was just about to go clean myself up when I heard an awful buzzing noise. With a gasp of horror, I leapt to close the window, but I was too late, and there was a giant bee hovering entirely too close to my head. Seriously, have they never heard of personal space? Naturally, I ran out of my room screaming. I dashed down three flights of stairs to see if the porter could help me and ran into (almost literally) possibly the cutest guy I have seen yet in England. In my stinky gym clothes. Without a stitch of makeup on. FML?

Of course, the porter chose that precise time to be on his lunch break, which to be honest I didn’t mind so much since it gave me time to chat with (read: stare at) Mr. Perfect, who was also waiting for the porter. After twenty or so minutes, we decided that he should go turn in his paperwork and I should go face down the monster, er, bee. I would never have seen him again, had I not chickened out and ran back downstairs. If this had been a romantic comedy, he would have offered to dispose of the bee for me, I would have suddenly looked like I had spent two hours doing my hair and makeup, and we would have lived happily ever after. But as this story is sadly not a movie, I waved goodbye to my now long-lost love and went to the building manager’s office instead. I don’t mess around when it comes to bees...Her assistance ended up being unnecessary, as a flatmate took pity on me and killed it, so I was able to return to life as usual.

Well folks, this has been a delightful diversion, but perhaps I should now turn my attention to the 6,500 words I have to write before I can consider myself done with this academic year!

An Odyssey So Epic It Should Be in Greek

***FOR YOUR OWN SANITY, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO READ IN ONE SITTING***

My trip started off just like any other, that is to say, with a delayed flight. As a result of an extra two hours in Gatwick airport (not so bad in the scheme of things, as it turns out), I am now a certified expert on its restaurant and shopping facilities, and I would definitely recommend the McDonalds on the second floor. After a nutritious meal, my plane took off, and with little further difficulty, I landed in Berlin.

I had no trouble meeting up with Tina, who was kindly waiting for me, despite my very late arrival. The only problem was, we still had to get to her parents’ house. European public transportation, as fantastic as it is, tends to become less reliable later in the evenings, and as it was nearly 11 o’clock by that time, trains were few and far between. I’ll spare you the play-by-play, but after a while, I stopped measuring time by the hour and instead went by the number of transfers. The final count: three trains, one bus and one taxi. On the bright side, how many tourists get to take Berlin trains in the middle of the night? An experience, for sure. We arrived at around 1 o’clock, where we found her mother still awake, waiting up for us. Aw! Despite everything, I felt very welcome, and I honestly thought that was it. It would be smooth sailing after this, I smugly thought as I drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, after nearly catching up on sleep, we took a 30-minute train into central Berlin. Yep, the city is just that big and spread out. Now, here’s a quick trivia question: What do a Star Wars Storm Trooper, a Native American chief, a giant bear and a toy soldier have in common? No, the answer is not the punch line of a corny joke, but rather they’re all characters/actors/crazy people you can find wandering around the Brandenburg Gate posing for pictures with tourists. Now that’s something you won’t find in any guidebook.

We walked through the gate and continued onto the Reichstag (the German parliament building), where the Bundestag (the German parliament) now meets, since the capital was moved back to Berlin in 1999. It was originally built in the 1890s, but then destroyed and remodeled multiple times in the twentieth century. Seriously, let’s take a moment to feel some sympathy for this poor structure; first it was set on fire in 1933, then it was bombed in 1945, and then it was abandoned in the 1950s. It’s been through a lot. Its happy ending finally arrived in the 1990s after reunification, when it was rebuilt, and today it’s an interesting mix of traditional columns and modern glass walls. There’s an emphasis on openness in the German government these days, and for that reason, much of the building is transparent. There’s also an awesome glass dome on top that Tina and I waited in line to see. The security to get in was tighter than that in any airport I’ve been passed through recently, but finally we made it to the top and had a great view of Berlin. It goes on as far as the eye can see.

On our way to Tina’s flat, we walked through Museum Island, where all of Berlin’s significant museums are located. Say what you will about Germans, but they’re very organized. We had a leisurely lunch discussing European politics and then set out to explore East Berlin.

Everything you’ve heard about GDR architecture is true, and we saw some buildings (no, let’s not even call them buildings, let’s call them concrete blocks with holes) that made me want to cry because they were so depressing and boring. No wonder people risked their lives to get away from them! But at the same time, it was such a surreal feeling to be able to explore this part of the city, which would have been impossible for most Westerners only 20 years ago. And there are signs of change everywhere. Now, East Berlin is the hip place to live, and I can see why. Tina took me to Alexanderplatz, a bustling and historic square, and we saw the Fernsehturm, the television tower, which looks like a very, very tall needle with a golf ball on it. It’s impressive, and for good reason, it has become a symbol of the city. We also stopped by Potsdamer Platz, another East Berlin square which is home to new and large buildings that I would expect to see in American cities, not European ones.

The next day, we took two trains out of Berlin and into Potsdam, which contrary to most American history classes, existed before President Truman attended a conference there. In fact, one of its main tourist attractions comes straight out of the Enlightenment. Not to be outdone by France’s King Louis XIV, Prussian King Frederick the Great wanted his own summer palace and so he built Sanssouci outside of Berlin. Not to give poor Freddy an inferiority complex, but it’s no Versailles. That said, it was probably one of my favorite parts of the trip. Despite gray and drizzly weather, we managed to have a picnic in the gardens and had plenty of time to explore the grounds before we were allowed to enter. I had to pay an extra 3€ to take pictures inside, and considering how much I paid for an entrance ticket, it only seems fair that I get my money’s worth. So, I encourage all of you to humor me by taking a look at those pictures and making me feel like an actual freedom fighter for putting them on Facebook.

Still, whatever I paid was well worth it. Put me in a palace, especially a Baroque one, filled with pretty things, and I’m happy. I very much enjoyed pretending to be a Prussian princess for a few hours, and those of you who saw my pictures from France and Spain four years ago will not be surprised to read that I was thrilled when I saw all of the chandeliers. No European vacation is complete without at least one elegant chandelier.

That afternoon, we stopped by the Gedächtniskirche (try saying that three times fast. I can’t even say it once.), or as I prefer to refer to it, the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church. We didn’t go inside, but it’s most important feature was right in front of us. Despite that, I didn’t notice it until Tina pointed it out. The steeples are all missing. The church was bombed during WWII and never fully rebuilt to serve as a reminder of the war.

Next up was Checkpoint Charlie. There was an exhibit about the Cold War right by it, and I’m always interested to see how other countries teach the Cold War. Interestingly enough, this version was more pro-American than I think I’ve heard in most American classrooms. Then, we had tea in a coffee shop frequented by real Berliners (a treat for any tourist) and then made dinner at her boyfriend’s flat. And when I say we made dinner, I actually mean Tina prepared delicious meatballs with cheese and sauce, while I discovered Agatha Christie novels. Typical. Her boyfriend joined us for dinner, and afterwards, we set off for a drink.

We passed by a beautiful synagogue, as well as a number of prostitutes. We were in a very safe, happening neighborhood, and yet, there they were. I don’t think you would see that in comparable American neighborhoods (at least it wouldn’t be so obvious), but maybe I just need to get out more…We ended up wandering through a park filled with art made out of junk and then came to a huge concrete building (yes, we were in East Berlin). There was a punk band playing in the doorway (this description is meant to give you some of the city’s flavor), but we walked past them and up seven or so flights of stairs. And they were a cool seven flights. Every surface of every wall was entirely covered in colorful graffiti. It was a huge work of art. We finally huffed and puffed our way to the top floor, which was a rooftop terrace. It was a squatter bar, a peculiar Berlin institution, which meant that no one could throw us out when we didn’t order any drinks, and instead just sat on a beat up couch and took in a great view of the city. It was a great way to end my trip, or so I thought.

The next day, Tina and I were on the train to drop me off at the airport, and her dad called her cell phone. I didn’t know it at the time, but this in and of itself should have been cause for concern, since he never, ever calls her cell phone. He said something about a volcano in Iceland disrupting flights to the UK, but he promised to call us back after he talked to easyJet, the airline I was flying. A few very long moments later, Tina’s phone rang again, and her dad gave us the happy news that easyJet flights were “operating normally.” I breathed a huge sigh of relief and chuckled. Yeah, a VOLCANO was going to disrupt my flight back to England. That’s about as likely as me navigating my way to the airport on the S-Bahn without Tina. (A few stops later, I assured her I could get myself the rest of the way to the airport without her, and she hopped off the train. Twenty minutes later, I found myself at the correct airport.)

Assuming none of you live under a rock, you know what happened. The story begins hundreds of thousands of years ago, when someone decided it would be a good idea to put a volcano in Iceland. Why Iceland? I don’t know, but I’m guessing because there was nothing else there. Fast forward a few millennia, and the people in Iceland thought, gee, it’s time to pay back those nasty Europeans for the financial crisis that ruined our economy. What can we do to really upset them? Hm, well, we have these nice volcanoes here, and they’ve just been sitting around for a hundred-some-odd years. Let’s press this big red button and see what it does! In fact, it alerts the major news media outlets that their ratings are about to skyrocket.

I walked into the terminal and searched for my flight on the departure boards in vain. The airport information desk confirmed that my flight was canceled, and with a sinking stomach, I dashed to the easyJet desk and spent the next forty minutes desperately wishing I had a brown bag to breathe into. I don’t cope well with sudden change. I truly don’t. If something doesn’t go according to my plan, I panic, I cry, I go through the five stages of grief, and then, if I’m lucky, by the time I’m done with all that, circumstances have worked themselves out, and I can pretend I was totally cool everything all along.

Unfortunately for me, 40 minutes (or hours, as it turned out) was not quite enough time for me to process a change of this magnitude. I’m a fairly experienced traveler, and if you know nothing about me other than what you’ve read on this blog, you know that I’ve had my share of travel disasters. But something about a canceled flight makes my blood run cold. The easyJet employee rebooked me on a flight for the next night, but I was not reassured. I got in touch with Tina who figured out a convenient time and place for us to meet, and then I was left to wander the airport for a few hours.

I was desperate to get in touch with my family, but my phone was dying, so I overcame my distaste of public phones and their outrageous rates and attempted to call them. Two minutes later, I was 5€ poorer and despite calling multiple numbers multiple times, I couldn’t reach anyone, so I consoled myself by buying out the airport’s supply of chocolate and chocolate-flavored things. It helped a little.

I took the train back into Berlin and met up with Tina, who escorted me the rest of the way back to her house, where we had a relaxing evening. This seems like an appropriate moment to gush about Tina and her family’s hospitality. Unlike the girls from Dublin behind me in the easyJet line who were wondering where they would sleep that night, I am so lucky that I could stay with Tina. I’m even luckier that she knew exactly how to cheer me up (chocolate and a movie do the trick, people).

At about midnight, we were about to go to sleep, when I received the first of many panicky e-mails from my parents. (In total, they sent 24 e-mails over the next three days in regards to the whole me-being-stranded-in-Europe situation.) Even if I was in a self-imposed news blackout, they were not, and they were concerned that the situation was not going to improve by the next evening. So, Tina and her mother spent the better part of an hour with me researching trains. I would have had no idea where to even begin without them (I probably would have set out for England by foot), and an hour later, they had worked out a route that would have me back in Brighton by bedtime the next day.

Yeah, right. As we planned, Tina and I arrived at Berlin’s central station bright and early, just in time to join the mob of people surrounding the ticket office. Still, the line moved quickly and before long we were at the desk. It won’t surprise any of you to learn that there was not a single seat on any train bound for London anytime before Monday. If I hadn’t grasped the magnitude of the situation before, I certainly did in that moment. It cost just about every last penny (er, pence) in my bank account, but of course I took the earliest train I could get, and because I had been advised to move as far west as I could (good advice, as it turned out), I also bought another one-way ticket. It looked like I was going to see Amsterdam this spring break after all!

I bid a fond farewell to Tina and pulled out my phone. I texted my parents to let them know what my plans were, and despite it being the middle of the night in Chicago, after a few more texts, we were talking on the phone.

Here, I need to go off on a brief tangent, but stay with me, this will all make sense in the end. In an extremely quirky and fortunate twist of fate years in the making, my grandparents had become friends with a Dutch couple named Tom and Ria while on vacation in France more than 15 years ago. They stayed in touch over the years, had business dealings with each other and occasionally visited each other. Tom had even met my dad before, and it seemed to my parents that he would be a good person to contact should I end up in the Netherlands.

My dad called Tom for me and briefed him on my situation. (Thanks Dad!) Before long, I was on the phone with Tom, who despite never having laid eyes on me before, offered to pick me up at the train station and host me for the weekend. Family friends are wonderful people.

At this point in my journey, I was in good spirits. Although I’d never imagined it would be like this, I’ve always wanted to take a train through Europe. I’d finally accepted the change in plans, I had a safe place to stay, and I was enjoying seeing something of the German and Dutch countryside. Birds were chirping, the sun was shining, and I could almost forget that a volcano was spewing tons and tons of canceled flights and despair into the atmosphere.

There was initially some confusion about which station I would be arriving at in Amsterdam, so it took a few calls to a woman who works for Tom to straighten that out, and then another employee called to inform me that: 1. It was Tom’s 70th birthday on Saturday. 2. His family had planned a huge (and I mean insane) series of surprises for him. 3. I was going to be included in everything. She told me what to expect, and after hanging up the phone I couldn’t stop laughing at the absurdity of the situation. You’ll see what I mean.

Six and a half hours later, I was sweating bullets over getting off at the right station since there are no announcements on these international trains, but when I was approached on the platform by friendly looking man and his grandson, I figured I had come to the right place!

I met Tom’s wife back at his home in Heiloo, and all four of us went for dinner at a good Chinese place. Everyone was very friendly at dinner, although discussion was a little difficult since Tom was the only one who spoke fluent English, but we managed. I slept like a rock that night and woke up to all sorts of birthday surprises.

The festivities began Saturday afternoon. Friends and family began arriving at the house, and a glass of champagne was had by all. (I challenge you to try to keep track of how much alcohol was consumed that day. I eventually gave up.) I’ll admit, this was more than a little bit awkward for me. There was no one in the room I had known for more than 20 hours, and in addition to a language barrier, there was a significant age difference as well. (After all, do you think Tom makes a habit of hanging around with twenty year olds? I don’t think so.)

Fortunately, we were on a schedule. At 2:30 on the dot, a humongous tour bus showed up. It probably wasn’t actually bigger than any other tour bus I’ve seen, but in comparison to the tiny street it was parked on, it looked almost as out of place as I did. No one else seemed perplexed that our small party (20ish people) filled less than a third of the seats, so without further delay, we were off to Amsterdam for the night, and I was treated to a pleasant drive through the Dutch countryside.

Our hotel’s street was too tiny for the tour bus (I told you it was too big), so a smaller car met us two blocks away from the hotel to transport the luggage. This should be another hint at just what kind of a weekend I was in for. We stayed at the Dylan Hotel, of which I have nothing but nice things to say. After some time to get settled in our rooms, everyone met in the lounge for another drink before leaving for a boat tour of Amsterdam’s canals.

Could I possibly have gotten a better introduction to the city? I don’t think so. The tour was conducted mostly in Dutch, but Tom’s daughter kindly arranged for some of it to be translated for me. I had no idea how much history was in Amsterdam, and it added another dimension to my usual “ooh, pretty building” reaction.

The boat didn’t drop us off back at the Dylan but instead took us to the Amstel Hotel, is supposedly the nicest hotel in the country. I couldn’t say for sure, but judging by the banquet room where we later had dinner, you get no argument from me. (It had three chandeliers. I approve.)

As the boat pulled up to the dock, I saw 80 or so people on the hotel terrace cheering and waving. Talk about a surprise party…Maybe there was some mistake? Maybe they thought there was a celebrity on our boat? Maybe we were at the wrong hotel? No, no mistake, and if I hadn’t caught sight of more champagne waiting for us, I would seriously have considered jumping overboard.

The first half of the party was among the most intimidating and awkward experiences of my life, right up there with the first day of high school. Except instead of football players and cheerleaders, think of elite businessmen and their wives. My jeans were more than a little conspicuous among all the suits and fancy dresses. I don’t know how I could have forgotten when I was packing for Berlin that I had a swanky birthday party to attend in Amsterdam.

I was occasionally introduced to someone, but there’s only so much a twenty-year old American exchange student and a 70-year-old Dutch [insert occupation here] can converse about. Thank goodness for the waiters who always showed up at the right moment with more champagne. I spent a lot of time walking purposefully, pretending I was looking for someone before finally finding a nice woman I had met in Heiloo, who took me under her wing and made sure I had people to talk to or at least sit with so I didn’t look as pathetic as I felt. Everything improved after that.

Dinner was fantastic. I was seated at a table with the “young” people (probably between 35 and 50 years of age), all of whom were friendly and more importantly, spoke English. I not-so-coincidentally sat next to a man from Wales, who was good about translating the presentations about Tom’s life that interspersed every course. The presentations led up to one of Tom’s biggest gifts, a biography that his family commissioned someone to write about him. Dad, take note, the competition is on and you have some serious work to do when planning Grandpa’s next birthday.

As much as I like hearing Dutch spoken, I was more interested in the food. There was pate course, fish and then chicken, each served with a different type of wine. And my favorite part of the meal was obviously the chocolate mousse at the end. I should get stranded in Amsterdam more often…

There was a singer who performed throughout dinner, and she had a great repertoire, although I’ll never understand why she felt she needed to change outfits every time the guests started on a new course. The night ended with disco dancing. The only thing more ridiculous than older Dutch people disco dancing is that I joined them.

At midnight, the lights went on, and no one seemed very concerned about their carriages turning into pumpkins. Guests slowly made their way to the coat check and wished Tom a happy birthday, and we didn’t actually leave until after 12:30.

We took a water taxi back to the hotel (I’ve always wanted to take one of those!), and the only thing more exciting than seeing Amsterdam lit up at night was the thought of the comfy bed waiting for me in my room. But Tom and his friends know how to party, and instead of making a left to go to the rooms, we made a right and went back to the hotel lounge for another drink. I ended up chatting with Tom’s sister-in-law whose daughter received her MBA from Wash. U. Small world! Her husband, who I also spoke to over the course of the evening, later asked for my American phone number so his daughter could call me next fall. I guess I made a good impression?

The next day, we had breakfast (I was reunited with my long-lost love, chocolate croissants) and then it was time for Tom and company to head back to Heiloo. After saying goodbye to my new friends and profusely thanking everyone for everything, I went to the Anne Frank House and met up with Gwen, who was a sight for sore eyes!

The line for the Anne Frank House was long, but we were kept entertained by a series of pamphlets, including some information on the museum and dire warnings to watch our purses. The museum itself is well organized. The exhibits are in both English and Dutch, which I appreciate, and the rooms flow together smoothly. The walls have quotes from her diary, and it was more touching than I thought it would be to walk through the rooms where she lived.

Gwen and I went to lunch at a cute café and then met up with her friends for an exhibit about Oman in the Nieuwe Kerk (New Church) in Dam Square. It was an odd venue for such an exhibit, but the occasional medieval tomb and Bible-inspired carvings made a nice contrast to Omani artifacts. After an afternoon drink with the group, Gwen and I headed to Rotterdam, where her parents live. The Greek lasagna was ready and waiting for us, and we had a lovely dinner with her parents and brother. It was a very relaxing sort of evening, which is exactly what I needed considering the day before and the day after.

I woke up the next morning (if you can even call it that) before dawn and got myself ready for a very long day of travel. If you’ve read even a little bit of this blog before, you know that I have a tendency to get lost, no matter how simple the directions or how close by my destination is. You can therefore understand my skepticism in thinking I could get myself from a suburb of Rotterdam all the way to London without something going horribly wrong. And unlike in the past, there was no margin for error here. Every train to London was sold out for the rest of the week, so if I missed my connection at any point…it didn’t bear thinking about. Does anyone else hear the Mission: Impossible music? I certainly did.

Gwen and her dad woke up to have breakfast with me, which went above and beyond the call of duty, but it was nice to see some reassuring faces before I set off for the local train station. I made it just in time to catch a train to Rotterdam Centraal (train #1), where I paced up and down another platform, asking everyone I saw if this was the train to Brussels, despite the very clear sign stating that it was. An agonizing 20 minutes later, it finally arrived (train #2), and after a few laps up and down the platform, I found my carriage and my assigned seat.

It was a relatively short trip, a little bit more than an hour to Brussels, and I managed to get off at the right station despite the lack of announcements. I found the Eurostar terminal and made it through security and passport control with plenty of time to sit in the waiting room and be bored. Train travel isn’t as different from airplane travel as I thought.

By this time, the Mission: Impossible music had died down, and without further incident, I was on my way to London (train #3). Unfortunately, I didn’t have a window seat, but I was still able to see some of the countryside as we sped through it. We left Belgium and journeyed into France, a change I only noticed because my cell phone company texts me every time I cross a border to remind me that I can still give them money even while abroad. And in the blink of an eye, everything went dark and we were in the Atlantic Ocean inside the Chunnel.

It’s a very strange, disconcerting and exhilarating feeling to be on the continent one moment and to emerge on a completely different land mass the next, but I could tell I was back in England in an instant. Less than two hours after leaving Brussels, I was in London, with boggles my mind. I won’t bore you with all the details of my trip back to campus (after making it this far, you’ve suffered enough), but we do need to finish the train tally: train #4 was the Tube to Victoria Station, which you will all be happy to hear I now navigate like a pro, train #5 took me to Brighton and train #6 took me to campus.

Now, I’m trying to settle back into “normal” life, where my movements aren’t dictated by a volcanic ash cloud and where my daily challenge isn’t navigating the European rail system. I won’t miss the anxiety involved in constantly being on the move, but writing papers is a far cry from the excitement of seeing so much more of the world than I ever expected to!

I am proud of how I handled myself over the past week and how I managed to get myself back to Brighton under difficult circumstances, but the quote “no man is an island” has been consistently on my mind. I could never, in a million years, have done any of this alone. If it hadn’t been for my parents and their constant advice, all of the friends and families who hosted me over the past week, all the people who stayed up late researching trains with me, and all the random connections I have, some of which have been years in the making, I would probably be sleeping on an airport floor right now. It’s a humbling feeling; one of the reasons I came to Europe was to become more independent, and now I find myself more dependent on others than before. But maybe the point isn’t that I learn to do everything by myself, but rather I understand that wherever I end up in the world, I have resources (in the form of people and knowledge) all around me to help me fix whatever has gone wrong, even if it happens to be an Icelandic volcano with a name too difficult to even attempt to spell.

Warning: A Really, Really Long Update

I have no complaints about four weeks worth of traveling, but one of the few downsides I can think of is that I have no time for proper blog updates, and instead we end up with these massive posts that take forever to read (and write!). My apologies.

Where were we? Oh yes, Italia, the land of delicious food, beautiful canals, and (in my experience anyway) American movies. I arrived on Wednesday afternoon without any travel disasters, and Francesca, kind friend that she is, met me at the airport and drove me back to her family’s home in Padua. I was more than content to stare out window at some very impressive mountains in the distance and the colorful houses that lined the highway. These pastel home exteriors (orange, yellow pink, it screamed “vacation” to me) were not unique to the drive home and popped up everywhere, which is a trend I think America should jump on right away.

Her family’s home was really nice and spacious, and after living in a tiny (dirty, moldy, icky…but I promised we wouldn’t get into that again) dorm room, it seemed like a mansion. I met her parents, her brothers and her sister, Elisabetta. I can’t say enough wonderful things about them; they made me feel like part of the family over the next few days, which is an experience few tourists have.

That afternoon, we were treated to tea and biscuits. (I mean cookies. British English has started overwhelming my vocabulary, and I’m currently very linguistically confused.) A little while later, we had a delicious dinner prepared by Fra’s mother. I tried a ham and cheese quiche-like dish (except without the eggs) and a spinach and cheese pastry, with fruit salad and whipped cream for dessert. At the beginning, it was a little difficult to converse with her family at dinner because although everyone knew at least a little English, it seemed as though no one was very confident trying it out on me. However, 45 minutes later, they were more comfortable, and I’m pleased to report that everyone’s English was far better than they led me to believe. Even Fra’s 13-year-old brother’s grasp of the language was better than my own knowledge of Spanish (and let’s not count how many years I’ve spent studying that!).

After dinner, Fra, Elisabetta and I watched Twilight (American movie #1) and then ventured out into town, because Wednesday night is student night in Padua. The streets in the center of the city were thronged with students. Blocks upon blocks of them were standing, socializing and drinking in the streets (bars have to close at midnight so the people living around there can sleep), and we couldn’t walk more than three feet without running into someone that one of the sisters knew. I very quickly became an expert at the double- kiss-and-greet style of introductions. We floated from one group to another, and I chatted with a good number of Fra’s friends and their friends. Like her family, many of them were hesitant at first to speak English, but when they did, they were always good. And when they spoke in Italian, well, it’s a good thing Fra and Elisabetta are good translators. Not only did I get a great introduction to Padua, but I experienced Italian student social life as well, which is something Rick Steves definitely can’t tell you about.

In the course of the evening, I was surprised to discover just how common it is for Italian young people to live at home until they’re in their late twenties or married, and Elisabetta was equally shocked when she learned that I spend most of the year in St. Louis, away from Chicago and my family. It’s a very different kind of life, and no wonder medieval streets are the preferred meeting places!

On our way back to the car park (parking lot… British words…), I almost did get hit by a car, as I’ve long predicted I would, but it was not my fault! An obviously drunk driver came out of nowhere, shouted something and swerved to hit us, and then at the very last moment turned away. The car stopped half a block from us, so we turned around and called her boyfriend and his friend. Our knights in shining armor (okay, a silver car, close enough) arrived five minutes later, drove us approximately half a block to our car and made sure we got on our way safely. Talk about the perks of having a boyfriend…We made it through the rest of the night with no more near-death experiences.

The next day was bound to be a good one, considering we started off the morning by eating fette biscottate (a cross between bread and crackers) and cookies (NOT biscuits, take that British vocabulary) for breakfast. My mother will not be happy to hear this, but it’s a fine way to start off a morning. We took a thirty minute train ride into Venice and walked around the entire day.

Venice is a charming, beautiful city, and I can’t compare it to any place I’ve ever been before. I wouldn’t want to live there (especially not in fifty years, when it’s supposed to be underwater), but with its picturesque canals, its bright buildings and its twisting streets, it’s a perfect spot to explore for a few days. It’s not actually all that large, but you wouldn’t know it given the sense of history the place exudes. Almost all the buildings we passed were at least a few hundred years old, and they’re not fenced off and put under glass, the way they would be back home. People actually live and work in these places, which is mind boggling. Also, boats literally replace cars in Venice. You’re not allowed to drive anywhere near the city center (and how could you, the streets are so narrow), but you have bus-boats, taxi-boats, private car-boats, and even airport shuttle-boats, not to mention the gondolas. Like I said, there’s nowhere else like it on Earth. And have I mentioned those canals? They were quite possibly my favorite part of the city.

We hit all of the main tourist sites, including:
- Il Ponte di Rialto, the largest and most important bridge in the city, which crosses the largest canal. But given the volume of stores that sits on top of it, it’s actually a posh shopping center disguised as a bridge; it’s the Superman of all bridges.
-Piazza San Marco (Saint Mark’s Square). It looked just like it does in all the pictures, but it didn't disappoint in person.

-The Bell Tower, which was originally built in the 16th century but fell down and managed not to kill anyone in 1902. It was rebuilt shortly after that, and it’s got to be one of the newest buildings in the city center.

 -The Palazzo Ducale di Venezia (the Doge’s Palace). We didn’t go inside, so I can’t really say too much else about it, but it looked cool.
-And of course, Saint Mark’s Basilica. Since Fra had never been inside it either, we stood in an admittedly fast-moving line, and it was well worth the wait. Inside, almost every surface I saw was a mosaic, and there was a hall full of building fragments dating from 800, 900, 1000, something like that, A.D. We were able to step out onto the balcony, which had a great view of Venice. The Basilica is magnificent, but I’ve come to expect that in European churches. I think there are a limited number of adjectives I can use to describe them, and I’ve used them all up by now (on St. Paul’s, Westminster, etc.) so you’ll just have to trust that it was super impressive, and next time you’re in Venice, definitely check it out.

 -Il Ponte dei Sospiri (the Bridge of Sighs). Is it really that surprising that there are so many notable bridges in this city? This one in particular has long been considered a good place for couples to arrange to meet each other, although Bulgari has sort of ruined the mood by putting a big advertisement over it.

 -Il Caffè Internazionale. This isn’t actually a must-see tourist sight, but we had lunch here, so someday when we’re rich and famous, people will want to know that we stopped here and I ate a ham and cheese sandwich for lunch.
-Fra’s university
-Gelato. I tried a flavor called stracciatella (which may or may not be vanilla and chocolate chip) with something that tasted like froyo on top (frozen yogurt, for those of you who did not go to Bear Mart with me at Wash. U. every night freshman and sophomore year).
-The newest bridge in Venice, whose name I can’t recall, but it lights up at night, so it’s pretty cool.

It was a great (and tiring) day, but it only got better when we returned home and snacked on more biscuits (you know what I mean) and a special Easter cake, translated “Dove cake,” probably because it’s shaped like a dove. For dinner, Fra and I went to a restaurant and met up with some of her university friends, who arrived on Italian time (i.e. a bit late). We chatted in English for a little while, and they were curious to know if I had a boyfriend. Seriously, that is one of the first questions that almost all of Fra’s friends asked me. Peculiar. The conversation gradually drifted into Italian, and for a while Fra continued to practice her translation skills. I ordered a great salad with a special type of thinly cut ham that apparently you can only find in Italy, so even though I don’t remember what it’s called, I’m glad I had it!

When we got back, we watched Aladdin (don’t laugh, it’s a quality movie, and for the record, American movie #2). And that was enough for one day!

The next day, we slept in late (and by “we,” I mean “I”) and began the day with our usual and oh-so-nutritious breakfast. We took the train back to Venice that afternoon, but this time, we walked to a harbor and hopped on a boat for a tour of three tiny islands around Venice. Our first stop was Murano, which is known for its exquisite glass. We watched a very cool demonstration of two men creating a glass dolphin, which was beautiful, at least until one of them dropped it. Still, considering it takes eight to twelve years to learn the craft, I’m impressed.

The next stop was Torcello, a quiet and idyllic island with not one but two ancient churches dating from the first few centuries A.D. There’s a river running through the island, and it’s the perfect place for a Sunday afternoon picnic.

The last island was Burano, which may have been my favorite. It’s known for its lace and a special type of S-shaped biscuit/cookie, but I’ll remember it for its particularly colorful houses. Unlike the pastel colors that dominate mainland houses, there were bright blues and reds and purples, in addition to pastels. Looking at the town is like looking at a rainbow.

I ate authentic Italian pizza for dinner, as well as “real” mozzarella, which you may remember me describing a few weeks ago as “some sort of a cross between eggs, bread and jello,” at least when it comes to the texture. The description stands.

The next day was Padua day. We took a modern tram into the city center and started off at the Basilica of Saint Anthony, which is, as is to be expected, an old, huge, remarkable church. It dates back to the 15th century or so, just like every other significant building here, and it took a good 25 minutes to walk through the entire building, which contains no less than three courtyards. You know what else is in it? A souvenir store and a market. Hm, maybe I’m getting my Bible stories mixed up, but didn’t Jesus cast out the vendors in the temple? Just throwing that out there…We walked by the tomb of Saint Anthony, where for a limited time only, you can queue (wait in line…whatever, I give up…) to see his skeleton. It was tempting, but we decided to skip the dead guy and make our way to a market with living people instead.

The market in the center of the city was filled with all sorts of cheap clothing and accessories, but I resisted the temptation to buy a new wardrobe. We met up with another one of Fra’s friends, who was lovely, and walked around some more. In both Venice and Padua, I saw a lot of African immigrants standing on street corners and bridges, hiding from the police and at the same time trying to sell designer bags (or at least imitation designer bags) to anyone who walks by. In Padua, right outside of the Gucci store, we passed one of these men hawking Gucci bags. Really??? In other news, I completed an entire transaction in Italian all by myself. Granted, my side of the conversation consisted entirely of “ciao” and “grazie,” but I left with postcards, and it still counts.

After lunch, we walked through a beautiful park with your run of the mill historic church, as well as stone remnants of an ancient Roman arena, just standing around begging to be sat on, which we did. We walked to the bus stop after that, and right next to it was a monument dedicated to 9/11 and a piece of the World Trade Center. Very random.

That afternoon, we watched the Sex and the City movie (American movie #3) and ate cookies. For dinner later in the evening, we went to Fra’s boyfriend’s house, where he cooked a yummy pasta dinner for us, Elisabetta and some friends. A huge group of friends arrived after dinner, and we stood around talking in a combination of English and Italian for quite a while.

The next day was Easter Sunday, and it was nothing like I expected it would be. First, I put on a dress in the morning, and those of you who know me well will recognize that this is the most dressed up I’ve been in months. Fortunately, my fashion adviser was on hand to tell me to wear jeans instead. In some ways, it feels like Easter is not as important here as it is in the States, despite its proximity to Vatican City. I went to church with Fra and her siblings, but her parents had gone to an earlier Mass by themselves, and no one other than those over 60 dressed up. Not that I’m complaining, mind you! I'll take jeans over dresses any day of the week.

My Spanish proved remotely useful (finally!) when the similar vocabulary (and some significant translations courtesy of Elisabetta) allowed me to follow along with the readings, which were printed on cards in the pews. Surprise, surprise, the rest of the Mass was pretty similar to what I’m used to, although people kneel and stand at different times, and when it comes to communion, it’s every man for himself in a mad rush to the front.

After church, we came back to the house and discovered that there had been a minor time warp, and it was now Thanksgiving. In America. Or at least that’s what I thought when I saw all the food that her parents had prepared for lunch. Course #1 was a homemade pasta dish, which it took every shred of self-restraint not to finish since there was so much more food to come. Course #2 consisted of three (yes, you read that right, THREE) meat dishes: chicken, lamb and guinea fowl, which to be honest, I hadn’t even heard of before, which explains why her dad had such difficulty translating the name...All three were good, and I was moderately impressed with my self-control that I had not devoured everything in sight and still had room for dessert.

And dessert…well, I was a goner when they brought that out. I feel like I should break this down into sub-courses because there was so much. #3a: Layered Easter cake. There was a chocolate layer, a fruit layer, a hazelnut layer...a layer for just about every flavor known to man. #3b: Strawberry tiramisu. I’m not really sure what was in this, other than pure awesomeness. Strawberries, some sort of spongy cake, liquid cheesecake...Check out the pictures below. #3c: Giant chocolate eggs. It’s apparently tradition in Italy to give people huge, hollow chocolate eggs with surprises inside, and I guess the Easter Bunny must have found me in Italy (with perhaps some help from Fra’s mother) because I received one too! After dessert courses #3a-b, we opened our eggs and munched on some chocolate (the leftovers of which lasted me until today. That's how big it was.)

Even six people couldn’t eat all of this food by ourselves, so we called in Fra’s grandparents for backup. (They might have actually arrived before the food hit the table, but it sounds cooler this way, don’t you think?) Neither of them spoke a word of English, but I discovered that if we stuck to the social script (you know the one, “hello, how are you, good thank you, how are you?”), I could have basic conversations with the grandfather, because of all the Italian phrases Fra had taught me over the past few days. She's an excellent teacher and translator! I now understand how total immersion teaches people languages.

After lunch, we watched Prime (American movie #4) with the grandparents, which would have been awkward, but we put the subtitles in English, so it was all good. When I felt like I could stand up without falling back down, we drove to a resort area near Padua and walked around for a little while, and it was great to see one last part of the city.

Her father’s relatives visited when we came back, and I smiled and nodded and pretended I understood Italian for a few hours, before we had a “light” dinner, by Italian standards. Since when is pizza, hard-boiled eggs, fruit salad and all the other food that I didn’t eat on the table considered light? And that, in a nutshell, is my trip to Italy! (I’m looking at the word count right now and aware of the irony in that statement, trust me.) It was a fantastic trip, and thanks to Fra and her family, there’s nowhere (other than perhaps Chicago) that I would rather have spent Easter!

***TAKE A BREAK NOW. IT’S TAKEN ME TWO DAYS TO WRITE THIS, I CAN ONLY IMAGINE HOW LONG IT’S TAKEN YOU TO READ IT.***

I flew back to England on Monday afternoon, returned to my dorm room, dumped out my suitcase, threw in new clothing, went back to the Brighton train station, and caught a train into London to stay with Riki and her family for a few days. For the next few days, I worked at Hat Trick Productions, a television production company, for a mini-internship, called a “work experience.” It would take more patience than both you and I have to detail exactly what I did every day, so let’s just look at the highlights:

-A five minute commute to work. Riki’s flat is extremely close to work, a fact of which all of the other employees were jealous.
-Speaking of colleagues, everyone I met was extremely friendly, helpful and happy to talk to me, no matter if their job was high up or low down on the office food chain. And I think they might have liked me a little bit too, since at the end of the week, one person told me he wished I was his niece because I was so sweet. Aw!
-Gold stars in particular to Tom, a theater student at the University of Leeds who was starting his work experience at the same time. He was really cool, and it makes it so much easier to go into a new situation if there’s someone in the same boat.
-Learning British slang. Tom and some of the younger employees had great fun trying to teach me unofficial British vocabulary. So, what did I learn? Only that “buff,” “bear,” “heads” and “jokes” don’t mean what you think they do. But that said, I’m apparently “jokes,” so that better be a good thing.
-Wearing jeans and t-shirts to work. I admit, I felt some cognitive dissonance (my psychology degree hard at work) when I lugged a suitcase full of nice pants and blouses to London specifically for the office, but who am I to say no to jeans?
-I worked on a handful of different shows, doing everything from burning DVDs, to organizing papers, to archiving tapes, to finding men in Manchester to be contestants on a dating show, to researching the Pony Express and the Mediterranean for upcoming documentaries.
-Watching tv shows was part of my work day. That was cool.
-Sitting in the studio audience for “Have I Got News For You,” a Daily Show-like program. I even understood about 75% of the British humour!
-Mr. Potato, the best jacket potato place in Camden. (Translation: the best place to get backed potatoes in that London neighborhood.) Tom and I went out for lunch every day, and all of our coworkers raved about these jacket potatoes, so we checked it out on Friday. This tiny little stand in the middle of Camden Market serves the largest potatoes I’ve ever seen with a huge variety of toppings. I ordered one with “just” cheese, but it was enough for my lunch and dinner.
-Free drinks on Friday afternoon. Hat Trick has this nice tradition of providing its employees with free beer, wine, cheese, crackers, chocolate and leftover birthday cake one Friday a month, and I happened to pick the right week to intern. It was the strangest feeling, walking around an office with a glass of wine in my hand and socializing with the other employees in that situation. But it was good to see just how friendly and informal a work environment can be.
-It goes without saying that I enjoyed spending time with Riki and Nick, despite some early wake-up calls courtesy of Iris, who gets more adorable every time I see her!

And so ends stages two and three of my spring break! Kudos to any of you who reach this point in the blog, and stay tuned for the fourth and final phase of the holiday, coming soon (just as soon as I experience it)!