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.
Staci will be in Barcelona, Spain, until December 2009.
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:
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.
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.
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.
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!
Taylor is studying in Buenos Aires, Argentina until Nov. 28.
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.
For over a month, almost as soon as I had arrived in Florence, plans for fall break had been in the works. Five other girls and I discussed every detail and booked all of our flights, trains and hostels, and the intention was to visit Dublin, Amsterdam and Prague. However, a feeling of trepidation marred our excitement. Would the strike scheduled for Friday throw off plans for our flight from Pisa to Dublin? Our flight was at six in the morning. Fortunately the strike, originally reported to last for 24 hours, did not begin until later in the day and we were able to take off as scheduled.
Thus began our whirlwind adventure. The nine days passed in a blur of new sights and experiences. We also had a very complicated and exhausting travel schedule. Thankfully, what made everything easier was that most of the people in each of the cities spoke English. I hadn’t realized what a strain it was to have to translate everything I wanted to say in my head before speaking until we arrived in Dublin, and I felt such a sense of relief to be able to fully understand the people around me. This also unfortunately worked the other way: my friends and I have grown used to talking freely and loudly about anything and everything around Italians because it’s assumed that they won’t understand.
In each city we encountered a parade of American chain restaurants and businesses that we’ve all been missing. Starbucks, T.G.I. Fridays, Subway, Ben and Jerry’s and Quiznos are only a few of the places we frequented. We also tried a few local specialties. Otherwise, the three cities we visited were very different from each other, each with its own fascinating history and sense of character; I could have spent much more time in each. I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that this trip has opened my eyes in a lot of ways.
I could go on and on about my experiences, but I’ll try to stick to the highlights for each city.
Photos by the author.
Dublin:
Our hostel was located close to the center of the city, and the first day we spent a lot of time meandering through the bustling streets and window shopping for souvenirs. Dublin was similar to London, which I visited three years ago, in that everything was very, very expensive. We toured the Guinness factory, and received a pint of the famous brew at the Gravity Bar, the top floor of the building which had wall-to-wall glass windows offering a panoramic view of the city. While I’m not a beer drinker, as I’ve mentioned before, it was remarkably smooth and palatable.
In the National Museum, we viewed Viking and medieval artifacts, giving us a sense of Irish history, and an exhibition at the National Library on William Butler Yeats was well-organized and informative. The National Gallery held room after room of art produced in Ireland, as well as famous paintings such as “The Taking of Christ” by Caravaggio, “Lady Writing a Letter” by Vermeer and “River Scene” by Monet. That night, we socialized with locals at a pub and then danced the night away at a techno club.
The third day, three of the girls and I took a tour of the Irish countryside, traveling from the east coast to the west coast and back. We journeyed through rolling green landscapes dotted by cows that in one instance became roadblocks for our bus. The Cliffs of Moher were stunningly beautiful, as was the Burren, an expanse of countryside covered by gray limestone.
Amsterdam:
I can only describe Amsterdam as a city of paradoxes: steeped in history, yet globalized and modern at the same time. Canals and tram lines blend with cobblestone streets. Many of the older buildings lean noticeably because their foundations have started to sink into the ground. On a tour through the city, we stopped at the Dutch East India Company headquarters, a reminder of a time when the Netherlands was a top power in the world. We also took a heartbreaking tour the Anne Frank House, which gave a sense of what it was like to live as a Jew in the city during World War II.
On the other hand, every American chain restaurant one would want to visit was present, and every type of cuisine imaginable was represented. Signs were always in English as well as Dutch. And of course, legalization of marijuana and prostitution make Amsterdam one of the world’s most controversial cities.
Walking through the red light district at night was one of the strangest experiences I’ve ever had. Red electric lanterns or bars of light illuminated the girls in the windows, giving them an eerie glow. Some were young. Some were old. Some actively tried to seduce male onlookers, while others sat and stared, looking careworn and sad. I couldn’t help thinking that legalizing prostitution and condoning the objectification of women is not in any way, shape or form modern or progressive. It was like the women were any other commodity displayed in a shop window. Ironically, there was a church right in the middle of the district.
As an art history major, I also wanted to make sure that I saw the art for which the Netherlands is known. My first stop was the Rijksmuseum, which displays famous Dutch artworks by painters such as Jan Steen, Vermeer, and Rembrandt. The most famous piece that I saw was “The Night Watch,” by Rembrandt. I’ve seen this painting in slides in countless art history classes, but it was so much grander and more detailed than I had imagined. It truly is a masterpiece. The same day, I perused the Van Gogh Museum, which exhibits over a hundred of the painter’s personal letters in addition to his works that give a sense of his mental state during his progression as an artist.
Prague:
After a fifteen-hour overnight train to Prague, my friends and I were all a little delirious. We took it easy the first day, but managed to gather the energy to walk to the John Lennon wall, which fans have covered with graffiti inspired by him and the Beatles.
The next day, on a free three hour tour, I was able to truly appreciate the city’s beauty. Most of the facades of buildings are pastel-colored and ornately decorated, with statues adorning the roofs. The Old Town Square and the Charles Bridge in particular were stunning. Gothic cathedrals and castles abound, and while the weather was bitterly cold, the trees with their colorful fall leaves made the city even more picturesque.
Here, too, was a great sense of history. The Jewish quarter contains synagogues and a museum that exhibits drawings that children made while in concentration camps during World War II. A giant metronome on a hill was erected in 1991 to replace a monument to Stalin, and an ominous statue of Franz Kafka looms above passerby. What we saw and learned didn’t even begin to scratch the surface of all Prague had to offer.
So it was pure coincidence that the weekend I went to Berlin just happened to be when George H.W. Bush, Mikhail Gorbachev and Helmut Kohl came to commemorate the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall. It’s surprising that I even found out about it, since it was barely publicized at all in the German media, to the extent that neither Kathryn nor I were able to find out the time of the event. So, on our last morning in Berlin, we went to the Friedrichstadt Palast and asked the people who were sure to know: the journalists.
As it turned out, Bush and Gorby were scheduled to arrive in the not too distant future, so we decided to stick around. And, being as I am, I proceeded to take all kinds of pictures and videos of the twenty-somethings in front of the theater who brought signs and flags to welcome the politicos. It wasn’t until Kathryn and I, poised with cameras in hand at the back entrance of the theater, started being asked for information on Bush and Gorbachev’s arrival by the big time journalists with boom mikes and HD video cameras that I realized my Medill was showing.
I was having the time of my life out here in the cold, documenting an historic event. This was how I spent my Halloween day, no less. Standing at the back entrance of the theater, waiting to see George Bush, and listening to some big network journalist discuss his Halloween costume behind me:
“What I have is traditional Hungarian farmer’s clothes.”
“Is that going to be that scary on Halloween night?”
“Well, I could always spice it up with fangs or something.”
While I complain about Medill classes as much as the next girl (301 last winter turned me into a soulless automaton for three months), there was still something really special about being present for the commemoration of one of the world’s most important events. It was far and away one of the best experiences of my life. And since I was definitely not a guest, and I wouldn’t say I was a civilian either, I guess I count myself among the ranks of the journalists.
Taylor is studying in Buenos Aires, Argentina until Nov. 28.
I’m not usually one to get homesick. Being away from home in a new place excites me, and I always know home will be there, my bedroom just as I left it and my dogs eager to jump and whine upon my return. But being in Buenos Aires isn’t like going to summer camp or moving away to college. It’s not just new people and different activities, but an entirely new reality with different rules and norms. It’s living without the milk you are used to. Without chocolate chip cookies or customer service. Communicating in a foreign language has become ordinary, normal. But it is the small things that I never thought I’d miss until I didn’t have them.
Yesterday, I set out on an expedition to find a Subway. (Not a means of transportation, but the sandwich store.) When I finally stepped inside, I was overwhelmed with nostalgia and a feeling of comfort that comes with ingrained familiarity. The tantalizing smell of freshly baked Subway bread and the boldly printed posters in recognizable fonts made me feel like I had stepped through a portal to the U.S. Though I was in a hurry, I was tempted to linger inside this store, seemingly unbound by earthly coordinates. For the few minutes inside Subway, I wasn’t in Buenos Aires, but rather existing within a fond fragment of my own memory that had been unearthed. It’s odd that it took a trace of home to remind me how much I miss it. It’s not that American food or customs are better or that life here lacks something. There’s just a profound comfort in being surrounded with things you’ve always known — a security of sorts. When it’s taken away, it’s like finding your way in an unrecognizable reality. I am dreading the imminent end of my program, but at the same time I can’t wait to sink back into the familiar normalcy of being home.
Recently it’s felt like terror threats are the default explanation for everything in Jerusalem. I’m always apprehensive to say that I feel unsafe in Israel because the truth is I never worry about security. I’m much more likely to walk around alone at night here than I am in the states and I generally place more trust in strangers. However, this past week I’ve noticed a presence of threats I can’t ignore.
It began when we received mass texts from the university urging us not to go into East Jerusalem — the Arab part of the city in the West Bank — because of rioting.
The next morning I noticed a back up of cars on my way to school that seemed to extend for blocks. An unattended package had been found near Aroma — Israel’s version of Starbucks — a block away from the entrance to the University. Because all bags left without an owner present a potential threat, an emergency squad blows them all up. The police need to block off the surrounding areas during the explosions, so it generally creates a major disturbance.
Later that day on my way home from class, the security guard at the entrance to the student village stopped me and my friends to search our bags. Bag searching happens everywhere in Israel, but usually we only show our student IDs to enter the village. I asked the guard, half in jest, “Why today?” He replied, in a much more serious tone, “You haven’t heard? We’re at war with Iran.” My jaw dropped in unison with my two Americans friends’. We stood there for a few seconds that felt like minutes. The guard chuckled with a satisfied I got you smile.
Last night I was walking from dinner to Mamilla Avenue — what Israel considers its Fifth Avenue or Champs Elysées. The most central intersection in downtown Jerusalem was closed off by police and soldiers. Roads were closed off with caution tape, traffic flowed in steady U-turns away from the crossing and pedestrian traffic was diverted in circuitous detours. The friend I was walking with and I confidently agreed that the police must have been suspecting terrorist activity.
An hour later, I found out that the intersection around the famous David Citadel Hotel had been closed off for Hillary Clinton’s arrival after talks with top Israeli government officials. I realized how far I’d come from my hometown, Washington, DC. At home, road blocks are almost always for politicians. In Jerusalem, apparently they suggest terror.
Staci will be in Barcelona, Spain, until December 2009.
About a month ago, I sent a panicked email to my parents about being stressed out and miserable, and asked if they’d be able to visit me. Luckily, they were able to plan a trip and came to talk with me last weekend.
I could tell the whole long story of their interest, but it’s not interesting. I showed them around some touristy sites, went to eat some nice expensive dinners that totally destroyed my diet, and talked a lot about whether or not I should stay the entire year.
Reasons why I should stay the entire year: Two months in is prime culture-shock time, and supposedly it’ll get better. After more time, I’ll learn to love the country and make great friends. More time would allow me to really learn about and explore this region (though I already feel like I’ve learned so much) and learn Catalan better. More time here would be an impressive feat that I could be proud of myself for. Staying here for a year would be the complete assimilation experience that I’ve always wanted.
Here’s the problem: I don’t want that anymore. I don’t want to learn to love the country. I don’t want to make awesome local friends and then leave them in June. To really assimilate, I feel like I’d have to give up a part of who I am, and I don’t want to. I don’t want to learn Catalan better, and I’m quite happy with my current level of Spanish. Although I see very clearly the benefits of staying here longer, I no longer place any importance on the value that I could potentially gain.
The other problem is that I feel completely alone in how much I’ve struggled with the study abroad experience. Everyone gets homesick, culture shock sucks for everyone, but no one seems to have it as bad as I do; this all-consuming sense of not-belonging, of time moving sluggishly inch by inch, day by day until I can finally escape. I’ve talked with other people and while homesickness is rampant, it’s always phrased as such: “I miss home, but I totally love [insert city here].”
Well, I don’t totally love Barcelona. In fact, I rather dislike it. I don’t know why, or what makes Chicago better than here, because it’s nothing big and it’s nothing specific. My classes are no more stressful than Northwestern, my friends on the program are beyond wonderful and supportive, the locals that I’ve met are friendly, interesting, welcoming and fun to talk to. The city is even everything that I’ve ever wanted in a city: great public transportation system, but also very walkable; multilingual, cosmopolitan, international; intelligent with great research-oriented universities; great weather; fun nightlife; beautiful beaches. There’s no logical reason for me to feel such antipathy toward being here, but I do.
I explained that to my parents, and they agreed with me that it’d be better for me to come back to Northwestern in January.
I want to emphasize that this post should in no way discourage you from studying abroad, or even from studying abroad for the whole year. There are many, many great things about being here: the people, the food, the experiences, the ability to travel. All are wonderful, but not enough to keep me here for six more months.
One of my most enjoyable experiences traveling abroad has been staying in hostels with a motley crew of impoverished students and professionals in their late twenties and thirties who’ve decided to travel the world for six months instead of buying a Ferrari. Meeting a bunch of strangers from all over the world who are as disoriented and out of place as you are is one of the most genuinely European experiences I’ve ever had. It’s like The Real World but with less sex and fewer rednecks.
Being at a university with more than 200 mostly American exchange students makes it hard to make real British friends. It is weird hanging out exclusively with 18-year-olds who are drinking and experiencing freedom for the first time — be honest, would you want to be best friends with you right out of high school? I don’t — and the juniors already have their friendship circles, all live off-campus and have seen enough Americans so you can’t even play the novelty card. And then there’s the ton of traveling which you will inevitably do, seeing as you’re already in Europe and you only have to get Cs in your classes.
Hostels are among the few places where you can really become friends with people who are in the same boat as you are. You have a lot of beers with strangers, get great travel advice (hint: Sandeman’s free tours are excellent), random lessons in geography (The Grenadines is not where Shirley Temple is from unless she’s from the Caribbean), and have uncomfortable encounters which inevitably make for fantastic stories. For example, I was proposed to in Bruges because I am “not bad looking,” (the charmer’s words, not mine) and American. Apparently, the guy wanted to become an American citizen and marrying in is the easiest way to do it. After declining his offer, I had to sleep in the same room as this guy for one more night and trust me, that comforter was on like a strait jacket, or a chastity belt.
Almost as interesting as meeting bizarre people from around the world was the unexpected opportunity to compare myself to the “average American tourist,” which is a chance that we don’t get too regularly inside our Northwestern bubble. Removed from my journalist, film major and other future-waiters-of-America friends, I realize how un-American I am. I don’t like asking for help all that much, I’m far too sarcastic, I’m not particularly loud, I don’t like confrontation, I don’t like beer all that much, and I’m not overtly friendly or always upbeat enough to be properly American. My Italian roommate at Uni says so too.
The hostel is a snapshot of people from all over the world who are in the same place as you — poor and transient — but at the same time from a completely different background. It’s really the only place where people have to hang out with each other even though they’ve only known one another for an hour and probably won’t ever see each other again. Really, it’s what the United Nations wished it was.
I’m a 19-year-old Northwestern junior from the Midwestern suburbs spending fall in Paris.
I think the most unusual thing about that sentence is the fact that I’m 19, not 20. (I skipped first grade. This is Northwestern, it happens.) Either way, I don’t think the film companies are going to be knocking down my door to get the rights to my one-of-a-kind story.
Now obviously I realize that being here is a huge privilege, and I think part of me honestly believed I would never make it work. Sometimes, though, I wonder if I’m really making the most of this opportunity.
Well, they were right. I’m in a large Western European city with all of the security and modern amenities I enjoy in America and I speak the language to boot (more or less). There was culture shock upon arrival, but it wasn’t terrible. They have really long dinners and pink toilet paper but it’s not like I was forced to confront a complete lifestyle upheaval. And on top of all that, I’m living in the same homestay as one of my best friends from Northwestern.
When I was applying for study abroad, I had a certain image in mind. I would go on an epic journey alone where I would meet people from all walks of life who would change the way I thought about the world. Immersed in a new culture, I would be find myself: young, unattached, free, whatever.
But when you idealize something that much, it can never really live up.
I found out Kathryn was going on the same program as me, and we decided to live together. And upon arriving here, I found out that a significant number of students on my program are from Northwestern. Not to mention all my friends here are American. On the plus side, I’m rarely lonely. On the downside, I’m comfortable.
I have a friend from Northwestern who is currently studying abroad in Bolivia. His program involves, among other things, a one-week stay in a remote Bolivian village and six weeks to work on a personal research project (he’s making a documentary). He says he is confronted every day with experiences that challenge his way of thinking.
Some days my most challenging experience is trying to spend less than 15 euros on dinner. It’s hard not to compare. So I had to really evaluate my reasons for being here.
I didn’t choose Paris because it would force me out of my comfort zone, or because I thought I would get to confront harsher truths of life. I chose to come here because my whole life I’ve thought that French is the most beautiful language in the world, and I wanted it to belong to me as much as English. I came here because as a little girl I used to stare at pictures of the Eiffel Tower and the Champs-Élysées and imagine the day I would get to see them in person. I wanted to fulfill a seemingly impossible dream from a time when even going to college in Chicago was an intangible improbability.
So I’m unoriginal. The “American in Paris” has been done to death, resurrected and reburied. But just because I’m “vanilla” doesn’t mean I should be complacent.
I came to Paris for myself, and only for myself. Maybe I’m not challenged every day, but that’s okay. Just by being here, I’ve proven to myself that I can have the things I want in life, and every day I spend here is one I could’ve scarcely imagined three months ago. For now, that’s enough. You can’t plan revelations. The challenges will come, and so will change.
Taylor is studying in Buenos Aires, Argentina until Nov. 28.
Being abroad brings so many new experiences and customs; some you love, some you don’t. When it comes to amenities such as shaving cream and peanut butter, it really is true that distance makes the heart grow fonder. And despite having been here for more than two months, there are still some differences that I will never get used to:
1. Soap: Rather than pumping it out of a container, soap here comes in bar form. However, it is not always in nice rectangles like one might imagine. No, often it comes in ovals skewered on metal rods. The first time I came across these colored lumps, I assumed they were soap sacks and attempted to milk them. I quickly realized that nothing was going to come out, and that one merely had to stroke the oblong knobs to get a little suds going. It still weirds me out every time.
Yes, these oblong protrusions are bars of soap. Makes for an interesting hand-wash.”
2. Zero Floor: Sort of upsetting when you realize you have to walk up a set of stairs to get to floor one of a building. Super confusing in an elevator when you’re trying to find ground floor — why zero?
3. Gym attire: I typically go to the gym with greasy hair, a t-shirt from the laundry bin and a scraggly ponytail. Unfortunately, this is not customary in Argentina. Many women show up with full makeup, perfectly preened hairdos and stylish attire. One woman even participated in a “Latin Dance” class in jeans and wedge boots. This is a standard that I will just never live up to.
4. Naked mannequins: This is something you don’t see in the U.S. Generally, mannequins are clothed so as to show off the latest fashions. Here, clothing is optional, as sometimes they are only used to display a purse or a belt.
Clothing optional.
5. Playing music aloud on buses and planes: This can get extremely irritating, especially when someone decides to blast Reggaeton during an overnight bus ride. From what I figure, these self-proclaimed deejays are either a) too lazy to dig out their headphones, b) oblivious to the fact that everyone else can hear their music too, or c) think they are providing a service by sharing their tunes. (And, yes they do own headphones- I’ve seen them dangling out of backpacks and purses).
6. Lack of “to-go” culture: They do have delivery (and sometimes it comes on roller-skates), but for some reason the concept of eating on the go is perplexing for Argentines. Every morning, the apartment employee makes a comment about the fact that I’m eating my breakfast as I’m running out the door. And asking for tea, coffee, or a snack “to go” provokes a puzzled expression unless you are at one of the few cafes taking hold of this foreign custom.
7. Customer service: “The customer is always right.” Right? Wrong. In Argentina, the employee-shopper relationship is not quite the same. Waiters won’t ever come to your table unless you flag them down from across the room. Stores do not have change and will demand you surrender your small bills and coins if you want to make the purchase. Trust me, this is no small sacrifice. And clothing generally comes in one size- small. Which brings me to my next point.
8. The great weight paradox: The people here do everything a nutritionist would tell you not to. They don’t drink water. (It is considered extremely strange to order it at a restaurant or to drink it with a meal). They don’t sleep. (Nightlife doesn’t even start until 2 a.m., at which time there are still children on the playgrounds). They eat dinner late and consume mostly ham, beef, potatoes and dulce de leche; and salt everything (including salad). And yet — the majority of them are skeletally thin. (Note: From personal experience, I can attest to the fact that this magic formula does not apply to non-Argentines. Do not attempt).
After two months in Jerusalem I just finished my first week of class. It’s weird to throw a batch of new classes into my comfortable routine here. What’s weirder is that that the university is no longer ruled by the international students. All summer we’ve felt like we owned the place: chances are we knew or at least recognized everyone we saw playing Frisbee on the field and sitting in song circles with guitars. We’ve been downgraded to a small segment of campus.
Walking through the university I’m overwhelmed by what feels like The Rock on speed. With every stride I’m bombarded by another free giveaway, flier or sign up sheet shoved my way. What’s worse is that the university is essentially just one giant building used by more students than Northwestern’s entire campus. Waits at coffee shops and book stores easily eat up the thirty minute breaks between classes, especially given the stereotypical inability of Israelis to stand in lines.
The international school has been more of a global encounter than the expected specific cultural immersion into Israeli university. All of our classes are in a separate building used for undergraduate study abroad programs, graduate studies in English and Israeli university preparation for foreign students. As a result, I know and recognize way more European students than Israelis on campus.
The French students are the most visible to the North Americans, primarily because of their infamous “French parties,” our campus equivalent of frat parties. In some ways, French parties are quite similar to frat parties: unrecognizable faces pounding in tandem to loud music, previously white apartment floors covered in beer and mud, scents of smoke and alcohol wafting nauseatingly through the room and toilets inevitably covered in anonymous vomit by the end of the evening.
But then there are the obvious reminders that the French parties are across the world from the American fraternity scene: anise in place of cheap vodka, house music (which my musically-ignorant self believes is the same as techno or trance) and the resonant patriotism in France from the students who left their country and moved to Israel.
Last night during a French party the music stopped and a boy standing on a couch started a cheer “Ole ole Paris! Ole ole Paris!” The whole room saluted in unison to the city they hardly left when they moved to Jerusalem.
Taylor is studying in Buenos Aires, Argentina until Nov. 28.
After the initial adjustment to life in a foreign city, I’ve fallen into a routine of sorts, marked by variation in weekend getaways and evening festivities. Besides class, meals, and working out, there’s been another constant in my life here: La Bomba de Tiempo.
A musical group comprised of Argentine percussionists, the band performs every Monday evening at the Konex Theater. Despite ridiculous amounts of homework and travel, I have given the show a permanent home in my weekly schedule. Though the performance is similar each time, no two are the same, as the music is mostly improvised. The building layers of rhythm are led by an animated director whose waving arms signal crescendos and acceleration of tempo.
Besides the incredible rhythms created, I love the atmosphere of the crowd. A mix of tourists and weekly regulars, the audience brings the soundscape to life through dancing and jostling in concordance with the music. Though sometimes the mayhem can get a bit overwhelming, I’ve learned to just let the crowd envelop me and to join the pulsating mass.
I spent the last week of my three week break between summer language immersion and the start of the semester on a 7-night cruise to Greece, with a big group of friends from school. To say the least, we were not the typical passengers on the boat. The majority of the passengers were sixty years our senior and had hair dyed unnatural shades of purple and red. They struggled to communicate in Russian with the majority Filipino cruise staff who spoke limited English, broken phrases in Hebrew and absolutely no Russian.
The rare English speaking passengers on the Israeli cruise-liner gave us unanimous complaints of their discomfort on the less-than-luxury ship. My friends’ reactions to the boat were the opposite. We chose the cruise as a cheap vacation option. For what we paid, expectations were basically set at a charter bus-like boat with meals served to sleeper-seats that converted to beds. While our boat was not quite the upscale experience described by David Foster Wallace, four daily all-you-can-eat buffets are basically synonymous with heaven to starving college students without meal plans.
The picturesque houses of Santorini. Photo by the author.
We had a fun and relaxing week, although the ship was definitely not the ideal way to see and experience Greece. Our explorations of Athens, Syros and Santorini were stifled by early evening departures before dinner time. We docked overnight in Rhodes and got a taste of the club scene just outside Old Town, which seemed geared entirely toward tourists. In Rhodes we also met a local guy our age who gave up his morning to drive me and three friends around to some of the ancient ruins.
My favorite part of the week, while entirely touristy, was riding ATVs around the island of Santorini. When we reached Oia, the picturesque town where The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants’ memorable shots of blue church domes built upon mountain cliffs along the sea were filmed, my friends and I consented that the views alone were worth the trip to Greece.
My first attempt to leave France sent me crawling back with my tail between my legs, ready to kill for a baguette and with very little desire to leave Paris again anytime soon.
The plan was this: Get in on Friday, spend two nights in Bruges, head to Brussels on Sunday, hang out for a few hours and then catch the train back to Paris. Seemingly simple. But for some reason, the whole time I was packing to leave, I felt that annoying sense of foreboding. I just kept picturing missing our train or not being able to find our hostel.
Clearly, I lack imagination.
We got a train, though we ended up having to pay extra for it. (Tip: when using Eurail passes, you have to reserve your tickets way in advance. This will come into play again later.) We found the hostel, mostly by a fluke, and reunited with our friend Alanna who informed us we would be sharing the room with three German guys (currently absent).
Foraging for food later, we attempted to follow the river downtown. Bruges is a very pretty city, full of red roofs and gently sloping bridges over canals, where everything is packed in nice and snug. But it can be a bit eerie at night, when cute little streets turn into darkened alleys and the windmill in the distance looks more like a giant insect ready to descend upon the cobblestone streets and devour everything in its path.
But I digress.
In short, we managed to get lost in a city that takes half an hour to walk across and ended up eating burgers and fries at the snack shack next to our hostel. We ordered our frieten as best as we could in Flemish – the language spoken by about half of Belgium, sounds sort of like German but a little more gargle-y. Phlegmy, if you will.
Shortly after our return to the hostel, two of our German roommates arrived. Robert and Thomas, both in their 20s, wanted to have a beer with us before we “were brushing teeth.” So we sat down and chatted for a while. We told them the story of Helga the snoring exhibitionist and Robert told us how he was pooped on by a bird as a child.
After this lovely exchange of weird life experiences, and with the arrival of our third roommate (who happened to be Robert’s father) we all hit the hay. Except for some reason, I couldn’t sleep. And so, lying awake about two hours later, I become a horrified bystander to the worst kind of defilement.
Thomas gets up from the bunk below me and stumbles across the floor to the locker right by my head, containing my and my friends’ belongings. I hear the opening of a metal door and the rustling of fabric. And then I hear the sound of liquid.
No way. No way he can be doing what I think he is doing. He must’ve knocked over a water bottle, or something.
But he did. It was exactly what it sounded like, and despite my attempts to rationalize, when I opened my bag in the morning and discovered my clothes inexplicably soaked, I knew. He peed on my clothes.
I know oftentimes people don’t read these blogs, or skim them at best, so let me repeat, with bold font: He peed on my clothes.
And honestly, that’s it. I could tell you about the delicious chocolate we ate the next day, or the boat tour, or how we heard the Jonas Brothers playing in yet another fry stand, and while that stuff was fun, no amount of fun could compensate.
We left the following morning for Brussels, where sadly we were only able to spend an hour and a half. This, again, was caused by the Eurail passes – we had to take five separate trains over the course of 5 hours to get back to Paris. The trip usually takes one train and one hour. So we had to hit the hot spots of Brussels quickly.
We saw the Grand Place, where Karl Marx wrote his Communist Manifesto. And we saw the most famous statue in Belgium, the icon of Brussels – Manneken Pis.
