Chelsea Goes To Florence, Italy...

#17 (Part 4): There's Reasons Why Parisians Are Snobby...And They're Good Ones.

2009-06-06T11:31:00.013+02:00

Tour Eiffel, Waiting for 10 PM...

Very Significant: A French Pigeon

Pont Solferino, Stale Baguette and I on right

Saturday evening, Hotel Caulaincourt. Our room is located several floors below the lobby in the corner of the building, which quite obviously was not built by someone who favored right angles. The wall paper is a classy pattern of navy and white stripes and fleur-de-lis's, but is ripped and stained. In the small room there are three rickety bunk beds and a tall window from which we can see into apartments across the way, where we see Parisians folding laundry, talking on the phone, drinking wine, and sitting on couches and watching TV...so they are humans like us...

The door to our room opens into a trapezoid-shaped room with a shower stall and sink on the right, a triangular-shaped bathroom straight ahead, and the door to our bunk room on the left wall. The room with the toilet is better described as a triangular closet in which one cannot "utilize the facilities" without sitting diagonally or leaving the door open.

I can only laugh because I know that soon I will be describing this room to others, and when I am much older, I will tell someone young about the hostels I stayed in, about the inconveniences and nastiness, about how we didn't complain or long for the "comforts" of home because we were young and flexible and simply seeking experience. And when I am older I will miss the inconveniences and the nastiness and our flexibility and adventurous spirits. But then again, who says we have to lose our flexibility or adventurous spirits?

We eat dinner at a tiny, low-ceilinged Italian restaurant decorated with knick-knacks and fake plants, tucked in a corner of a narrow back street. And then we go. Onward, to Tour Eiffel. We ride the metro and end up in a square across the street from the end of the lawn that extends from the base of the tower. We're rushing to find it by 10 o'clock because we have heard that it sparkles every hour on the hour. From this perspective we can't see it, but we know it's there. We're all walking so fast we might as well be skipping, and then, there it is. A blue beacon of adventure puncturing the foggy night sky, it's two lights whipping around and around, begging us to stare.

We take our time walking towards it, ogling, gaping, gawking, goggling, gazing--mesmerized. We reach the base of the tower and wait. Laura pulls a bottle of champagne out of her bag and asks someone else to open it. Next thing I know, the bottle is in my hands, we're counting down to 10 o'clock, someone says, "Now!", the tower starts sparkling and the cork shoots at least 25 feet. It occurs to me that this bottle has ridden the metro all the way here with us under Laura's arm. No wonder I almost killed a family of tourists.

(See video at bottom)

We stand in awe, our American jaws hanging open. I am completely mystified by how strongly a sparkling blue tower is affecting me. Why is this so beautiful? I realize that this moment is not wonderful simply because the tower is wonderful--I am coming to the end of a beautiful journey during which I have grown so much it hurts. In a few weeks I will be back in the US, but I'm ready. We cheers, watch, wait, and when the twinkling stops, we ride the metro back to our temporary home in Paris.

~ ~ ~

Sunday morning. We look at our map to find out where Montmartre is. Apparently--and please forgive us--we are staying in Montmartre. It's time to climb. We laugh and begin our ascent. Who knew that we were inhabiting sacred bohemian ground? We're walking where the likes of Picasso, Modigliani, Van Gogh, Matisse, Degas, Toulouse-Lautrec and Langston Hughes walked...no biggie. Just another day in Europe.

Although I am tempted to avoid the subject of Montmartre completely, I cannot. I will put it plainly and get it over with: Montmartre is like a Universal Studios attraction with better food and cooler temperatures. Some of its charm remains, but it is merely visual. It is so crowded with tourists that it is hard to walk two steps without bumping into someone. The streets are overflowing with over-priced knick-knacks targeted either at uninspired romantics who want to substantiate their visit to this "hallowed" place or to travel guide junkies who lack any real passion in their lives at all. Perhaps I am being a bit harsh, but it just goes to show how disappointed I was. Visiting Montmartre forced me to accept that all good things come to an end, but also made me wonder what my "good thing" is. It's about time I get one.

We spent most of our time in Montmartre on the steps below Sacre'-Coeur, people-watching. I can say this about Monmartre: I'll be back one day to give it another shot...even if it means I have to go to church at 7:30 AM and sit around until the wee hours of the next morning, waiting for the bohemians to emerge and the freak flags to rise.

Midday, Tuileries Quarter--home of Cartier, Boucheron, the Ritz, etcetera, etcetera. More importantly, it is the quarter in which one finds the Louvre and Jardin du Palais Royal and other beautiful gardens. We hunt down Musee de l'Orangerie with the help of some very helpful ladies. They see that we are struggling to find our way and one of them offers to help us. Apparently she understands how frustrating it is to be lost when you have only a limited amount of time.

We are headed in the right direction and we have a destination in mind, but those definitely aren't good reasons to ignore alluring sights along the way. We arrive at Place de la Concorde and once again, we are hypnotized by the Eiffel tower, the view of which now includes a bed of trees at its base, an ancient obelisk, a statue of the Sun King (Louis XIV), a gargantuan palatial fountain, and a tour bus. It is a clear, sunny day and although the square is bustling, it still feels open; seeing so much blue sky has never been so refreshing.

Inside the relatively small, naturally-lit Musee de l'Orangerie we see Monet's Nympheas, his celebrated water lily series painted at his home in Giverny. Monet donated this series to the museum (to Paris, really), and required that they be displayed in two oval-shaped rooms. The path one walks between the two rooms forms the symbol of infinity.

Of the museums I have visited in Europe thus far, this experience with art is the most intimate. The rest of the works in the museum, all executed by Parisians, are from the Impressionist and inter-war periods. We see works by Cezanne, Renoir, Matisse, Modigliani, and early works by Picasso. As usual, I take too long and I realize everyone's waiting for me (Sorry guys).

Early afternoon. We go in search of Musee' D'Orsay. On the way we see a one-man-band playing a Beatles song in a tunnel leading to Pont Solferino, and we stop to enjoy the views up and down the Seine. We get to the other side of the river and wait in the long, snake-like line outside the museum for quite a while, but the time passes quickly because it is so worth the wait. The people-watching is incredible.

In 1986, after being closed for nearly 50 years, this mainline railroad station became the museum it is today. It displays art created between 1848 and 1914 from a variety of periods, from naturalism and symbolism to art nouveau and neo-impressionism. We spend hours and hours exploring as much as we possibly can, each of us most likely knowing that this will be our last stop in Paris, but we eventually lose our stamina.

Sitting in the central area, where train tracks were once lain and now sculptures watch visitors pass by, we all seem to silently agree that we've reached the end. I now certainly realize the reasons why many Parisians are snobby...and they're good ones. But all I want to do right now is pass out on this bench and have a train deliver me to my rickety bunk in Hotel Caulaincourt. But--that's not what this journey is about.

And we have a plane to catch in a few hours.

~ ~ ~

Video of "Tour Eiffel," sparkling at 10 PM...

#17 (Part 3): Enchanted and Overwhelmed in Paris

2009-06-06T05:53:00.005+02:00

Kim, The Train to Versailles

The Chateau, Palace of Versailles

View of the Grand Canal, Palace of Versailles

Saturday. Chissa' (Who knows?!) AM.

Once again we've missed our complementary breakfast at the hostel, so we go to a patisserie we saw near the hostel the day before. I'm not hungry, and I'm slightly disoriented from finally getting some sleep, and I stand, droopy-eyed and expressionless, slowly glancing over the wide array of pastries crowded in the glass cases before us. I am completely, totally, and utterly overwhelmed. I feel like we are playing a game with this pastry shop and I am losing. It becomes clear to me that my head is not screwed on right quite yet and I move through a long line of Parisians, like a chinook heading upriver, outside onto the street to wait for the others. Apparently my Italian tendencies are winning out over my Parisian ones: Never mind breakfast, just give me some espresso, immediately, or I will keel over and die.

We walk a few blocks to the nearest Metro stop. My head is still not screwed on right. We rode the Metro many, many times yesterday, but as we enter the stop on this beautifully bizarre morning, I feel like I am walking into a video game. We're familiar with how to ride the Metro now, and we wind our way through various tunnels, following arrows, taking quick glances at musicians and gypsies, and all trying to stay together. We're spit out of the final tunnel onto the correct platform: 10 points.

The Metro in Paris is incredibly easy to figure out, which makes experiencing Paris all the more enjoyable and possible. While in Rome, we walked everywhere and only had 10 hours to "see it all." We walked 23 miles that day and only saw a quarter of what we could have seen if there had been a Metro. One day in Paris blows one day in Rome out of the acqua frizzante.

But the Metro is much more than an easy mode of public transportation; it is the best way to experience the people of Paris and get a glimpse of their everyday lives in this teeming city. The hundreds of faces one sees during a day's worth of travel on the Metro inspire much thought about Parisian life, and inevitably, our own lives. (I apologize, I'm beginning to sound like a Rick Steve's episode)

We get to the north edge of the city center and catch a train to the country to visit the Palace of Versailles. A few minutes pass and an accordionist and a saxophonist come into our car to serenade us all. We reach the end of the track and walk down a grand avenue, at the end of which we can see a large, gilded building. The sky is gray and wind is whipping through the avenue. As we get closer and closer to the gilded building, Laura asks,

"Where are we? What is this?"

We all answer, "Versailles!"

She responds with,

"NO WAY! THIS is where the TREATY went down?!!"

The Palace of Versailles began as a simple hunting lodge, but in 1661 Louis XIV began enlarging it, and construction and interior and exterior design continued until his death 54 years later. His grandson Louis XVI and his wife Marie Antoinette moved here in 1774--59 years after his grandfather's death--and turned the Palace of Versailles into what we see today: It was and is the largest palace in Europe, capable of housing 20,000 people at a time (which it did for many years).

In 1789 the King and Queen were then forced to flee their palace for Paris and were executed four years later in 1793. Exactly forty years later Louis Philippe, a "King of the French," turned the chateau--which Louis XIV made the center of political power in France--into a museum. The establishment of the Palace of Versailles as a full-fledged museum was a long and laborious process. Sometime during the final years of the 1700's, in the days following the palace's abandonement, the wealthy and politically connected Huges Lagarde (a soap merchant from Marseille) was appointed as bibliographer. Lagarde strove to turn the Palace of Versailles into a museum and assembled a team of curators. Thanks to the effort of individuals like Lagarde, ordinary mortals like us are able to wander about this regal place. I can only imagine the probable disgust and horror the royalty of this period would experience in knowing that millions of commoners pass through this palace every year.

Furthermore, I can only imagine the probable disgust and horror the royalty of this period would experience in knowing that Jeff Koons' art was displayed here. Koons, who is still alive today, is one of the world's priciest and most controversial artists. He is known for creating humongous, brightly colored metal reproductions of objects such as ballon animals and people, such as Pamela Anderson and Michael Jackson--sitting with his chimpanzee Bubbles no less. In 2008 one of his pieces sold for $25.7 million...it was a giant balloon knot resembling a flower.

According to Edouard de Royère (creator of the Fondation du Patrimoine and a noteworthy patron of Versailles), "I am not against contemporary art, but I am absolutely shocked at its descent on Versailles, a magical, sacred place."

According to Koons, "[Contemporary Art] is so imprisoned in the present that juxtaposing new works with old ones allows [us] to rediscover a connection between history and the history of art. . . The baroque is the ideal context for me to highlight the philosophical nature of my work."

In my opinion, Koons is correct, and I greatly enjoyed the exhibit and how it affected my perspective of Versailles. There was something so thrilling about this particular combination of old and new and the controversy it caused. I couldn't keep from grinning: the people involved in this exhibit really stirred the pot and brought to light the opinions concerning modern art today. It is controversy that coaxes the truth out of its cave.

In 1919 the Treaty of Versailles, which ended the war between the Allied Powers and Germany, was signed here in the Hall of Mirrors. The armistice signed in 1918 ended the actual fighting, but six months later the Treaty of Versailles drew the peace negotiations to a close. I couldn't help but imagine President Obama amidst a group of balding white men and a myriad of representatives for the Middle East, seated in the Hall of Mirrors, signing a peace treaty and eating croissants.

The Hall of Mirrors

Me, Kim, Jo

We spent hours and hours exploring both the interior of the chateau and the vast expanse of gardens outside, yet we were barely able to see even a third of the grounds. Inside the chateau we saw many of Jeff Koons' bizarre sculptures--among them, Michael Jackson posing with Bubbles, a scantily clad Pamela Anderson, a blow-up lobster beach-toy hanging from the ceiling, and a giant balloon animal dog--on display in the elegant living quarters and grand halls.

I felt a mysterious presence of royal blood. It was difficult not to imagine elegantly dressed figures moving about in the rooms and gardens we visited, leading lives of great--and in my opinion, DISGUSTING--excess. It was even more difficult not to imagine weary servants moving about, serving, serving, serving. The Palace of Versailles is breathtakingly beautiful, but it did not become so without many costs. Even more breathtaking than the display of creativity, skill and natural beauty one sees at the Palace of Versailles, is the display of greed and vanity.

After several hours exploring the gardens the weather is nearly unbearable. Our hands and faces are frozen by the biting wind and our bodies are simply tired. We bid adieu to Versailles and make our way back to the city center--but not before making a pit stop at a Starbucks near the train station of course. This time, I "imbibe."

View of Chateau from inside the grounds

Laura, Jo, Me, Kim

#17 (Part 2): When Life Takes You to Oostende, Belgium Instead of Paris, Momentarily Forget That It Ever Happened.

2009-06-06T01:17:00.021+02:00

Notre Dame

Inside Notre Dame...

Outside St. Severin

Inside the Louvre, Large panel French paintings

Marble, The Louvre

I wake up and the sky is gray. We are stuck in traffic. The digital clock at the front of the bus says 9-something. Mr. Obnoxious next to me (who, as you might recall from Part 1, likes to shush people) is having a very loud and intense conversation with someone who is probably his girlfriend. Poor girl. I feel like shushing him...but I don't. I'm just a nice guy I guess.

Friday, 11 AM. Finalmente, we reach our hostel--Hotel Caulaincourt--at the bottom of the hill atop which the famed Montmartre sits (although we don't realize this yet). We check in; the manager waives the charges for the previous night's "stay"; we meet the two girls with whom we will be roaming around--one who is a long-time friend of Jo's from back in Philly, Laura, and the other, Lindsay, who is a friend of Laura's from their study abroad school in Spain; we don't sleep; we hit the city.

We find a restaurant that does not look cheap and I have the most delicious omelette of my entire 19-year experience on this earth. The spirit of that Omelette Mixte visits me when I eat out at American breakfast joints and I can't help but cringe at the sight of our greasy-imposter-omellettes. Snobby, I know.

After topping off our tanks and pushing the trip to Belgium out of our minds, we go in search of Notre Dame via Metro. I know nothing about Notre Dame, and when I see it from afar, I wish I did. It is stunning; elaborate; seductive. The sight of it triggers my internal adventurer spirit--the trip begins. Awareness of cold and wind and rain and tiredness fades completely.

Throughout my time in Europe I have found myself unaware of the history of the places to which we are traveling and the sights we are seeing, and often I have felt guilty, regretful, and even shameful. I am so grateful to be exploring Europe yet I have not known the natures of many of the places we have explored and often I have felt unworthy of the experience.

Here in Paris I realize that there are legitimate reasons for this ignorance--preoccupation with school, lack of exposure to the world beyond U.S. borders, poor recall of knowledge learned in high school geography and history classes--but despite these, this realization of ignorance is a lesson in and of itself, and perhaps many lessons. Once we learn to travel we can become individuals who travel to learn (a valuable lesson learned from a monk named Patrick Duffy, a "character" in Blue Highways).

Lesson one: when I travel again I will do my research because the experience becomes so much more affecting and valuable when one does this. Lesson two: I will forgive myself when I do not do my research, because life can be busy, time can be limited, and because any experience is better than none if one is open.

Construction of Notre Dame, which means "Our Lady" (referring to the Virgin Mary), began in 1163 but was not completed until roughly 180 years later. Because it was built during a period of widespread illiteracy, the cathedral's many portals, paintings and stained glass works retell Biblical stories. It sits on the Ile-de-la-Cite', eneveloped by the waters of the Seine, and is able to accommodate 6,000 worshipers. In 1768 it was decided by geographers that all distances in the whole country of France would be measured from Notre Dame, and in many ways it is still considered the center of France.

If Notre Dame could speak, it would have many stories to tell: Before leaving for their holy wars, crusaders prayed here; polyphonic music matured here (definition, polyphonic: producing many sounds simultaneously; many-voiced); during the French Revolution it was pillaged and desecrated; it was dedicated by revolutionaries to both the cult of Reason and the cult of the Supreme being; it was used as a warehouse for food storage; it was here that Napoleon crowned himself and his wife emperor and empress. In the 1800s, Victor Hugo, the writer of The Hunchback of Notre Dame (The original title being Notre Dame de Paris--an anticlerical, anti-aristocratic work of French, historical romanticism) raised awareness of the terrible physical state and high artistic value of the cathedral, which led to a 23-year restoration beginning in 1844.

. . .

"Each face, each stone of this venerable monument is not only a page of the history of the country, but also of the history of knowledge and art....Time is the architect, the people are the builder."

— Victor Hugo, Notre-Dame de Paris.

Inside we are comforted by the cathedral's warmth and restfulness. The only light sources are chandeliers and natural light setting the stained glass aglow. Although the building is large and the nave reaches great heights, it is welcoming rather than overwhelming, which is much more than I can say for Santa Maria del Fiore, the cathedral in Florence. We take our time wandering every nook and every cranny. We find a chandelier that is about 9 feet tall and 7 feet wide hanging a few inches from the ground in a tent-like metal structure, perhaps waiting to be restored. Later we find an electric nativity scene with a crowd of confused-looking people standing in front of it. Below a stone screen of Biblical characters being revealed again and again by swirling, billowing colored lights stands a large screen on which animated clouds move across a bright blue sky at different speeds. Below this, Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus sit in a field of lights, slowly twinkling like moonlight reflecting off of a swelling sea.

We find a cafe to shelter ourselves from the incessant winds and penetrating cold and order some hot wine to go around. From inside this typically Parisian cafe, I gaze out the window at a bridge spanning the Seine and reflect on where I am. There probably aren't any genius writers or painters seated next to me, waiting for the night to come and cast a spell of debauchery on us all, but this is Paris nonetheless. Eighty years ago this would be the case, but I'm excited anyway.

Despite the showers of icy globs of rain and the dancing trees twisting and bending and lashing the chalky skies outside, I want to go...somewhere, anywhere. We head for Sainte-Chapelle. Again, I know nothing of the history of this place--I've never even heard of it--but it has been regarded as one of the architectural masterpieces of the Western World.

On our way to Sainte-Chapelle we pass a small gothic church called Sainte Severin that is completely engulfed by buildings. In the spirit of spontaneous exploration we decide to go inside. What we find is one of the strangest things I have ever seen--inside or outside of a church. The building is small and filled with chairs rather than pews, and there are only a few people milling about. It is quite dark inside except for a bit of light filtering through the stained-glass, emanating from candles and several spotlights shining on frescoes. And then there is the main attraction, which is a wide-eyed female mannequin in a white robe, arms stretched upward towards a turning disco ball, standing in a herd of neon-colored paper animals and people. I don't think it's necessary to write more on this subject.

We finally find Sainte-Chapelle, which means "Holy Chapel," buried by other buildings on the other end of Ile-de-laCite'. We pay four euro and enter into a tiny chapel with low ceilings. Every wall and pillar and arch is covered in dark blue, red or gold and busy patterns of fleur-de-lis's and star-like shapes, resembling dusk and night skies: I felt like I was trapped inside a royal stationary box. The room is empty except for tables along one wall that are cluttered with souvenirs, and we immediately wonder what must be so special about this place that it cost four euro to see. We see others walking up narrow staircases that are somewhat hidden behind us in the corners of the chapel in the same wall as the entrance. We all let out a big, "Ohhhhhhhh!" and climb a narrow spiral staircase, waiting for the suspense to be over.

We emerge from a tiny doorway at the top into the upper chapel, an oval-shaped room supported by extremely narrow 50-foot columns, between which stained-glass panels depict more than 1,000 religious scenes. The columns, walls and ceiling resemble those in the lower chapel. The top of the staircases are jammed on both sides with open-mouthed tourists. Security guards ask us all to keep moving and we slowly and silently nod 'yes' without breaking our gazes. We are hypnotized by this nearly-hidden kaleidoscopic womb.

The chapel is lit by the blue glow of the stained glass panels, a dozen gold chandeliers, and by an immense rose window depicting the apocalypse in 86 stained glass panels, which we finally notice above and between the staircases behind us as we turn in circles in place like all the other tourists, jaws still hanging open. Other tourists are seated in flimsy plastic folding chairs circling the perimeter of the chapel, reclining, heads hung back, hands constantly moving through the air in front of them, quietly pointing out detail after detail to their fellow travelers.

Once described as a "gateway to heaven" by the devout in the Middle Ages, Sainte-Chapelle was built by Louis IX in 1248 in order to house what was believed to be Christ's Crown of Thorns and other relics (including a supposed piece of Christ's cross)--purchased from the Emperor of Constantinople. The lower chapel served as a worshiping place for commoners and servants while the upper chapel was reserved for the royal family. Whether above or below, worship here at Sainte-Chapelle must have been a truly intimate and spiritual experience. Even in retrospect, this is the most beautiful work of architecture I saw during my whole time abroad.

(Video at bottom)

It is dark in Paris and we've got our hearts set on visiting the Louvre. We see a Starbucks on our way there and the girls juice themselves up. It's strange to me that Starbucks is so popular in a city known for having great coffee--both stories of the place are packed with Parisians--but then again, they've got some crazy drinks with crazy amounts of sugar that taste crazy good and get you crazy hyped up. What more could one want?

(2 videos at bottom)

We glance over the map and have no idea where to start. We spend hours navigating and exploring the never ending coil of rooms. Then we go in search of Da Vinci's Mona Lisa. The surprisingly small 30.3" x 21.7" painting hangs on a wall all by itself, protected by a 1.25" thick glass enclosure that is constantly kept at 43 degrees fahrenheit and 50% humidity. In front of the painting there is a constantly large, chattering, amoeba-like crowd. The setting is incredibly awkward and not the least bit intimate. If I had my iPod, were listening to the song "The Gulag Orkestar" by Beirut, and were standing front and center, I might have been able to create a memorable moment with the Mona Lisa. Next time.

For effect: "The Gulag Orkestar" by Beirut . . . copy and paste to listen . . .

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-UJX0QpkhhU&feature=related

We move on and find the hall where Da Vinci's other works are hanging. It is much less crowded here and we take our time examining the entire room. I look for Jo and KIm and find them seated on a bright orange circular couch looking exhausted, and then it hits me: I am also exhausted, and the soles of my feet (which are squished into "cheap" Italian boots) feel like they might split open any moment. We haven't had a good night's sleep since Wednesday night and now it's Friday night. It's time to turn in and call it a day. . . A very, very good day. Outside we see a bright light atop a blue spike flashing in the distance like a light-house. I watch this while Jo and Kim take pictures and it hits me--that is the Eiffel tower.

"JO! KIM! THAT'S THE F*%#$N EIFFEL TOWER!"

~ ~ ~

Video of St. Chapelle...

Video of sculpture inside the Louvre...

Video of large panel French paintings

inside the Louvre...

#17 (Part 1): Keeping It All In Perspective

2009-02-13T00:27:00.013+01:00

Paris: I realize that this is the last trip, and I begin to freak out. Just a little bit, but this definitely counts as a freak-out. And then I decide that it doesn't have to be. I decide to just go; to take a trip, to be wholeheartedly grateful, to be conscious of and open to each moment, and to return home with a big, fat travel bug in my pocket that I will diligently feed for the rest of my life.

Once the freak-out wears off, I think about why I feel so passionate about traveling. It's difficult to organize my thoughts--there's so many things. A passage of Blue Highways comes to mind, and because William Least Heat Moon phrases it so well, I'm not going to try to do it better:

"What you've done becomes the judge of what you're going to do--especially in other people's minds. When you're traveling, you are what you are right there and then. People don't have your past to hold against you. No yesterdays on the road."

For me, this is currently one of my favorite elements of travel. Youth is inevitably a period of time during which individuals explore who they are and who they want to be and figure out what they don't know about themselves. I, just like anyone else, need and want this sort of exploration, and it is one of several reasons why I went abroad in the first place.

Paris is a bookend: bookends can be moved to accommodate more. I ponder this and decide to move on to other thoughts. I return to another reason why I love to travel. Since leaving the U.S. I have learned that life should be fun--and not just occasionally, as I once unconsciously believed.

I realized how exuberant I felt after only one day in Florence. I realized how much fun I was having after seven days. And I realized how quickly time soars by when you are actually having fun. Thus, I realized--TRULY realized--how critical it is to be energetic, ambitious, perseverant, conscious, flexible, and creative...with these qualities intact, life can be surprisingly fun.

The problem is that you think you have time.

Buddhist proverb

Thursday.

Kim, Jo and I take a bus from Santa Maria Novella train station to Galileo Galilei airport in Pisa. We wait in the small, crowded terminal while a thick rain decides our fate. The flight to Beauvais is delayed an hour, then two hours, then three hours.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are sorry for the delay. Beauvais' runways have closed so we are being rerouted to another airport nearby for landing. There will be shuttles to take you to Beauvais. Thank you for your patience."

Friday.

I've lost track of time--I'm just ready to get there. As the plane descends, I see a circular configuration of bluish-purple lights. A roundabout. I'm incredibly excited to finally be at least near the city of lightsand Kim and Jo look rather giddy as well. It's probably around midnight when we finally land. The flight attendants smile and giggle and bid us adieu as they shiver near the doorway in their goofy uniforms.

We step out into a cool, Parisian darkness and descend the stairway onto the wet, oily tarmac. The crowd of passengers floods into the small airport, which is empty and seems to be closed. We all wander around inside the big main area, looking for information about where we are and how far we need to go.

Kim, who is our linguistic link to France on this trip, is looking around at the signs, Jo is wandering around trying to find a helpful pamphlet or brochure, and my empty stomach and I are watching an American kid pull a Belgian waffle out of a vending machine. I look around at the signs and notice that there are three languages on them: something that looks like Dutch, then French below it, and then English. I ask,

"Why isn't French the first language?"

After several minutes, we ask an American guy our age if he knows where we are. With a grin on his face he says,

"Belgium."

The Belgian waffle suddenly no longer seems out of place.

We end up waiting in the airport for an hour or more for buses to take all of us to Beauvais. We are told by the airport employees, who are friendly and helpful, that the bus ride to Beauvais will be four hours. I can't help but laugh at the situation--you have to admit, it's pretty damn funny.

After everyone--Italian, American, French, whatever--understand what is going on and calm down, the vibes lighten up. A young, trendy Italian mother in boots and a fur coat plays with a tiny bouncy ball with her toddler. A 30-something Italian guy in a gray, voluminous fur coat (whom we deem Bear Man) wanders around, striking up conversations with others, cracking jokes and being conspicuous in the best way possible. I decide to throw down on a Belgian waffle from the vending machine because a) it's too funny to pass up, and b) I'm VERY hungry. It wasn't horrible. If you're ever stranded in a Belgian airport...

Two buses arrive and it becomes clear that we are not all going to fit. Crowds gather outside each bus and everyone pushes and shoves. We hear that a double-decker bus will be arriving to pick up the rest of us, so we decide to just wait for the jumbo bus, figuring we will be able to lie down because of all the empty seats and sleep the whole way. The buses fill up and drive away. One of the employees approaches the group and says with a Belgian flavor:

"I am very sorry--they have found a bus, but cannot find the driver. They are trying to find him, but you will have to wait."

Fantastic. Now I'm really laughing. It just keeps getting better and better. The crowd goes back inside the airport to keep warm. The children are starting to look pretty tired, as are many of the adults. Jo, Kim and I get comfy beneath a baby ficus and try to keep it all in perspective. Here we are. Three Americans exploring faraway lands. How lovely.

I have no clue what time it is, but finally a bus appears in the distance. Everyone, for the second time, rushes outside into the cold. We see it approaching and I say to myself,

"That doesn't look like a double-decker."

And it isn't. As it pulls up alongside the curb it's clear that we are not all going to fit. Jo, Kim and I look at each other and are all obviously in agreement that we are getting on this effing bus. As we expected, the crowd pushes and shoves towards the door of the bus. We let the families with kids push ahead of us but then we began to push as well. We get inside and there are only two seats left. I squeeze into the row with Kim and Jo. At the front of the bus, the driver is telling someone to get off because they don't have a seat. There is no way we are getting off of this bus.

Kim and I sit on top of Jo and cover her. The driver makes his way down the aisle, looking left and right, left and right, checking, counting, whatever. He passes us. He doesn't notice. He heads back to the front and starts the bus. We shift our bodies around and Jo pops her head out.

Laughter bursts out around us when the others notice what we've done. We smile and are quite proud. Goodbye Belgium. Just as we are noticing how difficult it is going to be to sleep during the 4-hour ride, someone notices a bus pull up behind us for the remaining people. We are afraid that it too will fill up and decide not to get off.

Luckily, a lone American traveler leaves our bus, freeing up a seat right next to Bear Man in the back for lil' ol' me. He loudly calls me to the back, rubbing the seat cushion in a circular motion with his hand. Everyone chuckles and smiles at me. I get up and sit down in the corner seat of the back row. Bear Man rolls up his jacket and puts it on my shoulder:

"Pronta?!"

Bear Man is asking me if I am ready, and he lays his head down on the ball of fur on my shoulder, meanwhile everyone is cracking up...including me. Bear Man is not as creepy as he seems--he's just a teenage class clown who happens to be 30-something and out of school. We are his class for the time being and we all seem to be appreciating his humor considering our situation.

I can't help but think about what it would be like to be in this situation with a crowd of Americans. It would be unbearable. Although I can't recall exactly when or where or why, I can recall being in some sort of similar situation in The States, and the crowd was angry, unforgiving and rude, which made the situation that much worse. I was grateful to be in the presence of people who come from cultures that know when to laugh and when to just let it go. For me, our trip to Belgium felt like a blessing; a ridiculous yet exciting test of our newfound endurance and patience. Those who truly love travel are able to smile when "the road" takes them somewhere they did not intend to go. A real traveler is able to cherish the beauty of all the mistakes, problems, and disappointments they experience. I was once told by a high school teacher,

"The struggle is the best part."

It took me some time, but I believe him.

As we pull out of the airport lot we drive down an avenue lined by cottage-like homes with pitched roofs and trees shrouded in bluish-purple lights. We enter a roundabout with a bluish-purple neon sign in the center that says Oostende. More bluish-purple cylindrical lights jut up from the ground around the sign. I nod off, happy to be going once again.

My hand is tingling. I wake up. The sun hasn't risen yet. The bus is barreling down a highway, surging through dark blue sky. I look down: Bear Man's hair is tickling the top of my hand. This is the reason I'm awake. How unfortunate.

To put it nicely...I feel like s**t.

The night has stolen my optimism and good spirits and replaced them with drowsiness and hunger.

We pull over. Beauvais. It is a tiny airport with only one terminal. Inside, all the passengers from our flight are strewn about the airport, sleeping and staring blankly...waiting. The airport is just beginning to open. My stomach sinks. I look around and don't see anyone who looks like they'll know if a free shuttle is going to take us into Paris.

The food shops open. The sun still hasn't risen. We get croissants, I throw back an espresso and we pull it together. We spend the next hour or two trying to keep our spirits up and try to figure out what we are going to do. There's talk of taxis, other shuttles, trains...anything. Eventually we learn that there actually will be shuttles to take us to Paris, so we spread the word. Everyone seems to have the same idea: there' s not going to be enough seats.

When the buses arrive, the crowd moves like an amoeba, trying to figure out where the buses will stop so they can be at the head of the mob. The two buses fill up and the rest of the crowd is left on the sidewalk. I am seated next to an Italian guy in his late 20's or early 30's who keeps shushing everyone so he can sleep.

I lean my head against the window and get comfortable. I keep telling myself to hang in there; to not let my good spirits wane. The horizon begins to glow blue as dawn approaches and I fall asleep thinking of Da Vinci, bright lights and coffee. It doesn't get more romantic than that.

#14. Chillin in the Dam.

2008-11-27T13:34:00.005+01:00

Kim, Billy, Me, Alex, Matt, Beaver

An awesome houseboat on the Nieuw-Vaart canal (I think)

(I think this is in the Jewish Quarter)

Front: Me, Jo and Beaver

Back: Billy, Kim and Matt

A damn good group photo taken somewhere along Stadhouderskade

Windmill at intersection of

Mauritskade and Zeeburgerdijk at the east end of the city

~ ~ ~

Although I know where I could begin, I'm not going to. Instead, I am going to write about the experiences in Amsterdam that matter most, and allow the minutia scribbled in my notebook to simply remain just that. Someday I will come across these notes and reminisce, but here and now I prefer to just share the good stuff.

"Little by little, one travels far."

-J.R.R. Tolkien

Tuesday, October 28th, 10 PM. We are wandering through the Red Light District trying to find Shelter City Christian Hostel on Barndestesteeg. They've hidden it pretty well. Finally, we find it and check in. The boys go upstairs to the male dorms and we ladies remain on the ground floor. We enter the dorm area, and at the end of the hallway, painted in big, curvy red letters across an archway, is the phrase:

"GOD LOVES YOU"

Our dorm has about 10 or 11 bunks in it. I almost expect to see soldiers in uniform shining their boots and cleaning their guns. Each bed is numbered and we all find ours spots, unpack, and cram our stuff into our lockers. We are given a lumpy pillow, two flat sheets, and 2 thin, blue blankets. Not knowing what to do with myself, I spend a ridiculous amount of time making my bed.

We chat a little bit with two women, one older and one younger, bunked on the other end of the room. The younger one, who is Australian, is planning to volunteer at the hostel and is going through the testing period, during which she must live in the hostel for a time to see whether or not she can manage it. The older woman, who is English, is merely traveling. She asks us if we have seen the Red Light District (actually, she avoids even saying "Red Light District," and instead refers to it as "those streets"), and remarks at how flabbergasted she was.

"Can you believe it? I had heard, but I can't believe it! I was frightened!"

As she folds some clothing she shakes her head from side to side and sighs, grinning slightly. We all look at each other and try to adjust ourselves to being surrounded by people that believe that we too are Christians and share in their beliefs. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a fan of the Red Light District either. My point is, that outside the hostel this woman would not assume that we share her Christian values, but here at Shelter City, she makes this assumption...and perhaps validly so. I can't help but wonder how many non-religious people have ended up here by accident like we have. Some of us are Christians, yet I still get the feeling that we as a unit are all out of place.

We retire to our bunks. I can't wait to wake up, get out of this giant, crowded room, and explore. For the next couple hours women go in and out of the dorm, which is only lit by a tiny blue bulb in the center of the high ceiling.

Wednesday.

I wake up as a young girl jumps off of her bunk across from me. She is wearing a skin-tight, incredibly revealing "nighty" which gets caught on the bed and I am forced to see some very un-Christian underwear. Good morning irony. It just keeps coming.

The showers aren't awful, but pretty bad. I feel just as icky coming out as I did going in. I have memories of my one sleep-away summer camp experience in 5th grade and feel nostalgic for the days when I did not think about itineraries and time constraints in the shower. As I attempt to get clean, I decide that today is going to be that kind of day. I recall the flosser that I dropped in the train station in Florence, and how I felt that the universe was giving me a sign telling me to chill out.

~ ~ ~

We drove all day on roads without a speck

of paving, not knowing but knowing not

to ask when we would stop or where.

-Christian Wiman (b. 1966)

We wander, attempting to navigate the disorienting street design of Amsterdam, which is basically four concentric semi-circular streets separated by canals (which are lined with tons of houseboats built on old tug boat hulls), and in the middle--the historic center--a muddled cluster of smaller streets and canals. Amsterdam is like a giant mandala in which visitors get lost and hopefully found at the same time.

"The true traveler is he who goes on foot, and even then, he sits down a lot of the time."

-Colette (Paris From My Window, 1944)

We ask for directions from a young guy on the street, who has been living in Amsterdam for nine years, and he sympathizes with us:

"These streets are crazy, man! You go round and round and you end up where you began! I walk for an hour and pass the same things over and over. You go around in a circle forever here if you don't pay attention."

I can't help but think of that Joni Mitchell song, "The Circle Game"...

And the seasons they go round and round

And the painted ponies go up and down

Were captive on the carousel of time

We cant return we can only look behind

From where we came

And go round and round and round

In the circle game

...

Sixteen springs and sixteen summers gone now

Cartwheels turn to car wheels through the town

And they tell him,

Take your time, it wont be long now

Till you drag your feet to slow the circles down

(Yeah, It's a little corny, I know--but true and fitting nevertheless)

We all knew that we wanted to experience the most that we could of Amsterdam--that is always the goal when traveling as a college student who is on a budget and in a hurry--but all of also seemed to silently agree that the best way to do this would be to let go. I have found that some of the best adventures are the ones in which you travel "roads without a speck of paving" and don't know what exactly is going on or is going to happen, and yet are able to restrain from trying to plan each future moment.

"Certainly, travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living."

-Miriam Beard

Another factor to consider is that Amsterdam doesn't look or feel like a tourist-oriented city. The monuments and historic buildings for the most part blend in to the rest of the city...and our map didn't have little icons of the tourist attractions on it. So wandering from one little icon to the next was not really an option.

We eventually find the Van Gogh Museum on Paulus Potterstraat and spend a couple hours inside, learning about and seeing the work of a man who only understood what he truly wanted to do with his life at the very end of it, during his last ten years alive. And even though he created innovative, distinct, passionately executed works of art, he never received recognition while he was alive. The idea of this is baffling to a group of American college students.

Recognition is important to many of us I'm sure, but how important is it? As long as the bills get paid and there's enough left over to live comfortably and travel, why do many of us feel the need to be recognized? Why do many of us feel the need to have more than we need? Money is good and great, but greed is not. Now if I only knew if the desire for recognition is indeed a form of greed...

Thursday.

We check out of Shelter City and check into Hotel Orfeo on Leidsekruisstraat, a hostel far from the Red light district but not at all removed from the local eccentrics. We encounter an old man relieving himself to the left of the front door and see a man in a white suit and fedora driving a white cadillac with red interior pass by, blasting country music. Nevertheless, I I feel grateful that we are in the company of these oddballs now, rather than the women of the Red Light District. Very grateful.

We climb the steep, narrow staircase to the 4th or 5th floor, which is the very top of the building, causing our dorm to be shaped like the typical a-frame-like upper stories of Dutch buildings. The room is small, has five bunks, a comedically gnarly bathroom with a water drainage problem, and the walls are exposed wood and beams. Strangely enough, I feel like I am in a cabin in Tahoe. We share the room with four other girls, two of which are from Spain and the other two from America. We don't see them often.

We go to the Anne Frank Museum on Prinsengracht and spend several hours there. Several intense hours. There is no way to briefly explain this experience, so I will simply say that it was an experience I think of often and that will be hard to forget: nothing since I have been away has made me more grateful for the life I lead and the opportunities I have than visiting the eminent secret annex.

Friday.

We spend the entire day at Artis Royal Zoo on Plantage Kirklaan, which is a park with a Zoo--including an aquarium, reptile room, and insectarium--and a Planetarium. We see lions and tigers at feeding time, leopard geckos (I had one when I was younger), giant pythons, a candy-cane-like starfish, pink pelican-like birds, and my favorite...nearly 50 different species of insects flying around us. The insectarium was not merely a room with frames filled with pinned-down insects, rather it was an humid indoor garden with winding paths in which we were allowed to walk around while butterflies and moths of all different "ethnicities" (although I like to believe the animal kingdom transcends national barriers, dead or alive) flew above us, around us, between our legs... It was incredible. I'm just really glad no one killed anything.

Later that evening, my roommate Kim, our friends Joanna and Beaver (a.k.a. Beaves) and I find a charming little Dutch bar where we spend some time relaxing and reflecting. It is a small bar with a tiny back patio, and it is well-lit, clean and simple. Creedence Clearwater Revival is playing quietly and the bartender is singing along as she tidies up. She is a red-headed woman in her mid-to-late 40's, and the only other people inside are two old men who stand a few stools down, clutching pints and engaging in sporadic conversation with each other and the bartender. Their dog, a medium-sized, long-haired white beasty with black spots, is hands-down the cutest and friendliest bar dog I have encountered in Europe so far (It is a surprisingly happy moment when I find its hair on one of my sweaters a week later, as gross as it sounds).

The bartender sees us humming and singing along and bobbing our heads to Creedence and she asks,

"Aren't yoo a beet young to be singin' these soongs?!"

I couldn't help but think, Aren't you a beet Dutch to be singin these soongs?

Saturday.

We all slept through our alarms and missed our complementary crappy breakfast because none of us slept very well the night before, thanks to one of our American roommates...Katie. Katie likes to snore. And squeak. And gasp for air. Katie's travel buddy comes back to the room an hour or two after Katie's performance begins and apologizes to us all. As she is getting in bed, we ask her to wake her up and turn her on her side...or something, anything. I get up and hold my cell phone in the air as a light source as Katie's buddy gently pokes Katie's arm over and over ever so gently. Katie? Katie? Katie? Katie does not wake up. Her buddy says,

"I don't think I'm the best person to be doing this."

Sick and tired of the snoring crap and the shyness crap, I immediately give Katie (did I mention that we have never met or seen either of these girls before?) a FIRM shove and practically yell into her face,

"KATIE?!!!"

And as the sound machine stops and opens it eyes I get back in my bed and let Shy-McShyerson deal with her from there.

We don't have any specific plans for the day other than finding a windmill, so we go in search of one. It is much colder and windier today and a light rain is falling, so our relatively long walk to the windmolen is a bit arduous. It is great to see but I can't help but be upset by it. Technology is obviously advancing, and quickly at that, so where have all the windmills gone? I won't go into it here...but come on...you have to admit humans can be pretty dumb sometimes.

Afterwards we spend some time wandering one of the large steets, called Damrak, and do some souvenir shopping. We have to catch a plane back to Milan this evening and rain is now pouring, so we say goodbye to Amsterdam a few hours early, as much as I don't want to leave it behind. Although I sort of miss being able to walk the streets without worrying about being killed by a Dutch bicyclist that is eating, talking on a mobile phone, steering, pedaling incredibly fast and avoiding other crazed bicyclists all at the same time.

...Take your time, it wont be long now

Till you drag your feet to slow the circles down...

~ ~ ~

Later at the airport we see a group of Italian Hells Angels. I can't imagine what they could possibly be doing in Amsterdam. It is no place for them.

We reach Milan, miss the last train to Florence, find another route that will take three times as long, and spend our night riding two different night trains. We reach Santa Maria Novella train station in Florence at 6:30 AM Sunday morning. The sky is dark blue, a few gray clouds are smeared across the sky above the steeple of Santa Maria Novella, and strangely enough, the streets are quiet and empty...unusual for Florence, even at this hour.

We get back to our apartment and my roommates go to bed, meanwhile I begin to unpack. My mind is too busy to sleep. As I unzip my backpack--and I am not dramatizing or exaggerating this--the bells calling people to 8 o'clock mass ring. It's one of those moments where even the obnoxiously loud cooing of pigeons outside my window makes me feel warm and toasty inside.

I sleep incredibly soundly that night (or day really), but when I wake up, I feel completely confused about how to go about managing my time. I have tons of homework to do, but can't find the motivation to do it...and I spend the next three weeks procrastinating, planning trips, wishing I were back in Prague and Amsterdam, and just daydreaming in general. As of a week ago, I am "back on track" and I have managed to yank my head out of the clouds, so to speak, but time is running out and I'm not so sure how I feel about that.

How else could I possibly end this quote-happy story than end it with yet another quote:

"Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends, but is played out over and over again in the quietest chambers, that the mind can never break off from the journey."

-Pat Conroy, The Prince of Tides

Indeed Mr. Conroy, INDEED.

#13. The Really Long Prague Blog: "Now I don't have to go to Disneyland-I've been to Prague."

2008-11-26T15:34:00.008+01:00

Beaver's graffiti at Hostel Elf: "I don't need to go to Disneyland..."

Sorry, not my photo: Church of Tyn, Old Town Square

(Google images)

Again, not my photo: Jan Hus Monument, Old Town Square

(Google images)

Area on Vltava River near the Charles Bridge

Prague Orloj: Astronomical clock in Old Town Square

Blacksmiths, near Prague castle

Climbing the stairs to Prague Castle, Photo by Jo

From back to front, left to right: Kelsey, Jenny, Me, Jess, Joanna, Beaver, Billy, Matt

(Kim, Jen and Katy seem to be missing...)

Prague Castle

Mural of tractors and tanks traveling the infinity symbol,

round and round and round...

~ ~ ~

Sunday, October 26th. 7 am. Santa Naria Novella train station, Florence. It's dark, cold, and smells like winter. My 3 roommates--Jo, Kelsey, and Kim--and 3 friends of ours--Billy, Matt and 'Beaves,' (a.k.a. Lindsay Beaver)--and I, frantically purchase tickets to Milano Centrale train station. We board and I put on my headphones and search through my iPod. I usually don't feel like sleeping while traveling because I am too excited and don't want to miss anything, but by now I have learned that it is better if I do--especially if the previous night's sleep was not particularly sound. I spend more than several minutes perusing my iPod, trying to find the right music to put me out, and I compromise and finally decide on something loud. Very loud. If I am going to sleep then it is going to be very exciting sleep. And it is.

I wake up and the train is barreling through a small, hilly town blanketed in thick fog. I see my friends handing tissues to an Asian woman who is hurriedly tending to something a few rows down. They tell me that her daughter puked and they claim they smell vomit, but I don't smell it. Back to bed. The loudness continues, and I decide it is a good idea to wrap my scarf around my head to block out the light and the smell of puke that might waft its way towards me.

We reach Milano Centrale and it is a large, open-air, semi-cylindrical shell of steel beams. It looks like what train stations are supposed to look like. Austere and antique-y. We venture to the restrooms, and as I am digging through my backpack for some tissues to take in with me (Italian restrooms often do not have toilet paper), I accidentally drop my flosser onto the dirty, greasy floor. I feel myself getting frustrated because, after much internal squabbling, I made the decision to bring the flosser because it is the responsible thing to do. I realize that this is a sign: the universe is telling me to chill out.

Matt tells us that, according to one of his teachers, we have to catch a shuttle to the airport, which is an hour away. We stand in a line for 20 minutes, and when we reach the window we are told that it was completely unnecessary: the shuttles are outside and tickets are bought from the bus drivers. Woops.

We find the shuttles and spend the next hour zooming through the giant city that is Milan. Many of the city streets are lined with trees dropping turning leaves, making Milan surprisingly lovely in the same way that a woman who dresses practically rather than stylishly is surprisingly lovely when she puts on earrings and a nice blouse for a special event. (A stretch? Maybe.)

We make it to the airport early enough that we spend a couple hours discussing inane topics because we are to anxious to converse about anything worthwhile. Then again, we probably touched upon something good at some point, somewhere in between the "I'm so excited" 's and the "I wonder how much a sausage costs" 's. We board the plane and Billy, Matt and I sit in the very front row, face to face with the flight attendants.

20 minutes into the flight, one of the flight attendants tells us that we are passing over the alps and the aerial view is spectacular. Yup, it's spectacular. I spend the next hour and a half trying to sleep, but I fail. I am about to land in the Czech Republic and begin the most exciting journey of my youth--so yeah, I had trouble sleeping.

We land and everyone switches into adventure mode. Where are we? How much is a trip to the restroom going to cost me? How do we get to the hostel? What day is it? Why does my _______(fill in the blank) hurt?

3:30 pm. After we purchase bus and metro tickets and exchange some euros into "crowns" (Czech Koruna)--an extremely irritating currency (1 euro is equal to about 25 crown)--we follow Jo to the Starbucks. All three of my roommates are devoted Starbucks fans--according to Kim, Beaves qualifies as a fiend--and there aren't any Starbucks in Italy. Needless to say, this is quite a special moment. They all get their white chocolate mocha fix and we head outside to wait for a bus into town.

It is pretty darn cold and the sky is a dome of gray slop. Nevertheless, we are happy and ready to see what Prague is made of. We find our bus and get on. There aren't many people riding yet so we sit down and get comfortable. Over the next half hour the bus fills up with locals: little boys wearing dirty soccer uniforms and carrying soccer balls, young couples dressed for an evening out, elderly people toting groceries...

We get off and hop on the metro. We get off the metro, ride the escalator up to street level, step onto the sidewalk into the very cool night air, ooh and ahh and get excited, and hear Jo calmly ask, "Where's my wallet?"

We spend the next two hours searching for Jo's golden wallet, which has money, credit and debit cards, and her green card in it (Jo is a citizen of Romania). Luckily she had her passport, which meant that, despite the fact that the reservation was under her name, we would be able to check into our hostel that night no matter what. The key moment came when a bus driver checked our tickets to see which bus we had validated them on. We waited at the bus stop for the route 119 we had ridden earlier: #6357.

We sit and wait, twiddling our thumbs, and finally we see it...on the other side of the 4-lane highway. Jo and Billy wait for a break in the traffic and reach the other side just as the bus begins to pull away. From our point of view they disappear behind the bus, and we can't keep from pounding our fists, yelling, and doubling over. The bus stops and we can't see what's happening. About 60 seconds later it pulls away and reveals Jo and Billy on the other side waving their arms in the air. The golden wallet is soaring above Jo's head. Amazing. Utterly amazing.

We begin again. We catch the metro, get off, ride the escalator up to street level, step onto the sidewalk into the cooler night air, ooh and ahh all over again and get really, really excited. That night the universe handed Jo a serious gift, and as for the rest of us--we received the gift of being able to believe in the power of optimism and friendship. Even though many of us have only known each other for two months at this point, one would never be able to guess this.

Obviously Jo felt guilty, angry with herself, and worried--she's human--yet not once did anyone give a second thought to doing whatever they could to help her--and I believe this is not because they wanted to help themselves by solving the problem. It was the best and worst way to begin our incredible, adolescent adventure, and as much as I hate to admit it--made it all the more exciting. That's the screenwriter's dilemma I suppose.

Surprisingly, we actually navigate our way--via bus--to Hostel Elf, which is tucked away on the edge of town...and is not near any major bus stop. On our way there I look down at the cement wall next to the sidewalk and see the word "crips" scrawled across it in black spray paint. I can't help but ask,

"So hey, guys, what does the word crips mean to you? You know...just a general question."

No answer. Everyone walks faster.

We check in and are thrilled with how cool Hostel Elf is. Every wall is either covered in skillful graffiti or some sort of wall-hanging or painting, or is painted a bright color--but usually all three. Our room, which we have all to ourselves because we are such a big group, is painted to look like we are inside of a paramecium. The walls are covered in giant white spheres, making it a semi-permeable membrane, obviously, which means that it can experience new things and gain wisdom and maturity in the process. In addition, curvy, white hair-like doodly-bops--or flagella--surround the upper part of the walls. These help the paramecium move around and eat other bacteria. Flagella are very important. If it did not have them, our paramecium would not be able to travel to new places and broaden its horizons. It should go without saying that our paramecium is extremely thankful for the privilege to travel. Ah yes, and in addition, we have a complimentary opened can of tuna outside our window.

We venture out in search of friends and food. 30 seconds later, while descending the stairs, we realize we have no idea where we are going. I go back inside to ask for directions. The two young guys at the desk inform me that I am not looking at a map of Prague. I'm not even looking at a map of city in the Czech Republic. Enough said. Problem solved, and we're on our way. Again, we venture out in search of friends and food. While riding the bus I notice some graffiti that says, "WE DON'T WANT CLEAN CITY." Well that's too bad...Prague's pretty darn clean--if you ignore the occasional "Crips" tag.

We had planned to meet our friends--a group of four girls (Jen, Jenny, Joanna, Jess and Katy)--two hours earlier, but because of the wallet fiasco, this did not happen, and because none of us wanted to pay roaming rates to call them, we are hoping that they aren't upset, frozen, or enjoying Prague without us. Surprisingly, they are exactly where we said we would meet them (at New Town Hall, an indiscriminate monument that we randomly picked out on a map days earlier) and they have met up with a friend of theirs, Ryan, who is studying in Prague. Awesome. It is always great to have a guide.

We are all so tired that we only make it a block before we cave and go into the first restaurant we see: Buffalo Bill's. I apologize to myself for how pathetic this is and succumb to the will of my stomach. All 12 of us hurry inside and spend two hours talking, eating, drinking surprisingly cheap Pilsner Urquell, and mentally and physically preparing ourselves for the greatest adventure of our young lives.

Afterwards, Ryan leads us to a club called Chapeau Rouge. Inside the bar, on the wood-paneled walls hang lots of black and white photographs, some old and some new, and Spiderman and seahorse balloons crowd the ceiling. In one corner there is a Shrek pinball machine that, surprisingly, is being fervently played by a guy in his mid- to upper 20's. Downstairs, we find a bar lit by red and blue bulbs, filled with fog from a fog machine and lots of hip club-goers. The walls are red and have eyes: strange silver hemispheres of all different sizes protrude from the walls, not unlike our paramecium's semi-permeable membrane back at the hostel.

Lights are flashing rhythmically and incessantly and a DJ is playing typical dance music, yet only a handful of gay men are dancing together in the center of the room. Everyone else is either awkwardly clutching a drink and merely staring into space, clutching a drink and engaged in what seems to be semi-interesting conversations, or clutching a drink and lip-locked with another on one of the couches next to the dance floor. We hang out for a while and move on...

Ryan takes us through the Old Town Square, where we catch our first glimpse of one of Prague's spectacular Gothic churches: the Church of Our Lady in front of Tyn (in Czech: Kostel Matky Bozi pred Tynem)--also simply called the Church of Tyn. Did I mention that Czech is impossible to speak? Well now you know. Here's a passage from Wikipedia. com (which is not really a reliable source, but it will do):

"The phonology of Czech may also be very difficult for speakers of other languages. For example, some words do not appear to have vowels: zmrzl (frozen solid), ztvrdl (hardened), scvrkl (shrunk), čtvrthrst (quarter-handful), blb (fool), vlk (wolf), or smrt (death). A popular example of this is the phrase "strč prst skrz krk" meaning "stick a finger through your throat" or "Smrž pln skvrn zvlhl z mlh." meaning "Morel full of spots dampened from fogs"."

To prove my point even further...Děkuji , "Thank you" (formal), is pronounced De-koo-yeh. Or at least as far as I remember I think that's right. Moving on...

It is surreal. It is lit more beautifully than any monument I have ever seen at night. It seems as if we can reach out and tip it over; like it is plywood. Originally a romanesque church, in the 14th century it was rebuilt as it is today, in the late Gothic style. It's towers are 80 meters high, which is equal to 262 feet...that's pretty darn tall. We start to think that we have been dooped and are actually at Disneyland..there's no way this is real.

As we are leaving the square, we pass a gargantuan circular monument of a man and a group of huddling people, which is called the Jan Hus Monument. Ryan, who is studying Czech, translates one of the inscriptions for us:

"Love each other and wish the truth to everyone."

The monument was built in memorial of the 500th anniversary of Jan Hus' death. Hus, 100 years before the Protestant Reformation began, was burned at the stake for heresy in 1415 because of his reformist ideas and criticism of church practices (such as selling indulgences). Hus had so many followers that, after excommunicating Hus is 1410, the Pope Gregory XII tried to prohibit--or "interdict"--the entire city of Prague in 1414 from supporting Hus. Nice try Greg, but no cigar. People throughout the whole Czech Kingdom were so upset about Hus' death a year later that they began a movement against the Roman Catholic Church called the Hussite Wars.

Even 500 years later in 1915, festivities were forbidden to celebrate the revealing of the monument, so the Czechs did what Czechs do best, and disobeyed. They covered the monument in flowers and celebrated who they believed to be one of the most important individuals in Czech history.

Another inscription on the monument reads:

"I believe, that the anger thunders will cease and that the government of your affairs will return to your hands, Czech folk."

We move on and Ryan continues his improvised tour of Prague as we make our way to our bus stop, which gets us so excited that we know we won't be able to go to sleep anytime soon. Nevertheless, we journey "home" to our paramecium and set up shop. I offer to take the pad on the floor because I know one thing about myself when it comes to traveling: I don't care if I'm comfortable--or rather, I don't notice if I'm not.

Monday. My REI travel alarm clock goes off sometime around 8 am. I get up, inform the others that it is indeed morning, and after no responses or movement whatsoever, I proceed to the shower. On the way, I see a tall, blonde-haired boy that looks incredibly familiar.

"Paul?"

The boy turns around and yes--it is Paul, one of Billy's roommates back in Florence. He looks--well, for lack of a better term--freaked out when he sees me. Hmm...small world. When I return from what might possibly be the most pleasant hostel shower in the world (during which I was able to erase the sound of Billy's arrythmic, squeaky snoring from my head), the others have managed to rouse themselves. Upstairs, we find tired-looking travelers, excited-looking travelers, and smug-looking travelers who give us not-so-friendly glances...and then we find free coffee. Above the two black dispensers are signs that say: 'Your coffee--I am here' and 'Your tea--I am here.' Czechs have a strange sense of humor.

While we lounge on giant, incredibly squishy, black leather couches, I figure out a plan for the day and get familiar with our map--our map of Prague that is. We meet our lady friends at their hostel soon after, which is for no obvious reason called Chile Hostel. We begin our usual wandering session with me attempting to act as navigator. I didn't exactly fail all the time...just often. Back in The States I was a pretty adequate navigator if I do say so myself, but in Europe--I am a total space case.

Back tat the Old Town Square we find a massive crowd gathering, waiting for the 1 o'clock striking of the Prague Astronomical Clock (or Prague Orloj), a medieval astronomical clock located on the south wall of the Old Town City Hall that dates back as far as 1410. It is one form of a mechanical astrolabe, and is essentially a "primitive planetarium displaying the current state of the universe" (once again, this is according to Wikipedia...I apologize).

It is comprised of three components: an astronomical dial (representing the position of the Sun and Moon), "The Walk of the Apostles" (hourly, figures of Apostles, as well as other figures, move), and a calendar dial. Legend has it that the original creator of the clock had hid eyes gouged out because he was planning to build a similar clock in another country. After this, he supposedly died while touching the clock, which then ceased working for a number of years afterwards.

While Billy, Matt, our group of lady friends and I all go in search of the famously cheap and tasty Czech wurst and kraut, my roommates visit the Starbucks, which is bursting with people. When we all meet up again, they are glowing and clutching big white cups of joy and we, toting tiny styrofoam cups of mulled wine. Yes it was the middle of the day, I know, I know, but it was a small cup, like I said, and it was dirt cheap--so shoot me.

After spending a whopping 50 crowns ($2.45) on the best wurst and kraut of my life, and a sinful 40 crowns ($1.96) on a nice, warm, tiny cup of mulled wine, we forge ahead. We cross the Charles River and stumble upon a sprawl of royal gardens. Inside we find the typical geometric hedging and fountains and turning trees and tourists galore, but there is one fundamental difference between these gardens and others we have seen: peacocks. And what's more, most people don't seem phased by the presence of the peacocks at all, who are just running--well, hanging out really--freely in the gardens. Meanwhile, we're freakin' out! We see a couple white ones, then we get distracted by some ducks in a fountain, and then we see three colored ones chilling out on the roof of a shed. And still the other tourists don't care. Can peacocks even fly? Is that a stupid question? Either we're stupid kids or everybody else is lame and missed out on a great day in the history of peacocks. I can see the headlines: INDEPENDENCE IS WON! THREE COURAGEOUS PEACOCKS FLY! CONSTITUTION TO BE DRAFTED SOON!

We leave the gardens and begin to climb up a large hill on the edge of the city center toward Prague Castle. On the way up we pass a small square with a maroon-colored cloth booth in it, like one you would find at a renaissance fair. We hear an obnoxious banging sound and are surprised to see a big, scruffy man with a pony tail banging on an anvil. We get closer and watch him as he puts a rod into a waist-high basin of open flames and uses his foot to depress an air pump below. The rod turns orange and then white, he returns to the anvil, positions a hammer in his hand, and begins to beat the crap out of the rod. The sound is startling and exciting, and his strength and focus is mesmerizing. We are captivated. I watch him do this over and over, and when I turn around I am alone. My group has disappeared. Now, this really isn't abnormal. I am always the one left behind. I like to take my time.

I buy a necklace from the other blacksmith in the booth, who is tall, has long blonde hair, is built like a gladiator, and is wearing traditional blacksmith garb: a potato sack tunic synched at the waist and baggy potato sack pantaloons. It is a small, inexpensive token to remind me of days past and days to come.

As usual, I find my group quickly, and we continue. We stop to take photos from a beautiful vantage point, from which we can see all of Prague's city center. It is a sea of green, oxidized copper church rooves and red terra cotta shingles. We reach an archway at the top that leads into a large square, and there it is in all its Gothic glory. Prague Castle. Stunning. We spend at least an hour oogling at it, inside and out, and then we decide to give our cold, tired little bodies a break.

On the way back to our hostels we see a giant metronome atop a hill far in the distance (apparently the man who invented the metronome was Czech) and pass through the Jewish quarter and a cemetery that had so little space that Jews had to buried in 12 layers. We do not go inside because some of us feel that it is disrespectful to enter a cemetery to merely snap photos and check something off the proverbial tourists' list. Others simply don't want to pay the 10 euro entrance fee.

As we are trying and failing to figure out the bus schedule at a crowded bus stop, two young Americans, one male and one female, approach us and offer their help. While we wait we strike up conversations and learn quite a bit about Prague. As it turns out, the guy happens to be going to the same stop we are, so he offers to lead us. He and I spend the entire ride discussing snowboarding--if that even counts as a discussion--and then it hits me: people are like places. Traveling is similar to being social and outgoing in that we experience the world and learn about ourselves at the same time. Being social while exploring is just as important as the exploring itself is.

Once we get off the bus he leads us up a busy street, takes a left, then a quick right...As we are walking he tells us that we should walk up the hill near the bus stop to see the tower. According to him it has giant black babies crawling up it. From what we can tell, it's just a regular ol' ugly radio tower. ...then a left, and then down some stairs, left again, and then a slight right, and there we are at Hostel Elf. We absolutely, positively, would have NEVER figured that out on our own.

On our way towards our room, we hear a voice that sounds like someone we know. Everyone keeps going, satisfied with merely saying "Hey, that guy sounds like Garrett," but I decide to stop and check. My god--it's Garrett, another one of Billy's roommates back in Florence. Hmm...small world.

We nap, attempt to do some yoga to loosen up (Billy nearly kills himself), and then we head out. I lead us up the hill to the tower where I have read that there is a great local bar/restaurant, figuring we could plant two trees with one seed--as I used to say when I was a wee lass (I was a total tree-hugger and didn't like the saying "kill two birds with one stone," and I requested that my mother do away with it and use my tree saying...yes, I absolutely realize how ridiculous that is).

The tower has giant black babies crawling up it. It is probably the most bizarre public building I have ever seen and ever will see. It is an incredibly tall, simple grey cylinder with a disc-shaped space near the top, and it is lit from beneath by pink and purple lights. The babies are crawling up the sides toward the disc, which most likely has an expensive restaurant inside. From the busy street below, where we got off of the bus, you cannot see the lights or the babies...but alas, they do exist.

It turns out the bar/restaurant only serves bar food, so we trek back down the hill. We stumble upon a "Music Cafe" whose menu looks tasty and affordable so all 10 of us green-light it and go inside. The walls are covered in framed posters, many of them signed (by Black Sabbath, Bowie, etcetera) and downstairs, where we are seated, some of the walls are artfully covered in black and white magazine clippings of Patti Smith, Robert Johnson, Eric Clapton, The Clash, Sonic Youth, The Doors, Nirvana... and there' even a juke box. After some locals put in some change and select a Doors song, a Marley song, and a Czech rock song, we all pitch in for some Queen, Michael Jackson, Bob Dylan, John Lennon and Velvet Underground songs. We listen to great music, eat our food, and wait for Billy to finish eating his 20 euro pig knee. It might have been repulsive, but you have to admit, any time someone consumes an entire pig knee in one sitting is a significant event.

Afterwards we make our way towards fun, wherever that may be, and on the way, I get locked in a glass ATM vestibule. After a two or three-minute freak out, during which I even try to slide my card to my friends through the crack between the doors so they can unlock it from the outside, I am freed. I advise anyone and everyone who ever goes through this painful ordeal to stop, find your center, and then proceed to push every button in sight with great perseverance.

We find a place called "U Sudu" that is comprised of 7 different bars linked together. We pass through the first, go down a steep stairwell into the second, then down some stairs into the third, then up and over and down some stairs into the fourth, and so on. The walls are low brick vaults and each bar is pretty small. We decide on #5. Number 6 was a bit too crazy: there was a DJ squished behind the short bar, a dog wandering around, and the bartender stuck Billy's 50 euro bill to his sweaty forehead and proceeded to pester Billy--yelling over the music and waving his arms--for a smaller bill. Number 5 was just right. Filled with locals and quiet enough that we could actually talk to each other.

After some good conversation and some time to observe the Czechs in action, we emerge from the labyrinthine bar into a light drizzle. Now feeling familiar with the buses, we simply hop on, hop off, and pass out at Hostel Elf. Matt manages to snore louder than Billy and Jo chucks a pillow at his face in the middle of the night, but I don't think it worked.

Tuesday. We rise early and check out of the hostel. Beaves adds to the insane amount of graffiti on the inside of the WC door:

"Now I don't have to go to Disneyland--I've been to Prague."

As we are checking out, I notice two paintings above the front desk: babies floating in a weird lava-like, graffiti-ish atmosphere. Babies? Again? We meet up with our lady friends and begin wandering session number two. First we see Frank Gehry's "Dancing House," which delights my roommates (who are Interior Design majors) and me as well. As we are walking away from it, a long procession of antique war jeeps passes by, being driven by older men in uniform. Some are riding with women in tan trench coats and fancy hats who wave to us and smile. We are surprised to find that today is one of Czech Republic's several Independence Days. Soon after, we come across a large festival with live music, and I am happy to really see the Czechs in action and enjoying themselves, despite the rain.

We stop by the Communist museum, where one of our lady friends buys a notepad with a bear toting a machine gun on it in the gift shop. We don't go inside because the tickets are too expensive, so we continue on to the Mucha exhibit. On the way I score a delicious hot dog for 17 crowns (83 US cents). We also pass a mural covering the entire side wall of a 3 or 4-story building. It is the infinity symbol (a figure 8) made to look like a paved road with yellow tractors and green tanks traveling around and around.

The Mucha exhibit is fantastic. I get left behind again, and after walking back and forth from one end of the exhibit to the other, looking for a familiar face (I mean come on, there were 10 of us), I realize that they probably just left. Correctamundo, as they say. They were all buzzing around in the gift shop.

Now in the museum mood, we cross the river in search of the Coffee and Kafka museums. It is so cold on the way there that I walk alone and do math in my head, adding up what I've spent and converting figures from Crowns to Euros, to warm myself up. The coffee museum is expensive and ridiculous (a tour of one small room inside of a coffee shop) so we merely buy coffee instead and gear ourselves up for the Kafka museum that is directly across the way.

Needless to say, it was an intense experience, but one that I think we were all very glad to have had. After, we are all exhausted, our brains are fried, and we have to catch a plane to Amsterdam in several hours, so we head back to Chile hostel to look up directions to our hostel in Amsterdam. One of our lady friends, Joanna, google searches it for us.

"Hey guys? Is your hostel Christian?"

"No. Why?"

"What's it called?

"Shelter City."

"So you're saying it's not this one? Shelter City Christian Hostel, red light district, Amsterdam?"

As we all moan and sigh and look to Billy, he blurts out,

"You guys told me to book a hostel for six people for the first two nights in Amsterdam and I did. I did not do research. You guys told me to book a hostel for six people--SO I DID."

Ironic, I know. A Christian Hostel in the Red Light District of Amsterdam.

We part ways with our lady friends, whom we will meet up with in Amsterdam the following evening. Later in the airport, we come across three white sculptures of babies crawling around, randomly placed on the ground in a high foot-traffic area near the international terminal--one of them is even in an inner tube. I don't know what the deal is, but I intend to find out what this obsession with babies is all about.

So...off to Amsterdam we go...

#12: Growling for Peace at Pax Christie

2008-11-17T16:30:00.005+01:00

The flag and sign at the entrance

View from the driveway

View of the manor from the yard

The yard; view from the library's terrace

"Tell me and I will forget, show me and I may remember, involve me and I will understand." -Confucius. Man he was good.

Friday October 10th. We were told to meet outside the McDonald's by the train station at 8:30 AM, so two thirds of us did. One third of us decided--unsurprisingly--not to show. After all, a 7-hour retreat for Peace Education class at Pax Christie--a "peace house," or una casa per la pace--on a Friday (a day when Lorenzo de Medici students are not scheduled to have any classes at all) is quite a commitment...no sarcasm intended. Our teacher, Gianni, showed up and didn't seem to have a plan. Gianni isn't the planning type. On top of that, bus drivers were apparently striking around Florence, so there was no guarantee that we would be able to get a bus back to Florence at the end of the day. But hey...

We ride the bus 30 minutes outside the city center of Florence. Just a few minutes into the ride, trees begin to appear and buildings become rarer and smaller. Ahhh..Tuscany. I think that this might not be such a hard commitment after all, and feel glad that I agreed to come along.

The bus driver gives us a nod in his rear-view mirror and we get off. We step out onto the sidewalk and are standing next to a tiny cafe with a troop of older locals inside. Gianni turns and squints through his glasses at the sign,

"Uhh, we get espresso? Yes?"

We all nod. About 150 seconds and 80 euro cents later we all have a nice espresso buzz going and Gianni leads us--and quickly at that--down the side of the two-lane road. There isn't a path but Gianni seems to know where he is going, so we follow like obedient little American ducks, all in a row. Some graffiti I saw on a wall in Florence comes to mind: Non Credere, Non Obbedire," which means "Don't believe, Don't obey." Whoever scrawled that across the wall definitely hadn't spend much time in Tuscany with Gianni. It's not hard to believe and obey when the sun is shining and there are big, healthy coniferous trees in every direction that we look.

We walk beneath an overpass and notice that the walls are covered in posters, and one section is solely dedicated to a Happy Days themed event. As I am studying the rendering of the Fonzie cartoon character, Gianni stops and says,

"Uhhh, we have to--cross. No one...uhhh...die. Okay?"

Definitely easier said than done. And to think--we didn't fill out liability waivers. Oh goodness...this would so not be allowed in America... Let's just say there were a lot of false starts, lots of shouting, and eventually, success. We walk another 20 meters or so and then turn left onto a road that juts up a steep hillside and doesn't seem to lead anywhere but up and away. This must be the right road.

It gets quieter and quieter. The sound of cars falls away and all I can hear is the heavy breathing of a half-dozen kids who haven't climbed a hill in at least a month and a half and are really feeling it. We walk and walk, passing big white manors every so often. New views of the Tuscan countryside come into view around every bend and twenty minutes later we see a driveway with a PACE flag hanging from a gatepost (pace (pa-chay) means peace in Italian). The manor is gigantic, but sweet and endearing, rather than intimidating and overwhelming. Just picture a postcard-worthy Tuscan manor. There, that's it. Peeling paint and all.

We meet an old man with silver hair wearing a dress shirt and sweater vest at the front entrance, who Gianni--as soon as the man leaves the room--introduces as an ex-convict. The man returns, fires off a paragraph of fiery Italian, and takes us up a wide stone staircase to a library. On the way up we pass a piece of paper pinned to a bulletin board that says, "Ma tu, che fatti per la pace?" Which means "But you, what do you do for peace?" We also pass an espresso machine, the kind that pours the beverage and has a door that slides open when it's done. Weird. I look around and see handmade arts and crafts on the walls and outdated, worn fabric on the chairs. Yup, this is a cute dining area in a Tuscan manor--this machine doesn't belong here at all.

The man gives us permission to use the library all day. He disappears. There are long couches, comfy chairs, a large fireplace, ceiling-high bookshelves (and that's Italian ceiling height), and a balcony overlooking a lush, green yard lined with cyprus trees. Beyond the yard are rolling hills, clusters of cypruses, small vineyards and olive orchards, and small clusters of--you guessed it--red-roofed homes. The man returns with a garish stereo that, like the espresso machine, doesn't fit the setting at all, and leaves it on a huge wooden dining table before he disappears again.

A young kid enters the room carrying a glass tray carrying a pitcher filled with water and glasses. He smiles and introduces himself. He is German and is assigned to work at the peace house as an alternative to joining the army. He says,

"So you must tell me about yourselves. That way I do not have to work."

We all smile, but are put off by his attitude: he doesn't seem to like the manor. All I know is that if I were able to avoid a draft by working and living in a place like Casa per la Pace for a measly two months I wouldn't be so mopy. But who knows, maybe he's lonely, maybe he has to chop a lot of firewood, or maybe his mattress is too firm.

The German kid leaves and Gianni asks us to stand up, remove our shoes, and gather in a circle. We begin the day with some "bio energetics," or stretching to the normal person. After that we spend a few minutes growling and grinding our teeth like hungry animals hopped up on adrenaline.

Gianni chimes in mid-growl, "Our bodies are like giant...recorders. They have very good memories. We must release tension or we--we uhh, explode, yes?" And then he kicks the couch. It looks like it hurts. He goes on,

"We cannot bring peace in the world if we do not first find it in ourselves."

Later, after a brief break--during which we spend some time horizontal on our own respective couches--we move outside to the yard. We pair up and spend the next half an hour doing an exercise in which one partner spends 15 minutes with their eyes closed and the other leads them around the yard, prompting their "blind" companion to feel various plants, objects and surfaces. As I am being led by my partner, I hear one of my classmates yelp. Later I learn that her partner, Ricky (whose father is a police officer and intends to go into the FBI), had spotted a stray cat in the yard and had tried to get his partner to feel it. Non obbedire, non credere. She did not believe Ricky nor did she obey him.

Afterwards, we sat in a circle in the grass and discussed our sensations and our thoughts on the blindness exercise. My partner commented that it was a strangely intimate experience, but she really enjoyed it. We both found that we came to trust the other quickly, which seemed odd considering we didn't know each other at all. We then transitioned into a discussion about good and bad experiences with teachers.

From the outside looking in, it is normal to be confused about why a Peace Education teacher would spend so much time having his students discuss education in a general sense, but he has helped my classmates and I to realize that education is the soil in which peace takes root. Peace Education is not a class in which you become educated solely on peace movements and activists--as most of us thought it would be. Rather, it is a class in which we have been able to reflect on how to foster peace and eliminate conflict and, more importantly, how to eliminate and avoid violence. It is a class in which we work to become optimistic and hopeful, rather than simply agree with the Freudian school of thought and "accept" that all humans are, at their very core, aggressive.

Just as we come to the end of our discussion, a woman emerges from the manor, calling us inside. Gianni says it is lunch time. We slowly amble toward the house and just as we are entering through the tall doorway, a young, stout man appears and hollers,

"American girls!"

As annoying as this phrase is, he somehow managed to say it in an endearing way. Or maybe we were all just feeling to peaceful to be annoyed.

We sit down at a long picnic table inside with the residents of Casa per la Pace at one end and our class at the other. The meal begins with one of the residents explaining the history of the house in Italian while Gianni translates to us. We observe a moment of silence and then the feast begins. We are given aubergine and olive crostini, cheese and salami, anchovy rice, deliciously seasoned chicken, mixed vegetables, wine, and apples from a tree outside. I spend the meal eavesdropping on Gianni's conversation with the lady of the house--which is entirely in Italian.

I can understand enough to know that they are discussing Italian and American students and how they both generally approach life today. I learn that many Italian students reach adulthood and have no direction in life; no ambition. Many remain at home or simply flee to other countries and pursue odd jobs. Gianni in turn, tells her of the American students he teaches and their tendency to be too hard on themselves and to feel overwhelmed by pressure to be "the best," and that many of us--ironically?--also lack direction. he does not know that I understand what he is saying, but even if he did, he probably wouldn't abstain from saying it: it's not like it's secret information.

What struck me was the way he said these things: he would never use such a saddened tone when discussing this with us. He truly pities us. On the other hand, as a teacher, he probably--hopefully--recognizes that members of societies are not all carbon copies of each other and do not all have the same experiences, and therefore, are not all "doomed" to the same fate. American society may be seriously ill in some ways, but that does not mean we as a people are all suffering, disoriented and hopeless. The election of Obama certainly supports this claim.

It may seem silly to reference, but Coldplay expresses it well--albeit ambivalently--in a song called 'Lost!':

Just because I'm losin'

Doesn't mean I'm lost

Doesn't mean I'll stop

Doesn't mean I will cross

Just because I'm hurtin'

Doesn't mean I'm hurt

Doesn't mean I didn't get what I deserved

No better and no worse

I just got lost

Every river that I tried to cross

Every door I ever tried was locked

Oh and I'm just waitin' till the shine wears off

You might be a big fish

In a little pond

Doesn't mean you've won

Cause along will come a bigger one

And you'll be lost

Every river that you tried to cross

Every gun you ever held went off

And I'm just waiting till the firin' stops

Oh and I'm just waitin' till the shine wears off

* * *

We enjoy our meal and our good company. At least I do. I am lost in thought, as usual, when I am startled by a loud, obnoxiously crackly meow that comes from somewhere near my feet. I look down and see a poof of gray fur disappear. The lady of the house quickly gets up and calls out to it, holding a piece of crostini out. She finally wrangles the cat and we see that what we believed was a stray is actually the cat of the peace house. I suppose it's very appropriate that it is gray.

After the meal, once everyone has dispersed and the dining area is empty except for the lady of the house and I, I try to thank her in Italian and tell her that the meal was delicious...but I don't exactly succeed. At any rate, she gets it. "Ohh! sei contenta!" She knows that I am happy. Benissimo.

2:30 PM. I find Gianni and the group outside and he tells us what our activities will be for the rest of the afternoon. We spend the next couple hours role playing (teachers and students and roommates embroiled in conflict), running into each other (a trust exercise...?), and later, back in the library, we figure out if we are buffalos, eagles, mice, or bears (four different personality types).

As we are all lounging around in the library, revealing our personality types and discussing the positive and negative aspects of each, Gianni supplies us with his usual hourly compassionate thought:

"If I can give you one piece of advice, it is to focus your young lives on finding a place in the world, which requires that you look out, but also within."

Some of us smile, some simply nod. Gianni grins and looks around at all of us. I find myself feeling sad that the day is over. It may have been odd, but it was a day of not simply being told and shown--it was a day during which I was involved, and thus I came to understand. Confucius would have been proud. After a long pause, Gianni thanks us for coming. Meeting adjourned. Kind of.

Downstairs we wait to find out how we are going to get back to Florence. Some are anxious to go but when we receive the invitation to see the chapel we accept. We are led down the grand, wide staircase to the floor below. The air is crisp and cold. The woman flicks on a light and excitedly begins pointing at things and explaining them. Gianni hurriedly tries to keep up with the translations. She tells us that every object in the room has a story.

The room is small and the ceiling low, and the walls and floor are made of rough, gray cement. On one side of the room there are several small wooden pews and opposite, there is an altar to match that is draped in a bright, colorful cloth from Ecuador. The walls have tapestries and paintings on them that were all created by peace workers, and there are two glowing stained glass windows letting in light, one of which is perhaps the most beautiful and moving thing I have seen all day--despite its simplicity...and perhaps because of it. In Italian it reads:

"Dove comincia l'amore, finisse la violenza." Which means in English, "Where love begins, violence ends."

After about 20 quiet and special minutes in the chapel, during which the lady of the house tells us that we are all welcome to come back whenever we like, we are led back upstairs and are offered a ride back to town. Gianni, the German boy, an older man, an Italian boy, and all 7 of us students crowd into a white van and head back to the city center. At one point the older man asks us in broken English who we are going to vote for. All in unison and in a similar tone yell, "OBAMAAAA!" and everyone smiles big and nods. We know what they are thinking...there is hope for these Americans yet.

The van comes to an unexpected stop in a roundabout outside the city walls, and the older man bids us all adieu. Disoriented, we all pile out into the street, and as the van pulls away, Gianni asks us, "Do you know where you are?" We all reply..."No!" He points through an archway in the city wall and says, "Go that way. I am going this way." and with a smile, he says 'ciao' and vanishes. We all shrug and simply do what we have become accustomed to doing while abroad: we don't worry or think too much, we just go "that way" and hope for the best.

* * *

If you're interested, I have attached a description of something I had to read for my Peace Education class and a link to the actual document. Don't feel obligated to read every word--the first couple pages are inspiring even without reading the following pages. It is also interesting to note that the pews in the chapel were built by students of Lorenzo Milani--the man who inspired these students to write 'Letter to a Teacher' in 1969.

Description:

Letter to a Teacher by Schoolboys of Barbiana

A forgotten treatise on school education

Kudlu Chithprabha

Most academic courses about education are centered around theories and models produced by academics. It is unfortunate that very few prospective teachers ever get to hear the stories of education written by the best educators of the world - those who have experimented with schooling but do not necessarily have degrees in education. When such stalwarts as Gandhi and Tolstoy are ignored by the academic world, it is no wonder that no one ever hears of a small book written by a group of poor children from a tiny, obscure school in Italy.

Barbiana is a community of about 20 farmhouses in the hills of Tuscany in Italy. Don Lorenzo Milani, a priest assigned to the village, founded the School of Barbiana in the early 1960s, initially intending it as a night school for the working people. He soon realized that the needs of the children on the farms scattered nearby were even more critical. Most of these children had either failed their exams and left school or were bitterly discouraged with the way they were being taught. He gathered about 10 boys, 11- to 13-year-olds, and gave them a full schedule of eight hours' school work, seven days a week. The older children devoted a great deal of their time to teaching or drilling the younger ones. All the students gave many hours to the study and understanding of problems that were directly significant to their own lives, and, in line with such concerns, eight students from the school wrote the Letter to a Teacher as a full-year project. It was first published as a book in 1969 and was a best-seller in Italy. It has since been published subsequently in many languages.

(Above excerpt copied from: http://ct-net.net/tc_ann_6-2_6)

LINK TO 'LETTER TO A TEACHER': http://www.scribd.com/doc/4860567/Letter-to-a-Teacher

Post 11: Goodbye Amoeba Bus (Tales of France)

2008-10-15T15:21:00.004+02:00

Looking down on one of Monaco's harbors, Saturday

Looking down on Nice, Saturday

Trying to avoid getting run over by the future, Nice, Saturday afternoon

Trying to get a cool picture of me and the view and failing, From our room in Nice, Saturday evening

A Nice Sunrise (pun totally intended), 7 AM, Sunday morning

This time I skip karaoke and get a good night's sleep. I get up at 3:30 AM, shower, make breakfast, and my roommates and I are out the door at 4:30. We've got the routine down considering our jaunt to Switzerland was only last weekend. We get on Maoro and Franco's bus again, sit down, I successfully fall asleep, and my jaw hangs open ever so attractively.

We make a stop at another charming road-side "Autogrill" and then continue on towards France. We reach Monaco, a country squished between the borders of Italy and France with a population somewhere around 30,000 people. We meet with a French, English-speaking tour guide named Pierre that is toting an umbrella and wearing a smoked-salmon-colored dress shirt, and he shows us around for a half-hour, occasionally popping open his giant maroon umbrella so we won't lose him--he was quite short.

Pierre leads us up a coastal path where we look down on the city, which lays in a valley and spills into the Mediterranean like a sack of precious gems. It is a flood of expensive yachts, exotic flora, shimmering blue water, ritzy condos, and higher in the valley, a sprawl of ostentatious homes. Pierre points to the far side of the valley and says that this is the border between Monaco and France: It's seamless. Later, we see the church where Grace Kelly's and Prince Rainier's tombs are, Prince Albert's castle, the changing of the guards, and an "exotic" garden along the coastal path displaying a surprisingly wide variety of cacti. Monaco is only one-half square mile large, is clogged with money and with tourists that wish they had fortunes, and is a little bit stuffy. The history is interesting, the energy is undeniable, but Monaco is not for me. Onward.

We enter France and head towards Nice, following a coastal highway threading itself through tunnels in the hillsides. Maoro pulls over on a hill above the city of Nice, which hugs a u-shaped coastline lined with palm trees, and we are stunned by the size and aesthetic unity of it. If American cities are like a jagged, grey mountain range, then Nice is like a a vast expanse of sand dunes. Nearly all the buildings follow the same two-tone color scheme of peach and orangey-pink and nothing really stands out, except along the coastline. I ask Pierre if he knows where our hotel is. He points to an old, dome-topped building on the shore and then tells me to count three buildings to the right. Lovely, we'll be amongst the ritzies. They'll like that. Then Pierre points to the hilltop above us, "That is where Elton John lives." Oh dear. I spend the next two hours trying to quiet Bennie and the Jets, which plays itself over and over and over again in my head. BENNIE! BENNIE!

We pull up outside of Hotel Le Royal. Kelsey and I head up to room 208 and are surprised to find that we have not been relegated to the back of the hotel, instead, we have a balcony on the second (third) floor facing the Mediterranean. Our other roommates, Jo and Kim, along with many others I'm sure, are not so fortunate. Nevertheless, our eyelids are hanging pretty low and we both take serious power naps before meeting everyone downstairs.

We head down to the beach and spend some time reflecting--the weather is too good to pass up the chance to sit by the sea. The sound of the stones rolling back and forth on the shore reminds me of a rainmaker a friend used to have in her home in Sausalito, and I realize how coincidental it is that she studied French avidly and ended up moving to Paris. Anyway, the sound lulls me to sleep, even though I am laying on a bed of bulbous rocks.

I wake up and hear someone suggest we go in search of coffee. We wander the waterfront, look for a place with cheap coffee, don't find one, and end up at a McDonald's. I haven't bought something from a Micky-Dee's, or any fast-food chain really, since that movie Super-Size Me came out in 2004, but I am tired and want to be awake to enjoy Nice so I get an espresso and don't beat myself up about it. We all perk up and continue our wandering.

We find a long park with a two-story merry-go-round playing techno, a gigantic curving chicken-bone-like sculpture, and a large square with a street running through it lined with translucent white statues of men in different sitting poses perched atop poles that spring up from the ground at least two or three stories high. As we are taking pictures, we are almost run over by the most futuristic train I have ever seen with my own eyes. We are certainly in the future, so what now? Just a thought. Silvery, clean, and worm-shaped, they quietly slide by on tracks sunken into the astonishingly clean ground, right through the aisle of translucent men.

Back at Le Royal, my roommate and I take another power nap before dinner. When we wake she shows me a video on her digital camera from earlier in the day. She had wandered with another group and they came across a man dancing to Michael Jackson tunes on the sidewalk by the shore. He resembled a cross between Alice Cooper, Chis Angel and Keith Richards and in the video he is wearing an unbuttoned blue, satin dress shirt and silver plastic leg shields that fall apart as he dances. He is flailing around, occasionally doing an impressive move, but mostly just flailing about like a...well, a crazy man on acid that might have been a tai chi or qi gong instructor at some point. Despite whoever he is or whatever he was on, it is hilarious.

The dinner doesn't deserve to be written about. The French have disappointed me in the food department, but then again, I ate in a hotel...not in a bistro. Nevertheless, I am happy to be fed and happy to be traveling: as my Uncle Ted used to tell me, "There are some people in this world that don't have food." It may not sound particularly profound, and I'll admit it's a pretty obvious concept, but not to a 4-year-old and not if one really considers what that means for each of us, who can eat whenever we want (so much to the point that we are statistically the fattest nation in the world).

After dinner we wander around more, admiring the lights (the translucent men were lit from within by colored lights), the sounds of accordions and people speaking French, the smells of fantastic food (it was hard not to blatantly point and stare at plates as we walked past) and enjoying the privilege of being able to travel. As we make our way down the main drag, we come across Michael Jackson guy again. He has been here all day and is still going strong. Naturally, we sit down and take a gander. He effortlessly climbs the street light and hand-balances on top of it (this guy must have tried out for Cirque du Soleil at some point in his life and got turned down). He spends quite a while on the light post, and then his stereo blows out. He takes his time getting down and moving across the sidewalk. We watch until the stereo blows out again, and then we realize that Michael Jackson guy is not Nice and vice-versa--it's time to get going.

We run into our guides, Franco and Stefano, who tell us that we are going the wrong way and that all the fun is the other direction. Well, Franco and Stefano, we didn't find it. In one last attempt to experience Nice's nightlife, we go into a casino. Our group has never looked so sad. I believe that casino might have been one of the most depressing establishments I have ever been in, aside from hospitals, hospices and old-folks' homes. And it gets better: the boys, unsatisfied with the dinner, want McDonald's. We spend at least 45 minutes sitting on a cement ledge outside McDonald's facing the shore and the glowing oval moon before we realize how wrong it all is. I say, "Isn't it great that we're sitting in France, hanging out in front of a McDonald's?" Two trips to McDonald's in Nice in one day--pathetic, I know.

Despite this lack of obvious fun, we have a great time, and the night ends with Ana and Billy--once again--jumping into the Mediterranean. I pass this time out of a sheer lack of preparation in the clothing department. Ana goes in her dress and Billy in his briefs...the French couples sitting along the shore are thoroughly entertained by this. The sound of the stones rolling back and forth on the shore put me in a mood for sleep, and I welcome it. We go back to our rooms at Le Royal, leaving a trail of seawater behind us.

The sunrise is sensational and inspirational in the truest senses of the words. Kelsey and I take way too many photos of it--each minute it changes and keeps us from packing our bags. Breakfast is adequate. The most entertaining part about it though, is Franco's hair. The combination of his crazy eyes, untamable eyebrows, and the gray cowlick--slightly resembling the Mattahorn, ironically--jutting up from his egg-shaped head is enough to make the croissants (or KWAGH-SOHHNTS!) and burnt coffee taste absolutely delicious. And once again, we are off...

We reach Cannes at around noon, and we are given two hours to get back to the bus. No matter: Cannes is my mecca--anything will do. Beggars cannot be choosers. I immediately head for Palais des Festivals, the movie theater where the Cannes Film Festival screenings are held every year in May. I guess my friends can see the excitement in my face, because they keep saying things like, "Don't worry, you'll be back." Although we don't do or see much of Cannes, I can't shake the feeling of excitement from my bones: I want my films to play at this festival. I want to walk into the Palais des Festivals with hundreds of other film enthusiasts and watch my characters and my story move about and unfold on the projector screens. And I will, oh yes.

Cannes ends with my jaw dropping as I watch a busty, older blond woman, who is sitting on the rocks by the parking lot, give her dog a drag of her cigarette. She and her dog get comfortable on their rock, she puts her arm around him--a brown Husky-lookin' thing--and they both gaze out at the Mediterranean, watching the sailboats in the distance.

We head back towards the border of Italy and stop off in a town called St. Paul de Vence, a tiny village still surrounded by medieval fortress walls. Oddly enough, it is filled with modern art galleries, and we spend an hour or so taking calendar shots and tilting our heads to the side and saying, "huh, that's a weird sculpture." 100 or so photos later, we are all ready to move on.

An hour later, we stop in a town called Eze (pronounced 'ezz'), where we take a tour of Parfumerie Fagonard. Strange as it is, we have a surprisingly good time. This is the last stop and we know it. This is it for my Lorenzo de Medici field trips...and I know it. Although I wish I could travel with Franco and Maoro on the crazy amoeba bus every weekend for the rest of 2008, I am also excited about becoming my own guide. I am excited about traveling according to my own schedule and not being counted by Franco every couple hours. Thank you Franco, thank you Maoro, but it's time to move on.

We leave Fragonard a little before 5 pm and hit traffic outside Genoa around 6. Everyone decides that they want to watch a movie, so Franco puts Crash into the DVD player. This is only the second feature-length movie that I have seen in the past six weeks. Heaven for a film-lover. The movie ends and we are in..actually, I have no idea where we were, but we were at another Autogrill off the superstrada. Everyone feasts on paninis and we get back on the bus for the last leg of the journey. Franco puts The Interpreter with Sean Penn and Nicole Kidman in the DVD player and again, I am in heaven. Sometimes we all just need to forget about time, place and space and just engage ourselves in a plot totally foreign to our own realities. At least I know I do. The movie ends exactly as Maoro pulls up next to Piazza Indipendenza--the timing is eery. It is 11-something pm.

I spend the walk home thinking about how wonderful these past two trips have been, and how much greater my future trips will be because of them. Learning to travel so I can travel to learn. I now know two things: 1) if given the chance, every spot on Earth is interesting, and 2) with effort, one can spend their entire lives being interested. I may have thought these things before, but now I know these things to be true. It's time for many of us to move past being guided by "Francos" and "Stefanos" and to move towards becoming "Francos" and "Stefanos," people that have--like many others--ventured out with wide eyes and open minds and continue to do so.

Below is a video of the sunrise in Nice. I know it's not great, but I thought I would experiment with posting a video because I want do it more in the future. Sometimes still shots just aren't enough.

#10: The World Is Our Happy Meal (Tales of Switzerland & Como)

2008-10-10T21:03:00.004+02:00

20 Minutes Out of Tirano, Leaving Italy

Crossing The Bernina Pass...On the left, a lake of death

The high altitude starts to affect Charlie and I

A Photo of An Alp and I. (Requested by Mother)

The Ferry to Bellagio, Lake Como, Sunday

Ughh. 3:50 am. Piazza Indipendenza, Florence. One of the few places where residents of this God-forsaken, stone city can find trees. The bus leaves at 4. Passport? Yes. Sleep? No. Karaoke the night before? Yes. Pillow? No. Woops. We crowd onto the bus and half of us pass out. The other half--minus myself--pass out a few minutes later. I am AWAKE. I spend the next three hours rotating between holding my eyes shut and listening to music, and watching the bus barrel down a "superstrada," thinking about how it looks like we are in the US barreling down the 5 through Southern California.

At some point, holding my eyes shut works, because at some other point I wake up. The sun is rising on my right, and everyone else is still getting their beauty rest. I begin perusing my iPod for one of the new albums my roommate Kim gave me that hasn't received much attention: I have a lot of attention to give right now. I settle on U2's Joshua Tree. (NO. I hadn't listened to it before now, other than on the radio, because Bono used to really freak me out. But don't worry, I've converted)

"Where The Streets Have No Name" begins to play. All of a sudden I feel lucky to be awake. I take a look back at 50-something sleeping American beauties, glance at the peacock sun rising over vast silhouettes of Italian hills and wonder, Where the hell are we? Indeed, Bono, indeed: the streets have no name. "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" comes on next. No, Bono--you're 92% wrong about that.

"ALLOOOOORA! Wake UP! ...We are in Milan." The sun is up and Franco, our crazy-eyed Italian tour leader is belting over the microphone from the front seat. Everyone makes breathy I'm-waking-up noises. Me--I am ready to go thanks to Joshua Tree. Third off the bus. We're at a roadside gas station/food mart and it's so cold that we actually find ourselves skipping towards the quick stop. A half-hour later, our bladders are empty, our stomachs somewhat less grumbly, and we're sick of the bus. We all get back on and once again, everyone passes out and I am left to fiddle with my iPod.

We reach Tirano, a tiny town at the base of the alps (still in Italy), at 10-something AM and wait for "The Little Red Train." Also called the Bernina Express, the train takes the highest pass through the alps...very slowly. We spend two, three, maybe four hours climbing the alps and running from one side of the train to the other, yelling OOH! AHH! OHHHH! NOO!! as everyone stumbles over each other trying to get shots of the landscapes around us that look like they are torn out of an issue of National Geographic. This is just too good. We are too lucky. Many of us don't know it. At this moment I can't help but feel like an underachiever compared to Mother Nature.

At the highest point, I lean out the window to get a shot of the train and the icy death-lake next to the track. Four seconds later my face is an ice-cube tray. This is true wilderness. Like the oceans, the Alps are unforgiving. We're just a bunch of kids crowded into a little red train, and we expect that we'll live through this, when truly, the cold and rock could claim us at any second. I try not to think about that. We're crowded into a little red train climbing the Alps. Awesome. Happy thoughts. I start thinking Mother Nature should have thought about getting a prescription to Zanex. We're crowded into a little red train climbing the Alps. Awesome. Happy thoughts...

The train drops us in St. Moritz and we hop on our buses and head to "Bad." Yes, we stayed in "Bad." In St. Moritz, a fancy-shmancy resort town, there are two sections: Bad and Dorf. Bad means spa and Dorf means village. I hear several people mention the Shining as we drive into the deserted section of "Bad." Sadly, we only have a couple of hours until dinner and the next morning we ship out at 8, so we try our best to experience St. Moritz by doing what ignorant, inexperienced college-aged travelers do: wander around. We find a lake, ducks, horses, runners in shorts and t-shirts (it was probably 25 degrees fahrenheit), tons of people walking with ski poles, and signs telling us that we are going the wrong direction.

That evening, after thawing ourselves out a bit, we had an amazing three-course dinner in the restaurant of our hotel, Hotel Sonne (Hotel Sun). I've never been so excited to see a plate of meat and vegetables in my entire life. I'll leave it at that. After each of us had induced a severe food-coma, we watched "Double Jeopardy" on TV...in German, we think...and then we passed out.

The next morning at 8 AM, our bus is skooching down a wiry, ratty road towards the Swiss border. Everyone is awake this time--waiting for our giant Alterini Bus to tuck and roll down one of the lovely, green hillsides. Maoro, our bus driver, pulls out his cell phone at one point. Despite Maoro's crazy fast conversation, we lived.

We arrive at the ferry terminal on Lake Como a couple hours later, and we ferry over to Bellagio, a small resort-y town with tons of expensive crap to buy. We wander, take pictures, hop back on the ferry and head to the town of Como. We are all starving, so the second we hit the ground we go in search of food. As we are eating, a multi-cultural parade marches by one street over. Unfortunately, this does not make our food better.

We are all dragging our feet. Tiredness sets in and we lay down in a park. This town is just too touristy and we are just too tired and there's not enough time and so we rest. I think about the day when I won't have to travel on someone else's schedule or skip from place to place without learning squat. I'll be back Como, believe you me.

The bus ride home is even harder than the others. I can't sleep. I can't get comfortable, so I turn to my iPod for some imaginary rose-colored shades. It works, as usual. While at another rest stop in Milan, we all mill around the bus, waiting for Maoro, the driver, to return so we can just get on and get it over with. I ask my friend Billy, "What do you think that is?" I point to the giant, web-blob of colors splattered down the side of the bus. A moment of silence. Billy, a random girl to our right, and I, all say in unison: "Amoeba." Our brains are mush. We have seen too much and too little. The world is too big. But then again, maybe not.

I spend the ride home thinking about worldly things and developing scenes for a feature-length script I've been working on for nearly a year. Of course I loved going to Switzerland and Lake Como--that's exactly why I wish the trip had been longer; better. But alas, I am young and the world is our Happy Meal...soon it will be our oyster.

I found one of my favorite quotes in a book called Blue Highways. The main narrator, the traveler, meets a monk who says to him, "First I learned to travel, now I travel to learn." I am in the first phase and it is difficult, yes, but it is so fulfilling and exciting to know that I still have the rest of my life to work on the second phase. I'm getting mushy again...I'll end here.

Considering that I quoted Bono, I have to provide some profound, intellecutal, Emersonian-food-for-thought to protect my ego:

"The world belongs to the energetic."

"None of us will ever accomplish anything excellent or commanding except when he listens to this whisper which is heard by him alone."

"Nothing can bring you peace but yourself." (even Florence, Italy)

"Don't be too timid and squeamish about your actions. All life is an experiment. The more experiments you make the better." (Doesn't it seem like Americans tend to either deny this or just plum forget? They say, 'I know what I'm doing' or ask, 'But what if something goes wrong?')

"I hate quotations. Tell me what you know." Ooh, that's confusing, Emerson.

Stay tuned for tales of France...I leave in 8 hours.

#9: "Gee Whiz! That's A Gosh Darn Castle!"

2008-09-28T19:31:00.003+02:00

The View from San Miniato.

(My apartment is just below the Dome) The mausoleum below San Miniato Il Palagio's Cellar, and was once a dungeon Outside Il Palagio Some random kids frolicking towards a vineyard at Il Palagio

Chianti

In America, students love teachers that take their classes outside. This is the trademark of the open-minded, easygoing educator and it never fails. So far, out of the 18 classes I have attended, four have been outside. This is unheard of in the states--at least on Chapman's campus.

This past Wednesday, my creative writing teacher asked us to meet for class at San Miniato al Monte, a church overlooking the city. (see first photo) There is a gold mosaic on its facade that, when one looks in the direction of the church from the city center, it is easy to see San Miniato perched on the hillside. The view is incredible. The lack of obnoxious sounds is also incredible.

The legend goes: More than two thousand years ago, San Miniato was merely in passing when he fell in love with Florence and decided to stay. The Romans persecuted him for his Christian beliefs and beheaded him in one of the city's piazzas. San Miniato did not approve, so he picked up his head and flew up onto a hillside beyond the city walls and lived in a cave.

Centuries later, Florentines erected a shrine in his honor on the hillside. Some time after, the church of San Miniato was erected. The gold mosaic on the church's facade iconically represent Mary, Christ, and San Miniato. He watches over a city whose leaders--despite his love for Florence--murdered him for beliefs that are now common.

After doing some reading and discussing how to effectively describe a place, we were asked to do just this. We each spread out, trying to figure out what we wanted to say about Florence. Our new home. Weird. Too weird. I had already been inside the church and spent a half hour staring at the cluster of red clay roof tiles and yellow walls that make up the city of Florence, so I wandered into the cemetery below the church. I read names, figured out ages, and did what most people do in cemeteries: think.

I walked back up the stairs and sat, still unsure of what to write. Red clay roof tiles and yellow walls, red clay roof tiles and yellow walls. Green hills. Red clay roof tiles. Yellow walls. Why do I like the way Italy looks so much? Why do I consider this prettier than America? This is what I wrote:

"When I walk the streets of towns and cities that do not blend harmoniously with the landscape--and rather, blatantly disregard nature's taste--I feel like an intruder. I feel uncomfortable, guilty, upset, anxious and dissatisfied. The style with which human beings build upon the land is as significant as why and how they do so, and for some of us, obnoxious, lifeless architecture is bearable, but has a subtly depressing effect. As Americans we are the inhabitants of a 'civilized' nation, a newer and rebellious one at that. Our architecture shows this: we do not care much for organic harmony between the environment ad our constructions--we ostentatiously steal 'mother nature's' thunder, so to speak, with our skyscrapers and 'contemporary,' 'industrial' designs. Many Americans therefore, are dazzled by civilized nations whose architecture seems to have sprung from the earth. Firenze is a garden of man's design, existing in harmony with the unadulterated wilderness that cradles it. In Firenze I do not feel like an intruder. I feel like a visitor, yes, but instead of discomfort, guilt, and anxiety, I feel calm because I feel welcome. I sense that the hills don't mind the buildings made of their stone or the roofs made of their clay. The visual harmony, that one must witness their self from the sloping outskirts of the city, has fostered spiritual harmony in me, something that is more difficult when I am home. But perhaps that very struggle for inner peace has primed me; perhaps the peace is instead coming from within and is merely inspired by this new and different land. But I doubt it."

And then my teacher asked me to read aloud. I don't like it when that happens.

Moving on: new story.

So, everyone said there was a free wine tasting trip and I said, 'Hey, that sounds great!' and then I procrastinated and didn't sign up in time. 'It's full' she said, and I said, 'Wow, bummer...I shouldn't have procrastinated.' But, I was reminded that Oktoberfest was still going on this past weekend, which meant that SOMEONE was bound to bail on wine tasting and flock to Germany. So I tagged along and hopped on the last bus. Thank you Oktoberfest.

An hour or so later we are in Chianti and I hop off the bus and find my friends, who took the first bus. We take a look around and realize that the big, stone building the buses are parked next to is a castle. 'Gee whiz,' I said. 'That's a gosh darn castle! Well I'll be!'

The Tuscany region is known worldwide for the wine produced here. The name of the winery is Il Palagio, and it is one of the many wineries in this region of Tuscany, known as Chianti. The castle is believed to have been built in the mid-13th century, but could be older. Because of the high acclaim for Chianti wine, in 1716 the Grand Duke of Tuscany, Cosimo III, decreed that the 70,000 hectares known as the Chianti region would be dedicated solely to the production of wine and olive oil. Il Palagio has produced wine and oil for the past 300 years.

After we all got a tour of the wine cellar (which used to be the dungeon), the couryard and the chapel, we all sat down and got to taste a table wine, a Chianti Clasico, and a SuperTuscan. They gave us delicious cheese and salami, and bread lathered with their famous olive oil. Happy Americans we were. At the end we each got a tiny bit of desert wine and some biscotti.

Part of the appeal of this trip is that most of the us would not be able to go on such a trip in the states because of our ages. The appeal was not because it was "forbidden," but rather, that we were considered mature enough to enjoy this sort of trip. It feels good to be acknowledged in this way.

In America, if you are under the age of 21 you are not considered to be mature enough to enjoy alcohol--you are expected to simply abuse it. Sadly, this is indeed true of American youth, which I believe is due to the fact many are not taught to enjoy alcohol and then abuse it.

It was very interesting to look around at the myriad of tables and see some people that were really focusing on trying to taste the wines, and then see those who were taking pictures of each other making funny faces and posing with the bottles. It was then that I realized the theme of this trip for me: we are all at a point in our lives where we can choose to mature or to postpone maturity.

One of my favorite movies is 'Sideways,' (I recommend it to any wine lover and any movie lover) and in it, the love interest of the main character (Paul Giamatti) is telling him why she likes wine, and she says that no two bottles are the same, that they are like people; like living, breathing things that constantly change--that have a story. When I saw this movie, I had only had a sip of wine here and there because I was curious, yet even though I was not a fan of wine yet, I loved this character's perspective. It made me understand the appeal of wine.

I consciously decided on this trip what type of American youth that I want to be. Lets all hope the other type change their minds one day.

8th Post: Whose Idea Was This? (Cinque Terre, Part 2)

2008-09-24T18:44:00.006+02:00

Swimming in Vernazza (I am on the very right)

Friday-Day 1 All of us in Vernazza, post-swim. Friday

(Ana, me, Alex, Kim, Billy, Kelsey, Johanna, Matt) 7 of us outside Ostello Tramonti, Biassa.

Saturday Morning.

Billy, Kelsey, Johanna, me, Kim, Alex, Ana (Matt took the photo) Via dell' Amore: The Path to Manarola

Saturday Leaving Manarola, Town #2.

Saturday.

Ostello Tramonti is not near La Spezia in the truest sense of the word 'near.' The bus stop we need is in La Spezia. We need to get to Biassa. We wait. And wait. And wait in La Spezia.

We finally catch the bus and it fills with people. As we get further and further out of La Spezia, the bus empties. Now it is the 8 of us, 2 other American travelers, an old Italian man, and the bus driver. The bus chugs up a windy, tree-covered road, honking its happy horn on every turn. We go up. And up. And up.

"Ostello! A Biassa! Gli studenti sta vacendo--" The old man is getting off the bus, and is telling the bus driver where to take us. He knew that we had no clue. He must have seen our faces as we all watched the bus wind its way into the middle of nowhere. The driver smiles and thanks him, "Si, signore. Buona sera." The door swings shut and we go up some more. Finally--friendly Italians.

We reach Biassa, a small town perched on a hillside in a valley high above the city below, surrounded by thick, unadulterated forests. An ancient-looking, stone bell tower juts out of a cluster of pastel-colored homes. There is only one road in Biassa. The bus stops outside of a several-storied building at the highest point of the town. There is a gigantic mural of a blue man backpacking towards the sun on the wall beside the front door. I realize I am back-packing. Sweet.

We split into two rooms, attempt to air out and dry our wet and salty belongings, and then go in search of food. Let me tell you, Biassa has no night life. Luckily, someone has decided to stay open this late into the evening, probably figuring that they can make some money off of hungry, tired, smelly American travelers. We all decide that it's time to chow down. Most of us have been on tight budgets, and have not yet sat down in a restaurant for a meal while we have been in Italy. Humble Biassa, we agree, is the place to do this, so we do it full-force.

A whirlwind of pesto calzones, pesto pizzas, pesto pasta and beer hits our table. We are all feeling too full, yet adventurous, so we all order Limoncello. It is supposed to be a traditional Italian digestivo, so we figure we might as well give it a whack. 10 minutes later, we are all advocates of Limoncello in the fight against the consequences of over-eating.

We spend our evening playing cards and watching the Italian version of Wheel Of Fortune. My roommates and I share a room with our friend Billy. I take the cot. It turns out to be a death trap, but I am tired enough that I am willing to risk it. Some of us sleep well (I did) and some of us do not, because Billy Domanick is a master at the art of snoring. (I feel bad for the 14 people sharing a hostel dorm with us in Amsterdam in October...I might just bring 14 pairs of earplugs with me to pass out)

We rise early and hit the road. Some other travel groups arrived the night before, and there are at least 25 kids waiting to get on the bus. The short, short, short Biassa bus. We start wondering how this is going to work, and are worried because the next bus doesn't come for another 3 hours. WE are going to get on this bus no matter what.

It chugs up the hill and our group jogs beside the door as the bus makes a u-turn and stops. We get on. And then so does everyone else. Plus one old Italian lady. An American girl speaks to her in Italian, probably trying to distract the old woman from what we all know is going to be a difficult, obnoxious bus ride for her.

All that needs to be said about the next half hour on that bus is: FEAR.

We make it to the first town, Riomaggiore, and begin again. We immediately hike the path to town #2, Manarola, because we want to get ahead of the crowd of Americans that just got off of the bus with us. For breakfast I buy Foccacia con Acciughe...foccacia with anchovies. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to have fresh anchovies. Tasty. Thank goodness someone had chewing gum.

We move on towards town #3, Corniglia. The path changes, and becomes an uneven, crumbling dirt path clinging to a cliffside. The fences are very wobbly. I have to wonder, Whose idea was this?! What genius said: "Hey! Let's build 5 towns in 5 different dangerous locations and then connect them with dangerous paths!"? (I am so glad they did.)

We climb 3 hundred something stairs and finally make it to Corniglia, where we all splurge on tasty treats: gelati e granita (granita is like an ice smoothie that comes in lemon and strawberry). We go in search of the path to the next town, Vernazza, where we swam the day before, but cannot find it. We learn that it is another monstrous hike. We go back down 3 hundred something stairs, passing the huge group of Americans that we rode the bus with, and find the train station. We all decide it's time to take it easy.

We hop off at the last town, Monterosso, and find the free beach. Surprisingly, most of the women are wearing their tops--Matt, Alex and Billy are clearly disappointed. We swim and lay on the beach for a few hours, building rock towers and reflecting on how lucky we are, and then we head home.

It takes forever.

That night, we all go our separate ways to clean up but we reconvene at Billy's with some other people soon after. The boys cook "Chicken Parm," as they call it, and it is surprisingly delicious. We can't stop talking about Cinque Terre to those who were not with us and the others tell their stories as well. It hits me--again--how lucky I am. I'm sorry to get mushy on you, but it was one of those moments.

We ended the evening down the street at the Dublin Pub, where we cheers'd to Cinque Terre and grappled with the idea of getting Fleur-de-lis's (Florence's symbol) tattoed on our hindquarters. Well, some of us did anyway. Some of us didn't. I'll be honest: I'm not so hot on the idea.

7th Post: I'm Hooked. (Cinque Terre, Part 1)

2008-09-21T16:39:00.005+02:00

The New Section of Monterosso New Monterosso Getting further and further away from Monterosso

(Try to imagine the trail. Just try.) Home of the Singing Wine-Maker Me. Vernazza. One Goal.

The important thing for you to know is that I swam in the Mediterranean. But more about that later...we'll begin at what is not exactly the beginning.

If you recall my last post, you remember my saying that I am not the spontaneous type, but trying to be. Great strides are being made indeed. It began with "Let's go to Cinque Terre" and eight "Okay"s, and it ended with a whole lot of happy college students. We know two things: we have a place to sleep tonight and its somewhere NEAR La Spezia.

We all meet up at the train station and buy tickets for the 7:50 AM train to La Spezia, a town a little bit south of the southernmost "terre" (Cinque Terre means Five Lands), where we plan to catch a train to Monterosso, the northernmost "terre." A couple hours later, we are in Monterrosso...and so is the rain. Lets just say I was not prepared.

Because I have heard that pesto and foccaccia are specialties of the Cinque Terre region (the birthplace of pesto) and because I am HUNGRY I immediately seek out both: pesto on foccacia. It would be too painful for you if I were to describe how delicious it was, so I won't.

The new section of Monterosso is the most "touristy" of the five towns. It's cove has sandy beaches lined with umbrellas and every wall is freshly painted (not usually the case). We forge on and try to ignore the squishing sounds coming from everyone's shoes. We reach the old section of Monterosso and find the trail head. We have heard that each town is connected by a path that is hikable in one day, so our plan is to do just this. We find the trail head just as the rain begins to lighten up.

"We could die at any minute! This would not exist in the US!" Matt, who also came on the Villa Demidoff trip, is not happy with the "path," which is actually a two-foot-wide trail of mud and slippery, dilapidated stone steps going up and down through vineyards perched dangerously on steep cliffs. I chime in: "Yeah, because stupid Americans like us would fall off of it." I don't really mean it, only a little bit. He continues, "Falling off of this would not be good." Billie, another Villa Demidoff-er, trips on a rock (he thought leather flip flops would be a good idea) and we all let out loud guttural sounds of pure terror--"OHGGG!". This group has amazing comedic timing.

One hour later we start wondering a) where we are, b) where we are going, c) who decided this trail was a good idea, and d) when we are going to GET THERE. We make a stop and strip layers--the rain has stopped and everyone's sweating profusely. The trip officially reaches the status of "backpacking." We finally run into some other American hikers, who tell us we have an hour and 15 minutes to go. More guttural sounds.

We all finally reach a point where we can't feel our bodies anymore, and we can't think about anything else other than how lucky we are to have literally stumbled into yet another amazing adventure. We hear singing as we round a bend, and we see an old man with white hair and a full beard working in his yard in the distance. The house is perched on the hillside. He is a wine-maker, and he is obviously very happy about it. His vineyard stretches below his house into a steep ravine. He sees us and keeps singing...loudly. THIS is Italy.

We run into some more hikers, who tell us that we are almost there. Just after that we stumble upon a campsite for cats. Two hobo cats emerge from tiny tents and meow loudly at us. They mill around empty bowls and a bucket with a note on it telling us to feed the cats with the food in the buckets. The bucket is empty. My roommate Kim finds some granola in her pack but the beggars decide to be choosers. We hang out and rest and the braver ones in the group give them good, loving rub-downs. I pass on disease. No rabies for me.

We round a bend and the town of Vernazza comes into view below. The postcards are not photoshopped. We are all restraining ourselves from running down the trail, particularly Billie and I, who are dying to swim in the Mediterranean. We see kids jumping off of a pier. Billie passionately states, "I'M DOING THAT." I add, "It's happening. It's definitely happening."

We find our way to the water and Billie, European-style, strips down to his skivvies and cannon balls into the water. So does Alex, the other Villa Demidoff-er, and Ana too--a new and welcome addition to the group. It's the most beautiful water I have ever seen. Crystal clear and a rich blue. Heaven exists on Earth...believe me: I swam in it. I try to keep it rated PG because there are lots of tourists and locals around the pier, some of them small children. I didn't bring a bathing suit with me to Italy and did not foresee this opportunity, so I anxiously dig through my backpack and find boxers (my pajamas) and wear one of my two shirts that I have for the 2-day trip. Oh well. Backpackers are supposed to smell bad--if they don't, something's not right.

I am pretty sure the sound I made as I ran off the pier sounded a bit like a rebel yell. I hear my roommates laughing as I plummet. It was definitely good entertainment for the non-swimmers. This marks my baptism as one of those "crazy American kids." This is spontaneous. Good work, Chelsea. Keep it up. --- Thank you, I will.

We dry off, find the train station, and make our way towards La Spezia to check in at Ostello Tramonti. Billie, Alex, Ana and I are salty and loving it. I can't believe it: "We just swam in the f#*@!)n Mediterannean" (swearing has its place). I am HOOKED on travel, hooked on jumping into the metaphorical Mediterranean and hooked on jumping into the real Mediterranean.

Oh there's more...you just have to wait.

6th Post: Trip to Villa Demidoff, Pratolino

2008-09-12T18:55:00.001+02:00

The 25 entering the town of Trespiano, 9/12 Waiting in Trespiano, 9/12 Gigante delle Appenines, 9/12 Me & Gigante, 9/12 Inside Gigante's Noggin, 9/12 (Notice support bars) I am not the spontaneous type, although I do like to experience new things. But I am the type that laboriously comes to a decision about which experiences I would like to have, and then when I spontaneously encounter something...I usually love it. Confusing, I know.

Today I learned that to be spontaneous is to allow life to show you things that you might never show yourself--or allow yourself to see. Something as minor as a day trip via bus to a small town outside of Florence has taught me these lessons.

I was skeptical. I had no information from my roommate Jo other than it's a villa, there's gardens, there's a big statue, and we have to take a bus out of the city. Nevertheless, I have been pushing myself to push myself so... I bought two bus tickets from the corner stand and followed Jo--with my 3 roommates and 3 male friends of ours--to the bus stop.

We see 25A pull away as we turn the corner into Piazza San Marco. We wait. We hop on bus 25 and right up and over brown and green Tuscan hills dotted with postcard images of Italian wineries and homes. Gasps. We all reach for our cameras. The bus shakes and bounces and winds its way down the skinny country roads, honking its horn at corners where it swerves into the other lane. I can't help but think of On The Road and the scene where Neal Cassady takes the wheel.

"No! No! 25 A! A!" The bus driver tells us to get off and wait because this particular 25 does not go to Pratolino, which is only the next town over. Shux. We wait and wait. I realize that, according to the bus schedule sign, we are in Trespiano: the Cemetery town. I turn around and see a long stretch of family tombs. This could be the beginning of a college student horror film, but I will never write that...don't worry.

The bus finally comes and the next thing we know, we are walking through the countryside. We have all seen images of this statue online--called "Gigante delle Appenines"--but when we accidentally stumble upon it...more gasps. Jo actually runs toward it.

Villa Demidoff was formerly owned by the Medici family (who basically ran Firenze for a time) half a millenium ago, and they used it to escape from Firenze during the hot summers. In the mid-1800s another family bought it, it became Villa Demidoff, and now it is a public park.

One of our male friends, Max, decided to take it upon himself to see if we could climb the giant. He found stairs, so we did. There was even a tunnel leading up into the giant's skull where we could see the bars holding it up. It was not until later that we noticed the fences had been pushed aside by the gardeners and we had wandered into forbidden territory. We had accidentally stumbled upon an amazing opportunity to go where many others have never been and will never go: where the artists' and workers' hands once worked laboriously (Our other male friend, Alex, has a teacher who helped restore this statue). A story for the grandkids.

Once we got back to Florence, gray clouds closed in on the city and giant raindrops began falling. Thunder boomed and bounced off of the stone walls. It felt like someone was hocking loogies at us. Soon the loogies became a steady downpour. I dreaded making the trip to where I am sitting right now, in the student computer center, typing...but I did it. For you.

5th Post: Classes begin

2008-09-12T10:27:00.001+02:00

School is always school. You either look forward to it or you don't, but when it begins, you wish it were break again. I am experiencing school in a very different way now, because I am surrounded by constant stimulation calling me to do everything but schoolwork. Whereas in California I could easily hunker down, tune in, and do every assignment like my life depended on it (which it does in a way), here I am wondering how that is going to be possible. The good student's dillemma. Academia or adventure? I have decided it will have to be both, but that is going to take some serious effort--good thing it's worth it. So far I am looking forward to learning what my classes offer. On Monday evenings I go to "Peace Education" with a very humble and relaxed Italian Man named Giovanni Scotto. The Italian version of a Hippie professor. On Tuesdays I have Art History with Carlotta Fuhs, a half-Italian, half-German woman. On Tuesday and Thursday afternoons I have Intermediate Italian with Stefania, who is the epitome of the vivacious Italian woman seen in plenty of art films. She dresses cool, laughs a lot, and makes jokes about our mistakes. "No, no, no--you say fish juice! You want to say peach juice?! You say 'pes-kay' not 'pesh-ay'! FISH JUICE!" (In case you all just realized Joe Pesce's last name might mean fish in Italian, you are indeed correct). On wednesdays I have Creative Writing with an English woman named Kate Ann Bolton. There are two kids from LA in the class that are into film--lets just say I could instantly tell they were either from LA or SF. Hipsters. And on Thursday mornings I have Social Psychology with the school psychologist, Silia Passeri. She lives in Florence--I saw her riding her bike with her 5-year-old daughter on the back--but she is half-American, half-Italian. Her parents met when her mother came to Florence to study abroad. She fell in love with an Italian boy and they had two girls, Silia and her sister. The family would spend summers in America but they lived in Florence. Here's where it gets interesting. During our class break I ask, "Where is your family based in America?" She says, "California's Bay Area." I tell her I am from Sausalito and a huge smile smears across her face. "I love Sausalito!" I ask, "Have you seen the houseboats?" "Oh yes, it is my dream to have a houseboat in Sausalito!" I tell her that I grew up on a houseboat and she glows for a good 127 seconds. I have to say that I was glowing a little too. I will post again soon and I will include some of my favorite photos of the locals and the tourists. Photographing people here is almost more fun than photographing the architecture.

Fourth Post: The First Week (Wed 9/3-Sun 9/7)

2008-09-08T11:23:00.000+02:00

I'm going to be much more brief now...don't worry. You won't have to keep doing this much reading for four months.

I have three roommates, all of which go to Endicott College in Massachusetts and major in Interior Design. (See first photo) Now I know that Lorenzo is actually an art institute, so now I can actually say that I went to art school.

They are all very sweet girls and we have been having an awesome time wandering around Firenze together. Johanna--or Jo--is from Philly, but originally from Romania. She has spent most of her life in America, but she does speak Romanian and it is very entertaining to listen to. It is always interesting when you find out that someone speaks another language fluently. (I have to wonder what she's saying to her parents about us though) Kim is from New Hampshire, but originally from Minnesota. From what I can tell, she did not like Minnesota ("Why would you go THERE?!). Kim also has an incredibly infectious laugh--painfully infectious. Kelsey is from Texas, and NO, she does not 1) own a gun, 2) make money off of family oil, or 3) like George W. Bush. So far we've had gelato, pizza and cappuccinos and have each taken somewhere upwards of 300 photos. So I suppose we've done the relaxed tourist-y thing. We will all be getting the "Amici degli Uffizi" pass soon (which grants us access to any of the state-owned buildings) so we can actually go inside the museums and churches without breaking the bank.

Our apartment is very cool. It is so much more spacious than I imagined. (See photos two and three: north and south views of Via Giraldi from my room) I am staying in the master bedroom, which is so fancy it's scary. (See photo four: view through our doorway; my roommate Kelsey's bed) (See photo five: View of my bed)

So far, the best thing to do has been to wander around. I keep a couple maps on me at all times (one of which is a pop out--very cool, I know) and we just walk all day long. Firenze is so small that it is easy to explore. There's something interesting around every corner. The past five days of exploration have really helped me to get comfortable.

Adjusting to life here is difficult and easy. Some things--like walking everywhere--are easy (I prefer it...I never want to drive again), but other things--like going to the supermarket and sleeping--are not. My roommates and I have made three or four grocery trips so far and each one has had its "special" moments.

Reading labels in Italian is harder than one might think. I'm still confused about a few things. Also, the big grocery stores make you pay for your plastic bags (which are not the least bit sturdy) and we have to walk all the way back to our apartments with whatever we bought. Lets just say we've lost quite a bit of pasta sauce to the cobblestones. Now we bring totes, but even then, the more we buy, the heavier our bags are and the more vulnerable we feel to thieves. So the tri-weekly trip to the store has become a reality.

Sleeping. Here's the biggie. Imagine trying to sleep while cars and vespas whir by, washing machines and dish washers tumble and squeak, ambulances go here and there constantly, car alarms go for hours, and people are yelling, screaming, laughing, talking, spitting and vomiting. People are on the streets until 5 or 6 AM, many of them returning from clubs. The street cleaners and garbage cleaners go by every morning between 6 and 7 AM, and then there's Giotto's Bell Tower, which rings hourly and sometimes half-hourly. On Sundays there's extra bells for the masses. And there's a little boy next door that does not like bedtime at all. I have to say that I agree with him.

In all honesty though, the hardest thing so far has been the limited amount of communication that I have had with home. I'm sure I'll tell all of you this many more times before these 4 months are over: I miss you all terribly.

So now that I have had 5 days to adjust and have some fun, classes begin today (Sep 8). My schedule isn't too demanding, but we'll see how the work load turns out. I am looking forward to going back to school...it's time. And it will be great to meet some new people.

Third Post: Hangin Out in Firenze, Waiting to Check In

2008-09-08T11:09:00.001+02:00

My Room At the Plus Florence Hostel (Sep 2)

Attempted Self-Portrait: Me in the Piazza del Duomo (Sep 3)

Another Self-Portrait: In Front of the Bronze Doors of The Baptistery of San Giovanni, Pza. del Duomo (Sep 3)

My Apartment at Via Giraldi 8: Second Floor (Sep 3)

I arrived at the Amerigo Vespucci Airport (Amerigo gave America its name) around 2:30, after making all of my connections...barely. I waited by baggage claim for a half hour, until all the people from my flight had left and the new arrivals were filtering in. I was surrounded by young kids like myself. Americans. Most of them waited for two or even three bags to pass by. I realized then that what was inside my 30-pound duffel was indeed not too much. Either way, my meager piece of luggage did not make it.

The girl in line in front of me didn't have a forwarding address. Shit. I began to wonder if I knew the address that they gave me in the e-mail. It came into my mind...I had accidentally memorized (after filling out my luggage tags) the address: Via de Melarancio 6-r. The clerk didn't tell me where it was, and I headed towards the exit bummed, tired, and scared. I didn't want to leave just yet. What lay outside the sliding glass doors was too much. I headed to the restroom.

Outside the heat was overwhelming. This is not what I expected. I found the bus stop. Volainbus. I sat down and decided to just sit and wait, rather than check the schedule. If it came--good. If it didn't--plan b. I was sick of itineraries. I tried to take it all in and feel that rush of excitement that the other students at baggage claim seemed to be feeling. But it wasn't happening. To my left, a young couple are passionately smooching. To my right, some Italian dude. Somehow the rush just didn't quite make it to the surface.

I got on the bus, paid, and then sat down up front. We passed through what sort of looked like Firenze, but not quite. I realized that not all of Firenze is preserved like what I had seen in travel guides. We soon entered the historical center and next thing I knew, we were stopped outside of a large building. I knew I wanted to get to Stazione Centrale della Santa Maria Novella, but I had no idea if this was it or not: it was time to whip out the Italian. "Santa Maria Novella?" "Ahh, Si, Santa Maria Novella." "Grazi." Not bad...just not very impressive.

I got off and pulled out my itinerary to get the directions to the hostel. I put on my sunglasses and headed across the busy street. Cars and Vespas whirred by as if Via degli Avelli were a 4-lane highway. The directions began with, "Head across the street towards the McDonald's." I think: Maybe I haven't left America after all.

I stopped in an Internet point. I desperately wanted to get into contact with home again. I wanted to let everyone know that I had actually made it. I had to go into the basement where a creepy guy watching Indian music videos on YouTube scanned my passport and charged me 1 euro for 15 minutes (I later learned what a rip off this was). Good enough for me. A sign on the way down warned me to watch my belongings. This did not help ease my paranoia. There were only a few other people in the basement. One man at the far end of the room, and three boys at the other end who were also watching YouTube. But instead of harmless, silly music videos, they were watching a video of an animal attacking another animal. This also did not help ease my paranoia.

I went back out onto the street and carried on with my journey towards shelter. My bag was feeling heavy, my shoulders and back sore, and my eyelids heavy. I saw a big, boxy black arch with the words "Hostel" up ahead. A sigh of relief. The young man at the counter spoke good English and handed me a room key, a towel, sheets, and a bag of toiletries. Because I had read somewhere that some hostels won't allow you in your room before a certain time (either because they don't want you getting too comfortable or because they want you to go out and experience the environment), I had to ask if there were any rules about when I could be in my room and when I couldn't. This was the biggie: I just wanted to feel comfortable for a bit. "No! No! Whenever you like!" Another sigh of relief.

I walked down a bright pink hallway looking for room 101. The girls' floor. There were strange paintings by the same artist all over the place. Whoever painted them has a fascination with city life and surrealism...obviously not related whatsoever. City life is of course very real. Maybe not for me right at that moment, but for someone somewhere, it is. All of them had a background of some sort of cityscape, and on top of these images the artist had painted swirls, graffiti-like markings, and text in both Italian and English. Very strange. So strange I almost liked them, but there was something about the neon pink walls that made them very, very ugly. This is not what I expected a hostel would look like.

I pushed the door open and said hello to the girl inside. She was sitting on one of the top bunks with her computer in her lap. She swung around, and in an English accent responded, "Hello there!" She was also a relief. Not intimidating in the least, and there was no way she was going to steal my stuff or avoid bathing and cause a stench.

The walls in the room were purple and the shades were magenta. This is definitely not a hostel.

I unpacked my stuff and paced around a bit while the English girl--whose name I cannot remember--and I had conversations about going abroad (which she had done in France once before), Facebook, and not being able to remember people's names. Sorry English girl.

My evening was lovely. I spent a couple hours flipping through my travel guides--now trying to induce the rush--and sewing up a shirt. I then had dinner and took a shower. An Australian girl came back to the room: Hillary--not Sheila. She has been traveling with her friend and they were just in from Venice and off to Croatia soon. I read a bit of an article in Rolling Stone about the Bush Administration, and then dozed off. When I woke up there were two Sheilas...one Hillary and one Lori. I realized then that staying in a hostel was a good idea. The Brit and the Sheilas were good company and kept me from feeling too lonely...or alone...not sure which. Maybe both.

My REI travel clock alarm beeped for the first time since its purchase at 7:30 AM, and I showered again. Freshness and comfort were the goals at that point. I packed up my stuff and went to breakfast downstairs. All you can eat for 3.50 euros. I now know the true value of money and food. Knowing that I am on a budget, all the Pasticcerie and snack shops do not look inviting. I worked all summer to have loads of my money taken away and I am not about to spend 3 euros on a croissant when I can get plenty of calories in the basement of the Plus Florence Hostel.

9 AM. Northern Firenze. I bid the Brit and the Sheilas arrivederci and set off again with my backpack and my nerdy pop-up map of Firenze. Check in was beginning now, but I figured I might as well try to enjoy getting there. Really not knowing where I was going, I accidentally stumbled upon the San Lorenzo Chapels. That was it for me: the rush. It finally came to the surface. I couldn't stop smiling. For someone who has never seen architecture more than two centuries old in real life, has never been to Europe, has never traveled this far alone, and who knows absolutely no one in Firenze, the San Lorenzo Chapels are a hard smack in the face. They tell you to wake up and smell the marble.

I was glowing and I knew it. I might as well have worn a shirt that said "I'm an American student!" on it. I found the student check-in point and waited in line. Two Japanese girls, Narisa and Akiko, struck up a conversation with me. "We are from Japan, we do not speak very good English! Hahahah!" They proceeded to ask me questions and I continued to glow. I was so grateful for these two girls and their warmth, that once again I felt like I had before when Ms. DeSilva and the Singapore Airlines attendants treated me so nicely...I am going to be alright. "You are from California?! Uhhhh...Dis...Disney...land?" I respond, "Oh yeah! My school is right next to it!" Narisa and Akiko loved that. "AHHHHH!!!!"

I get into my apartment--after trekking all the way there with my keys, not being able to open the door, trekking back to the check-in point for help, and trekking back to the apartment and fussing with the key again. Another bright side: even though I had to go back and forth between the check-in point and my apartment, I took several different routes and ended up finding Piazza del Duomo and seeing lots of the city. (See all three photos above)

As I finally hear the lock click and the door swings open, the rush hits me again even harder. I won't lie to you: I jumped up and down and talked to myself: "There's no way this is my apartment."

Second Post: Back to the Beginning...Getting to Florence

2008-09-08T10:47:00.001+02:00

Amtrak, Train 712 to Bakersfield (Aug 31st)

Singapore Airlines, JFK Int'l Airport, NY (Sep 1)

My First Look At Europe: Flying Over Frankfurt, Germany (Sep 2)

I peed in a Starbucks and I took a look in the mirror. If it hadn't been for the cowlick I was trying to subdue, I might have actually realized that this was my moment to do that thing where the main character in the movie checks out their reflection and says, "here we go."

Zach and I walked across Drumm Street in San Francisco's Financial Center and stood at the Amtrak bus stop. There was only one other man waiting, and he was pacing back and forth and sipping nervously out of a Starbucks cup. He was a good distraction--I just tried to think of where this guy was going...not where I was going. It was getting close to 7 AM when the bus was supposed to arrive, and my mom, Zach and I had been up since 4:30. It was definitely time to get on that bus and go, no matter how badly I wanted to just stand there on that street corner with Zach all day and watch that guy pace back and forth.

A white bus appears on Market Street and makes a turn towards us and we both know that the hardest moment of the past year--which merely consisted of planning for this trip--is finally here. This hurts. This hurts very, very badly. I sit down and I watch San Francisco get smaller and smaller, and the next thing I know, I'm at the station in Emeryville.

Train 712 to Bakersfield slides down the tracks and I step inside. (See first photo) This is the second time I have been on a train, and the first time alone. I do like the others do. The ticket taker--Ms. DeSilva--is so nice that I actually feel like I am going to be alright, and that the worst is over. Now I'm sitting at the end of the last car in the very last seat, occasionally glancing out the windows at the landscape outside that, since I have been going to Chapman University in Southern California, I now associate with leaving home. I decide to go through the photos that I have just put on my computer, all of which are from this past summer. The past three months click by in a half hour and now I don't feel like I'm going to be alright. I try to keep from "going there," but it's very hard.

The train ride is shaky, sometimes so much so that it's a bit frightening. We roll past large lots of cars that have been stripped for parts, and small towns of compact, boxy homes. Martinez. Antioch. They all seem the same: bad. Now I'm wishing I were in Italy.

I'm tired, but sleeping seems nearly impossible. There's simply too much going through my head that just needs some time to swirl around. This past summer was so busy that I had no time to think about Italy and all that it meant: leaving California, my boyfriend, my parents and all my good friends behind for four solid months. It all comes flooding in. The bright side: I realize that this trip is undeniably building character by the minute, and I think of how many staunch Grandfathers in this world would appreciate that.

This will be the longest period of time for which I will be away from home. During my freshman year at Chapman I returned several times during the first semester. Vocal communication will be much more rare because I won't have a cell phone, and I can already tell how much more I am going to appreciate hearing people's voices when I get back. This semester abroad is going to change me in many ways. It already has. Stockton. Now I can nap.

Cow country. I'm feeling comforted by the big black and white blobs zooming past. They eat, they sleep, they poop, and sometimes they tip over, but they never try to throw their babies in your arms so they can pick your pockets. Cows are not like gypsies. Cows are not like Italian men. Italian men oogle blond Americans--cows don't oogle...ever. (Forget what you've "learned" in the California Cheese commercials) I wish there was some way to imagine everyone in Europe as big cows so that I could walk down the street without constantly worrying about someone trying to steal something from me. In the end, there's only so much I can do to avoid getting mugged (or worse). The rest is chance.

3:30. Union Station, Los Angeles. I easily made the connection from the train to the bus in Bakersfield, and I slept during the ride into LA. Union Station is a grand, art-deco style building with tall ceilings and comfy lounge chairs. Its a Historical Landmark because it was built so long ago: another surprising shred of what remains from the past. Just as I am about to leave a country with barely any historical architecture--as compared to other countries/continents--I realize while walking through Union Station, that I am about to travel to and live in a country whose historical architecture remains. The people who pass through time and space in Firenze accept what has been there for so many centuries and merely move in and around it. They leave it be and use it as they are able. It defines them and they are proud of the richness of their environment. They are not governed by the past, but rather, are most likely inadvertently influenced by it. I know I am.

I wait out front to be picked up by my godfather. My godfather Farrell and his wife Diana are taking me in for the night, and are giving me a ride to LAX in the morning. They are both seasoned travelers. I figure that not only will they be able to give me some good advice, but they'll cheer me up as well. They're awesome, and they do.

3:30 AM, Labor Day. Farrell and I head to LAX, which is surprisingly close to their apartment. He drops me off and it all begins. "Where do I go? Then what? How do I...?" I pull it together and figure it all out. I get on the plane just as the sun rises. It's so metaphorical I can't stand it. I wait for the plane to get in the air and then I pass out.

3 PM, JFK Airport. I need to find terminal four. I am in terminal 7. I have never been to New York. I ask around and find out that the "AirTrain" will get me there. I find it, hop on, and wait. The car gets further and further away from the airport. I begin to see homes and basketball courts and I'm wondering what the hell I've done. The robot loudspeaker alleviates my worry by saying, "The AirrrrrrrTrain stops at ALLLLL terminals!" Another bright side: I saw a little bit of New York.

I purchase internet access so I can make some contact with home. I have a seven hour layover, but it goes by fast. I go upstairs to the international flight check-in area and I'm instantly convinced that this is the most interesting place that I have ever been. The diversity is amazing. There's so many stories crammed into this terminal that it overwhelms me in the best way possible. A screenwriter's delight. All of a sudden, I remember why I signed up for this program in the first place: stories.

9 PM. Singapore Airlines. (See second photo) I am headed for Frankfurt, Germany. I have never been to Europe. I am about to make a journey across the Atlantic ocean. This is the big leap. I'm tired but the flight attendants are so sweet that once again, I feel like I am going to be alright. They bring me food. I lean against the window and pass out.

I wake up and it is daytime. I take a look at the screen up front that is showing the course of the plain from NY to Frankfurt. The little white Airplane icon is hovering over some green splotches--I realize I am over Europe. I look to my left out the window and spring for my camera. (See third photo) Little villages surrounded by trees and patches of modern windmills pass by the window. I start getting nervous about making my connecting flight to Florence. I only have an hour and have absolutely no clue what I'm doing.

I mess up. I wrongly assume that I can just go to the gate and get on the plane. Not only am I unable to find the gate, but I learn that I have to go to "Transfer Check In." I wait in line so long that by the time my turn comes around, the clerk exclaims "Oh! You must go there right now! They have a check-in deadline! I can't give you a ticket!" The excrement hits the fan...I'm sure that I've just stranded myself in Germany.

I run.

I get through passport control and security and just as I am running up to the gate, I hear a German voice yelling, "Passengers to Florenz?!" I throw my arm in the air and say, "I am! I'm...going there!" I stop at the desk, breathing heavily, and he says, "I know, I know, you just got in from Denver and you're tired. Ticket please." That was not very nice.

I barely make it. I hop on a bus with a bunch of Germans, Italians and American students and we go. It pulls over and we all crowd into the tiny plane--all the Americans are wondering how this thing is even going to lift off. It does, and now I'm really nervous. What am I going to do once I get there? No more traveling--now I actually have to set up shop in a strange, unfamiliar place. In my head, all I hear is George Carlin telling me to "Take a f****n chance!" Thanks George, that helps.

The first post: there's too much to write

2008-09-05T17:47:00.000+02:00

I only have 13 minutes to write this post because the librarian has decided to close two hours early. What a shame. There's so much to tell all of you about, but I will just have to begin by saying that I'm happy, healthy, and safe.

I will post in more detail at tomorrow (monday 9-8) but for now, here's a rundown:

On Sunday the 31st, I took Amtrak to LA. On Monday I flew to JFK, and then I went to Frankfurt, Germany, and then Florence. By the time I arrived it was Tuesday, Sep. 2nd. They lost my only bag (besides my backpack..which was fully stocked for this particualr situation), so I just hopped a bus into town from the airport and found the hostel I had planned to stay in. It was great. The next day I checked into my apartment and met my roommates, Johanna, Kelsey, and Kim.

The apartment is spectacular, my roommates are super friendly, and so far I haven't had any of my stuff stolen. For the past 3 days I have been wandering around Florence and have hundreds of pictures to show for it. I will post many of them here.

My feet and ankles are sore and its hard to sleep at night because Italians like to party until 4 AM and the street cleaners dont seem to want to stop, but I am loving every minute of it. I am adjusting well and although I would love to come home now, I am looking forward toughing it out. I miss all of you terribly.

love Chelsea