12. The comfort of strangers

In Florence, I feel that it is very difficult to get to know locals, especially living so close to the center of town where the Florentines are practically the foreigners due to amount of tourists and students. However, there have been a few instances where I felt a part of the Florentine lifestyle through the comfort of strangers.
First of all, across the street from me is one of the best panini I have ever had from the smallest, unnamed shop run by Leo and Luca. We discovered their tasty panini the first week we were here, and have never strayed. There are many other panino shops in Florence, but I always stay true to Leo and Luca. It seems that everyone has their own favorite closer to where they live, and there is always a debate of “No, Pino’s is better! Nah, Gusta Panino all the way.” I always stick up for my across the street buddies. Whenever any of my roommates or I pass by, there is always a jubilant “Ciaoooooo!” from inside the shop. (Sidenote: I never realized how long one could draw out the word ciao until I met Leo and Luca. That o definitely carries for a couple of seconds.)

There have certainly been days where I have felt like the Italians are out to get me. Whether it’s at the market, and they rip me off because they think I am a tourist or I try to speak with someone in Italian and they repeatedly respond in English despite my efforts, I don’t feel like a local even though I am living here. Leo and Luca have the capability to make me feel like a local. I go in for a porchetta, rucola, pomodori secchi, formaggio di capra (pork, arugula, sundried tomatoes, goat cheese) panino on foccaccia bread, and they talk with me in Italian and make me feel like I actually belong here. The first couple of weeks, I could never decide what I wanted on my panino, and Luca would always ask me “truffle-a-cream?” I would, of course, always concede.

Sometimes I see them in the street, too, around the piazza near my apartment, and there’s always that “Ciaoooo!” that makes me feel like a local. It’s those people that you see around all the time that make me feel like you actually live here, that I’m not just a tourist who happens to take the public buses and speed walk past all of the tourists by the Duomo. I live here, and my panino place defines that.

In reading this week’s texts, I appreciated my own actions. As a student from a middle-class family, I haven’t possessed the same liberties of travel as other students, and it definitely affects my understandings of “worldliness.” However, whenever given the chance, I try to make the most of the places I either know best or, on the other hand, overlook. In terms of language, I hated Autonauts of the Cosmoroute. Straight up, that guy sounds way too pretentious for a kind-of-sort-of drifter. At the same time I felt as though the means of travel, although interestingly different—making the means of travel the actual place of destination and research—failed to incite any connection to the travelers. Treating the text too much like a third-order tourist in Iyer’s perspective, the anthropological documentation of the trip between Cortázar and Dunlop proved difficult to read and uneventful. 
 
On the other hand, I loved reading De Botton’s On Habit in which the authors talks about the writings of de Maistre, an author who wrote two travel books, one about the travels through his bedroom and the other about his view from outside his window. Although both books seemed to garner little-to-no attention from a literary audience, the descriptive narrative of trying to look past the mundane, normal, or taken-for-granted spoke to me. Through the cultural relativity of place and distance, I liked De Botton’s understanding of “perceptivity” in that people who seemed more willing to take-in the surroundings of their current place finished their experiences with a less monotonous, more fulfilling vision of the world—a new experience everyday, no matter how humdrum the routine. Thinking about how, with a lovely petition and a little bit of luck, I will be going abroad for the entire academic year, one semester in Prague and the other in Buenos Aires, I kept re-thinking the lines, “There are some who have crossed deserts, floated on ice caps and cut their way through jungles but whose souls we would search in vain for evidence of what they have witnessed. Dressed in pink-and-blue pyjamas, satisfied within the confines of his own bedroom, Xavier de Maistre was gently nudging us to try, before taking off for distant hemispheres, to notice what we have already seen,” for to be a traveler, I think one needs to be receptive as much as one possibly can. How can we be most alive somewhere if we have an untrue perception of a different world, our “normal” world, when comparing the two (12)?

Being a photographer in a foreign country, especially one where you do not speak the language, can be daunting.  Perfect pictures flash away from you as your big tourist bus flies by.  You never know how, or in what language, to ask to take someone’s picture, especially without disturbing the image you want to capture.  You nearly always run the risk of offending someone, of violating something, and you never have the words to say, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I’ll delete it, forgive me.  My pictures of India were the first I’d ever really taken, and I had no idea then that my camera  was invasive, could be a weapon- could be a new form of colonialism. I have pictures from that year of people telling me not to take photos of them.  Some of them are beautiful, but they without fail make me uncomfortable after my semester examining photography, imagery, and fine art from a “Post-Colonial Studio Arts” perspective.
In Ghana, I have had my fair share of unsolicited photos, as in India.  They always make me feel like a zoo animal, especially when people don’t ask.  Now, I ask because I know exactly how it feels to be a curiosity instead of a person.  The difference between India and Ghana in this case lies in that fact that here in Ghana, I have also have my fair share of portraits solicited.  That is, people have solicited photos not of me, but taken by me.  I have more than fifty portraits I’ve take of children, adults, men, women, strangers and those close to me.  They will travel home with me, faces frank in the lens of my camera, sometimes smiling, sometimes not.  I remember meeting each of them, even people I to whom I barely spoke.
People here in Accra want to reach out, to say hello and acknowledge your presence.  They ask simply that you do the same.  After a few semesters in New York, this is surprisingly difficult.  I grew up in a small neighborhood, where more often than not you said hello to the people you passed in the street or who walked by your porch.  New York lets me sink into my natural tendency to keep to myself when I am focused, on getting somewhere or on doing something.  New York demands nothing of me, other than I be kind to tourists and not step out in front of traffic.  In a lot of ways, Accra demands much less, except for where its people are concerned.  Its tempting, in my new found New York way, to stay inside, work on the mounting piles of homework, and day dream in my air conditioning.  But increasingly, with less than 25 days ahead of me, Accra demands my attention, and my engagement.  It demands I seek comfort in sweat of the marketplace and in local mangos, instead of care packages and air conditioning.  With finals fast approaching, I hope I can oblige. 

(The photo is mine, was taken in the Palm Sunday procession I took part on the week before Easter)

Before I moved into my home stay, I was given a description of my Host Mom, Béatrice Raynaud.  I was told that she was an older woman who lived alone but was often visited by her grandchildren and their two dogs, Viking and Pudding.  Although this description is not a LIE persay, it is not exactly true either.  Saying that she is “often” visited by her grandchildren is the understatement of the century. She runs a dare care out of her house and all the children who are at my house every day call her “grandma.” Although I enjoy this most of the time, I think the description needs to be fixed a little bit (the dogs are also named Edgar and Jedi…but potato, patato I suppose).

Nevertheless, she makes me feel extremely comfortable living in her home.  (The above cake is one we made together a few months ago) She is good-humoured and never upset if I am late for dinner.  Last night, I was coming home from a class field trip and the train was running very late.  I rushed home but found myself almost an hour late for dinner.  Not only that but I had a Skype interview that was supposed to take place about 20 minutes after I arrived back at my house!  Not only was Madame Raynaud telling me not to worry but she allowed the three of us (herself, my roommate and I) to have “un diner empêché” (a rushed dinner where I quickly tried paté for the first time).  She told me good luck on my interview and to yell out for when I wanted cake and she would bring it to me!

As I was sitting talking to my potential employer, I hear my door creak open and out of the corner of my eye, I see Madame Raynaud sneak in bent over, trying to hide herself from the camera.  She slid a gorgeous piece of chocolate cake onto my desk and quickly ran out.  Luckily, my interviewer said something like “cake breaks are always good” when I explained why he saw a half of someone’s back duck into and out of the frame.  I held it together fairly well but couldn’t help but giggle at what I’m sure was a once-in-a-lifetime experience interview wise. 

Moving to Ghana was like putting me in a time machine and sending me back to high school in terms of responsibility, accountability, and independence. Leaving Shawnee, Kansas and moving to New York City was just the first step in me announcing my independence from my parents once I graduated. From there I moved to New Mexico for a summer, then South Carolina, and then to top it all off I got married. At 21 years old I own a house with my husband, I bought my first car last summer (a smartcar!) and I’m paying for college on my own through scholarships and hard work. I live an incredibly independent life. Coming to Ghana and being micromanaged by the people surrounding me was a hard adjustment. It was a struggle to trade in my head strong “mature” mentality for a laid back lackadaisical one. It was as if my mom was packing my lunch back in the fourth grade again. I couldn’t suggest a more efficient way to go about something and I couldn’t take charge and run the situation. After a couple weeks I learned that my superiors have a lot to contribute to the wealth of knowledge I thought I had. Perhaps not academically, but in terms of my character, I was put to shame after learning of the selfless acts my community service advisor does on a daily basis. She brought me back down to earth and made me realize that it doesn’t matter what I’ve been through in life already, there are always more things to learn.  
 
Miss Florence Okra, DSP Okra, Auntie Florence, Ena, any name you want to call her she will respond to in a bright and full smile. She is a midwife and nurse at the Ghana Police Hospital. At 52 years old she has two children of her own. One who is currently in school at the University of Ghana and wants to go on to practice law. She takes care of her brothers two children as well. She pays the school fees for six or seven other random children who aren’t lucky enough to have a parent as wonderful as her. When she isn’t acting as the mother to these almost 10 children she spends her time educating women about reproductive health and childbirth through Eve’s Foundation. She is a woman who is constantly trying to spread her knowledge and give confidence to all the women in her life.
She treats me as if I’m a daughter of her own. She buys me yam chips because she knows they’re my favorite. She gives me cashews so that I “get my protein in for the day.” She vents to me about how others disrespect her and most of all she teaches me how to be a better person. She has become my stand in mother during my stay in Ghana. Her nurturing personality automatically calms me down. She listens to me when I need a friend and she trusts the decisions I make when it comes to Eve’s Foundation. I recently learned that she puts her own personal money into this NGO during every event. The pregnancy school that she holds twice a month can cost her up to 400 cedis for only one class. She donates not only her time and money, but her heart as well. I see the way she touches the lives of all the women that look up to her and I’m proud to say that she has squeezed her way into mine and taught me a valuable lesson; I don’t always have the answers, but through getting to know other people I will slowly begin to find them.      

In my two months in Buenos Aires, I have had an array of fleeting encounters with travelers and Argentines alike, all of which have had an effect on me. The countless strangers I have asked for directions that lead me to the right path, half the time offering to walk with me; the taxi driver that talked to me about music and the existence of god, showing me his calluses, while wide eyed and tipsy, I spoke back in free-flowing Spanish; the young porteños on the bus that clapped and cheered for me when I gave directions to a few Israeli tourists of whom they had been making fun; Rodrigo and Sergio, the bus drivers with whom I shared cookies and mate as we drove through the desert at night; Charlie, the Uruguayan hostel worker in Bariloche that gave me all the tips about the city that I could ever need and kissed me on the cheek when I left, a sign of friendship here.
 
The list goes on, and I am leaving out my names and descriptions, but as I think more about this topic, I realize that the person who has most recently left the deepest impression on me is Augustín, a old hippy in whose hostel I staying during the last leg of my Patagonia spring break adventure in El Bolsón, a small town in the middle of an impressive mountain valley that is known for its popular artisanal fair and as a center of hippy culture. Thirty-five years ago, Augustín came to El Bolsón and bought a huge plot of land on which he and his wife eventually built five houses – one for the family, one for Augustín’s mother, one for their eldest son, and two that eventually became the hostel. When I came to stay at the hostel for two nights, I was the only traveler there (!!!) and had an entire house to myself – the first house that Augustín built and in which two of his sons were born.
 
When I met Augustín, I immediately felt right at home. He came to visit me inside the little house, made sure I had enough milk and oatmeal, asked if I was warm enough, and then proceeded to read my Chinese horoscope out loud from a book that he lifted of a shelf. Though I was in a completely different setting from any that I had been used to before, his relaxed manner and the way in which he was willing to share his land, home, and food with me were just what I needed at the end of a trip filled with constant movement. My conversations with him and my time in his hostel really steadied me and gave me the chance to just slow down and meditate on the small moments I witnessed while staying in El Bolsón. This experience and my short interactions with Augustín have made me realize that it doesn’t take a huge effort to make a person feel comfortable or “at home,” one just needs to take the time to show that person that they are welcome into the new place which they enter.

I'm choosing to write about a small group of people for this post, rather than an individual person. As I've mentioned, it's been hard to pierce the fabric of German society and meet locals. Especially because I have such an insular group of friends here, the program is isolating! Not that I'm complaining. I've had the great experience of realizing that NYU administrators have souls, especially if they're born in Germany! A mixture of totally cool and oddly young and attractive people, NYUBerlin's administrators, of which there are roughly 4, are well loved by the students here.

One specific woman we work with seems to be a typical, tall, German hot thang of a lady. It's more the mystique about her than our interactions. I've heard rumors of past student flings, club run-ins, and a fiery party life. When going in with a problem about your digestions or Visas, it's an interesting thought to imagine that she, or anybody one deals with in these situations, have a life vastly more interesting, more important even, than their dealings with you. Her blond hair shining beneath the strobe lights, the LED's glinting off her teeth with cigarettes smoke wafting up, blurring the sign on the way out of the club wondering behind her smile which bar will be the last stop of the night and who the last stop would be with. In the office, with us, the air of Berlin nightlife still seems to hang about her. Or perhaps it's the tight pants.

Regardless of my girl crush, often the whole lot of them, while having extremely specific characteristics, sort of mesh together when, like Pavese points out, you are forced to trust them as strangers in a position of strange superiority. These wunderbar people have had to put up with our illnesses, pregnancy scares, laziness, burglary, and a host of personal and professional issues. Unlike most others I have dealt with, these are the first people who not only view me as a student, but as a peer, a person, and mostly as an adult.

There was one special case this semester that really solidified our trust in each other: My boyfriend and I, living together for 2 years before moving to this program together, have not been technically allowed to share rooms, although obviously we have been sleeping in the same bedroom. Because all of our things are pretty much mixed together by now, it had been increasingly difficult and annoying to schedule ourselves so that we are not locked out of one or the other apartment. After a month and a half of frustration we went to complain, and found that, although it was told to us again and again that it was against policy, they understood and really felt badly that we were upset. Promising us they would do all they could (there were three of them around for this conversation, along with D and me), a week later they told us (although I'm not sure how legal this is in Germany or NYU) that they would grant us keys to each others' rooms!

This breach of protocol and happiness of understanding made me feel like, even in such an isolating and corporate college environment, there exists a small pocket where the mutual understanding is that we help each other and care for one another, even if we only interact on a professional level. Maybe it's a German thing, but the world needs more of it.

I can’t imagine the difficulty of giving up one’s home for a bunch of rowdy, North American teenage girls every semester.  Those who host students in a homestay program must have hearts of gold, and a wealth of patience.  This ‘virtue’, however, must be reciprocated, or the chance of a homestay running smoothly falters.  Cesare Pavese says, “Traveling is a brutality.  It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends.  You are constantly off balance.”  Being placed in a porteño home upon arrival and knowing it will be your place of residence for four months is a bit overwhelming, but when the home you enter belongs to a family of truly kind spirits, the stress of being somewhere new is instantly alleviated.
 
In writing of the comfort of strangers, I find the need to dedicate this post to my house mom, because she was undoubtedly a stranger in the beginning, and the first porteño I met coming to Buenos Aires.  I had had some email exchanges with her before arrival, asking what her house was like, what her family is like, what she is like.  Even so, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but looking back at her emails and knowing her now, it really is quite fitting.  The first month here, however, was mostly about trying to settle in, and find comfort in a routine, and accept that this stranger’s place was my new place of residence in a foreign country.
 
I was “forced” to trust her cooking, since she provides meals for me every night.  This was of no effort, however, because all of her cooking is out-of-this-world delicious and full of variety.  My roommate and I eat separate from the family, since we live in a beautiful guesthouse across the courtyard from the main house.  Thus the traditional experience of long porteño meals is lost, and I am found “off balance” by not knowing what is genuine or not.  I really do not have room to complain, however, because if sacrificing conversation to still be able to eat her glorious food is what is a stake, then I will take it, and take it gladly.  Having this sort of distance at dinnertime, however, makes it more difficult to strike conversation with her, so the bridge between strangers to friends to house mother and house daughter is lengthened, maybe even lost. But not entirely so.
 
I have definitely come to know her now, in my two months that I have been here, even if this knowledge is derived from conversation-in-passing.  We have shared things about life on a deeper level than I ever would have expected, told each other stories about our pasts, talked about music, food, love, travel, family, death, anything and everything.  She has a heart so big and so full of love that this woman who was once a stranger is now, truly, my house mom (I now refer to her as mamá).  And thus, inevitably, she has giving me the greatest comfort of all: a house I feel comfortable in, and can return to, and truly feel that it is my home when placed in a completely foreign South American country.  There is also the inevitability, however, that every now and then I still feel that notion of being “constantly off balance.”  And whenever this happens, I have someone, once a stranger, to turn to, to help me sort things out, within the comfort of what is now my own home.

(The picture above is of the view of our guesthouse from the courtyard.)

This Spring Break my friend and I got a small taste of a traveller’s life as we made our way up through the small villages and beautiful mountains of Northern Argentina. Throughout our trip I had realized that for the traveller the hostel is like a small commune in which they create a home and form a family during their trip. The places constantly change day by day but in each new place you return to your home, the hostel, and to your family, the other travellers with whom you share your room, your bathroom, your kitchen, your food, your time, and your stories.  In reality these people are strangers, but as fellow travellers they are your family.
 
In our hostel in Cafayate, a small village in the province of Salta, my friend and I took a long and intensive hike to see the waterfalls. We set off with some people from our hostal: the Spanish man who had shared his mosquito repellent with me in the middle of the night and a hippie Argentine guy with dreds he was travelling with who he had met a month prior in Patagonia, another adventurous Argentine woman making her way up South America, and a young French couple who had just come from Chile and who departed the next day to the Iguazú Falls. Being the not so experienced hikers that my friend and I are, our new friends had lent us a hand in climbing the steep cliffs and crossing the rapid streams. On our way another Argentinian couple hiking next to us joined our team. We not only trusted these strangers with our lives as they kept us from slipping to our deaths, but we grew close to them as all of us became each other’s community in a place we had absolutely no ties too. We were inherently connected because of our migrant status.
 
I think that in a way Cesare Pavese is right in his quote, “It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance.” However at the same time with fellow travellers, who are all looking for those familiar comforts of home and friends, it is easy to be on balance because we all need the same things. 

It is three in the morning and I am once again in my studio apartment staring at pictures in my notebook of friends and family in far off places. Out of nervous habit I check my email and my Facebook only to find that no one has tried to contact me. I turn the page of my notebook, and attempt to sketch out more vignettes of experiences and memories from the places I used to call home I only wish I could remember. My eyes begin to sting, and I take a moment to reach for the box of tissues, feeling broken and alone. The clock turns to five and I still can't sleep, and I toss and turn with my thoughts twisting into knots until darkness finally claims me only to repeat the cycle the next morning. Wake up, go to class, try to sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat. 
 
Though not often, the above is part of my constant battle to be present and in control of what I am experiencing in any given moment. I know that being aware of what is going on around me is important and acknowledging that this is a once in a lifetime opportunity to understand the world from a different perspective than what I am used to in the States is paramount to whatever feeling of weakness I am feeling at the moment. But sometimes there is nothing really I can do besides get caught up in these feelings of loneliness and homesickness that has nothing to do with my drive to be excited about Berlin. They say that you cannot perform an activity well without going through the motions to develop that skill to begin with. You cannot run before you learn how to walk, you cannot walk before you learn how to stand, you cannot stand before you learn how to crawl, and so forth. And here I am, going through the motions. However, with every attempt to succeed there are many failures and bruised knees. What am I going to do about it though? I am not a quitter. And so I keep trying, tottering along on my underdeveloped legs and attempting to run before I am able, falling on my face occasionally, only to do it all again.

My experience with study abroad is a somewhat unique one than most. I viewed Berlin as an extended vacation with friends with whom I was already close with before traveling abroad. The one pothole I was not prepared for, however, was the disconnecting experience of arrival into a different country and what the extended stay would require of me. As much as I tried to prepare myself for what was about to happen, the isolation forced by the return to childhood through learning a new language, culture, and habits came completely out of the left field and dislodged me from the comfort system I was so unaccustomed to. I find “brutal” to be a rather fitting term in this sense, as I felt rather steamrolled and displaced from everything that I have ever known. Things became a very individual struggle, and the friends that I found to be fundamental in the States became engrossed in their own internal struggles and unavailable to me.

It is not to say I tried to pad my unstable, fiery nosedive into another culture, I simply prepared for the wrong things with the incorrect method of protection.
It was extremely difficult to reach out to others in the absence of the sources of strength that I had become accustomed to in the past. However, when I began to get my feet under me and began to reach out, I found to my surprise that I made more authentic relationships with these new individuals that I had with some of my previous friendships. It seemed as though these individuals, in the absence of their own friend foundation, had an unspoken agreement that they, too, have been struggling with the same kind of displacement that I have. It need not be discussed, but the feeling of mutual gratefulness for each others company became something understood but unsaid.


One of my newest friends and I were enjoying a beer in a trendy bar in Kreutzberg. She looked up at me with a pensive look and I understood before she even spoke.
“I am going to only say this once,” she said, eyes on her drink. “I’m really happy that I met you.”
“I’m happy I met you too,” I said, smiling. “Now let’s go find some hot German guys for you!”
Finding comfort in strangers allows the individual to find faith in human ability to care for one another. I am happy to have had my faith restored. 

My experience in Florence would not the same if I didn't live in a home-stay. Not only am I speaking Italian and learning about the culture, but I get to be in the comfort of Marcos’ home. Although I didn’t know Marcos before traveling abroad, I felt like I have met him before. He had all Italian features, but reminded me so much of my Irish grandfather. The most vivid memories I have of my grandpa before he past away were his stories and cooking. Marcos is probably 10 year younger than my grandpa, but has experienced just as much. Marcos has been all over the world and witnesses it all. While he was raised by an Italian family, he knows a lot about the war from an American view from when his mom worked on the US army base. The stories were so similar to my grandpas navy stories.
Marcos has the same white hair that my grandpa had and wears the same button down shirts with pockets to hold his glasses and pens. Like my grandpa did, Marcos spends most of his time in front of the television. The time that he is not at the TV he is in the kitchen. When I was a child my grandma never cooked unless it was baking. Here in Italy the family dynamic is the same, Marcos’ wife is the baker and Marcos is the chef.
At dinner Marcos could talk about Florence or Rome for hours. If I mention a city I wanted to visit, he would run to the library get a map and show me everything I need to know about traveling. He admits that he does not understand how to use the Internet and will repeat information that I knew over and over. While at times our conversations get redundant, I don’t mind if he will tell me a story of him in Japan for the third time because I just smile and listen. I am comforted by his similar features and I feel as if I am with my grandfather here in Italy.
I have been at his house for only three months, but he treats me and my roommate like his children. He will teach us about every ingredient he puts into his risotto and brings home candy or cake from the store just to see us smile. I didn’t need to take the time to trust Marcos because his sweet character and wisdom earned my trust immediately.

I entered a cab last night and was happily surprised to hear the Beatles playing. Now usually one can expect good music from the cab drivers here; I’ve heard Madonna, Lady Gaga, classic tango, jazz, Argentine pop. It’s always exciting to hear what they’re playing and the drivers are always happy to turn up the volume if you ask. I have, as I’m sure I share with many, a deep fondness for the Beatles so I asked the cab driver if he liked the band. He laughed and turned to me, pulling up his shirtsleeve a bit to reveal a tattoo saying ‘Lennon’ in ornate cursive.  And then it hit me: I’d been in this man’s cab before.
Now Buenos Aires is a city with almost three million people and more than twelve million in the greater metropolitan area – needless to say there are thousands of cabs. Getting into the same one was maybe bound to happen in the course of a year, but to me it was such a neat coincidence, particularly since Marco (he gave me his card) drives such a pleasant cab.
Marco is a younger man, early thirties, with a slight build. He has typical weird Porteño haircut that’s buzz cut with a mullet. His car is a simple Fiat, but it’s clean and doesn’t seem like he smokes in it. He pulled no less than five Beatles CDs out of his globe compartment at one point.
We proceeded to chat about our love for the Beatles for the entire drive home. His favorite album is Abbey Road, mine, the White Album. At one point, he turned on “Help” and we just sang together. I explained the United States tradition of a wedding song and how my parent’s was “Here Comes the Sun” and he agreed that was a good choice.
My chat with Marco was great for many reasons. Firstly, I’m beginning to realize how much my Spanish has improved throughout the year, both in understanding and speaking quickly with a better accent. It made me feel like a woman about the city that I’d happened upon the same taxi twice. Our exchange wasn’t creepy at all; it was just the two of us sharing enthusiasm for a band. Despite my wariness of the aggressive Argentine men, this showed me that they aren’t all sex-driven machisimos. Marco was an excellent example of the peaceful eclecticism that’s so great about Buenos Aires. 

I’ve written a lot about how Abu Dhabi has come to feel like home.  Throughout my few months here there have been many individuals who have made me feel welcomed and safe in this foreign place: my professors, fellow students, colleagues, strangers, etc. Two people though stand out- my friend’s mother, Sally, and my Emirati friend Hafsah.  
 
Sally and I have an interesting history.  We first met in 2008 in Sydney, Australia, where she is from.  Her daughter was about to start attending my boarding school, and I needed a host for a night, so I called her up!  She hadn’t even set foot at the school but was already a part of the mutual hosting process that characterizes it.  I had a wonderful day there with the family walking around the harbor bridge and the opera house, taking a ferry across to their home, and making pavlova, eating barbecue, drinking Australian beer, and watching the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics.  It was such a nice visit and I was so sad to leave.  So when I came to Abu Dhabi in January and was told that because of Sally’s husband’s job they had relocated here, I was ecstatic!
 
I waited only a week before setting up our first lunch with Sally and a buddy of mine from boarding school who also goes to NYU-AD.  She was just as wonderful as I remembered- a great listener truly interested in what I am doing with my life, and making sure at every moment that I am happy and trying to find ways to help me.  And help she has- Sally is the one who secured my interview with the consulting firm I work here, she and another friend helped me suit shopping, she has taken me to various dinners at amazing Abu Dhabi restaurants, as well as inviting us to her parties for Easter and a social beach party.  All-in-all, Sally has helped me grow my roots in this wonderful city and exposed me to the fascinating Ex-pat community and their lifestyles.  The services at the school are great, but I know that if I ever needed anything, Sally would be the first person I call!
 
The second person who helps me feel grounded in Abu Dhabi is my friend Hafsah.  She is an Emirati girl who I met in New York when she was traveling there as a Sheikh Mohammed Scholar and I was asked by John Sexton to meet with them, as I was then in his Religion and Politics class.  We hit it off and have continued a bit of contact over Facebook, so when I came here I knew I had to meet up with her- especially as she could give me inside information on Emirati life. 
 
Unfortunately with our insanely busy schedules and different local customs, we’ve only been able to meet once, but we’ve also talked on the phone half a dozen times- and each time for an hour or more!  Our conversations basically consist of me bombarding her with questions about Emirati culture, customs, and how things work in the nation.  She is extremely intelligent and I respect her thoughts so deeply.  I’m glad I’ve been able to hear her perspective because it has added a great deal to my experience here.  I only wish we could meet up more!
 
Though these two wonderful ladies stand out, there have been countless people who have helped me feel happy here in Abu Dhabi.  I have learned from each and every person, place, and experience that I encounter (which is my life’s mantra) and I hope that my last month here is similarly filled with activity and joy!
 
 

I came to Florence with three friends I grew up with and have known my entire life. I was about to move to Italy for an entire semester, but did not know any Italians. I wasn’t worried though; I assumed I would meet plenty. I mean Italians have the reputation of being extremely nice and friendly, right? Any nerves that may have slowly crept up immediately disappeared, I was too busy packing and getting organized before it was time to leave. However, after actually arriving in Italy and getting settled into what would be my home for the next for months, I began to miss my family. Sure, my I went to school in New York and my family lived in Los Angeles, but this was different. I was in a completely different country! However, my first day of Italian class my worries began to disappear. My teacher, Valentina, introduced herself and immediately made me feel welcomed and at home. Although there was obviously a language barrier between us, her warmth was evident. She made us feel like we were part of her family, like we were her children. She greets us every morning with a warm smile. At the beginning of every week Valentina makes sure to go around the room, asking everyone what they did that weekend and what their plans are for the next one. She asks us each personal questions, because she is truly interested. Due to the fact that I have Italian four times a week, I have been able to really see how caring Italians really are. When I found out that Italian is mandatory in Florence and meets four times a week I was almost positive that I would dread going to class each morning. Surprisingly, I look forward to having Italian. Not only do I get to learn a new language, I am taught by a professor who cares, and is interested in the well being of each of her students. Having Valentina as a professor has made me feel more comfortable with reaching out in an attempt to meet local Italians. I have been pleasantly surprised that my other professors seem to be just as caring and interested in their students well being as the next. I was worried Valentina would hold a standard that would never be met by another professor, but I was definitely wrong. It definitely took time getting used to the smiles I receive by passer buyers or the generosity evoked by the cashier at the supermarket. I guess I was getting too used to the New York ‘way.’