10. Open Topic

I had known since arriving here that les greves would be taking place often—NYU warned us that the metro may be effected by them. Having no TV, and not wanting to be tied down to my computer, and also because I’m using this semester as a sort of break from how much the world is falling apart (because I’ve been too caught up with that during these past few years)—I was completely ignorant to the situation surrounding les greves for the first few weeks I was here. I knew that they were striking because Sarkozy raised the retirement age from 60 to 62, but I didn’t know there were actual huge weekly protests! I just assumed it was more of a boycott, where workers didn’t show up to work and therefore everything in Paris ran a little less efficiently that day. Boy, was I wrong—I learned of how big the greves actually are about three weeks after arriving.
Often, they march from the Bastille to Nation then up to Republique. The road leading from the Bastille to Nation is Rue Faubourg Saint Antoine, which I live right off of. During the first month or so, I had been at school during the strikes, but  one day, in late September, I was at a café on Rue Fbg Saint Antoine during the start of a protest. I saw a huge crowd of people make their way down the street, with banners, balloons, flags, megaphones, everything. I got incredibly excited upon seeing them, as I am somewhat of an activist myself—I try to participate in protests when they happen in New York, love studying past revolutions, am slightly radical, etc. All of lunch, I was trying to figure out what the protest was about—until I realized that this was les greves! I was antsy the whole lunch, wanting to join the protest, but was convinced that it would be finished by the time that I had paid l’addition. Surprisingly, it wasn’t over when I had paid, nor was it over three hours later, when I ran into it again in Republique— the demonstration lasted all day, and such protests had been happening once a week since I had arrived in Paris. It’s rare to see such a huge, unrestricted demonstration in New York, never mind one that happens once a week.
    Fast forward to early October, when the strikes were getting bigger—high school kids began to join in—my friend who teaches in Boulogne Billancourt didn’t have to go to work because his students didn’t show up. My friend from Berlin was in town during one of the biggest day of strikes—and he, being a big activist and amateur photojournalist—decided to take part in the greves. The protesters apparently stormed the Bastille, cut off traffic and began graffiting the Colonne de Juillet. It was the end of the day, so there were only about 150 people there—mostly anarchists and students—and the cops outnumbered the protesters. I met him there at the end of the confrontation, and there were under-covers (agent provoceurs) everywhere, and battalions of cops decked out in riot gear. We left and walked to the Marais for dinner. The next day, my friend went across town to Montparnasse and stumbled upon student protesters blocking Rue de Rennes. He didn’t get involved, but was following them around and photographing the scene. Despite keeping his distance, he got searched and cuffed, because the cops were convinced he was the leader (I think it may’ve been his combat boots, leather jacket, and Mohawk)—they let him go only upon discovering his passport that supported his claims that he was merely an American tourist in town visiting a friend.
    What do these protests say about the Parisians? About the law enforcement here? I’m not positive, but I can conclude that they go the distance when it comes to defending a liberty they believe in. They spent months protesting and boycotting in order to save themselves two years of working. I’ve heard many criticisms about the protests—that it is silly to disrupt daily life; that it is silly to protest to lower the retirement age by a measly two years. Not to mention, many say, to be able to retire at 62 is still a way younger age than most countries. I often hate French stubbornness, but I believe that such a quality can be quite beneficial in situations like this. They think two more years of work at such an age is unfair, and they cannot be persuaded to believe otherwise. They are questioning the government and cannot easily be pacified, tranquillized. I honestly have a hard time criticizing any protests, any form of rebellion, when the reasoning behind such rebellion is even partially sensible. Often, I think the actual act of questioning can be more important that the cause, because government and authority seems to be questioned less and less nowadays, even though our society is becoming more and more insane. (I could go on justifying why I think our society has become exponentially insane in the past six or seven years, but I would never end this post.)
Sure, I agree, it seems a little whiny of them to be so outraged at having to work for two more years. Especially because the French are known for having such a lax work schedule in the first place—they take hour lunch breaks, go to work much later than Americans, and get out much earlier, then have a huge dinner and retire early (though this is a gross generalization, it is true of many work schedules here). On the other hand, the younger generation is getting worked harder (as is true in any country). My roommate is a jazz musician and works harder than many Americans I know— he’s often awake until 3am practicing piano, after having played all day. He takes Mandarin lessons because he will be doing a 40 show tour in China this spring (and already knows English and Spanish, at the age of 27), teaches piano lessons to several students, and just got signed to a label after years of effort. He has several shows every week (which are more than just jazz shows—many of them are huge performances, incorporating an orchestra, improv, etc), last week he did three four hour recording sessions day after day, and he also has several bands, a solo project and is constantly writing music. Anyway, I’ve gone off topic.
During the time that my friend from Berlin was in town, the high schoolers were being criticized for getting involved because the topic was almost irrelevant for them—they’re in high school, many argue—why should they care about retirement now? Well, if they don’t care now, at such an age, then when will they care? The French, I believe, have it right, when it comes to work and food and general enjoyment of life. Paris is a city, but it is not nearly as numbing as New York because Parisians put great value on living life simply. It is the very simple, small things that make life bearable for them, and they fear that changing one thing will disturb the balance. Adding on two years of work for them may seem insignificant, but it is symbolic—it’s one more step towards an American way of live where everyone is so overworked they can’t even sit down for seven minutes to drink a coffee. They’re essentially resisting a change that they believe will push them further towards a way of life that they disagree with. Their official “retraits” reasoning can be easily belittled and their actions can be distorted in the critical, public eye, but fortunately, they have enough perseverance and passion not to relent under such pressure. The French, truly, don’t “give a shit” about what other people think of their actions—and know that their motives are always slightly hidden and various, and therefore can’t be picked apart, simplified, and derided. I’ve learned that well enough since being here. Such an attitude can often be offensive and backward, but in this case, it’s necessary and productive.
The French are attempting to hold on to that spirit of revolution that was so prominent in the late sixties— and many of these protests are sure, on the surface, about the retirement age, but truly are more about a general dissatisfaction with the way things are in France, in the world. I think it’s a good thing I was taken so aback that day at lunch— that I was so confused as to what the protests were about. It was not obvious, when I was staring out the window, that the protests were about les retraits and “Sarko.” I saw the green party out there, hippies, working class people, college kids, communists, socialists, families, toddlers, old couples—it seemed like every French citizen was represented in this march on Rue Fbg Saint Antoine. It was a physical manifestation of general dissatisfaction with the way society is headed —at least that was my first impression. If I had been told beforehand that it was about les retraits, the protests would’ve immediately been colored by this surface meaning, and wouldn’t have seemed as profound. But all the possible motives that were racing through my mind during that day at lunch were not so far off—les greves were about retirement, sure, but most of the people in these weekly protests are out there for more than that. I restrained myself from jumping up mid-meal and joining because I didn’t know what the march was about, and of course, was afraid of offending them with my American-ness (illogical on my part perhaps, but that’s how I felt) and with my ignorance to the situation. But I believe if I had joined, I would’ve fit in just as well as the average adult Parisian who will concretely be affected by the legislation—because I feel the same outrage and dissatisfaction and passion when it comes to the state of our world.

See some of the most beautiful photos of the strikes here: http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2010/10/france_on_strike.html

The video below is a video of the protests at the intersection I live at.

An interesting continuation of my interview with my girlfriend on the topics of travel, and how individuals perceive new places, and their significance.

What’s your favorite place you’ve been so far?
Paris.
What would you have missed in terms of growth—
If I hadn’t gone?
Yeah.
Hmm.
Aside from all the literal physical things.
I mean its all that I’ve been talking about actually. That sense of experiencing a culture.
I thought you didn’t care about culture—you could read about it in a book?
No no no, that’s history. A country’s culture—in fact its usually wrong, if you read it in a book. You have to experience it on a personal level, because its gonna be different for every person, how the world interacts with them. For instance, I fit in being myself, because now that I’m being myself, people are gonna interact with me, and they’re gonna react off the way I am, and its gonna show who they are as a people, and the similarities mixed with the history and the culture that I’ve studied is going to create atmosphere—the world of Paris, instead of like, you know, what Florence is to me. It’s completely different than Paris.
So depending on how you view yourself, and what you perceive as who you are, your opinions on cultures can change.
Yeah, people are going to view Italy different than I do. Based on money and, you know, if they can speak the language, how educated they are about the people, how they are if they come across American. You know I can't experience it as a fluent Italian speaker, I’m sure they get along much better than the natives. Unless they speak English, then we’re best buddies.
So then your opinion of foreign worlds, and cultures, are not factual.
Right. But nobody’s view on—that’s what art is for. How could it be factual, what’s interesting about that? Every painting of Paris would be the same color. You know, every world created in a film, or in a medium, would be the same if it existed on fact. That’s what history is for. That’s what school is for, to learn the facts. And that’s what traveling is for, an artistic sort of journey. Unless of course you’re with my parents, in which case it is another form of high school.
And how is traveling a [subjective experience]?
Because you are creating that world as you see it. You’re taking pictures and making memories and thinking things that nobody else things. Because you’re a unique person, and how that world interacts with you is going to create your vision of that place. And it might change the next time I visit Paris, because I'll be in a different place in my life, I'll be a different person.
Do you feel that you ever project your perception of places onto others?
Of course.
What do you feel about that?
That’s what artists do. This is Paris. You know, in reference to their painting. But somebody else is gonna have Paris, you know a modern, cubist view, and they’re gonna say “no no no—“
But forget about everyone else, its just you. You’re giving the view of Paris. Are you saying “This is Paris, this is my painting,” or are you saying, “This is what I think of Paris. This is my painting.”
I mean… I think this is a hard question because obviously its what I think of Paris, obviously I can’t tell people what they think Paris is…
But…
But me being myself I usually—Its like I’m trying to experience for somebody and tell them what they would experience, but in reality they would experience something else. I mean, for example, for Florence. I’m not gonna be all peaches and cream about it, um, but I will say people aren’t very nice to Americans because I know that from myself, but I also know that from everyone else who tells me about it, so it’s not just me. I’m gonna go to the bathroom real quick.
Do you see any difficulties in traveling while in a relationship?
Well, no it makes it all the better. There’s a little—yeah—there’s a little anxiety hoping that the memories we create are gonna be looked upon fondly by both of us, or, because we’re experiencing the same things, or actually twice the amount of things we would be experiencing, I hope that the world created when we travel is, I mean, not necessarily the same, but both positive, because it kind of reflects on me.
As in, if the memories and the world you create aren’t attractive—
Like if we fight, I don’t want that to be the way you see the world of Paris.
But don’t those emotions, don’t those fights—
No because that’s from home.
Ah, caught my question. So you think its different while traveling?
What?
Fighting at home versus fighting abroad?
Yeah. I mean you shouldn’t do either, but the world at home is already created by your daily norm, although…
But cant you break out of that norm? Especially as a student, by changing your lifestyle, or visiting a new part of your home city, for example, that you haven't seen before?
Yeah but you have to set up home base somewhere. Responsibility of the norm of life never disappears. And it shouldn’t disappear. There should be a separation between responsibility and pleasure. Because it’s like I said before, it can’t be who you are.
How do you deal with the differences in experience that two people may have while traveling together?
How do I what?
How do you reconcile the differences in the perception of the world that is created by two people?
Reconcile, why would I want to reconcile? I mean, I try to be on my best behavior…
Basically if you want to do something, and the other doesn’t. What do you do?
Compromise.
Then are you really traveling? Aren’t you still home, just taking home with you.
No no. No. It’s completely separate from home. I mean, when you are in a relationship you have to compromise. You’re not gonna want to do the same things but in the end you’re in the same place, and its worth doing anything.
So would you say, that having a negative experiencing traveling, is better than no experience at all?
Yeah, of course.
Better to be King for a night—
Than a Shmuck for a lifetime.

Makes sense.

Photo of my girlfriend in Pompeii.

Photo taken by Kate Stockhecker


As I mentioned in an earlier post, I volunteer at an orphanage called City of Refuge. Stacy and Johnbull, the directors of the orphanage are two of the most kind-hearted people I have ever known. He is Nigerian and she is from South Carolina. They met in college and now they dedicate their lives to saving Ghanaian children who have been sold as slaves and forced to work for no pay.  

At the beginning of the semester they invited us to the Volta Region to speak with slave masters and chiefs and learn more about the issue at hand. Around the same time we were working on an idea for a documentary for our NYU class “Documenting the African City.” With Stacy and Johnbull’s permission, we decided to take cameras to the Volta Region with us on fall break and film interviews with the slave masters and chiefs. The experience was incredible.

We left Tema at one in the morning. The members of the trip included about ten NYU students, and Australian couple who had been volunteering at COR for about a week, Stacy and Johnbull, and their staff. The drive was long and bumpy, but eventually we made it to Krachi where we took a ferry across the Volta Lake. When we got to the house we had a few hours to relax before we headed out for our first interview.

We first met with the parliamentary chief, who explained his views on the issue. He seemed to be aware of the problem and very willing to work towards change. Next we met briefly with the chief of a small village in the area. Stacy and Johnbull had spoken with this man many times before. He continually denies the existence of child slavery in his village even though they have proof that it happens there. Immediately during our interview he became defensive, saying that all children go to school and that child trafficking does not exist. Unfortunately, the sun was going down so we had to pack up our cameras and try again the next day.

The next day we were actually able to talk to a child who was sold into slavery in that village. We rented a big boat and went out onto the lake looking for him with his master. Stacy and Johnbull have been working with his master and they are negotiating to free him. We conducted an interview with Godfried, the child slave, and his master. It was clear that Godfried didn’t want to answer some of our questions because his master was there. When we asked him if he wished that he could go to school, he simply nodded. It was heartbreaking.

After that interview, we went back to talk to the chief. Yet again, he denied everything. He didn’t know that we had footage of Godfried’s master admitting to it all. He said on camera that he had purchased Godfried from his parents when he was very young. He even told us how much he paid. Meanwhile the chief just sat there, sweating, nervously telling us that every child in the village goes to school. The footage was amazing. The experience of talking to all of these people and filming it was absolutely incredible. Our weekend ended at 4:00 AM while we waited under the starry sky for a hired tro-tro to come pick us up to begin the next leg of our fall break. I was amazed with what we had accomplished and excited for what was to come next – Burkina Faso.

(…to be Continued)

There have been several instances over the course of this… course… in which I have discussed my somewhat love-hate-ish relationship with Florence. This city is certainly beautiful, and has treated me well for the most part, but right before I left for my week-long fall break, I couldn’t wait to take a break from it. I had gotten to a point where one too many sexual come-ons on my walk to class, combined with stress, money troubles, etc. had pushed me to my breaking point. I finally admitted my frustration with my host city to myself, which made me feel hugely guilty. Like I was not completely appreciating how lucky I was to be here. But I’ve already explained this before so on to the point…
 
While I was on vacation, I met a lot of new people. Most of them were also students studying abroad who were also on their week off. During the many introductions given over the course of the week, I was initially surprised at the reaction I received when people found out I was studying abroad in Florence. Immediately upon hearing this, most people began gushing about how beautiful the city was, saying it was their favorite place they’ve visited, or if they hadn’t visited that it was at the top of their list, or otherwise expressing their jealousy. One group of friends I met in Athens, who were studying abroad in Copenhagen, had just come from Florence a few days earlier, and although they only got to spend a day there, they never ran out of great things to say about it and wished that they could have stayed longer.
 
By the end of the week I had heard so much praise about Florence that the frustration that I felt when I left it (I was SO happy when my train left the station) had shifted to an eagerness to get back and wipe the slate clean, so to speak. Besides, I was exhausted and missed my bed. And sleep.
 
Since I’ve been back, I really have gained a new appreciation for Florence and Italy. (Coming from frigid Amsterdam to unseasonably warm Florence might have helped a bit too). I’ve seen new parts of Florence that I love, and just have a more optimistic mindset in general. Just being able to take a step back, get out of the country for a decent amount of time and go back, has really changed my perspective. That is the beauty of exploration, I guess. Once you gain a real relationship with a place, parts of it can rub you the wrong way. Taking a breather, experiencing completely different places and cultures, and coming back can refresh that place for you and improve your experience of it. At least it has for me.

(Photo is my own)

My view from the back seat of a three hour long packed Tro-Tro. Photo by me

The weekend I spent in Togo was probably the chillest weekend I’ve had in Africa. I woke up at 7am the day of and told the other people I was going with (a girl named Yasmin who up until then I didn't know very well, her boyfriend Nikkil and my friend Trevor) that I wasn't going (I just woke up and had a weird feeling about it.) After laying in my bed for about five minutes, I mentally slapped myself across the face for even contemplating the trip, got dressed a second time and hopped on a Tro-Tro (African form of public transportation, basically a big sticky van) We drove for about three hours to the Ghana-Togo border. I honestly don't even know how long it took because I have completely lost all concept of time and never know how long things take or what day it is (they call this "Ghana time") I’ve definitely started to notice how much more patient I've become here. Before arriving in Africa, I don't think I would have ever survived a long, ipod-less, un-airconditioned car ride on an extremely bumpy unpaved road. Or at least not without plenty of complaining. But the ride just kind of blew by really quickly.
 
Then we crossed the border and were in Lome, the capital city. I had been there before in passing when I went to Benin a few weekends earlier. It’s pretty shitty to be honest (like literally, human fecal matter everywhere) but the beach looks really pretty from afar. We went and had a nice lunch and some beers at this Lebanese restaurant some friends had suggested we try out. The owner was talking to us (for three hours! whoops) and showing us pictures of his trips and stuff, again, the type of thing that would NEVER go down in New York. I asked him where i should go to exchange money and in one second he had a money-exchanger at the door. When we asked him how we get to the next Tro-Tro station to get to Kpalime (pronounced pal-E-may) he went out and just sat in his car and then when we asked him again, he told us to get in, and then drove us to the station!
 
The next Tro-Tro ride from Lome to Kpalime took about two hours. Since we took so long eating lunch, the sun started setting while we were driving, which was maybe the most beautiful sunset I have ever seen. I swear it was straight out of The Lion King. However, once the sunset, driving was a leeetle bit terrifying. At one point our van was trying to pass a motorcycle, and well, lets just say we heard a loud thump and then didn't see the motorcycle anymore. The driver slowed down for a second, and then just floored it. My friends and I just looked at each other and nervous-laughed because we didn't know what else to do. I may be a murderer??
 
We finally arrived in Kpalime and our Tro-Tro dropped us off at our hotel, a nice place just a few minutes out of the town center. We put our bags down and then wandered down the dark, unfamiliar street to find some food to eat and beer to drink. 

Those charming, shiny red telephone booths. What could be a more quinissential british icon? They're classy, charming, old-fashioned...

And full of ads for prostitutes. In England, they're called "tart cards".

The first time my friend and I saw this, we squealed in delight.  How perfectly counterintuitive and deliciously tasteless! We immediately decided these incredibly trashy, often misspelled ads of half-naked chicks would be our main source of decoration for our dorm room.

Now every time we walk past a telephone booth, we grab all of the ads (avoiding repeats).  Most of the telephone booths even vaguely in the NYU London area have been emptied.  I think prostitutes are actually losing business because of us.

Every morning I wake up to seventyish pictures of  fake boobs staring me in the face.  We have quite the collection; everything from "red hot sexy muma" to "yuko Japanese model" to " sexxy black".  It can be a little embarrassing when somebody from NYU in London has to come and say, fix our windowpane.

Who needs a Princess Diana postcard or a miniature double-decker bus as a souveneir when you've got all the tart cards one could ever desire?

* Picture courtesy of my lovely, obliging roomate

I just came back from possibly the best travel experience of my life (not that I've had many to compare it to…). My friend and I went to Vienna, Krakow, and Budapest, and didn't book anything in advance. The spontaneity is probably what made the trip most memorable to me. But I found that despite all of the amazing things we saw and did (visiting museums, seeing Mademoiselle Karen, visiting Auschwitz, climbing Gellert Hill), the only thing I'm excited to report back about is the atrocious bus ride from Budapest back to Prague. Perhaps this is because of a frequent desire to only remember the negative. But perhaps my memory of the absurd bus ride is more poignant because we laughed until we cried. I suppose what I gained from nine days of travel was that one triumph over evil.

 

So I suppose at this point, you're wondering what kind of bus ride this was. Well, we booked a bus from Budapest to Prague, and got 50% off with our ISIC cards… the bus was supposed to leave at 10:30PM and arrive at 6AM… everything was perfect. We even timed our last night in Budapest perfectly, so we arrived at the bus station 15 minutes before our scheduled departure. Then they delayed the bus until 11PM. Then midnight. After 11, they kicked us out of the heated bus terminal into 30 degree night temperatures. Then our bus got delayed oncemore, to 1AM. And that whole time, I had to pee really badly (luckily I discovered an Andy Gump type thing after being in excruciating pain for 45 minutes). At 12:50AM our bus finally arrives. In one sentence: a bus load full of Russians with a drowsy driver. I don't know how long that guy had been driving before he picked us up for our 7 hour journey, but he had no relief driver, no assistant to talk to him to keep him awake. After finding the last two seats next to each other, my friend and I sat down in the most cramped space of my life. I am not tall, 5'4" tops. My knees were pressed up against the seat in front of me. So uncomfortable (both the people in front of us fully reclined their seats). 

 

About five minutes into our journey, we almost got into a horrific accident. That set the tone for the rest of the journey. Our driver had a lot of trouble driving in a straight line, and often weaved a bit. Apparently, while I was sleeping, my friend witnessed a handful of near collisions with the center divider. There were a few mystery stops, where we'd pull into abandoned bus depots and sit for five minutes and continue on, or stop behind a large white truck… Then comes our fellow passengers. Probably because the toilet on the bus was locked and unusable, many of them passed prolific amounts of gas basically the entire time we were locked in that air-tight tube. My nose-hairs curled from the methane. Possibly worse than the atrocious smells is the fact that there seemed to be a symphony of coughs by all of the ill people around us. If I haven't contracted viral pneumonia already, I am honestly thoroughly surprised. Somehow we made it to Prague alive by 8AM.

 

Somehow, that awful life-threatening bus ride was the most fun I've had in a long time. My friend and I were laughing hysterically the whole time at the absurdity of our circumstances, excited by the fact that finally something was going awry on our otherwise perfect trip. It created memories that I will not soon forget, it established a story I will probably retell in my old age. Perhaps that unique experience transcends all of the other "sight-seeing" we did in the cities we traveled in.

My laptop has been completely broken for about a month now. I know I should get it fixed. I'm going to try this week...but I don't speak technology well even in English-speaking countries and so am a little nervous about attempting such a feat here. Wish me luck.

One consequence of this inconvenience is that I pretty much live in the study lounge at my dorm. Since it's only one flight of stairs from my room, I can easily run upstairs to make coffee or grab a sweater. Since it's part of my RAs' room, I don't worry about leaving books there the way I would in a lounge at a larger dorm. This study room is cozy and useful. And it's increasingly becoming my home.

Here there are bright yellow walls and orange carpeting. There are some ivy plants on the exposed ceiling beam, some philodendren on the bookshelves, and some herb plants on the computer desks. The bookshelves have Czech language aides, travel guides, and Russian romance novels. The walls have pictures from past programs and also one very creepy marionette. One can study at a computer, the couch, the table, or a desk in a corner that--to be frank--no one uses because there is usually a piano keyboard resting on it.

Tonight, I am joined by a girl reciting Russian conjugations and a boy reading economic theory while eating dried pineapple slices. The night before break, we had a spontanious end-of-exams party (though I hadn't quite finished exams yet) which even included a phone call to my mom so everyone could sing her 'Happy Birthday.' Sometimes people plan travels in here. Sometimes they gather for potlucks. Sometimes they fall asleep. Sometimes they cut through on their way to the smokers' balcony. It's a strange space really. And I'll probably continue to use it even after my laptop is fixed. Otherwise, there will be no one around to tell me which pumpkin recipe sounds better or which art nouveau flower would make a better tatoo.

Rather than dashing off to unfamiliar foreign lands the last couple of weekends, I have been spending extra time in this lovely city of London. I decided that with this free time, I was going to do “touristy” things. I know, I know; you’re probably wondering why I would want to do touristy things in a city that has become my home. Shouldn’t I have already done such things during the first weeks I was here? Haven’t I been here long enough to begin trying to fit in and blend in with the locals? That’s the first thing people tell you when you move to a new city, especially one as big as London: don’t stand out, attempt to blend in so as not to draw attention to yourself.
 
But sometimes, in my opinion, it’s just more fun to be a tourist and get lost in a city and do all the typical things a visitor would do if they only had 24 hours to spend there. There will always be time to “blend in,” to get angry at the real tourists that walk too slowly or take up too much room on the curb, or grumble vehemently about how congested your favorite museum or gallery is with hoards of tourist groups.
 
One of the things I had been itching to do since I’ve gotten here is climb atop the lions in Trafalgar Square and take pictures perched at the top. Walking around and looking at the four statues situated in the corners of the small square, I realize that it was going to be a more difficult task than I had anticipated. I had always assumed that there would be a set of stairs or at least a ladder of some kind to help me reach the summit, but I was mistaken. There were plenty of people, including many young children, standing on the pedestals or straddling the lions already, but how had they possibly made it up there? I mean, I am only 5’1”, so getting to the top of almost anything can be quite difficult for me personally.

With the statues being situated approximately a foot above my head, it required lots of arm strength and a helping hand or two or four to provide the necessary boost to launch me up there. I never quite made it high enough to perch on top of the lion’s back, but standing alongside it was good enough. But once I was up on top, it was so thrilling, almost like I had conquered an obstacle that had been standing in my way for some time (well, I guess that was literally the case). I didn’t get to revel in my victory for long, because a small crowd was starting to amass at the bottom of the statue waiting for their turn to clamor up and take their pictures with the iconic beast. I smiled, took my pictures, and carefully began my descent down.


Getting a lift to the top & finally making getting my picture with the Trafalgar Square lion!

After some help getting down, I walked away not feeling like a tourist, but an accomplished visiting student that would be able to return home and cross off item #50 on NYU’s list of “101 Things To Do Before You Leave London!” things to do before leaving London. The Trafalgar Square lions are there for tourists and locals alike; at one point of another, London locals must have climbed atop them as well in the same manner tourists do on a daily basis, so even things that appear “touristy” can be quite fun for all.

Instead of going to Bobst, the place I normally would with a ten page paper to research and write in forty-eight hours, I got a chance to head over to the British Library instead. I registered last weekend and told my mom later that night which she replied to by saying, “The British Library is a big deal”. I can tell it’s a big deal because it looks halfway between a library and a museum. It also has a gift shop where I bought my mom an original copy of “Alice’s Adventures Under Ground: A facsimile of Lewis Carroll’s original manuscript” which I thought she’d enjoy.

What’s up with the British Library though? You know you cannot take backpacks into the “reading rooms”!? It’s not a loan library either. This is how it works... You come in and go straight to the underground level. There you can either check your coat and back or “rent” a free locker. I’ve done both, but I would recommend the locker because the people working the coat check are miserable. I mean I would be too, but still. You have to put your bag mainly away, but also pens, and any drinks or snacks too.

On the ground floor which you will pass on your way up to the reading rooms, of which I would recommend “Humanities one”, one will pass an interesting exhibition. Currently it’s “Inventing the 21st Century”. Then straight on up, you will find the cafeteria next to the humanities reading room one and you to go in here to check out and read your books. Next you’ll have to sit down at a computer, open the integrated catalogue and request them. This next part is really different actually. Once you’ve requested the books, you get them to pick up either in seventy minutes or in two days. two days if the books are off sight.

This is why planning strategically makes sense because otherwise you’ve brought all your stuff and your ready to do your research and then you just have to wait for over an hour to even get started. You can do the requesting bit online if you’ve registered (which you can also do online) so this part can be done and in the works before you get there. Upon arrival then, you would go to the pick up desk, give them your “seat number” and take the books you’ve just checked out over to wherever you’ve chosen to work. If you get thirsty there is a way to drink. They have hidden cup dispensers to the right of the water fountains just outside the reading rooms. Just stick your hand up and you can grab a triangular cup out.

Enjoy!

Parque de Las Heras is on my walk to Bikram Yoga. Located above Avenida de Las Heras it spans the width of the 7 parallel streets between Santa Fe and Avenida de Las Heras. It’s a large park for Buenos Aires, and dog shit aside which is collateral damage virtually anywhere in the city, it is very maintained: grass cut, park benches, play-ground, merry-go-round, and tons of trees. In the morning the dog walkers of the city tie the different dogs to the oak trees that are scattered around the park, cocker spaniels, labs, Scottish terriers, weiner dogs, laborador retrievers, golden retrievers, muts, and bull dogs alike are littered around the park. The barking is contained and mostly looses its force through the wind and the trees. The sunniest spot to sit is below the trees, on the grassy nole that faces Parque De Las Heras. Portenos like to drink their mate, tan, play guitar, read, and engage in the run of the mill sexual acts. I have always loved parks because of my intense vocation in the act of people watching. No place better than the park to watch the development of humanity.

However, a couple of Saturdays ago it turned out that my friends and I were the ones being watched. As we sat on a blanket, drank mate, we beging to here these repititve shouts “HEY LADY”, “HEY LADY” . After no success, the two men resorted to animal mating calls, which of course got our attention right away. Once we looked over, our first mistake, the two men came over and started do theatre in the park. We were like their anthropological subjects, they performed like monkeys asking us questions in English playing with the meanings of “Comb” and “Cum”. Turns out that “Comb” with an argentine accent sounds exactly like the word “Cum”. You learn something every day… Anyway, after my friends and I relaxed (and not be so frightened by crazy actors in the park) and began to laugh at their little spectacle, they ended up inviting us to their play “3 o 4 pasos” held every Saturday night at 23hr at the Trapeze Club. Initially I thought they were in a circus act of some sorts, which actually would be really cool, but I guess I was down on my luck. The two actors, one who looked like an ugly Heath Ledger and the other who looked like a caricture of a Mexican bandit black moustache and all, invited us to beers after the play.

We were eager to go- really we were. Afterall, trapeze club and avante garde theatre is a really interesting opportunity. But because the week of spring break started that Friday, it took us till two Saturdays afterwards to surprise our thesbian friends with a big group of our friends to see their show. 

The play was terrible, avante garde yes, but terrible. Between a woman having an organism on a red bench, the three main players being stuck on a green circle trying to hit on the unattainable red orgasming girl, it was eerily familiar to our rendevue in the park *without us having the organsms. Afterwards we all went for beers and played the character game where each writes down a famous person or fictional character on a piece of paper and passes it to the person on the right who then has to put it on their forward. The game then rotates from person to person each asking yes or no questions to try to guess their forehead character! To understand the debauchery that went on, that night we dined with Hitler, Forest Gump, Marilyn Monroe, Paul McCartney, his partner Ringo Starr, Che Guevara, PDiddy, General Francisco Franco, Antonio Banderas, and Dark Vader. 

Even though we’re only half way through the semester, I’m already worrying that I’m not going to get to do everything I want to do while I’m here. I guess if I was logical this thought would have occurred to me sooner, but it didn’t. It’s actually stressing me out thinking of not only all the places in Europe I won’t get to see while I’m here, but all the places in London. On top of this, I have to be thinking about going back to New York. I have to be figuring out my classes, an internship, and housing. I keep having this terrifying thought that being here will be the best time of my life, and I’m wasting it, or at least, it’s going by much too quickly. Sorry for the downer guys.
 
Speaking of things going by too quickly… I spent a very speedy three days in four cities in Belgium last weekend, and it was amazing! Sadly, I haven’t seen In Bruges, but Bruges itself was incredible. It has this perfect little town feel, but it’s not a small enough town that you get bored. I went on a beautiful boat ride on a canal and got some great pictures. Next we (me and the people I was traveling with) hit Antwerp, where it was unfortunately very rainy, but still nice. All the architecture in Belgium has a very unique and very odd style to it that makes it great to spend time just walking around and looking at. We spent the night in Leuven because it had a nicer hostel than Antwerp, but the town actually turned out to be pretty cool as well. It’s a very student-based town, so there were lots of cute restaurants. And, there was “the longest bar in Europe,” which basically was a square with a ton of bars next to each other. It was fun to go into a bunch of them and see how they had all developed their own personality. On the final day we were in Brussels. It was the biggest city we visited, and felt extremely touristy. There were definite areas that were for tourists and areas that weren’t. The prices on things like Belgian waffles and Belgian chocolates were also way higher there. It was beautiful and had some great historical landmarks, but I think it was my least favorite. All and all, I was entirely exhausted by the time we came home. But, being that busy in one weekend made me think, why am I not spending every weekend traveling and doing this much?
 
(photo by me)

I have always loved learning foreign languages - I revere bilingualism as a sort of superpower - so hearing, understanding, and using German as the standard language around here never gets old.  Americans always say that compared to Spanish or Italian, German is such an ugly language.  "All they do is spit."  Well, let me just say, that is not true.  It may not sound as musical as Italian or roll off the tongue like Spanish, but I wouldn't call German ugly.  The truth is, German has a lot of sounds that are very difficult for English speakers to pronounce correctly, like the "ch" or the "r" at the back of your throat.  (I didn't even realize I was mispronouncing the "r" until I got here, because even my German teacher didn't say it right.)  Because it's so foreign, German sounds ugly when Americans try to speak it and butcher the words.  That's the only difference; Spanish is easier for Americans to speak well, and therefore has a better reputation. 

Coming from a native speaker, it actually sounds nice.  (Here are two examples of real German: a piece about horses and Heidi Klum for McDonald's.)  It's not as harsh as people assume it is. That's my opinion from Berlin, anyway.  The crazy thing about German is that wherever you go throughout Germany, Austria, and Switzerland, people have accents and dialects that can sound like a completely different language.  I don't have a lot of experience with it, but apparently it's like trying to have a conversation with someone from the middle of Scotland.  You know he's speaking English, but he's using strange words and the words you do know are so heavily accented he might as well be speaking Japanese.  (For the record, I love a good Scottish accent, but sometimes it just gets a little crazy.) 
 
I definitely noticed a different accent in Austria, but I liked it.  It sounded cuter than the north German accent, even when I couldn't quite make out the words.  I hope people didn't notice that I was listening intently to their conversations; I wasn't interested in their private stories, I just wanted to see if I could understand what they were saying.  For the most part, I couldn't.  But I keep listening all the same to test myself.  When am I ever going to be able to compare things like this again?  My high school German teacher has lived his whole life in central Pennsylvania, but when he came to Germany, the Germans he talked to judged his accent and thought he was from South Africa.  You just can't learn these things in Pennsylvania. 
 
Tomorrow night I'm flying to Copenhagen to spend the weekend eavesdropping on Danish.  Judging by the guide book, Danish looks a lot like Dutch, which looks a lot like misspelled German.  I'm excited to hear it in action.  But I also hope they understand English.

As I was drunkenly bumbling about the streets of London, lost from my friends, phoneless, moneyless and confused-- the tube was shut and I was a long way from home-- I had a cathartic moment: Ah! Yes, my life is a mess. But your life is a mess too in London. It was as if during the same moment in time a wave of temporal English rain fell upon all of our brows and began to follow us, hanging overhead, dark and stormy-- lame. 

 

But in the moment that I sat on the stoop at 3am, wiping tears from my eyes, thinking about how I had practically become one of the bridge and tunnel girls on a Friday night in NYC with no shoes, body glitter and running mascara because of some mysterious club incident-- I hate those girls.  And as the polite, male stranger (who could have killed me) hailed me a cab and gave me a 5’er, I realized that my life wasn’t a mess. That none of our lives were really a mess, they were just different. They weren’t the lives we were used to leading and so they felt wrong. They just felt wrong. These aren’t the things I normally do so they must be bad. 

 

Living somewhere else is a challenge. Not because of any culture shock-- there hardly is any, relative to other abroad sites-- it’s because we are inexplicably forced to critically look at ourselves when we face new choices that are seemingly meaningless. The sheer temporality of studying abroad. “Once and a life time experience,” that’s what everyone says. “When else are you going to get the chance to..” Each and everyone one of us is trying to jam pack our moments here with meaning and when they feel meaningless we feel useless. We’re not living here, we’re LIVING IT UP here. We’re burnt out with weeks to go. We’re tired of the constant social decorum, the excessive spending, we’re tired of wanting more, of trying to suck, squeeze, drain and extract every drop of London and life and travel and excitement and newness and exoticism and energy and whatever else we can find that’s worth telling someone else about later. 

 

We’re obsessively and compulsively trying to make meaning and value so much so that we are exhausted. Now we feel cheap, hedonistic, impractical, neglectful, reckless and yet, probably most of all, we’re still worried that we haven’t done all that we can do here. 
 

So when I got home that night to my phone with missed calls and texts. I plopped into bed and instead of thinking about all the places I should go, I thought about where I had been and could revisit, because what I was missing wasn’t some great adventure in a foreign land, it was a sense of mundanity and comfort, it was a routine in my new home.