I don't care about objectivity. Portugal is better than France.

A bunch of travelers and I were sitting around the table in the hostel common room in Porto, Portugal. The owners of the hostel were there, too. They were serving us cake as part of their Portuguese dinner. "I have a cake, too!" said a peppy French woman, a fellow solo traveler. She dashed upstairs to her room and returned with a flat piece of bread, glazed with something that looked very sweet and topped with nuts. "In my town, it is tradition to break. Like this!" She raised a fist.

"You pound your fist on the cake?" I asked.

"Yes. Is tradition," she said. She then asked us to clear our glasses of wine (Port wine, of course. A Porto specialty.) and invited the hostel owner to smash the cake with her. As expected, the cake split into several pieces and everyone tried one. It was quite good. I didn't expect to learn so much about France after leaving the country for Portugal.

One of the reasons I came to Portugal was because the hostels are supposed to be among the best in the world. For just $20 a night, I can get a quiet bed to sleep in. Because the hostel scene is so competitive, my booking also often included breakfast. My room had a patio for soaking up the warm sun that shines on the banks of the river this time of year, and the balcony on the roof of the hostel looked out on the city of Porto, which lies across the river from the city I stayed in, known as Vila Nova de Gaia.

Porto is gorgeous. It's not big, but it's built into a cliff. Cars drive up and down its impossibly steep ciffs, and the famous Luis I bridge offered the best views of the city. I've wanted to come here for a while and kept putting it off, but I'm so glad I finally made it.

There was this sandwich called the Francesinha that consists of several layers of cheese and meats. It's coated in this sauce thats equal parts sweet and spicy. And my goodness, is it delicious. It feel like it'd sell well at fairs and carnivals across America. But really, I just want a chance to eat one again.

Easter Monday

The next zombie apocalypse movie could be filmed in Tours, France. There wouldn't even need to be a specially designed set. When I left the apartment I was renting in Tours for the one night I spent in the city, I didn't see a single human until I was quite a ways down the road into the city center.

I wanted to see France outside of Paris, though, so there I was.

To Tours' credit, the city probably isn't always that empty. The day after easter, the only day I spent exploring Tours, is a major holiday in France. Most shops are closed and people are home from work, which probably kept residents home. I did see a woman walking with a baguette sticking out of a shopping bag. It was really... French.

Tours wasn't all bland, though. There are houses in the town center from the middle ages that made me feel like I was in a fairy tale for a moment, and when I wandered across the bridge that crosses the Loire river, I encountered a more rural, agricultural part of France that had a charming church and a pretty view. There were even people in the park on the riverside on their day off. People!

This place would be a lot easier if I knew French

On my last night in Paris, I climbed the steps up to Sacre Coeur, a huge church on a hill. The top of the hill that the church sits on offers the best free view of Paris. I stood on a grassy patch and looked out at the seemingly endless expanse of white six-story buildings and yellow lights. A man walked across the grass and sat near me. He had a motorcycle helmet in his hand. A woman sat with him. They exchanged words in French as they enjoyed their drinks while looking over the city. In that moment, he seemed like the coolest man in the world.

I wasn't too far off from radating that degree of coolness, though. The girl I've been dating was in London last week, and she took the Eurostar to Paris with her friend to see the city for a day. The three of us went on a grand tour of Paris before winding up at the Eiffel Tower, sitting on the Champs de Mars and taking pictures and laughing as the sun cast long shadows on the grass. There was something sort of surreal about hanging out on the grass that evening with someone I'd only met two months prior. Some couples wait their whole lives to see Paris, famed for its romance, together. My parents didn't come together until they were in their 40s. And yet here I was, and it felt pretty normal. Both of us have traveled quite a bit, which might put a damper on how much of a crazy, big deal this should be. I didn't have a motorcycle, though.

That said, Paris should not be famed for its romance. The city is loud, dirty, and I saw at least two homeless people peeing in the streets. I feel like I'm supposed to, but I just don't like French food. I might be too American to enjoy those small portions and limited restaurant menu choices.

Laurel met us in Paris, since at this point in the trip I was still with my parents and grandparents. She flew from Spain. The six of us did have a good time walking the wide boulevards and going out to dinner, but Paris will never be my favorite city.

On the last night in Paris, after I was done looking over the city from Sacre Coeur, I wandered behind the church and noticed that I heard live music. I looked into one of the restaurants, where every seat was full and every single person in the restaurant was singing along in French with the guy playing his acoustic guitar. It looked tremendously fun, but I was on the outside looking in. That's how I feel about Paris, though. Sometimes it feels like everyone loves France, wants to go to France, thinks it's the dream trip destination. By the time my train left yesterday, it was starting to grow on me a bit, but I still don't think Paris is for lovers.

Amsterdam, family style

"Some tourists think Amsterdam is a city of sin, but in truth it is a city of freedom. And in freedom, most people find sin." -John Green

Before I even knew I was taking this trip, my parents had booked their flight to Amsterdam. "Get an apartment near the canal belt," I told them. "That's the really pretty old part of the city." My mother took my advice, and the apartment we rented for the few days we were in Amsterdam was a charming canal house with very step stairs. Old wood floors massaged my feet each morning when I woke up. I met my family in Amsterdam on Saturday morning.

While I found the old canal house charming, my grandparents thought otherwise. They said that the showers were not working right, the closet doors were unhinged, and the rooms were not well lit. Admittedly, the bathroom door came unhinged, which was a problem that needed to be fixed immediately. The apartment owner, however, dealt with the problem promptly. I had a very pleasent stay at the apartment, but my grandparents would likely not give the same positive review. I love traveling with my family. They pick the best restaurants, and the constant companionship is nice. When I do , however, I understand that I give up a few freedoms I have when I'm traveling on my own. The walking pace slows and I am not always the one deciding what I do each day.

The apartment we stayed in was right on was right on the Prinsengracht canal. Since we were only steps from the Anne Frank House, that was the evening activity on the first night. It was interesting to see the famed bookcase and the annex inside what would otherwise have been an old canal house, had a diary and World War II not immortalized the home. Most intersting of all, however, was that Anne Frank was revealed as a teenager, rather than a Holocaust victim. There was a wall of movie star pictures that Anne collected. One day, towards the end of the war, an announcement on the radio asked people to hold on to any writings or pictures related to the German occupation of The Netherlands, as these would someday be historical documents that could be published. Anne, excited by the thought of her journal being published, asked her father to make sure that her writing reached a publisher if she did not survive the war. Her diary was, in part, published as part of a teenage girls' desire to be remembered. While we remember Anne Frank as a Holocaust victim, she was also a teenager with her own personality, hobbies, and interests. This humanization of history, I think, is often forgotten when discussing wars, politics, and international relations.

Outside our apartment, tour boats floated lazily on the canals. The Dutch pedaled their single-speed bikes quickly along the quiet canals. The next morning, we toured the huge Rijksmuseum. I noticed that, based on his self-portrait, Vincent van Gogh would fit right into Portland or Bushwick or any other American hipster mecca. With his beard, felt hat, and vacant stare, he'd fit right in with the oft-mocked urban uppies of North America.

My mother asked a few times to go to the Red Light District. When we finally went last night after dinner, my parents and grandparents were more uncomfortable than I was. I'm not sure what to make of this, but it was certainly interesting to watch their reactions as we strolled through the rows of ladies posing seductively in the tall windows.

Today we're leaving Amsterdam together for Paris. With all the Gouda I ate in The Netherlands and all the Brie I'll eat in Paris, I sometimes feel like I'm on a cheese tour of Europe.

Haarlem Shake

Fresh and well-rested (Heh. Heh.) off the night train, I stepped into the sunshine in front of the Haarlem train station. It was noticably warmer here than it was in Copengahen, and all of the trees seemes to be in bloom. It felt like The Netherlands was greeting me with a warm springtime hug.

I walked through the sleepy town of Haarlem, a small city just 20 minutes from busy Amsterdam, and made my way to the next hostel. Everything here seemed so quiet. A few locals were out on their bikes, riding across town, but there weren't many people around, and everything was very quaint. Above me, a large church rose above the pretty Dutch houses along the canal.

I rented a bike in the city center and rode out of town. My destination was Keukenhof, a very famous flower garden that attracts visitors from around the world, but only during the eight weeks of the year that it's open. On the way to Keukenhof, I pedaled along a canal and suburban houses, but the developed land eventually opened into massive tulip fields, all in bloom. The flowers seemed to change the green earth into a rainbow carpet of blue, white, red, and yellow. The flat land and flower fields expanded for miles. The blooming flowers were a welcome sight, especially since both Connecticut and Denmark were still wearing their drab winter colors. Spring, it seemed, had finally arrived. As I rode closer to the flower garden, there were campers parked alongside the road, presumably belonging to Keukenhof visitors. Their license plates were from across Europe - France, Italy, Switzerland, Belgium.

After a relaxing lunch stop on a cafe patio in Lisse, the town in which Keukenhof is located, I parked my bike with the hundreds of others in front of the flower garden. Keukenhof was worth the hype. The flowers radiated across the huge garden. I'm not someone who's innately interested in flowers, but even I appreciated the beauty of the garden, even as it waged war with my allergies.

I pedaled into Haarlem at around 5:30. I returned my bike and grabbed dinner, turning into the hostel rather early. The next day, my parents were flying into Amsterdam. Their plane landed early. The next morning, I was off to Amsterdam.

Riding the Overnight Train from Denmark to The Netherlands

What it's like riding an overnight train from Denmark to The Netherlands. I don't think this is the night train Jason Aldean was singing about.

Hour 1: Boarded the train in Copenhagen at 6:45 in the evening. Found the compartment on the train that will be my home for the next fifteen hours. Chat with the only other guy in the compartment a Swedesh guy who's riding the train to visit his girlfriend, who lives all the way in England.

Hour 3: An older woman entered our compartment and, when the conductor checked her ticket, she asked for the seats to be made into beds. The conductor then flipped the seat backs up to make six sleeping places, beds stacked three high on each side of the compartment. Shortly after, the German police came on the train to inspect passports. They had a hard time finding my stamp. I listened to the local radio, which had a mix of European pop music and American hits. I casually wonder if making listening to the radio while traveling a priority makes me old-fashioned.

Hour 4: Since it wasn't too late and everyone in the car was sleeping, I watched The Way Way Back on my tablet. It was good, but nothing too memorable. A fourth person joined our compartment. He carried a large backpack.
Hour 6: When the movie ended, I tried to sleep. A group of men were having a loud conversation in the next compartment, and the walls were thin. Lying down was more relaxing than sitting, but the jolting of the train car wasn't entirely conductive to sleeping.

Hour 7: Apparently, I had fallen asleep, since I drowsily awoke when the train pulled into Hamburg at just before 2:00 AM. I have no idea who decides to catch a 2:00 AM train, but there were a few people on the platform.

Hour 8: A while later, in Hannover, the train was stopped for a while as it was broken off and sent in different directions. When I boarded the train in Copenhagen, not all the cars on the train were going to Amsterdam. Some were headed to Switzerland and others to the Czech Republic. This is where the cars split up and joined different engines to take them where they needed to go. The older woman in the bunk below me was snoring quite loudly for a while.

Hour 11: I slept for a while after that. I awoke to the conductor announcing that we were 30 minutes from Cologne. All three of the people in my compartment woke up and packed their things. When the train pulled into the huge German train station, I was the only one left in my compartment.

Hour 13: I switched the beds back into seats and watched the daylight grow brighter. The train crossed the border into The Netherlands, but no one checked my passport. Flowers and trees are in bloom here. Back in Denmark, everything was still in its winter slumber. Here, nature is blooming.

Hour 15: Despite the mildly restful sleep, I step off the train in Amsterdam feeling ready to tackle the day. I bought a ticket and caught a small train to Haarlem, where I'll spend the night. In a real, actual bed this time.

Scandinavian Sun

My flight was delayed three hours leaving New York. Instead of being dissappointed, though, I was really glad that I didn't have to rush eating dinner and getting to the airport. It rained, though. It rained so much in New York that my jacket and shoes were soaked before the trip even began. I shivered as the bus wound its way through Queens to the airport.

The plane finally took off from a foggy JFK, and since I landed in Copenhagen three hours late, I avoided the rain that dampened the city earlier in the morning. It rains on and off here all spring, but today seems to be shaping up to be a mostly sunny. This city, with its bikes and its chilly weather, is quite nice. I've heard Copenhagen described as a big city that still feels small and humble, which certainly feels accurate. There is a strong culture built around cycling. It seems as though there are as many bikes as there are cars, and people were even biking yesterday as really strong winds whipped through the city.

The Danish word hygge (pronounced hoo-guh), is often translated as cozy, though it has no direct translation in English. It's the nice, comfortable feeling the Danes (well, anyone) feel when spending an evening in with friends and family or curled up by a fire during the cold Nordic nights. So many things here just feel so... hygge. The restaurant I ate fried pork in last night was warm and cozy and hygge. The hostel common room, with its earthy wood tables and friendly travelers like me is hygge. This whole city, really, radiates a homely hygge feeling.

The coziness doesn't come free, however. Copenhagen is the most expensive place I've ever visited, largely because of the high taxes on just about everything. While the taxes support fantastic social and infrastructural systems that I only wish America has - things like entirely publically funded college education for all and separated bike lanes running alongside every street - it's sometimes hard to appreciate these structures when the bill at a rather modest restaurant costs $40.

The hostel here is fantastic. The other people staying here are very friendly, and I've spent hours conversing and playing cards with folks from Germany, Turkey, and Engand. That, for me, can be the difference between a really good stay or a not-so-good stay. If I can chat with other travelers about how their world works and how their country functions differently from the United States, I'm having a really good time.

The Accidental Gap Year

It was the day before Thanksgiving, and I was getting dinner with some friends in Middletown. As Jeannette cooked us a fantastic barbecue meal in the restaurant kitchen, we talked about high school and everything that had happened since. Some of us still lived in the area, but others took trains and buses from Massachusetts and Pennsylvania. I had quite the story to share, as the freshness of quitting my first student teaching placement was still weighing heavy on my mind. At some point during our conversation, my friend Christine mentioned what she calls her "accidental gap year". She missed graduate school application deadlines the year before, so her first year after graduating college was spent at home with her parents and brothers filling out applications and waiting for the next semester to start. It happens to so many of us, the confused generation graduating with only a vague idea of what career we'll pursue. Young adults will inevitably stumble, but not everyone recovers from the stumble smiling and without looking back.

This year, 2013-2014, is my accidental gap year. I have plans to student teach in the fall, but right now it's April. It's been a long year. I've been substituting and tutoring, so I'm working, but I thought I'd be looking for a salaried teaching position by now. And I'm not. I will be leaving for Copenhagen on Monday evening, however.

Laurel is studying abroad, and my parents have had plans to fly out and meet her for several months. Six weeks ago, I realized that I have a really flexible work schedule and I have the money to go to Europe. My trip is significantly longer than the trip my parents and grandparents are taking, but I will be meeting them in the middle for a large portion of the trip. The rest will be done solo. The departure day is quickly approaching, and it's been nearly two years since I've planned my own adventure of this scale. I'll be writing about my days spent in Europe here, in this blog. It feels good to be back here, where I can record my thoughts on my trip. Admittedly, the excitement of an approaching trip is sometimes nearly as good as the trip itself. That said, the trip is where the learning and the stories come from.

I Speak Mandarin With A Little Help From My Friends

I met Stephanie when we were studying abroad in London. She joined me in an adventure to Brussels and Amsterdam, so we've traveled together before, but she's wanted to show me her home city of Taipei for a while now. She had told me about the motor scooters and the amazing food and the friendly people, all of which were present in Taiwan's capital.

What made Taipei different was the group I was with. Stephanie had a few friends vising from the United States, so, with the help of some of her Taiwanese friends, she led us through the city. Our crew of new friends ate the best soup dumplings ever ("You have to eat it right. Bite into it a little first and let the soup fall on the spoon. Then eat the dumpling, then drink the soup"), learned how to pray at Longshan Temple (Put a stick in each pot with your left hand for good luck), and climbed Taipei 101 for... Well, we didn't seem much through the clouds, but we were very high up - higher than any office building in North America.

Knowing the locals has its perks. Stephanie and her friends were our translators and our tour guides for our time spent in Taipei. She introduced me to some of Taiwan's local cuisine. Milk tea is delicious. Pig's blood is somewhat less delicious. Even if I didn't know what I was eating, I was always told after. Sometimes, the identity of the food was hidden so my new friends and I would try it without thinking it was too different from what we were used to. Sometimes, though, that isn't even necessary. Rich was eager to try snake blood at one of Taipei's night markets. He loved it and said it tasted very sweet. Even Stephanie wasn't too excited about that one.

Though some of the meals might seem really strange to those of us raised outside of Asia, I could tell that Taipei's food was really good. Even though I didn't like the grilled dried squid, I knew it was probably the best grilled dried squid available anywhere. The food's just really different. I think it's easy for Americans raised eating typical American foods to go to Italy and love Italian food. The animals-and different parts of animals-used in food here take some time to adjust to eating. The food's excellent, it just sounds really bizarre to us. When I asked one of Stephanie's friends about it, she said American food seems just as weird to them. When I think about it, I know what's in pig's blood. I don't have any clue what, exactly, is in my hamburger.

Freedom of Press

It's okay, I have a good excuse as to why I haven't posted lately. The Chinese government censors certain sites on the internet, including Facebook, Twitter, and, of course, Blogspot. The owner of our hostel called it the Great Firewall of China, a phrase the locals use to denote the censorship.

Guangzhou's only a two hour train ride into the People's Republic of China, the full political name for the place that's considered the most populous country on the planet. It's the first city I've ever visited that's bigger than New York, at 11 million residents. The Metro system is chaotic, with everyone pushing and shoving to get on and off the train. The American rule of waiting until everyone gets off the train before getting on doesn't seem to exist.

On the street level, Guangzhou's pretty crazy as well. Bicycles, which are fading from the city's streets but still a popular means of transportation, carry heavy and bulky loads of cargo and sometimes two or three passengers. The entire time I was in Guangzhou, I did not see a single traffic light. There was only one walk/don't walk sign ("We have to take a picture," Rich said. "It's so rare.") Traffic seems to follow a set of mutually understood rules, but there are no visible signals to control cars on the streets. A bunch of new buildings line the streets, all very tall with lots of glass stretching into the thick layer of smog that coats the city.

Canton Tower is the single tallest thing I've ever seen. It's about 300 feet taller than the Empire State Building. When I got off the metro station by the tower, I couldn't immediately see the top. Not far from the new, enormous tower, however, was an old pagoda. It was one of the few pieces of old China I saw while I was there.

Guangzhou was called Canton during its period of British colonization. As the name implies, it's the heart of Cantonese cuisine. One morning, our hostel owner, Huang, took Rich and I to "drink morning tea," which is the literal translation for the Cantonese term for having breakfast. He ordered us porridge and dumplings, but Rich and I both agreed that the cakes were the best part of the meal. We sat at a round table with complete strangers who spoke Cantonese as we ate. Breakfast was delicious, but neither Rich nor I were adventurous enough to try pig's ears or chicken feet.

The most interesting part of Guangzhou was simply being white. According to Huang, most of the residents of the city are migrants from rural areas of the country, but there are very few immigrants from other parts of the world. It was extremely rare to see any non-Chinese people there, and Rich and I both frequently caught strangers staring in passing or on the Metro. One group of guys about our age even started talking to us in English as they passed on the escalator. It seemed as though people of our race were a rarity in Guangzhou. The stares and the hushed talk and glances by the locals were not so much unnerving as they were interesting. I'd imagine it's tough to live with such a thing on a daily basis, however, which really puts issues such as immigration and racism into perspective.

Where it all Started

Sixteen hours on a plane will do things to a man. We flew over Montreal before shutting the window shade. When Rich opened it again, there was nothing below us but miles and miles of the frozen Arctic ocean. By the tenth hour on the plane, I was exhausted and I had to stand up every so often just to move around. Eventually, all the snow of the arctic faded to the brown and green land of China, and the plane began its descent into Hong Kong. I had boarded the plane at 3:00 on Thursday afternoon. Now, after a twelve-hour time change and a full waking day on the plane, it was Friday evening.

"One day I will travel to Hong Kong."  These were the first words of my college admissions essay. Now, at the  end of college, it seems so appropriate to be here. That essay, which was about how I love exploring the different transportation and infrastructural aspects of cities when I travel, was the precursor to both majoring in urban studies and taking this trip. Back in 2007, I imagined being here and enjoying the streetcars, the busyness of city, and the beauty of the skyline rising above the water but below the cliffs. It's everything I hoped it would be.

Rich and I took the bus from the airport to the hotel. We grabbed the front seat on the top of the bus, as any tourist just off the plane would. A big man sat across from us. He was one of the only other white guys on  the bus. "Where are you from?" he asked with a thick accent. We told him we were from New York, even though I know I might not be able to live there again. He was from Russia. He seemed drunk, but he told us about the city that was slowly growing with each harbor bridge we passed. "People of Hong Kong," he said, "Have two brains. A European brain and a Chinese brain. They understand us." The English only turned their Hong Kong territory over to the Chinese fifteen years ago, so the age of colonization has left its mark here by means of spoken English. This Russian guy said he was here teaching English and translating for students. He had just dropped one of his students off at the airport for a flight home to Taiwan. He said he lived in a tiny apartment on one of Hong Kong's outer islands. He warned us of the heat. Then he said he had sex with the student in the airport bathroom.

On the first morning here, Rich and I woke up to grey skies and the most humid weather we've ever felt. Not only was the lens of my camera fogged over, but the entire camera was damp from the water in the air. We set out early, jetlagged, for Central to see the skyscrapers, ride the world's longest escalator, and see the busiest part of Hong Kong. As we stepped off the rickety double decker streetcar and into Hong Kong's Central district, the skies opened up. We headed for the Central Mid-Level Escalator since it was covered. It's not even monsoon season here, but the downpour seemed to overwhelm the drainage system and flooded the sidewalks.

Tai O is one of the more interesting places we've seen so far. On the end of Lantau Island, Tai O is a fishing village with houses on stilts. It smells terrible from all the seafood that is caught and then dried out and sold, which, to my American eyes, hardly looks like food at all. All over Hong Kong, seafood seems to be sold in two extremes: Either completely dried out and aged, or still alive and swimming in a tank. Of course, the animals consumed are exotic as well - squid, sea cucumbers, and an unidentifiable sea creature that looked sort of like a sting ray are some of the most interesting things I've seen so far. Tai O is the first piece of Hong Kong I've seen in which people do not live entirely in high rise apartments. Instead, some Tai O residents live in houses that are completely open during the day. Their living rooms have retractable walls that pull back from the sidewalk, giving passersby glimpses into the private lives of the villagers. Tai O seemed so quiet and old fashioned, but it was an hour's trip from downtown Hong Kong by local public transportation.

Hong Kong has a really pretty skyline. It speaks English and Cantonese, it's both urban and rural, and, best of all, it's everything I had read about before I wrote my college essay. Fifty year old antique ferries cross the harbor, double decker streetcars slide across Henessey Road, and the MTR (subway) is extremely clean and fast. If this is Asia, I'm a fan.

Life, unscripted

Back in October, I asked Rich if he wanted to adventure through Asia with me. We've been friends since the first week of college. Six months ago, we admitted to ourselves that we probably would be jobless right after graduation (we were right), and we recognized that a trip like this would be difficult to take once we have jobs and wives and lives to worry about. So we booked the flight in November, and then booked shorter flights to get to and from Taiwan and places to stay, and we read a ton of information on what we're going to see and do and eat and experience. Japan's a place we both really wanted to see, but since we're flying that way anyway I also really wanted to see Hong Kong, and we decided to stop a few places in between as well. The final list: Five cities. Hong Kong. Guangzhou. Taipei. Kyoto. Tokyo. We leave next Thursday.

Before we head out into the land of dim sum, temples, and bullet trains, though, we have to graduate. Senior year of college comes to an end Sunday. I've had a great time here at college, but I'm ready to leave. I'm just not sure what's next. I've been applying to jobs across the country, and I've applied to graduate school, but I'm not completely sure what I want yet. I hate all this uncertainty, but it's also pretty cool that I have no idea where I'll be just three months from now. It certainly helps that so few of my friends know what they're doing yet, either. I take comfort in being part of the clueless masses who will toss their caps in the air on Sunday afternoon. Since this trip's been planned since November, though, it's provided a few weeks of certainty in an otherwise very confusing time in life.

Author Junot Diaz came to talk at school this semester. Before he started the formal portion of his talk and reading, he chatted with my creative writing class about writing and school and careers. He told the graduating seniors in the class that this is the start of free-form living. Prior to graduation, there's been a script to follow, and the script's been there since we've been old enough to make any sort of decisions on our own. Wake up, go to school, do homework, have summer vacation, go to college. Then what? Then everyone starts going in all different directions, and some people go to graduate school and some find jobs and some join service programs. Monday, the day after graduation, is my first day of living without a script. It's the first time that there isn't really any pressure to choose one decision or another, and I'm finally free just about anything I want to on my own. It's the start of life unscripted.

The Next Big Thing

I booked a trip today. It's a big one, but different from London. I leave May 24th, just four days after graduation, and Rich is coming. I already have this rush, this good feeling, this energy that comes with planning something big. It's something to look forward to at the end of the school year, or, rather, at the end of school. A celebration. A trip. An experience. Here I go again.

These Streets Will Make You Feel Brand New

This was the best winter break yet. Less than a day after I landed, I went to work at Price Chopper, a big supermarket in the next town. Even though I was just ringing customers up on the register and putting groceries in bags, working was a good way of making winter break go by quickly without spending the whole time wishing I was back at school in New York. Immediately earning back a small portion of the money I spent in Europe.

The snow over break was impressive. Winter seems to have followed me across the ocean to the United States. Over two feet of snow fell on Connecticut when I was home, and New York got another 15 inches last week. On top of this, it's been raining ice on more than one occasion, and there have been smaller snow storms in between. It's been the most snow I've ever seen in my life, by far.

The best part of being back in the United States is being back at school. It's great to be back on campus with my friends, even though a relationship has ended between two of my close friends, other friends have become enemies with each other, and everyone has more work than they seemed to last year. While all of my friends aren't necessarily friends with each other, I am very thankful that they're around. When I talk with the people I studied abroad with, they say one of the things they miss most is the friendly community of our small London dorms. NYU, as they describe it, is a cold, unfriendly school where students keep to themselves and there is no NYU community, just New York City and a bunch of students living in apartments. Manhattan College isn't like that. Manhattan College is a friendly place.

My dorm room has become a shrine to all that was good in Europe. A map of London hangs above my desk. Most nights, before going to sleep, I lie in bed and flip through my book of pictures from my trip under the collage I made of all my ticket stubs. A newspaper hangs on my wall with a front-page picture of the crowds at Heathrow from the day all the flights got canceled. I love New York, but I love London, too. Maybe even more.

I've been in a good mood despite being really busy around school. It's a combination of being really glad to be back and finding a new appreciation for things I missed while I was away and feeling like everything's a little new again. I was falling into a rut, getting a little sick of the routine, by the end of sophomore year, but now I feel refreshed. Everyone else who studied abroad says they feel run down already and sick of internship applications already, though. Maybe it just hasn't hit me yet.

I also want to travel more. I've been running searches on everything. Washington, Chicago, San Francisco, Tokyo, Taipei, and Hong Kong. I can't do anything now since I have my own money and internships to worry about (Except Washington, I'm hoping to book that trip soon). Someday, though, I'll get to all these places.

On Wednesday a Rwandan Genocide survivor came to give a talk at my school. She told her thrilling, tragic story about being trapped in a tiny bathroom in a house for three months while the rest of her family was killed and her village was destroyed. She ended her story with lighthearted anecdotes from the time she was on 60 Minutes and the process she went through to get her book published. She reminded me of an elderly woman who came by my Price Chopper line this summer. At the time, the store was collecting donations to the Hole in the Wall Gang Camp. When I asked this woman for a donation, she declined, saying that camp brought back bad memories. She then rolled up her sleeve, revealing a number tattooed on her arm. She said she was in the Holocaust when she was very young. She got separated from her family, but eventually she escaped "to America. To freedom!" She was really proud of that last part. Both the Rwandan Genocide survivor and the Holocaust survivor were strong. They did not seem to be haunted all the time by memories of their horrible pasts. Instead, they were normal people. Friendly, even, like someone you might talk to if you saw them reading an interesting book in Borders. People like these women are why I can make it through the occasional bad day.

Apologies for the late, not-very-exciting post. Life here is exciting, but not nearly as exciting as Europe. Oh, I miss it.

Song from an American Movie

Arriving home was cinematic. It was like the scene from Home Alone 2 when Kevin finally reunites with his mother after being away for so long; when all the feelings of exhilaration and surprise and the desire for adventure give way to the comfort, familiarity, and coziness of the people and the home you know best. At 11:00 at night on December 23, after 19 hours of flying and sitting in airports, I met my family at Bradley Airport in Windsor Locks, Connecticut for the first time in 16 weeks. I was exhausted, but it was good to be back in the United States.

My flight left London's Gatwick Airport one hour and 45 minutes late. The last time I looked over the snowy English fields, I was sad because I wasn't sure when I'd be here again. It was suspenseful as my plane climbed off the runway and into the overcast sky that was spitting flurries onto the still-frozen landscape. I wasn't sure if I was going to make my connecting flight. It felt like I was in some really good Christmas movie about trying to get home in time for a Christmas Eve dinner with my family, and I was uncertain if I would make it.

I should mention that I was flying 'Premium Economy' class on the upper deck of a Boeing 747 on account of a free upgrade. This was the only available seat to the east coast of the United States I was able to get my hands on before Christmas. The massive backlog of passengers waiting to leave London since Saturday had made it difficult to fly anywhere, even days later. I climbed upstairs on the airplane to get to my seat. The seat was set about a foot away from the window, leaving a space to keep my computer and cup of hot chocolate (purchased with my last remaining British currency) during takeoff. Before the plane even left the gate, flight attendants were offering me and the other wealthy British people sitting near me who were trying to get someplace warm for a Christmas vacation all sorts of free goodies. Wine, cookies, meals served on real china dishes, and socks were just some of the offerings to those lucky enough to fly business class. All the other passengers flying on the upstairs of the plane with me had an upper class aura. They all seemed to have paid for these seats because they liked the luxury, and did not seem to care that there were still people being kept in cheap hotels near the airport trying to get home for Christmas, or that stranded passengers were sleeping in airports, as long as these wealthy Londoners got their Bloody Marys and vacations to the Bahamas for Christmas. Nervous as I was, I savored all of the perks of Premium Economy, since I probably would never fly anything other than regular, cheap, basic economy again.

After nine hours of flying, my plane landed on the Orlando runway under a starry twilight sky. I hurried up the jetway and breezed through the 'Residents only' passport line for the first time in ages, way ahead of the British passengers who had shared the business class cabin with me. I collected my bags and quickly loaded them onto the customs scanner, where I was not asked any questions about the $40 worth of Cadbury chocolate I had brought with me to the United States. I waited for the people mover train, taking a deep breath to absorb the smell of frying grease and stale McDonald's french fries. Welcome back to America.

I re-checked my bags with Jetblue and anxiously waited in line for the metal detector, shoes in hand, belt off, ready to make this the quickest security check yet. It was 7:45 PM. My flight was due to leave at 8:15, and I still had quite a long way to go before I reached the gate. As soon as I was through the metal detector, I saw the lights flashing in the people mover station. The train was leaving. I grabbed my shoes and backpack and ran as fast as I could in socks on the dirty tile airport floor to the train, diving through the doors just before they closed. When the train pulled into my terminal, I was off again, tearing through the crowded airport and arriving at my gate just in time to hear my row called for boarding. I had made it. I slipped on my shoes and boarded the last plane on this trip. Two hours later I was watching the lights of New York City twinkle out the window of the plane, and then watching the suburban layout of Middletown and Berlin grow larger and larger below before stepping onto one last jetway and pulling my bag out from under the seat in front of me one more time. It took me five days, but I got home. The RMS Lusitania sailed across the ocean faster than that in 1907.

It has been four months since I left for London. Since then, I have visited seventeen different cities and towns in eleven different countries. I have spent $5,011.83. I have flown 16,637 miles on eleven different flights. I have visited five of the eleven countries at Epcot's World Showcase at Disney World. Incredibly, after my battle with the London airports two weeks ago, I was able to wake up in my bed in Connecticut on the morning of Christmas Eve, exhausted from four months of travel.

This is a map of everywhere I went since August. I got around.

Study abroad is a learning experience, but, as I tell my friends and family who are at the beginning stages of planning their own study abroad experience, it's not about the classes. I'll do my best not to say I came back a 'changed person' (because really, I think everything that happens to me changes me in a small but significant way; there are no big events that can 'change me' on their own. Or maybe I just haven't really experienced anything really powerful yet.) or dispense soundbites found in any study abroad pamphlet, but here are some of the things I learned while I was away during my time in Europe.

-I really like spending money. This trip has been by far the most expensive thing I've ever done, and it's been amazing. No, money can't buy happiness, but it certainly helps me have a good time. I've already bought ice skates since coming home and I want to buy a digital SLR camera and lights for my bike. I'm addicted. I can't stop spending.
-The British-and the rest of the world-love America for its movies and theme parks and entertainment. We live in a country that turns anything into a spectacular show, and the rest of the world is our audience.
-Conversely, the British say they don't like their own country because the weather is bad and there always seems to be some sort of strike or protest going on. They claim it's all too inefficient, and some of them even want to move out. They know their country's flaws but take pride in its pubs, football, and World War II heritage.
-I used to wonder who filled the flights going from Europe to Orlando since Europeans have their own Disneyland. I now realize that these planes are filled with British tourists who want to see something bigger and better than Disneyland Paris, and the occasional American struggling to get home after a rare London snowstorm.
-As it turns out, it's not just Americans with too much nationalism who think their country is the greatest in the world. Many of the British thought so, too. Some of the people I have met in my travels expressed envy that I was able to grow up in a place as glamorous as the United States.
-Foreigners think America is really violent and everyone carries a gun or a knife everywhere. While our violent crime and gun accident rates are far greater than anywhere in Europe, the British seem to think that the United States is a place where crime happens everywhere. One English woman told me she thought this was because of the frequent violence shown on American TV shows and movies.
-New Yorkers complain about Metrocard fares and suburbanites complain about the cost of gas, but transportation's way more expensive in Europe. Gas costs the equivalent of $8.00 a gallon in the United Kingdom, but it costs $3.25 per gallon right now in Connecticut.
-British food isn't all bad. The British know their way around the deep fryer. Meat pies are delicious. Hummingbird Cupcakes are amazing. Credit where credit's due, though, I'm really missing New York's food right now.
-NYU students all claim to "hate most other NYU students" due to their cynical nature, hipster fashion sense and negative attitudes, but they love their school's reputation and the location of their school (Greenwich Village, of course) and their knowledgeable professors. I, on the other hand, generally like most Manhattan College students because of their sense of humor, positive attitudes, and the east coast suburban upbringing I'm familiar with. I don't mind Manhattan College's reputation, and while it's not as good as NYU's, it does have some very knowledgeable professors. Being in the Bronx has made me respect and love New York's outer boroughs in a way most NYU students do not, especially since most of them think Washington Heights and Morningside Heights are in the Bronx. Even so, I really like the friends I've met this semester. I feel like I did fit in with the other NYU students, being a bit of a hipster and a cynic myself. I hope to see some of the people I've met when school starts again in New York in a few weeks.

Barely surviving without the nice NYU people I met while studying abroad. Dramatization. Reblogged from superpoop.com

-I am an American. Sure, I love British buses and trains and meat pies and the reserved nature of the British and Cadbury Dairy Milk and following the rules. But I guess I thought I'd fit in with the locals better than I actually did. For a while, I thought the desire to live in the United States was a product of nationalist propaganda fed to us at a very young age in the form of learning about the Pilgrims and the Native Americans in third grade. I now realize that it's more of an acquired cultural taste for American life, and I love New York's subway, a summer barbecue, late-night obnoxious laughter, and freedom to break the rules on occasion more than the British way of life. Cadbury still makes the best chocolate, though.

So that's the story about how I studied abroad in London, and in the process I fulfilled a life goal, met new friends, and explored new places. I've had a great time, but next semester it's back to New York to see my friends from Manhattan again, save money faster than I spend it, and prepare for whatever comes after graduation. I'm not sure what will become of this corner of the internet. I might leave it as it is, preserved as a memory of the time I had junior year of college traveling Europe and seeing all types of beautiful, unique places. I might keep writing about life in New York, which will probably turn into an Andy Rooney-style complaint fest about how strange certain aspects of modern college life are. Whatever happens, rest assured that at some point, after I've been home for a rest for a while, I'll continue to go out and explore more. In a word, wanderlust.

Keep Calm and Carry On

It's been a wild last few days in London.
On Saturday morning I walked out to Waterloo Bridge to say one final goodbye to this city that I've been lucky enough to live in for the past fifteen weeks. Snow was pouring from the sky, making a picture-perfect setting on the Thames. Looking back, it was a dumb decision not to bring my camera. Then I went back to the apartment, took my suitcases, and hopped a tube train to the airport. After almost four months of exploring, I was heading home. Or so I thought.

The tube whisked me under central London and emerged from the tunnel, cruising past the suburban landscape of London's outer boroughs. Three stops from the airport, the train stopped at Hounslow Central. It did not move again. There was a signal failure. All passengers had to exit the train and catch a bus a few blocks down. I grabbed my bags and left the train, but forgot my umbrella.

The 111 bus doesn't stop too far from Hounslow Central tube stop, but it seemed like miles away when the sidewalks weren't shoveled and there's snow and ice everywhere. Eventually, with two bags in tow, I arrived at the bus stop, where a bus with a destination sign reading "Heathrow Airport Central" promptly pulled up. Unfortunately, the bus was extremely crowded and I had to carry my bags to the upper deck, but since this would be my last ride on a London double decker, I didn't mind. The bus slowly wound its way through the snow-covered streets of the London suburbs, passing cars that had spun out on the slippery streets and miserable-looking Londoners trudging through the wintry weather.

Just a few stops short of the airport, an automated message told everyone to exit the bus. It was still snowing. I didn't know where I was, but I figured another bus would come along shortly. It didn't. I started walking in the same direction the bus had been traveling. I had left my apartment four hours before the flight was scheduled to leave in case something went wrong, but I was starting to get nervous. I left enough of a buffer for one thing to go wrong, not two or three.

After a very long time of running through the London sidewalks in the snow, I reached the barbed wire fence that bordered the outer edges of the airport. I didn't hear any jet engines running, so I thought flights must have been delayed for the snow. Still, with my luck, I was nervous that mine would be the one flight that left on time and it would leave without me.

The right bus finally arrived. It was extremely crowded. My drenched shoes made a puddle on the floor. The bus stopped at the airport just twenty minutes before my flight was scheduled to leave. I pulled out my passport and boarding pass, grabbed my bags, and ran for the check-in counter, dropping my passport in the process. When I arrived at the terminal, there was a massive crowd of tired-looking travelers sitting on baggage. Some were near tears. It was at this moment when I realized I lost my passport. I began to panic.

I tried to retrace my steps and find the passport, but the mob of passengers was so thick I could not get through to where I had just walked and I could not see the floor. I pulled out my credit card and paid an insane $23 for WiFi use at the airport. I thought I would never see that passport again, so I looked up information on the US Embassy to find out how to get another one. The US Embassy opened on Monday at 8:00 AM. It was 5:30 PM on Saturday. I called my parents and told them I didn't have a passport.

Unfortunately, I was too frazzled to take a camera out in the airport and capture the sight of thousands of stranded passengers bunking down on the floor for the night, so here's a picture someone else took of the scene.

I sat on my suitcase, where a stranded Canadian girl asked me how I got the WiFi. I told her the price was too high, but I was desperate. She told me her flight was canceled, saying 'about' ['aboot'] and 'out' ['oot'] with a Canadian accent. I bit my lip to stop myself from smiling. Then I waited in a line at the information booth, where a good person, for whom I am very thankful, had picked up my passport and brought it there for safe keeping. Passport in hand, I was ready to check in and go home. The flight had not left yet due to the snow, so it was possible I could still make it home.

Almost immediately after I arrived at the check-in area, it was announced that my flight was canceled. The airport was closed because of the snow storm. NYU study abroad students were all around me now, many of them very distraught. I was happy to have my passport and hung around the airport. All trains out of the airport were stopped as well, so no one could return to central London. The hotels at the airport were full. The airport was full, so full that the police were making people wait outside in the snow and ice because allowing any more passengers in would be a fire hazard. Those lucky enough to be inside the terminal curled up and went to sleep for the night. The NYU students and I sat on our luggage and waited, lost and unsure of what to do.

Eventually the tube re-opened. Unsure where else to turn, we hopped a train back to the apartment and asked to be allowed back into the dorms.

Emotions ran high back at the apartment, where everyone was frantically trying to rebook a flight. Everyone, myself included, have been booked on several flights these last few days and have spent several hours on hold on the phone with airlines trying to rebook flights. It has been nearly impossible to leave this country for days, and today is the first day things seem to be clearing up, even though there are a number of delays at all airports. There are few empty seats on the planes that do fly out. My current plan calls for catching a flight tomorrow (Thursday, five days after my scheduled departure) to Orlando and then dashing to catch a connection into Hartford. It will be a hectic day.

There's an article about all of this here.

Despite all this chaos, I have had high spirits through this whole experience. While my friends have been panicking, crying, and frantically calling parents, I have been enjoying a few extra days in London in between the long phone calls on hold with Virgin Atlantic. I know I am lucky to have a place to stay, since many have been sleeping on the floor of Heathrow since Saturday night. I am lucky to have been studying in London, since many travelers got trapped in Heathrow trying to make a connection for days with no luggage and no place to sleep, as all hotels are full.

Since the flight was canceled, I have been taking advantage of my extra days in London. I've had a great time this entire semester, so I don't see why things should be much different now. No one else seems to share my good attitude, however. I am surrounded by angry students who just want to get home. While I understand their frustration, I won't let their negativity ruin my good time.

When I left for London, I wanted an adventure. I never expected an adventure like this.

Like a box of chocolates

"I'm pretty tired. I think I'll go home now."-Forrest Gump

Wish You Were Here

Big Ben, one last time. Love the lighting on this one.

I took my last final this afternoon. I am free.

Now I have a few days to enjoy London and see everything one last time before I go home on Saturday. It's soon. I'm excited to go back to the United States, but not nearly as excited as I was to leave.

Last week I was sick. Yeah, it was bad. And I thought I was going to make it through the entire semester without getting sick once. Who did I think I was kidding?

Last week I also made a list of everything I wanted to do before leaving London that I hadn't done yet. I've been doing the things on that list, like going to the Tate Britain museum and visiting the Christmas festival at Hyde Park, and now the only thing left to do is walk across the crosswalk at Abbey Road.

Thursday of last week was when I was sickest. It was also the day of the protests. Thousands of students who are angry over the conservative government's removal of the price cap on public universities stormed Parliament Square, clashing with police and making international headlines. The UK's public universities are now the most expensive in the world. On Friday, when I passed Parliament Square on my way to visit the Tate Britain, the area was a fence graveyard, and mangled metal fences were stacked five feet high all around the square, litter thrown in between them, as a result of the unrest the day before.

Last week was my last day at the SHINE school. The class gave a formal thank you, complete with a card, and the teacher really seemed to appreciate my help. I was sad to see the class go, since, despite the awfully early morning, SHINE has been one of the best parts of this European experience. I've been stocking up on Cadbury chocolate and thinking about how I'm going to pack all this stuff and take it on the plane. It won't be long now.

Leaving Europe... for the weekend.

This morning I woke up at 5:15 and I'm not sure why. When I woke up, though, I heard a bunch of men singing in Arabic in the distance. In Muslim countries, men are called to the mosque to pray five times a day by a raspy horn that sounds throughout the respective city or town. I guess 5:00 AM must be one of these times, as these religious songs went on for another half hour before quickly dying out. It was very different being in a place so devoted to religion. But different is what I wanted-and expected-when I decided to visit Africa for the weekend.

Marrakesh, Morocco is a lively city in northern Africa. It's made of narrow pathways surrounded by buildings made of clay with stalls selling traditional clothing and hats and jewelry and hookah qalyans and all sorts of other interesting trinkets. One man even carved me and my friend a good luck charm out of wood with his feet and then wrote our names on it in Arabic.

Stop sign in Arabic.

At the center of Marrakesh is Djemaa el Fna, the main square. The square is always filled with activity. During the day, snake charmers control their cobras and acrobats perform stunts. At night, the food stalls open, sending smoke toward the clear, star-filled night sky as the cooks serve up chicken and beef on skewers peppered with Morocco's famous spices.

Me standing at Djemaa el Fna.

Yesterday we rode camels around a park at the edge of town. The camel was tall and the ride was bumpy, but it was a unique experience. In the park there was a pond filled with these giant fish that liked eating the bread that the locals fed them. There were also a lot of really small, cute kittens that looked hungry, so we fed them. I didn't expect cats to be part of the wildlife in Morocco!

Cat in front of a market stall at Djemaa el Fna.

One of my favorite sites on the internet, darkroastedblend.com, features a photo series called "Lords of Logistics," which shows odd, excessively elaborate solutions to seemingly simple problems such as moving large loads from one end of a less-than-developed town to another. Sometimes, in less developed areas of the world, these homemade feats of engineering are the only ways to move people and goods around. In Marrakesh, it was not uncommon for three or more people to be seen riding on one dirty, old motorcycle. Donkeys pulled carts on the exhaust-filled streets alongside the old taxis and cars. To tourists, these seem like relics leftover from an earlier time before trucks and mass transit. The people of Marrakesh, however, see these as regular means of transport.

Two people carrying a large load on a motorcycle.

I miss Marrakesh's weather. It was 75 and sunny yesterday, in sharp contrast to London's consistent 35 and overcast.

This evening I rode a bike for the first time in a month. The 'Barclay's cycle hire,' the city's bike sharing program, opened to non-UK residents on Friday. I rode under the Oxford Street Christmas lights. It was nice to feel the rush of the city from the seat of a bicycle for a change, even though it's chilly now.

Freedom from Want

Yesterday was not Thanksgiving. Not in London, anyway, where everyone just went on with their daily lives without any indication that the last Thursday in November was anything special. It's a bit strange not being at home on a major holiday like Thanksgiving. Sure, I've done it before. When I was in high school I was out of the country traveling with my family for more than one Independence Day. Thanksgiving's different, though. It's a big deal at my house, so it's weird missing it.

In order to keep up with the American spirit, however, my friend who lives across the hall roasted a turkey and invited me to join him in a Thanksgiving party. Ten of us American students gathered around a way-too-small kitchen table. We all shared what we were thankful for and feasted on the best turkey amateur college students can make. It wasn't home, but it was close. I suppose this isn't all that unique. Anyone who migrates to another country seems to want to keep the traditions of their homeland alive, which is why we hear about holidays like Chinese New Year.

I called home via video chat, where all my relatives gathered around a computer where it was Thanksgiving and updated me on what was going on in Connecticut. It made me happy that Thanksgiving was the only major holiday I'd me missing while in London.

These past couple of weeks I've been enjoying London. I went to see Oliver, the musical based on Oliver Twist. I rode the bus over to Portobello Road Market and ate enough really good food to keep me full all day.

It's been cold, by London's standards. It doesn't get below freezing that often in London, even in the middle of winter, but it's November and it's been well below freezing at night. There's talk of snow in the next few days.

I don't want to leave London in three weeks because everything's nice here and I like the city. But I want my American holidays back.