Venice, You Lovely Thing

The view from the train station

So I’ve run away to Italy. There really isn’t a better place to run away to, with all the little streets to get lost in and the Italian to attempt and the pasta to consume. My first stop was Venice.

Venice is straight out of a postcard – of the hundreds of postcards at the hundreds of stalls that line the colorful, narrow streets. It’s perhaps the most visually picturesque city I’ve ever been too; every bridge over every canal is a photo op. When I arrived on Monday evening I was too tired to attempt sightseeing. It had only just hit me that I was in Turkey, let alone Italy. My hostelmates were from faraway places: South Africa, Japan, Peru, and Brazil. I relished chatting with the Peruvian couple in Spanish. My Spanish was halting and rusty but workable, and oh my goodness how I miss it.

On Tuesday morning I took waterbus to Murano. Just the idea of catching a boat like one would a bus is brilliant. Murano is an island outside Venice specializing in glassblowing. There, they create glass masterpieces the same way they have for centuries, and I got to witness a little bit of the process in an open studio with a furnace. The entire land mass is devoted to glass: celebrating it and, of course, selling it. There were some really beautiful pieces so far outside my price range that I was content to window shop.

Murano

 

 

 

 

 

 

Glassblowing

 

 

It was still early in the day, so I took another waterbus to Burano, a neighboring fishing island that makes lace. Burano is ludicrous in its loveliness. Every building in unabashedly vibrant and I couldn’t stop snapping photos. I ate a big spinach and ricotta pizza for lunch and listened to the older British couples around me remark on the presence of fish and chips on the menu.

 

 

Burano

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the way back to Venice I met a nice middle-aged couple from Tampa Bay, and we found our way to Rialto Bridge together before parting ways. All along the top of the bridge are little souvenir shops and fabulously expensive jewelry stores. I pushed through the throngs and edged down streets that would be labeled as alleys in Boston to emerge upon Piazza di San Marco (St. Mark’s Square). It is large and impressive, bordered by museums and the grand Basilica di San Marco. I had to save that for another day, as I was refused entry for wearing shorts. I checked out Museo Correr, a museum with plenty of royal artifacts and paintings of Italian landscapes. Unfortunately the library and big parts of the museum were closed, and I had to pass on the new Gustav Klimt exhibit (which cost an additional 11 euro). I took a stroll along the waterfront before heading back to the hostel. It is almost impossible to navigate Venice. It’s a small city, but it’s the most confusing one I’ve ever encountered. With all of the canals and curving streets, everything looks the same. Lacking in breadcrumbs or magic string, I used the signs pointing to the train station to find my way home.

Rialto Bridge

 

 

St. Mark’s Square

 

 

 

 

Basilica di San Marco

On Wednesday I met up with a BU friend studying half an hour away in Padua. It was a delight to rendezvous with her in Italy after being apart for a school year. We visited the Palazzo Ducale, or the Doge’s Palace. Each room was bigger and more resplendent than the one before. The brocade-like ceilings bulged with the weight of gold embellishment and rich frescoes. One stunning, imposing room we entered was labeled as the largest room in Europe. All I could think was what a great location it would be for a huge costume party.

Palazzo Ducale

 

 

At the market

Now properly attired, we ducked into the Basilica. As cliché as it sounds, it took my breath away. Every surface was gilded and luminescent, as though the whole interior wore a halo. I could have sat in there for hours, drinking it in. Hunger drove us to a pizzeria. We devoured large, greasy pizzas before my friend caught her train back in time for class. I went off in search of the Gallerie d’ell Accademia, which proved very difficult to find. As it was mostly medieval art (important but not my period), it didn’t take long to see. Afterwards, I walked along the Zattere canal bank, where attractive art students flirted casually and Italians drank wine as sun set. I popped into a church, the Chiesa di Santa Maria del Rosario, and then people-watched with banana and amaretto flavored gelato. Ambling homeward through the Dorsoduro neighborhood was calming. There were almost no tourists at all, and the breeze smelled of flowers and summertime.

I was happy to escape the hordes. Venice was completely dominated by tourists, and though I obviously count myself as one of them, it still bothered me. I couldn’t imagine living there, and in fact, few Italians do. I was unable to find anything serving real life in the city, like a hardware store or a supermarket. Every shop catered to tourists. Some were quite special though, like the antique bookstore and a store with pressed and stamped handmade paper. Venice made me realize that take for granted my cities at home. Boston and DC both attract plenty of tourists, but nothing to the scale of Venice.

 

 

On my last day I checked out the Jewish quarter (as is my habit). The world’s first Ghetto, it was home to Venice’s Jewish community, fleeing the Inquisition across Europe, from the 16^th through the 18^th centuries. The area is full of little bakeries, kosher restaurants, and shops of prints and paintings. I ate a quick snack then I killed time in a pretty square near my hostel, the Campo San Giacomo Da L’orio. I sat back with the colorful concoction I’d seen on tables all over Venice. The Spritz is a drink that comes with either Aperol or Campari, in bright orange or red. I had the Aperol, which was sweet, a little bitter, and garnished with an orange slice and an olive. The Spritz reminded me of the sugary juice I drank as a kid; it was refreshing and delicious.

A Spritz

 

 

I grabbed my heavy bag and crossed over the Grand Canal for the train station. I drifted into sleep watching the green countryside speed by. Already I was loving traveling solo, and doing so by train felt mature and romantic. Florence awaited me.

Kalkan and Istanbul

The view from my balcony

It has only been eleven days since the semester ended, but I’m already having trouble remembering the sharp, wet cold of my last day in London. I skipped spring altogether, luxuriating in the long days of sunshine and the ensuing sunburns. Last Saturday four friends and I made it to balmy Kalkan, Turkey in one piece. We’d booked the trip so long ago it felt strange to be pulling up in front of a pastel colored house that was all ours for a week.

Kalkan was lovely in quite a few ways. The stress of work, school, and leaving London melted away in the Mediterranean heat. It was one of those glorious times when I had literally no obligations or work at all. I actually read for pleasure, burning through The Marriage Plot, by Jeffrey Eugenides, and Cat’s Eye, by Margaret Atwood, on the lounge chair. My skin, unused to Vitamin E, blossomed patches of new freckles. The trip was also a salute to my 13-year-old self, who traveled to Istanbul and the coast of the Sea of Marmara with friends in the summer after 8^th grade. On my first go round I drank peach juice by the carton, took a liking to the Turkish flag, mumbled a few Turkish words, and kept a look out for dolphins. Really, nothing has changed.

One day all of us went for a boat trip to Kokova, which offered snorkeling, a “sunken city” beneath the waves, lunch, and some good swimming spots. It was a wonderfully hot day and we made fast friends with our guide, who we arranged other trips with. The ruins were a bit difficult to see above the water (swimming there was prohibited) but it felt vaguely cultural so we were satisfied. At various stops we’d groggily lift our heads from sleep or books on the deck of the boat to plunge into frigid water. The shock left me gasping for a few seconds but the temperature was refreshing and the water my favorite shade of turquoise. We took a few plunges from the railing on the top deck of the boat – a good long drop with a satisfying, thumping splash.

An excursion to Kokova

Remains from the sunken city, above and below

We spent our time navigating the steep streets and perusing knickknacks. Kalkan wasn’t actually as foreign as it felt. Older British couples, the trickle of holiday goers before the deluge, flanked us at restaurants and in shops. The lack of Internet was a blessing as well. It was wonderful to feel unconnected for once. On Thursday, the local market offered Turkish delight (which is harder than you think to find in the States), colorful spices, produce, souvenirs, and stalls upon stalls of knockoffs. On our last night we ate a delicious meal on a restaurant terrace overlooking the bay before popping into a nearby café for WiFi and dessert. We tasted the best baklava ever, syrupy sweet and nutty, which was fitting, for baklava originated in Turkey.

Bowls at the weekly market in Kalkan

On Saturday four of us went on to Istanbul. Our hostel sat right near the main sites around Sultanahmet. For the day and a half I was there, we mostly stuck around that area. We were almost too tired to go out on Saturday night, but the hostel’s pub crawl promised a shuttle and free entry to a few bars in the Taxim area. On the terrace we joined a huge group of Australians (with a few Americans, Canadians, and a Kiwi thrown in). Somehow, under the boisterous guidance of our hostel guides, we pushed our way from place to place. At midnight the streets were as crowded as those in Madrid, with hordes of Turkish twenty-somethings smoking and chatting outside crowded venues. At every place I liked the music and the style and the smiling DJs bobbing their heads.

The next day my friend Dani and I were sightseeing ninjas, hitting the mosques in the morning with a new friend from Kentucky. First we visited the Blue Mosque, which was stunning in its domed height, intricate designs, and blue hues. Spain had dulled the impact of a cathedral for me, but there’s something pure and refreshing about a mosque. As a language-inclined person and someone who took calligraphy classes way back when, I’m attracted to how a mosque incorporates lettering into the design itself. Clean of religious iconography, the Blue Mosque infuses swooping lines of Arabic calligraphy with delicate floral motifs and rich colors. The prayer and praise takes on a new level of beauty in golden writing.

Dani and I in front of the Blue Mosque

Looking up in the Blue Mosque

Arabic calligraphy

Up next was the Ayasofya (or Hagia Sophia in Greek), which I remembered from my first visit to Istanbul and my AP World History textbook. The current building, an immense, domed structure, was constructed as a Byzantine cathedral in 532 AD. It operated as a Roman Catholic cathedral from 1261 until the Ottoman Turks converted it into a mosque in 1453 after conquering Constantinople. They added Islamic architectural features like the mihrab, minbar, and four minarets. Now a museum, the Ayasofya is enormous, breathtaking, and tranquil all at once. Only a few peeling, cracked symbols of its Christian past remain. The supporting pillars for the domes are concealed within the walls, giving the interior an appearance of weightlessness. It’s the kind of place you wander through with your eyes gazing perpetually upward, which is the point I imagine. What a perfect confluence of religion, history, and architecture.

The Aya Sofia

Our stomachs rumbling, we connected with some more friends back at the hostel, including another post-grad American currently teaching English in Georgia (a country about which I went from knowing nothing to everything), and a New Zealander living in Edinborough. We wound down streets filled with shops, many of which seemed left over from the 80’s and others displaying some truly creepy mannequin children. We finally found the restaurant listed in a pilfered Lonely Planet guidebook – a beautiful, high-ceilinged place with rather simple Turkish food. Afterwards we checked out the Spice Market brimming with piles of spices, dried fruits, and foreign little pastries. Us girls only responded to vendors’ calls for attention when free samples of Turkish delight were involved.

At the Spice Market

Turkish Delight

Topkapi Palace was our last sightseeing stop. We ambled through cobalt rooms, lingered on ornate weaponry, peered at diamond-encrusted jewelry, and admired a decadent library. After walking in the unrelenting sun all day all we wanted was a beer by the Bosphorous, the river dividing Istanbul and Turkey into Europe and Asia. I didn’t have the time to set foot in Asia, but I figure that when I do, I’ll make a trip of it. That night we ate a cheap and filling dinner. My search for authentic Turkish food proved very difficult this trip, as I was staying in such touristy areas. Nevertheless, I adore any version of Turkish food, be it smoky kofte, shish kebabs, or pizza-like, boat-shaped pide.

Topkapi Palace

The library

On Monday morning we popped into the Grand Bazaar, a monster of an indoor market selling everything from Turkish tea to elegant chessboards to mandolins. Of course many stalls hawk the same things, like evil eye trinkets, hookah pipes, and patterned ceramic dishes. Dani and I had to grab late afternoon flights, so we lugged our impossibly heavy bags on the tram to the airport. She went through security while I sought out the UPS office in the Yeni Kargo terminal, which was parking lot-oceans away from International Departures. I arrived at what was clearly a loading area to find a tiny UPS office lacking in English speakers. Luckily, a helpful man who noticed my distress spent the next half an hour translating for me, as I tried to ship 20 pounds of extraneous clothes and belongings to DC. My large backpacking bag would be too heavy to carry around for the next two weeks. The office had no boxes, so the kind woman from UPS and another man started constructing a smaller box out of a large, used one. The Exacto knife cutting and taping process was more than a little ridiculous. Things were less funny when the credit card I planned on using didn’t go through and my flight was set to board in less than an hour. Finally, I was saying a rushed “thank-you-very-much!” and running through security. I arrived at my gate just as my flight was boarding.

I was sweaty and flustered but on a flight to Venice. Turkish Airlines compensated for our half hour delay on the tarmac with a better than average in-flight meal. I’ll confess to a certain fondness for airplane food. The little compartments are just so orderly and it feels like you’re eating for free. With my little bottle of Turkish white wine and my neat tray of food I was on my way to Italy. And so there I was, and so here I am.

One of the many cats in Istanbul

The Grand Bazaar

London, I Love You

My lovely neighborhood of South Kensington

It’s the last day of my semester in London. Perhaps it’s the gray, rainy weather, but I feel calm at the moment. In the past two weeks an undercurrent of panic has jostled my daily proceedings. The semester passed at such an exhilarating, breakneck speed, and I’m catching myself on the day of departure, not wanting to leave. It’s hard for me to get a handle on the experience because I feel I’m still in the thick of it. What I have are the places I’m tied to, things that caught my eye and settled into my memory, people who I know from a gesture or an offhand comment. So I’ll post a few vignettes and memories still in formation.

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Walking along the Thames River with no particular place to be, sucking down cold gulps of city air and watching the buzz along the famous waterway. There were always these brisk, windy days with the sun shoving to emerge, momentarily, from the clouds. And when it did, it was glorious.

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Somerset House

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I adore Westminster in all its tourist-clogged glory. The grand, gothic Houses of Parliament hugging a comforting Big Ben. Shopping on Carnaby Street, stopping in for a treat at a patisserie, entering the pulse of the West End, with its glittering neon signs for the newest show you have to see. I was rereading Mrs Dalloway at the time I was retracing Clarissa’s steps: Regent Street, Bond Street, St. James’ Park, Oxford Circus, Piccadilly… these areas are all old money and a contented sense of tradition.

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At Borough Market you could eat lunch on the samples alone. Every time I visit the bustling, sprawling food market I get full from the little bites of creamy goat cheese, dark chocolate brownie, mushroom pate, and bread dipped in fresh olive oil. Borough is hands down my favorite market in the world. For a foodie, its heaven. The place sells everything from parisian macarons to ostrich steaks. Even on a rainy day like yesterday, there were still crowds shopping and lunching. It’s just a wonderful place.

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After hours of attempts at dressing the part (we struggled so hard to look London Cool), my friends and I would hop on the Tube for the 30-45 minutes it took to get to East London from South Kensington. It was always worth it though. The grey, industrial streets hold marvellous clubs in old warehouses. Maybe the best part of every night in Shoreditch or Elephant & Castle was the exact moment we walked onto the dance floor, and the impossibly deep, heavy drum and base would flood our senses like an elixir. London loves its DJs, eschews Top 40, names genres like ‘bashment’ and ‘trip hop’ and ‘breakbeat’. Everyone’s just there to dance. There’s also cabaret, rockabilly parties, raves in secret locations, burlesque, speakeasies (dozens of varieties), themed club nights, live music, 80’s power ballad nights, members only bars – the list goes on.  Clearly the Brits have a brilliant sense of fun.

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The Kyoto Garden in Holland Park (one of my favorites)

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London has the most international, exciting food scene I’ve ever encountered. If you want to try Eritrean or Nigerian, Afghan or Sri Lankan, Malaysian or Brazilian, Australian or Hungarian, it’s all here. I’ve had trouble finding a restaurant in Boston that’s Greek without ‘–American’ glued to the end. Here, I’ve had some mouth-watering Moroccan, Thai, and the most delicious Indian ever. London has a great assortment of upscale restaurants, and I’ve been lucky enough to review a few of them, but its real gift is the inexpensive, ethnic delights. I can’t count how many times I’ve eaten from Star Kebab, our nearby haunt that’s open until 5 am. All I can say is they know us very well there, and they’re practically assembling my Chicken Tikka as I walk through the door.

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Portobello Road in Notting Hill

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There have been times amidst a swirl of foreign languages when I’ve forgotten that I’m in England. Around me on the Tube I’ll hear Portuguese, Italian, Russian, and something that sounds roughly like Gaelic. A third of London’s population is foreign-born, and that’s really cool. Despite the fact that it makes tracking down an actual English-speaking Londoner for directions extremely difficult, I love how international this city is. I almost blend in because I don’t have a British accent; I’m a Londoner because I come from a different country.

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Camden Market, housed in an old horse hospital

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I’ve been bad at posting, but there really is just too much to say. Of course, there’s always more to say. I wish I could stay in London for the summer, for a year, forever. But for now I’ve got three weeks of travel ahead of me and summer waiting in Boston.

On Portobello Road

The Pains and Pleasures of Planning

The first time I bought my own plane ticket was in June after my freshman year at BU. My friend Sarah and I had been sitting on the comfy white expanse of my bed for hours, sharing stories about our shiny new lives at university. She regaled me with tales of Southern California, where everyone was fun, happy, and perfectly tan all year. I resolved to visit her, so I took out my laptop and booked a flight, just like that. How exciting to spend my own money on my own trip, sans parental advice or approval! I didn’t think much of the fact that the weekend I chose was close to final exams, only that Boston would be freezing in December and I’d love to see some palm trees. $300 and six months later, I was developing terrible strep throat through a series of mishaps on the left coast, only to return to a frenzied week of schoolwork at BU before the crush of finals. It was a good trip, but it was definitely a learning experience.

Recently I’ve been thinking not about travel, but about all the work and reward involved in planning it. Planning a trip can be exhilarating or miserable, arduous or fun – or all of the above. My other friends studying abroad relate their horror stories; how a strike in Madrid derailed the first half of spring break or a stolen wallet ruined everything. There’s only so much you can plan for. Being kind of Type A, I try to plan for it all. It’s really about striking a balance between spontaneity and structure. A weekend jaunt to Valencia booked the day before proved a great decision, while a list of Time Out-recommended restaurants is always safe bet.

I’m currently in the throes of planning two weeks of solo travel in May. Until yesterday, only the first leg of my post-London journey was booked (my friends and I will be staying in a villa on the coast of Turkey for a week before a few days in Istanbul). Weeks passed and I didn’t have the rest figured out. I couldn’t let myself go back to the States too early, so I gave myself May to do with as I pleased. I was all about organic farming through WWOOF, but host farms in Italy weren’t responding to my emails. It was getting late and I was getting stressed, so yesterday I booked flights.

The first step is to just buy the tickets; then you’ll have to go. Like putting on your gym clothes and sneakers, you are now obligated to follow through with the idea (however intimidating it may be). You’ll spend the whole night hunched over your computer in bed, perusing Kayak for inexpensive flights. You’re used to the process by now, but it doesn’t get less frustrating when a price jumps £50 overnight or the only airport at which a flight lands is way outside the city.

You sit in the same position for hours, ignoring the impending cramp. The power chords of Jimi Hendrix resonate over iTunes shuffle, then the delicate vocal harmonies of Grizzly Bear. You’re overheated and tired but excited. You’re going to Italy and Belgium! By 3:30 am you’ve created the most gorgeous, detailed travel itinerary of your life, with every transportation cost accounted for and helpful arrows pointing to “London –> Kalkan –> Istanbul –> Venice –> Florence –> Cinque Terre –> Milan –> Brussels –> London –> DC”. You’re 20 and you’ve lived abroad for a year, but you still feel empowered every time you book a flight and plan a trip. It’s intoxicating, the feeling you can go anywhere you want and do whatever you like once you get there. You’ve got x money and x time and you’re invincible. Go.

Rome

Italy has always topped my ever-expanding list of countries to visit. It’s the Mecca for devout food lovers like myself. Carbs happen to be a serious weakness for me. It doesn’t hurt that the men are handsome and well dressed or that it’s a good deal sunnier than London. So Rome seemed like a good choice for Easter break.

After a Friday morning flight (with a layover in Milan) that felt like the whole day, I touched down on Italian soil. I could see the sun and feel its heat; it was marvellous. I met up with my friends, who are currently studying in Madrid, and we ate a late lunch of pizza at a nearby restaurant. The prices were very cheap in comparison to London (though everything is). They’d had a string of very bad luck during their previous week and a half in Italy thus far, so I let them rest while I explored a bit.

Rome is delightfully walk-able. There’s no need to worry about spending half the day riding the tube. Two guidebooks, a map, and my camera Penelope in hand, I sauntered out into the warm day. Our hostel, which was more like a hotel, sat a little outside the city centre, so it was a solid walk to the sites I had in mind. I stopped for sustenance in the form of chocolate and tiramisu gelato at a recommended pastry shop. I could tell communication was going to be difficult. I always arm myself with a few basic phrases in the language of the country I’m travelling in, but Italian is just similar enough to Spanish that I had to keep myself from falling back into Castellano. I soaked up the late afternoon sun and ambled through an outdoor shop selling old, broken stone statues and a large open circle of buildings called the Piazza della Republica. Once I made it to the Spanish Steps, I paced the edge of a Spanish tour group and eavesdropped on the guide. I had a great view of the streets below filled with the masses I would join on my way to Trevi Fountain. There are few historical European sites that truly take my breath away anymore. It’s a symptom of cathedral/palace/ruin overload this past year. Trevi Fountain, however, did just that. It’s magnificent. The whole structure just screams “Rome!” I elbowed through for photos then made my way through the winding, confusing streets with my map practically glued to my face. Rejoined with my travelling comrades, dinner was more pizza before heading out on the town for the evening.

 

View from the Spanish Steps

 

The Spanish Steps

 

 

Trevi Fountain

 

Saturday morning found us devouring a cheap breakfast before exploring. We wandered to the Trastevere neighbourhood, bordered by the Tiber River. This was my favourite part of the city. A midday lull fell over the narrow cobblestone streets. Burnt orange and salmon coloured buildings floated in curtains of ivy and wisteria. It seemed almost like Valencia, and all at once I fell into September memories of warm, golden Spain. I watched a cantankerous orange cat hunched on a car yawn and young Italians flirt and promenade in the piazzas. I insisted we go to a guidebook-recommended restaurant. So we ate Neapolitan-style pizza at Dar Poeta, in a room that seemed to be designated for American tourists. It was so, so delicious though. I ordered tomato bruschetta then a “Superbufala” pizza topped with artichoke hearts, soft milk cheese, and bufala mozzarella. We savoured every bite slowly, knowing we wouldn’t eat pizza this good for some time. Full and content, we ambled to Campo de Fiori, which was hosting a weekend market. Crowded stalls displayed packages of pastel-coloured pasta, buckets of bright flowers, fine olive oil, and glass trinkets. I sampled a bit of “strong chardonnay grappa” from one vendor, and tried to keep from wincing as it went down. Oh, the fun surprises of a market.

Street art in Trastevere

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Superbufala

 

The market in Campo de Fiore

 

 

Up next was Piazza Navona: huge, open, and home to fountains of writhing herculean men and animals. We drank rosé, listened to the street performers, and people-watched. The best people watching takes place in plazas (something I miss about Spain), where you can pretend you’re looking at the monuments or just throw on a pair of sunglasses. We took the city at a leisurely Italian pace. My friend Kate, Saturday’s Map Girl, would say, “Hey guys, this is an important building.” We’d stand there, look it up and down, nod our heads, and move on. In Rome, there are simply too many historical buildings of note to keep track of them all. Suddenly we came upon the Pantheon and the accompanying horde of tourists. It was grand and hallowed; the only (non-electric) source of light is the circular opening at the top of the dome, which brought worshippers closer to the gods. We continued walking through the old streets and stopped to stare at a gleaming white building crowned with chariot statues and flags –the Monumento a Vittorio Emanuele I. But we were on a mission to find what my guidebook deemed “the best gelato in Rome” at Il Gelato di San Crispino. Caramel and dark chocolate in hand, the gelato and pizza adventure didn’t end there. I bet you can guess what we ate for dinner.

Piazza Navona

 

Musicians in Piazza Navona

 

 

 

The Pantheon

 

 

 

Monumento a Vittorio Emanuele I

 

On Sunday we bypassed the Colosseum’s two-hour wait and strolled through a market near the Tiber River. It reminded me strongly of El Rastro in Madrid: bags, knickknacks, jewellery, and plenty of cheap, random junk. After what felt like hours of browsing and walking in the sun, we melted into patio seats at a bustling, inexpensive restaurant. All I wanted was spaghetti and white wine, and isn’t it wonderful when you can perfectly satisfy a craving? We made it back to the Roman Forum, a large complex of gardens and ruins of ancient government buildings next to the Colosseum. A combined ticket bought us entry to both. We walked right in and checked out the huddles of broken stone sprouting flowers, beheaded statues of military heroes, and names upon Roman names we’d never remember. The Forum was one of the greatest meeting places in the world and served as a place to gather, hold elections and speeches, and various other commercial affairs. For me, it was nice to just be outside, with friends, doing touristy things. By 4:30 there was no line outside the Colosseum. Feeling triumphant that our plan worked, we did the circular loop of the structure while reading about the hellish violence that went on inside the pit. Inside it’s rather smaller than you expect it to be. I suppose I need to finally sit down and watch “Gladiator.” Dinner was tasty gnocchi in a savoury tomato sauce at a nearby restaurant. My friends and I had a tough time communicating with the waiter and an even tougher time avoiding Spanish. This trip just made me want to go to another country where I actually knew the language.

 

View from the Roman Forum

 

 

 

 

 

Inside the Colosseum

Monday was a bit lazy. We’d misjudged our individual flight times, but by the time we looked them up it was too late to hit the Vatican. I was not pleased about missing out on the Sistine Chapel, but I see it as an excuse to pop into Rome the next time I’m in Italy, which may be sooner than I thought. We spent a long time on the terrace of our hostel, steeping in hot sunshine. All I wanted was a little colour so I wouldn’t look so ghostly pale anymore. Instead I received a few more freckles and a sunburn. After my friends left for their (earlier) flight, I walked to a big park brimming with skateboarders and couples lying entwined on the grass. Inside was the Giardini Piazza Vittorio, ruins of an old estate. Further along were the Colle Opio and Domus Aurea, green areas with more ruins near the Colosseum. I stumbled upon the Basilica di San Pietro in Vincoli, a beautiful church and home to an Art History 112 find – Michelangelo’s statue of Moses, which forms part of the tomb of Pope Julius II.

Inside the Basilica di San Pietro in Vincoli

 

 

Michelangelo's statue of Moses

As I left, I realized I’d be late for the express train to Fiumicino airport, so I took a packed metro to my hostel, grabbed my bag, and booked it to the station. After a long wait in customs at Heathrow, three Tubes, and a cab I sunk into bed at 1 am. Rome, you are lovely, but will hopefully be just a starter act for more Italy in May.

Escape to the Country: Bath and Avebury

I self identify as a city girl. Long ago I abandoned my childhood plan of living in a creaky old house in the windswept countryside with a horse named (what else?) Shadow. I went off to school in the “big” city of Boston then added two more cities to my collection.

However, once and a while, urbanity can grate on me. I’ll sweat with my sardine friends on a crowded Tube, I’ll choke on a smog of cigarette smoke in Soho, and oh my god how did I spend that much money in one week?! The English countryside has a magical pull – quaint, lush, and friendly. So on Saturday, some friends and I boarded a bus to Bath with other BU students.

A Cathedral in Bath

Roughly two hours later, I sleepily looked out the window as we pulled into Bath. The town is the site of ancient Roman baths formed from hot springs in 43 AD. The waters were thought to have healing properties. Our first move was to check out the bath complex. Statues overlooked an open pool of water bordered by columns known as The Great Bath. The milky green water seethed slightly and was hot to the touch. (We chose to disobey the sign warning us not to stick our hands in.) We walked through the old stone building to check out now-empty, rocky basins and archaeological remains of statues, coins, and figurines. Eager to enjoy the rare sunshine, we breezed through to the end of the museum.

The Great Bath

That day was the UK’s warmest yet this year. The sun is such a welcome, unique pleasure in this country. I don’t take it for granted as I did in Madrid. A pretty park bursting with flowers beckoned. So, we picked up provisions at an indoor market, where I couldn’t resist buying a few cheap novels at a bookstall. Everything was wonderfully inexpensive. A samosa and my first Cornish pasty (delicious) made the perfect picnic. It was heaven to lie on the grass with my pale limbs outstretched, feel the sun, and draw in the pure, fresh air. We spent the next hour walking through the town and peeking through the windows of colourful shops that reeked of small town cuteness. Stumbling upon a little chocolate festival, we happily munched on samples of lavender-infused dark chocolate.  For the bus ride to Avebury we bought creamy milkshakes, a key part of any road trip.

The village of Avebury sits beside a Neolithic henge monument composed of the largest stone circle in Europe, created around 2600 BC. Our guide told us that it’s still used as a religious site by contemporary pagans. Prehistoric and ritualistic purposes aside, the circles make for a nice stroll. A sunlit expanse of verdant fields stretched out before me, dotted with trees and the odd farmhouse. I felt compelled to abandon my young adult plan of living in the city forever. Eventually we reluctantly boarded the bus home and made our way back to London.

Part of a stone circle in Avebury

Perhaps one day, when I’m fabulously wealthy like all writers are, I’ll have a lovely flat in Notting Hill and a summer house somewhere in the country. I’ll throw in a couple of horses too.

Prague and Berlin

The end of exams called for escape. After studying then writing essays for almost three straight days, I joyfully fled the country. My friend Ande and I flew to Prague Wednesday morning eager for Pilsner beer and exploration. Our hostel was fantastic – situated at the end of Charles Bridge in the Malá Strana neighborhood. We were greeted with enthusiastic advice and free espresso. We strolled through small streets bordered by lovely old buildings topped with gold stars and copper roofs. A quick snack turned into a late lunch at a nearby café. Ande bought the most exquisite hazelnut hot chocolate: thick, melted dark chocolate with cream and garnished with chopped hazelnuts. Then we climbed the tall hill to Prague Castle and gazed at the red-roofed city. The complex itself housed a cathedral and government buildings surrounded by patios. I felt so relaxed and happy to be traveling again. Though I’d brought guidebooks and plenty of Internet research, I took pleasure in doing things leisurely and spontaneously. We had an easy evening at two casual, smoke-filled bars. Our favorite was a cavern-like jazz bar that was covered with graffiti and exuded a cool Czech vibe.

Church of Saint Nicholas in Malá Strana

The next morning we popped over to Bohemia Bagel, where I had a sausage, egg, and cheese bagel sandwich to die for (and I have high standards). We contemplated the guidebook over coffee, eventually heading over to the nearby John Lennon Wall. In the late 1980’s Czech youth oppressed by the Communist regime found Lennon’s message of peace inspiring. They coated a wall with paintings, messages, and grievances in graffiti; the secret police would whitewash it only to find it covered anew. Now the wall is imbued with decades of art and writing: Beatles lyrics, signatures, philosophical quotes, and shout outs layer each other colorfully. Ande and I loved what it stood for and the fact that as travelers we could join in the wall’s community (I added a Jack Kerouac quote). It felt like scrawling a piece of history.

Bohemia Bagel serves up my favorite.

Part of the John Lennon Wall

"In My Life" by John Lennon

Nearby, tons of padlocks adorned a small bridge over a river. Couples here and may other cities sign their names on the locks, clasp them to the bridge, and throw the key into the water. Hundreds of keys of spouses and young lovers must carpet the river floor. Then Ande and I walked to the funicular, which carried us up to the Petřín Lookout Tower, a small version of the Eiffel Tower jutting from a hill. After 299 stairs (reminding me of arduously climbing the actual Eiffel Tower years ago), we reached the top to find Prague laid out like a map before us.

"Just Love" in Galician

View from the Tower

We then walked and walked some more. The memorial to the victims of the Communist regime was striking and poignant. Next I wanted to see the Dancing House designed by Frank Gehry and a Czech architect. It’s nicknamed “Fred and Ginger” for the upright form of Fred Astaire and the fluid shape of Ginger Rogers. I never thought of likening a building to dancers but it’s a fitting comparison for much of Gehry’s work. After, we needed the sustenance of some hot mulled wine and more bagel sandwiches (no, you can’t ever have too many bagels) at a pretty little café. I highly recommend cream cheese in the Czech Republic. It’s impossibly fresh and light. Ande and I ambled past the ornate Prague Clock Tower, the Old Town Square, and the Jewish Quarter. For dinner that night we met up with the two Australian sisters in our hostel room for Czech cuisine. The meal was delicious and served in gigantic portions. I ordered a Pilsner and goulash – tender pieces of beef half submerged in a rich, heavy sauce with potato pancakes and spongy bread dumplings to sop it up. Full and content, we breathed in the brisk night air on the walk back.

Memorial for the victims of communism - a man in the process of disintegrating

The Dancing House

The Clock Tower

Old Town Square

Our bus to Berlin left at 7:30 the next morning. Half asleep and discombobulated, we took the metro from the station to the hostel in Mitte. Surprisingly, the German metro relies on the honors system for payment. Soon after our meal of yummy, crepe-like pancakes my friend Kate arrived from Madrid. We checked out the neighborhood then settled into a welcoming café to catch up while we waited for our two other friends to get in from Copenhagen. Later, the five of us settled on cheap and delicious kebabs for a quick dinner. Seriously, kebab places are everywhere in Berlin. They are the pizza of Europe. I’m already converted to this new late night snack, but I’m afraid they’ll be harder to come by in Boston. Our pub crawl on Friday night included a huge group of people from all over. The first bar we went to had relics of East Berlin covering the walls: signs, flags, and photos offered a pleasant array of history. The other two bars were also good fun, and we socialized with Germans, Austrians, Brits, and Italians.

The next morning we did a long walking tour through Berlin. Despite the cold and wind, it was a great way to hit all the sights: Museum Island, the square of Alexanderplatz, the site of Hitler’s chancellery, remains of the Berlin Wall, Checkpoint Charlie (one of the places which marked entrance to the U.S. sector of Berlin from the Soviet), the Brandenburg Gate, and a few memorials. Berlin isn’t the most aesthetically appealing city, but it was refreshing to see a place so architecturally modern and austere. Halfway through the tour we pit stopped for Curry Worst, a German specialty involving sausage drenched in homemade ketchup and curry powder and served with fries. I could almost feel my arteries protesting, but it was very tasty. After the tour we sought refuge from the weather in a pub and sampled more delectable German beer.

A national memorial which reads, "for the victims of war and tyranny"

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A Holocaust memorial

A Jewish Holocaust memorial, inspired by the crowded Jewish Cemetery in Prague

A remaining section of the Berlin Wall

Sign at Checkpoint Charlie, one of the points of entry into the U.S. sector from the Soviet

The Brandenburg Gate

That night we ate marvelous German food at a charming little restaurant. I had tender rumpsteak with roasted, herbed potatoes and carrots moist with a savory sauce. I ate almost all of this appetizing, curious tasting paste before I realized it was simply tomato butter. Oh well.

I visited the Mitte flea market on Sunday morning. It seemed to go on forever. There were books, purses, records, jewelry, antiques, 80’s sweaters, china, and handmade art. I snacked on a spinach and cheese bun and successfully purchased in German. It’s such a cool language; I wanted to pretend I knew it. A market is just so fitting for a bright Sunday morning, and somehow, I felt at home. Once the others were awake and ready I grabbed some falafel on the go before the Jewish Museum. It was an open, modern space and historically compelling, but after a few hours the five days of travel had worn us down a bit. It was time for my third bagel sandwich of the trip before hopping on a bus to the airport.

Being so tired after only five days made me wonder how people backpack for months on end. But what a rewarding challenge it is. I love it to death – bagels, beer, and all.

Wales

How does a Wales adventure weekend in February sound? Like a BU student jumping off a cliff.

This past weekend I braved the elements for sea kayaking, coasteering, and hiking in Pembrokeshire County, Wales. BU offers discounted tickets for Preseli Venture trips and my mom, who usually does know best, encouraged me to go. I didn’t quite know what to expect of the weekend as I boarded the train with my friends on Friday night. Train travel in Europe (in which I include the UK, despite its objections) has a classic, romantic veneer. Our first and second trains each hosted a rugby team supplying the evening’s entertainment with drunken singing and carousing. Around midnight, our BU group of ten arrived at a little station in the middle of nowhere. The scheduled van drove us along winding, pitch-black roads until at last we reached the Preseli eco lodge.

The next morning at 8:30 am, after some fortifying eggs and beans on toast, we readied for sea kayaking. While snow flurries swirled in a gray sky I felt a little dubious. But I was fine once adequately robed in a swimsuit, shorts, a thick, spandex long-sleeved top, a sleeveless wetsuit, wetsuit shoes, a fleece hoodie, gloves, a helmet, and a waterproof jacket. Looking more than a little ridiculous, we cautiously pushed off of the murky, rocky beach into the Atlantic. Two fun, twenty-something Preseli guys led us through inky black caves and along the jagged coastline. With my kayak buffeted by the brisk, white-capped waves, I had an invigorating time. It was nature, outdoor activity, and the ocean- things I hadn’t realized I missed so much. Honestly, get me to any large body of water and I’m happy.

We reluctantly turned back into the beach to peel off our freezing wet outerwear, change, and head back to the lodge. Lunch consisted of thick, homemade bread and a delicious, hot soup with meat, vegetables, and slices of cheese I gleefully threw in to melt. It was the perfect complement to the foggy, timeworn Welsh countryside. Our next activity was a bit intimidating. We didn’t know much about coasteering, but we knew it involved swimming in the icy water (hence the long, arduous task of pulling on full wetsuits). The only area of my body left uncovered was my face and neck. One by one we hopped into water forested with kelp and scattered with purple and yellow lichen-covered rocks. At the first plunge, my breath came out in gasps and curses. It was cold. Yet miraculously my body adjusted and, even with the occasional streams of water slipping down my wetsuit, it felt good and refreshing. We were explorers, adventurers. Scrambling up steep rock shelves, we took a breath at the top before vaulting into the bracing onrush of salty water. Our group investigated mossy waterfalls, deep caves, and barnacle-studded rock formations. We dog paddled from one spot to another, comically rolling in the tide due to our buoyant lifejackets. Eventually we came to our last jump: an almost vertical crag. To fall from the slippery footholds would mean landing on half-submerged rocks. Once I came to the top I realized it didn’t level off, it slanted straight down again. I swung my legs over carefully and held on, lifting my head to watch my comrades smack into the ocean one by one from a 20-foot peak. My turn came and I leaped, exhilarated, falling for what felt like forever before crashing into the waves. That, at its most cliché, is living.

Thoroughly soaked and salted, we attacked the showers back at the lodge. Then we warmed up with Bailey’s spiked hot chocolate and a dinner of curried chicken, vegetables, naan, and rice. We played Pictionary, chatted with the Welsh and English guests, and sat around a bonfire. Our new favorite word was “cutch,” a Welsh colloquialism for getting comfy or snuggling up. So we had a cutch amid accents, friends, and crisp night air.

On Sunday morning we rose early for a seven-mile coastal hike. The weather was warmer and misty with occasional sprinklings of rain. Our path followed the ocean and squeezed very closely between the sheep fence and the cliff’s edge. The incredible amount of mud complicated matters. After falling five times, once into a thorn bush, I was visibly one with nature. The coastline was raggedly beautiful, though, and reminded me of the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland. I greedily devoured the balm of pure ocean air. Sheep and their lambs stared placidly as we struggled up slick hills and across pebbled beaches. The stone walls along the way looked like they’d been there for centuries. We moved from fields to marshes, then the little fishing village, and finally the lodge, where loaded baked potatoes, beans, and salad awaited us.

Our train home was long and uneventful. We were dead tired and the soreness was already creeping into our bodies, but we were content. You just can’t beat baked beans and cliff jumping.

Round Two

Big Ben

I’ve been in London for a week now, but I’ve only just started to feel settled in. Amidst the flurry of orientation and new friends I haven’t had much time to get my bearings. Tonight I hopped on the tube to go an exhibit at the Royal Festival Hall (“Boxed: Fabulous Coffins from the UK and Ghana). It took a subsequent stroll along the Thames near Parliament for it to hit me- I actually live here.

BU’s housing is in South Kensington; an area that the British administrators remind us is not “real” London. A kind of upper class utopia, it’s the home of the royals and streets upon streets of gorgeous, white, identical townhouses. Every street sign is labeled with “The Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea” in red calligraphy, and the air almost smells of money. It’s a very pleasant home base for exploring the city.

Acclimating to London is more a process of small adjustments than of culture shock. After all, people speak English, right? Yet, I listen constantly for British accents only to hear a multitude of other languages. It’s a sign of London’s unmatched diversity, just like Camden market’s offerings of Ethiopian, Turkish, and Lebanese food among fish and chips stalls. I’m gripped by a general excitement to insert myself into the London cultural scene, which is achingly trendy. The other night, in search of dubstep (a music genre that sprang from London), some friends and I journeyed to a club on a dark, forgotten street. There was no sign, and we could only tell we’d reached our destination by the heavy bass emanating from within the underground venue. And then there’s the fact that the exhibit I went to tonight was part of London’s Death festival. And that I recently read about a club whose theme is 1930’s Berlin. Seriously, this city is the end all be all.

Fresh starts are intoxicating, and I’ve captured another one. I have that comfortingly familiar feeling- a sort of buoyant restlessness. Here we go, London.

A Goodbye

Príncipe Pío station

I leave Madrid in a few hours, and it feels strange. All of my bags are packed (though “stuffed” might be a more apt word). I’m excited to go home, but it’s hard for me to be done with a place. I want to collect all the places I’ve lived and have them on hand. There are things I’ll really miss. Here are a few, in no particular order:

 

Paella

This is hands down my favorite Spanish food, and I’ve yet to taste better paella than my host mother’s. Whenever she serves it I have to restrain myself from devouring it in minutes. She makes it with chicken and rabbit, the way I like it, rather than seafood (I don’t like the langostinos, prawns, staring at me while I eat). I made a To Eat list, and I’ve managed to cross everything off recently: paella, tortilla española, cocido madrileño, churros con chocolate, croquettas, and tocino de cielo.

Sunshine

In deciding to study in Madrid and London I couldn’t have picked more different cities, weather-wise. It didn’t rain once the first month and a half I was here. It wasn’t even cloudy. Every day was saturated in gorgeous sunlight. I found myself saying day after day, “It’s so beautiful outside!” Rain is rare here and causes more problems and anxiety than you can imagine. Next semester I’ll be praying for sun in London. We’ll see how that goes.

Tapas

This is a favorite Spanish tradition of mine because it involves trying many different foods at once. It mirrors how my family eats, with each person passing plates (In fact I’ve never witnessed my parents order meals without going “halfsies” with each other). Going for tapas is a social thing. On Calle de la Cava Baja in La Latino, a street brimming with tapas bars in a neighborhood famous for them, you’ll see every place crowded with people drinking, eating, and chatting animatedly. A restaurant I like in Chueca displays its tapas, perched atop slices of baguette and speared with toothpicks, arrayed on a long countertop. Once you’ve eaten your chosen tapas, you count up the remaining toothpicks and pay €1,50 for each. Though tapas have become an art form in the fancier restaurants, my friends and I still prefer those of El Tigre, a dive bar. They serve giant plates of them for free with a drink: croquettas, tortilla española, chorizo, and patatas bravas. They help offset the effects of their giant, potent drinks.

The Dress

On the whole, Madrileños (and Europeans for that matter) dress better than Americans. Yes there are questionable fashion decisions here, like the unfortunately popular male faux-hawk or rattail. However, madrileños care about how they present themselves. I live in an upscale area filled with businessmen in sharp, expensive suits, elegant shoes, and beautiful ties. In Madrid you wouldn’t dream of wearing flip-flops or sweatpants in public, whereas on American college campuses they’re the norm. Living here has made me reevaluate my wardrobe and determine, like so many girls, that I want all new clothes.

Malasaña

This is arguably my favorite area of Madrid. My friends and I came here on one of our first nights out. It’s covered in street art and graffiti, and it’s populated by an alternative crowd reminiscent of the post-Franco, La Movida era. Apparently punk isn’t dead after all.

Speaking Spanish

Coming to Spain made me really appreciate and love the Spanish language. I still haven’t tired of hearing people speak it. Learning Spanish is a long process with no clear end, but I understand so much more than I did before. Sometimes in class I step outside myself for a moment to acknowledge that I understand another language almost like English. I’m no longer analyzing or translating in my head; it just flows in. The brain is such a curious thing. I now prefer speaking Spanish to English. It’s fun and gratifying to converse in it. I fear losing it though; referring to a second language like so many adults reference “a little high school French.” It’s my excuse to come back to Spain for a good long time after graduating.

Traditions

In Spain, traditions abound. The Spanish still proudly honor their deep cultural history. For instance, during a day trip to Segovia, all of us students partook in a time-honored Segovian practice. In a nice restaurant, we ate roast suckling pig, a regional specialty. The meat must be incredibly moist and tender. In accordance with custom, the restaurant’s head chef asked one of us to come up slice a whole pig in half with a plate to demonstrate how well it’s cooked. Then, to prove the plate didn’t conceal a metal blade, our fellow student threw it on the ground, scattering ceramic shards everywhere. Can you imagine that going down in an American restaurant? It was rather off-putting eating pork with eyes and ears, but I’m glad I did. Another Spanish practice I like takes place during New Year’s. For good luck, as the clock strikes midnight you put a grape in your mouth every time the bell chimes. Apparently it’s more difficult than it sounds, and the punishment for failing is bad sex for a year.

Roast suckling pig, in all its morbid glory

The Metro

No, seriously. I cherish an undying affection for Madrid’s metro system. Anything would have been an improvement on Boston’s T, but it really is a dream. Since college I’ve developed a real love of public transportation. Driving stresses me out. Why not let yourself be whisked away in speedy underground tubes? I hope to never own a car and just live in cities my whole life. The metro in Madrid is fast, clean, and very convenient. In Boston, I’d wait for the aboveground B train, often in the cold and rain, for anywhere from 5 to 20 minutes. Here, it’s rarely more than 4. Oh el metro, how I’ll miss you.

The Vernacular

Learning how people speak is one of the more interesting things about living in Spain. In general, Spaniards are more blunt, something that can catch an American off guard. They also punctuate their conversations with “Vale,” (pronounced vah-ley) an expression I use with abandon. It means “okay” or “alright,” and people often repeat it in quick succession. If you were talking to someone and they kept saying “okay,” you might consider it distracting or impolite, but here it’s just to indicate understanding. People frequently say “¿Entiendes?” (“Do you understand”) and “¿Sabes?” (“You know?”). Another favorite of mine is “hombre,” which means, “man.” Anyone is an hombre in conversation. My host mother speaks very loudly and emphatically on the phone to her female friends, shouting “¡hombre!” almost indignantly. Also, my translation professor told us the other day that Spaniards exaggerate regularly. That makes sense, considering “everyone” translates into “todo el mundo” (the whole world).

The Nightlife

Madrid is alive at night, and by “night” I’m referring to the hours of 9 p.m. to 7 a.m. When I arrived in September I was taken aback by the sheer number of people on the streets and in the plazas at every hour- literally, every hour. The typical weekend evening begins at 10:30 or 11 with dinner. Then madrileños will drink at the bars until 2 or 3, when they head to the clubs. By 6 or 7, they’ll take one of the first metros home unless they choose to munch on some churros con chocolate first. I don’t usually have the endurance for that level of partying, but I make a valiant effort. It’s just wonderful to see people out having fun all the time. The Spanish prioritize pleasure much more than Americans. Boston is a relatively quiet city. Devoid of students (a fifth of its population) in the summertime, it’s almost dead. By the end of last summer I was aching to go to Madrid, a city I found really doesn’t sleep.

So here is my goodbye to Madrid. I’ll be back to Spain, perhaps very soon. Entonces, te quiero mucho Madrid. Hasta luego.