We’re running a Promo Tour through Barcelona, Florence, and Interlaken, Switzerland to launch our Rollinglobe Store and giving away trips to Oktoberfest, skydiving in the Alps, and surfing in Morocco. Check it out!!!
I have finished my four months in France, and wanted to write a closing piece that could encapsulate everything individuals should know about study abroad. I would be preaching to the choir if I wax poetic about the architectural beauty of Europe, the exhilaration of successfully communicating in a second language or the self exploration that comes from having an entire new friend group – as those who care enough to read this will already know all those feelings and epiphanies. I also considered using this post as a soapbox from which to tell everyone how necessary the study abroad experience is, how it changes the way you think so subtly that you only realize your thought process has changed when you return to the United States and are shocked by the plethora of sweatpants being worn in public. I could go on about the identity crisis that springs from realizing the main reasons you believe what you believe and speak the way you speak are due to your society and environment, and that the nose ring you thought was an alternative choice is just more proof that you are a cog in your culture’s machine. I thought I could promote the study abroad experience by telling you all how you will no longer have to beat yourself up about not being interested in world news, because living in another part of the world instantly pushes you into the identity of world citizen and with that comes a thirst for updates on global issues. I even thought of ignoring the entire study abroad experience, and going straight to describing the reverse culture shock crisis that every study abroad-er simultaneously dreads and anticipates. I thought I could use the reverse culture shock description as a way to encourage you to be kind to your friends when they first return from abroad. To warn you that they might be in what Glee refers to as a “funk”, that they might feel displaced and uprooted from a world that they had put so much energy into creating for themselves. You might judge their inappropriate uses of the second language you (wrongly) assume they are now fluent in, forgetting that they are out of habit when it comes to saying “thank you” and “hello” in English. I also wanted to warn you about your first reunion with your wanderlust companion. You may anticipate their return with so much gusto that you don’t realize that your gain is in direct correlation to their loss. Where you are getting your friend back, they are losing their new home, lifestyle, and friends and have to recover over the course of two flights and a culture shock ridden layover. Conversely, they may be thrilled to be back, but be at a place of stillness and content within themselves that you have not seen evolve before you, and so cannot access or understand. I thought about expounding endlessly on the weekend trips, the ways I found to save money and the foods I ate daily. I also considered making this entire post a list of Things I Will Not Miss Smelling, with disturbingly detailed descriptions of the urine drenched Paris metro stench. I thought of so many different avenues from which to present my Parisian life, but found that I could not paint any pictures accurately. The study abroad experience is different for everyone. My reverse culture shock from France is nothing like the type of culture shock I experienced upon coming home from Ghana the year before. I don’t want to predict how it will be for your friends, or assume how it was for you. At the same time, I don’t know how to shrink four months of my life into a succinct three paragraph entry on the food, people, clothes, classes, cities, traditions, inside jokes and words of the French people in relation to myself. The shortest, most general way I can describe the experience is this: every day you change a little just by living, so imagine yourself in a situation in which your entire environment changes and picture the extent to which your own change would go into hyper drive.
Late Night Dining in Deutschland
Our resident European food expert, Luisa, clues us in on her favorite gastronomic guilty pleasure, the döner kebab. Apparently she’s not the only one… One of my leading candidates for a guilty pleasure is fast food, something that caught me by surprise as it’s never been in the running in years past. I actually don’t encounter much of what we Americans traditionally call fast food here in Europe; I tried a German McDonalds once just to say that I did, but the fries were inferior, the prices were higher and the McFlurries were seriously lacking in the flavors department. Besides, who wants something you can get in Any Town, USA when you can go for its European counterpart instead? Behold the döner kebab. They’re like Turkish versions of gyros, and they’re the German fast food. You recognize their shops by the lively group of nightlife regulars assembling outside and the massive spits of lamb rotating in the window (döner kebab means “rotating roast” in Turkish). And, honestly, even if you’re in tiny Aachen, Germany, you’ll see at least one on most city blocks. They’re fast food establishments through and through, and since arriving in Europe this past December, I’ve visited them more than I care to admit. So what is a döner kebab, or a döner (pronounced doouh-nuh) as it’s more commonly called? Imagine a thick, grilled pita filled with yogurt and hot sauces, lots of spiced lamb and cucumbers, cabbage, onions and tomatoes on the top, all neatly packed in foil and priced for as little as €2 ($2.70). It’s the perfect portable snack after hitting the bars. Sure, it might set you back about a thousand calories, but if that’s really the most destructive decision you make after a night of drinking, then you’re doing fine in life. The concept of a döner is said to have been invented about 40 years ago by “Kebab King” Mahmut Aygun, a Turkish immigrant who came to Germany when he was 16. He was joined by the large influx of other Turkish immigrants who were invited to the country to fill a post-war labor shortage, thereby allowing Aygun’s creation to flourish as much as it has. While similar dishes had been served in Turkey well before Aygun came along, it is he who is attributed to removing the plate and rice from the equation and replacing it with a pita. As simple of a fix as that might have been, it proved to be just what a nation of regular beer drinkers needed on their way home. Many döner shops here are still open at 3am. But the döner phenomenon is strong during waking hours as well, as evidenced by the many sit-down shops that are popular for lunch and dinner. Here you can choose from different varieties of döners, including the pita version and the traditional preparation on a plate alongside rice. Another popular accompaniment is the omnipresent – as far as Germany goes – pile of pommes frites, or french fries. If you want all of the toppings, which can sometimes include a banana pepper, all you need to say is “einen Döner komplett, bitte” (pronounced i-nen doouh-nuh complayt, bitt-uh), or “One complete döner, please.” Don’t be deceived by the fact that many döners are advertised as being served mit salat, or with salad. I know I was duped during my first few trips to the shops, thinking that I would be getting a salad to balance out the meal. All mit salat means is that the döner is served with the cabbage, tomatoes, onions and cucumber toppings. But the negligent inclusion of these vegetables does not a healthy dish make. In fact, if you ever want to try a döner kebab, I would encourage you to avoid Googling “Döner Kebab” plus grams of fat, salt content, arteries, etc. The taste hits the spot, it’s cheap and it’s filling. Sure it’s far from healthy, but has that stopped most of us from eating fast food in the past? Guten appetit!
The Divisive Walls of Belfast
For centuries, Northern Ireland has been plagued by civil strife with its empirical neighbor. The ethno-political violence centers on Northern Ireland’s constitutional status as apart of Great Britain. On the British side, Loyalists - comprised mostly of affluent Protestants - believe Northen Ireland belongs to Great Britain. The other, mostly-Catholic party - the Nationalists - strive to be reunited with the Republic of Ireland. While the most recent period of conflict officially ended in 1998 with the signing of the “Good Friday” agreement (declaring Northern Ireland apart of Great Britain), evidence of the tension can be seen everywhere in Belfast… literally, painted all over the city walls. From what I gathered from tour guides and lecturers during my visit, Belfast is eager to move on from its negative past and establish itself as another European metropolis. This progression is evident through vibrant places like the major shopping mall, Victoria Square Shopping Centre, and the Odyssey Arena, a large sports and entertainment centre that houses an IMAX theatre, an ice hockey rink, a huge collection of restaurants and bars, and the popular nightclub, The Box. But once I drifted away from the tour guides and ventured into the city boroughs, it was quite evident that Northern Ireland’s past has not retreated into the history books. To this day, the Catholic and Protestant neighborhoods are physically divided by eight “peace walls.” Adorned with graffiti, signatures, and messages of hope, the walls serve as encouragement to this torn nation, but it is difficult to overlook the actual presence of the peace walls and what they mean. While the fighting in Northern Ireland is officially over, the city’s religious and political separations go on, which these long cement blockades somberly symbolize. The gates that divide the neighborhoods close each night at 8pm. As an American visitor to the city, it is a difficult concept to grasp. Nowhere in the United States (not counting private property) are city sections blatantly forbidden from residents of that city! If the violence has officially ended, why do these barriers remain? The contradictory displays of propaganda make the past conflict all the more difficult to ignore. Belfast’s Murals vividly display the rival ideals of two opposing parties that call the same city home. Ironically, the neighborhoods primarily populated with Catholics also house the current headquarters of the Nationalist party, Sinn Fein. Many colorful murals glorify and condemn, plead and memorialize, while others call for world peace, including condemnations of President Bush and the Iraq War. Frederick Douglass is painted on another mural, which compares racism against African-Americans to that faced by the Irish. Several murals feature late IRA (Irish Republican Army) members who have perished during hunger strikes. Members like Bobby Sands, who remains one of the most beloved – and despised – figures of “The Troubles.” Speaking this single name can prompt violent hatred or saintly worship, depending on who you talk to. Just a cab drive away, the Protestant neighborhoods appear ostensibly the same, until you look closely at the artwork. IRA members, basking in the Irish colors as martyrs in Catholic neighborhoods, are depicted as faceless, menacing figures clothed in black and holding guns and grenades. Portrayals of the Union Jack waving in the wind and devotion to Britain’s Queen are elaborately displayed, leaving no doubt where the loyalties and resentments lie in this neighborhood. As a result of its dark history and this continued divisiveness, Belfast is fraught with a hard-to-read attitude towards outsiders. In the Catholic areas surrounding Sinn Fein’s offices, anti-Americanism is not apparent at all. Further research into the conflict would tell you that some of the IRA’s biggest contributors in the past have been the Irish-American community. I think this largely explains the welcoming attitudes towards Americans amongst much of the Irish Catholic of Belfast, which is not always replicated in other parts of Europe… or in other parts of Belfast, for that matter. Like any city that has experienced violent conflict, Belfast has endured psychological trauma that does not end with the signing of a treaty or PR outreach. Conflict is still ingrained into Northern Ireland’s psyche – a divisiveness of which is nowhere paralleled in America. It’s a culture shock of a different sort; one that gives a glimpse into what it is like living in a past war zone and one that’s makes me feel fortunate for the liberties and safety that are so often taken for granted.
![Cruising the Cambodian Coastline
The ocean dragged me in, southwest to the Cambodian coast. These communities, beach communities: the shopkeepers, the bartenders, the dirty old fishermen untangling nets in too hot sun, kids with tricks and restless teenagers with oceans in them—the town holding secrets undetectable by the visitors upon visitors who walk the shores, and bring their plastic things, and eat and drink and buy and bicker. I know it. And you know, it never feels right to know too much about a place before even having a chance to explore.
But there were beautiful sunsets and the beaches to the left were worth every rock my bike pounded over. The trip to the shore, however, was for the ride itself: along the coast from Sihanoukville to Kampot, to Kep. Sihanoukville: Cambodia’s very own “resort” town, named after King Sihanouk himself, and packed with tourists from the capitol taking the weekend to lie in the sun and be pestered by fruit selling children and women trying to convince you that your legs are hairy.
“Pedi-kee-oo-ah, very cheap, Madam! Look your leg! Hairy, hairy, Madam! You want pineapple? Maybe lay-tah?”
Lady, if I wanted you to take my leg hair off in front of a beach worth of people, I will be sure to hunt you down. In the meantime, if you don’t stop touching my legs, I might have to break yours. Thanks.
My stay was one day too long, but I somehow managed to share a room with a [drunk] girl from Longmeadow, Massachusetts—one who summers on Nantucket—and also, to spend time with an artist of the photography sort, named John. Dinner of grilled crocodile and barracuda is not such a bad thing, either.
But, it was time to go.
Past Ream National Park, along the coast where it was mango trees for miles, and small waterways leading to the ocean. Just enough rolling hills to keep me busy, and gorgeous Khmer children, big brown eyes and beautiful skin, flagging me down for a big wave and a shout.
I’ve never been happier to be pushed around by headwind. There was wind! Ahh, I love the ocean.
But, despite the cool air and scenery, the traffic just out of Sihanoukville was a little more than disconcerting. For once, I missed the blaring horns that signaled an oncoming vehicle. The morning rush of buses and trucks out of Sihanoukville came furiously down the road, silently swiping past me, leaving inches of space, or else sending me hurdling into the packed red dirt of the shoulder. I missed the obnoxious warning signs of Thai truckers, the polite outward swerve of the Laotians.
This may not have been such a problem, if the drop from the pavement to the dirt weren’t so dramatic. I don’t care what kind of tires or tread you’re dealing with—sudden movements with a fully loaded bike over unpredictable surfaces is serious business. Your awareness of weight distribution, of balance, had better be damn keen. Finally, the highway gave way to a fork, where I wheeled off to the right, to follow the coastline to Kampot.
Kampot: An entirely uneventful town. Plenty of places to eat, riverside, and packed with expats. “Are you an ex-patriot?” one man asked me, after relaying to me his life-altering-two-week-volunteer-work story, along with some “pointers” on purposeful travel. Hmm… good question. I thought back to David in Phnom Penh, and his daily battles with the “how much have YOU saved the world today, because I saved it THIS MUCH” crowd in Cambodia.
Not quite sure what these people were doing here, specifically, but they seemed dedicated and earnest enough, however intensely irritating. The real reason for stopping in Kampot, instead of charging on for a 100-mile bike to Kep, was for pepper. Kampot is home to some of the finest pepper plantations in the world, and after being thrown off the charts by war, it is finally picking up its feet, and producing both pepper and salt, as beautifully as ever.
There is nothing like fresh green peppercorn, and even freshly dried peppercorn (that’s possible, right?) is hard to beat. They even have a bit of shine to them.
Which brings me to Kep…
While Kampot produces the goods, Kep, yet another French masterpiece in ruins, puts them to use in combination with their ocean front goodness.
Kep winds around the coastline, where skeletons of French villas sit on the side lines, looking lost and broken. With the sunset overlooking Rabbit Island, I enjoyed a dinner of green peppercorn crab and a BeerLao and savored the solitude of the ocean for a moment, before returning back to the city and heading up north…](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_l2qhxxsa9s1qzjzwvo1_400.jpg)
Cruising the Cambodian Coastline
The ocean dragged me in, southwest to the Cambodian coast. These communities, beach communities: the shopkeepers, the bartenders, the dirty old fishermen untangling nets in too hot sun, kids with tricks and restless teenagers with oceans in them—the town holding secrets undetectable by the visitors upon visitors who walk the shores, and bring their plastic things, and eat and drink and buy and bicker. I know it. And you know, it never feels right to know too much about a place before even having a chance to explore. But there were beautiful sunsets and the beaches to the left were worth every rock my bike pounded over. The trip to the shore, however, was for the ride itself: along the coast from Sihanoukville to Kampot, to Kep. Sihanoukville: Cambodia’s very own “resort” town, named after King Sihanouk himself, and packed with tourists from the capitol taking the weekend to lie in the sun and be pestered by fruit selling children and women trying to convince you that your legs are hairy. “Pedi-kee-oo-ah, very cheap, Madam! Look your leg! Hairy, hairy, Madam! You want pineapple? Maybe lay-tah?” Lady, if I wanted you to take my leg hair off in front of a beach worth of people, I will be sure to hunt you down. In the meantime, if you don’t stop touching my legs, I might have to break yours. Thanks. My stay was one day too long, but I somehow managed to share a room with a [drunk] girl from Longmeadow, Massachusetts—one who summers on Nantucket—and also, to spend time with an artist of the photography sort, named John. Dinner of grilled crocodile and barracuda is not such a bad thing, either. But, it was time to go. Past Ream National Park, along the coast where it was mango trees for miles, and small waterways leading to the ocean. Just enough rolling hills to keep me busy, and gorgeous Khmer children, big brown eyes and beautiful skin, flagging me down for a big wave and a shout. I’ve never been happier to be pushed around by headwind. There was wind! Ahh, I love the ocean. But, despite the cool air and scenery, the traffic just out of Sihanoukville was a little more than disconcerting. For once, I missed the blaring horns that signaled an oncoming vehicle. The morning rush of buses and trucks out of Sihanoukville came furiously down the road, silently swiping past me, leaving inches of space, or else sending me hurdling into the packed red dirt of the shoulder. I missed the obnoxious warning signs of Thai truckers, the polite outward swerve of the Laotians. This may not have been such a problem, if the drop from the pavement to the dirt weren’t so dramatic. I don’t care what kind of tires or tread you’re dealing with—sudden movements with a fully loaded bike over unpredictable surfaces is serious business. Your awareness of weight distribution, of balance, had better be damn keen. Finally, the highway gave way to a fork, where I wheeled off to the right, to follow the coastline to Kampot. Kampot: An entirely uneventful town. Plenty of places to eat, riverside, and packed with expats. “Are you an ex-patriot?” one man asked me, after relaying to me his life-altering-two-week-volunteer-work story, along with some “pointers” on purposeful travel. Hmm… good question. I thought back to David in Phnom Penh, and his daily battles with the “how much have YOU saved the world today, because I saved it THIS MUCH” crowd in Cambodia. Not quite sure what these people were doing here, specifically, but they seemed dedicated and earnest enough, however intensely irritating. The real reason for stopping in Kampot, instead of charging on for a 100-mile bike to Kep, was for pepper. Kampot is home to some of the finest pepper plantations in the world, and after being thrown off the charts by war, it is finally picking up its feet, and producing both pepper and salt, as beautifully as ever. There is nothing like fresh green peppercorn, and even freshly dried peppercorn (that’s possible, right?) is hard to beat. They even have a bit of shine to them. Which brings me to Kep… While Kampot produces the goods, Kep, yet another French masterpiece in ruins, puts them to use in combination with their ocean front goodness. Kep winds around the coastline, where skeletons of French villas sit on the side lines, looking lost and broken. With the sunset overlooking Rabbit Island, I enjoyed a dinner of green peppercorn crab and a BeerLao and savored the solitude of the ocean for a moment, before returning back to the city and heading up north…
Kreuzberg: Berlin’s Hippest Neighborhood
East Germany is not necessarily the first place that comes to mind when you think wild & crazy nightlife. Few believe me when I tell them that I was up until 5am the night before partying with a bunch of Germans, but the truth is, some of the wildest party animals I know are from Berlin! After the Wall fell, city renovations began and young people flooded into the capital city. Not long after, Berlin became a premier location for counter-culture, sprouting up underground clubs all over the city that are still going strong today. Gentrification has brought new neighborhoods to life with restaurants, bars, and clubs that balance authentic German culture with the diversity of this international metropolis and if there’s one neighborhood not to be missed, it’s Kreuzberg. What was once home to mainly immigrants and workers from southern Europe (the Turkish influence is especially strong and Döner Kebab is a specialty worth trying) is quickly becoming one of Berlin’s hippest neighborhoods. Living in the area, I have become somewhat of an expert Kreuzberg (okay, so technically, I live in Mitte, as my apartment is 60 meters north of the informal line separating the two: the sunken garden which was once the part of the Berlin wall known as “the death strip”). For your eating, drinking and partying pleasure, I have put together a few of my favorite spots in the neighborhood. First stop, Oranienstrasse. This street leads to Oranienplatz, which is home to some of the best bars, clubs, and restaurants in Berlin including Luzia, a small, chill bar with no name posted on the front, only a coat of arms. Inside there are many mismatched tables, chairs, and sofas adding to the comfortable, casual feel. The walls are covered in various posters and paintings; in one raised corner there is a piano, and in another, a door leading to a second room for smoking. The drink menu is not very extensive but the beer and wine offered is good, authentic, German stuff. If it’s traditional cuisine you’re after, stay on Oranienstrasse and head straight toMax und Moritz. This place has been a Berlin institution since 1902, recreating the atmosphere of an old German inns and often featuring fiddlers and other musicians who walk throughout the restaurant and bar. While you listen to the sometimes obnoxiously loud music, enjoy old German favorites like Hoppel-Poppel (German breakfast omelette served all day), Max und Moritz stew (lamb stew) and Apfelstrudel. Another local favorite is Zur kleinen Markthalle. This neighborhood restaurant, pub, and beer garden is situated on a quieter street than many similar places, which makes sitting outside on a nice day especially pleasant. The dark wood tables and paneled walls compliment the traditional German menu featuring roast chicken, pork roast, sauerkraut, and rostbratwurst… all at incredibly reasonable prices. For something a bit more exotic – like a German take on Mexico – head to Que Pasa. Tacky only begins to describe this place. Fake palm trees stand in the corners while Latin music and Spanish rap play in the background. Beware, this is not the place to come for a good quality meal. The enchiladas, quesadillas, and burritos are passable at best but portions are enormous and prices are very cheap. The saving grace about Que Pasa is its long list of cocktails for only €3.50. But watch out, the bartender has a stiff pour. By now, it should be well past midnight and about that time to hit the clubs. It’s rare to find a club or venue that has stayed popular for 30 years here, let alone one that has stayed in the same location, but SO 36 is the exception. Originally the premier spot in Berlin for punk music, SO 36 has adapted and transformed over the years to represent the diversity and attitude in Kreuzberg. Today the club hosts techno dance parties, Kiezbingo (drag queen hosted bingo), public forums, art showings, as well as concerts and live events. Be sure to check out the calendar on their website before you visit and get ready to rage.
The Fraying Pastels of Marseille
Marseille is stunning. There is no other word for it. “Beautiful” doesn’t cut it. “Pretty” would be an insult. Even my roommate and I, two girls tired of the smog and gloom of London, crashing into Marseille airport bleary eyed on a Friday morning, (overwhelmed with ridiculous expectations hyped up by numerous scans through flickr.com, search word Marseille) were flabbergasted as we stumbled off the bus searching for a view of the city on the balcony of Saint Charles Terminal. The sun of Southern France caressed the old buildings of Marseille, box shaped, pastel coloured, slightly fraying at the edges, adorned with clotheslines and dollhouse windows, and man did the sun love Marseille. When we shielded our eyes and looked we could see for miles. Needless to say, the picture taking started at the bus terminal. A crumbling stone staircase dotted with baroque. lamplights led down to the city below. We raced down it, anxious to jump into the embraces of the Marseille. Our hotel was just at the foot of the station: Hotel Terminus Saint- Charles. It was very cheap for such a reasonably hotel sized in such a great location. We circled all the places we wanted to go on a map, excitedly planning our route for the day, wanting to get as much done as possible on the first day of our weekend trip to France that already seemed too short. Our first stop was the Old port (Vieux port), the very jewel of the city that also marks its center. In order to get there we walked down the busy Rue Le Canebiere, Marseille’s main commercial street, and everywhere we looked were charming old buildings that seemed to be strung together by the very sunlight, offset by black electric wires that sliced through the skyline. The Vieux port was a mass of boats in every colour of the rainbow, trembling on turquoise waters, their masts pointing neatly at the sun. The rest of Marseille could be seen embracing the water, and we felt distinctly that the very essence of the city lay here, already overwhelmed by its beauty and charm. Walking round the port and heading southwards we aimed for The Corniche, a picturesque seaside road we had read about that was supposed to give us a beautiful view of the coastline. But Marseille was already in the habit of giving us surprises. Before we reached the Corniche, we got lost in a beautiful beach accessed by a rickety metal door, calledPlage Des Catalans. Here the sea showed itself to us, unfiltered and infinite, blue as a tourist brochure. The sand was yellow and children laughed and played on the beach like a scene from a movie. Once again we exhausted the memories of our cameras, but we had to go on. Finally, we reached the Corniche, and the beauty of the French coastline once again hit us on the head. The scene matched all those impressionist paintings of Provence, with the outline of the Cheateau D’If on its small island to the South and a great view of the Calanques, the jaggedy hills of the coast that are famous for their pristine beauty. The wind blew hard, though, and we took public transportation back: one euro fifty for a bus ride to the city. There we visited the Cathedrale de La Major, a Byzantine-Roman style catholic cathedral that actually proved slightly underwhelming in contrast to the natural beauty of Marseille. We got lost in the district of Le Panier, too, the oldest in Marseille, with residential buildings lining thin pastel alleys. Families chatted to each other in French as they lay out their clothing to dry, and we didn’t even mind struggling with the map as we tried to figure out every winding street corner. In our disorientation we stumbled upon La Vielle Charite, a baroque style former almshouse in the heart of the district that reminded us of the grandness of the Roman Coliseum. But our feet soon betrayed us and we had to stop for a rest at the tiny teahouse “A Cup of Tea”, sipping Bulgarian rose fragranced tea and munching on nutty brownie slices in the heart of the Panier, as the owner’s retriever lazed about at our feet. But a little tea won’t do for what we’ve heard about French food. Heading back to the Vieux Port district, we found a cluster of modern French restaurants with three course dinner menus under twenty euros and friendly waiters beckoning at the doorways. After a struggle as we argued with each other over which restaurant had a more appealing dessert menu, we chose Restaurant L’Ecailler, a contemporary space with art deco décor. The restaurant did not disappoint. For starters we had tuna tartare, arranged on a bed of salad, followed by a fresh basket of warm baguettes and croutons. Then came the Bouillebasse, a hearty Marseille specialty of seafood stew. Though we both were not enchanted with the fishy taste of the stew, we were enamoured with the spicy orange paste that came with it. Disregarding the glances of the French diners around us, we hungrily slathered the spread onto our bread and wolfed the stuff down. Dessert came as a vanilla ice cream filled profiterole smothered in chocolate and whipped cream—just what we needed to finish off a great meal. And to keep it Provencal, we washed it all down with a light pink bottle ofCotes de Provence Rosé. Though the table of Italians next to us saw that our bottle was dry and invited us for another, we declined, and made our way down Rue Canebiere rosy-faced and satisfied. The sky was the colour of Yves Klein’s perfect IKB Blue, and as we settled into our hotel beds, even amidst the racket of the booming club situated below our room, we dozed off in serenity thinking of stunning Marseille and how our day had been nothing short of perfect.
Edinburgh: The Scottish City That Never Sleeps
When looking for a city with a hot nightlife, Edinburgh was not exactly the first place to come to mind. So when a friend and I decided to take a weekend trip to Scotland’s capital city, we were pleasantly surprised to find that the area was bustling with people, attractions and entertainment of the sober… and not so sober variety. The trip itself was done at the spur of a moment and our expectations were not very high, but after taking countless trips through airports to cities where the currency (and language) needed to be brushed up on, the idea of a simple train ride and the acceptance of the familiar, albeit more expensive, pound was a selling point. After a run through Kings Cross and a four-hour train ride, we arrived in Edinburgh and sought out our hostel, eager to see what the city had in store for us. To be honest, I did not think it was going to be a crazy weekend. Scotland is not synonymous for crazy and wild, but within ten minutes of walking along the Royal Mile, my perceptions had changed. The Royal Mile is Edinburgh’s oldest street, connecting Edinburgh Castle to the Palace of Holywood House. Like the name implies, it is one mile of countless shops, historical landmarks and information centers. In addition to the educational fun to be had, there are numerous bars, pubs, clubs and live music venues on and off the mile. Street performers are everywhere and everything from the traditional bagpipes of the highlands to the harmonies of Oasis’ “Wonderwall” echoed down the streets. We began our evening by grabbing a bite to eat at The World’s End. Combining history and a good time, the pub’s name originates from the 1500’s, when a battle left Scotland defenseless and the people of Edinburgh built a stone wall around the city to keep such a situation from happening again. The wall clearly marked the perimeters of Edinburgh at the time, and anything outside of the wall was, to the towns people at least, ‘the world’s end’. Hence the clever name for the pub that sits where the wall would have stood and actually uses parts of the original wall as foundation. The pub itself has a great atmosphere and is large enough to accommodate a crowd out for the night, yet is cozy enough to not overwhelm those looking for a more low key evening of a few pints and some fish and chips. Next, we headed to Victoria Street, upon which stands the popular nightclubEspionage, a five floor club of high volume dance music and clubbing action, playing both current and old dance favorites. The place attracts a crowd of varying ages and while there, we witnessed both older teens and a combination bachelor-bachelorette party dancing the night away. Within the stairwell is a cleverly placed snack stand, serving nonalcoholic drinks, hotdogs and other grab-and-go nibble-y bits that were just as popular with the club-hoppers as the cocktails had been only a few hours before. For those of you looking for a more relaxed evening, there are plenty bars with a more folksy feel that center around good music, good drinks and good people. The thing that struck me was the overall feeling of camaraderie amongst those in the bars. Everyone was out, looking for a good time while enjoying one another’s company. Places like the Royal Oak on Infirmary Street and Sandy Bell’s on Forest Road foster the traditional Scottish musical stylings that can make everyone from the locals to those here for a short visit feel right at home. After the weekend in Scotland, my friend and I arrived in London happy to see our own beds and welcomed the idea of a long night’s sleep. We were tired, but it was a good sort of tired. We had seen a side of the UK that we would not have been privy to if we had remained in London. Boasting an old world hospitality and a vibrant surge of energy that can match any major metropolis, Edinburgh still remains one of my favorite destinations. When traveling the UK, do not discount Auld Reekie, as the natives call her, for the city affectionately referred to as the Athens of the North is full of surprises, bound not to disappoint.
Of all the preparation that you invest into a study abroad experience – money, visas, classes, credits, landlords, travel plans, etc. – I have found that the most difficult element of the study abroad experience is the one you get the least amount of guidance for: reverse culture shock. Sure, guide books and counselors can prepare you for the immersion into a whole new world, but what about stepping off the plane at LaGuardia, LAX, or Logan and being hit with the shock that everything is the same as it was when you left? Or reacquainting yourself with the fact that everything in America is unnervingly bigger – the cars, the roads, the buildings, the parking lots, the houses, the portions, the waistlines. Or coming to the realization that a two-hour plane ride will take you just a few states over, not transport you to another culture? Reverse culture shock is what hits you when you come across glimpses of your former “home” from movie scenes or pictures and begin to feel a warped version of homesickness; that “home” is really a place you may never go back to. But perhaps the most painful part of reverse culture shock, particularly if you’re going home to a small suburban town, is coming to terms with was the fact that all the luxuries of the past four months, all the museums, nightlife, restaurants, stimulation, and excitement that were at your fingertips, were just that: luxuries. When I returned home, my surroundings were so painfully familiar, I practically wanted to gauge my eyes out. Where were the centuries-old architecture and cobblestone roads I used to stroll by on my way to class every day? Where were the vespas and mini cars? Instead I saw oversized SUVs and four-by-fours and endless highway dead ahead. So how do you survive reverse culture shock? Here are some of the coping mechanisms I’ve adopted. First and foremost, talk, talk and talk some more about your experiences. How can you not talk about all the different countries you have visited and the foreign city you called home for four months? One of the best ways to do so is to share your stories here on Rollinglobe. Another useful strategy is becoming a peer advisor through your former abroad program. A peer’s advice is always appreciated and valued by anxious students about to follow in your footsteps. Use your study abroad experience to talk yourself up. After all, not too many Americans experience something like this. Only about 20% of Americans even own passports, nonetheless have actually lived in another country for an extended period of time. Study abroad-goers are a pretty impressive bunch. We’ve stepped out of our comfort zones and managed to navigate foreign streets, pay rent to shady landlords, and thrive within a different culture and language. Just slipping in the fact that you have studied abroad makes you that much more impressive in a job interview, a class discussion or an everyday conversation. We’ve shown ourselves to be adventurous, scrappy and open-minded. Another tip, and this is advice I’m still trying to follow a year after my time abroad, is do not close the door at the possibility of a future abroad. Student visas are the easiest kind to obtain. Grad school in a foreign country? Don’t rule it out. The world is becoming a smaller place by the minute and more and more companies offer opportunities abroad. And what’s better yet, you’d actually be making money as a professional, not scrapping by as a poor student… Talk about living it up! So, once you step off the plane and find yourself being hit with the all-too-familiar, make the best of the inevitable reverse culture shock. Keep in mind that students from other parts of the world probably experience that same depression when they return to their home countries… The grass is always greener on the other side. With that in mind, indulge in all things American that you could not find abroad; pick-up trucks, Dunkin Donut’s coffee, baseball, New York City, the never-ending saga of US politics, customer service (this is a big one), the list goes on. All in all, don’t be sad it’s over, smile because it happened.
How to Spot a Good Italian Restaurant
There are certain things to look for when restaurant hunting in Italy. Sure, the simplest solution is to buy a guide book or to ask a trusted friend who’s visited the area. But what happens when you’re without either one of those and you’re alarmingly hungry? You could judge by the number of occupied tables in the restaurant, but surely there are restaurants out there that are crowded for reasons beyond good food (price point, proximity to a main street, cute bartender, etc.). On the other hand, some of the slowest, sorriest looking places can churn out remarkable creations. So what’s a hungry, unprepared foodie to do? For starters, refer to the list below. There are a few things I’ve picked up during my travels which have been vetted by foodie friends of mine. Next step? Pay attention the next time you’re at your favorite Italian restaurant, either in the country itself or in Boston’s North End, New York’s Little Italy, St. Louis’ The Hill, et al. The Do’s 1. Italian diners One of few times that everyone can agree on the benefits of racial profiling. If you see lots of Italians in a restaurant, chances are you’re in for a decent meal. Not only might your fellow diners be familiar enough with the territory to know which restaurants to patronize, but they tend to have a higher standard for food in general. This age-old rule will work for lots of other cuisines – Chinese food in Chinese restaurants, for example – but for Italians, with their zeal for food and a tendency to make meals the highlight of their nights, this rule is especially reliable. 2. A handwritten menu… or no menu at all The times I’ve found myself in restaurants that don’t hand out menus have led to some of the greatest meals I’ve ever had. To a lesser extent, the same goes for restaurants with handwritten menus. Why does this work? Italian food is all about fresh ingredients. Not a lot of the food preparation requires great skill or difficult maneuvering (see: French food). On the contrary, Italians place a high premium on fresh ingredients. If you happen upon a restaurant that changes its menu so often it can’t hold itself to a strict set of dishes, chances are you’re getting the freshest stuff of the day, and therefore a really good meal. 3. One or two man operation This might be the surest sign of a great Italian place. A small staff – one waiter and one chef – tends to suggest that you’re eating at a mom and pop operation. In my experience, this is always a good thing. I’m not entirely sure why this is the case, but I do have one theory. A family operation is not looking to take on the restaurant world. If they wanted to do that, they’d recruit the next up-and-coming star chef. At a mom and pop place, they hire their grandmother. And what does nonna have to offer? Only a lifetime of experience preparing food for massive groups with the utmost attention to love and detail… What more could you want out of a chef? Do you want someone who’s obsessed with creating the next “it” dish and securing some spread in a fancy magazine only to move on to bigger and better things? No, you want grandma. She won’t churn out quirky fusion creations, but she will render you speechless with time-perfected classics. And she could probably do it blind. 4. Waiters that don’t really speak English For all I know, this is a gimmick that Italian restaurants know we know. They could just be piling it on by pretending to not understand you. But generally speaking, the times when I’ve been met by a waiter whose language skills truly approach bumbling have always involved good food. My hope is that it means they’re not accustomed to lots of tourists since they mostly cater to Italians. They don’t need to learn English because they’re doing just fine with their Italian clientele. If this is indeed the case, well, refer to the first rule. 5. Dinner only served after 7:30 Italians, like most others in Southern Europe, eat dinner late. Most good restaurants aren’t even open until 7:30pm. Furthermore, even if you arrive right at 7:30, you’ll still feel like you’re eating at 5:30pm. Why? Italians, as mentioned above, make meals the highlight of their nights. At restaurants, they will sit for a couple of hours, order lots of food, lots of good wine, talk, laugh, yell (FYI they’re not actually angry), and genuinely enjoy themselves. Restaurants tend to be the most full around 9pm. If you see a place serving up dinner in the 5 o’clock hour, there’s a good chance it’s not worth it. The Don’t’s Pictures on the menu I’m not sure why some restaurants insist on displaying blown-up pictures of their offerings to people walking by. Does the food ever look that appetizing? Would something like this actually happen in a halfway respectable place? Of course not. Nonetheless, you’ll still see it in Italy and other European countries. I imagine this rule applies to all cuisines, not just Italian. Don’t bother. English used in the restaurant’s name Most things sound prettier in Italian. If you come across a restaurant that resorts to using English in their name, chances are that’s not the only thing that will be lacking. Unless you’re looking for a restaurant that caters to tourists who don’t know any better, avoid it. An offer of a special price Italians, like a lot of Europeans, like to spend time and money on the good life. They prefer quality to quantity. Striking a deal is not exactly their top priority when dining out. If you want real Italian, don’t make it yours either. Besides, a lot of restaurants in Italy offer great food at reasonable prices anyway. I’m often amazed by dishes in Italy that would go for twice as much in the U.S. Host talks to you before you talk to him This one is up there with the pictures on the menu rule. Nothing says desperate more than the host hawking his restaurant’s menu to passersby. What’s worse is when they throw an English version of their menu in your face and try to hustle you inside. Does that image really jive with the idea of a classy Italian? Thought not. Avoid it! Main drag locale This rule has been around for a while, but obviously people break it every day in cities around the world. It’s easy to be tempted by a place in a busy area when you’re out in an unfamiliar city, fighting back crowds and in the middle of a packed day. The concept of food flashes before your eyes and suddenly you can’t think of anything else. Plus you have the visual endorsement of seeing other diners nosh away. More often than not, the prices at restaurants on main drags will be jacked up to cover pricey real estate. If it’s scenery and people-watching you’re after (and sometimes it is), be my guest. But if you’d like a truly special meal, find some place a few blocks away from the masses. Italians know it, and now you know it. The prices there will be proportionate to the quality of the food. Mangiamo!
Order & Disorder in Brazil
Among the dangers we students were warned about before heading south, one hazard stuck out. It wasn’t the life-threatening risks of exotic, insect-carried infection or those taxis drivers that prey on unsuspecting out-of-towners. This was a warning about the general fickleness of many institutions in Brazil, a danger that proved far more devastating than any other. After being in Manaus for a month, we Americans were required to “check in” with a federal office. We waited until the Monday before the Friday deadline to so. A four business day head-start would seem sufficient, but the one lady who had clearance to sign our documents played hooky every day until Friday, when she conveniently stopped by the office at the same time we stopped by. That was just the beginning of my experience with the dis-orderly side of Brazil… When my stint ended in Manaus, I looked forward to living in a more cosmopolitan lifestyle. I figured, everything must be more professional in the state of Rio. I imagined sleeping comfortably in the air-conditioned house of my new host-family. But of course, the professor in charge of student accommodations totally flaked and forgot to find me a house! In the four-hour drive from the airport, at the mercy of a driver who casually smoked pot the entire way up, the professor frantically searched for a student who had room for me. He succeeded and shacked me up with a pair lovely female grad students. Sometimes when you throw your chips in the air they land nicely. My room didn’t have AC, but it did have a Brazilian woman in it. Escorted by my roommate/host/girlfriend to my first few days of class, I felt my new routine come together as I committed to memory the complicated cobble-stoned route to my school and even found a favorite lunch-eria. But contrary to the word so proudly boasted on their national flag, there isn’t always “Order” in Brazil. About a week into class, my school went on strike. My American friends immediately hopped on a bus and traveled on a southerly route toward Uruguay. Strapped for cash, I began the cheaper journey of exploring my new city: Campos dos Goytacazes. In my travels I discovered a luxurious gym at the far end of town. The building was unlike any other around; it was new and shiny and reminded me of home. I found myself walking toward it, drawn to the piercing reflection of the metallic roof and the beautiful women clad in hot pink and electric yellow onesies, like glistening, bronzed Sirens. The woman weren’t working out as much as they were there as bait, but the scheme worked, and I walked in. Sensing my accent (ie. my near complete inability to speak Portuguese) the girl at the front desk happily showed me around. The last stop on the tour was an aerobics room filled with people practicing Capoeira (an Afro-Brazilian art form that combines elements of martial arts, music, and dance). Opposed to the rest of the members, these people smiled, joked around and were actually working out. I was caught gawking by the Instructor, Mijão (if you understand this name, don’t ask me why…) who motioned me into the room. One by one, conversations stopped as people sized me up. My tour guide offered some sort of introduction where I picked up on “American” and “doesn’t speak Portuguese well”. In a mix of hand gestures and slowly spoken words, I was asked to join the class. I didn’t think I had an option. Mijão became my best friend. Due to my flexible schedule, he brought me to every class he taught. I trained six or seven days a week, and traveled to Capoeira events all over the region.
Capoeira was my life in Brazil. I even got “baptized” into the sport, earning a color on my belt. I went to Brazil to learn, and learn I did. But my schooling was not in a classroom or from a book. I learned from the people I spent my days with and the culture in which I became a part of. And while I looked forward to carpeting, tap water, screens on your windows, and – most surprisingly – schedules and deadlines, leaving Brazil was bittersweet. If I learned anything, it’s that Brazilian time is just like regular time, but later… and sometimes things are worth the wait.
