Epic Fail

I’ve never in my life taken a 100-question test standing up. It is certainly an experience, maybe even one that everyone should try at least once in their lives. The funny thing about taking classes on a ship is that the rules and regulations are so different, very lenient. For the Global Studies class that every student on this ship is automatically enrolled in, we had our first test/midterm today and it was a lot easier than expected. Of course I don’t study like a normal person – when it comes to memorizing/matching, I never memorize whole definitions. It’s more like I remember the first couple words in the definition, and I go by that, which is a really awful way to study, I realize. For this test, however, it worked. I felt hopeful until the dates and timeline came, and then my heart sank and I realized I know absolutely nothing about history. Nothing. Zip. Notta. Epic Fail.

So, back to the idea of taking a test standing up. For this Global Studies class, we received the test in our emails and had from 7AM-11:30AM to take it ANYWHERE ON THE SHIP, and then proceed to turn it in when finished. I actually laughed out loud because I thought the professor was joking. That idea is completely absurd, and with the kinds of people on this ship that I’ve encountered, every single one of them is going to cheat.

The thing about the UVA Honor Code is that it’s meant to be enforced. The reality about the UVA Honor Code is that it’s kind of a joke. People are taking the test in their rooms right now, huddling together in groups of ten trying to figure out where the Black Sea is on the map. It’s ridiculous. It’s illogical.

I realized that I did not install Adobe Reader on my computer to format the PDF file of the test on my laptop (sorry for the techie lingo, Moni). Basically, I could not take the test on my laptop, as planned, and I had an 8AM class and a 10:40 class this morning…and I needed to get the test finished sometime in between my sandwiched class schedule. So, I walked to the computer lab and to no avail, I walked right out. Students were crammed in every nook and cranny available, eyes like zombies staring at the screen in front of them. The library computers were also taken.

So I proceeded to go to the secret compartment in the middle of the ship that not many people realize is there ( I discovered it one day while trying to find the perfect studying spot), and it was empty. This compartment is basically a closet with two computers on a desk. It’s great for getting away from the masses of SASers. And there I was, standing up, pointing out places on the map like “The Levant Region”, and the “Aegean Sea”. I matched up Aristotle, and Sappho, and Lefkowitz. It was enlightening. I felt like a history major until I reached the dates, and you know what happened from there…

The other part of the Global Midterm was the essay. I don’t think I’ve ever written a fiction essay before when I was supposed to write a nonfiction one, but I can’t tell you how incredibly difficult it proved to be. First of all, we don’t get internet on the ship unless we want to use our “minutes”, which means no Google, or any other resource that I would normally use to do my research. This was not a research essay, but since I didn’t know a thing about the prompt (which had much to do with the lecture and readings for class, which I am very, very behind on) then it becomes the research essay that it should not be, if you get my drift. It took me five hours to write two pages full of BS…and believe me, it sounded very intelligent and was stylistically correct..but I’m pretty sure that Alexander the Great did not change the course of his journey because he found out that he was the son of a god (I think it just made him more confident in his identity). And I’m not so sure that my paper had any credibility to it whatsoever.

But. It’s turned in, my test is taken, and I am looking Venice in its beautiful face. It seems that to get through the tedious tests and impossible essays, I’m always dreaming about the upcoming countries…pretending I’m there and not in the middle of the Mediterranean sitting in a classroom. Believe it or not, people don’t study on the ship…I literally have to lock myself in my box of a room (with no porthole) and pretend that I’m at Behrend. If I don’t do that, I’m sitting outside on the 7th deck with my laptop and headphones, soaking in the hot, hot sun and letting that inevitable wind slap me in the face. No work, no work, no work is my mentality when I’m not locked in my room, as is everyone’s mentality here. That’s why they all came.

So, I’m going to pack and get ready to meet my other roommate at Behrend, Jenna, who will meet Michelle and I at the hostile in Venice. I’m going to go to the pre-port lecture, put my passport in a safe place, count my Euros and my blessings, and sleep… because there will be no sleeping in Italy. There will be eating, and eating, and beautiful people with night sky hair to mingle with, but no sleeping. Not a chance.

:) Over and Out.

Reflections: Spain to Consider ((Day Four))

We leave today (Saturday) at 8pm tonight, and I’m not sure what to think. I feel like my time in Spain has flown by, and not wanting to miss any moment, I’ve been packing everything into my days like crazy. Doing this, seeing that, talking to this person, staying up all hours of the night, and waking up at absurd hours in morning. It’s ridiculous, and maybe it’s not necessary to take in everything all of the time, but the least I can do is try.

It’s not my favorite country. It’s pretty and the Spanish style is certainly reflected in the buildings and culture, but I’m still waiting for that one country that blows my mind. The one that I end up falling in love with. I didn’t find the people in Cadiz or Seville to be super friendly, and that’s what I look for in a country, I suppose. Hospitality, friendliness, safety, the place that will make me weep because I’m just so happy to be there, that I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

My friends seemed to find these qualities in Spain, and I do admire the beautiful culture (and exotic food), but I think when it comes down to it, I’m ready to move on. I’m ready to hit the Mediterranean full force (Spain is the only country that is still located on the Atlantic) for Italy. I’m ready for Venice to take my breath away. Because really? Who can resist those Italian Gondola singers?

We shall see!

A.

Spain ((Day Three))

I woke up at a ripe 6:45am this morning because we had to grab a quick breakfast and head to the bus station for a roundtrip ticket to Seville (pronounced, SA-VEA). As we were walking to the station, a boy that I recognized from SAS sidled up next to me and shadily whispered that he knows where to find the cheapest hashish and pot. Of course, me being me, I laughed. It was 7AM and this random student who I’ve maybe said hi to in passing was trying to get me (of all people) to come with him to buy pot? It was absurd, something out of a B rated movie. I really wanted to ask him how he knew this and where he found it, but then he might think I was interested, so I refrained.

We hopped on the bus, prepared with novels and Ipods and imaginations for our 2 hour ride to this place we knew nothing about. On the ride there, we met a guy who was fresh out of college in New York. He said he was “trying to empty out his checkbook before starting work in a month”, his words, not mine. I asked him where he’d been before Cadiz and Seville, and he named cities in Spain and Italy…just making his way through Europe until his wallet deemed empty and he needed to ‘do something with his life’, as if traveling the world is just a little something one does until they find their place, their niche. He had a job waiting for him, a law firm, that he didn’t seem too excited about. “If I can give you one piece of advice, it would be to stay in school forever”. I told him that I planned on it, and when I couldn’t anymore, when my time is up, I plan on traveling just as he was traveling.

Seville, as it turned out, is dirty and elegant and a place of beautiful architecture and class. That description is skewed and probably doesn’t make much sense seeing as how ‘dirty’ and ‘elegant’ are in the same sentence, but it’s all very true. The buildings are incredibly modern, ranging from an extreme Spanish style to a more contemporary beauty. There is one bridge that was included in a world Expo, something that architectural engineers dream about at night, I’m sure.

We ended up taking a really sketchy tour bus ride, with a driver who should not have been driving, around the gigantic city of Seville. It was one of those hop on/hop off as you please tours, and was only 12 Euro, which we seemed to think was a good idea. We ended up getting off at a large portion of city with a Cathedral that seemed to blow away all other cathedrals. Apparently, Christopher Columbus is buried inside this cathedral, Cathedral de Sevilla, and it’s the 3rd largest cathedral in all of the world. Go figure. We travel to a city that I’ve never even heard of, and BOOM, Christopher Columbus is BURIED inside the walls of this city. That’s intense!

Not only does a famous historical figure lie in the cathedral, but also 35 flights of weary walking up to The Tower. Of course none of us knew that the tower would be such a hefty climb, but the view was pretty sweet. It overlooked Seville and many of the very cool architectural pieces that make the city what it is. I told Michelle that if Mount Vesuvius in Italy would be anything like those 35 flights up to The Tower, I think I might keel over. Just a little. Nothing to break a sweat over.

That night after returning pretty late from Seville, everyone wanted to go out to celebrate my birthday (two days late). I figured since my age was being celebrated, then I might as well be present. It was the least I could do. We basically bar-hopped until 2:30am, and then we sleepily staggered back to the ship. It was a fun night, one that was unexpected, and pleasantly surprising. It was our last night in port and felt nice to relax with some new friends, dance to a little Hanson, and try a few Bacardi Breezers, which are truly yummy.

Yours,
A.

Spain Day ((Two)): Semi-nude beaches and Catcalls

This morning, Michelle, Liz and I walked to the bus station in the morning to buy our bus tickets for the beautiful city of Rhonda…but to my dismay, buses were not running at the times we needed them to run did not mesh and we would have been stuck there. We ended up walking around Cadiz for a bit, running errands – exchanging dollars into Euros, and buying Spanish postage stamps. At Siesta, we walked into a café by the market area and ate REAL churros. Can I explain in words how amazing those were? We sprinkled two packets of sugar over them, and stuffed our mouths with the warm dough. And then…wait for it…wait for it…I drank the best orange juice I have ever tasted. Spain is apparently known for their orange trees, and even moreso, their hand squeezed orange juice. It will be incredibly hard going back to Tropicana and Sunny D’s.

After the café, we walked back to the ship and got changed for a day of sun and beach. La Playa (the beach) was beautiful. We arrived there around 1:30ish and spread out our towels like true Americans. I felt uncomfortable when I began to look around, but I couldn’t quite place it. Then it hit me. This beach was not like Cocoa beach or Daytona. It was a kind of nude beach. Women walked around with their breasts dangling, men rubbed oil on their legs, all the way up to their itsy-bitsy speedos that barely covered anything, and there I was, half afraid to take off my tank top. Wow.
It was hard not to stare, to blatantly gawk, at everyone. Kids ran around pretty much naked, no inhibitions, no questions as to why their mothers did not wear bikini tops. It was amazing, and peculiar, and not something to wonder about at all. I was in Europe, Spain…and people are pretty much always naked in Europe. This I’ve learned. Billboards, public displays of affection, beaches, street corners…it’s what’s normal.

So, I took off my tank top and boy shorts and definitely not my bikini top, but I managed to stop staring at people in awe. I went with the flow of no inhibitions, and I walked away from that beach five hours later with the worst possible sunburn I could have managed. The backs/creases of my legs were so raw that I could not sit down for at least ten minutes after epically failing at lowering myself into a chair, my bed, or anywhere else. I know, I know…sunscreen much? I did put it on…my shoulders and face, which tanned very nicely. But my back and legs are so sore, but pain was worth the beauty of that beach, those people. It could have been sweetly prevented, yes, but it wasn’t so I don’t complain. I deal.
On the way back from the beach, we received at least 8 different forms of catcalls. It was weird and degrading and considering I looked and felt like a lobster, it was hilarious. I found it quite funny.

After the beach, we hobbled (me) to a café called El Pardinero for tapas/dinner. My food was very good this time:
Paella Mixta (Spanish rice with clams and an assortment of other fish. I got a bone in one, but other than that, it was delicious.
Albondigas (meatballs)
Flan (Famous Spanish dessert, looks like an upside down cupcake. Made with custard, eggs, and other yummy ingredients. It has a kind of carmelized sauce on top which tasted like coffee, and I had to scrape it off)

While at the café, an older man who had hair in his ears came up to our table and started gesturing at Michelle, saying something about Flamenco. The other girls did not look amused, and the one that spoke fluent Spanish at our table looked disgusted. He kept going on, saying different phrases and smiling nicely at each of us. It was incredibly awkward, and I had to turn my head away because I couldn’t help but laugh. I’ve learned that laughing is the way I deal with awkwardness and most of life. When he eventually walked away, Liz, who speaks fluent Spanish, rolled her eyes and told us that he was complimenting our beauty and said that we should be Flamenco dancers, to which I laughed even harder. Flamenco? Has he seen the way true Flamenco dancers move? Look?
The rest of the night flew by, and I skipped going out on the town because I could barely move from being so burnt, let alone try and dance in some dark club. No, gracias!

My love to you all :)
A.

Spain ((Day One))

I woke up that morning groggy and not at all ready to spend a day walking around an unfamiliar city. Then, I turned over and turned on the lights and Michelle had decorated my side of the wall in Post-Its saying Happy Birthday in Spanish! It was wonderful. Then we went to breakfast and met up with Liz, Emily, Paul, Marissa, and Lindsey for a day out on the city of Cadiz. The weather was perfect, blue skies, mid 70’s, and I was wearing a flowy skirt. It couldn’t get much better than that J
We walked aimlessly (well…I walked around aimlessly, Paul read the map and led us around with his brilliant Spanish intelligence) through cobblestone alleys and beautiful gardens and past old statues that had the names of famous Spaniards of political importance. We walked in flip(py)-flop(pies), with dangling cameras, and clueless smiles (me, mostly).
On our way to find the bank (so a few of us could convert dollars to Euros), no one would step up and ask where the nearest bank was, so I asked the next man that we found. In Spanish. I don’t speak Spanish…! Paul ended up translating that I didn’t mean “Bank-o”, but rather “Banco”. Something about pronunciation… but when we found the bank, we realized that you had to have your passport on you to exchange money, which none of us had because we were only staying in the port of Cadiz for the day.
After we walked around more, looking and acting like complete tourists, we found the big cathedral in middle of Cadiz. I’m not the biggest fan of gothic-style cathedrals. They are beautiful, some with stained glass and gorgeous stone statues, but the echo that constantly surrounds the inside, along with the crypt (yes, crypt) unsettles me a bit. The pictures hanging on the walls inside the circular crypt room reminded me of Disney’s Haunted Mansion when the pictures on the walls keep moving up and up and then the lights go out. I had to escape out of there before I had a slight panic attack.
Lunch was not quite lunch. In Spain, apparently everyone celebrates “Siesta” for about four hours or so in the middle of the afternoon. I learned that a Siesta apparently involves long naps, and businesses closing down in the middle of the day because the country wants a quiet period (or something along those lines). So, there we were at a café, trying to order Tapas (appetizers/snacks during the Siesta), and drinks. The place was called “Mamajuana”, which I think is pronounced a lot like “Marijuana”.
My menu of choice?
Albondigas De La Casa: House Salad
Revelto Chorizo: Sausage, potatoes, cheese, eggs mixed together
Tinto De Verano: Apparently a French-style Martini
Now ask me what I liked out of my lovely selection of food that I was so hungry for. I am not a picky eater; let’s just clarify this now. But I could not stomach the salad. I truly tried, I did, but listen to the ingredients: Lettuce, carrots, a bucket full of mayonnaise, and two lovely anchovies/sardines on the top. A brown mystery dressing decorated the salad and made me quite queasy. The sausage dish was good, but I could only stomach so much grease (this was our first real “meal” off the ship, and ship food is worse than cafeteria food, I’ve come to realize). The Martini was a bit strong for my liking, but I paid for it, so I did my best with the meal and then walked it all off around Cadiz again.
We came back to the ship around 4pm, and I fell into my bed like a rock and solidly slept for two hours until I woke up for dinner (on the ship). Everyone proceeded to completely embarrass me and sang Happy Birthday in the loudest voice possible. My cheeks burned, but I was happy. Around 7:15ish we hopped on a tour bus and rode 30 minutes outside of city limits to a sketchy little farm-like place in the middle of the Spanish country. This was where our bull-fight/flamenco show was going to be held. As soon as we stepped off the bus, we were handed glasses of red/white wine…so I took a white wine and sipped it and physically gagged. I guess I’m not one for “eloquent drinking”. If I don’t care for something, I don’t pretend. So, I traded my glass for one filled with red wine, and I think I convulsed a little. I’ve never tasted something so painfully awful. I’ve been told it is an acquired taste, but I don’t think I can handle sipping it long enough to become a “wine-drinker”. That’s one title I’ll have to pass on up.
The “bull fight” was…interesting, to say the least. First of all, the bull was nothing but a baby. A tiny little thing that mostly ran away from the muleta (the red cape) and seemed scared of the picador. I was kind of ridiculous, but fun to watch in an “I feel sorry for you, so I’ll chuckle in amusement” kind of way. Then we walked to an even sketchier place behind the miniature bull ring to a villa-type place. We were seated at very nice tables and given Tapas and never-ending pitchers of Sangria to drink while we watched the Flamenco show. It was a good time. The Sangria was pretty amazing, unlike the other drinks I had throughout the day. The show was a lot of fun, and at the end, we all go up and danced with the flamenco performers, doing the Macarena and other Spanish-style dances.
I had a sweet 20th birthday. It not what I expected and everything I expected. I was completely ready to be off of the ship, but was more exhausted throughout the day than I ever could have imagined. It’s still surreal, it’s still unimaginable. I wake up in the mornings still forgetting that I’m on a ship, and this particular morning was incredible. To wake up groggy and then realize it’s your birthday, and then realize you are in Spain…
I keep my journal handy, and have TONS of fun pictures to try and upload for you very soon. Keep smiling J
Adios!

Land ho!

Hi folks!
Writing to you from the Bow (front!) of the ship on the 7th deck. Michelle is dozing in front of me and it makes me laugh. I come up here to write and she comes to sleep. We make such the good pair. Cat Stevens is on the ipod and the wind is still whipping my hair around like mad, which means I won’t be able to brush it in the morning. Aaron, where are you when I need you?

We will be in Cadiz, Spain bright and early tomorrow morning and I couldn’t be more ready to get off this ship. I want to navigate the cobblestone streets and talk with my hands to people who don’t speak English. That will be so great! On the itinerary as of now is our pre-port briefing before we are allowed off into the country, and then I plan on exploring the city of Cadiz. I would also like to find an Internet café so I can upload and post some pictures to this Blog. I know you all want to see some pictures, because my descriptions don’t do some things justice. At 1830 hours (6:30pm) tomorrow night I will be making my way to a bullfight and flamenco show. Not sure what to expect there, but if they ask for volunteers (for flamenco, not bullfighting!) I will raise my hand and learn how to flamenco – I’m doing this for you, Mama, I hope you know that! :P

Then after that I will probably celebrate my birthday in some shady underground bar with dim lights and creepy men. Just kidding. Don’t flip, Moni. I’ll be safe!

Then on Thursday Michelle and I are planning to find a bus (because trains apparently don’t run through where we want to go) to a place called Ronda. It’s supposed to be a completely Muslim village on a huge cliff overlooking the sea. I asked my professor (the New Yourka) what there is to do there, and he replied, “Well, it’s not what you’re going to do there, but what you’re going to see.”
He would say something abstract like that, but I totally understood. Then he mentioned that there was sweet nightlife, like topless bars. He actually said that, and I had the hardest time keeping a straight face. Do girls even go to topless bars, aside from the ones who..er..work the place? And do I look like the kind of girl who would go to a topless bar if they did? And here I thought we had a connection…writers are such sketchy people.

We might get together with some people on Friday and hit up Seville, which is supposed to be pretty cool, too. I wanted to hit up Madrid or Barcelona, but they are too far away for the amount of time and planning it takes to spend the night and get there. Don’t worry…Venice will certainly make up for places that we didn’t get to in Spain. ;)

I may not be blogging for a few days while in Spain, but I will do my best to recall every detail when I get around to it (minus the topless bars. Ack.)
Hasta la Vista, (baby)!
A.

Island in the Sun

Yesterday was probably one of the most relaxing days I've had on the ship as of current. After dinner (not an awkward one, I might add), I walked with a few people, Grace, Eric, Nate, and Michelle to the front of the ship (stern?) and reveled in the pure, honest beauty of my surroundings. The water was so blue, a kind of cerulean blue, and the sky was partially cloudy, partially clear. We were traveling 15.6 knots, which is roughly 20mph, I believe, and the wind was whipping my hair like crazy. We pretty much had the deck to ourselves because the wind was so bad, but I loved every minute of it.

I had brought my laptop up there to play some music, but with the wind you could barely hear it. I did play "Come Sail Away" (Styx), and "Island in the Sun" (Weezer), because you can't not play those songs when on a ship! And of course, someone else broke out "My Heart Will Go On" (Celine Dion), from Titanic and I stepped onto the railing and threw my arms out and pretended to be Kate Winslet for a minute. That was one glorious minute.

The captain announced in his cute little Croatian accent that we were coming upon two islands, called the Azores. The big deal? People were actually inhabiting them! I took out my camera and used the zoom feature to see if we could check out any indigenous peoples with paint on their faces trying to make fire. We were quickly informed (by our Global Studies professor, nonetheless) that these two islands are actually of Portuguese decent, and the people living on them have been there for hundreds of years! They are famous for their sugarcane trading, which I find fascinating. My zoom finally reached the point of exhaustion when I noticed villages.actual white-painted, roofed and lit up with electricity villages! We all yelped and screamed, excited to see signs of life other than on the ship. Amazing how land-sick one can get. It's only been about a week, and here I am, going crazy at the sight of human life on land. Ha. I can't imagine what we will all act like when we step on to Spain territory. We will be heathens.

On another note, laundry day is today. We are not allowed to do our own laundry on board. We have to pay $6 and write our initials on every single tag on each piece of clothing, and also fill out a form describing in detail what each piece of clothing looks like. This is in case the launders (?) mix up clothing, or lose it or something. I can't afford to lose any underwear. That would be very, very bad.Ps. We are currently 6 hours ahead of US time. This will be our European staple until we reach Bulgaria or something. Sweeet.

2 days until my birthday. I cannot wait.

Love to you all,
A.

sunsets and pub night

Unbelievable. I’m sitting on the pool deck, it’s ten at night, and the sunset is drifting slowly across the horizon. We’re currently four sleep-depriving hours ahead of US time, and I can’t seem to keep myself on a natural sleeping regimen. It’s weird and delightful. Right now the pool bar is having “pub night” and it seems as if half the population on the boat is ordering drinks and socializing to their hearts content. I am the geek with the laptop on my lap trying to find my muse in the ocean. Bare feet litter the area and silhouettes outline the sun going down. It would be completely romantic if drunken SAS students would back off into a nice little corner and stop ruining the moment. But. That’s just me.

I have class back to back every day from 8am-12pm, and I’m sick of it already. I spent most of my day reading 200 pages of Hemingway because we have to have it read by tomorrow. I’m thinking this summer class thing is a bit ridiculous. Whoever thought that I was going on a cruise with nothing to do but spend time sunbathing and flirting away the sunset was mistaken. I’m studying like I’ve never studied before, and pouring my heart out on pages to be read aloud in class. Why oh why didn’t I take electives? What’s more odd? Semester at Sea honors no weekends…that’s a joke. We do class every day that we’re at sea…so tomorrow, I will be in class, and Sunday I will be in class, and I will be in class until my birthday, which is our first port of call, our first day of land. And believe me, those are reasons enough to bolt from the ship and start having “moments”. Oh yes.

I also wanted to thank everyone for the comments that you’ve been leaving on my blog. I cannot write back, but I receive every comment in my SAS email, so feel free to keep producing feedback for me. I have my SAS email, and I would love to hear about your summer and life and anything that is going on back on land.

aacookseykramer@semesteratsea.net

I love and miss you all. Thank you for all of the comfort and support you’ve been giving me these last few days. I will keep you updated once I have more news (or at least some exciting stories!).

finding my niche

It's been 3 days. I've been aboard the ship for 3 days, and I am trying to get over homesickness, believe it or not. It's hard to imagine me being homesick as excited and ready to get away as I was on land. But when you have no friends, and no way to communicate to anyone familiar on land, life becomes a message in a bottle. Yes, Michelle is my roommate, but poor girl has been sea sick for the past three days, and I've kind of done my own thing, letting her sleep it off. I miss everyone terribly. I’m going through that awful awkward stage of introducing myself to people, waiting for the friendship thing to happen, wanting desperately to find my niche. Finding one’s niche is not as easy as it may seem. It’s Freshman year at college and we’re playing icebreakers and trying to remember first names, except that everyone here already seems to have those bonds. Girls go to dinner in groups of ten, and sunbathe in groups of thirty. Guys slink along behind the girls, hoping for more than dinner, I’m sure, and as I watch, I can’t help but wish I was home.

Now don’t scoff and throw your arms up wildly. Believe me, I’m trying to make the most of my time here, I am. But I’m not the kind of person to throw myself haphazardly into conversation just to have someone to chat with for five minutes. Once we get on land, I’m sure the situation and feelings with change drastically. I just need time to adjust. I think I’m still experiencing shock.

I started classes today. I have three classes all back to back from 8am-12pm. It certainly makes my afternoons free, but who wants that freedom without anyone to enjoy it with? I need to be busy, and I already have to finish a novel by Saturday, which is crazy, but I’m grateful for the time spent not thinking about home. Speaking of Saturday, I have classes for seven days straight. It’s weird, ripping off the pages of my calendar and seeing “Saturday” and “Sunday”, and getting in the shower at 7AM. Yuck.

The food is okay, because I told you I would keep you updated, Moni. J It’s very buffet, very cafeteria style, but we have foreign waiters who come and refill our drinks and take our plates away. That’s about the only difference. I cannot wait for real food in the countries. I want the real deal, the Spanish menus, and Greek fish markets. I want the spicy-ness and fishiness and freshness of the Mediterranean.

Well, that’s all I have for now. More details and stories later. Need to go find someone to awkwardly eat dinner with. J

The Shoe Shop

Nova Scotia. It’s a lot bigger than I ever could have imagined, and the name alone covers so much territory. Once my family and I drove off the Catamarin (sp?), we plunged through customs and into the abyss of forest that would lead us to Halifax, Canada to pick Michelle up from the airport. It was a good 3.5 hour stretch…and here I thought Nova Scotia and Halifax were the same thing. Canada never fails to surprise me. The incredibly long drive to the airport consisted of trees and a few glimpses of the Atlantic, but mostly straight stretches of trees. Let’s just say I pretended to sleep most of the way there because I couldn’t bare to stare out into green blurs any longer.

We arrived to the airport and found Michelle without luggage. That was the first horror. The second horror was the realization that she didn’t have any clothes, any tolietries, anything to take onto the ship except her passport and laptop. I wanted to cry for her. Then we finally figured everything out and customs will mail her luggage to her sometime in the morning, thank goodness. I was ready to share my clothes and anything else she may have needed. I’ve only lost my luggage once and that was from Heathrow in London going to JFK in New York City. It was nightmarish.

Once we arrived to our destination in Halifax, my family took the tour of the boat while Michelle and I chatted up a few students going on the trip with us. Grace and Eric. I had the keys to the beast and we hadn’t eaten anything, so the four of us went to dinner at some bar called The Shoe Shop. It was slightly awkward, but once we all warmed up to each other, conversation slid easily across the table.
Tomorrow morning, June 16th, at 8:20am, Michelle and I will officially board the MV Explorer. I am giddy and nervous and excited. We will have to go through tight security and customs and fill out a mountain of paperwork, but once we are on that ship, it’s all over.

We are both pretty stoked, and freedom has never felt so close. Let the waters roar and the motors thunder. Let the fun begin!

"He has you on a pedestal and me in his arms.."

...this is not only a great elevator quote in an amazing film, but it also pertains to the biggest affliction my heart is feeling right now. I am currently sitting in an uncomfortable (and quite stiff) chair in a really cool hotel that overlooks the Atlantic Ocean (Bar Harbor style -- or if you prefer, Bah Haba!)


My family and I drove 11.5 hours today from PA to ME, and the latter state happens to be one that took my breath away and stole my heart five years ago. For some, that description would pertain more toward a person...but it's me, and Maine is it.


It's a funny thing. They (implement whoever you think "they" should be) say that 'home is where the heart is', but in this case, I beg to differ. I don't know anyone from Maine, no relatives or friends. I don't have a Maine accent (but I'm thinking I can pick one up pretty quick!), and I don't have any particular reason to be so attached to ME. After all, it's cold, dreary, and started to downpour the minute we drove over the state line. It's far from anyone familiar. It's a completely democratic state (Oops. Yes, I went there.) ...and it looks exactly like Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, and Connecticut.


So, what's the big deal? Why Bah Haba, Maine?


...Why does anyone fall in love with anyone? The way he walks, talks, lives life? Bar Harbor, in particular, is brimming with authentically charming shops. It has the most gorgeous and peacefully remote view of the ocean. And the people seem to always be smiling. Now, that might be because they know we are tourists (is it our lack of accent?), or just because it's a bit touristy. But I lived in Orlando for 13 years -- I know touristy, and would not describe Orlando as "charming" or even "dainty".


The idea of Moose(s) is oddly appealing. I want to walk in the woods and see a moose. I really do. The first time we drove to ME a few years ago, I saw one on the side of the road. I almost had a heart attack. They are huge. HUGE.


Tonight for dinner, I ate the true "Maine" meal. A whole entire lobster (It was looking at me the entire time...I gagged, and then broke its body in half, gagged and broke apart its tail, gagged and scooped out the littlest piece of meat from each leg. It was wonderfully gag-worthy, delicious), a hearty portion of clam chowdah, and the most amazing slice of Maine blueberry pie ala mode. I'm thinking that when I go to Heaven, that's the dinner I would like to sit down and eat every night. Let me tell you.

It's not all about the seafood feasts or quaint shops. It's the entire atmosphere. The town breathes in culture and artifacts and sea-legs. People know who they are in Maine. They have an identity. They call sprinkles "jimmies", and they say "suppah", and they have lobster races across kitchen floors. It's that luring, attractive "fisherman's" quality that must draw me in. Every moment I spend here is like a day on the sea. I feel like I should be sleeping in the cabin of someone's boat, peeling my own shrimp and bating my own hook.

I feel at home and it's nothing like my home. I have Maine on a pedestal and Pennsylvania in my arms.

Catch you on the ship in just one more day! :)

breaking the ((alabaster)) jar

I finally broke my jar today. It needed to be done. Six months worth of sporadic collecting and this is what I've come up with.

It doesn't look like much, but the eyes can be a decieving thing.

I collected (in cash, that is), a whopping total of $525.65, all spending money for SAS.

see ya later, alligator.

I said a goodbye tonight to a friend whom I will miss dearly. It's hard, isn't it? We ate dinner, and chatted over a mini-baseball game and icecream. It was fun, and it was sad. I won't see most anyone from home until November once I leave in a few days, and I forget how sometimes, goodbye's are the toughest difficulties to overcome.

There are songs, millions of songs, that remind you of that person.
There are places where you always hung out.
There are times that I will be in Croatia, or Greece, and wish desperately that so and so was here to witness this awesomeness with me.

I have a few more goodbyes to lend out, a few more hugs to offer before Sunday. And those will be just as sad. It's always sad, because who wants to be left behind? Who wants to let go of a meaningful embrace? A wonderful conversation?

I'm not the one who is being left behind this time, however, but I am leaving people behind for whom I care deeply. My family first and foremost, and then my friends.

I once was naive enough to believe that goodbyes would get easier as I became more experienced with them. Saying goodbye to family and friends before I left for college that first year was treacherous. It was harsh, and awful, and full of silent weeping. Saying goodbye to college friends after my freshman year at college was rough, difficult, and hurtful. After just getting to know those friends, we would be seperated by UPark the following year.

Then Sophomore year came, and saying goodbye to my family became a bit easier...just because I was used to living without them for periods at a time. But that didn't make Sophomore goodbyes any easier. I cried bitterly upon arriving home from my Sophomore year at school, because I'd become closer to a few people who are now transferring to UPark in the fall.

Amazing, isn't it? Goodbyes never get any easier, but frightfully harder. They never become less sad, but more heartwrenching.

I realize I'm not leaving forever, but suddenly, it feels that way. So...
Auf Wiedersehen
Adeus
arrivederci
αντίο
до свидания
さようなら
안녕
vaarwel
au revoir
Goodbye and I'll miss you terribly. But I will be back soon with stories upon stories, and a worldly smile upon my face. Won't that be worth the leave?

not quite in panic mode yet

I leave in a meager four days. My bags are not packed, I have not made lists, I am not trying to make many plans to squeeze people in for last goodbyes.

I think this is the part where I start to panic, and wonder what else has been on my mind these past few days.

pocket moments

Every year since 8th grade I've had my birthday party out at our cabin. Rustic doesn't really even begin to define the experience, but it sure does explain a lot. No running water, no electricity, logs out by the fire, toads clicking their throats by the pond, an outhouse with two (yes two!) seats, bugs everywhere, and a uniquely-smelling two-story cabin that my great-grandfather built with his own two hands. It's certainly an experience, if not one that many people might enjoy, one that we can all laugh and exclaim, "Remember when!" later.

 

This year was a bit different from all the rest of the years. Something felt off, like the toads were louder than usual, or the cabin didn't smell quite as musty. It really had nothing to do with these guesses, and I still can't quite put my finger on it, but I'm thinking it has something to do with age. We're all about to turn 20, 21, 22 and we're sitting around the campfire, quietly sipping Jones and reminiscing about the 'old times'. It's somehow not the same. Don't get me wrong...this time was just as great as the others, but it didn't feel quite normal. We didn't play drop-off, and not as many people spent the night with us on that famously bug-littered cabin floor.

 

We made mountain pies with yummy pizza filling, and littered the fire with marshmallow roasting sticks. We sat around and played Catchphrase, giggling with early morning goofiness, no alcohol needed. All it takes to make me act a little tipsy is simply sugar, good friends, and the wee hours of morning. I'm a naturally giddy person. It sprinkled off and on, and as I felt the rain drops softly pelt my skin, I watched my friends.

 

We each sat, huddled into our chairs, hoods up. Laughter spilling through the forest, and hair sticking sweetly to our rosy cheeks. One friend mentioned to me that I have a knack for bringing people together who wouldn't normally have ever gotten together. I realized that this rings true. I brought together people who, if not for my party, would have maybe wondered about each other in passing, and then left those thoughts behind. It's maybe a knack, but also a weird habit of mine. I'm often times a magnet for awkward situations and conversations, and as I think every year about my parties, I tend to think they all might be a little awkward because of my invites. But that was not the case this year, and it has never really been the case.

 

As I lay in my sleeping bag at 4 in the morning, awake and aware of my surroundings, I thought to myself that this might be my last cabin party. Who knows where next summer might take me, where I'll be, what I'll be doing...there are certainly a slew of possibilities and circumstances that could keep me from having another summer party. I think that might have been the issue with this year. It carried a different aura because my mind was whirling with the possibility of this year being the 'last year'.

 

I wasn't as talkative this year because I would catch myself watching. Watching the way my friends would animatedly converse with each other, watching the glow of the coals, watching my friends sleep because once we get to a certain age, sleep overs are not the same anymore. Nothing is really the same anymore.

 

I thought that maybe if I watched more than I talked, I could catch everyone exactly as they were in those moments by the fire. Capture those tiny moments and put them in a safe place to pull out later for a conversation containing some form of "Remember when!". I want to keep certain moments tucked safely away in my back pocket, because some things don't last. And I would be heartbroken should this party be a fleeting second, a pass over memory.

 

"There is nothing permanent except change itself." --Greek proverb

Rusted rides and the Claw

Kids with sticky fingers and a mess of icecream on their lips ran around in circles near my feet, seemingly playing tag. The small-town band sang the lyrics of an unfamiliar country song, wailing and jiving their hips. The members must have been in their late thirties or forties. Lights blinked on and off in front of dirty game stands, their owners leaning in boredom against the counter, caring very little if they recieved business from those sticky little kids or not. Skeeball. Basketball. Duck grab. Win a free fish. I swear, those goldfish that you win by tossing the ball in the glass jar...those suckers live forever. Everyone seems to think that they will die around the same time you pull into your driveway, but I swear, they are immune to death. Even if you never feed them. A ferris wheel squeaked round and round carrying people with death wishes and ride-night wristbands. The bright yellow slide sent screaming children on burlap sacks to their parents, who talked hurriedly on cell phones at the bottom. Rap music blared obtrusively from the dark innards of the alien spaceship. I still don't know what the name of that ride is...or if it has a formal name at all. I've always just called it the alien spaceship. People walk by eating hot sausages, cheesesteaks, fries. Cotton candy, funnel cakes, caramel apples.

I've always been amused by our small town carnival. We also have a fair, which is much larger and great for people-watching and gross-animal-petting, but the carnival comes first and lasts for a week. So, I feel it my duty, my obligation, to attend the carnival and people-watch. I would have brought my camera, but I hear that's a bit creeper-ish. That never stopped me before. What's better than catching strangers in their natural habitat? Especially in black and white?

As I stand there, pretending to listen to the band (which I have to say would have been tolerable if I enjoyed country twang), I do what I do best. I watch. I listen. I probably stare more than I should, but only my good friends call me on that. I should probably nix that habit before going over to foreign countries...

-Tweens pull their friends' wrists, talking animatedly about who showed up to the carnival tonight, and who seems to be absent. Apparently their relationship status on Facebook depends on which grungy guy gives them the hairy eyeball.
-Grandmothers huddle together at a table, eating pie and sipping milkshakes. I vow to one day be like those peaceful-looking older ladies. Who wouldn't want to sip a milkshake and converse about the latest perm-gone-bad over cherry pie?
-Sweaty boys dip fried foods in hot grease, shaking salt/powdered sugar/what have you on each sold item.
-My sister pokes me with tears in her eyes and tells me a heart-breaking story about how she found a dollar on the ground and now daddy won't trade her four quarters to put in the claw machine so she can win an ipod. I take her dollar and give it to the soda stand guy who in turn gives me four shiny quarters back. I place those in her palm and she leads me eagerly to the Claw.
-I run into two girls who graduated with me, and we briefly talk about the murky waters near each of our campuses, and what we are currently majoring in. It was very enlightening.
-Groups, lots of groups, congregating everywhere like buzzing flies.
-I meander through the throngs of people, my sister's hand tucked safely into mine, and point to different rides that are sure to break down while we are watching them. Our pure and honest stares are breaking the nuts and bolts of the grimy machines, I am sure of it. I promise that we will both get wristbands for thursday night and wait in line for these death-ridden, completely dangerous carnival rides. I live for the thrill of every squeak and churn of grinding rusty metal. She eagerly agrees with me and I know at that moment that she must me my miniature sisterly soulmate.
-A boy with a sly smile playing on his lips leads a girl behind one of the dirty game stands. Some things are not meant to be seen.

If I would have taken a journal with me, or my camera (set on black and white), I could have recorded many more observations. But I saw what I could, and remembered what stuck out the most. Sometimes a situation can't be fully remembered, but what you do remember is surely what you felt at the time.

"Discovery consists of looking at the same thing as everyone else and thinking something different." - Albert Szent-Gyorgyi

Gym Class Conversations

Friday night football. Tennis season. Gym class. German. Secrets. Locker rooms. Teachers lounge. Announcements lady. Awards banquets. Prom. Clubs. Math class. Secrets. Teachers that never taught. National Honors Society. Musicals. Report cards. Agendas. Note passing. Dressing up. Dressing down. Secrets. Dances. 6AM. Pep rallies. May Day. Bonfires. AP classes. More secrets.

 

I don't miss high school. Not even a little bit. I don't miss the classes, or those teachers who sat at their desks talking on cell phones when we couldn't. I don't miss the sports, or the clubs, or the long, drawn out hours. I don't miss playing tennis on a team that I could care less about. I don't miss the complicated way of asking people out, or most of my classmates who truly believed that we didn't have a clique problem. Yeah. Okay. I don't miss pretending to understand why friends were mad at you one minute and hugging you the next. I hated that the most.

 

And yet. Every time I'm home, I open my bedroom blinds and stare at the high school that consumed 5 years of my life. I watch kids walk around the track in their gym shorts and over-sized T-Shirts, and imagine they are talking about weekend plans, or how pointless gym class was, anyway. That's what my friends and I talked about when we were in their place. I'll sit on the porch and hears announcements being made, or bells blaring to signify the end of one class and the beginning of another. I remember walking through those halls, waiting for my friends at lunch, sitting quietly in classes, sneaking out of 9th period every chance I got so I could grab my backpack and book it out of there as quickly as humanly possible. There were plenty of aspects I enjoyed, sure, but once you've tasted college, who wants to go back?

 

I can't help but wonder if they know, though...those kids walking the track during gym class. I truly wonder if they know that one day, they probably won't be friends with most of the people they pass notes with now. I distinctly remember a gym class conversation I was having with a friend days before our senior graduation. I remember being so excited, so ready to move on with my life, to bust out of the mold high school smothered me in. Not a cloud was in the sky, and the weather couldn't have been more perfect. We were talking about keeping in touch, and how that wouldn't be a problem for us, because really, why would it? We were incredibly close, and had been for years.

 

No one ever mentions that the biggest difference between college and high school is not necessarily distance, and not really the fact that you're way busier than you ever were before. No, the biggest difference is that you forget. You grow up. You realize that gym class conversations were never really anything but gym class conversations, and that before high school graduation, you didn't know a thing about anything. Life happens. Conversations now are not completely different than those that escaped in high school halls, but they are not typically with the same people. These conversations are with people who never took gym class with you in high school, and had to learn how to spell your first and last name correctly. Not that one is better than the other...they are simply different.

 

I wonder sometimes what it would be like to go back to being a high school senior with the knowledge and two years of college under my belt. I wonder if I wouldn't care as much, or if I would be more vocal and just tell people how I feel instead letting emotions and arguments fester. I wonder if I would be more intelligent, if I would have gotten a higher score on the AP English exam, or if nothing would have bothered me like it used to.

 

I wonder, and then I sigh. I'm glad I don't know. Some pieces of life are meant to be immature, and stupid, and careless. It makes it neat to look back and realize that high school was how it should have been, and as much as I don't miss it, it needed to happen exactly how it did in order to make me into the person I am now.

 

"When you leave here, don't forget why you came." Adlai Stevenson