tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63214237186717574272024-03-13T05:18:07.748-07:00WanderlustElizabeth. 20. Spaniard at heart. Follow my journeys here. Currently in Santiago, Chile. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00698480442846091553noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6321423718671757427.post-63502994264083841492016-01-10T18:35:00.000-08:002016-01-10T19:02:37.049-08:00Chile is calling and I must go. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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If you know anything about me, you probably know that I like to travel. Well, that would be an understatement. I live to travel. I sit in class and I dream of elsewhere. I get restless if I stay anywhere too long or if a place starts to become too comfortable. Now that I'm a sophomore in college, people always ask me what my career plans are. Hell, I don't even know what I'm majoring in or what I'm doing this summer. Sometimes I say that I think I'll join the Peace Corps after college and most adults just kind of brush it off and say "Oh, that's nice, but really, what do you want to do?" I recently read this book (true story) about this girl who works as a bartender back home to save just enough money to buy another plane ticket and six months of travel. When she runs out, she goes back home and saves some more money until she can leave again. And if I had any plan at all for my future, it would read something like that. (Of course, everything works out well for that girl until she gets kidnapped in Somalia for a year and a half, but I don't plan on get kidnapped.) Fortunately, I can stop worrying about my next destination because tomorrow I'll get on a plane.<br />
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Tomorrow is the day that I fly 4, 727 miles south to live for a semester in Santiago, Chile with a host mom named Winnie and a spirit of adventure. I've been itching to get to South America for a few years now and it has always appeared to me as the ultimate travel destination. Long and narrow Chile borders the South Pacific ocean and hosts the towering Andes, the driest desert in the world, deep, green valleys, active volcanos, and large lakes and rivers. It's a nature lover's paradise. And if you're into the city, the capital Santiago bustles with over 5 million people at the foot of snow-capped mountains. I'm interested to see how nature and urban life intertwine in my new home. In addition to taking four Spanish classes at the Pontificia Universidad Catolica de Chile, we have trips scheduled to Buenos Aires, the Atacama Desert, Patagonia, and Machu Picchu in Peru. If I can manage it, I'll find a way to get over to see the mysterious ancient stone statues on Easter Island, too. With a GoPro strapped to my head, a camera around my neck, and hiking boots on my feet, I'll leave as little of Chile unexplored as I can. Oh, and I guess I'll study a little bit too.<br />
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I love the feeling of the unknown stretching out before me in wide blue skies and roaring oceans. It has always taunted me, urging me to leave everything behind and just go. Chile called and I am following her. Here's to the journey and learning what it means to be Chilean.<br />
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Peace,<br />
LizAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00698480442846091553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6321423718671757427.post-7988300228441461242015-07-14T22:12:00.002-07:002015-07-15T19:31:13.164-07:00The Roar of Venice<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX219465507" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative; text-indent: 48px;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX219465507" paraeid="{e10e1fe5-c5d9-41e7-a524-db1b406401a7}{17}" paraid="920257815" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">As I trudge through the crowded Venetian alleys under the yellow heat of the summer sun, everything around me, above me, below me, and beside me screams chaos. Sweat beads on my forehead as I try to make sense of the madness. I blink a few times, attempting to rub the afternoon haze from my tired eyes. Perhaps </span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">lack of sleep and dehydration have</span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> altered my ability to see clearly, but the Venice before me is not just a city. Venice has been and remains a menagerie-- a ferocious game of survival of the fittest played out in a deceptively charming landscape caged in by the Adriatic Sea. </span><span class="EOP SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX219465507" paraeid="{e10e1fe5-c5d9-41e7-a524-db1b406401a7}{22}" paraid="435584401" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">1600 years ago, Venetians fled the mainland for the marshes to escape terrorizing barbarians, driving wooden stakes into the sandy seafloor to form solid foundations across the 118 small islands that still support Venice today. Throughout its turbulent history, Venice has escaped invasion, seen the rise and fall of emperors, buried the bones of St. Mark, and been decimated by the plague. In it’s golden days, Venice was an invulnerable commercial power, facilitating trade between the West and the East. In 1204, Venetians sacked Constantinople and returned with the prize of four ancient bronze horses that stand behind glass inside the Basilica today. There is no greater reminder of the seafaring city’s history of power and wealth than the muscular stallions that also stand as replicas overlooking San Marco’s busy square. But power and wealth aren’t eternal, and just as the Venetians ravaged weaker empires, one day the rising ocean that once protected the city will, in turn, ravage it. </span><span class="EOP SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">In present-day Venice, the infamous pigeons are no </span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">match</span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> for the walking wildlife. Tour groups of varying ethnicities swarm San Marco Square, like tribes of angry ants headed for the first spot in line for entrance to the opulent Basilica. The disorganized line snakes around the square, and I watch mayhem unfold as a woman guides her two small children to sneak in towards the front. Everyone behind her hisses in irritation, but she growls back indignantly, refusing to budge an inch. The three fold into the safety of the line. She wins. I watch her usher her </span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">bambinos </span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">protectively through the church entrance. Playing fair gets you nowhere in this sinking city. </span><span class="EOP SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX219465507" paraeid="{e10e1fe5-c5d9-41e7-a524-db1b406401a7}{41}" paraid="642480862" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Indian men selling </span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">selfie</span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> sticks and cheap toys become vultures targeting their blonde-haired prey. The pleas of street vendors, the chatter of tourists, and the relentless cries of violins blend into indistinguishable, ever-present noise. North African men illegally sell their fake Prada purses in packs. </span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Perhaps more impressive than their realistic knock-offs is their animal-like instinct to communicate with each other when the police are in the vicinity.</span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> In a matter of seconds after an inaudible warning, they swoop up their products and scatter in different directions. Like clockwork, the police stroll by, turn a corner, and the group reclaims its territory by unfolding and displaying its wares along the same crowded, narrow street. </span><span class="EOP SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX219465507" paraeid="{e10e1fe5-c5d9-41e7-a524-db1b406401a7}{48}" paraid="532359769" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">The interlinking canals are a winding greenish-brown river in a jungle of flower-lined windows, pizzerias, and erratically numbered apartments. In the smaller passages, traffic jams of gondolas and motorboats are frequent and often resolved in angry exchanges of rapid Italian and exaggerated gestures. On the wide Grand Canal, </span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="SpellingError SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">vaporetto</span></span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> carrying herds of people cruise from dock to dock, always seeming to be overcrowded and short on oxygen. Everyone gives right of way to an elderly woman who creeps slowly off of a packed boat. Her age puts her at the top of the hierarchy; respect for one’s elders is instinctive in Italy.</span><span class="EOP SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX219465507" paraeid="{e10e1fe5-c5d9-41e7-a524-db1b406401a7}{60}" paraid="1112239891" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Contrasting the obviousness of the tourists, the natives blend into the background, camouflaging themselves among the fanny packs and cameras. They walk with a purpose foreign to disoriented visitors. They know the back streets, the boat schedules, and the best </span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="SpellingError SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">gelaterias</span></span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">.</span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> Though they are surely aggravated by the constant clamor of tourists, their livelihoods depend upon the booking of hotels and overpriced gondola tours. Should the </span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="SpellingError SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">acqua</span></span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="SpellingError SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">alta</span></span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> threaten to submerge the islands, the tourism that puts money into the pockets of the gondoliers, shopkeepers, and tour guides will fade away. The 60,000 loyal Venetians will be forced to abandon their beloved city for dry ground. Even Paolo, a loyal third-generation gondolier with typical Italian pride for his hometown, will have no choice but to pack up his striped shirts and to evacuate. Thus Venice is a delicate dance of tourists and locals that depend upon each other heavily. The locals must guide us, feed us, and transport us. In exchange, we pay too much for pasta, overload on souvenirs, and fill their streets with ruckus. Everyone must sacrifice and everyone must gain to keep the city afloat. </span><span class="EOP SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Somewhere deep within the intricate madness that is Venice lies something magical. It is a uniquely Italian environment that refuses a rulebook, but still manages to churn on 365 days a year. If you look closely enough, you find order. The same chaotic story repeats itself day after day, summer after summer, year after year. Visitors come and then they leave. They buy </span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Murano</span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> glass, view the </span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="SpellingError SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Tintorettos</span></span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">, </span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="SpellingError SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Bellinis</span></span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">, and Titians in the Doge’s palace, and take expensive gondola rides. Their itineraries aren’t original and their pictures aren’t unique. Locals ferry in each morning, perform their jobs, and leave each night. Still, Venice defies reality. </span><span class="EOP SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX219465507" paraeid="{e10e1fe5-c5d9-41e7-a524-db1b406401a7}{78}" paraid="580554643" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Tourists don’t come here to stare peacefully at their reflections in the water. They journey to Venice to lose the structure that defines their everyday lives. They come to Venice to see asphalt turned to water and to ride in boats instead of cars. They come to Venice to find their whole world turned inside out underneath the bright blue sky.</span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="TextRun SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">The wildness is the mandatory product of a city that rejects normalcy. When the lagoon dwellers drove wooden stakes into the ground hundreds of years ago, they created a place on earth unlike any other. Earth- shattering places don’t greet you with a whisper—they greet you with a roar. </span><span class="EOP SCX219465507" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00698480442846091553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6321423718671757427.post-88938290199029903012015-07-14T22:10:00.001-07:002015-07-14T22:10:40.852-07:00To Dine in Rome<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX9437390" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative; text-indent: 48px;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX9437390" paraeid="{945332b7-d1fa-4fa1-8a62-984a3da7b232}{90}" paraid="153131617" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">The all-you-can-eat breadsticks and salad of Olive Garden are the average middle-class American’s prototype of a great Italian dining experience. On weekend evenings and Sundays after church, the line weaves out the door and down the block. Most people in line tap their feet and check their watches with frustration. Once your pager buzzes and the hostess </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">whisks</span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> you away to your table, you’re immediately greeted by Joe. If he’s a good waiter by the restaurant’s standards, he serves you in a timely manner with a big smile. You peruse the gigantic menu filled </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">with </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">rich dishes like </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="SpellingError SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">fettucini</span></span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">alfredo</span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">, chicken </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">parmigiana</span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">, and sausage-stuffed giant </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">rigatoni</span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">. While you wait, you scroll through your Facebook feed on your phone and let everyone know that you’re at Olive Garden. </span><span class="EOP SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX9437390" paraeid="{945332b7-d1fa-4fa1-8a62-984a3da7b232}{95}" paraid="581010495" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Twenty minutes and two drink refills later, Joe brings out your ridiculously- large portion of pasta, and you scarf it down in record time. As soon as you’re too full to function, Joe brings you the check and you reward with him a generous tip. “It was my pleasure to serve you,” he calls robotically on your way out, as he pockets the extra cash and the next family takes a seat. Your total mealtime is thirty-two minutes. </span><span class="EOP SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX9437390" paraeid="{945332b7-d1fa-4fa1-8a62-984a3da7b232}{105}" paraid="725067294" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Jump to Rome, Italy.</span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> The city’s traditional recipes, descendants from a Roman cookbook known as </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="SpellingError SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Apicius</span></span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">, are as ancient as their ruins. These recipes are followed in modern </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">trattorias</span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> on every block and incorporate locally grown, harvested, or produced foods such as olives, figs, chickpeas, seafood, and cheeses. Though pizza was born in Naples, its predecessor, focaccia bread with toppings, was a Roman staple. My pre-trip misconceptions, based on my Olive Garden visits, are quickly dispelled on my first free evening in Rome.</span><span class="EOP SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX9437390" paraeid="{945332b7-d1fa-4fa1-8a62-984a3da7b232}{125}" paraid="1576844778" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">My friends and I stumble upon a quaint </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">ristorante</span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">i</span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">n an alleyway near the Spanish S</span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">teps.</span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Thinking we would avoid the crowd</span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">s by dining after eight in the evening, we’re surprised to find the small patio filled with Italian couples slowly sipping </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">vino </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="SpellingError SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">ro</span></span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="SpellingError SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">sso</span></span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">and munching on light appetizers without any hint of urgency. We wait by the entrance for a few minutes, as waiters move carefully through the tiny gaps between </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">closely-set</span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> tables. At last, one waiter notices our presence and gestures nonchalantly at a table that hasn’t been cleared yet. </span><span class="EOP SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX9437390" paraeid="{945332b7-d1fa-4fa1-8a62-984a3da7b232}{147}" paraid="2137100533" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Sitting down and rapidly opening our small menus, we fail to recognize half of the dishes listed. Among the pastas are </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">spaghetti </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="SpellingError SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">alle</span></span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="SpellingError SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">vongole</span></span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="SpellingError SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">veraci</span></span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">, noodles dotted with clams, and </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="SpellingError SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">cacio</span></span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> e </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="SpellingError SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">pepe</span></span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">, </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">a</span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">macaroni</span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">tossed with grated cheese and ground black pepper.</span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> They’re simple dishes not overtaken by excessive seasoning, sauces, or additives like the Americanized-Italian we’re accustomed to. The one basket of plain white bread resting before us is a far cry from the unlimited garlic bread of Olive Garden. Bread in Italy is not meant to fill up the customer, but rather as a pre-meal snack or as an instrument to soak up leftover sauce from your main course. Bread enhances, but doesn’t detract from, the chef’s preparations. I begin to think that this chef would be offended to see his recipes slaughtered with creamy sauce and mounds of salt. I begin to think that Olive Garden should remove the word Italian from its dictionary. </span><span class="EOP SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX9437390" paraeid="{945332b7-d1fa-4fa1-8a62-984a3da7b232}{154}" paraid="1438452392" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">When our meals arrive sometime later, we realize that we have lost track of time in our internet-free conversations and that early evening has turned surreptitiously into nighttime. We delight our taste buds with various seafood, pizza, and noodles. I savor each </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">freshly-prepared</span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> bite of my pasta with pesto sauce, making sure that I take the time to appreciate the flavor. Our waiter is in no hurry to herd us out of the restaurant, though my watch reads half past ten and we haven’t yet thought about dessert. With our plates clean and our selves satisfied, we don’t even mind that our waiter takes an extra twenty minutes to bring us our check or that we have to rummage around in our purses for cash because we can’t pay individually. My previous notions that eating here would be anything similar to an Olive Garden experience seem silly. There is an art to eating in Rome that is lost on its American mimickers. </span><span class="EOP SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX9437390" paraeid="{945332b7-d1fa-4fa1-8a62-984a3da7b232}{156}" paraid="1347333220" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-indent: 48px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="Paragraph SCX9437390" paraeid="{945332b7-d1fa-4fa1-8a62-984a3da7b232}{156}" paraid="1347333220" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-indent: 48px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> Structural differences explain part of the wide separation between </span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-indent: 48px;" xml:lang="EN-US">American and</span><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-indent: 48px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> Roman dining experiences. Joe, the ideal Olive Garden waiter, is financially dependent upon the tips that his patrons leave for him because his employer only pays him about two dollars an hour. As a result, the American dining experience is focused on quick service. The faster the customers dine and leave, the more tables Joe can turn during his shift, and the more tips he can earn. Italian waiters don’t work for tips like their American counterparts—they are paid fully by their employers and thus less inclined to strive to please the customer. Speedy service is a low priority for the waiter, giving the customers more time to enjoy their meals and to interact with one another.</span><span class="EOP SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-indent: 48px;"> </span></span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX9437390" paraeid="{945332b7-d1fa-4fa1-8a62-984a3da7b232}{163}" paraid="244463572" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX9437390" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative; text-indent: 48px;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX9437390" paraeid="{945332b7-d1fa-4fa1-8a62-984a3da7b232}{166}" paraid="443840893" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="TextRun SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Intertwining with this concept of slow service is the Italian concept of dining as a social affair. Americans worry about resolving their hunger and moving on, evident through the popularity of fast food chains and microwave dinners. It’s the result of a culture with a lack of dining traditions and the need to make everything time efficient. In Rome, they view eating as a time for conversation and for enjoying the camaraderie of friends and family, which is a product of their strong familial bonds and of their focus on community. They aren’t in a hurry because their priorities are different; they are focused on the nature of their overall dining experience. </span><span class="EOP SCX9437390" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00698480442846091553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6321423718671757427.post-39282774821472021902015-05-28T13:42:00.000-07:002015-05-28T13:42:25.825-07:00Pompeii: Reflection in the Rubble<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> Two point six million people a year
shuffle through the high arch of the Porta Marina and into the remainders of
the ancient Roman city of Pompeii. Some of these visitors meander into the town
forum, guidebooks in hand, and mentally rebuild towering marble columns from
the crumbled ruins. Or perhaps they journey to this sacred spot to imagine the
cobblestone streets alive with tradesmen, children, and slaves. Perhaps, like
me, two point six million people a year come to Pompeii and reflect upon death.
I came face to face with my own mortality in the wreckage.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">When I first arrive at the
Pompeii-Scavi train station, the only reminder of death is the murderer herself
looming in the distance. Mt. Vesuvius erupted last in 1944, killing twenty-six
people. Scientists say she is due for another eruption soon. Of one thing they
are certain—she, who sits on a 154 square mile layer of magma, will spew lava
from her top again and the consequences will be cataclysmic. It’s unnerving how
her grey figure stands in the distance above her destruction, watching,
waiting. She was made to create chaos and her work is incomplete. Under her
watchful eye, tourists explore what she destroyed on that tragic day in
seventy-nine A.D. The explosion that brought darkness also brought light by
burying the town alive and consequently, preserving it. I am here today because
of her. Her hand could bury me tomorrow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The bits and pieces of conversation
that I hear along the walk to the entrance to the site are lighthearted. Signs
advertising cheap pizza and free Internet access line the walls. Persistent men
push their arrays of multicolored selfie sticks into the face of every tourist
who comes within ten feet. People here actually buy these egocentric devices
that maximize the amount of people you can fit into one picture you take of
yourself; I see a group of teens bartering in Italian for one. It’s not the
concept of the “selfie stick” that is so disturbing as the context in which
they are being sold. Pompeii is a place where thousands of Romans were smothered
under pumice and ash; it is a place of remembrance and mourning. Imagine the
disrespect of someone selling selfie sticks at a graveyard. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Everyone</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">smile, you’ll make the spirits proud. </i>Why does no one give this
practice a second thought here?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are
at the ultimate historical graveyard, eternal home to both young and old,
healthy and sick. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are the Pompeian’s
dead to a lesser degree because they died two thousand years ago?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At what point does death demand less respect?
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The clicks of camera shutters surround
me as I enter the forum. Picking up my own Nikon, I snap a few pictures of the
rust-colored rubble contrasted against the bleak sky as I try to push the
thought of death from my mind. My group follows our guide to a corner, where
the plaster casts of victims are on display. Excavators filled plaster into the
hollow spaces left within the hardened volcanic debris after the decay of the
bodies, creating lifelike statues from the molds. They are graphic reminders of
the last moments of life here. One man crouches with his hands pulled up to his
face as if in prayer. Another lies down with his face buried in his arms, too
afraid to look death in the face. A jaw with perfectly preserved teeth opens
fully in mid-scream. I can barely look at the image of the pregnant woman
without feeling a deep sense of sorrow because she never looked upon her
growing child’s face. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Click.</i> Someone
next to me takes a photo of the casts. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Click.
Click. Click.</i> The clicks grow more prevalent the more I pay attention to
them. As the shutters close, my mind opens. Where I see death, some see
plaster. When I look at these casts, I imagine myself in their position and
suddenly I am screaming, praying, and fearing for my life. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Click</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Disturbing thoughts of the dying
woman follow me around for hours until I’m unable to separate myself from her. I
think of my aspirations and everything that I want to accomplish before departing
the earth. I want to love people the way I imagine the pregnant woman loved her
baby—fiercely, bravely, unconditionally. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Whose
faces will I picture in my last few moments? What legacy will I leave behind?</i>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It’s strange and uncomfortable to
think about one’s own mortality, but it’s also an important part of the human
experience. The technological distractions of this day hinder this kind of
reflective thinking. Suddenly, the successfulness of selfie sticks makes sense.
It’s not that we intentionally disrespect the dead; we just prefer to ignore
them. It’s less painful to smile for a selfie than to face the thoughts of our
own death. It’s easier to place these people into a category marked Ancient and
snap a picture. When we are unwilling, unable, or too distracted to dive deep into
mortality, we lose our appreciation for both the past and present. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">“The beauty of things must be that
they end,” Kerouac wrote. The beauty of life stems from our humble mortality.
We must always seize the day or again in the words of Kerouac, “Climb that
goddamn mountain.” The mountain represents our passions—the things that make us
feel alive and whole. One-day molten lava may bust down our front door and
we’ll never look up from our Iphones. One thing is for sure--the Pompeians
never wasted time looking at a screen. The pleasant Italian climate meant they
spent a great deal of their lives outdoors. Romans from elsewhere traveled far
to vacation in the picturesque setting. The ruins of their houses, brothels,
bathhouses, frescoes, and even the grid of their streets reflect a tight knit
community of people. Running water and the ingenious design of their bathhouses
suggest they were smart, clean, and sophisticated. They valued art, music, family,
theatre, sex, love, and the Gods. Pompeians climbed that goddamn mountain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Even in death, these ancient
peoples embody life. Blood stopped flowing through their veins thousands of
years ago, but their legacy marches on for two point six million tourists a
year to uncover. Put down your cameras.
Refuse the selfie sticks. Pay attention to the voices of the people who
perished here. Learn from them. Life and death intertwine and coexist, and
there are few places that shout this louder than Pompeii if only you pause and
listen.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00698480442846091553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6321423718671757427.post-13884781612560797652015-05-17T14:42:00.000-07:002015-07-14T22:07:21.840-07:00 The Italian Man in Seat 37E<span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> The navy blue cloth of an airline seat back gradually materializes in front of me as I awaken from an uneasy slumber. For a few seconds I lose any sense of my whereabouts as my fuzzy mind struggles to find reality. Who am I? Elizabeth Sager Miller Campbell. Where am I? Somewhere on an airplane in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Where am I going? Italy. I’m going to Italy to travel write. <br /><br /> My body aches as my legs untangle and I free myself from my contorted position between two armrests. Looking around, I see familiar faces sleeping soundly despite the desperate wails of a toddler nearby. On my right, I notice an Italian man with gray-speckled hair and half-moon glasses snoring across the aisle. His blue striped linen shirt and ironed pants suggest that he is careful of his appearance and his worn leather shoes reveal that he has traveled many miles. He looks like the kind of tired that comes from too much living. His crimson Italian passport peeks out of his shirt pocket and I wonder about the stamps that line its pages. Where has he journeyed? I am acutely aware of the vast cultural ocean that separates this man from me. My mind travels along the deep wrinkles that line his suntanned face—what wisdom do they hold? What is it like—this place he calls home? It is surely not like mine. <br /><br /><br /> I imagine that he lives in the rolling hills of the Tuscan countryside with his apron-wearing wife of many years. She raised the children and cooked the spaghetti. He worked long hours on the family vineyard until his back started to hurt and the heat wore him out. Like his father did for him, he passed the business down to his hardworking sons. He wakes every morning with the sense of satisfaction that he has given back to the earth, and he spends the remainder of his days bonding with his grandchildren in the garden behind his little house. He is never bothered with rush hour traffic and he doesn’t carry a watch. He lives by dawn and dusk, worrying little about what tomorrow will bring. His home is wine, family, and the fresh country air. His home is Italy. <br /><br /><br /> My home is Arkansas. Memories of my almost twenty years of life flash through my head one by one. I recall learning to ride a bike on the suburban streets of my old neighborhood, playing tennis with my father on Sunday afternoons, and the fast pace of growing up with parents who worked long hours at the office. A product of the technological age, my life has been defined by widespread Internet access, text messages, and impatience for anything that takes more than a few seconds to download. My rural house is a picturesque refuge from the rush of the city. My home is sweet tea, southern hospitality, and thirty-minute commutes. <br /><br /><br /> The elements of my home make up everything that I am so far. My travels, too, have shaped me. The charming streets of Europe and the breathtaking views of the Swiss Alps have shown me physical beauty. There has been pain in the form of homesickness, stolen wallets, and the weariness of sleeping on another hard hostel mattress. But most importantly, my journeys have shown me humanity. I think of the roofless home of a Moroccan family in Rabat and how they were more than kind to a tiny American girl who did not speak a word of their language and whom they would never see again. There is my Spanish host mom, Elvira, who revealed the pain of losing family members and the joy of welcoming new guests, like me, into her home to stay. I see the tears of strangers and the grin of the elderly man I passed by every day on my way to school in Seville. With each new destination, the differences between the next person and myself shrink. As I explore the cultures of others, I recognize the flavors, colors, languages, gestures, flairs, and backgrounds that make us unique but not divided. We all miss someone. We all lose people we love. We all hurt, laugh, feel and share the experience of the fragility of being human. Perhaps we are not so very different after all. Maybe the Italian man’s home is not so different from mine. <br /><br /><br /> I aim an ear-to-ear smile at my elderly neighbor in seat 37E, who is now wide awake. He mutters something friendly back in Italian that I do not understand. The language barrier does not matter anymore—the oceans in his eyes seem to write back to me. I imagine we communicate on a deep level, both searching for what holds us as beings under the same constellations; as breathers, thinkers, and lovers; as creatures who start wars and who are simultaneously devastated by them, together. We are both on journeys that have little to do with our destination. I hope he, too, has found true beauty on his. </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00698480442846091553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6321423718671757427.post-39528637402693366112015-05-12T17:11:00.000-07:002015-05-12T19:34:37.605-07:00Travel Writing Through Italy <div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #eeeeee;">It's been about a year since I've blogged about traveling because I had to be productive and go to college for a year. While I certainly missed my European adventures, I think there's something valuable in staying put for a long period of time. Stability kind of messed with my not-committed-to-anyone-or-any-place mantra. I'm used to having friends from all corners of the world and I'm okay with losing touch until our paths cross again. But some pretty special people at college taught me that sometimes you need to fight to stay close to the important people in your life, no matter the distance. I needed freshman year to remind me that I don't always need to go elsewhere to find beauty in the people or places surrounding me. I am learning to be content where I am and trying to say, “I miss you and I hope to see you soon" more often. <br /><br />Back to the traveling part. With a semester in Chile and a deadline for declaring my major(s) looming on the horizon, I continually ask myself <b><i>the </i></b>question of what exactly it is I want to do with my life. At a college where the majority of my peers will be among the finest future doctors, lawyers, and CEO's of America, I'm over here suffocating at the thought of sitting behind a desk and between four walls every day of my life. I <strike>think</strike> know that life is too short for constant misery and thus have committed myself to an occupation that makes me feel alive. So, what makes me feel alive? Traveling. Writing. Photography. Learning new languages. New experiences. Adventure. I'm going to take any and every opportunity to make sure these things are a regular part of my life. </span><br />
<span style="color: #eeeeee;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #eeeeee;">Consequently, I'm about to spend three weeks roaming across Italy with a group of students and three professors where I'm supposed to contemplate the 'art of travel' and express it through a 5000 word portfolio due at the end of the trip. I'm stoked to have the opportunity to try my hand at legit "travel writing" in an academic and historical setting. I'm more stoked to eat all of the spaghetti and gelato that Italy has to offer. I'm the most stoked to put my restlessness behind me and see the world beyond the United States again. Italy is chaos, art, and romance. It is ruined and thriving, ancient and alive. Pompeii, Naples, Rome, Florence, and Venice are calling and I am ready, pen in hand, to capture each place's beauty for what it is. After Italy, I'll travel on to Salzburg, Switzerland, and England for leisure, returning to Arkansas in the middle of June. </span><br />
<span style="color: #eeeeee;"><br />I am currently: keeping my fingers crossed that my Macbook and camera travel safely throughout my journey, trying to figure out how I'm going to fit all of my stuff into a carry-on size bag, considering becoming a minimalist, hoping the Italian wifi isn't too sucky so I can regularly post my essays, and peacing out cause I'm Rome bound tomorrow.</span><br />
<span style="color: #eeeeee;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #eeeeee;">Wish I knew the Italian word for goodybe,<br /><br />Elizabeth</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00698480442846091553noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6321423718671757427.post-73477326872360003732014-07-30T11:00:00.001-07:002014-07-30T11:12:03.046-07:0083 Days Later and A Lot of Nostalgia<div>I finished my summer job exactly four days ago. And while I'm ecstatic that my sweaty days of leading little kids around and taking fish off the hook and hiking with twelve first-graders and cleaning up someone else's vomit off of the cabin floor are over, I can't help but miss being a camp counselor at the same time. It's a strange but not unfamiliar feeling-- longing for somewhere, something, someplace, a period of time in your life that you can never return to. I guess they call it nostalgia. For someone who's never content staying in one place for very long, I have the hardest time letting go of the happy times in my life. Which is probably why I found myself scrolling through Yahoo's travel section this morning. Among the Top 10 California Beaches and the Truth About Summer Road trips, I come across articles about the places I've been. And I miss the glittering lights and sweater weather of romantic Paris that Paige and I spent a week in this past November. And I miss the stunning view of the Swiss Alps from my hotel window. And I miss freezing in Amsterdam in February, waiting in line to visit the Anne Frank House. And I miss staying in a house with no roof or shower in the Moroccan heat. And most of all, I miss my Spanish home, Sevilla. This morning, my host mom sent me a text, "echo de menos tu sonrisa, "I miss your smile." And if my Spanish were better, I would tell her that I miss how her home always smelled like lemon cleaning supplies, how I loved coming home to a huge meal at 3 in the afternoon (and that she fed me when I wasn't hungry), and how grateful I am for the kindness she showed to a little, jet lagged American girl that showed up in a taxi at her door speaking no Spanish. Sometimes people ask me if I was scared about living with strangers in a foreign country where I don't speak the language. I wasn't at all-- I was beyond excited that life would become interesting again. Maybe I should have been scared, but things have a way of working themselves out. If had let fear keep me from Spain, I would have missed out on the grandest adventure of my life. And so, while I'm sitting here, flipping nostalgically through photos of my travels, I'm telling myself that it shouldn't make me sad. One day I'll get to experience the rush of getting on an international flight by myself again. One day, I'll visit the cities that I fell in love with. One day, my path will cross again with the people who shared my journey. The absolute biggest challenge upon returning home has been learning how to be content with staying still. So far, the remedies are taking siestas, writing about my experiences, and talking about travel with anyone who will listen. I've been really lucky this summer to have made some friends from Colombia, England, Kenya, and New Zealand. Their daily presence reminded me of the world beyond Arkansas and that yes, it still exists. (I've added a few more places to my bucket list, too. Next stop, Bogota.) </div><div><br></div><div>I was sad to leave Spain, am sad that the amazing people I've met this summer have moved on to better things, but happy knowing that each change in life presents new opportunities and adventures. It doesn't mean that people and places won't find their way back into your life again. Because they will, if they're meant to be there. </div><div><br></div><div>"Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don't resist them; that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like." -- Lao Tzu</div><div><br></div><div>Always looking up, still independent, still fiercely passionate about travel, just a little bit stuck in Arkansas, </div><div><br></div><div>Elizabeth </div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-heoFjcbhGsE/U9kyrAf5GbI/AAAAAAAAAOY/PI5Er5YvKv8/s640/blogger-image-542607727.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-heoFjcbhGsE/U9kyrAf5GbI/AAAAAAAAAOY/PI5Er5YvKv8/s640/blogger-image-542607727.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-NJTM5_oV1iQ/U9kybMsEmeI/AAAAAAAAANQ/HV0OhXGdbKs/s640/blogger-image-1592049147.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-NJTM5_oV1iQ/U9kybMsEmeI/AAAAAAAAANQ/HV0OhXGdbKs/s640/blogger-image-1592049147.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Vye8iFMoqkA/U9kyfVdsDkI/AAAAAAAAANg/-xmNh-Hf4L8/s640/blogger-image-1987762687.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-1B5JyLlBmUU/U9kypcbMEeI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/NTnb3xq8Gco/s640/blogger-image-1622730161.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-BjqHjyRFUWw/U9kyEXacEeI/AAAAAAAAAMw/BmyyRIWixtc/s640/blogger-image--1735608332.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-BjqHjyRFUWw/U9kyEXacEeI/AAAAAAAAAMw/BmyyRIWixtc/s640/blogger-image--1735608332.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-yY0NBESwrDs/U9kyFQ6Oj1I/AAAAAAAAAM4/gRF20NdsaVI/s640/blogger-image--1463863865.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-yY0NBESwrDs/U9kyFQ6Oj1I/AAAAAAAAAM4/gRF20NdsaVI/s640/blogger-image--1463863865.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-lUQwApb8UTo/U9kx_ZZ51qI/AAAAAAAAAMY/gza4MH2rRxM/s640/blogger-image--637789773.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-lUQwApb8UTo/U9kx_ZZ51qI/AAAAAAAAAMY/gza4MH2rRxM/s640/blogger-image--637789773.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-Sehfqnfo1hI/U9kykf0SkII/AAAAAAAAAN4/esO7YJoAqzo/s640/blogger-image-689864012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-Sehfqnfo1hI/U9kykf0SkII/AAAAAAAAAN4/esO7YJoAqzo/s640/blogger-image-689864012.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00698480442846091553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6321423718671757427.post-83132628297951286612014-06-23T22:26:00.000-07:002014-06-23T22:26:04.066-07:00Where is home? I've been home for six weeks now. I decided to blog because my 8 months in Spain continues to influence me here in Arkansas. There's not a day that goes by that I don't miss my Spanish life, family, friends, and culture. My experience abroad is still so much a part of who I am. One of the first things I tell people when meeting them is that I lived in Spain, as if without knowing that piece of information, they wouldn't really know me. Of course, most people only acknowledge it, say "that's cool," and the conversation moves on to something else. I don't blame them. It's much easier to talk about something everyone relates to. And I guess that's what's so disheartening about being back in America. While all of my highschool friends talk about their first year of college, roommates, and frat parties, I keep silent for one of three reasons: A) mentioning that you lived in Europe makes you come across as a prick, B) mentioning that you legally drank sangria by the river on the weekends/ went bar hopping/ clubbing tends to win over red solo cups, C) mentioning how awesome your host mom was really detracts from the college roommate horror stories. I've just learned to accept that my experience was unique and that no one cares about it as much as I do (except of course all of the wonderful people who were there with me.) I've also had to accept that the world didn't stand still when I left and that everyone else has changed too. It can put a lot of distance between myself and people who used to be a part of my everyday life. We have different paths out into the world now and less in common. Change is inevidable, but I appreciate the time that our paths intertwined. <br />
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Right before I returned up until now, I've gone through through reverse culture shock. There are generally four stages of it: Disengagement, Initial euphoria,Irritability and hostility, and Readjustment and adaptation. On the plane ride home, I was really excited to return to my previous life. I had all of these ideas and images in my head of how great home would be. And while, I was happy to see everyone and everyone was happy to see me, my initial excitement only lasted a few days. After that, I fell into a post-Spain depression. I longed to return to my days of siestas. I felt like no one understood me. I was critical of the US, of our wastefulness, our wealth, and our attitude. I felt like a stranger in my home. My independence was threatened as I readjusted to living with my parents, rather than a host family who didn't really set boundaries. I kept seeing all of the negative aspects of my return, rather than the positives of my journey. I've now adapted back into American life, but it's not the same as it was and I'm not the same I was. Back in the spring, I spontaneously applied to be a summer camp counselor at a camp near my house. I figured it would be a good way to be home for the summer and to have a little bit of adventure. This job is a lot less glamorous than my travels, but it's been more rewarding than I could have imagined. It's hot, dirty, humid, and I don't have time for a siesta. But I get to be outdoors all day, meet people from all over, and stargaze at night. It's truly a beautiful place and it's been a humbling experience. I think I'm learning how to just be without things I thought were necessities before: my iPhone, air conditioning, and makeup. Not only did I grow as person abroad, but I'm growing in Ferndale, Arkansas too. A place where I thought I might shrink. You see, you don't always need to travel to find yourself. I'm learning things about myself here that Spain couldn't have taught me. As much as I wanted to see the glass half-empty this summer, it's getting pretty full.<br />
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I plan on going to college in the fall. I plan on spending summers traveling. Maybe I'll go to South America or spend a year in France somewhere in between. I'm going to do whatever makes me feel whole and I'm going to be completely myself, two things I had never been this time last year. I'll keep this blog and update it occasionally, and when I have time, reflect more on some memories. But for now, I'm still getting used to being here and it's an adventure in itself.<br />
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Sincerely,<br />
Elizabeth<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00698480442846091553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6321423718671757427.post-85180533515523835392014-05-04T13:50:00.001-07:002014-05-04T13:50:41.128-07:00Why do you go away?<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><blockquote class="quoteBody" style="text-indent: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px; padding-left: 25px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving." </span></blockquote><div class="quoteDetails" style="box-sizing: border-box; padding-left: 25px;"><h2 class="quoteAuthor" style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 10px 0px;"><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1654.Terry_Pratchett" style="box-sizing: border-box; text-decoration: none; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><font color="#000000">Terry Pratchett</font></a></h2></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> I <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">spend a lot of time on airplanes. In fact, I started writing this blog as I flew from the beautiful island of Mallorca to Barcelona. And then I fell asleep. And now I'm writing this blog on the plane from San Sebastián back to Barcelona. A new blog post has been long overdue. Since I last posted, I've been to Lisbon, London, Ireland, finished my program in Spain, and am at the end of my final adventure through Spain. I meant to post about each and everyone one of these places but time just got away from me. So while I won't go into the details right here (I'll share plenty of stories when I get home), I will take the opportunity to write about the ways in which my travels have changed me.</span></div></div><div><br></div><div>I've had to navigate London Heathrow airport four times by myself in the past two months. For those of you haven't ever been in Heathrow, it's a nightmare. On my way from London to Dublin, I had to go through security twice, two passport checks, customs, take a bus from terminal 1 to 5, and walk what felt like a mile to reach my gate, which then changed, making me walk across the airport again. To me, it just seems pretty casual. But in reality, I'm an 18 year old American girl navigating her way successfully through Europe's busiest airport without blinking an eye. I think I'd say I've developed a skill. Or maybe I have an affinity for 3 ounce bottles, ugly terminals, long layovers, and hard plastic chairs. Or probably, it's just something that comes with becoming independent. My travels have made me fiercely independent. On my way home this Wednesday, I will fly from Sevilla to Madrid to Dublin, where I will lug my huge suitcase to a hotel, spend the night, and return to the airport to fly to Heathrow, then Chicago, and finally Little Rock. A year ago, I'm not sure I would have had the confidence to do all of this on my own. But I've been to Morocco, Paris, Portugal, Ireland, London, Holland, and all around Spain this year, and I've managed. Before I left, people said it was a brave thing to do, to leave my comfort zone and go out into the world by myself. But that's another thing about travel, it connects you with so many other people. The friends I've made on this eighth month journey have influenced me in incredible ways. I've learned to be far more open-minded and accepting of other cultures, backgrounds, and religions. I left a tiny part of the world-- the conservative Bible Belt-- and I've found so much more. I've learned to not define myself by what I was taught growing up. Gay, straight, Christian, Buddhist, conservative, liberal, agnostic, Muslim, black, white, rich, poor-- no matter your circumstances or your beliefs, you have the right to be exactly who you want to be and I respect you. And I will go home as a better person for having discovered this, thanks to the friends I've made along the way.</div><div><br></div><div>And finally, my travels have made me fearless and passionate. Leaving my comfort zone was the best decision I've ever made. There have been ups and downs, days when I wanted home and days when I was on top of the world. But at the end of the day, I'm happy, because I'm doing what I love. I am passionate about travel and passionate about sharing my love of travel with other people. I would love to literally travel and photograph the world one day-- and I think I just might. I've learned that you can't let fear hold you back from pursuing your passions. I think I can do anything (and pre-gap year I got nervous ordering pizza on the phone.) </div><div><br></div><div>Tonight is my last night in a hostel. Tomorrow we will wake up and return to Sevilla for the Feria de Abril. I come back to the United States on Thursday. And I plan to fit one last blog post somewhere in between. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Elizabeth </div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00698480442846091553noreply@blogger.com0Plaça de Catalunya Barcelona41.386666 2.167949tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6321423718671757427.post-12693997110097803712014-03-18T12:06:00.001-07:002016-01-10T18:53:19.140-08:00The Power Of Communication <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> I can't believe it's been a month since I last blogged. Time here in Spain is a strange thing. It seems to pass slowly, especially during the lazy, warm hours of siesta. But at the same time, this morning I woke up and realized that I have less than two months left in this paradise. Spring has finally arrived, the days are 70 degrees and sunny. Each day after school, I lay by the river, soaking up the sun until lunch. We've been spending late afternoons in the park or drinking chai lattes in a cafe or taking advantage of 3 euro movie nights. These are all things that the locals here do as well, so I guess I've finally made this place my second home. I'll go home to the United States with a piece of Seville in my heart. When I'm sitting in class next semester on a dreary day, I know that I'll be wishing for the Spanish sun. I belong to two places.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> Since I went to Amsterdam, I've been to Cordoba twice, Granada, Cadiz, and Malaga. The highlight of all of this was seeing Carla, my precious Venezuelan friend. Carla studied at my high school two years ago. She came to America without knowing any English. Over the school year, we became best friends. Without her example, I probably wouldn't be sitting here typing this right now. I think she probably gave me a little bit of her courage. It's hard to learn a new language, much more difficult than I first imagined. It doesn't come easily. I've found it frustrating at times to have such little command of the Spanish language when writing. In English, I can write a complex, meaningful sentence without any thought, and even with all of my attention, I can't reproduce the same thing in Spanish. Have I improved since I came here with NO knowledge of Spanish? Absolutely. Can I effectively communicate with those around me? Yes. Am I fluent? Close to it. Will I be bilingual by the time I leave? Absolutely not. In CLIC, my international school, there are 6 basic levels of learning languages (this goes for all European languages.) I started in level A1-- beginner-- which according to the CEFR means that I "<i>can understand and use basic phrases, introduce myself, and interact in a simple way</i>." I'm now in the 4th level, B2-- upper intermediate-- which means I "<i>can understand the main ideas of complex text on both concrete and abstract topics, including technical discussions in a field of specialization, can interact with a degree of fluency that makes regular interaction with native speakers quite possible without strain for either party</i>," and I "<i>can produce clear, detailed text on a wide range of subjects and explain a viewpoint on a topical issue giving the advantages and disadvantages of various options</i>." And the last level, C2, means that you interact like a native speaker. These guidelines of language learning have really changed my perspective. I used to think that you either speak a language or you don't. But it's much more complicated than that. You can be fluent in a language, but not bilingual. In fact, it would take years and years of study and immersion for me to call myself "bilingual." I'm not perfect when I speak Spanish, I make mistakes, but I can communicate. This will serve me well wherever I may be, in Little Rock or Latin America. And when Carla came to visit, I was the one who was speaking a new language. It was really interesting the way that we communicated, I would say a sentence in Spanish and throw in an English word or two. She would say something in half English, half Spanish. It was completely chaotic, but it was effective. Anyone else listening to us would have been lost, but we understood each other better than we ever have before. A Venezuelan. An American. In Spain. Speaking each other's language with southern accents. And it's all worth it, a thousand times over.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> There's a girl from Ecuador in my English class that I help to teach once a week in one of the poorest neighborhoods in Seville. She speaks very little English, so our conversations are always in Spanish. Our worlds are nothing alike and without this new language, they would have never collided. Today, we bonded over music. There we were, walking down the street, listening to Romeo Santos, and laughing like old friends. You know what? We're not so different after all. </span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We're not so different after all.</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Elizabeth </span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00698480442846091553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6321423718671757427.post-2527861726781019172014-02-24T14:46:00.000-08:002014-02-24T14:46:37.154-08:00Becoming a Global Citizen: The Netherlands <span style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I did a project on Netherlands in my seventh grade Geography class (shout out to Mrs. Noble.) I remember how magical and far away Holland seemed, like a place out of a fairytale. I knew I wanted to go one day. I just didn't know that one day would be so soon. If I haven't said it before, I want to say that I'm unbelievably grateful to be seeing the world at my age. I've learned what it means to be a global citizen and the importance of understanding and respecting other people and where they come from. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Last week, a few of my friends and I boarded a RyanAir flight for Eindhoven. If you aren't familiar with RyanAir, it's the best and worst thing ever when traveling country to country in Europe. The flights are impossibly cheap (78 euro roundtrip to Holland from Spain) and they're almost always on time. The downsides are the uncomfortable seats, rough landings, poor customer service, and the ways in which they find to charge you obscene amounts of money. For instance, if your bag is bigger than the tiny carry-on requirement, you're charged to check it. When you buy your tickets online, you have to scroll through pages of advertisements and unnecessary extras. Don't forget to check all the boxes with "no" or else you'll end up with a bill of hundreds of euros. And finally, if for some sad reason your host sister spills water on your tickets that you printed out and RyanAir has to print them for you at the airport, you'll pay a fine of 170 euros. This actually happened to my friend Allyson on this trip. Two. pieces. of. paper. Also, RyanAir flies you outside of main cities. We flew to Eindhoven, which is an almost two hour train ride from Amsterdam. Seems like they forgot to advertise this along with their car rentals and city tours. I've learned to expect the worst, and in turn, have mastered the art of RyanAir. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We took a taxi to the airport in Seville. Caught a plane from Seville to Eindhoven. Took a bus from the Eindhoven airport to the train station. Took a train from Eindhoven to Amsterdam. Took a tram from the Amsterdam train station to a plaza near our hostel. And then walked. These trips are always stressful and it seems like we're always running late, running for a train, etc. As glamorous as travel can be, it can be just as unglamorous. Things get stolen (someone's camera), lost (my hat), and people wander off (my friends.) You run into people, you get elbowed in the face on a crowded tram, and in Amsterdam, you almost certainly get in the way of thousands of bikers. So, even though we may look like we have it all together in our pictures, we actually don't. We're just trying to figure out how to get from point A to point B without getting run over. And I guess we succeeded. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The first day, we checked into our hostel and explored the magical city. It's full of charm, history, canals, and amazing pastries. Literally every bridge has an incredible view of the river. It's such a contrast from the slow, colorful pace of Seville. I still can't believe the variety of landscapes and cultures in Europe. That night, we headed to see Ellie Goulding in concert at the Heineken Music Hall. We didn't really know where we were going or how to get there, but we figured it out in the end. Her concert was amazing and full of 6,000 screaming Dutch fans. In European countries, (mostly)American and British music is really popular. I've found that concerts are a really good way to remind you of home, and also really cool to tell people that you saw so-and-so in a big city in Europe. Thank you, Ellie. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It was my goal to visit the Anne Frank house. If I was going to see one thing, that would be it. We waited in line for over an hour in the wind and freezing cold the next day, but we finally made it inside the museum. I had read her diary and was pretty knowledgeable of the Holocaust, but none of that prepared me for the museum. To actually see where her family lived for two years, to see the room that confined her, gave me a tiny taste of what it felt like to be stripped of freedom. She couldn't even look outside without fear of being discovered. I can't really grasp the torture of it, but by being there, I was trying to understand. I'm not Jewish, but I am human, and I felt connected to her in a way that maybe I can't put into words. Maybe as a writer, maybe as a teenage girl who's figuring herself out, or maybe in the way that she longed to make a difference in the world. I will never take my freedom for granted.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">That night, we ventured into the Red Light District and quickly ventured back out. It wasn't really a recommendable view, just mostly sketchy. On our last day full day, I saw the Rijksmuseum and the Van Gogh museum. As an art fan, I really enjoyed both. Van Gogh's works were really cool because they were in chronological order. As he succumbed to his mental illness, his work became heavier and darker. I won't say anything more, because art museums are not super interesting to blog about, so go if you ever get the opportunity. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We finally made it back to Seville exhausted. Now when I say I'm going home, I'm referring to Seville, at least for the next few months. I look forward to returning to my tiny bed and chatting late at night with my adorable host mom. How lucky I am to have two places that I belong to. I have many more trips planned in the future, but tomorrow, CARLA IS COMING. Carla is my best friend in the world from Venezuela, and I get to show her part of my world these next few days.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Un abrazo,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Elizabeth </span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00698480442846091553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6321423718671757427.post-77697270969430857292014-02-13T11:15:00.002-08:002014-02-13T11:15:51.305-08:00Why You'll Miss Walmart When Studying Abroad in Spain <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"To my mind, the greatest reward and luxury of travel is to be able to experience everyday things as if for the first time, to be in a position in which almost nothing is so familiar it is taken for granted." - Bill Bryson</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> Here are some things you may not know about Spain: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">1) The schedule </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Spaniards move at a pretty slow pace, at least in the south. Work here starts a little bit later (my school starts at 9:15) and lunch is around 3. After lunch, which is the biggest meal of the day, there is the best part of the day, siesta. Siesta is wonderful. Siesta is two to three hours of relaxation and rest. Siesta is also when all of the stores shut down. Pharmacies, supermarkets, you name it. If you need something you better get it before 2pm, or else you'll have to wait until about 6pm. It can be really inconvenient. Dinner is eaten around 10pm, though my host mom isn't hungry until almost midnight. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Most of the houses and apartments here don't have central air conditioning or heating. During the summer, they open the windows, turn on their portable fans, and say "Que calor!" During the winter, they put blankets on their beds, exchange the fans for heaters, and wear six layers and slippers at all times. I'm used to walking around barefoot and my host mom seems to find this shocking. She even bought me slippers for Christmas so that I wouldn't catch a cold from the freezing floor. The best thing about winter in Spain are the tablecloths. They're basically big blankets that you cover your lap with and that trap the heat from the heater underneath the table. I could spend hours eating dinner because of this. Also, they're much more energy conscious. My host mom placed a timer in my shower because I was using too much water. She turns off my power strip when I accidentally leave it on. It really has taught me to be more aware. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Walmart. Don't ever take Walmart for granted again. Until you get outside of the United States, you don't realize that the rest of the developed world doesn't have access to the same things you do. For example, my friends and I want to make cookies for Valentine's day. In the States, you would go to Walmart/Target/Kroger and have all sorts of varieties of cookie mix. You probably would even have a whole aisle dedicated to baking. In Spain, they don't have cookie mix in the supermarkets. I ended up having to pay about 6 euro for a box at the tiny American store here and they only had one kind, chocolate chip. I'm not complaining really, just marveling at the variety and abundance of what we have in the US. Also, if you want Tylenol, you go to a pharmacy. If you want shampoo, you go to a toiletries shop. If you want bread, you go to a bread shop. If you want pencils, you go to a school supply store. Each category of items has its own separate shop, there is no place where you can buy everything. Watch this video of a few British guys talking about Walmart if you want to see it from their point of view: <a href="http://youtu.be/Gzj1OF7d9m4">here</a>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The European college experience is super different from the American one. Dorms, school spirit, sports, fraternities and sororities, and parties filled with red solo cups are non-existent. Spanish students pick their path of study while still in high school, and then go to the part of the University that offers it. They have to take an exam in their chosen career before they enter. If they decide they want to change careers halfway through their studies, they have to start all over. Also, students live with their parents (this very normal for Europeans, even into their late 20's) or rent apartments, there are no dorms. Extracurriculars and academics are kept separate, too. University is for studying and your free time is spent off campus. This makes me appreciate college back home a lot more.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Spain is in an economic crisis right now. Basically, the young educated Spaniards can't find work. I have a friend from Seville who I met at a little cafe by my house. She's 25, an architect, and works full time as a barista at this cafe because there are no jobs in construction right now. This is a very common story. I've met lawyers, writers, and teachers who are about the same age who are either unemployed or overqualified for their day job. As a result, the young generation is leaving Spain for other countries in Europe or the United States. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">6) Mindset</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">A couple of weeks ago, I was walking by the river in shorts and tank top, because it was 70 degrees and sunny. I kept getting stares from all of the people who would pass me by. They were all wearing heavy coats, scarves, boots, and hats. I asked my host mom why no one was dressing for the weather. She told me that Spaniards follow the seasons. It's still winter here and so Spaniards wear winter clothes, no matter the temperature. I found this funny, but also consistent. The people here are very dedicated to traditions, culture, and family. They adopt many of the habits of their parents and grandparents, and connections with their past are strong. America may be new and exciting, but Spaniards know who they are and they're proud of it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I can't believe I've already been here for a month. I'm excited to celebrate Valentine's day with cookies and Sweethearts that I bought at the American store (because they don't have those either here.) Saturday, I'm leaving for the Netherlands to visit Amsterdam and see an Ellie Goulding concert. I'll definitely post about the trip. Wish me luck!!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Elizabeth </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00698480442846091553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6321423718671757427.post-16704479942719923452014-01-26T12:13:00.001-08:002014-01-26T12:13:52.764-08:00The Not-So-Glamorous-Side of Student Travel<div>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The holidays are officially over and after spending some great time with my family back in the States, I'm ready to take on Seville for four more months. I'm not going to lie. It was much less exciting returning here than the first time. The city is no longer a secret. I'm already back in the routine of school. I know which winding, narrow back roads to take to get me where I'm going. I'm used to walking by the Guadalquivir river every day. I'm able to communicate in the language without awkward pauses and hand gestures. Seville is familiar. I crave the unfamiliar. But I have the feeling that there's a lot more to discover here. This semester is about finding it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">After the long flight from DFW and a few siestas, I left my apartment to meet the new students that are here for the second semester. As I was walking to meet them, I couldn't help but grin at my surroundings. There's something exciting in the air. Or maybe it's just the smell of the orange trees. I just have a good feeling about these next few months.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">But in contrast, I think that sometimes people have the idea that everything in my world, in Spain, is perfect. And while I'm having an incredible time so far, I'll reflect on December's trip to Madrid to clear things up. Because I'm 18, independent, and making mistakes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Why take the high-speed train for 100 euros when you can take a six-and-a-half hour bus ride for 40 round trip?</b> This the conclusion that my friends, Sophie and Faith, and I came up with when discussing how we would travel to Madrid, which is located in central Spain. <b>Why pay more than 12 euros a night for a hostel? </b>It seems that sometimes, in our quest to save money, we teenagers forget the little phrase, "you get what you pay for." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">And so we boarded the bus and arrived in Madrid pretty late at night. After a long ride on the Metro, we emerged into the glittering center of Madrid, which was still bustling with people. With instructions to look for our hostel between two shops, we found a sketchy door with graffiti plastered all over it. A closer inspection revealed a small sign with the name of our hostel, directing us to the third floor. We dragged our bags up the stairs and walked into the 1 star lobby filled with drinking, tattooed men and were promptly checked in by one of them, who seemed to care more about inviting us to the pub crawl than anything else. We were welcomed to our room that we would share with 8 other people, pointed to the bathroom that lay on the other side of the building, and allowed time to get to know our stained sheets. I'm not exactly sure when we realized that this was not the best idea, probably when the stench of the man's feet in the neighboring bed wafted near me.<b> Call the Ritz. We're getting out of here. </b>After a few calls to our parents for extra money and an extensive TripAdvisor search for a decent place to stay, we literally ran out of the place and into the overpriced comfort of a basic hotel room. I was just grateful for the lack of insects and a warm shower.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The next day we had to move hotels because ours was booked for the rest of the weekend, along with the rest of the hotels in all of Madrid. We chose to travel on a holiday weekend, which meant that we could find no place to stay! Finally, after sitting in the lobby for two hours, we found a decent hostel for a reasonable price. I'd say that we lucked out, because our choices were narrowed down to the street or the same hostel that we ran away from. FINALLY we were able to enjoy Madrid. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The best part of our trip began and ended with the Imagine Dragons concert. At my graduation in May, they played one of their songs as we entered. Here I was in Europe a few months later, screaming with my fellow Spaniards as we danced to the very same song, feet away from the band. It was a strange feeling, like I was being reminded of everything I've accomplished since then. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Everything quickly went downhill the rest of the weekend as the extreme crowds made it difficult to enjoy much of anything. Walking through the city center was a struggle because it was literally wall to wall people. We saw a few of the touristy sights, but mainly were just exhausted by the effort it took to get to them. Things really, really, really, went downhill on the last day as we were headed home. We had to take the Metro to the bus station and of course, had all of our luggage with us. I guess in the chaos of it all I wasn't paying enough attention to my surroundings. As we entered the train, I became separated from my friends. Seemingly by chance, but in reality it was all part of a scheme to steal my wallet. And steal my wallet they did. As the Metro began to move, I realized that I had nothing to hold on to to keep my balance. The woman standing next to me gestured at the rail in front of her. I unassumingly grabbed it, putting myself in an awkward, vulnerable position for her to have access to my purse. A few seconds later, I felt a tug on my purse. I looked down to find it out of my line of sight, covered by the jacket in the woman's hands. I quickly pulled it back and it was zipped. I opened it up to make sure that my wallet was still in there.... and it definitely was long gone. I knew the woman beside me had stolen it, so out of anger and adrenaline I yanked her jacket from her hands to look for my wallet. She pretended as if I she didn't know what was going on and had already handed my credit cards, money, and ID off to her accomplice. When the Metro came to a stop, she ran out before any of us could even really process what had just happened. It was the worst moment of my time here in Spain. We then missed our bus talking to the police, because my ticket was in my wallet (that was probably somewhere in a trashcan in a sketchy part of Madrid.) I had plenty of time to think on the long night ride back, so I came up with a few things that I would do from now on.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">1. Actually use the money belt that my mom insisted I wear when traveling (sorry.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">2. Look up detailed reviews of hostels before I book them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">3. Take an earlier form of transportation so that I don't arrive to my destination at midnight.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">4. Not ever take the cheap bus ride from Seville to Madrid again, because the companies aren't very sympathetic when you have to buy three new tickets after a crisis.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">5. Maybe pay a little more for things next time. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">6. Don't overpack and have to carry two bags and a purse on the Metro, which clearly makes me a target.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">7. Not let this experience keep me from enjoying traveling, but just be more aware next time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">And though some things about this country evoke horrible memories, today is January 26th. Today I walked along the river in shorts and a tank top. Today I layed out in the sun and 70 degree weather. Today I got a sunburn. Today I was grateful to be here. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">At the end of the day, I love Spain with all of my heart.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Un abrazo,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Elizabeth </span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00698480442846091553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6321423718671757427.post-85291911022609432562013-12-01T15:30:00.003-08:002013-12-01T15:41:34.183-08:00A Moroccan Adventure<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: #0c343d; color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">Hola todos,</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #0c343d; color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> <span style="text-align: center;">A few weeks ago, I took a ferry from Spain to Africa in forty five minutes. In the States, my family drives over ten hours to the beach in Florida. It's strange how traveling very short distances here can put you in an entirely new world and continent, where the language, religion, and culture is vastly different. </span><i style="text-align: center;">De hecho</i><span style="text-align: center;">, from Tangier, Morocco, you can see the coastline of Spain perfectly. I don't know exactly what I was expecting to find on my four day trip, but I imagined a lot of exotic animals and treks across the desert. While you would find that in Kenya, Morocco is an entirely different story. It lies on the western edge of Africa and has fought off conquerors and colonizers throughout its history to become an independent mix of European, African, Arabic influences. Our first walk through the streets revealed the deep ties of its people to Islam, strange chants out of a minaret called the men to prayer in the mosque, while women were covered with </span><i style="text-align: center;">hijabs (</i><span style="text-align: center;">headscarves.) We soon learned that women play a very subservient role in the culture, which made me a little uncomfortable, because I have grown up believing that gender doesn't define who you are, what you can wear or not wear, or what you can be. We were able to talk with local students over tea and pastries on our first day to see their viewpoints on their religion. One girl voluntarily wears a </span><i style="text-align: center;">hijab, </i><span style="text-align: center;">and the other one doesn't wear one at all, but both insisted its a personal choice. What struck me most about the students was how similar they seemed to us American teenagers. Yes, we practice different religions and live in different places, but we all struggle with trying to find meaning in our lives. We ask the same questions and face similar problems in our respective countries day to day. What I knew about Muslim countries before this trip, was limited to the horrors shown on television, sixty second news flashes that are meant to evoke fear. But what I found in Morocco were friendly, welcoming people who are eager to learn as much about my life as I am about theirs. I think that if I we all attempted to understand and accept the similarities between people around the world, instead of pointing out our differences, it would eliminate a lot of the ignorance that comes with fear of the unknown. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #0c343d; color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">On a happier note, we were surprised with camel rides along the beach on our first day. We got up close and personal with the animals, petting them and taking selfies with them. It was truly a unique experience. Then, we drove to a little seaside town to have <i>couscous </i>and admire the amazing view of the Mediterranean. It was in that quaint village that we discovered a place on a wall where you take your picture and then upload it to Instagram with a particular hashtag. That way, all of the people around the world that have been in that spot are connected with a push of button. It's strange to see the way technology impacts and enhances our lives, even in the oldest of places. Speaking of which, for the majority of the time, I had no phone service or wifi. It was probably the longest time I had gone without Internet since I was twelve. Though technology is good for so many things, it was refreshing to look at the views without Tweeting or Facebooking or texting. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #0c343d; color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">That night, we headed to the capital of Morocco, Rabat, where we met our host families and had dinner. Visitors are seen as gifts from God in Islamic tradition, so we were treated very well. The house I stayed in was very open, with curtains separating one room from another. The Moroccan household is a place of community and family. We were treated to large dinners with fruit, couscous, tea, pastries, and salad, while failing to communicate effectively with hand gestures. Mostly, I just smiled and everyone just smiled back. The thing I found particularly challenging was the shoe rule. If you walk on carpet, you take off your shoes. If you walk on tile, you put on your shoes. It proved to be a hassle to constantly switch between the two and found myself accidentally breaking the tradition often. There are modern conveniences in Morocco, like lights and running water, but its still a developing country. My particular family thankfully had a Western style toilet, while some others did not (think hole in the ground,) but our shower was a bucket of water and a loofah. After a day of exploring different sites in Rabat, we all had the opportunity to go to the public bath, called the Hammam. All the girls went to one of the many rooms of the bathhouse and filled buckets with warm water. We then washed and exfoliated our skin. Let's just say it was quite the memorable experience that made me very appreciative of my hot shower in Seville. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #0c343d; color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">My favorite part of the experience was going to a village in the Rif Mountains to meet with a family. It was a long drive by bus, with a police check in between. We learned that in the future, the government will start following the Moroccan Exchange students around this part of the country, to keep tabs on us. I say that only to communicate that it was no touristy trip-- we were seeing the real Morocco. We arrived and hiked for twenty minutes up to the house, seeing some incredible views along the way. We really were able to interact with the family-- understand their daily lives, learn about their work, and what makes them happy. The father wanted all of his children to have an education, however far they had to walk to school or whatever sacrifices had to be made. It made me cringe to think about all the times I complained about homework or going to class. Education is a gift, a tool, that shouldn't ever be taken for granted. These people understand that, they really understand the things that are important in life in better ways than we do.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #0c343d; color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> Only one person was allowed to take pictures of and with the family, and I was happy to be the one to get that opportunity. I spent a lot of time photographing the little children, who were fascinated by the images of themselves. These villagers don't have cameras, but my photos will be hand-delivered back to them so that they will have memories of the visit. I was glad to use technology for someone other than myself. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #0c343d; color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Our final stop was Chefchaouen, the blue city, where we spent time bartering in the markets, buying super cool pants, and getting authentic Henna tattoos. Our night was spent reflecting on our time in Africa and the ways in which the trip had impacted us. <b><span style="font-size: large;">I remembered that the girl on the first day said that her truth may be different from my truth, but that doesn't make one better than the other.</span> </b>I left Morocco wanting to travel more, to see more of the world, and to stop judging. So far, so good. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #0c343d; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">P.S. Watch my video of the trip if you haven't: </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xuKMGGZtayk&list=HL1385391148&feature=mh_lolz" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;" target="_blank">Moroccan Video</a></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #d0e0e3; color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Elizabeth</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00698480442846091553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6321423718671757427.post-36810101856425999542013-11-06T16:04:00.002-08:002013-11-06T16:04:37.662-08:00The Ugly Truth: Independence Abroad. <i><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The temperature was dropping quickly as the sky darkened with the ominous approach of night and right. The rural street was deserted-- except for two girls standing under the shelter of a bus stop. Despite a crumpled schedule's promise of a shuttle to the train station, it did not appear as 5:15, 5:25, and 5:35 flashed on the screen of an out-of-service Iphone. They walked out by the side of the road, but few cars passed by. On the verge of a disaster and missing their train back to Paris....</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; text-align: center;">Okay, so that was a bit dramatic. But when Paige and I were in that situation this past week, it seemed like the end of the world. And so begins the back story. One day, out of our weeklong journey in the City of Light, we decided to visit the house and gardens of Claude Monet (fabulous painter of waterlilies) in Giverny, France. It's a tiny village, about an hour and fifteen minutes from Paris by train. Simple enough, right? The first problem arose before we even left, in the St. Lazare train station. We were right on schedule to catch the 12:20pm train until we exited the metro and discovered that we had no idea where or how (because we don't speak French and I mean NONE) to buy tickets, or which of four floors the trains departed from. In short, we ended up sprinting from the first floor to the third only to miss the train by by about two minutes. We finally had the courage to actually go to the information desk, where we received second class tickets and a valuable schedule. Fifty minutes later, we were on our way to Vernon, with picturesque views of the countryside. At one point, we switched trains and ending up meeting a Brazilian girl who speaks French who was also headed to Monet's gardens. This leads me to the most complicated part of the process of getting to our destination: the shuttles. Now, I suppose these shuttles from the train station in Vernon to the museum in Giverny exist in real life, but I can't be certain. We assumed that we had missed the last one of the day, so we split a BMW taxi with the Brazilian-who-speaks-French for the ten-minute ride. It was smooth sailing once we found ourselves amongst the auburn leaves in the quaint village and we spent about two hours exploring Monet's wonderland, walking through his house, seeing the famous waterlilies, and soaking all of the nature in. Though primetime is in the spring, it was still beautiful in the fall and not crowded at all--which may have been the cause of our next problem. We took our time leaving the museum and then stopped at cafe for pastries and tea, thinking we had all the time in the world to catch the shuttle back. And we did, because there was no shuttle (refer to dramatic intro above.) I've concluded that there was no shuttle for one of three reasons: a) It was the last day the gardens were open until April and therefore there weren't many people and therefore the shuttle service stopped early, b) we were in the wrong place to catch it, or c) my schedule was wrong. I would like to choose option A, but I will never be entirely sure. Now, we ended up waving down a taxi that already had people inside, but they were nice enough to let us share with them back to the station. The last and probably most stressful event of the day happened on the way back, when we switched trains somewhere in France. One would naturally think that if you switch trains on the way there, you should switch trains on the way back. So, without glancing at our tickets, we hop off the warm, cozy train TO PARIS,and then discover that it really would have taken us to all the way back. By the time we were fully aware of this mistake, the train had already left and we were standing on the dark platform looking incredibly dejected, confused, and hungry. Fortunately, a little French boy, who spoke English, helped us out and even led us to another train back. When we finally saw the glittering lights of Paris, we were simply exhausted. It was quite the day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I tell you this whole story because I think of it as a defining experience: a first taste of the real world. Yes, I'm in Spain "by myself" but I have advisors, a host family, and friends that support me daily. But that day (and all week) we were two, naive 18 year-old girls trying to figure things out on our own and it didn't always go smoothly. Independent travel is so much harder than I first thought, because you have to plan everything down to the exact detail and prepare for the worst. Two things that we failed to do. We also relied on the hope that people would speak English to us, which did end up happening, and probably was the reason we made it to Giverny and back to Paris that night. But what if that little boy wasn't able to communicate with us? Where would we have ended up? My point is that we were traveling selfishly, with the idea that the world was looking out for us. To get the most of out a trip, we need to be looking after ourselves and looking <u><b>out</b></u> at the world around us. That means that next time, I vow to learn a decent amount of the language of my destination before I travel independently, not expect people to adapt for me. I also vow to arrive to the train station a little bit earlier and to leave before dark, maybe that way I can enjoy the ride. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Our week as a whole was a spectacular mix of fall, croissants, landmarks, history, new friends, and French. We stayed in an upbeat hostel, had Paige's friend from Toulouse come and stay for a few days, did the typical touristy Parisian things, and spent a lot of time drinking tea. For Halloween, our hostel threw a party, and since Paige and I have adjusted to the Spanish nightlife, we were the last ones to go to bed that morning. Paige and I made friends with the hostel staff and waiters, which really made our stay that much more fun. On our final days, we met a group of girls who are teaching in Dijon, France, who invited us to visit sometime, and of course, we returned the invitation. Hostels have their advantages-- you meet young people from all different places on all sorts of journeys, as long as you don't mind sharing a bedroom with eleven of them. I think I'm one step closer to becoming a global citizen. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">In other news, I'm off to Morocco, Africa on Friday with CIEE, where we'll stay with host families, speak with college students about global issues, and really get to experience the exotic culture there. You can visit </span><u style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">themoroccanexchange.org</u><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> for details of my trip, but I'm sure I'll have a blog post about it soon.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Adios,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Elizabeth </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00698480442846091553noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6321423718671757427.post-88241839565807039842013-10-24T14:44:00.000-07:002013-10-24T14:47:04.033-07:00Baby Steps. <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Dear family, friends, strangers, Facebook friends, and anyone that is reading this right now, </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> I've been in the most amazing place in the world for six whole weeks. I could try to write everything that I've done in the past month but that would take about three hours. It may be a gap year, but I sure don't seem to have much time on my hands. My days have been filled with new friends, experiences, travels, and a lot of Spanish. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> I think I underestimated how difficult learning a foreign language is, even when you're fully immersed in it. In a normal day, I speak about as much English as I do Spanish, because people from all over the world speak my language. For instance, I have a very good friend here named Freddie (actually, Frederique) who is from the Netherlands, and who has invited me to stay with her during the Christmas holidays! Her English is practically perfect and our Spanish is equally pre-intermediate, so naturally we speak in the language that is easiest for both of us. It's both a blessing and a curse. We usually sit next to each other in class, in fact, we've been together since the very first, very confusing day. When we first went to class, I remember our professor asking me the equivalent of "what's up" in Spanish (of course.) I looked at him with horror and turned to Freddie to ask her what I was supposed to say back to him. Little by little, I began to understand a word here or there. After two weeks, basic greetings became familiar. Three weeks, four weeks, I could understand most of what my host mom said to me as long as she spoke slowly. Six weeks later and I've begun dreaming in this language. I really do understand what goes on around me now, for the most part. Starting from the bottom, Freddie and I have worked our way up to the third level at our language school. For four intense hours a day, we learn grammar, practice conversation, listen to native speakers, and play games. The professor chastises us if we speak even a little bit of English, or French, or Dutch, or German, or Chinese or anything other than what we're here to learn. It's often very difficult to say what we want to say, but we have to try.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> A few months ago, I would have been nervous to have a formal conversation on the phone or to accomplish some sort of task that required me to rely on strangers to help; I've always been timid in public situations. Now, I have to do everything for myself in a language that I don't speak with fluency, from buying necessities to asking for vitamins at a pharmacy (it's harder than it sounds), to recharging my bus card, to inquiring why I had to pay 40 euros to pick up a package from the post office. Separately, these things are quite difficult and 78% of the time, someone laughs at my accent or my inability to understand certain words. But together, the blend of all of these experiences that force me to get outside of my comfort zone, is making me into a fearless person. What I'm trying to say is that being away from familiarity, in a foreign country, is simply hard. There are days when you want to hop on a plane back to Arkansas to hear a few "y'alls" and eat at your favorite restaurant. But there are also those days that are just so magical that you can't imagine yourself any happier than you are at that exact moment, eating tapas with your friends from three different countries while the moon shines over the ancient Cathedral that you have the chance to marvel at every day. As I sat in the lotus position this past Wednesday at my yoga/meditation class, while the teacher hit a gong and made strange humming noises, I looked up to see a small figurine of Buddha.<b><i> I thought how strange and wonderful it is that I'm getting to see other mindsets and religions that I would never in a million years see back home. This is why I'm here.</i></b> This experience is far from easy, but it's completely, one hundred percent, changing me for the better. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">In a few days, I'm off to Paris for a week with my friend Paige for fall break (how many 18 year-old American can say this?!) Morocco is in a two and a half weeks and Christmas break is coming up soon. I'm really getting to see Spain (more details on Ronda and Granada later) and the world. To say that I'm lucky is an understatement. I promise to blog more often. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Elizabeth</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00698480442846091553noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6321423718671757427.post-54667805062030553782013-09-22T09:02:00.001-07:002013-09-22T09:02:35.718-07:00"De-American-izing." <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i>Hola!</i> Yesterday we got the chance to visit the ruins of the Roman city of <i>Italica</i>. Though it was mostly, well, <i>ruined</i>, the weather was perfect and it's always fascinating to see where and how ancient people lived. It's beyond crazy that places like this are only a short bus ride from my new city, I'll have so many opportunities to learn in new ways this year.</span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> Since my last post, I've started school at the beautiful CLIC (Monday through Friday, 9:15am-1:00pm), which is a twenty-five minute walk from my apartment, filled with breathtaking views of the Guadalquvir river. I knew that I would meet new people on this program. I knew that I would be studying at an international school. But if you had told me two weeks ago that I would already have friends from several different countries, I wouldn't have believed you. In my class of ten people at school, I'm the only American. Throughout the class I hear tidbits of German, English, Dutch, Japanese, French, and Mandarin being spoken, though we're all here to learn Spanish. I'm particularly inspired by an elderly Japanese man who sits near me. I often wonder what the place he calls home is like, how old his children are, how he ended up in Seville... but we can only communicate with gestures and smiles and occasional basic Spanish phrases. We're at such different places in our lives and yet we're here in the same room and both very far from home.<b> I think this is one of the wonders of travel-- you meet people from cultures that you might not even acknowledge otherwise, out of either ignorance or egocentrism</b>. I've fallen prey to both. The other day, I talked to my host sister, Lucia, about how culturally aware young people tend to be in Europe and how unaware young Americans tend to be. The teenagers in my class are all bilingual, some even trilingual, and all of them are fluent in English. In our defense, the rest of the world does tend to focus on America as the center of fashion, music, and food-- adopting much of it into their cultures. And so, because other countries try to think like Americans, we young Americans are stuck thinking mostly about ourselves. I wish that I'd been required to take a language throughout elementary and secondary school. I wish I had been taught more about other cultures. I wish we, as a new generation, had been taught how to respect other customs when traveling-- because most of the time we come across as loud, rude, and disrespectful-- and we are, because we don't know better. This year I've made it my mission to be as un-American as possible so that I can soak up Spanish culture for what it is. I'm stowing away my Nike shorts, love for sweet tea, and all of my preconceptions. I think that I'll get more out of this gap year if I'm less attached to where I come from and more open to change; something I wish I'd been at a younger age. Now, I'm sporting some fuzzy pink slippers (no bare-feet in Spain) and eating all the<i> tapas</i> I can get my hands on, which, <i><b>okay</b></i>, I would've done anyway. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> So, to the Japanese man who sits across from me in Spanish class, thank you for opening my eyes to what lies beyond Arkansas and America and English and McDonalds. Maybe one day I can visit your country. </span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Love,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Elizabeth</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00698480442846091553noreply@blogger.com1Seville, Sevilla, Spain37.3880961 -5.982329899999967937.186202099999996 -6.3050533999999683 37.5899901 -5.6596063999999675tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6321423718671757427.post-87385182954043298902013-09-15T15:33:00.003-07:002013-09-15T15:46:48.636-07:00Vida. <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Hola, I'M IN SEVILLA! But I'll rewind back to Wednesday, the day that I flew to Spain. After my parents dropped me off at the airport and we said our goodbyes, I dragged my bags across the LR airport and flew to Chicago. I had a four hour layover there, which consisted of some more dragging of my bags. And then I realized that I had committed the worst crime of a student studying abroad: I overpacked. I'll just say that by the time I found my gate in Madrid with my new friends, Paige and Dru, my right shoulder was raw from the weight of my backpack and duffel bag and I wished I hadn't thrown in eight pairs of shoes, a converter, four books, a tote bag, and so on... Because anything I could ever need is probably within a ten minute walk from my apartment here.. <br /><br /> Anyway, after we arrived at the airport in Seville, we took separate taxis to our new homes. I was greeted outside by Lucia, my 21 year old Spanish sister, and Elvira, my host mom. Instead of a hug, I was greeted with two air kisses on either cheek by my new family, and so I encountered the first of the many cultural differences between the US and Spain. After explaining that I speak incredibly poor Spanish, I learned that Lucia speaks fluent English, which made my first day a lot easier. They showed me around their beautiful and pristine (oops, I'm really messy) apartment and then after lunch, I rested in my incredibly cute room for the afternoon. Honestly, the first day left me feeling overwhelmed. Here I was, with other students I didn't know, living with strangers in a foreign country, where they speak a different language. What in the world have I gotten myself into... </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> After I took the first of what will be many siestas and slept off some of my jet lag, I joined the rest of the gap year students from CIEE for dinner near my apartment in my neighborhood at about 8pm, which is a very early time to eat dinner in Spain. Another huge difference in culture is the eating schedule here. A normal day consists of breakfast about 8 or 9am, lunch between 2 and 3, and dinner between 9 and 10:30. After dinner on weekend nights, the young people here go out until about 3 or 4 in the morning. But even young children and families are out in the street or eating at cafes until about midnight or later: the city seems to never sleep! This is one part of the culture that I really, really like because I'm a night owl. Even though I've only been here for four days (only?!) I already feel adjusted to the new schedule. The rest of my time has been filled up with getting to know the other students, getting to know my really cool host family and city, participating in various orientation activities, and working on improving my terrible Spanish. Last night, a few of the other students and I went out to a discoteca, which is similar to a club in America. Everyone in Spain seems to know how to have a good time and I spent the night dancing to a mix of American and Spanish pop music with my new amigas. </span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MI8E1cG2rpc/UjYygi0JIrI/AAAAAAAAAEo/cbCD2_gyLFs/s1600/DSC09043.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MI8E1cG2rpc/UjYygi0JIrI/AAAAAAAAAEo/cbCD2_gyLFs/s320/DSC09043.JPG" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> This afternoon, I spent time with Lucia and she took me to a local park to meet some of her friends. And even though I understood absolutely nothing, I managed to hold my own in badminton and a game of cards. Later, the gap year group took a tour of Parque de Maria Luisa, which is a gorgeous public park here. The tour ended at the Plaza de Espana, built in 1929 for the Ibero-American Exposition World's Fair, and is what you usually see on a post card of Sevilla. The sun was setting, it was breezy, and the sight was absolutely beautiful.</span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">In other words, I love Sevilla, my host mom is a fabulous cook, my host sister wears cool pants, my new friends are great, and a year here may not be enough. It's midnight and tomorrow I start my Spanish classes, so I'm done blogging for now. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MI8E1cG2rpc/UjYygi0JIrI/AAAAAAAAAEo/cbCD2_gyLFs/s1600/DSC09043.JPG"></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7guD_I9Bk44/UjYykH5fkCI/AAAAAAAAAEw/VAKitqR5jtQ/s1600/DSC09060.JPG"></a><br /> <br /> <br /> <br /><br />Sending love back home,<br /><br />Elizabeth</span> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00698480442846091553noreply@blogger.com0Seville40.713955826286046 -4.570312515.278197326286048 -45.8789065 66.149714326286045 36.7382815tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6321423718671757427.post-44196261992654493972013-09-10T20:55:00.000-07:002013-09-10T20:56:06.592-07:00The Beginning. <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I'm about to depart on the biggest adventure of my life, where I'll spend 8 months living with a host family, taking Spanish classes, volunteering, traveling, and immersing myself in the vibrant culture of southern Spain. You could say that "the beginning" of my journey starts tomorrow, September 11th at 10:15am, in the Little Rock Airport. Or you could say that it began six months ago, when I mailed in my application to CIEE. But I think it started about ten years ago, when I discovered that I would rather watch Samantha Brown traipse around the world on the Travel Channel than watch cartoons. I've been fascinated with other cultures and places for as long as I can remember. You see, choosing to take this gap year wasn't an act of spontaneity or an attempt to put off college work. This journey has been in the making for many years. I've known I wanted to live abroad for as long as I can remember. I hope to use this year to get out of my Arkansas bubble, to open my eyes to other traditions and cultures, to really, truly see the world, and in turn, to learn more about myself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Thank you to anyone and everyone who has sparked my love of traveling. Thank you best friends, for encouraging me to always be myself and for supporting me, even though it means we'll be very far apart this year. And mostly, thank you Mom and Dad, for letting me travel halfway around the world to conquer my enormous dreams. I'll update this blog regularly over the next year from Seville. Watch out Spain, I'm coming. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Love, Elizabeth </span></div>
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