12. Open topic

I got my first tattoo last Thursday. A few girls on my program met a tattoo artist a few days ago and my friend Kate, who already has three tattoos, called him and made an appointment for him to come to our dorms and giver her a tattoo. I had a hard time believing that this kind of thing was legit, so I was completely shocked when I came home from class to find Kate, hunched in a chair with her shirt off and back faced towards an unfamiliar Ghanaian man. I sat down next to her to distract her from the fact that Mother Culture Mother Nature was being etched into her back, but mostly I sat and watched in amazement. I had never seen anyone get a tattoo before, nor was I really interested in them. I had played around with idea of getting this little doodle of a sewing needle with a thread going through it (I sew a bunch back home and like to make my own clothes) someplace on my body, but never really considered it seriously.
            Earlier in the semester, I was talking to my friend (the same one who got a tattoo at our dining room table) about my potential tattoo idea. I told her that I was unsure what exactly, but I wanted the thread in the drawing to turn into a formation of something meaningful to me. After getting to know me better, Kate suggested that I get the New York City skyline (I’ve lived there my whole life and it’s an obvious part of my personality once you get to know me).
            Flash forward to the second to last week of the semester. Reaching up to this point, I have had so many unexpected experiences and done so many things that I never thought I would do. So why not add one more insane thing to the list? I decided right then that I wanted my tattoo and I wanted to get it right now, in my living room, in Africa. I had a drawing of what I wanted it to roughly look like, but I’m not really the best when it comes to drawing. Luckily I had art class in a few minutes and had my friend who is an art major help me draw out the building exactly how I wanted it (I guess normally you would have the tattoo artist do this, but something told me the Ghanaian man in my living room who barely spoke English didn’t have the slightest clue what the skyline looks like). After class, my friend Rebecca helped me fix it up a bit and added two little stitches to the right side.
            I watched three of my classmate get tattoos and it only made me more pumped to get one. My original hesitance had nothing to do with the artwork or the meaning behind it, but whether or not I wanted it on my body for life. Do I want to be a mom with a tat? Yes! I got it on my back, to the right of my spine. It hurt for the first second and then my adrenalin distracted me from feeling anything. It came out smaller than I had expected, which I am pleased about. It’s super dainty and delicate. It’s perfect. I figure if someday sewing and New York City are no longer important to me, at least I will have the memory of the four months I spent in Africa, the people I met and all the crazy stuff we did together. 

Image source: myself-sorry for the weird myspacey photobooth pic, no one was around to take one for me!

I’ve historically had a strange relationship with videogames—like a druggie who hates his dealer, yet needs him to survive. I swallow videogames like crackers. Except I like to eat cheese with crackers. And I don’t like to eat videogames with cheese.
 
One would normally assume that by venturing abroad, you would shed all your normal habits and binding hobbies that plagued you back home, and you would become a free man in a new land. Unfortunately this is not the case with me, as it seems that my penchant for wasting my nightly hours with my fingers around a controller have not left my being, even here in Florence.
 
I recently introduced my girlfriend to a popular computer game called Civilization. At first, things were normal—she was hesitant to play because she had better things to do, like plan for the next day, do her homework, craft a budget so she wouldn’t run out of money abroad, etc etc. Yet I managed to convince her that this game was such a good use of her time that now, nearly every day for the past 2 weeks, we play this game for several hours everyday. It’s fun, we have great times, and it passes time like nothing else save for taking bubble baths with colored bubbles . That’s a lot of fun. And playing with legos. That’s fun too. As a matter of fact, I even brought a bag of legos with me to Florence so I could play with them if I ever wanted to. How’s that for acting like a grown up, eh? I’m going to be thirty-five and have little lego pieces strewn all over my office desk. My clients will be sitting across the table waiting for me to come in, looking at the little pieces just sitting there, like a baby came in and knocked them all over the room and stuck them in its mouth. Wow.
 
Everybody plays videogames. A friend of mine remarked once that he thought videogames went out with middle school. Ooph. That one hurt me right in the gut. I draw most of my inspiration and creative googley-wallapaloo from images, sounds, music, and themes that I’ve experienced while playing video games. They’ve been my books. Hope that doesn’t sound too much like bullshit.
 
The negative side to playing videogames abroad is completely a mental one—the shame I feel for sapping time away from being in a foreign land. But how much of that is worth feel shame over, and how much of it is just a cultural stigma? I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody in the videogame industry with pizzazz, with wit, intelligence, and charisma. Then again, I’ve never met anybody from the videogame industry. Goes to show you how much I know about the world after studying abroad—virtually nothing.

 A quarter till seven Sunday morning, Jerry and I are awoken by the familiar weekday sound of our cell phone alarm clock.  Rising easily, we climb from beneath the heat bubble of our blankets, place our feet on the cold tile floor and begin to prepare for the day. Jerry slips into short nylon running shorts and a skintight singlet designed to reduce both drag and weight. Following a check of the weather on my computer, I suit up, donning everything from long underwear to a thick wool jacket.
            Heading into the kitchen I prepare coffee in the stovetop percolator and a thick, steaming bowl of oatmeal. Meanwhile, Jerry allows himself half a banana and a small glass of water.
            After consuming glass upon glass of water for the past 72 hours, Jerry makes one of his frequent bathroom stops. I lace up my waterproof boots and grab my umbrella.
            A mix of anxiety, worry and happiness that the day has finally come, Jerry simply says, “I’m ready, let’s go,” but the slight smile indicates that more emotion exists. Out the ten-foot, grand wooden front door we go in the direction of Piazzale Michelangelo, the city’s ideal vantage point.
            No passerby would mistake today as an ordinary day. Barriers line many of the streets. The scenery at Piazza Santa Croce is dominated not by the marble façade but by large, bright-blue inflatable arches that create a path directly through the heart of the square.  As we reach the opening through the buildings created by The River Arno we see race trailers lining the street along its banks. Helicopters hover diligently above Piazzale Michelangelo. We are flanked by packs of others headed in the same direction.
            As we climb towards the Piazzale, the rain gains pace, making what is already a chilly morning downright bitter. Jerry seems unaffected as I pull tighter on my hood for warmth. We talk some, poking fun at the miserable weather and the task ahead but Jerry’s focus is unquestionably elsewhere.
            At the top, participants and workers flock in all directions, rushing to make last minute preparations. Following a final check of his shoelaces I wish Jerry good luck and tell him to run fast as he enters the corral and prepares himself for the starting shot. 

-picture of the 15 mile marker on our street

« Hurluberlu »
When I was taught this odd word in French class a few weeks ago, I almost laughed out loud—not because it’s a silly looking word but because of it’s meaning : a bizarre, inconsiderate person on the street. I was not surprised at all that the French have such a word—it is so fitting ! Since I’ve arrived in Paris, I’ve had many conversations with friends as well as French people about the way Americans and other foreigners are viewed here. The French stubbornly stick to their stereotypes about Americans, no matter how many times they’re proved wrong. A French guy asked me what I was studying in school the other day, and he cut me off after hearing the first discipline (the environment), saying “but, no, you are joking? I thought all Americans hate the environment.” Not every American!
    With every interaction I have, I learn more and more about the intricacies of the Parisian attitude towards foreigners. I can feel their eyes on me when I walk down the street, and know that they can tell I am American. Sure, it sounds as if I’m being paranoid, but it’s true—most people in my program feel the same way, and Parisians have before confirmed my suspicions. I’m still not sure what gives it away—perhaps we have a different gait, perhaps my clothes aren’t Parisian enough (there’s a definite prevalent Parisian aesthetic, just like there’s a New York prevalent New York aesthetic, which I never really noted until arriving here). Most days I don’t care if I look as if I’m straight out of Brooklyn or New York, being here has in some ways made me prouder of my American origins—but there are days I don’t feel like sticking out, and so I challenge myself to look as Parisian as possible. I wear the boots I bought in Marais, and my black scarf, and fitted dark jeans and a bulky sweater and simple make up—there’s no way my clothes can give me away as American when I go out on the street. Also, I’ve been asked before (in the US) if I’m of French origins, so I don’t think my features give anything away. When I step out on the street, I make a game out of it—I have this weird theory that French peoples lips are constantly pursed, because of the different vowels they have to pronounce— so I sort of purse my lips slightly. Then, I walk slower than normal and make sure not to look at the beautiful buildings and strange happenings that I pass on the street—and make absolutely sure not to crack a smile—but I’m convinced: they still know! How do they know!?
    I’ve started not to care that I can so easily be pinned as American anymore, after my friend Priya and I realized a few things about them—mainly that there’s no way we, alone, can influence their attitude towards Americans, no matter how many times we prove their stereotype wrong. We figured they probably refuse to let go of said stereotypes because they really dislike change—not because they inherently hate foreigners. The infiltration of foreign cultures confuses and, possibly, scares them more than it infuriates them.
The first thing you learn here is that the French do not, ever drink on the go and rarely eat on the go (the only exception being that when they’re carrying their baguettes home, they pull pieces from the bread as they’re walking and nibble on it, but I feel out of place when I attempt to eat fruit or anything else when walking around, because that’s bread is really all they eat on the go here)—and they never, ever, ever eat on the metro. I was finishing an apple one time and stepped into the train forgetting that I had the core in my hand, and was stared at for it. I awkwardly ran out at the next stop and threw it in the trash. There are of course reasons for their not eating on the go—they love to sit down and enjoy food and make an event out of eating (which we should do more often in America, in my opinion). They don’t understand why a person would eat on the go, because it is not at all enjoyable. Anyway, despite the fact that fast food, eating on the go, and acting anything like an American is a huge cultural no-no, they are obsessed with McDonalds (there is always a line outside the one near NYUParis’s campus) and they also have boulangeries and mini chain café stores in big metro stations! It’s as if they’re trying to adapt some sort of American cultural phenomena while rejecting it at the same time. Yet, I rarely see the French patron the stores that exist in the metro because they are so against the idea of buying and eating food in such a manner. They love McDonalds, but they wait for their food for a ten or fifteen minutes then sit in it for two hours—completely defeating the purpose of McDonalds in the first place. To me, they just seem amusingly confused—it’s as if they’re trying to adapt to the prevalence of fast-paced cultures while at the same time resisting such cultures by not fully giving into said cultural practices. They’re struggling to keep their French identity among the more and more prevalent presence of multiculturalism.
How much longer will the word hurluberlu be used here? In New York, “a strange person on the street” is not applicable to anyone, because everyone is strange—there may be groups or types of people that one can observe in New York, as well as in Paris, but there’s no strange person in New York. How much longer can the French continue to cling to their ideal of a pure Parisian while alienating any outsider, when Paris is continuously being inundated with people from other cultures? Their confusion over such dilemma is already evident—shallowly adapting to globalization by putting Chez Paul in every metro station is not really working. Sticking to such ideals is of course important, in order to conserve all that is inherently valuable in their identity. I do think that they should be guarded against the infiltration of a fast food, big- chain culture, against a fast paced culture, against an overworked culture—but can’t there be some sort of more fluid middle ground? Is this method they’ve developed of superficially adapting some foreign customs while sticking to their age-old stereotypes about said cultures the only way to achieve a middle ground?
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. Perhaps when they sit a McDonalds for two hours, they’re, in their own way, resisting a change that they believe will push them further towards a way of life that they disagree with—despite the fact that McDonalds essentially represents that way of life that they disagree with. Their apparent confusion is maybe just a symptom of their resisting and accepting different cultures at the same time. As I said before, they seem afraid of change, but for good reason—if they were to attempt to be open minded and accepting in the way that New York is, it is likely that certain cultural nuances, which may seem illogical or unimportant to an outsider, would be trampled by the influx of foreign values. And though a fuller acceptance of foreign values and customs could possible change their culture for the better, there’d of course be unintended consequences. It seems that the French’s way of compromise is this phenomenon of having boulangeries in the metro. They feel as if they can hold onto those details they feel are deeply important if they are superficially flexible when it comes to incorporating technology, convenience, etc, into their culture. They may grab a café a emporter in the metro, but in doing so, they may make up for such a ‘betrayal’ of their French custom by stubbornly sticking to a different tradition. Therefore, they’re still partially resisting foreign influence, in order to protect those many little details that are oh-so-French… in order to protect those seemingly unimportant details that really do make their culture.
So, what are those details that make up their culture? In my eyes, it’s the following: the way Paris goes so quiet at night. The patience needed to live in an apartment where there’s no microwave or dishwasher or efficient elevator—where there are only a few mugs and plates because that’s all that is needed. How Parisians don’t move for others on the street, and get in your way because they feel like stopping or slowing down or looking in a window (I hate it so much, but have to admit that New Yorkers are a little too intense when it comes to sprinting from one place to another, as much as that suits my stride). How stores don’t open or close precisely when they say they will. The fact that I have to buy vegetables, toilet paper, cigarettes, wine, coffee, and bread all at separate stores, which are all open at different, odd hours of the day (I don’t think I’ll ever understand what type of stores are open when). Details like: the way I got stared at when I tried to buy more than a day’s supply of food at Monoprix. Apparently, the French plan ahead when it comes to large societal changes, but not when it comes to what they’re going to eat for breakfast all week. The way the metro breaks down weekly, during rush hour, and how such an inconvenience is accepted as a way of life— when it occurs, there is no annoyance or anger on the behalf of most commuters, or if there is, it’s imperceptible. The communal salt at restaurant tables that everyone puts their fingers in—and how it’s not considered unsanitary. The way everyone finishes all the food on their plates, every time. The way French people never fail to shut off the lights whenever they leave a room. The way you have to open the Metro doors by yourself, and can jump off while the train while it’s still moving (that’d be grounds for a law suit in New York—the minute someone tripped and harmed themselves getting off— I can already imagine the newspaper article). How everything is less standardized: almost every bathroom I’ve been in has a different way of turning on the sink or flushing the toilet; almost every restaurant has slightly different customs when it comes to seating yourself, when it comes to getting the check.
Minute, every-day interactions take just a tad more patience, just a tad more presence of mind here—but that extra time it takes to do little things here forces a real change in attitude. In New York, many practices revolve around convenience, around time-efficiency. Everyday interactions with objects, even with people, can be done without thought—it’s very easy to get around New York with your brain on autopilot. Wake up, leave your apartment, click the elevator button, get downstairs, walk outside, go to the nearest coffee shop, buy an Americano, pay with a card, catch a cab, recite your destination, multitask in the cab by surfing the web on your blackberry and drinking your coffee, arrive at your destination, pay with a card, get out, get through your day, make your way home. So, I don’t blame the French for being so afraid of change, and understand the confusion that stems out of their trying to adapt to other cultures. They’re trying to protect the essence of Paname. It’s hard to be on autopilot in Paris, and if the day arrives where la plus part des gens are capable of such a thing, it will no longer be the same city. It will no longer be Paris.



Notes/ translations, etc:
1) les plus part des gens: most people
2) Paname is the nickname Parisians give to their city; a term of endearment: http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paname
3) the photo was taken by me, just a photo of the metro...

For my fall break, I had the great fortune of spending 11 days first in Athens, then Paris, and finishing off in Amsterdam. Overall, the entire week was a whirlwind of drama; we came within seconds of missing every flight, train, bus, you name it, had our reservations cancelled, spent hours in American consulates, hospitals, and police stations, and even had to leave one of our own behind in Paris (without a cell phone) and just hope that we would reunite in Amsterdam (miraculously, we did).
 
So needless to say, by the time we got to Amsterdam we were already pretty burnt out from a hectic week. Then we come to find that the hotel we booked is 45 minutes outside of actual Amsterdam, adjacent to a field of sheep. We were on the first floor and there were literally horses RIGHT outside our window. Great. So we have to commute into the city every day via train and bus, but who can complain? We were in Amsterdam.
 
When we got into actual Amsterdam for the first time I immediately fell in love. This is the most quirky, charming city I have ever been to – the people, the language, and even the buildings have so much character. Dutch houses are very tall and narrow, face each other across beautiful canals that are often filled with swans, and are crooked. Yes the buildings slant. Some more so than others, and sometimes you don’t even notice it, but it’s so charming.
 
These things along with the Red Light District, the coffeeshops, and the houseboats are all things that add to the quirky character of Amsterdam, but the most “Amsterdam” (and probably the most dangerous…cue foreshadowing) feature of the city is the supremacy of The Bike. The Bike rules the road. The Bike is higher on the road herarchy than the car. If Bike, Car, Person were like Rock, Paper, Scissors, Bike would beat Car and pulverize Person. Yes, it would be a very uneven game, but that’s the point. Dutch bikers are not very tolerant of amateurs, as all the travel guidebooks will tell you, but for some reason we rented them anyway.
 
So we get our bikes, and could not be happier. We are on top of the world. “Look at us, we’re biking in Amsterdam!” We ding our little bike bells happily. Little did we know that we would all see our lives flash before our eyes at some point that day. Getting on the bike lane is like merging onto the interstate. It’s scary stuff. Now imagine four hapless American Twenty-Somethings, trying to keep up with the pace of bike traffic (very fast) while navigating a foreign city where the street names are all at least 18 letters long and sound like a sneeze. Every time we actually ended up where we set out to go it was a cause for celebration.
 
Needless to say, disaster ensues. One of my friends came within inches of being flattened by a tram. Another was T-boned by a Dutch girl with two huge bags of groceries in the front basket of her bike. It was a mess. That same friend also came so close to getting smashed by a bus that the bus actually nicked her front tire. By the end of it, we were so surprised that none of us had sustained life or limb injuries. I’m a pretty firm believer that traveling should have its harrowing moments, and biking in Amsterdam is definitely one of the highlights of my semester.

(This photo was taken by me WHILST biking. Oh yes. I LIVE for danger.)

This semester, I’ve become a world traveler. At least, that’s what friends from back home have told me when they look at the ever growing list of cities I’ve visited posted on my blog. It seems that every couple of weeks, a new city or two pops up that wasn’t there when they last checked. They’re not the only ones surprised, however. I’m still in awe every time I reflect back on the places I’ve seen this semester. As of right now, I’ve visited 14 different cities, with 2 more planned for this weekend. Just last week during Fall Break, my friends and I city-hopped through 6 cities in Greece, Italy, and Spain over the course of 9 days. Admittedly, it did feel a little overwhelming and rushed at some points, but I had the time of my life and wouldn’t have done it any other way. I seriously don’t think I’ll be planning anything so hectic and fun again in the near future, so it was definitely a worthwhile experience to share with so many new friends (our group at its peak consisted of 11 people).
 
With classes only twice a week for me, I feel as though my weeks are spent planning for the next trip rather than catching up on reading. Also, everything feels more accessible here. European cities are at my fingertips via Easyjet and Ryanair. All I need to do is book a train, plane, ferry, bus, or any other mode of transportation that comes to mind, and I can be off in days. The timing is always a little obscure, but you’ll find a way to make it work if the flight is only 20 pounds. I can’t even count the number of mornings I’ve gotten up before the crack of dawn to catch a plane; it’s reached the point where I don’t even complain anymore and just accept it as a fact. Finding a place to stay is ideal, but not always necessary. I’ve stayed anywhere from the nicest apartment rentals to the shadiest hotels in sketch neighborhoods. I’ve learned exactly how many people can fit on a certain number of beds. My philosophy all semester: grab some friends and go. That’s really all you need for it to be a successful trip. It’s as simple as that here. I have plenty of friends going abroad next semester, and that’s the advice I’ve given them repeatedly.
 
There is one down side to all these international escapades: spending less time in the city you’re currently calling home. It was hard to strike a balance a first between school, traveling, and trying to do things in London, but I’ve worked out a system. I only travel every other week, leaving half my weekends to spend time with the Brits and become immersed in their culture. I’ve found it to be plenty of time to explore and discover. Regrettably, my time in Europe will come to startling halt soon. I don’t know what I’ll do when I get back to New York and won’t have travel plans every other week. Maybe I’ll have to incorporate traveling more into my life now that I’ve gotten a taste of what it’s like to be a jetsetter. Or maybe I’ll have to hold off for a bit until my bank account is replenished.

Amsterdam doesn’t do traffic lights or stop signs or crosswalks. Instead, trams, cars, bikes, and people traverse down the roads unregulated. It should be anarchy, chaos, accidents everywhere. But no. People simply learn to look out for one another, and treat their fellow commuters respectfully.

So it goes in this Dutch Utopia. The government lets people do what they want, within reason. Gay Marriage is legal, prostitution is legal, Marijuana is legal (hard drugs aren’t). And yet Amsterdam is hardly an amoral hellhole. Not only does life manage to go on regardless of these personal freedoms- it thrives.

The city itself is physically gorgeous. Every building is different, charming in its own way. Trees frame the canals, white swans drifting along. During the day, the streets are full of markets, boutiques, patisseries, specialty shops. Colorful street art is a feast for the eyes. As the sun goes down, red lights, loud bars and coffee shops lend a sense of mischief to the night.

Amsterdam is obviously a tourist attraction, but it’s also a living city: I never got the idea that it’s dominated by visitors, as sometimes happens in cities like Venice or Rome. One of my first nights in Amsetrdam, my friends and I found ourselves in a bar completely filled with locals. Every person in the room except us spent the night singing along to Dutch songs, and yet not once did I sense any animosity. This kind of thing wouldn’t happen in say, Paris. The fact that people from all over the world come to visit Amsterdam isn’t intimidating or defining- it’s a fact of life, and has become a part of Amsterdam’s cultural fiber.

“ Family Friendly” might not be a phrase that comes to mind when the average person thinks of Amsterdam. But during the day, parents and their kids are everywhere- grocery shopping, riding their bikes, hanging out in parks. Not surprisingly, Amsterdam is an astoundingly clean and highly environmentally conscious city. MTV has Pimp My Ride: a feature in an Amsterdam magazine is called “pimp my bike.”

It’s this combination of factors that led me to sitting on a bench one Sunday, the last day of my trip, having a smoke, looking up at the sky, nearly in tears. I’d found Shangri-La, and I was leaving after three days? Was it possible that I could ever be this happy again?

One things for sure. I’ll be coming back.

* this picture was taken by my friend layla at the particular moment referenced here

Preparing for this trip was kind of a nightmare. We booked our plane tickets about two months ahead of time so that they were really cheap on EasyJet and Ryan Air. But, then began all the other planning you never think of. We needed transportation to and from the airports, maps of the cities, directions to our hostels, sightseeing options, and a million other little things before we could leave. I was traveling with four other people, so finding times when we could all sit down and talk about this stuff was practically impossible. But, it was totally worth it. Having all of that stuff figured out before hand made traveling easy and enjoyable.
 
Venice was our first stop, and it was everything I hoped it would be. The day we went it was a little foggy, dark and very eerie, which was cool. It really made me think of the movie Casanova and how everything must have looked then. I loved the Italian architecture and all the bright lights at night. The gondola ride we went on was amazing and really beautiful. I’d love to go back during Carnival.
 
Our next stop was Rome. I’d been there before, but I was excited to revisit some of the places I’d loved so much the first time. We went to the Coliseum, the Forum, the Trevi Fountain, St. Peter’s Basilica, The Vatican Museum, and the Sistine Chapel. It was hectic, but using a sightseeing bus was really helpful in getting us from place to place and giving us some information. We also had some really good Italian food.
 
Athens was next. We unfortunately ended up being there on voting day, so everything was closed. But, we did get to see stuff from a distance and had a nice day relaxing. We went to the big markets, got coffee, and wandered around the Plaka. I loved the Plaka area, which is where our hostel was. The 2 Euro Gyros were amazing!
 
From there we went to Mykonos (an island in Greece). The weather was really nice, and compared to our other city stops, it was really relaxed. We went to the beach, explored the island, and ate by the water.
 
Our last stop was Dublin. Although Dublin’s not a great sightseeing town, I liked its atmosphere the best. The people are really friendly and the food is great. The nightlife in the Temple Bar area is also really fun. Oh, and we met Alan Rickman AKA Snape from the Harry Potter movies.
 
All and all very busy, but definitely worth it. I wish I could have a week like this every semester. 

(picture by me)

Greece, Italy and France. In other words, gyros, pizza and baguettes. The first thing my roommate said to me after fall break was, "You look WELL-FED." And yes, I was.

Athens, Greece
On our first night in Athens, we walked down a narrow street lined with restaurants with outdoor seating. Some places were more crowded than others and we assumed that's where the best food was. We settled for one of the fuller restaurants, which also offered free dessert and wine for our large group of ten. The food was fantastic. I ordered lamb and rice, a simple dish also available in metal carts all over New York, but this was nothing like cart food. The lamb meat was fresh and came right off the bone (sorry, to any vegetarians who might be reading this, just skip down to the gelato part below). The rice was puffy and seasoned in such as way that I can only describe it as Greek. 
The next day, I ordered a lamb gyro, which came with pita, fries, vegetables and doner lamb (shaved right off the kebab). I ate it. Got back in line and ordered another. Each one cost less than 2 euros and tasted phenomenal. It was hard thinking of leaving this place, but I was so happy to have tried such great food.

Rome, Italy
I only ate pizza and gelato for three days straight (with the exception of that one plate of gnocchi featured above). Gnocchi is an Italian dish composed of potato dumplings in tomato sauce, sent straight from Heaven and onto the plate. The restaurant took a while to make the food and the time put into my one dish was reflected in its taste. 
I tried pesto gelato! All I can say is it was delicious and tasted exactly like pesto. As for the pizza, hands down, some of the best I've had. The dough, tomato sauce, toppings, everything was homemade and very fresh. I was probably just lucky and went to some great places, but I was never disappointed by any of the food. They also sell pizza by weight and not by the slice, which was an interesting way to experience. 

Paris, France
Nutella crepes all day. These creperies line the streets of Paris, which I loved so much I had to go back a second time. My favorite memory was coming back to the apartment after grocery shopping to eat a baguette with brie. It's just bread and cheese, but so good! Also, the macaroons of Laduree are a can't miss for anyone who might be in the area. 

I'm not sure if I was just lucky with all the great food I had or if I just love all food, but it was definitely a highlight of my break. There really is nothing like having a gyro after seeing the Acropolis, eating gelato at the Trevi Fountain or splitting a crepe under the Eiffel Tower. 

(Photo: My friend took this photo of me about to dive into a plate of gnocchi in Rome. Forgetting Sarah Marshall anyone?)

(Photo taken by Kate Stockhecker)

The second half of my fall break was wildly different than the first (see blog post #10 for fall break part 1). I must admit that trying to squeeze all that happened during those 8 days into one blog post will be quite the challenge. This article might get a little lengthy, but the stories are worth it. I promise.

Let me begin by mentioning that we knew before we left on fall break that we would be spending much of our time in transportation, mostly in tro-tro’s, which are basically overcrowded vans, the main form of public transportation here in Ghana. So, just to keep things interesting, I decided to keep a tally in my journal of the hours spent in transit. The final count? Sixty-nine and half hours. That’s almost three full days. The second largest chunk of travel time came the day we left the Volta Region. The trip to Tamale ended up taking 12 hours. Our bus broke down about eight times, at least. We all piled out of the bus to buy some water and stretch our legs in these small villages in the middle of nowhere while the driver tried to fix the vehicle – yet again.

My favorite thing about this day was the girl who mistook us for aliens. Many of the children in these small remote villages have never seen white people before. Sitting under a tree, we waved hello to the kids in the village. Most of them looked at us with interest, tried playing games or touching our skin (were they looking for scales? It’s a possibility), but one little girl would not stop crying. She seemed as though she was in fear for her life.

Eventually, we made it to Tamale. The whole trip from Volta to Tamale took 12 hours. Exhausted and sweaty and covered in dirt, we met our friends at a restaurant for dinner. After a nice meal and a few drinks, my friends somehow convinced me to get on another tro-tro to Bolgatanga, a city much closer to the Burkina Faso border. We crashed for the night at a Christian Hostel and headed to Burkina the next morning. After getting our vises we went to Po, where we had a few drinks and arranged for a “quatre-quatre” to take us to Ranch de Nazinga, a national park. We all piled into the back of this pick-up truck and headed into the park. It was the bumpiest ride of my life, and the road was so narrow that we had to duck every few minutes to avoid being wacked in the face by trees. It was late at night and as we sped through the forest we told scary stories in the back of truck.

The driver slept in his truck (I think) while we stayed at the hotel and the next morning he took us on a safari. We only saw baboons and waterbuck, but it was still a great trip. When we got back from the Safari we headed to Ouagadougou, the capital of Burkina Faso. The bakeries in Ouaga were amazing.  I had quiches and apple tarts and ham and cheese sandwiches on French bread. After one night in Ouaga we headed to Gorum-Gorum.

The time we spent in Gorum-Gorum was by far my favorite part of the trip. Burkina Faso is a very Muslim country, and most of the inhabitants of Gorum-Gorum are Tuareg people, a nomadic group that live mostly in the Saharan region and North Africa. The jewelry and clothing there was absolutely gorgeous. My friends and I explored the market and had traditional clothing made. We hired a guide to take us on a camel trek into the Sahel desert. We rode on camels in our traditional garb for about two hours as the sun set into the dessert towards an Oasis where we would spend the night. The expanse of the sky in the middle of the desert was humbling.

We came back on the camels the next day and headed back to Ouagadougou for a few nights of relaxation before our 24 hour bus ride back to Accra. After all of this traveling, I have to say, I feel like I can do anything.The second half of my fall break was wildly different than the first (see blog post #10 for fall break part 1). I must admit that trying to squeeze all that happened during those 8 days into one blog post will be quite the challenge. This article might get a little lengthy, but the stories are worth it. I promise.

Let me begin by mentioning that we knew before we left on fall break that we would be spending much of our time in transportation, mostly in tro-tro’s, which are basically overcrowded vans, the main form of public transportation here in Ghana. So, just to keep things interesting, I decided to keep a tally in my journal of the hours spent in transit. The final count? Sixty-nine and half hours. That’s almost three full days. The second largest chunk of travel time came the day we left the Volta Region. The trip to Tamale ended up taking 12 hours. Our bus broke down about eight times, at least. We all piled out of the bus to buy some water and stretch our legs in these small villages in the middle of nowhere while the driver tried to fix the vehicle – yet again.

My favorite thing about this day was the girl who mistook us for aliens. Many of the children in these small remote villages have never seen white people before. Sitting under a tree, we waved hello to the kids in the village. Most of them looked at us with interest, tried playing games or touching our skin (were they looking for scales? It’s a possibility), but one little girl would not stop crying. She seemed as though she was in fear for her life.

Eventually, we made it to Tamale. The whole trip from Volta to Tamale took 12 hours. Exhausted and sweaty and covered in dirt, we met our friends at a restaurant for dinner. After a nice meal and a few drinks, my friends somehow convinced me to get on another tro-tro to Bolgatanga, a city much closer to the Burkina Faso border. We crashed for the night at a Christian Hostel and headed to Burkina the next morning. After getting our vises we went to Po, where we had a few drinks and arranged for a “quatre-quatre” to take us to Ranch de Nazinga, a national park. We all piled into the back of this pick-up truck and headed into the park. It was the bumpiest ride of my life, and the road was so narrow that we had to duck every few minutes to avoid being wacked in the face by trees. It was late at night and as we sped through the forest we told scary stories in the back of truck.

The driver slept in his truck (I think) while we stayed at the hotel and the next morning he took us on a safari. We only saw baboons and waterbuck, but it was still a great trip. When we got back from the Safari we headed to Ouagadougou, the capital of Burkina Faso. The bakeries in Ouaga were amazing.  I had quiches and apple tarts and ham and cheese sandwiches on French bread. After one night in Ouaga we headed to Gorum-Gorum.

The time we spent in Gorum-Gorum was by far my favorite part of the trip. Burkina Faso is a very Muslim country, and most of the inhabitants of Gorum-Gorum are Tuareg people, a nomadic group that live mostly in the Saharan region and North Africa. The jewelry and clothing there was absolutely gorgeous. My friends and I explored the market and had traditional clothing made. We hired a guide to take us on a camel trek into the Sahel desert. We rode on camels in our traditional garb for about two hours as the sun set into the dessert towards an Oasis where we would spend the night. The expanse of the sky in the middle of the desert was humbling.

We came back on the camels the next day and headed back to Ouagadougou for a few nights of relaxation before our 24 hour bus ride back to Accra. After all of this traveling, I have to say, I feel like I can do anything.

This past 2 weeks (almost 2 weeks)  was NYU in London’s big holiday off. Eagerly, the overworked and overstressed adolescents of NYUL scattered like flies with carry-ons, passports, and oh-my-god-i’m-about-to-miss-my-flights, creating mayhem all over Europe and even Africa. I spent my break in Barcelona and Amsterdam, a nice dichotomy. Good food vs. horrible food. Nice weather vs. horrible weather. Illegal recreational drug use vs. legal recreational drug use. I’d like to spare you details, for my own sake, of my nefarious antics but I’m not going to do that. 

I’ll say this blog has certainly helped me document a metamorphosis in which I enter my beautiful chrysalis a caterpillar and exit a budding alcoholic. But I’ll also say my life isn’t as melodramatic as I am capable of articulating it. And so this “travel story” begins. 

Preface: I don’t remember any of this happening. I had never blacked out before. But this is what probably happened: So the drinks in Barcelona are like waaaaay bigger. They are like waaaay bigger and they fill half those gigantic glasses with liquor. They do not do this in London. Everyone drinks beer here, I do not, so they overcharge for mixed drinks and water down all the liquor. No one in London gets drunk at bars, not unless they pregame. I am a light weight, but being in London distorted this for me. In essence the last thing I remember is going to Club Mix in the Gothic Quarter. Club Mix is not a club. Club Mix is a dimly lit bar with vampire looking decor and scantily clad waitresses that hover next to your table, practically with their palms out, waiting to be paid, as you sip your over-priced black russian with way too much alcohol in it. So you pay her and she goes away. Then you turn around and slurringly say to N. “That waitress was such a biiiiiiitch,” then you take the beautiful, large, crystal ashtray at your table and put it in your purse. “Now we’re even.” Now you’re a scumbag, it’s official. A ton of other customers see you, but you don’t care, you are justified, you are drunk, next bar. Mojito, Margarita, Baileys, Wine-- uh oh!

Here comes the blur: It’s time to go home. You have to pee. You pee wherever, honestly wherever. You drunkenly text message your friend in Canada because he is so great. You yell at N. because you think we are lost. You get into the Metro, you puke on the train. You puke on your dress. You puke on your hands. There is puke on your face. It’s your stop. You slip in your puke. You face plant on the floor. You teleport back to your hostel. N. tells you go to the bathroom. You say, “I’m not going to puke, I’ll drink some water.” You puke. You puke all over the hostel floor. You puke all over your leather jacket. You puke all over your purse. You will not get the puke smell out of these things, ever. You puked your little brains out, then you went to Amsterdam. 

The whole plan was straightforward enough. In theory it would only take us about seven hours to leave the Volta region to head up to Tamale and meet up with our other friends before we all made our way to the Burkina Faso border. However, with trotros nothing ever goes exactly like you would expect. A trotro is the most commonly used form of transportation in Ghana. They’re essentially old vans that someone ripped the seats out of and filled with stiff benches that allowed them to cram in as many people as possible. They’re often highly uncomfortable and just rusty enough to ensure that you feel like if you put your full weight on the floor that you may very well end up contributing some sort of Flintstone’s like foot action to your forward momentum but they’re cheap and there’s almost always one running along the route that you need to take.
The trip up to Tamale would require three separate trotros. The first two went relatively smoothly (or at least as smoothly as you can go on bumpy, bumpy African roads) but the third one immediately became problematic. Since Tamale is a major stop the trotro was larger than usual and actually took the time to assign seat numbers. Unfortunately, this meant that my friends and I couldn’t sit together. We climbed on board and quickly discovered that the larger size was rather deceiving and we were going to be spending the next three hours (three hours turned out to be a laughable estimate) with even less legroom than the minimal spaces that we had been squeezing ourselves into previously. I found my seat and soon realized that I was quite lucky and could actually put my feet down in front of my but some of my friends had wound up in seats that forced them to curl into a ball with their knees tucked into their chests. We all began to prepare ourselves for what was going to be a long three hours.
I had actually managed to wind up with a rather charming seating arrangement. There was a little girl who must have been about three or four sitting in front of my who was quite amused by checking out the obruni sitting behind her. Soon she worked up the courage to stick her tiny hand back between the seats and brush her fingers across my knee to feel what my pale skin felt like. I smiled and reached my hand out and she grinned back and took it, holding two of my fingers in her tiny hand. She kept a firm grip on my fingers and we both managed to drift off for a nap before waking up about an hour later (still holding hands) to the sounds of our trotro breaking down. The driver gestured us all off, mumbling about the back wheels when we asked him to explain in English exactly what the issue was. The mother of my little friend sensed trouble and she quickly hitched a ride for herself and her daughter with another passing car.
We boarded the trotro again about half an hour later and I couldn’t help but miss the joy my tiny friend had provided. I didn’t realize exactly how much I would miss her pleasant company until the trotro broke down again about twenty-five minutes later. Again several men fiddled with the wheel for about half an hour and again we were all herded back on to set out once more. Another thirty minutes or so passed and we broke down again. This time we got off and no one made any moves towards the wheel. Instead, we all stood around for a few minutes while someone fiddled with the engine before being directed towards the rear of the vehicle with shouts of “Push! Push! Push!” We pushed and finally the engine started and everyone ran to climb on board once more. This happened about two more times along the way.
In the end the ride that should have taken about three hours took about eight. We arrived in Tamale tired, dehydrated, and drenched in sweat. We all looked like we had beautiful golden tans but in reality we were covered in a fine layer of Ghana’s deep red dirt (see my friend Kate Stockhecker's photo for a sense of just how filthy we were). As miserable as it was it was quickly transformed into one of those ridiculous occurrences that we could all laugh about and it certainly taught me to appreciate just how good a cold bottle of water can taste after a long day.

I remember when I was abroad in Europe and by law under the age of 21 it is illegal to rent a car. I wanted to drive so badly throughout Tuscany, see the countryside, stop by little towns, and find bed and breakfasts along the way in tiny villas. Well, it didn’t happen. I was 19 and there was no way any rental car was going to rent a car to an underage driver with no insurance.

            When I decided to go to Buenos Aires renting a car was, naturally, one of the experiences I was most excited for. This past weekend was the school organized Iguazu trip to see the waterfalls that are tucked in the northeast part of the Argentina, snuggled right up next to Brazil. In September, my mother and I had decided to take a day trip there, so I opted out to go with the school and instead travel along the coast to see Patagonia in my RENTED CAR.

            We were a motley crew.  Arriving at Sixt at 11 in the morning, we were wearing eyed. We walk in and ask for our car- which we shortly discover is manual. The three useless  North-Americans (have to be very careful with the term American- not something you can throw out lightly) were used to our easy automatic cars, and the Brazilian, well he couldn’t drive. So the whole morning we ran around the Micro-Centro looking for automatic cars, calling different companies. Argentina is at a want for automatic cars- however, after calling all the big companies like Hertz, Avis, Alamo, and Budget, we finally found one boutique company called Drivers. They, generously, rented us a  PT Cruiser; at the time, we thought that a PT Cruiser was a safe bet, it had a lot of qualities going for it: aerodynamic design, automatic drive, and a North-American brand we could count on.

            We got on the road at 14hrs and drove out of Buenos Aires city in direction of La Plata. Around La Plata we got a little lost looking for junction 11 instead of the major highway that cuts through the country to Mar de Plata. At around 18hrs, when the sun had already set, we pulled over to get gas, filled up our thermos with a portable hot water despensor for maté and asked someone where the next big coastal town was to stop for dinner before we found a little hotel to stay at. We had big plans… Big plans indeed. Until everything went horribly, horribly wrong.

            We pulled into the town of Santa Teresita. Sometimes living in Buenos Aires it is easy to forget what the rest of the country looks like. The coastal town, on its off season, was empty. We stopped, got out of the car, took a look at the beach, saw a nice little Hostería and decided to keep on driving to the next down. It looked like a nice road that hugged the coast so for about five minutes we continued on there. However, abruptly it stopped and we had to make a quick right. Suddenly the road started to become bumpy and quickly turned into a muddy, swampy road. We hit a huge bump that sent the car flying and as a reaction I pulled on to the side of the road. There the car got stuck. Stuck. Wouldn’t budge. The three of them pushed while I past on the gas, but all we could hear in the darkness was the sound of the wheels spinning out.

            We had a lot of choices. Leave the car there with our stuff locked in go for help. Leave the car, take our stuff, go for help. Leave the car, take our stuff, say “Fuck it,” and go to the Hostería, drink and get the car in the morning. But, hey, we’re in Argentina- the car probably wouldn’t be there in the morning. Or it would be written on or torched. Damages that well, we didn’t think that insurance would cover. (Yes, we had been smart enough to ask for insurance) So, we decided to bet against our previous luck, and locked the door in the middle of the pitch black night to go in search of help.

            It was a nothing town. We had to create landmarks for ourselves just so we could find our way back to the car. A few blocks down, to the left, we saw lights on at what looked like a country mart. This “boliche” was FILLED with people a.k.a had about 5 people in it, but that is more than we had seen in the whole town combined. Two big guys came to help us out and assured us that there would be no problem getting the car out.

            There was.

            So, naturally one of them lived close and had a big cargo truck, which I can only imagine was used to transport some agrarian product like livestock or hay. He came and tied a rope to his bumper and PT’s bumper. Which, like the whole fucking car, was made of pure plastic. After two tries, my life flashed before my eyes, and the rope became taut, pulling the bumper slowly of the car, PT jumped out of the big whole I had taken her in.

            Everyone cheered. Jolly celebration. Blah Blah Blah, we thought (for those blissfully ignorant 5-7 minutes) that we had gotten out of a big issue with only a small dent in the bumper (nothing insurance couldn’t fix) we decided to call it a night in Santa Teresita and go back to the charming little Hostería that we had seen before we ventured on the hell road.

            Nope, not so fast. The minute we got out and rounded the car, it looked like buckets of blood was coming out of the from of good ol’ PT. Not wanting to play to the gender stereotype- but WOMEN SHOULDN’T DRIVE. Or at least this woman shouldn’t. And god, if I knew what that liquid was…. Turned out to be radiador fluid spilling out. Lovely. All I know is that I fixed myself a nice, stiff drink that night… Ok, fine, a few… 

Just arrived in Paris. I’m sitting on a dinky little bed in a dinky little hotel called Belfort. I’m with my friend Charles who is an old high school friend and currently attends university at St. Andrews in Scotland. She met me in London three days ago, where we spent our tie together at museums, galleries and the library. Basically I was doing all the same things I’ve up until now been doing in London except with this friend of mine that is from New York.

We took a train down to Paris early this morning. The Eurostar felt very fast and it might be because I slept. When we got here, the time went forward another hour, which means my best friend (who is in california) and I are now nine hours apart! When Charles and I got on the tube I noticed myself doing something similar to what I was doing so often when I first arrived in London. I was looking down, almost to avoid all the information coming in so fast, instead of looking up to try and make sense of it.

I remember after a few days of being in London, I was starting to notice new things on old walks. I would walk towards Bedford Square (where school is) and even now but at a much lesser rate than before I would find aspects along the walk that I hadn’t picked up on. It’s as if my body knows how much information it can process at a time like it knows how many alcoholic beverages it can. And when it’s had enough for the moment it avoids more or even when it may even decide to hold off on more because it has something its saving up. You can’t write an essay if you’re drunk the same way you can’t navigate to your new hotel in a foreign place if you’re too tired form processing all the new information.

I’m excited to be here with Charles too. It’s so convenient that we have the same fall break. We both don’t know the city very well at all so it’s as if we’ll be getting to know it together. It was nice hosting in London but this week will have a different character to it which I’m also looking forward to. If anyone has any suggestions of what to do while we’re here, bring ‘em on.

For my Intro to Anthropology class last semester, we read a book by Nancy Ries called "Russian Talk: Culture and Conversations during Perestroika." Now before the Czechs get too offended that I'm comparing them to Russians, let me say that I'm not directly comparing them. I just want to say that Ries talked about how people became so accustomed to waiting in lines for things that they kept waiting in lines even after the USSR collapsed and store shelves became better stocked (relatively). Back when I was reading the book, I knew what she meant but I didn't understand. Then I decided to study abroad in the Czech Republic.

When first applying for my visa, I thought I had everything covered. I made two photocopies of each document, paperclipped all the documents together in the order that they'd been listed on my checklist from NYU, and blocked out an hour of time instead of the half-hour NYU said we would need. Well. I was missing a document that hadn't been on the checklist, had wrong information on the documents because the fill-in guide the school gave out had had wrong information on it, and was late to my next committment because I was at the consulate for three hours. In the stress of all this, I hardly paid attention to the nuances of the process of applying for the visa itself. In retrospect, the set-up is overly complicated and beurocratic, but very efficient and well-organized. The applicant brings all of his or her paperwork to the consulate. Then the nice lady at the desk goes through it all. She gives the applicant a number slip (like you get at a deli counter) that considers the reason the person is at the consulate as well as his or her place in line because there are different desks for different needs. Then the person sits and waits with the other people who are (quietly) sitting and waiting. On a board overhead, numbers are flashing. When the number on the board matches the number on the person's ticket, he or she gets up and goes to a desk. The person behind the desk quickly and efficiently completes whatever transaction is called for. Then it's done and the applicant leaves.

What I didn't realize while still in NY is that this entire process would be repeated many times during my stay here. When I went to buy a new camera, for example, I submitted an order online, paid at a money-machine in exchange for my deli-ticket, waited outside the next building for my number to flash on the board, went inside when it did and traded my ticket for my camera with barely two words exchanged the entire time. When I went to mail a package today, it was the same. I pressed a button on a machine saying that I wanted to send a package, received a number accordingly, waited in line, watched a board, went up to a window, traded in my package for a receipt... The process is somewhat intimidating here where all the buttons on the ticket-dispensing machines are in Czech, but the language barrier isn't a problem otherwise. No one else in line wants to chat, and the business person who I conduct my actual transaction with certainly has no interest in small talk. Which is efficient...but initially confusing for someone who's time working in retail has included many seminars to train personal customer service.

I like the Czech way. Maybe in a few years they'll be able to boil the process down to fewer steps (literally fewer steps would be nice), or maybe not. People here are used to doing things themselves, and they really are good at it. My postage transaction, once I got to the window, took under 30 seconds. Just know that you can't be in a rush because the line before you get to the window moves at whatever pace it wants. These have been good learning experiences for me. I'm practicing patience and building self-efficacy. Want to join me? Get in line!

PS The picture, as always, is my own. This one is from a building at the Plzener brewery in which they bottle the beer. It seemed fitting.