I can honestly say that I love Florence and that I’m very glad to be spending my time abroad here, but sometimes it seems a little small. Rome, on the other hand, has somehow been able to maintain the feel of an enormous living and working city in spite of its very apparent tourist industry. Even though I only spent two days there, I fell instantly in love with it.

Part of Rome’s appeal for me is its modernity, but reminders of its history are everywhere. Monumental ruins left from the Roman empire are scattered throughout the city. Our first stop was the Vatican. We rushed past pre-Renaissance altarpieces in order to focus on what our guide considered the highlights: paintings by Raphael such as “The School of Athens,” a hallway full of ancient maps of Italy and marble copies of Roman statues that were originally bronze. The sheer amount of items was astonishing: room after room was full of priceless art. And of course, we visited the Sistine Chapel.

My first impression was that the ceiling was smaller than I had imagined, but upon entering the room, it still has an immediate impact. Michelangelo’s figures have such weight and life to them, and the colors are as bright as they were when painted, thanks to a recent restoration. Patches on the ceiling that were left untouched for comparison are nearly black with soot and dust. Saints and biblical figures surround the main panels, which portray the story of Genesis in increasingly large and expressive figures. I stared upwards at the ceiling so long that my neck began to hurt, and I still could have spent longer taking in every detail.

Next was St. Peter’s Basilica. Nothing could have prepared me for the sheer immensity of the cathedral. The dome was the largest in the world until the 19th century, and letters near the ceiling that appear quite small are actually six feet high. An unimaginable amount of marble and gold went into its construction. Interestingly, there was not a single painting inside. Instead, there are sculptures and micro-mosaics so detailed it seems impossible that human hands could have manipulated the miniscule stones into place.  Michelangelo had a hand in the basilica’s construction as well; he designed the dome, and his Pieta (my favorite of his statues) rests inside. None of the copies of this statue I have seen achieve the softness and sadness created by Michelangelo’s hand. The sculpture may be made of marble, but the Madonna and Jesus seem fragile and human. Bulletproof glass protects the duo, as a consequence of an incident involving a mentally disturbed geologist with a hammer (thankfully, the damage was reparable).

The second day we visited the Colosseum, symbol of the Roman Empire. Unfortunately, due to an earthquake, much of the Colosseum has been destroyed, and what remains is bolstered with brick — but it is of course still a grand sight. Standing inside and looking upwards around the arena, I was able to somewhat imagine the crowds and the bloodthirsty games that had taken place, although I have to admit I’m now itching to rewatch Gladiator and see the arena reconstructed as it must have been.

The Pantheon and the Roman Forum were just as breathtaking. The forum originally served as a city square, full of the remnants of temples, basilicas and arches. Surveying the forum, it is undeniable that ancient Rome was an advanced and powerful civilization. A column inscribed with “umbilicus urbis romae” sums up Rome’s influence at that time: Rome was the absolute nucleus, or “navel of the world.” The ruins of the Basilica of Maxentius and Constantine in particular made an impact on me. As the largest building in the forum, the walls and vaults that remain are impressively gigantic. When our guide told us that these ruins are only a third of the original basilica, I was absolutely blown away. I found myself wishing I could go back two thousand years in time, just for a moment, and witness the city in its prime.

One of our last stops was to the Trevi Fountain, an incredible classical structure which flows seemlessly into a series of waterfalls and statues at its base. Oceanus stands in the center in the middle of a shell, while tritons tame seahorses on either side of him. There is a myth that anyone throwing a coin into the fountain is ensured a return to Rome, so metal glints everywhere beneath the water. One of those coins belongs to me.

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My sociology professor would kill me if she read this post.

She’s always saying three months is not enough time to pass judgment on an entire culture, that we’re too Americanized to admit that our way might not be the best and that our arguments aren’t nuanced enough.

Of course, she’s completely right.

But alas, for I am prone to grand sweeping statements and while I shall fervently try to give nuanced accounts of our cultural differences, I fully expect my brash American-ness to peek its way out.

Bearing that in mind, allons-y.

***

Difference number one: Schools, or why I am proud to be a Wildcat.

In France, there is no Ivy League. Universities are free, therefore none are considered to be “better” than others. Also, professors are employees of the state and as a result have job security for life. They can never be fired.

I do not like the French university system (Grand Sweeping Statement #1). And it’s not because it flies in the face of capitalism (America: where we capitalize on our children’s futures). On the contrary, all the aforementioned aspects of the French education system provide a solid basis for arguing why it is better than that of the States.

But nobody seems proud to go to the Sorbonne. There are no school colors, no sports teams to root for even when they miss the field goal that costs you the Alamo Bowl. There is no real “campus”. And I hope you understood everything the professor said in class, because office hours and friendly after-discussion section chats are a thing of mythology. I guess when you don’t have to fight for tenure, you don’t generally need to worry about responding to students’ emails.

The French apparently find our university system shocking. Students who pay for their education become clients of the university, and they can’t imagine paying for what they believe everyone should have for free. Fair. But the idea of students evaluating professors is similarly horrifying: that is simply not our place. Our job is to go to class, do our work and try not to question the professor too much. And while a new bill in CAESAR is one of the more torturous things this world has to offer, if I am not presented with a product I find satisfactory, I can easily take my money elsewhere.

Difference number two: Religion, or why you can’t wear your yarmulke to class.

Secularism is a tricky beast. “Grosse affaire” as my professor likes to say. Oh, this one really gets the American exchange students all riled up. All religious symbols are completely forbidden in state-owned buildings which includes (drumroll please) public schools.

That’s right. No hijabs, no crosses, no yarmulkes. In France, religion is for private life. In the public sphere, they believe religion divides and offends people, and the easiest way to avoid conflict is by leaving these differences at home. There have been many circular arguments regarding this policy in my sociology class (most of which can be summed up by “But it’s just so un-American!”) but I’m not sure it’s such a bad idea.

I’m all for freedom of religion and celebrating our differences, and I genuinely enjoy learning about different belief systems. That said, it’s impossible to please everyone. Wearing a cross is one thing, but how about including Intelligent Design in school curriculum? After all, some people don’t believe in evolution. What about Muslim students who pray five times a day? Should we let them leave class? And after all that, where does it end? I don’t know. But I don’t think a country where we swear on the Bible in a court of law has the best possible handle on the separation of church and state.

Difference number three: Male/female relations, or the dubious hypocrisy of American feminism

Yes, Parisian men will blatantly stare at girls on the Metro and catcall them in the streets. Don’t talk to guys in bars, and holy restraining order, don’t give them your phone number. The rule given to us by our program: “If you kiss him, you are his girlfriend. If you kiss him twice, you’re meeting the mother the next day.”

Mindful of that, you may find it interesting (as I did) to discover that marriage rates in France are fairly low. One out of five French children is born out of wedlock. A lot of times the French, especially young people, prefer to have l’union libre: to live and sometimes raise a family together without being married. There is also a version of a civil union in France called the PACS which, though intended for homosexual couples, has ended up being widely used by heterosexual couples who don’t believe in marriage. Apparently, this stems from career-driven feminists (GSS #2).

What my professor wants to know is: how can American women be so gung-ho about equal rights, breaking glass ceilings and independence but still fantasize about the day a guy gets down on one knee in a restaurant and offers her a ring?

“If any guy tried that with me, I’d walk out of the restaurant,” she said.

Well, maybe we don’t dream of marriage anymore. Divorce rates being what they are, perhaps the sensible thing is just to marry our careers. Or maybe we’re all just secretly dying to wrap ourselves in white taffeta and fling ourselves down an aisle.

Or (perhaps more likely) maybe feminism and marriage aren’t mutually exclusive.

***

I used to wonder if I was born in the wrong country. Maybe if I moved to France I would find that I just fit better there. Maybe another culture had already found the answers to the all the questions I couldn’t quite figure out. And yes, I like to think being here has expanded my mind, at least somewhat.

But I am American, and I always will be. No matter how well I understand different perspectives, I will always see everything through a star spangled lens. C’est la vie.

Well, Professor Fesdjian, I did my best.

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Zoe will be in Jerusalem, Israel until January 2.

Yitzhak Rabin is Israel’s John F. Kennedy: a fighter for change, a symbol of hope and an assassinated national leader, forever engraved in national memory as a pioneer for peace.

On November 4, 1995, Rabin was murdered by Yigal Amir, a radical, religious Jew.  Amir dissented with the strides Rabin took for peace, particularly signing the Oslo Accords. Territorial concessions are an issue tied closely with religion, as the conservative religious parties do not believe in giving up the Biblical Kingdom of Israel.  Rabin led the left-wing Labor Party and won the Nobel Peace Prize for the strides he took in the peace process with late Palestinian leader Yassir Arafat.

The night Rabin was assassinated he sang Shir LaShalom (a song for peace) at a rally supporting the Oslo process in the square that now bears his name. Minutes after he descended from the podium he was shot three times as he was entering his car. He died hours later in Ichilov Hospital in Tel Aviv.

Saturday night I participated in the 14th Memorial Rally of his life and legacy.  The current President Shimon Peres, the Opposition Leader Tzipi Livni and Rabin’s daughter Dalia were some of the notable speakers.  Barack Obama recorded a video message that played on the jumbo-tron.  Numerous nationally acclaimed singers contributed various anthems for peace.  All preached similar messages of dialogue and understanding as the pathway to peace.

I was very excited to attend the rally.  I think of peace as the only unifying thread in the politically fractured Israeli society.  Peace is the shared goal with varying strategies for accomplishment.  Some are ready to return control of the territories while others view religious devotion as the means.

When I arrived at the rally my friends and I were quick to deck ourselves with free signs and bumper stickers with the slogan “Peace Now”.  However, I soon realized that this was not just a hopeful message. “Peace Now” is the slogan of the far left wing party, Meretz.  Meretz and Avoda, the Labor Party, had huge floating banners and signs around the square.  Nearly all the Israelis filling the square wore T-shirts affiliated with a given political party of youth movement.

Many would call Rabin Israel’s leader with the best chance for accomplishing peace with the Palestinians in the State’s history. I was disappointed that the rally celebrating his legacy had turned into a shameless display of politicking.

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Up until now, I’ve spent many an evening Skyping, IMing or Facebooking with friends and family back in the United States. Nonno and Nonna do not have Internet and are not computer-savvy (Nonna thinks computers are “diabolical”) but I’ve been stealing wireless from some unknown benefactor. I’ve often wondered if I should be spending my time differently since I’m in Florence. Maybe it’s a waste to be spending time on the Internet when I should be studying Italian, or reading up my surroundings, or going out on the town. But there comes a point where I just need to talk to someone familiar, or I have to express frustration or excitement, or just communicate what I’m experiencing.

Which is why I’m pretty devastated that I now don’t have Internet, thanks to an accident where my laptop now has a broken wireless adaptor. The school has Internet available in the computer lab but it doesn’t stay open late, and I have class all day then have to go home for dinner, after which going back to school is inconvenient. Not to mention the time difference means that communicating with people back home late at night is easier. It’s also going to affect when I do my schoolwork.

I’ve left my laptop at a computer store and I’m crossing my fingers that they can fix my wireless, although it may not be possible. It’s not likely they have the exact part I need in Italy for my American laptop, so I may have to go without for the next month and a half.

Maybe there’s a silver lining to this. I’m going to have to organize my time better, and I’ve already gone through a couple of books in the time I’d usually be online. But this is a small comfort. The internet is my lifeline to home — and right now I’m cut off.

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I’ve never actually failed something before. Sure, I’ve been unhappy with my grades at times, but literally failing has been something I’ve managed to avoid. Until now.

A week ago, I showed up at my final for “History of Argentina,” expecting to be handed a test form or a blue book. Instead, the professor collected blank paper from each student (which I had to borrow seeing as I wasn’t expecting this), and hand-wrote the three essay topics on the top of each person’s paper. Why he couldn’t have used the whiteboard puzzled me, and I now wonder if we all received different questions. I raced through through the essays, the sentences flowing easily from my pen, a testament to the improvement of my Spanish.

It wasn’t until Sunday night that I received the fateful text. I did not pass. Normally, I would have fallen into utter panic at what would seem to be a complete catastrophe. However, this is Argentina — things like this happen. So regularly, in fact, that every exam is followed by a “recuperación” (a make-up test) the next week. Sure, I was thrown into a dismal mood at the prospect of having to study all over again. But I was surprised at how comical it all appeared, even in the midst of it.

I showed up, and was handed the cluttered sheets of my shortcomings. To my surprise, the first two essays were marked with nothing but “correct,” while the third had some unintelligible scrawl that clearly had the opposite message. I already knew I had botched this one, as I realized I described the term of the wrong president. But a swell of relief engulfed me when I realized I had done okay on the first two.

This time I was prepared, and handed him my notebook paper for my new topics. I was ready for anything, and I was a little disappointed when “the period of Peronism” and “Argentina’s problems from the perspective of a foreigner” titled my pages. I had studied a lot this time, and wanted to put all of my knowledge to use. The all-too-obvious Peronism was no challenge for someone who has lived in Argentina for a few months, and the second essay seemed like an unnecessary gift for the foreign student. Clearly, I shouldn’t complain that he let me off easy. I just wanted to prove that I had studied hard this time and make use of my new knowledge.

When I finished, I handed the papers to him and was told to wait ten minutes. I sat there, wondering what he would think of my scattered essay trying to address the entire bundle of problems the country has faced, when he gave me a simple nod and said, “You passed.” And that was that.

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“It’s the sixth of November and I’m sun tanning!” my friend Ria exclaimed yesterday as we set between falls on a rappelling trip in the Judean desert.

We’d traveled with a group of international students to rappel hundreds of feet down jagged dessert cliffs in Qumran, the area where the Dead Sea Scrolls were discovered.

Ria and me tanning near the Qumran Caves. Photo courtesy of Adam Bernier.

The point of this post is really not to brag about how I’m sunning abroad while everyone in Evanston is dreading further temperature plunges. I’m not that mean.

Earlier this week I shivered as I walked to class in the warmest coat I’d packed for Israel, wishing I’d had the foresight to stuff some rain boots into my already-overflowing suitcase this summer.  After all, I though it never rained in Israel.

Me rappelling down a cliff. Photo courtesy of Allison Good.

Jerusalem is one of the coldest places in Israel, and it’s unfortunately no longer the sunny season.  However, Israel is so miniscule that driving less than an hour into the desert means a complete climate change.  If I look southeast from a bunch of my friends’ apartment windows (not mine, I was gifted with the scenic view of a traffic circle) I can see the Jerusalem stone buildings transition into rolling desert hills.   On clear days, I can even see the Dead Sea and Jordan—from an urban apartment window.

This country is small, and it always feels like it’s getting smaller. Last weekend my roommate had a friend from her hometown of Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada visit who had moved to Israel three years ago to serve in the army.  I quickly realized she’d lead part of my high school trip.    Connections like these are more than common in this country of seven million that’s roughly the size of New Jersey.

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In less than one week, I leave for Amsterdam. I couldn’t be more excited. It’s such a famous European city, steeped in history and dignity. By history and dignity, of course, I mean weed and prostitutes.

In the meantime, I’ve been passing my time with the usual. But of course, I haven’t told you much about what the usual is, here, have I? This information is particularly important if you’re considering applying to the CASB program for next fall. If you’re not, I won’t be offended if you skip it.

The CASB program appealed to me because it lets you enroll at three of the many universities in Barcelona: la Universitat de Barcelona (UB), la Universitat Autónoma de Barcelona (UAB), and la Universitat de Pompeu Fabra (UPF). Fall-semester students are only allowed to take courses at the latter two, because the UB final exams are in January. I decided to take my classes as UB, formerly being a full-year student, which means that I’ve had to speak to each of my teachers individually about taking the exam early, in December. Annoying, but they’ve been understanding.

I really wanted to take classes that interest me here, so I chose classes based on the subject matter. I’m taking Phonetics (taught in Spanish), Sociolinguistics (in Catalan), and Historical Linguistics (in Catalan), as well as the CASB-mandated course, which focuses on Catalan history. I hate history. I hate history. Despite the fact that the CASB course is imparted in a language that I understand (Spanish) rather than a language that I barely understand (Catalan), I still absolutely despise this course. My two Catalan courses assign me a shit-ton of reading in Catalan. Now, don’t get me wrong, I can definitely read Catalan. It just takes me about three times longer to read Catalan than it does to read English. In essence, even though I have a pretty normal amount of reading for my classes, I have three times as much homework here as I did at Northwestern. Truthfully, most of it just doesn’t get done.

I’m not supposed to tell you this, but in my Catalan classes, I’m allowed to turn in assignments (papers, etc) in English. The reason I’m not supposed to tell you this, I think, is because the Spanish department would flip a shit if I tried to get credit for these courses. I’m definitely not planning on petitioning for Spanish credit, though, since I’m neither a Spanish major nor minor. Really, if you’re a Spanish major or minor, you shouldn’t be going to Barcelona. There’s too much Catalan around to really learn Spanish. A side note about this, however: Realizing how much I suck at Catalan has really made me more confident in my Spanish, so that’s something. Switching from Catalan to Spanish has the same relief-factor that switching from Spanish to English; that sense of “Finally, I can articulate my thoughts!” I care much less about the perfection of my grammar, knowing that at least I’ll be understood.

A quick note about the status of Spanish in Catalonia. I like to think of Catalonia as a Spanish sandwich. A lot of immigrants from Cuba and Peru and other Spanish-speaking countries come here and, much like in the United States, end up working lower-end jobs, so Spanish has a lower status than Catalan. However, Spanish is also imposed upon Catalonia by the state (state here is a synonym for the federal government, kind of opposite to what we’re used to) and is thus also a higher-status language. Catalan is somewhere in the middle. It’s imposed by the Catalan government to be taught in schools, and is dominant in Barcelona, but not much revered outside of the city center. Hence, sandwich; Spanish is the bread. Pretty interesting.

Another thing that I’ve been passing my time here in Barcelona with is something amazing that the CASB program has organized for us: Las prácticas de escuelas. Essentially, for four hours a week, I get to teach English to small children. This is obviously not appealing for everyone, but I LOVE small children. Even though I have to wake up at 7:30 in the morning two days a week, it’s my favorite part of the day. Kids are awesome and hilarious, and it’s consistently unbelievable that at five years old, they’re already fluent in both Catalan and Spanish.

Another way that I’ve been using my English knowledge is through Language Exchange partners. The universities will match you up with another person based on what language you can teach and what language you want to learn. I got matched up with an incredibly attractive and intelligent Biology student who wanted to improve his English so he can do research in Edinburgh in a couple years. Did I mention he’s attractive?

Today, my plan for the day is to go grocery shopping, take a shower, and then relax outside in a park and do some reading. It’s 65 degrees Fahrenheit here, in November, and I might as well take advantage of it before I’m dumped into the worst part of a Chicago winter. I might go out tonight, but probably not. I’m pretty sick of the club/bar scene here. My favorite bar (Chupitos, see previous post) was ruined because the bouncer has a huge crush on me, and as much I enjoy free beer (impossible to get otherwise in a bar that only serves shots), it was starting to get a little awkward.

And that’s my daily life!

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At Northwestern, I know two people who took a gap year. In London, it’s much less of an anomaly. One of my flatmates worked full-time at a grocery store for half a year to save up for spending half a year in India. Many others take at least half a year to travel Europe, or just save up for uni. It’s definitely a different perspective on career.

Every time a Northwestern friend tells me about his or her fabulous internship, it sounds like they’re taking one step closer to being a career person — and getting a job is what growing up is all about, right? The idea of going home to Ann Arbor, Mich. wasn’t an option for me this summer. I’d rather work three jobs so I could hold an internship because not having something related to my career seemed like a waste of time. Even my friends from my hippie-tastic home who took a gap year seem to do it out of necessity for money. And often times, they still took classes at a community college.

Having a gap year to find yourself or to see the world just doesn’t seem like an option, an archaic idea better left to the Beat Generation. In London, it’s not. I’ve met plenty of people who took the gap year not because they had to but because they want to. They want to do things like find themselves, see the world and things like that — not career things.

Perhaps it is because we attend Northwestern whose population is admittedly driven. Or perhaps it’s an English cultural difference. Perhaps you aren’t as defined here by your occupation as much as in the States. And if Willy Loman has taught Americans nothing, it’s that we really, really care about our jobs.

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Woo! It’s about time for an exciting post!

I just got back from Lisbon, where I went for a weekend trip, and even though I don’t have any insanely crazy stories to tell, it was still a great time — a great city and a new view of Europe. It kind of gave me the travel bug that I’ve been lacking — it almost made me want to go see something really different, like Africa or the Middle East or Asia. I’ve traveled a lot in my lifetime, but I’ve only traveled within the United States, Mexico and Europe.

Regardless, Lisbon wasn’t too far from home. Two of the people that I went with are from San Francisco, and they said Lisbon reminded them so much of home that it made them homesick.

If you ever go to Lisbon, you’re not allowed to stay at any other hostel than the Traveller’s House Hostel. Our only complaints were that the beds were too comfy, the staff was too helpful, and they gave us too much free stuff (free Internet, free breakfast, free tea/coffee all day, free towels). Not kidding.

Four reasons why Lisbon and San Francisco are basically the same city:

1. The hills. There were hills everywhere, which made for some incredible views almost everywhere in the city but especially at the Castelo de Saõ Jorge. The Castelo also was wonderful for its exotic collection of peacocks and cats. Yes, I said peacocks. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it for myself.
2. Cable cars. The metro system in Lisbon was tiny and mostly unhelpful, probably because of the hills. The bus system was rather amazing, complete with “your bus will arrive in ___ minutes” signs (something that even the El doesn’t have!) but the trams and cable cars really were our main method of transportation.
3. The fog. See pictures. It was pretty funny because it was pretty foggy the morning that we arrived, and the San Franciscans in our group were really a little bit too excited about it.
4. The Golden Gate Bridge. I kid you not, Lisbon has its own Golden Gate Bridge. Actually, I have no idea what it’s called in Lisbon, but it’s the exact same damn bridge, I swear. It was completely trippy to see it in another place, especially since I only saw the real thing for the first time about 4 days before I left for Europe. Again, I would not have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.

One of the best experiences in Lisbon was seeing a live Fado show. Fado is a type of traditionally Lisbon-specific music/singing that has a reputation for being very sad but very patriotic. While watching the Fado singers, I couldn’t help but be astounded by the amount of power and emotion they put into each song. All of the singers were older and it was clear that each song was steeped in personal history. But enough of my rambling. Enjoy the video and pictures for yourself!

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When I pictured my study abroad experience, I didn’t imagine that I’d be spending most weekends traveling outside of Buenos Aires. But when I got here, everyone kept telling me about all these must-see spots in Argentina, as the country is composed of a diverse smattering of landscapes and natural wonders. And what do you pass up? The waterfalls? The wineries? The glaciers? The penguins? Somehow, I’ve managed to see almost everything and this weekend I explored yet another one of Argentina’s top destinations: Puerto Madryn. Home to sea lions, penguins, dolphins, whales and elephant seals, the region is a paradise for animal lovers.

Accompanied by four fellow Northwesterners, I took an 18-hour bus ride to northern Patagonia. Between bus tours, whale watching boats and snorkel excursions, we had an incredible weekend filled with animal encounters. The most memorable activity was snorkeling with sea lions, although this couldn’t be captured with my camera since we were immersed in water. The unexpectedly-graceful creatures swam all around us, their blubbery bodies coming close enough to touch. The water was so cold my muscles kept cramping up, but the early morning adventure was worth it.

And of course, Halloween was this weekend. I’m usually the type of person who plans her costume for weeks with an abundance of enthusiasm, but unfortunately Argentines don’t celebrate the holiday. Some clubs in Buenos Aires hold Halloween events as an American novelty, but the tradition isn’t part of their culture. Hence, our Saturday evening was costume-free, though we did our best to celebrate. I was a little disappointed to miss one of my favorite holidays, but when I think about the experiences I had in Puerto Madryn, I realize no amount of costuming or candy could be as memorable as my weekend turned out to be.

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