The Living Years...

A photo diary of sorts... Click on the picture!


by shesoverseas


by shesoverseas


by shesoverseas

Ten days!

Just ten days left until I'm back in the States! I have envisioned my return over and over and over again in my mind--stepping off the plane, hurrying off to baggage, and finally, after all this time, finding Danny in the crowd and (naturally) running into his arms. I'll have never felt this sort of happiness before, this sort of giddy relief to be back on American soil, within reach of the people I love the most in this world. The fact that I'll be in Newark, New Jersey won't matter. I think there are Wawas in Newark. That is all that matters.

After the glorious reunion in the airport (I cannot wait, I cannot wait), Danny and I will get into his car (his American car!) and I'll resume my rightful place in the passenger seat. We'll listen to music together for the first time in months, and we'll make our way to my Dad's house in Prospect Park where my whole family will be waiting to greet me with huge smiles and big hugs. We'll eat bowls of my dad's delicious chili and talk about life since I was away; we'll talk about nothing and everything and I'll just be happier than ever to be in their presence.

I miss everything. And I don't just miss it now, anymore, it's more complex than that. I feel like life at home is going to be different, better because I've had a chance to step back and learn to appreciate how lucky I am. I never knew just how proud of me my family is until now. And I think they're more proud than ever before. I mean, I travelled to the Netherlands alone, I managed a theft in Italy, I've spent days and nights 3,000 miles away from home, and I've been okay. I've been more than okay. I've thrived! I've learned! I've evolved! I'm enthralled by the world and all it has to offer (can you see the idealistic sparkle in my eye?). I've grown into more of myself. I hope I never stop growing.

I hope this doesn't sound egotistical. I don't think I'm great because I've traveled to a small handful of countries or managed to 'survive' in a new place without my closest friends and family. I realize that people do these things every day, that's part of life. I am just so thankful to have had this opportunity, and I want to make it clear how much I appreciate everything I've been so blessed to experience. The past three and a half months have been about much more than just a semester abroad. This is probably sounding very cliche, but we were talking about cliches in my English class today, and really, life inevitably spirals into one big cliche no matter how you slice it. Well, this is MY cliche; I've claimed it, I live it. I love it and I hate it, and sometimes I love it because I hate it.

But I want to be home for Christmas. Last night Professor Hartzell had us to her house for dinner, and after dessert Devon serenaded a group of us in the kitchen with a breathtaking rendition of 'I'll Be Home For Christmas.' Hartzell cried, and everyone else was stunned to silence. Never before has that song rung so true. Later that night, Hartzell's husband Dave drove the last six of us home in his micro-mini car wearing a cowboy santa hat complete with flashing lights. He had to drive hunched over like an old man because the windows were foggy. The effect was priceless. In the backseat, I sprawled across the laps of three unlucky girls, my head scrunched down, my back pressing against the window. We took so many pictures and laughed so hard. These are the silly times I'll never forget.

I miss Gettysburg, believe it or not. I don't really enjoy the academic system here, and I'm officially very thankful to be going to a small liberal arts school. The preppy rich kids, the lack of diversity, the general close-mindedness are absolutely still drawbacks, but in terms of getting a great education, Gettysburg far surpasses Lancaster. I won't go into it now, but the structure of academics here is mind boggling and frustrating. No matter, though, because I didn't come here for the classes. I came for England and Italy and the Netherlands and the German Markets--I could go on and on.

I have to go get my laundry now.

Ten days. Just TEN DAYS!

The Library

In general, the library at Lancaster University isn’t a very comfortable place. Still, I spend many hours a week here, in various corners of the building which seem that day to be most inviting and intellectually stimulating. In fact, finding the right place to work is the most important part of the entire library experience, as the wrong atmosphere can prove altogether detrimental to the day’s ultimate productivity. I’ve often changed locations more than once in an effort to find the perfect spot. Just today I switched the chair in my cubicle with one of greater height and softer cushion. It made all the difference. I spend a good deal of time wandering around the floors, scanning the area for open tables and desks. The third floor is my favourite. A suitable seat shouldn’t be too near a window, since it’s generally most freezing there and the brightness is distracting. Also, the right spot should be a reasonable distance from other students. Sitting in a cubicle directly next to or across from another person is out of the question, since every small movement, every shuffle of paper, and every sniffle is magnified through the thin partitions. When I wrote my 15-page research paper I camped out with my textbooks and my laptop at a large table nestled in the Yellow Zone, Religion section of the third floor. The lighting was dim, the area far enough from the main quarter of the library to be soothingly calm. When I wrote my English 202 essay, the Yellow Zone table was taken by a group of students, so I searched and discovered an empty cubicle that sidled up to a wall and backed up to another cubicle where I stored by backpack and coat. There I typed furiously for two days, analyzing the poetry of Donne and Wroth. This is also where I ate my lunch. There is nothing worse than the rumbling of an empty stomach to disrupt the flow of an essay. So, I make my lunch every morning, and even sometimes the previous night, before a trip to the library. I’ve got Tupperware so my sandwich doesn’t get squished, and I generally pack brain food like apples and carrots and nuts. Sometimes I stop at the Central store on my walk and grab a soda for a caffeine boost or a piece of chocolate as a treat. Then, when I get hungry, I just whip out my lunch and keep on going. This is entirely illegal in a library where signs are posted on every wall and table about the prohibition on food and drink, but it’s this breaking of the rules that makes my ham sandwich taste better than ever. It’s pretty fabulous, in my opinion.
As I’m typing this and realizing just how much I plan for and ultimately enjoy my ventures to the library, I’m starting to think that this all might be a little… weird. Are you thinking, as you’re reading, that I’m totally insane? This is just what works for me, and I am happy to say that I’ve managed to settle into a routine here at Lancaster University in England, however modest or dull. I look forward to the feeling of accomplishment I get when I’ve spent a day working hard in the library. It means that I can spend my night making a delicious dinner to eat with my flatmates in the kitchen or watching episodes of Lost on my computer with Caroline. Sometimes I’m sensitive about my library routine, since I don’t think many other students here or at Gettysburg so enjoy this sort of regular practice like I do, and may even look down on people like me. But this—the library trips, the studying, the planning—it’s all a part of me that I can’t deny. This journal entry serves as a sort of declaration of self, a personal proclamation of unapologetic ‘nerdiness.’ The library at Lancaster University now feels comfortable and secure, like home. And that’s all I need right now.

Life at Uni

It’s been a month since I last posted. I can hardly believe that so much time has passed. On the other hand, I’ve been wishing lately that the days might pass more quickly. For the first time I’ve felt a twinge of homesickness here, but I think most of it stems from my reluctance to start tackling the essays I have to write in just a few weeks. The three essays combined equal more than 8,000 words. That’s nearly 30 pages.

So, I’m feeling nostalgic. Lancaster is a university, and college life is pretty much the same no matter where you are in the world—stressful, monotonous, exhausting, and occasionally enlightening. I’m exaggerating…sort of. But I do feel like I’ve been doing more work here than anything else. I’m enjoying what I’m learning, but I get frustrated with the fact that I can’t do what I want; my decisions revolve around whether or not I’ll have enough time to get work done in the library.

A few notable things have happened lately. I haven’t mentioned her before, but I met a Danish girl, Katja, at the first ballroom dancing lesson. She’s a PhD student, and she’s brilliant, personable, and very sweet. Both of us were alone at that first lesson, waiting for people we knew to show up, and I think we sensed how each other’s nervousness at the thought of ballroom dancing alone, and we were drawn together. We have a lot in common, namely our mutual habit of overworking ourselves and stressing out. But really, she’s a great person, and she instantly made me feel comfortable. Recently she and I had tea together in Grizedale College’s café, and she invited me to see a foreign film at the independent movie theatre with her on the 27th. She and I are committed to checking each other, making sure we’re making plenty of time for relaxation and rest. She’s a bit worse than I am, but she’s got a much more difficult, more intense course load to be fair. She’s always talking about being in “the office.” That’s serious stuff.

This past weekend Caroline and I went to London. It was incredible! Really, I had one of the greatest weekends of my life. It was so wonderful to go back to London without having to do the touristy things. Instead, Caroline and I enjoyed the city in the fall for three days, spending most of our time in the Starbucks near our hostel drinking cappuccinos, talking and people-watching for hours. Our hostel was pretty hilarious. It was called The Generator, and its name pretty well describes the place. Apparently there are Generator hostels all over Europe; it’s kind of a big deal. Everything in the 800-bed building was metal—the walls, ceiling, floor, tables, chairs, everything! The hallways were painted in red and blue stripes and the “chill-out” room was full of bean bags, saggy couches and so much cigarette smoke you couldn’t leave the room without a sore throat. The internet was cheap, though, and the free breakfast of toast and cereal was excellent, considering. The first night, I slept no more than two hours total. A bunch of drunken people decided to stand in the hallway and yell, for hours. Finally a man came out of his room and sternly told them to be quiet and go to bed. That was at 5am, and I woke up at 7. What can you do though? It was The Generator. The second night I bought earplugs and slept like a baby. I’ve been using them at Lancaster, too, and the difference is amazing. Why am I just discovering ear plugs now? Anyway, Caroline and I met up with our Brazilian friend Luanna who we met at the residence hall in Chelsea—we had a delicious dinner and saw a terrible movie. (The Departed, in my opinion, is a complete waste of money.) Saturday we spent shopping on Oxford Street and walking down Portobello Rd. through the miles and miles of antique, clothing and fresh fruit and veg stands. That night we had dinner in Covent Garden at a little underground pub called the Bok Bar which served Thai food. It was quite a hidden treasure. Sunday was the travel day from hell. We missed every train we were supposed to take, and a three hour journey took seven in the end. But it was a great weekend, nevertheless, and we nearly cried laughing more times than I can remember.

Tomorrow morning I’m leaving for the Netherlands to visit Kelly. I am so, so excited to see my best friend. Right now I’m experiencing a bit of nervousness about traveling, though, especially after the bad experience Car and I had with trains Sunday, but I know that once I make it to the airport in Amsterdam and see Kelly Ann’s smiling face, I won’t be able to contain my happiness. And I’m seeing the Netherlands! I feel so lucky.

Oh, and the university is holding a fancy Christmas dinner/social just for International students on the 30th. I’m excited! Finally, a chance to dress up! If only I had a nice skirt… I think I can remedy that.

Even when life here gets stressful and I start missing home, I can’t help but love England and the fact that I’m here. Maybe the reason I want to go home is because I can’t wait to see my family and friends and tell them all about my experiences. One day I’ll come back to England and spend days and days in the Lake District, just admiring its breathtaking beauty. One day I’ll come back and visit London and remember places I’ve been before and ride the tube and sit in cafes all day long. One day, hopefully, I’ve have the chance to become more familiar with even more cities and towns in England. There are only 31 days left until I touch American soil again (I will kiss the ground!), and just 31 days until I have to say goodbye to England. But hopefully not forever! Not if I can help it.

She's overseas--Article for SCAN

Heather Simons
16 October, 2006
h.simons@lancaster.ac.uk


I was in London for a month this September. I stayed in Chelsea, no less, which is simultaneously a terrible and a brilliant place for an American student. Terrible because the currency exchange rate immediately cut in half the savings I spent three months working for, and brilliant because Chelsea is one of the wealthiest, and therefore nicest, suburbs (are they called suburbs here?) in the city. With its fancy stores and Starbucks on every corner, King’s Road treated me well, though I did begin to wonder if I would ever make it out of London with a penny to my name.
For four weeks I subsisted on peanut butter and jelly and cans of soup, rejoicing whenever I could afford to add a bit of meat to my diet. I bought one-ply toilet paper and bread for 28p that had an odd chewy texture and tasted like cardboard. Brand name cereal or shampoo was absolutely out of the question. I did, however, splurge on a jar of Nutella, and this I slathered on everything, chewy bread in particular.
To live in Chelsea, even for a month, required some sacrifice, but I surrendered such small luxuries willingly. Although I had never once left America (besides the time when I was fifteen and my dad took me to Jamaica where I spent a week bartering for shoddy souvenirs and refusing drug offers), London felt curiously like home.
Back in the States I attend university (we call it a college) in the small town of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, consecrated site of some of the bloodiest battles of the Civil War. Gettysburg is home to many ‘majestic’ battlefields, a slew of ghosts, and not just a few Civil War fanatics. It is not at all unusual to wake up in the morning to the drum beat of a brigade of Confederate Soldiers marching down the sidewalk, rifles resting on their shoulders. I once ate dinner next to a Civil War era family, mom sporting a giant hoop skirt and bonnet, dad and son in knickers and suspenders, all three scarfing down a pizza while their pick-up truck plastered with American flags waited outside. (This never actually happened, but it definitely could in Gettysburg, PA.)
Clearly, Gettysburg is a far cry from London. But I didn’t always go to school in such a quiet, historical town. I spent my first year of university on the other side of the state, in the smoggy city of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Though the University of Pittsburgh was located in a more cultural, centralized area, it was also an utterly vast and impersonal campus. Every night I fell asleep, or didn’t, to the sound of ambulances whizzing by on the street below and the deafening roar of helicopters landing on the roof of the nearby children’s hospital. I decided the city was not where I wanted to spend four years, so I transferred and joined the ranks in Gettysburg for my second year at university. And now I am here. It’s hard for me to claim a home when I’m at school, what with all of the moving around I’ve done. But for whatever reason, London comforted me, and now, in Lancaster, a five hours’ drive north, I feel the same way. It must be England.
Since I’ve had the opportunity to settle in here at Lancaster, I’ve noticed some changes in myself. Quite suddenly I developed a craving for chips, and I call them chips because the fries here are not the French fries offered in America. They’re simply chips, and they are far better than anything I have sampled at home. I rarely even eat fries in America. In fact, I never do, because they’re no good. But here, they are a part of life. And what a tasty, salt and vinegar smothered life it is.
While I’m on the topic of food, I have to mention digestives, which I discovered within the first few days of arrival. My initial reaction upon hearing a sort of dessert referred to as a ‘digestive’ was a mixture of curiosity and repulsion. Granted, I realize the name was probably chosen in reference to the biscuits’ relatively high fiber content, but honestly, couldn’t McVities have come up with a more appealing moniker? Regardless, I bought a pack, and thus my addiction began. My British flat mates, who have been lucky enough to eat digestives since birth and, I think, take them for granted, have branded me an addict. I prefer the term ‘enthusiast.’ And I’m not the only American who feels this way. More international students are discovering digestives daily. Already I’ve discussed at length with other Americans how we can sneak some back to the States in our suitcases.
On another topic, the porters here are fabulous. Having a familiar point of reference at every college, 24 hours a day is truly unique. At Gettysburg we have Resident Assistants, which are just slightly older students who accept the position of pseudo-authority for the free room and board and the large single dorm room (the single-style living here in England is a phenomenon—in America they stuff us into cinder-block cells in twos and threes like caged animals). To be truthful, I’ve developed a bit of a crush on my friendly porter (do you think he reads the newspaper?). We bonded the day he kindly walked me to the storage room and let me shop for perfectly useful pots and pans left by former international students. What a gentleman.
In terms of academics, the independent study here is quite a change. In America we are constantly being tested on our knowledge through large exams and smaller quizzes and receive paper assignments weekly for every course. You’d think the British mode of learning would be a relief, but it’s actually just as overwhelming—for a conscientious student, that is. Otherwise, slacking off has never been a more viable option. But seriously, British students are very fortunate when it comes to education and its accessibility here. For instance, every time I tell British students the price I pay for my college tuition, their eyes bulge in disbelief and it typically takes a few minutes before they stop cursing and calm down.
I could go on about how delighted I was when I found that tea time actually occurs here, or how shocked I was when I looked at the Fresher’s Week schedule and realized that every school-sponsored event involved alcohol and how impressed I was when I noted just how well the 18-year-olds here can hold their alcohol, at least compared to Americans of the same age. Also, I was stunned to find that clubs and bars here play indie rock music, and girls and guys (!) actually dance, and like they’re straight out of the eighties. It’s pretty much a dream come true when you compare it with the simulated sex that occurs on American ‘dance floors’, which are really just seas of sweaty, unfamiliar bodies shimmying far too close for comfort. I didn’t know such dance party havens existed in the world.
But I won’t go on forever, because I’m sure I’m just repeating what’s been heard before, and I would hope that all of the native Brits here at Lancaster University already appreciate the fabulous and unique aspects of their diverse country. The point is that studying abroad in England is the best thing I have ever chosen to do with my life. I know that last sentence sounded tired and clichéd, but it’s true in so many ways that I couldn’t possibly articulate in one article. When I boarded the plane to come to England, all I could think was, ‘I’m completely crazy’ and ‘What the hell am I doing?’ But I made it to London, and I’ve made it to Lancaster, and I haven’t looked back once. In fact, I’ve been living completely in the present and enjoying every moment, which is something that I can’t even say when I’m back home in America. And yet, I’ve gained a new appreciation for the U.S. since I’ve been here. Naturally, it has its flaws, but it truly is a beautiful place which holds foundations in honorable philosophies of equality and decency. And it’s where my family calls home.
So, when I take that flight back to the airport in Newark, New Jersey on December 16th, I’ll step off the plane and throw myself into the arms of the people I love, because I have missed them terribly. But later, in the car, on the way home, I’ll think of my experiences over the past four months—the people I’ve met, the things I’ve done and seen and learned about myself and the world—and I’ll solidify the place in my heart I’ve already begun to develop, the little place within me that England will forever occupy.

England just got even better--my family is here!

I just cleaned the kitchen. I should mention that it's past midnight on a Saturday. Before the kitchen I was busy wiping down any and all hard surfaces in my room. I knew it was a mistake when I bought those wet wipes at the dollar store today. I had a feeling I'd spend my night scrubbing, alone, in the kitchen.
My room here, in Lancaster, is very cozy. I think I've done a pretty good job of making it feel like home. The other day I bought a flowering plant for 2 pounds. It brightens my windowsill. I have yet to name her, so I'm up for any suggestions. I've also tacked some photos on my bulletin board and placed some cards from home on the shelves above my desk, which are nearly filled now with books. The view from my bedroom window is beautiful, all rolling green hills dotted with sheep. In the morning I can see the sun rise. My bed is warm and inviting. The bedding pack I purchased before I got here has proved to be surprisingly comfortable. The hinge on one of my wardrobe doors is broken, my desk chair is hard plastic, and the overhead light in my room is filled with the dead bodies of unfortunate flies, but I’ve gotten used to these things. I read before bed, I’ve perfected my shower routine and I can successfully blow dry my hair without a mirror. Life here is really nice.
But tonight I’m anxious; in that excited, restless way that keeps you from sleep. This would explain the unnecessary cleaning. My mom and Marc will be here tomorrow. My mom and Marc will be here tomorrow?!*#$?@! I can scarcely believe it. I’ve been waiting for this for so long! And yet time has gone by so quickly! Tonight I’m going to think of all of the things we’ll do together in the coming week, but mostly I’ll be dreaming about the enormous hug I’ll give my mom when I see her at the train station. Come to think of it, they’re just about to board the plane at this very moment. They may already be in their seats. They have a seven hour flight ahead of them. I wonder what movies they’ll choose to watch. I hope the plane food isn’t too bad. I hope they get a chance to sleep on the plane. But if not, that’s just as well, because I doubt I’ll be getting much sleep tonight either. I wouldn’t care if we spent all day tomorrow hanging out in the hotel room. Just to have my family in the same room as me after almost two months apart is enough!
It’s been so long since I’ve written; you might have thought I had dropped off the face of the earth. Well, I haven’t! I’m just here in Lancaster, enjoying my time. I’ve been very busy, actually. In the first week I joined the ballroom dancing society and the hiking club. I’ve since rescinded my hiking club membership; who knew I’d need a pair of waterproof pants and a backpack and head torch for a university club? I’ve continued with the dancing though, and so far I’ve learned the basics of the cha-cha, the rumba, and jive. I’ve written an article for the school newspaper about my experience as an international student. I really hope they print it. I’ll post that here shortly. The website for the newspaper, called SCAN, is www.scan.lusu.co.uk. Check it out, it’s great! Unfortunately it puts The Gettysburgian to shame.
It also hit me in the past week or so that I have a 15-page research paper to write on government censorship of the British Press during the First World War for my seminar in London. My professor extended the due date until Nov. 24, but that just means it will be hanging over my head for the next month, so I vowed to get it done far before the due date. We’ll see how that goes. I’ve never written a research paper this long before. I’ve already spent 10 hours in two days researching in the library. However, I’m babysitting my professor’s daughter on Monday night, so perhaps she’ll go easy on me. J On top of that work, I have an extraordinary amount of reading to do for my classes, two of which are English, the other a European Studies film course. And I still want to travel, which I haven’t gotten to do at all since I arrived here. I want to go to the Netherlands to visit Kelly and to Cheltenham to see Will. I miss them so much! I hope I can do it all. I need to start planning soon.
I decided not to write an epic entry about Venice. I’ll tell whoever is interested all about Venice; it was my favorite of all the places we visited in Italy. By far.
I’ve been thinking a lot about coming home in December. Caroline and I daydream about it all the time. We had a long conversation today about Christmas and how wonderful it is. I know I’ll feel homesick come late November when everyone at home is preparing for Thanksgiving. I already miss grandmom’s apple pie, and mom’s homemade gravy, even if it is always watery (sorry, mom). The University holds a big Thanksgiving dinner and dance for the international students, though, which I’m really looking forward too. I’m also planning on cooking a traditional meal for the Brits on my flat. I introduced them to cinnamon sugar toast the other day—if they liked that, they’re going to love the combination of turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce and gravy. Mmm… I’m not dying to leave here, but I’m missing the familiarity of home. That’s why I’m so anxious about seeing my mom and Marc tomorrow. I feel like I appreciate everything in my life more than I ever have before. And I feel that when I go home in December, 53 days from now, I’ll be seeing old things in a whole new way. For now, I cannot wait to show the people I love the new parts of my life, the new parts of me.

Adventures in Italy-- Florence

Ah, Florence. Where Rome was a vast, open tourist trap, Florence was smaller, quirkier, more like the Italy I had pictured in my mind. Granted, I heard as many American accents as any other, but the feel of the city was authentically Italian.
I remember the ache I felt in my arms as I pulled my heavy luggage over Florence’s cobblestone streets and constricted, bumpy sidewalks. Afterwards I felt like I could do anything.
Santa Croce on Via Ghibellina was more like a rented flat than a cramped hostel. We shared the apartment with the owner and renter, an Asian boy named Joseph, probably only a few years older than us. I think there were some other people living in the flat, but we never really saw or were introduced to them.
Our room had two floors, the first with four beds, a TV (it never actually worked), a wardrobe, a refrigerator, a hairdryer, and huge shuttered windows with a balcony. The second floor was just two beds and a fan, and this is where Caroline and I slept.
On our first day in Florence we ate at a little (and by ‘little’ I mean really, really uncomfortably small, yet cosy) café called Cuccinello’s, or something close to that. This was the only place that served paninis without cheese. Believe me, it was not easy being lactose intolerant in Ital, and I don’t recommend it. It’s torturous. Thank goodness, though, for the tuna and tomato panini at Cuccinello’s which had the freshest tuna and the ripest tomatoes and the tastiest bread I have ever sampled in my life for only €2.50. The gray-haired man behind the counter and the dark-haired boys behind the bar only spoke Italian, but they sang and whistled while they worked, either to original Italian songs or Italian versions of classic American songs like, ‘My Heart Will Go On.’ I had my first caffé Americano there as well, which is basically a mug of straight espresso with a shot of water. The taste was unforgettable, but the caffeine made me shake.
We spent the day on Ponte Vecchio, a famous bridge over the Arno river lined with shops and vendors, buying souvenirs and then on top of the Piazza di Michelangelo, where the view was incredible. It was so unreal standing up there, looking out over Florence. I had to remind myself that I was actually there and that it was all real. The Duomo towered above the city. We sat on the stairs for hours, just talking and taking in the view. That night we went to a restaurant and ate the best dinner of our lives. We sat inside at a long table. The décor was dark—patterned wallpaper and thick wooden tables, rustic chandeliers. We all ordered pasta and a bottle of white wine. I had spaghetti with red sauce that was full of chunky fresh vegetables. We sat for hours, talking, eating slowly, and sipping wine. We shared chocolate cake and a giant apple pastry for dessert. It was surreal. After dinner we found an unbelievably cheap internet café--€1.50 for an hour—and we spent the rest of the night there before bed. I fell asleep to the sound of scooters whizzing down the street.
The next morning we woke up early to wait in line for the Uffizi. It was smaller than I expected, but the Leonardo DaVinci exhibit in the basement was really interesting and worth the wait. We found a small pizza shop in town after that, and I got a chicken curry wrap. The six of us sat on stools at a small bar, watching ourselves eat in the mirror on the wall. Sometime between sitting down to eat and getting up to leave, my purse was stolen. Though none of us had seen anyone come or go who could have taken my bag, it must have been stolen because it was simply gone. I had to into survival mode at that point, even though all I wanted to do was call my mom and cry. My wallet, credit cards, money, digital camera, ID, passport, and my rail card, the umbrella that Kelly and Diana gave me for my birthday, the bag that Danny got me two Christmases ago—it was all gone, just like that. The rest of the day was spent in the police station or on the phone with the credit card company or trying to get directions from people who never speak English when you need them to. t was scary and frustrating and exhausting, but the important thing to note is that the people I was with were there for me, offering to help out in any way. Heather Sagaities stayed with me while I went to find out about a temporary passport, and the girls spilt up the responsibility of paying for my meals for the rest of the trip. We managed to make it to the Duomo that day after all. And at dinner that night we toasted to good friends overcoming hard times.
The next morning Heather Walsh came with me to get my new passport while the rest of the girls saw David at the art gallery. At the U.S. Consulate a framed picture of Condaleeza Rice hung on the wall. We sat reading a book called “America the Beautiful.” The stress of losing everything was starting to build, and though I was trying to be strong, I felt fragile. I hated having to borrow money and I didn’t want to be a burden on the other girls, who definitely didn’t have a lot to spend. Plus, we were headed to Venice the next day, which everyone warned us would be the most expensive city yet. It made me so uncomfortable. My family came to my rescue in this situation. I know that everyone, as worried as they were, did everything they could to get me back on track, since doing so overseas was nearly impossible. I couldn’t have gotten through it with a smile without the help I received from home and from my friends.

Adventures in Italy- Rome

I’m sitting in a PC Lab in the library at Lancaster University, staring at a blank screen. The mere thought of everything I want to write about the past week and a half overwhelms me. I don’t know where to start. There is so much to tell. I’m still getting used to the idea that I was in Italy three days ago, and now I’m in Lancaster, not to mention the month (month?!) I’ve just passed in London. Time is flying by, and these are not idle hours. These are unforgettable days and nights I’m passing here, indelible memories I’m making, pages I’m adding to the chapters of the book of my LIFE. What the heck?
The day I left for London I remember thinking I was crazy, that life wasn’t making sense, that the motions I was going through were entirely unreal. After a month everything still feels unreal. I am ecstatic to be here.
The really funny (in my mind) thing I find hard to believe is that I’ve survived. Sometimes just barely, but those are the times I’ll look back on as the moments where I evolved most as a person.
I’ll start from the beginning.
On September 23, 2006, six girls who had never travelled alone before, including me, boarded a plane to Rome, Italy. In the boarding line I met an older couple who were also flying to Rome for vacation. They were split up by the sequence numbers on their tickets, so I made conversation with the woman while her husband waited in a separate line. I didn’t catch her name, but we talked for a while as the line moved slowly, and I noticed that she was carrying a novel by Margaret Atwood (one of my favourite authors) that I had never seen before called The Penelopiad. I asked her about it, and she gave me an articulate plot summary. It turns out she graduated from the University of Toronto, the same University from which Atwood is an alum, with a degree in English. I felt lucky to have met her. It seemed to me like a good sign.
We arrived at Rome’s Ciampino airport at 8:20pm. Here I experienced my first Italian bathroom—sans toilet seats. After going through passport control we picked up our single piece of checked luggage. I had volunteered to check my carry-on suitcase so that everyone could put their liquids into one bag and just carry backpacks on the plane. This worked out for me because I gained extra space for clothes and other necessities, but I also had to lug around an extra bag. The girls kindly offered to switch off when I got tired.
At the money exchange booth we ran into some more good luck. We had reserved a shuttle from the airport directly to the hostel, the alarmingly inexpensive Camping Tiber, but we weren’t quite sure where it would pick us up. Two girls in line ahead of us happened to mention the name of the hostel. Turns out they were staying in the same hostel and were also looking for the shuttle. Talk about a coincidence! They introduced themselves as Aly and Kate, two students from Canada travelling around Europe for a few months. (Side note: I bought a magazine in the airport before the flight to Rome. One week after meeting Aly and Kate, as we were waiting to catch the shuttle to the airport in Venice, I was flipping through the magazine a second time and came across a picture of Aly! She had been interviewed by Glamour magazine for a special about women in debt. Aly, a “student from Canada”, had stated that she was working to pay off her University debt. How bizarre is that?)
After a short time a short man showed up carrying in his broken arm a piece of paper on which the name of our hostel was hastily written in marker. I have to admit that he and his blood shot eyes made me nervous, and the fact that he didn’t speak any English at all wasunsettling. What had we gotten ourselves into?
In fact, he turned out to be a very nice man, just as Camping Tiber turned out to be a great place to stay. We had booked six beds in what was called a “20 bed female dorm”. In reality, the “dorm” was a huge open room partitioned off into mini-rooms by low concrete walls. In each mini-room were two bunk beds and a curtain for a door. Essentially, there was zero privacy or security and no way of keeping your neighbours (or the dogs outside) from making too much noise while you were trying to sleep. However, there was locked storage for our bags during the day (I still slept with my purse at night), the beds were much more comfortable than the ones at IES, and the lights always went off at a reasonable hour. Plus, we learned very quickly that when you’re utterly exhausted a little noise and even overhead lights can’t stop you from sleeping soundly. Camping Tiber also had a great restaurant with friendly staff and fairly reasonable prices. Its biggest drawback was the outdoor bathroom which was about a three minute walk down the main road from our dorm. They were surprisingly clean, though, which made the 6:30am trek to the shower a bit more bearable.
Yes, we woke up at 6:30am. Camping Tiber ran free shuttles to the train station every hour starting at 8am. We aimed for the earliest bus right away. At the bus stop the first morning we met two Australian women who were travelling Europe in their VW bus. They told us what train stop to get off at and also let us know that we had very fortunately come to Rome during European Culture Celebration Weekend and nearly everything was free. (Side note: Two days later we spotted these same women again on the stairs of the Piazza di Michelangelo in Florence. The odds of meeting them again in another city are so slim; that sort of coincidence makes me smile.)
The train ride into Rome each day took about thirty minutes, but it dropped us off right in the centre of town. Our first day in the city was fantastic. The weather was beautiful—at least 80 degrees and sunny. We saw the Pantheon, the Roman Forum, the Colosseum, the Trajan Column, the Trevi Fountain, countless piazzas, the Spanish Steps, and the house where Keats spent the last three months of his life. We heard music on the streets, ate lunch at a small (and very expensive) café, took hundreds of pictures and just enjoyed the thrill of being in Rome. Several times Caroline and I looked at each other and just smiled. Dinner was at an outdoor café in a piazza. We walked miles and sweated like crazy but cooled ourselves with gelato or, in my case, sorbet, which we ate by the Trevi Fountain at night. My exhaustion that night was the product of an extremely satisfying first day in Italy.
The second day in Rome was not so great. It poured from the time we woke up until the time we went to bed. And this was the day we had planned to see the Vatican City and St. Peter’s Basilica, which required lines, lots of very long lines. So, we waited in a 2 ½ hour line for the Vatican, soaked to the bone and freezing cold, battling a very pushy bunch of Asians all the while. I gave in and bought an umbrella for €5 about 1 ½ hours into it. Everyone else resisted and ended up completely water-logged.
Vatican City was, of course, very beautiful and full of artwork, but we were exhausted from the previous day and cranky and wet. It was tough to keep going. Finally we decided just to try to make it to the Sistine Chapel. This proved much easier said than done. Signs for the Sistine were posted right at the entrance of the Vatican, but it turns out that the signs and the ropes and the queues actually lead you on a wild goose chase (a rather slow, crowded goose chase) to get to the actual chapel. It reminded me of those tacky celebrity news programs that announce the top story at the start of the hour but don’t actually get to it until the last five minutes.
The Sistine Chapel was worth the wildness and the slowness and the crowdedness. It was magnificent. I stood in the middle just looking up. It really is a fantastic sight. It’s unbelievable that one person could have the will to complete a project so massive. Eventually I found a seat on the side of the chapel where I had a nice view of the paintings on the lower part of the ceiling. Would you believe me if I told you that I fell asleep in the Sistine Chapel, right then and there, in an upright sitting position? Well, I did. And I tried everything I could not to, but my eyes were absolutely determined to close and remain shut. That’s when I decided to stand up again.
We ended up seeing all of the Vatican museums twice that day, including the Sistine Chapel, because we got lost on our way out. It was a pretty terrible experience. We then sprinted to St. Peter’s Basilica in a torrential downpour, only to wait in line again. Caroline and I had just about had it by then. Honestly, I would have been much happy experiencing Italy from the warm confines of a local café. It really wasn’t necessary for me to stand in line with a bunch of Americans or other tourists from around the world waiting to see something that really lost its essence when it was taken over by pushy people with cameras to feel like I had truly experienced Rome. Regardless, I stuck with the group and finally made it into the Basilica, which was more like a museum than a church-a really fantastic, mind blowingly beautiful and massive church-museum. I recognized at least four pieces of famous artwork from the Art History course I took at Pittsburgh. I’m still trying to work out how I feel about such extravagant displays of religious faith, but it was certainly a sight to behold. Still, my feet really hurt.
We made it back to Tiber after that. I discovered Italian misquitoes that night. They come out when it rains and hang around in puddles. All of the waiting in line we had done that day made me a prime target for the blood-sucking little flies, and I ended up with a decent display of bites all around my ankles. They itched. A lot.
That night at the hostel Caroline ordered Risotto with Scampi for dinner and ended up with at least six whole enormous crayfish on her plate, eyeballs and antennae and all. She freaked and somehow I became the lucky one that got to fish them out of the mushy rice and into a paper bag where they could no longer be seen. I still haven’t figured out how Italians eat their crayfish whole, and sometime I’m going to ask for a demonstration.
We got a special shuttle the next morning at 6:30am to travel again. We switched metro lines twice to make it to Tiburtina train station where we caught a train to Florence at a discounted price and ended up riding first class entirely by accident--very roomy indeed. Thus, we were off to explore Florence. One Italian city down, two to go!
To be continued…