Chile is calling and I must go.

     

 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.

       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.

    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.

Peace,
Liz

The Roar of Venice

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 lack of sleep and dehydration have 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.  

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.  

  

In present-day Venice, the infamous pigeons are no match 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 bambinos protectively through the church entrance. Playing fair gets you nowhere in this sinking city.  

Indian men selling selfie 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. 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. 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.  

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, vaporetto 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. 

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 gelaterias. 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 acqua alta 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.   

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 Murano glass, view the Tintorettos, Bellinis, 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.  

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. 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.  

Pompeii: Reflection in the Rubble

        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.

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.

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. Everyone smile, you’ll make the spirits proud. Why does no one give this practice a second thought here?  We are at the ultimate historical graveyard, eternal home to both young and old, healthy and sick.  Are the Pompeian’s dead to a lesser degree because they died two thousand years ago?  At what point does death demand less respect?

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. Click. Someone next to me takes a photo of the casts. Click. Click. Click. 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. Click.

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. Whose faces will I picture in my last few moments? What legacy will I leave behind?

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.

“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. 

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.

The Italian Man in Seat 37E

         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.

         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.


        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.


       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.


        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.


         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.

Travel Writing Through Italy

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.

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 the 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 think 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. 

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. 

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.

Wish I knew the Italian word for goodybe,

Elizabeth

83 Days Later and A Lot of Nostalgia

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.) 

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. 

"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

Always looking up, still independent, still fiercely passionate about travel, just a little bit stuck in Arkansas, 

Elizabeth 

The Power Of Communication

     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.

     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 "can understand and use basic phrases, introduce myself, and interact in a simple way." I'm now in the 4th level, B2-- upper intermediate-- which means 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," and 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." 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.

     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. 

We're not so different after all.

Until next time,

Elizabeth 

Becoming a Global Citizen: The Netherlands

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.

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. 

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.


Un abrazo,
Elizabeth 

The Not-So-Glamorous-Side of Student Travel

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.

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.

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. 

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? 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. Why pay more than 12 euros a night for a hostel? It seems that sometimes, in our quest to save money, we teenagers forget the little phrase, "you get what you pay for." 

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. Call the Ritz. We're getting out of here. 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.

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. 

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. 

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.

1. Actually use the money belt that my mom insisted I wear when traveling (sorry.)
2. Look up detailed reviews of hostels before I book them.
3. Take an earlier form of transportation so that I don't arrive to my destination at midnight.
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.
5. Maybe pay a little more for things next time. 
6. Don't overpack and have to carry two bags and a purse on the Metro, which clearly makes me a target.
7. Not let this experience keep me from enjoying traveling, but just be more aware next time.

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. 

At the end of the day, I love Spain with all of my heart.

Un abrazo,
Elizabeth