The Spring 2012 Travel Writing Competition

Studying abroad is largely done for the opportunity of experience.  With experience is the sense of encounter, which every semester we challenge our students to put into words.  Our congratulations for the spring 2012 semester go to Richard Lindenfelzer for his winning entry into the Travel Writing competition!  With strong entries from Lindsay Harrop and Joe DePietro, as well as Richard, the competition was so close that the ICLC staff had to defer to an outside judge to settle the stalemate. The following is Richard's winning submission.

It’s far too easy to forget where you are when you have no concept of home. If you squint you can make out some stony gorges in the distance, a pair of granite towers, a school on a hill—and even further out still, an ocean, perhaps, a mother and a father, smiling warmly, awaiting their son’s return, a small gray cat, a pale, two-story house, a forest where a childhood was spent—all this swirls around and floats into the night sky, a foggy mist, making this world and that world wrap around and turn into itself until what you’re left with is an indistinguishable mud of experience.

At least that’s what it is in the moment. Sitting across from me is a redhead I like to have with me at all times, probably for security. It’s really dingy here but that’s fine. A man is asking us what we’d like to drink, and I’m wondering whether to even bother trying my French—this man is about as français as my small gray cat is. I sigh: even the hookah industry is a globalized affair. But that doesn’t matter; what’s important is I’m nowhere I expected to be, everything that is happening to me is brand spanking new, and I wouldn’t trade the group I’m with for the world, no matter how impromptu we may be.

I first took French in seventh grade, which is relatively late. I’ve been scared of heights my whole life, but I remember with the most vivid detail my teacher opening our textbook for the first time, pointing out le Tour d’Eiffel and saying you could climb it. I knew right then and there I would, and I did—almost a decade later. That was earlier today. Now, between puffs of blueberry, listening to our blonde friend recount scandalous tales of her Parisian tête-à-têtes, I turn to my left. Through the hazy dimness I see a group of three off in an enclave. What the hell, I’m out for the night—I go make three new friends.

I go and meet the Canadians.

I might as well say right now that the Canadians were the ones who got away; I never did see them again, though it wasn’t for lack of (desperate Facebook-fueled) trying. It was love at first sight. He and his sister were with their friend, visiting Paris for the weekend as a good ‘ole apologizing lumberjack-y ménage à trois. I could never pinpoint what it was that grabbed ahold of my heart so. Perhaps it was a pair of effortlessly blue eyes, a stupidly innocent smile…or something equally romantic, like alcohol…

We spent the rest of the night together, hopping from one bar to the next. It wasn’t until I made the dire mistake of going to the restroom that I lost the Canadians; I returned and they were gone, off into the abyss of baguettes and wine, now just another blur in the swirl of memories that is the weekend. I’m a little depressed, but when we get back to the hostel I’m reminded that my redheaded friend and I are living with even more Canadians, as well as an Argentinian, some New Yorkers, and a couple Dutch, amongst others. All these people coming from all over, all students, all meeting by chance in this apartment that has an incredible view of the sparkling Eiffel Tower…

Paris is so gay.

It’s a privilege, for sure. It’s something my small gray cat will never see. And in the rational bits of my brain I understand this, even though I know it takes time to digest this stuff, possibly even years before I can truly look back with actual clarity and old-timey wisdom and say “I learned so freaking much it’s insane.” I can wait for that, though. I don’t want that kind of clarity just yet.

On the plane back from Paris I’m trying to sort through the romantic haze that was the weekend, and I find it’s almost impossible to get the experience just right in words. I still try, though—it’s definitely a multi-step process, where some things hit you over the head immediately and some things will come with time. I’ve been a lot of places this semester, so: the immediate things? For one, I’ll forever have a spot in my heart for the Canadians. Secondly, there are some seriously old things in this world, and some seriously important things have happened millenniums before I even existed. And if that’s not humbling, I don’t know what is. Thirdly, Pret’s falafel and haloumi wrap is the Chuck Norris of sandwiches. Or maybe the Peter Parker of sandwiches, it’s more unassuming.

The things that are still in the development stage, the second tier of reawakenings and realizations, are more academic in their scope. This world is a changing one, and it is already a different beast than it was, say, fifty years ago. Then, if an American student had shown up in Berlin for purely academic or recreational reasons, he would be lauded because that would be a damned impressive feat, and he would be immediately immersed in a much more distinctive and homogenous culture. Now it’s commonplace—easier, sure—just different. My experience was that “culture shocks” must have become a thing of the past, because the cities are all in some race to an invisible end, and a transnational economy has asserted that it will not tolerate the ones who fall behind.

In other words, competition means a whole lotta Starbucks.

It’s not necessarily a bad thing; it’s just how it is. I wouldn’t change my experiences for the world. I really feel like my traveling appetite has been whetted, but that’s not to say there isn’t more of the world I want to see. From the breathtaking slopes of the Swiss Alps to the earthy taverns of Dublin, we’ve given Europe the double—, triple—, sextuple-take it deserves. Especially for the Canadians.

Soon, though, it’s back to the land of hot dogs and apple pie, sprawling skyscrapers and grassy plains, and dollar bills and Hollywood movies, which is cool—I hear it’s a place people would really love to visit someday.

Travel Writing Competition, Fall 2011

As ever, semesters come to an end, competitions are entered and competitions are won.  Fall 2011's winner has words of wisdom for anyone traveling the world, including bravery in the face of octopus.  Congratulations on winning the travel writing competition, Sara Gardner!  Here's Sara's essay, and if you like her wit and want more of where that came from, she's got a blog full of it: http://a-girl-abroad.blogspot.com/

As I lounged leisurely on the white sand with a cocktail in hand, the rays of the sun warming each of my pores, I pondered the things I had learned since being in Europe, the relationships I’ve gained and the meaning of life.
    …Okay. That’s not exactly true, although at one point I was on a beach with white sand and a balmy sun, however the closest thing to a cocktail would have been the bucket of nuts that a man was trying to peddle to everyone and their mother, and the only thing I was pondering was why ladies slightly past their prime really feel it necessary to sunbathe without a top on. But in all seriousness, I have had some enlightening and wonderful experiences while traveling abroad, and me being the kind and generous person that I am, will share a few of them with you.

1.    RyanAir: A Blessing and A Curse.
The prices of the flights are heavenly; when I saw that I could get a plane to Italy for a mere $24, I practically choked on my own spit. But, what ensues afterwards is like a cruel sitcom. You’re guaranteed to have to travel to one of the obscure London airports (my favorite is Luton… mismatched warehouses in the middle of nowhere? Perfect!) You can be sure that you’ll have to travel at the wee hours of the night when the tube is closed. After navigating the night busses and taking some sort of coach or train, you’ve arrived! False. Now try and make your way to the ticket counter, where you will need to wait with your already printed boarding pass to get a stamp on it and have your passport checked the first of three times, just to be sure. After edging your way through the security line (and being behind incompetent Sally who leaves her belt and five necklaces on going through the scanner) you arrive at the gate! This would be joyous, except for the fact that now everyone will passively aggressively try and inch their way to the front of the gate, in hopes that they will snag that illustrious perfect seat. Even after being on the flight, you’re bombarded with buy this, buy that, get a lotto ticket, pay for the loo, et cetera. But hey, it gets you there and back. And it was $24.

2.    When In Doubt, Gesture It Out.
There were two things I was always guaranteed of when traveling: one, that the country I’m going to will have their own language and two, I wouldn’t be able to speak it. Sadly, I don’t know a lick of any other language besides English… and American English, at that. Usually I can get some sort of a gist of what words are referring to or communicate by pointing and nodding, but when it came to ordering food, well… That’s when things get a bit iffy. For instance, in Spain I asked the waitress for “tap water.” She looked at me as if I had a big, oozing sore festering in the middle of my face. “I do not understand,” she says. I replied, “Water from the faucet? The sink?” I then proceeded to mime turning on a sink. My sore must have been pulsating, because I got more horrified looks of disgust and confusion. Then she made a gagging noise and gaped at me some more. I gave up with my tap water endeavor after this and said “bottle” and made some bottle motions. She looked skeptically at me and walked away. (I did receive a bottle of water, thankfully.)

3.    Just Go With It…
Things don’t always go as planned. Actually, most of the time they don’t go as planned. The only real option is to simply roll with the punches and the quirks of traveling. If someone asks you to hold their baby while they take a picture on top of the Eiffel Tower, just go with it. Hold that baby, and try not to be too sad when they ask for it back. If you’re sitting at a table and two guys who speak little to no English approach you and want to buy you roses, just go with it. You’ll know you’re doing it right when you’re acting so uncomfortable it prompts one of the men who can hardly speak English to ask, “Why can’t you just be normal?” Or when you order something called ‘mixed fish’ on a menu and receive a plate full of octopus tentacles with the suckers still on, just go with it. Pretend like it’s the best octopus tentacles you’ve eaten since last week, and secretly pawn them off on the people who are eating at the table with you because well, let’s face it, octopus tentacles are disgusting.

Sadly – or awesomely! – all of these experiences are my own and completely true. Although I’m not sitting at a beach with a cocktail in my hand and the sun beating down on me, I can’t help but to reflect on how amazing my experiences have been and how truly awkward I have acted in every single one of them. But each place I’ve traveled to and each culture I’ve been exposed to has helped me to grow more as a person and enabled me to gain an understanding of other cultures that I wouldn’t have been able to learn had I not been put in some of the situations that I have been in. It’s been a crazy, wonderful four months in Europe that I’ll never forget. I will also never forget that I’ve eaten an octopus. Ew.

Up North in the Land of Haggis

During the fall 2011 term, many of you will spend several weekends traveling to various continental cities, all with a long history and numerous art and architectural treasures. There are cities and areas of outstanding natural beauty everywhere in continental Europe. And as you will find out, if you don’t already know, there are cheap flights –if timely booked – and even cheaper bus rides, that can get you there promptly and efficiently.

But don’t forget the UK. Unlike my colleagues here, who holidayed in the Low Countries and Scandinavia this summer, I went up north to experience the Scottish highlands and islands. Some of you will be in Edinburgh for the festival in a few weeks time. For the most part Edinburgh is an attractive destination with its volcanic ridge spilling eastward down the Royal Mile past the Canongate – scene of the royal marriage this weekend – culminating in the Palace of Holyrood, scene of the royal wedding reception. The ‘new town’ to the north , begun in the mid-18th century when the ‘old town’ on the volcanic ridge had become an overpopulated slum, is one of the finest examples of neo-classical architecture and town planning in the world. Edinburgh, like Bath, another of our destinations, deserves its title as a UNESCO World Heritage site.

But don’t rest in Edinburgh. The real gem that is Scotland lies further north. Standing atop Arthur’s Seat you can just see the first mountains [bens] that make up the highlands. Venture north to STIRLING, Loch Lomond, Fort William and you begin to see why Scotland has the reputation of being the most beautiful part of the UK. Home to the clans [who were mostly Jacobites, i.e., supporters of the exiled catholic Stuart dynasty], the  Highlands were ‘cleared’ [today we might say ‘ethnically cleansed’] in the 18th century both to diminish the threat from the belligerency of the clans, and because landlords found it much cheaper to turn the land over to sheep. After the Act of Union in 1707, when Scotland surrendered its independence to join with England, and the battle of Culloden in 1746, the London government and its allies legislated to remove the dynastic threat to the Protestant House of Hanover. Thus began the forced removal of highlanders to the British colonies, chiefly America, Canada, and eventually Australia.  Canada with its maritime province of Nova Scotia and its music and language traditions points inexorably back to the mother country. Indeed it can be said that while the USA is indebted to the Protestant Northern Irish, Canada owes a greater debt to Scotland [and, obviously, its ‘auld’ ally against England, France.]

If you go further north to the off-shore islands, you find the roots of Gallic speaking Scotland in the Western Isles and of Scandinavian Scotland in the Orkneys and Shetlands.  I spent 4 days on the Orkneys, famous for remarkable Neolithic sites like Scara Brae and the Tomb of the Eagles, its Stonehenge like stone circles and its strategically vital 20th century naval base at  Scapa Flow where the German High Command scuttled its undamaged imperial fleet in June 1919 instead of allowing it to fall into the hands of the victorious French and English.

Meet the right partner and this could be you one day!

The moral of this blog is ‘go north young people, Scotland won’t let you down.’ But if you are planning to marry an Orkadian, beware the ’blackening’ tradition. Men and women planning on getting married are kidnapped, blackened with treacle [molasses], driven around town in an open flat bed truck, tied to the market cross in front of the cathedral for a suitable length of time, and then thrown into the sea to begin the process of washing off the treacle. Hmm! I’ve got nothing against marriage, but the Orkadians have invented a rather forbidding ‘rite of passage’ to the altar. No doubt, the Orkadians have the following passage in their wedding ceremonies: “What the people of the Orkneys have joined together, no one will separate as the sticky dark treacle will join them together for eternity.”

So go north by all means, but don’t announce your engagement till after you return.

-Bill

Tenterhooks- a True Story

If a person is on tenterhooks, they are in a state of uneasy suspense or painful anxiety.  This originates from the hooks or bent nails that hold cloth stretched on a tenter (thank you, dictionary.com).  On a side note, a tenter is a frame that cloth is stretched on so that it dries evenly.

The reason I bring up tenterhooks is because I was thinking of the excitement of getting ready to come over to London.  I know that you have packing to do, flatmates for find, money to sort out and summer jobs to wrap up, too.  But I remember being in your position.  With all that going on, I just wanted to get on the plane and come over to London!  My anxiety wasn't painful and there wasn't really any uneasy suspense, but I was waiting impatiently for that departure date to arrive.  I was so ready to be in London!

Everything I'm about to relate truly happened.  You can ask my mom.

There are only a few highlights of my own departure and arrival in London as a study abroad student that flash across my memory.  I knew what I wanted to pack, and I had everything laid out in organized piles in my room at home.  Of course I knew that they needed to be in a suitcase to get them over to London, but there they sat in my room until around 2am the morning of my flight (I think I was leaving O'Hare around 10am to connect to my transatlantic red-eye from Newark later that day) when I panicked and chucked my neat piles into my duffel bag and backpack.  I think I spent a lot of time sitting on my duffel, struggling to get it closed, and not a single moment of that night sleeping.  Another memory was my arrival at O'Hare.  My mother came with me to the check-in desk, and while I was waiting I was going through the checklist I had been sent.  I had my acceptance letter to show at the border, but I had completely forgotten to ask my parents to write me a letter of support to say that they would help me financially, if I needed.  So, very quickly, while waiting to check-in, my mom scrawled a note on the back of Bill's big summer quiz, which used to be posted to students in a big pack of papers (only some of the questions have changed in the last decade), to say that she wouldn't let me go broke while abroad.

This next bit now causes me to shudder, since immigration is now a large part of my job.  When I arrived in London I hadn't really slept on the flight and I hadn't slept a wink the night before, so I was perhaps a little loopy from lack of sleep.  One thing I do know, there were two border agents at the desk I approached, the trainer and the trainee.  As a result I received a thorough questioning from the trainer who seemed to be setting an example.  I was baffled when I was asked my mother's maiden name, because she didn't change it when she got married.  Then, more importantly, they asked me how much money I had.  That was a much easier question, knowing the contents of my pockets.  "$5," I said.  "$5?" he asked.  "Yes," I said.  No problem, I hit that one straight out of the park.  He just stared at me.  "Anything else at all?" he asked.  "Nope," I said, still batting 1,000.  "You're telling me that you've just flown over from the USA with an empty bank account and no credit or debit cards?" he asked.  "Oh.  Of course I have those.  I thought you wanted to know how much cash I had on me."  Batting 500.  And I completely forgot to show him the note from my mom (though the state of it would probably just have attested to my disorganization even more).  Batting 0.  He rolled his eyes and stamped my passport, and I entered the UK.  In my defense, I hadn't had much sleep, but I'm not here to make excuses for my moments of delinquency.  I was a bit of a numpty that morning.

Me as a study abroad student.  I'm the one in the middle

The moral of my story is this: no matter how ready you think you are, get some rest and don't panic.  The upside is that I'm able to bring experience to my job. 

-Claire

PS- I'm pretty sure it's not usual to be asked your mother's maiden name at immigration.

Global Citizenship

I've been wracking my brain since last week to think of what the next blog post should be about.  Part of me thinks it should be about something to do with getting ready to come over, but packing, money, housing and the other big topics have already been touched on.  My next thought was to talk about something light and cultural, but I'm a bit stuck there.  Writing about accents and comedy was such good fun that I'm not sure what to follow it with.  Seriously, some of the most fun I have ever had doing research was trying to find comedy clips that helped make my point without being too explicit (explicitness isn't something that separates British and American comedians).  There's also the theme of things happening around the ICLC, but the carpets are in now and I don't think we are getting a kitten any time soon.

My choice is to try Bill's tack and address current events.  It was a strange weekend here in London, that just passed.  Strange isn't the most descriptive word to use, but it covers a lot of bases.  It began with horrors in Norway which then fought for headline space with the death of Amy Winehouse.  Two very different events, both startling for very different reasons.

While abroad we hope that you take a keen interest in world affairs.  The term 'global citizen' is thrown around the study abroad community, though its definition can be difficult to pin down.  Is it a reference to global awareness?  Does it mean that social responsibility is shared globally?  Or is it a term for people who are interested in seeing as much of the world as they can?  Do students automatically become global citizens when they study abroad?  Probably not.  It's just as easy to embrace foreign customs while abroad as it is to cling to the traditions you are used to.  It's a choice people make when they find themselves face to face with a new culture.

Whether your four months abroad leave you wishing for many more months abroad or looking forward to your flight home in December, think about your own global citizenship.  Follow the news, stay aware of your surroundings and if you're traveling in Europe and further, stay as educated as possible about where you are going.  In the last few semesters students have canceled trips to Tunisia and Egypt.  Greece, a popular weekend destination, has been very much in the news because of its ailing economy.  The trips you plan are completely up to your discretion so we hope that you are as responsible as you can be when planning your travels.

Some tips for staying aware:

1. Stay up to date with the BBC.  Because it is not privatized, they make a pretty successful attempt at impartiality.
2. London has free newspapers in the morning, the Metro, and evening, the Evening Standard.  They can be found at most Tube stations and other travel hubs.  Neither one is owned by Rupert Murdoch, so they should still be around when you get here in August.
3. Monday-Thursday mornings, the ICLC buys The Times, The Guardian and The Independent, three of the UK's largest newspapers.  They give fuller coverage of more serious world affairs than the free papers and approach them from different political sides.  The ICLC also subscribes to The Economist which arrives every Friday morning.  All of these publications are kept in the building and available to all of our students.
4. Follow the news at home as well as abroad.  Take note of the differences in the presentation of issues, try to view the USA through an outsider's eyes to gain a better perspective of how you're viewed abroad. 
5. Stay up do date with the US State Department for news and travel warnings.  You may also want to register your travel details with them so that you can obtain help through the embassy more easily in case of emergency. 

Take the opportunity of studying abroad not only to see more of the world, but see how the world sees you.  For some this may be surprising, for others it may be difficult.  We recommend trying to break out of the 'American bubble' while abroad and get to know the local culture and customs.  Drink tea by the gallon and beer by the pint, have fish and chips, go to a movie premier in Leicester Square and make friends with your work colleagues at your work placements.  Read the free papers like the rest of the commuters, have an opinion about university fees and wait with baited breath to find out if Greece drops out of the Euro zone and goes back to the drachma.

-Claire

Be Fearless

It's that time of the semester again.  Suitcases are packed, flats are cleaned and emptied and students trickle out of London.  Also, the semester's travel writing winner was announced at the End of Term Party this past Friday!  Turned into this week's guest blogger, we would like to congratulate Michele Fortier and her fearlessness.

My finger hovered over the “Purchase” button, hesitating as my brain ran through every possible challenge and scenario I might soon encounter if I clicked it.  The possibilities were endless, an entire world of problems could arise, and yet, I knew if I did not do it, I would regret it tremendously.  My finger trembled as I clicked the button; there was no going back now.

I had just purchased a roundtrip ticket to Positano, a small cliff side town on the Amalfi Coast in Southern Italy.  It was the first time I would be traveling alone to a country I had never visited before with a language I could not speak.  On every past trip I had undertaken, I always traveled with the security of my friends, depending on them to obtain maps and decide where to go.  I was always the follower in the group, not the leader.  Suddenly, I was putting myself into a situation where I had no one else to rely on so if anything went wrong, I had to take care of it myself. To say I was terrified would be a huge understatement.

The morning of my departure, I sat in the airport, my heart pounding from nerves and my mind racing on overdrive.  I was as ready as I would ever be.  This was it.  Time to throw myself into the unknown.  “Be Fearless.”  That would be my motto.  I even wrote it out on my hand as a reminder.

I flew into Naples in the early afternoon but I still had to catch two buses before reaching my destination.  If I missed either bus, I could very well end up stranded without any back up plan and no way to reach my hostel.  My preplanning, however, had helped as the entire journey went off without a hitch.  At 7:30pm, I climbed down from the bus in Positano, Italy, just in time to see the last few moments of the sunset. 

After unpacking in the hostel, I sat in the common room eating some delicious Italian pizza wondering “Now what?”  What exactly was I going to do for the next four days?  I had chosen Positano because I was tired of visiting city after city; they had all begun to resemble each other in an undistinguishable mass.  I had chosen this town because I wanted time to rejuvenate myself and avoid crowded streets, time to immerse myself in a culture that was not entirely stifled by modern tourism.  Yet, now that I was here, what exactly was I going to do?

It was at that precise moment when I met Hannah, an Australian girl studying in Leeds, England, who had taken the weekend off to travel through Italy.   As I sat there, eating the last slice of my delicious pizza, she told me of her adventures she had had in Positano.  She told me of the places she had been to and the people she had met.  I was envious of all the exciting things she had done.   I desperately wanted to have adventures like that, but I was unsure of where to start.  Then, she offered me a solution. 

“Hey, I met some Italian guys while I’ve been here who are taking me out for dessert later tonight, care to join?”

My initial thought was to reply with a polite, “Thank you, but no,” as I had always been a cautious girl who never went off with strangers, especially alone in a foreign country.  But for some reason, I couldn’t let those words pass from my lips.  I couldn’t shake the motto I had scribbled on my hand: “Be Fearless.”
Before I could even allow my over-analytical brain a second to consider all the possible outcomes of this evening, I replied, “Sure, I’ll come,” and sealed my fate.

That night was the beginning of a brilliant weekend.  I spent the evening with some locals, had my first sip of the local favorite drink, Limoncello, and tasted four different mouthwatering desserts.  I returned to the hostel that night exhausted and happy, excited to see what the rest of the weekend would hold in store.

I spent the next day by the beach, writing in my journal as I allowed my pale body to soak up the hot Mediterranean sun (a decision I would later regret as I rubbed aloe lotion onto my lobster-red skin).  While growing up, I had always had a deep connection to the ocean, and being here cleared up my mind and made everything beautiful.  The power of the waves lapping at my toes complimented itself perfectly with the peace I finally felt in my mind.  Everything was perfect.

Over the next two days, I became closely acquainted with Positano and all of the beautiful things available in this town.  I walked to and from the beach (approx 800 stairs one way) four times over those two days, much to the dismay of my calves.  I watched the sunset on the beach, explored every part of the town, ate my fill of Gelato and Pizza and met many other travelers staying at the hostel. 

On Saturday night, I sat around a large table on the hostel’s terrace with other travelers and shared drinks and anecdotes.  We laughed about our craziest travel experiences and discussed the differences in our cultures.  I met people from Australia, US, Spain, Italy and Thailand.  They were all so friendly and outgoing; after just one evening, I felt as though we had known each other for years.  We all went dancing by the beach until four in the morning and spent the long walk back to the hostel laughing and sharing stories as the sun came up.  We had become such a close-knit group in such a short time and I silently dreaded Monday morning when I would say my goodbyes. 

That Monday came far sooner than I had hoped and expected, and before I could even wrap my mind around what was happening, I was seated on a bus headed back to Naples Airport.  I watched as Positano faded into the distance, quickly becoming hidden behind the cliff side.  I tried to hold back the sudden tears I could feel welling up in my eyes.

I wanted to stay in this town and hold on to every amazing experience.  I wanted to relive every second and bask in the amazingly liberated feeling that had come with my independence.  I realized how much I had missed on other trips when I had failed to explore, meet people and befriend locals because I was so stuck in my safety net of friends.  This weekend had shown me what amazing things could happen when you just let go of everything holding you back and just dive in, headfirst. 

I suddenly felt empowered by this new realization.  I could do anything and go anywhere; all the strength I needed was inside of me.  On that bus ride back to the airport, I began planning my next trip to Italy.  I would come back to Italy, of that I was certain.  As I glanced out the window at the crystal blue waters of the Amalfi Coast, I was struck with one last lingering thought about this weekend:  I had been Fearless.

The Many Forms of Travel

Travel- what can I say about it?  We all do it.  We travel to work, we travel to study, we travel for pleasure.  Travel to work is the one where we look for patterns.  You see the same people from day to day on your train or bus or in the street.  And when the pattern varies, you notice.  Perhaps so much so that you comment on it, for example, if your train leaves 2 minutes earlier than it is scheduled to leave so that even though you thought you were going to be on time you actually ended up having to wait 20 minutes for the next one, or if your bus is rerouted because the police have blocked off a sizable portion of the Walworth Road due to some undisclosed event.  Traveling to study is pretty obvious.  All our students got on a plane to come to the ICLC.  It's something interesting and different, and, unique compared to the other 2 kinds of travel, it's perhaps a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.  Traveling to study is a springboard for a lot of traveling for pleasure for many of our students, too.  This is the kind where you have to hope that no patterns form and that each place is interesting and different.  I have noticed a few themes in study abroad inspired travel for pleasure.

There is the study abroad student who is determined to go to as many places as possible.  As a result, when their 4 months of study are done, they have also packed in trips to Paris, Dublin, Rome, Prague, Munich, Athens, Barcelona and Amsterdam.  And that's not including break week or trips with the ICLC.  This type of travel requires an enormous amount of energy and a love of waking up early/sleeping in airports.  I commend that dedication!

The next type of student travel is the one to family or friends in Europe.  This often takes students to places which are less tourist driven than the cities previously mentioned.  They might have cousins in Marseilles or friends studying in Marrakesh.  In this type of travel students often get a much more local experience by visiting someone who lives there.  They eat in small restaurants off the main roads and visit markets that they may not have found on their own.  And your hosts may even be your guides to take you to the highest point in Bratislava or introduce you to contemporary Estonian folk music.

Another type of travel that takes students to less obvious destinations is the mission to discover their European roots.  This has taken me to Ireland, France and Germany.  I have seen it take other students to Holland, Denmark, Brittany and Glasgow.  This type of travel can be tricky because it may be focused around a small or little known landmark, such as a house, farm, shop or street.  While finding these particular spots may end up being fruitless (my mother and I traveled all the way to Strasbourg before she admitted that she wasn't sure what her mother's house number had been as a child, though she was pretty sure she might be able to recognize it is she saw it in the row of buildings that all looked the same to me) getting there is usually a story in itself.  What makes this kind of journey even more difficult is not knowing whether the place you are looking for is actually still there or not.  My great-grandfather's family farm had been replaced by a shop that specialized in ceramic tiles.

The other type of student travel is the the UK based journey.  Some students prefer to get to know the ins and outs of London on their weekends or to save money on day trips to places like Brighton, Oxford and Cambridge.  Some students have family in the UK who they spend the day with and some use these day trips to case out possible graduate schools. 

I think most students fall under more than one of these categories at one stage or another during their stay over here.  Just to make it more interesting, the ICLC has competitions for break week.  There is a competition to bring back the tackiest souvenir and the postcard competition in which the card must be written in the native language of the country it is from and posted into the ICLC.  There are also the competitions that are judged at the end of the semester for photography and travel writing.  More details will be posted about the competitions.  Good luck and happy travels!

-Claire (not Elsie, she's away in Finland)

Full Circle

This week we have a post by a guest blogger.  As I mentioned in an earlier post, the ICLC's Travel Writing Competition carries one of our most sought after prizes, a £50 note.  The other honor bestowed is the publication of the winning essay.  This term's winner is a student who acts, blogs, collects change and, if you're keeping track, is offended by backpacks on wheels.  Congratulations Max Lorn-Kraus!
 
Forty-four empty wine bottles sit in my kitchen. Seventeen empty liquor bottles have a place above the stairs. Countless bags of trash and recycling have been put out for collection and even more one-pence coins collect in a small Thai take-away container, the skimpy plastic buckling under the weight.

I mention this not to flaunt my flat’s drinking habits or our consideration for the environment. I don’t bring up my hoard of change to brag about the few dollars I’ll receive when I finally change the currency back. Instead, these achievements represent my four months spent in London, measured in something other than minutes, hours, and days. Time itself is easy to measure. Experience is not. And though it seems later rather than sooner to realize it, I think the only possible reflection on my time overseas must be measured in experience. But when one hundred and five days becomes twenty-nine shows, twenty-two thousand three hundred and thirty-eight words written for a single class, forty-five Facebook status updates, five Tweets, and four countries, the outcome is inevitably, in the words of a friend, a “Great Collision.” The expectations I had for my time in London meet my actual day-to-day life. Fantasy battles with reality. Like holding a magnifying glass high above a book, then slowly bringing it down, the words are, at first, indistinguishable from one another. I know what it may say, what I want it to say, but not what it really does say. But when, in an instant, the magnifying glass is at exactly the right height above the page, the letters snap into focus, the words become clear, and the true value of each experience is found. 

It’s easy to look back and say I wish I had done more. More markets, more food, more exploration into parts of London rarely seen. And not only is it easy, it’s tempting. Like everything that falls into a routine, my time in London has become life. And what is more fun to complain about than life? Taking the Tube to class, I silently swear at tourists in my way. £2.50 for orange juice? Wasn’t it on sale at Tesco for £2.25? I want to visit the National Portrait Gallery or take a trip to Windsor Castle, but I have a paper due and there’s always next weekend. So concerned with what I had to do, I seldom took stock of what I wanted to do. What I can’t do when I touch down in the United States. It was only when a friend studying in Italy visited for a few days that I finally realized that life had simply been going by.

Sitting at dinner, going over where my friend had been and what she had seen of the city, the idea dawned on me to take her to my favorite view in the whole of London. Twenty minutes later we were on the rail of Southbank, staring up at Parliament, the reflection of the Eye distorted by the gentle waves of the Thames. It occurred to me, in one of those flashes of white light, that that specific image simply does not exist anywhere else on earth. Though it seems obvious now, walking home that night was like walking through a brand new city. Passing by shops I had gone by earlier that day, words and colors exploded around me. The accents I had grown so accustomed to seemed almost comical and the notes in my wallet were once again Monopoly money, oddly shaped and seemingly impossible. The wonder of being in another country suddenly took hold and I realized everything I had done so far was enough; I just hadn’t taken the time to appreciate it. The magnifying glass was at the right height and everything was clear. Every show, every word, every Facebook status and Tweet was done out of the United States. Out of my norm. This reality alone made the experiences special, and while doing more would add to the numbers, nothing could take what I had done away.

When I get back home, I will have countless stories to tell, of absurd Tube rides, memorable encounters, and cautionary tales. I will be filled with the knowledge that beauty exists in the sloping architecture of an eight hundred year old church and serenity can be found on a hauntingly empty train. My friends will sigh when I begin sentences with, “This one time in London” and I will show them pictures proudly, sure of the fact that my time here means something to someone else, even if deep down I know it does not. I came here to see things I had never seen before. To try things I had never dared to try. And while I could have gone further, while one can always go further, I went as far as I needed to go. Full circle. I arrived with a sense of wonderment, assimilated proudly, and will leave knowing more than I did, but still open to it all.