Number Crunching

Number of politics courses taken: 4

Number of postcards bought: 23

Number of people living in my host family’s house: 7

Number of new facebook friends from Syracuse University: 24 (and yes, that is enough to make the majority of posts in your news feed be related to Syracuse, and particularly SU basketball during March Madness)

Number of American movies dubbed in French watched: 12 (including Lord of the Rings)

Number of French pastries eaten: too many to count

Number of hours spent at the dinner table: average 1.5 a night

Number of cities visited: 27

Number of passport stamps: 6

Number of trains taken: 32

Number of photos taken: 1063

Number of hours it will take before I want to come back: 0.000000001

Every Breath You Take

It all feels a bit surreal. 

The clock on the dashboard reads 6:08am. I’m sitting in the backseat of a taxi watching green farmland dotted with small French houses out my window, as we drive down a nearly deserted highway road, the driver bobbing his head along to “Every Breath You Take,” which streams out softly from the radio.

I didn’t cry when I said goodbye to my host parents, but it’s here, in this anonymous taxi with American 80s music playing, that it suddenly sinks in: I’m leaving Europe. This trip is over. This will be my last memory of the 5 months I spent in Europe (cause airports don’t count) and the soundtrack is a Police song. My vision starts to blur just a little, and I blink, fighting the water behind my eyes. 

I’m not so much sad as I am in disbelief. I’ve reached the end of my semester; I traveled for three weeks after, came back and said my goodbyes to Strasbourg, but I’m not ready to be done. It’s a bittersweet, private moment of reflection I have in the back of that taxi (the driver was happily staring out the window, tapping his hand to the music), and by the time we reach the airport at the end of the 15 minute ride, my eyes are dry again and I know that I’l be back in Europe, sooner rather than later. The thought brings a slight smile to my lips. As we pull up to the departures terminal the song switches to “Disturbia.” 

Yep, I’m headed home.

Things I’ve Learned While Traveling Through Europe pt3

Lessons and rules from my three week trip at the end of the semester to London, Dublin, Prague, Berlin, Tuscany, Rome, Naples and Pompeii.

48. When eating lunch at a giant open air market, stand near the funny guy selling bags and make friends with him.

49. If you have to share a twin bed with a friend, just sleep with your heads on the same end of the bed. Logistically it’s much harder to sleep with your heads at opposite ends, and you need more pillows.

50. Bring multiple sweatshirts. Especially if you’re going to both warmer and cooler places. And one should always be waterproof.

51. If people describe a place as magical, expect magic things. Like seeing full rainbows and people proposing on pretty bridges at night.

52. When a friend tells (not asks) you that you are going to an amazing concert with them the night before they have an exam, and you end up walking up some crazy hill in the rain out on the edge of town to get to a kinda dingy looking community center thing, don’t be skeptical. It could turn out to be one of the coolest shows you’ve ever been to.

53. Note that it’s a small world. You might even run into some of your friends from your school back home on a random alternative art walking tour in Berlin.

Oh hi guys. What are you doing here?

54. Taking public transit home at 3am on the weekend might not actually be sketchy. Depending on where you are, don’t be surprised if it’s as crowded as rush hour and every other person has an open beer in their hands.

55. Some of the coolest cities tend to have some of the dreariest weather.

56. Make buddies, and if possible meet up with them again later on your trip.

57. Keep your travel plans flexible. You don’t need to plan everything. Really.

58. Always be prepared for an awesome surprise day hike, and keep your camera charged.

59. Try the local drink, but be prepared for strange tastes.

60. If the place you’re staying at has a rooftop terrace, you absolutely should go hang out there--read a book, eat dinner, drink, whatever. It’s also always a great place to make new friends.

61. When in Tuscany, go on a wine tour.

62. Don’t let bad (or just plain crazy) roommates ruin a fun hostel for you. Just go with it and laugh about it later.

63. If there is an Irish pub in town, it’s usually worth checking out. *Note: in Ireland, it is generally not feasible to check out every Irish pub in town*

64. Never underestimate the gastronomic quality a simple 3 euro sandwich can have if you know where to go.

65. Get lunch from the cheap hole in the wall sandwich shops in Italy.

66. Ask the locals where to go.

67. If someone invites you to come with them to their favorite bar in the world later that night, you must go, regardless of any other plans you may have had.

68. Find a place you like staying in and do some day trips from it to cool places nearby.

69. Go to couch surfing meetups.

70. Sit on the steps of a church in Florence to watch the sunset and drink good (though incredibly cheap) Tuscan wine out of plastic cups with the locals and enjoy what a wonderful thing it is not to have an open container law.

71. Pay for a tour of the colosseum, it’s worth it.

72. Go on a quest for the best gelato in every Italian city you visit and try a new flavor every time you get gelato. You might wander around lost for a little while, trying to find some of the places, but you won’t be disappointed.

73. Build a fort.

74. Always brush your teeth after a night of drinking red wine; don’t wait till morning.

75.Go see the Pope give his weekly public address. Expect people there to be cheering and waving signs like it’s a rock concert.

76. Bring sunscreen.

77. Make friends with hostel bartenders. They’re cool. And often crazy. And sometimes climb on the bar and make up sports in hallways using ping pong balls.

78. Give yourself some extra time in case you wake up late for the one connection you cant miss--your flight out.

79. Get the contact info of the friends you made; you’ll want to stay in touch.

80. Sometimes it’s more important to have fun than it is to sleep.

Goodbye Strasbourg...Hello World

I hate packing up. Absolutely hate it. It’s one of the most stressful things in the world for me. Within the first 30 minutes I inevitably reach a point of panic, convinced there is no way I will ever be able to make it all fit and how the hell did I end up with this much stuff anyway? It eventually always subsides and I find a way to make it all fit, but god do I hate packing. 

The thing is, I’ve been doing it a lot lately. There’s a certain skill in being able to pack up and move all of your stuff from one place to another with efficiency. You get pretty good at it being a college student. I think I’ve moved five times during college so far, and every time sees me melting down briefly into a little puddle of stress and exasperation. But it has become almost a ritual, like I’m just turning the page onto a new chapter.

And now I find myself staring at yet another empty room. I’ve lived here for a semester, but now that I’m packed you would never know, save for the 2 suitcases and backpack I have stacked in the corner. It’s weird to think that the semester is now over. In truth, I haven’t really thought about it much. Because even though classes are done and I’m leaving Strasbourg tomorrow, it doesn’t feel over. I dont feel like my semester in Europe is done yet. It's probably because I'm coming back to Strasbourg for a day in three weeks before I finally go home, so it's not really the final goodbye. 

Tomorrow starts my three week travel bonanza. I'm not going home yet, instead I'll spend the next 23 days tracing an itinerary through five countries and winding my way through the cities of London, Dublin, Prague, Berlin, Florence, Rome and several other to-be-determined places in Italy. And I’m doing it all on my own.

I’m both equal parts nervous and excited, with hints of exhaustion mixed in. I’m meeting friends in the first three cities, but after that it’s gonna be a solo adventure. And that’s what makes me nervous. But also excited. I’ve traveled to places before on my own, without knowing anyone, but I’ve never gone traveling on my own, and there has always been some sort of plan waiting for me at my destination. This feels a little more daunting.

Looking around the empty room though, it does start to sink in a little. A lot of different thoughts swirl around my head. Fears about finally being a senior and no longer being able to ignore the real world. Fears about traveling on my own and being completely self-reliant. But I realize, it’s all really the same thing. It’s all just about being independent. What it comes down to is, I’m afraid of growing up. I’m not ready yet. Or at least, I don’t want to be. But regardless of if I'm ready or not, I’ve got a very expensive train ticket in my pocket for tomorrow morning and I’m not about to let it go to waste.


Stay tuned...

Crossing Cultures

What do you get when a three generation French family, two Palestinians, and an American student sit down to dinner together?

It’s not a bad joke, the answer is a 3 to 4 hour meal of good food and wine, conversations in multiple languages, and a wonderful time had by all.

****************

Last weekend, one of my host family’s former students came to visit. When my host mother told me that Dahlia was coming with her husband and daughter, my first thought was there’s gonna be a lot of people in the house. And there were—10 in total, including two 2-year-old children. But to my surprise, it didn’t feel cramped; instead it was cozy. The house was alive with people. And I realized that Dahlia wasn’t just an old student who came to visit often, she was family. And by the end of the weekend, I felt like a part of the family too.

Dahlia and her husband Gabriel grew up in Bethlehem, Palestine, went to college in the United States and now live in Boston. They’ve lived and traveled all over the place, and are the type of friendly, worldly travelers you’d hope to bump into on the road. They both speak English, French and Arabic fluently, and their 2-year-old daughter can already understand and speak a little of all three.

The arrival of this little family marked an unexpected turning-point in my time here. With almost exactly one month left in Strasbourg, I’d been focusing more on what was exciting about leaving, rather than what I still had left to enjoy. Seeing Dahlia come into the house, full of joy and appreciation for these people and their culture after so many years, gave me pause to think and reexamine what it was that I was excited to leave behind. And I found there was a lot to appreciate.

Dahlia and Gabriel proved to be a sort of bridge between my host family and I, over a gap I hadn’t even realized was there. As Dahlia explained many of the little things my host mother does and all the reasons behind the way they live—things I might have noticed before but never really picked up on or fully understood—, I began to truly appreciate what a unique cultural experience I am having.

My family still lives a very traditional Alsacian lifestyle, and their house has not changed one bit in the 15 years since Dahlia was a student there. My host parents spend most of the day working in their garden, which provides many of the vegetables we eat, they watch the same dubbed American soap opera every day which they’ve been watching for at least the last 15 years, they can still speak the dying Alsacian language, and my host mother prepares traditional Alsacian meals all the time (trust me, it’s quite different from normal french food). Their house has no internet, and their TV’s are several decades old at least, but it all just adds to the charm of their lifestyle.

I realized that I am really lucky to be living where I am. Most of the host families in Strasbourg today are totally modernized, and the traditional culture is disappearing. The experience of living with them is a modern European one, rather than a traditional uniquely regional one. But with my host family, it’s almost like time is at a standstill, lost somewhere in Alsace between the 1960’s and 90’s. I may live further away than most people, and have less internet access than everyone else on my program, but I’m getting a very authentic experience with an incredibly nice family. But it took the arrival of Dahlia and her family for me to fully realize that.

Having them here put things in perspective and shifted my view of my family, even how I interacted with them. With Dahlia and Gabriel at the table, conversations were more lively, and when I didn’t know how to say something, they could serve as translator. Even when we were speaking in English, it was mostly about other cultures, be they French, Palestinian, Japanese or whatever.

What amazed me most was how easily everything meshed. It just worked. Dahlia and Gabriel really are family to them. Every night there was a big dinner with everyone and my host family would pull out all the stops, because there’s only five days a year they get to spend with Dahlia and Gabriel, which means every dinner must be celebrated. One night after we’d finished eating, Dahlia explained to me that it had taken her 10 years to earn the right to help do the dishes after dinner, and my host mother still won’t let Gabriel help with anything. 

In fact, the only time I’ve ever heard her raise her voice was at him. After pretty much every meal, Gabriel would get up and try to start taking dishes into the kitchen, but as soon as my host mother noticed what he was doing, she would yell at him in French, saying “No! You are in my house, therefore you will do nothing!” to which Gabriel responded with a smile and a hapless gesture, retreating back to his chair until after the next course, when he would diligently try again.

There was lots of joking, of course too much eating, and plenty of scenes just like that between various family members. It was during all this that it dawned on me that family really is the same across cultures. You talk, you joke, you yell, you eat, you get told by the mother in charge to eat more, you enjoy each other’s’ company, and you have a good time. 

It might have been one of the stranger combinations for a family gathering, but in this house, where you come from doesn’t matter, only that you become a part of the family. I think it says something that with a Jewish American college student, a Palestinian couple, and a large French family all gathered around the same table, the biggest conflicts weren’t cultural, but over who would get the slice of tart with the most cinnamon on it and who was allowed to help with the dishes.

Around the table from left to right: Rene (my host father), Suzanne (my host mother), Philippe (their son), Valerie (Philippe's wife), Marilyn (their daughter), Gabriel, and Dahlia

Moments and Reflections from the Road

In 10 days, from February 23rd to March 4th, 2012, my friend Veronica and I embarked on a journey to 5 cities; taking 7 buses, 6 trains, and 4 planes in the process. Our whole trip can't be captured in one short description, but what follows are a few excerpts and highlights from my journal. Note: all quotes are at least slightly wrong.

3:05pm, 2/23/12, Strasbourg, France. Transit to go: 17/17

There is a man playing accordion on our tram to the Strasbourg train station. He’s the first accordionist I’ve seen in 2 months in Europe. Veronica and I decide he is a good omen for the start of our trip. I snap a photo by pretending to take one of Veronica’s head, to be seriously cropped later.

6:57am, 2/24/12, Baden-Baden, Germany. Transit to go: 15/17

We’re sitting on a cold concrete bench, waiting at the bus station. It looks like the sun will start to come up in a few minutes, but for now the German bus station is cast in the glow of half-morning twilight. We sit, munching on a breakfast of home-made mini-sandwiches on local german bread that the hostel staff left for us by the door for on our way out. I’m only half awake, but feeling mostly excited, though slightly nervous that we’ll miss our first plane.

1:34pm, 2/25/12, Barcelona, Spain. Transit to go: 13/17

Dunc, our excellent Irish architect/ free walking tour guide is explaining to us the significance of the plaza we are standing in. 

“Those steps over there were where Columbus walked up to King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella and triumphantly proclaimed, ‘I have found a new world!’ then showed off all the great things he brought back. However, he also brought back syphilis, and was the first European to die from it. Little known fact though, is that Queen Isabella was the second.”

This becomes my new favorite fun fact.

10:46pm, 2/25/12, Barcelona, Spain. Transit to go: 13/17

“I’m probably not going to remember your name, how bout I just call you America?”

“Then do I get to call you Australia Jack?”

“Sure”

This was the start of my friendship with Jack, a very interesting 20-something year old man from Australia. We were walking in a herd of other young travelers through the narrow cobblestone alleys in Barcelona’s gothic district, heading towards some bar. 

“So what are you doing in Barcelona, Australia Jack?”

“Well...” then he launched into a story of 6 months of travel, mostly in South East Asia, with breaks in between traveling to work as a waiter or chef for a month or two in fine dining establishments all over the world, and plans to continue doing so for the next 2 years. I was fascinated and pelted him with questions. By the time we got to the bar, I had been just as thoroughly bombarded, but with reasons for why I needed to go Laos.

Australia Jack and I were friends for only about 4 hours, then I never saw him again after that night. But I have some fond memories of Australia Jack. And hey, I’d consider going to Laos.

9:32am 2/27/12 Barcelona, Spain. Transit to go: 13/17

Walking to the train station to go to Madrid:

“Ok, one of the guys who was in our room at that hostel snores louder than anything I’ve ever heard!”

“Yeah, I know. If he was asleep before I was, there was no way I was falling asleep. I actually had no idea that it was humanly possible to snore that loud!”

“I went to the bathroom in the middle of the night last night. You could hear him from the bathroom...”

“It’s pretty impressive.”

“Yeah, it sounded like a trumpet...only less melodic.”

“Mhmn.”

Ahhhhhh, adventures in hosteling.

11:08am 2/27/12 Between Barcelona and Madrid, Spain. Transit to go: 12.5/17

Sitting on the nicest train I’ve ever seen, I’m idly making notes in my journal, but mostly staring out the window, watching the Spanish countryside stream by. Veronica is watching our in-train movie, “Captain America.” (Since when have in-train movies been a thing?)

“Oh no! They just switched it to Spanish! And the subtitles are still in Spanish. Aw, I can’t watch now.”

“Really? Ooh! Now I wanna watch.”

I grab my headphones and plug in to the train’s audio system, then proceed to thoroughly enjoy the rest of my train ride. I pass the next hour and a half watching Captain America dubbed in Spanish and letting my dormant Spanish speaking skills slowly start to resurface themselves. To my left, the Spanish countryside continues to zip by, bringing us steadily closer to city #2.

5:03am 2/28/12 Madrid, Spain. Transit to go: 12/17

“Wow. The streets are actually completely empty.”

“Uh, well, except for that guy up ahead who is cleaning the sidewalks with a giant fire hose or something...Can we make it our goal not to get covered in water on our way to the airport at 5am?”

“Hmm, yeah. Good plan. Let’s go around him.”

3:22pm 2/29/12 Venice, Italy. Transit to go: 8/17

“I love you! I love you!”

We’re standing on the Rialto bridge in Venice and a gondolier passing below (with a full boat of tourists) is shouting up at us.

“Come, jump in my boat! Jump in my boat! We will have a party in my boat. I’ll bring the champagne!” 

We laugh. I briefly consider the jump. It’s about 40 feet. Something tells me the frame of a gondola may not support that kind of landing. The gondola passes under the bridge.

10:19pm 2/29/12 Somewhere between Venice, Italy and Vienna, Austria. Transit to go: 7.5/17

I’m laughing and snapping photos as one of our Japanese train-car-mates tries to give Veronica a back massage in the awkwardly cramped space. We’re sharing an overnight train car on an 11 hour ride with four very excited and friendly 25-year-old Japanese guys, who all graduated one month earlier from medical school and are on a celebratory trip through Europe. 

After chatting a while, one of them asked, “You have health problems? We can help.” We said not really, but with one small mention by Veronica that her back had been hurting earlier, a back massage immediately became top priority. Within a few minutes I was pulling my camera out, unwilling to miss documenting this bizarre and hilarious event.

12:34pm 3/1/12, Vienna, Austria. Transit to go: 7/17

“You went to Moshava? No way, I went to Miriam.”

We’re taking a walking tour of Vienna, and for some reason or other I start talking with the guy next to me, and soon discover he went to the same summer camps as I did and knows many of the same people, as he was in the year above me. His travel buddy and Veronica also started talking, though their conversation quickly became part conversation, part scrabble game (yes, of course there’s an app for that). We exchange travel stories, and he and his friend spend the better part of the next two hours convincing us why we should go with them to Budapest for a day. I must have heard “Come to Budapest!” a dozen times. And the thing is, we almost went.

1:27am 3/2/12 Vienna, Austria. Transit to go: 7/17

Facebook conversation between my friend Ksenia and I:

Me: Yo! Guess what? I just was in a four-way water gun fight in the hostel bar!

Ksenia: what???

Me: It was awesome! Now I’m soaked. And sitting in the lobby on facebook.

Ksenia: good job. How did that happen?

Me: They use water guns to knock shots into jaggerbombs (they balance them on top first and make you shoot them in)

I guess they had a few extra guns and people just started keeping them, and then using them. My friend Matt the funeral home director handed me one, so I joined in.

Ksenia: wait, what?! funeral home director?

Me: one of the guys in my room is a 26-year-old funeral home director from New York. He majored in creative writing at Tulane. Go figure.

Ksenia: hunh.

Me: right?

...

i think my hair is dripping onto this chair.

Ksenia: dude, go to bed.

Me: :P

6:58am 3/3/12, Vienna, Austria. Transit to go: 7/17

The door to our room clicks shut behind us and we start walking down to the lobby to check out.

“Is this real life?”

“I don’t know, but we’re going to Rome right now.”

“Like I said, is this real life? You realize we went to bed less than 2 hours ago after spending half the night talking to a Canadian banker who got recruited to be the hockey goalie for the German national hockey team and a New Zealand golf course lawn manager who’s worked all over the world--which apparently you can actually go to school for and its actually a highly in demand field of work.”

“Yeah, that was ridiculous. A well spent night. Let’s go to Rome. We’ll nap on the plane.”

4:27pm 3/3/12, Rome, Italy. Transit to go: 4/17

“Don’t marry! Never marry!”

We’re wandering around the old city of Rome, when we pass by a middle-aged Italian man playing the guitar. Or at least, he would be playing the guitar if he wasn’t so preoccupied shouting advice to the American man walking by him. He strums disconnected cords intermittently between phrases.

“Go, go back to your wife and be a slave! Be a slave...for free!”

We continue walking, hiding our snickers, lest he choose to give us some advice as well. Behind us, the strumming begins to take the form of something that resembles more of a song.

3:52pm 3/4/12, a small train station near the French border, Germany. Transit to go: 1/17

We have a 1 hour wait for our final train, which will return us to Strasbourg. We kill the time by writing down all our favorite quotes from the last 10 days.

“What was it she said? You must go to the Famada Sangria?”

“Do you mean go to the Sagrada Familla? Cause that’s what she actually said.”

“Oh...yeah.”

“Freudian slip?”

“Yeah. It’s been a long trip.”

5:06pm 3/4/12, Strasbourg, France. Transit to go: 0/17

I’m greeted by my host family as I enter the house, and to my surprise I am still relatively coherent at speaking French. Exhausted and in need of a shower, I give them a brief explanation of how the trip was, assuring them of how much fun I had and how tired I am. They ask if I’ll be joining them for dinner. 

My response? “Si, si, si!”

I immediately caught myself and switched back from Spanish to French, this time saying “oui.” A few minutes later, as I finally went up the stairs to my room, I thanked my host mom for something she had just said.

“Grazie!” I said.

The funny thing is, I don’t even speak Italian.

Train Travel

Taking the train has a sense of calm to it. There’s something about a long train ride that's almost soothing. When going by train, I find myself in a state of peaceful reflection, staring out the window, lost in thought as the hours wind by. 

On the train, you see the most interesting parts of cities. The neglected and run-down parts; long forgotten corners and neighborhoods too poor to be further from the tracks. It’s the “other side of the city” tour, the one you cant request, but comes complimentary with any train journey. In TrenItalia, SNCF, Renfe, Deutsch Bahn, and OBB cars you speed through city after city--some whose names you know, others you will forget within the hour--catching flashes of graffitied buildings that have seen better days, overcrowded housing developments, and a glimpse of the more industrial side of town.

In these stretches, I’m not a tourist, but an anthropologist. I pay careful attention as the train wooshes by the parts of the city people like so much to forget. Because here is where the contrast is most interesting. Here I search for the differences between each city and the last. Is there more industry? Less housing developments? Has the style of graffiti changed? It all gives a raw picture of life in the city, coloring my understanding of where I’m going to and coming from.

And then there are the in between periods, when the view out my window opens up to a sweeping rural landscape. Mostly it’s just barren winter farmland on these trips. But sometimes, there are mountains and the occasional treat of an old castle or pristine lake in the distance. Generally though, I see flat plains or rolling hills dotted by small villages that seem to go on forever, eventually merging with the grey sky somewhere in the distance. I let my mind wander on these stretches, losing myself to my thoughts somewhere in that grey landscape. 

Sometimes my mind wanders to what it would be like to grow up in one of those many small towns we pass; so far from everything, so quaint and comfortable-looking. How different would life have been?

But most of the time my mind goes to its reflective place. Something about settling in for a long bus or train ride is a cue for me to start reflecting on the bigger things in life. Train rides more than bus rides--the view from the train tracks is always more interesting that the highway. Staring out that window, I mull over the big questions: what I want to do with my life, where I want to be, what makes me happy, and how to do it all.

The funny thing is though, when we pull into the station and I step off that train, I’m usually burdened with more new questions than answers to old ones. But somehow, I step off each time with a feeling of relaxed contentment. 

Maybe it’s because I always have one good answer. When I ask myself what makes me happy, of all the answers, one always comes to mind. Traveling. So when I step off that train, in a new place, ready for new adventures, I can’t help but feel content on some level. I’m doing something that makes me happy, and as long as I keep doing that, I’ve got all the train rides I could want to figure out the rest.

On Europeans, Language, and Feelings of Inadequacy

     “Das ist sehr interessant!”

We hadn’t even had lunch yet and I’d already heard my professor speaking 3 languages that morning. Berry Kralj, lawyer at the Council of Europe and my European Policy Seminar professor, was taking our class on a three day tour of the EU institutions in Luxembourg and Brussels.

  We were at the European Court of Justice in Luxembourg, and he was speaking German to a British lawyer who had moments ago been explaining to us in English the finer points of how the court functions, and why the rest of the EU hates Greece right now. Professor Kralj had started off the morning conferring in French with Pierre, our bus driver (that’s right, Pierre and the purple papillon bus were back!), given us a brief introduction to the Court of Justice and our schedule there in English, talked to the security officers in French, and was now chatting with an Englishman in German.

     What I was only just realizing, was that Berry Kralj wasn’t some kind of superhuman anomaly of incredibly impressive language knowledge. He was just European. 

Professor Kralj and our class, outside the European Commission in Brussels. Photo courtesy of Arielle Ashley.

  It was an educational trip, and I learned a lot about European government, but what really stuck with me was what I learned about the role of language in Europe. A huge percentage of the European Union staff is dedicated exclusively to language translation. In the Court of Justice, 1/3 of the staff work in some form of translation, including a large team of lawyer linguists whose sole job it is to transform verbose legalize from one language to another as accurately as possible. 

  Everyone who works at the EU is required to know French, as it is the official language used, but they pretty much all also know English, and most people know at least one other language too. It’s not uncommon for people to know 5 or 6 languages. According to our guide at the Court of Justice, there are a few staff members there who speak 12 or 13 languages--and that’s barely even half the languages spoken in the EU. The EU recognizes 23 official languages, and all documents must be translated into each language for the sake of transparency. The sheer amount of resources that much translation requires is astounding.

  But it’s not just people who work at the EU; it seems like pretty much everyone I’ve met lately can speak at least 2, if not 3 languages very well. Even a little eight-year-old girl I helped learn to do a back handspring. Her mother is French and her father German and spoke both languages fluently, but she was apologizing to me for not being able to speak English. Standing there, communicating with her in my rough French, somehow, it seemed I should be the one apologizing.

     Multilingualism is such an ingrained way of life here that people hardly even think about it. But I am constantly reminded of it. Being here in Europe, I want to reach fluency in French and Spanish now more than ever. But it’s no longer just the idea that knowing several languages would be cool or would make me special in some way. Now it feels like almost an obligation. What gives me the right to expect everyone to learn my language just because I was born in an English speaking country? I believe the more effort you put into communicating, the more you get out of it. Being around Europeans, who have so much practice at it and handle multilingual situations with total fluidity is at once both inspiring and intimidating.

     It’s hard not to feel inadequate when someone who speaks upwards of 5 languages tells you they know “a little Spanish,” then starts speaking and you realize their Spanish skills are better than yours. But, despite the intimidation, as weird as this may seem, interactions like these have only made me more determined to become fluent in another language. Or two. Or maybe five. We’ll see. If I stick to it, I might get there one day. Till then, adios, au revoir, auf wiedersehen, arrivederci, sayonara, and see ya later.

Things I've Learned While Traveling Through Europe pt 2

This is the second installment in this series of rules based on my experiences and adventures in Europe, based on my travels to Stuttgart, Germany, the class study tour I went on to Luxembourg and Belgium, and my 10 day spring break trip to Barcelona, Madrid, Venice, Vienna, and Rome. I'm very behind on blog posts right now, but expect blogs about my adventures in those places soon!


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14. Go to the local market every place you visit if you can. It’s a great way to get a glimpse at the local culture, and stock up on fruit.

15. Don’t underestimate the utility of a Razor scooter as a mode of transportation. It’s the most popular mode of transit for commuting to work among the performers in the Palazzo Circus Show in Stuttgart, Germany. And if they use it, then clearly it must be a good idea.


16. When given a choice, get the Belgian beer. They’re only about a zillion times better than American beer. But careful, they’re also more than twice as strong.

17. Sometimes it can be really fun to just wander through the streets of a city at night with your friends for several hours, taking silly pictures with all the statues you find, instead of going to a bar.


18. Chocolate. Get some. Especially in Belgium. Gourmet chocolates are a lot cheaper there. And possibly even tastier. And often they give you free samples.

19. Should you find a mysterious automatic shoe-shining machine in your hotel, use it--as often as possible until you leave. But don’t make your friends late for dinner by deciding it’s imperative you shine your shoes before going out. 

20. Bring a travel-sized towel and a combination lock with you on your journey. They will come in very handy at hostels, and the less space they take up, the better. You’ll need that room for other things.

21. Know the exact dimensions of your bag, so you can know for sure if the stingy airlines will make you check your bags and pay a major extra baggage fee. 

22. Don’t plan every last detail of your trip in advance, and don’t always consult the map. It’s good to get a little lost and have some unexpected adventures. They make great stories.

23. Don’t always go to bed when you planned to; let your friends convince you to stay out just a little longer, or you know, another 3 or 4 hours.

24. Go on free walking tours. It’s a great way to see a city, especially if you have an awesome guide, and cool way to make new friends.

25. Never leave your stuff out of sight. Even on a deserted beach at 3 in the morning.

26. Don’t wear flip flops to the club.

27. Stay in larger hostel rooms and make friends with your roommates. Don’t be shy about talking to them!

28. Hang out in the hostel lounge, make new friends, and take advantage of internet access.

29. No matter what kind of diet your on, always make exceptions for regional specialties.

30. Check a guidebook before you go to a new city, just so you don’t feel completely lost. It gives you a good idea of where to start, and usually some excellent restaurant recommendations, cutting out the difficult task of finding good cheap food  on an empty stomach.

31. Take overnight trains. They’re a great mode of transportation, you can actually get some sleep, and if you’re lucky you might share a car with 4 japanese med school grads and get a free back massage out of it.

32. Try to spend at least 3 nights in every city you go to. Otherwise things just feel kinda rushed. There are some exceptions to this rule of course.

33. Don’t spend more than one night in Venice. Unless you’re rich, above the age of 50, and into expensive Italian shopping, there’s not much to do once you’ve walked around the small city once.

34. Talk to the people who work at your hostel. Ask them for recommendations where to go, what to eat, and about their life stories. They’re almost always super interesting people.

35. Make friends with the Venetian gondoliers. 

36. Never get a meal on the main tourist strip of a city unless you’re desperate.

37. Always be prepared for a water gun fight. Even (or especially) in bars.

38. Consider changing your plans at the last minute. But make sure to double check prices before you do.

39. Ask any new friends you make what they do for a living. The answers may surprise you. Within 48 hours you could meet people as different (and random) as a golf course lawn manager, english teacher, and funeral home director.

40. Always bring a pair of at least somewhat nice shoes.

41. Don’t be surprised to hear random languages when you travel. Like Hebrew from a cheese vendor in Vienna.

photo courtesy of Yehuda Mivasaur

42. Expect to encounter a lot of ham.

43. When on the go a lot, grab a banana for breakfast.

44. Even if you speak the local language, don’t expect to understand the dialect.

45.Take advantage of free breakfast. Even if you simply get up, eat, and then go back to bed right afterwards.


46. Be a traveler, not a tourist.

47. If you see an accordionist, know that it’s a good sign and something must be going right.

Want Culture? Get Groceries

When I arrive in a new city, the first place I want to go is the grocery store. Okay, maybe it’s not the first place, but it’s always one of my favorite places to go. And it’s not because I need groceries all the time; I just love going to the market. 

Markets tell you so much about a place. I love to check out the local market places whenever I visit somewhere new, because unlike all the standard tourist activities you might do in a given city, markets really give you a feel for the local culture and daily life of a place. Grocery stores and market places are different everywhere. Food is such a personal thing; you can learn a lot about somewhere based on what its grocery stores stock and what kind of people shop at the stores.

Local market places and farmers markets are even better. Big open markets with a variety of stalls are my favorite (for Americans, think Pikes Place in Seattle, the Ferry Building in San Francisco, Reading Terminal Market in Phili, and Eastern Market in DC). There you can get a feel for what is truly local and often also what the immigrant community is like, based on the various specialties on display.

I’ve always loved wandering around markets, but it wasn’t until I went to Stuttgart, Germany last weekend that I realized just how much I enjoy doing that to get to know a city. In one day, I went to three markets. I didn’t really set out to do a market tour of Stuttgart, but it just kind of happened. And I must say, I had a wonderful day and learned a lot about Germany.

I arrived Thursday night to visit my friend Kari, who was living in Stuttgart for a few months. The first thing we did Friday morning was walk to the small neighborhood grocery store a few blocks her apartment to get some food for breakfast. It was a teeny little market, and several things struck me immediately as quite different from both the US and France. There was not a lot of processed or prepared foods, but there were many fresh vegetables, a lot of dried fruit, and an impressive variety of yogurts. And all the bread there was some type of whole multigrain bread. I personally couldn’t resist a little package of different breads marketed as “German bread for lovers.”  

The package of Bread I bought that Kari and I dubbed "German Bread for Lovers"

A few hours later we went to the larger grocery store in town because Kari needed to restock her fridge and I needed to get some stuff for lunch on the way home the next day. The German supermarket was quite similar to the French supermarkets I’ve been to, except with more foods I like. See, Germans have a love affair with yogurt. And I also happen to have a strong love of yogurt. I like my little Stoneyfield Fruit on the Bottom yogurt cups and my thick greek yogurts, and even the occasional Icelandic yogurt/cheese thing that I forget the name of (Kiir, maybe? Something like that...). But Germans take it to a whole new level. 

In the German yogurt aisle (which takes up approximately twice the space of the American one) there are three main types of yogurt: quark, yoghurt, and kefir. First you have your quark, which is the thickest and richest of the yogurts and often eaten for dessert. Then there is regular yoghurt, (which is just the German spelling for yogurt), and that tends to be about average yogurt consistency. The final type is kefir, which is a much liquidier yogurt. They have a lot more plain yogurt than in the states and some of it comes in glass jars! And after trying it, I can now say that for whatever reason, yogurt tastes way better out of a jar. 

And then, to go with your yogurt, there is an entire aisle of muesli cereals. I love granola and muesli, so to me it was like the holy grail of cereal aisles. I had never seen so many varieties of muesli in one place before.

After that, I went to the bread aisle and almost died of whole-grain-happiness. But I’ll spare you the details on that one. Suffice it to say, despite the unhealthy rap German food gets, I found more funky hippy whole-foods goodness in Germany than France. German markets stock my kind of stuff.

I had not even been awake six hours yet when I found myself in my third German market of the day. Kari was showing me around Stuttgart, and one of our stops was the Stuttgart Markthall (Market Hall in English--really different right?). 

The Markthall in Stuttgart was my favorite place I visited there. And the place where I took the most pictures (almost all of food).  There were so many different kinds of food stalls. You had your standard farmers market stands: local produce stalls, local artisanal cheesemongers, local honey producers, etc. And then all the German butcher stands, each with it’s own collection of giant legs of smoked ham (at least I think that’s what they were) hanging overhead. And next to them, the German delis, with the most interesting and intense cream cheeses I had ever seen. 

Legs of ham (?) above the German butcher's stand

 Those egg-like things in the center are German cream cheeses. I don't know what makes the one on the right orange...

And then there were all the ethnic stands. I saw several India spice stands with a floor to ceiling selection of spices. And then Greek stands with homemade halvah and more fresh made eggplant dishes than you’d know what to do with, along with several other cultures scattered about.

Got spice?

One thing that caught my eye particularly though, were the dates. Several of the Middle Eastern dessert stands/pastry shops had display cases filled not with chocolate, but with stuffed dates. I had never seen such a display. These were gourmet dates, stuffed with everything from cheese to nuts and chocolate, I even saw some filled with candied orange peel!

It's hard to tell, but that is an entire display case full of dates.

It was there that I realized how great a cultural window markets can be. Food is such an important part of cultural identity, and everything from where people buy their food to what kinds of foods you see most provide clues to understanding the identity of a place. Even in the United States, food culture says a lot about where you are.

Kari made this point to me while we were strolling around. “One of first things I like to do when I get to a new place is go grocery shopping. Most people don’t really understand why though.” But I understand, and I agree with her. The market will be high on my to do list during the rest of my travels in Europe. 

You don’t go grocery shopping for the groceries; you go for the culture.

Gophers, Waffles, Groundhogs and Crepes

“La fête de gopher? Hunh?” That was the beginning of a big lesson in French culture I got this week, which started at dinner Tuesday when my host mother announced that today was the gopher holiday.

Or at least that’s what I thought she said. What she actually said was la fête de gaufre which means the waffle holiday. Which is, you know, only slightly less strange. So, while I was scratching my head, thinking gopher holiday, is that like groundhog day in the States? they were actually talking about waffles, not small burrowing mammals. Go figure.

Now, I googled the fête de gaufre and it appears that waffles are just a celebratory food, so I’m not really sure what we were celebrating, but I think they might have just decided to make waffles because the kids had a half day of school that day. As my host mother brought out the homemade waffles, pointing to them and saying gouffere, my confusion disappeared and was soon replaced by the pleasant feeling of a stomach full of waffle (and I mean full, they kept telling me to eat more, and when I protested saying “oh, pssh, it’s only air!”).

I tried to explain to them why I had been so confused. But explaining what a gopher is is really hard in another language. So instead I tried to explain that we have a holiday with gophers in the US (at that point the idea of trying to explain two different burrowing creatures whose names both start with G in French seemed impossible, so for my purposes groundhog day became gopher day). Apparently, that tradition must have come from Europe because my host family actually knew what I was talking about(?!). They were nodding along, especially when I mentioned the 2nd of February and predicting the length of winter, while talking about this “petit gopher” that lived in a “tunnel,” which was about as detailed as my description got.

 

After dinner, I went up to my room to do my reading for French class. It was a short essay explaining a French holiday called la Chandeleur which, as I read, I discovered happened to be on February the 2nd and originally served the purpose of predicting how much longer winter would last. There were no gophers involved though. Or groundhogs. Or even waffles. There were, however, (and I find this so very French) lots of crepes.

That’s right. In France, February 2nd is the crepe holiday. And yes, they actually have a crepe holiday. Originally the day had some sort of religious significance, now it’s mostly just an excuse to make and eat a ton of crepes. And most people own one of these mini-crepe party griddles (not even kidding about the name, they all say that on the side) with six little 4 or 5 inch spaces for crepes on them.

Now, in case you were worried, this doesn’t mean that this is the only day of the year people eat crepes. People eat crepes here all the time. February 2nd is just a day where everyone eats LOTS of crepes and the whole family sits down together to have one giant meal of crepes. 

There are two kinds of crepes--savory and sweet. Savory crepes are made with buckwheat flour while sweet crepes are made with regular wheat flour. I learned this week that it’s actually ridiculously simple to make crepes, as long as you have a griddle. There are really just 3 ingredients: flour (depending on the type of crepe you make, either buckwheat or wheat), eggs, and milk. Though I’m sure adding a pinch of salt wouldn’t hurt. All you do is mix them together and then ladle the batter onto the crepe pan and cook for a minute or two, flipping it over once it starts to brown. And then you have to make sure to eat it while it’s still hot!

On Wednesday we had a little crepe party of our own in French class (shhhh don’t tell, it was February 1st). Our professor taught us how to make the batter and cook them on a mini-crepe party, and brought in the standard toppings for us to use on our crepes. Savory crepes are usually filled with shredded gruyere cheese and ham (they eat a lot of ham in Alsace), while sweet crepes have a lot more options, though the favorites tend to be nutella or jam. Or nutella and jam. Or nutella and jam and then more nutella on top for good measure. Nutella is kind of a big deal here. Especially among the Americans.

After eating far more mini-crepes than ever necessary in one sitting, setting what I’m pretty sure was a personal record for most nutella consumed in a day, and then proceeding to go to gymnastics class (during which I surprisingly did not throw up, despite the fact my instructor decided that it was a good day to work on backflips), I came home Wednesday night to my host mom telling me that tomorrow was la Chandeleur and we would be having a special family crepe dinner. 

Let me just say right now that I think I’ve eaten more crepes in the last 48 hours than in the rest of my life combined. (Though if you’re only counting full sized crepes instead of mini-crepes that might not be true.) That being said, I’m surprisingly not sick of them yet, and dinner tonight was actually my favorite meal I’ve had so far in France.

Here’s why:

Tonight was the first time I ate with my entire host family. Most nights dinner is just me and my host parents. Everyone who lives in the house was at dinner tonight though. There are my host parents, who are actually the family grandparents, their son Philippe and his wife, their twelve year old daughter, and their two year old son. Plus me that’s 7 people at the dinner table.

Imagine, if you will, a small dining room where we’re all seated around the crowded table, with the mini-crepe party in the center. In the corner of the room, grandma stands over a larger, more traditional sized crepe pan on a tv table, with a stack of crepes she made earlier at her side, ready to be reheated, topped and served. Nicola, the two year old, somehow ended up in the seat closest to this pan, which is just at eye-level height for him (he’s pretty tall for two). He’s already burned his hand by reaching for it once this afternoon, but he keeps getting up from his chair and wandering back over there, wanting to touch the very hot crepe pan, despite (actually, maybe because of) the numerous calls by the adults of “pas touche!”

Meanwhile, Philippe is taking turns with his daughter ladling crepe batter on the 6 disks of the mini-crepe party, at the same time participating in parts of several loud conversations, adding the toppings of gruyere and ham to the crepes that are ready to melt the cheese, and attempting not to let anything burn. Grandma keeps coming over to the table periodically with another finished large crepe, enthusiastically unloading it onto an empty plate she sees. There is also a bottle of hard cider on the table from which Philippe somewhat overzealously refills my glass whenever he notices it getting low, which despite all the other tasks he’s doing, is surprisingly often. 

Between the noise Nicola was making (two-year-olds are very good at the whole being loud thing), a new crepe being thrust onto my plate pretty much the second I finished the last one, the madness of 7 different crepes being cooked at the same time, the constant refills of cider, and the effort to comprehend and/or participate in one of the conversations happening at any given time, I found myself thrust into a moment of beautiful chaos. The dinner was just so familiar in so many ways. Despite the fact that I could only understand about 50% of what was being said, if that, and that I was in a completely different culture than my own, in so many ways it felt like I could have been at a family celebration anywhere.

It was exactly the kind of large, loud, loving, chaotic family meal you expect on a holiday. Except this was a normal Thursday, and everyone had work and school and all their normal activities the next day. It wasn’t like Christmas or Easter where everything closes down, but they were still gathering together to celebrate this as a special occasion. And what was so great about it was that even with all the madness going on, I felt 100% included. Everyone was extremely welcoming and inviting towards me the whole time. I had conversations with members of the family I hadn’t previously had the chance to really talk to before, I got to help flip the crepes a few times, and was more than copiously fed.

After I’d eaten about as many ham and gruyere crepes as I could manage, and finally refused to have any more, I was told, “Oh, but we haven’t even started on the sweet crepes yet.” And yes, I did manage to find enough room in my stomach for one big nutella crepe. After which Philippe’s wife told me that, yes, they like to eat in Alsace, and they eat well (also meaning a lot) here. 

At the end of the meal, which naturally took over an hour and a half, the children were prepared for bed, after which their parents came back downstairs to join the grandparents and I for tea to finish up the meal. Everyone listened very patiently as I fumbled my way through several tenses of French grammar, trying to tell a story. Philippe and his wife then asked me if I would be interested in watching one of the American movies they had and offered me a couple of options.

Being handed a silly American movie to watch was the best thing I could have asked for right then. Our house doesn’t have wifi (though that may be fixed in the next week--we’ll see), which has been mostly just inconvenient, but also a major bummer because that means I can’t just watch a movie on my laptop because I can’t get on Netflix. I didn’t bring any movies with me, and there are some nights when I would rather stay in and watch a movie than trek downtown to grab a drink, especially nights like tonight when it is bitterly cold outside. And, not gonna lie, American movies are definitely somewhat of a panacea to homesickness for me. Mindless American entertainment is honestly (and somewhat sadly) one of the things I’ve been missing the most here.

So, to be told at the end of a lovely family meal that they have some American movies I could watch if I’d like, when that was all I really wanted to do with my night but was the last thing I was expecting to be able to do, on an particularly cold and windy Thursday night at the end of a long week, was pretty much the perfect ending to a wonderful evening. 

And I enjoyed my mindless movie entertainment very much.

Groundhog day in France is way better than Groundhog Day in the States. Bill Murray might have enjoyed himself more if the movie Groundhog Day had taken place in France.

In conclusion: Crepes make life better. So eat more crepes.