I'll be home for Christmas...

My favorite Christmas song is "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."  It's simple, never too much instrumentation behind it, not chintzy, no sleigh bells and ***SPOILER ALERT*** no fictional Santa Claus.  I love it because whomever is singing it sounds genuine.  At least to me.

As soon as December rolls around, when the air gets that moist chill to it and the sky turns a shade of grey that hints at the possibility of a few falling flakes, it's time to get in the holiday spirit.  Department stores adopt the pop-rock christmas soundtrack, town hall dresses up in a flickering gown and the scent of pine seems to sneak up on you everywhere.  But here's my problem...what... is... it?  What is this elusive mindset that I'm to take on?  Where can I find it?  You can throw a red santa hat on me, I'll wrap gifts, I'll put the star on the top of the tree if you get me a large ladder...but does that mean I'm in the spirit?

Each time this season rolls around I find myself wondering what it means.  To me, Christmas has never been about the religion, I'll admit to that.  As a kid I used to go to midnight mass and fall asleep to incense and hymns, grew up a bit and enjoyed a brass quintet next to the organ, aged a few more years and didn't go anymore.  I am proud to say I've never found it to be about the presents either, but finding those presents under the tree is always a bit magical, even if it's just the fact that someone was in fact, listening to you, when you mentioned a book you'd been meaning to read.  Sometimes I found myself sad around Christmastime, thinking to myself that maybe it's about having someone you want to kiss under the mistletoe.  I'd sit next to my fire at home, the embers still hot, my favorite little spot to be when the house is quiet and dark, I'd look at the beautifully decorated Christmas tree, get ready to send out my "merry christmas" mass text message, and truly not understanding what I was feeling.

But this year, I think I'm onto something.  "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."  I've been sitting here listening to it on repeat, and I realize that everything I've felt about the holiday is summed up and brought to the front by this one common carol.  I think what I've always wanted from Christmas is a reprieve.  For " all my our troubles to be far away. "  Just a day where the world is quiet, where we're not sprinting around, chased by the clock, eyes. on the prize.  If only for a moment, a light heart.  For a second, a hug or a kiss that says I love you with more truth to it than the words could ever convey.  I've wanted those "faithful friends," to know that they mean something, that how they act is out of the ordinary, that they deserve more than a Christmas card signed hurriedly with my name.

So what I'm thinking is, the holiday spirit is breathing.  The holiday spirit is taking a snapshot of your life as it is, and instead of looking at how it can or should be changed instead of wondering if it would've looked better in black and white, you can just be content to look at it, because it's yours.  This leads me to another question I've had, which is why you can't have the holiday spirit all year long.  I suppose it just isn't plausible.  We get caught up in the hustle and bustle, and I'm coming to realize, it's damn near impossible to avoid that.  In fact, I'm coming to realize that's okay, as long as you take breaks.  So that's what the holiday spirit is to me this year.  A break.  A time to recap.  To sit in my house after being gone for longer than I ever have, and love the view.

I have a lot to be thankful for this year.  Come to think of it, I always have.  Maybe I just wasn't listening closely enough.  Maybe there's something about being thousands of miles away from where I've always spent the holidays, and the time before it, that is giving me a different perspective.  Hell it could just be the Christmas Markets and the hot wine.  Whatever it is, I can't wait to be next to the tree in my living room, and that's what it's about, isn't it?  A place you love because of everything and everyone in it?

Who knows for sure.  Just have yourself a merry little Christmas.  

honestly...

You know how they - that proverbial, omnipotent they - always say that honesty is the best policy?  I think they're lying.  Either that or it's a backhanded way of saying what they actually mean, which is, that saying what needs to be said be it lie or truth and dubbing it honesty, is the best policy.  But they can't really say that.  Can they?

Think about it for a moment.  It's easy to say 'always tell the truth!'  Sometimes.  Sure, in the heat of the moment, exclaiming what you really think, or admitting a big mistake can be incredibly liberating.  But how many times have you done that, let something out, that you just wish you could take back?  Not because you want to keep secrets, or want to lie, but because the domino effect that followed was like being punched in the stomach repeatedly, and you realize, shit, this policy was a terrible idea.

Oh what a tangled web we weave when we practice to deceive.  But what if that web is the web that catches you?  Provides a little stability?  

I'm not promoting lying, I've just been thinking that it isn't so simple as 'thou shalt not lie.'  That would be way too easy.  The hardest part about honesty is that it doesn't always work.  It isn't reliable, and that fact is frustrating.  I guess what I'm wondering is, what would a life of pristine honesty be like?  Is it even possible?  If I speak every one of my thoughts, it's safe to say I may make a few enemies.  So what matters most, truth, or keeping things level? 

My love for Lady GaGa grows day by day.

      I love her.  From her oddly shaped and/or oversized sunglasses down to her outrageously feathered and colored stilettos, Lady GaGa is, to me, all that is wonderful.  I mean really, who else is that unapologetically weird and inappropriate?  Marilyn Manson was, but he's just a terrifying individual.  Lady GaGa is just kookily confident and out to entertain.

First let us consider her attire.  Take futuristic punk rock and mix it with cabaret, add a sprinkle of early Madonna, and you've got something resembling Lady GaGa's closet.  Sometimes she basically clothes herself in a bird.  It's like a high fashion catwalk for a perpetual halloween party.

Next, her lyrics.  Are they inspiring us to lead better lives?  Baby when it's love, if it's not rough, it isn't fun...so decidedly not.  Or to question our reality?  I wanna take a ride on your disco stick...no.  Or spark a revolution?  I'm a free bitch, baby...nothing.  But that, friends, isn't the point.  If you're looking for lyrics to live by, or tattoo under your ribs, you may want to avoid the teachings of the GaGa.  But if you're looking for catchy rhymes laced with sexual innuendo and set to an addictive techno beat, go ahead, hold up your glass, and sing along.

Furthermore, entertainment value.  If you say you can't stand Lady GaGa's music, I will believe you to be lying.  Come on.  Because no matter what you say, when GaGa tells you to dance, you will do just that.

13 minutes of paid internet

I'm writing this from a computer in the oh-so-lovely city of London. I paid 1 pound (aka 2 American dollars due to the fact that our economy, for lack of better terminology, fucking sucks) for half an hour of internet use, and after checking my empty email accounts and reading my facebook posts, I have 13 minutes left, and I decided to describe to you why I've decided that my life should be a musical including puppets.

1. Life would be furrier, and ipso facto, cuddlier.
2. Puppets can say any number of innapropriate / rude things and get away with it...because they are puppets.
3. Everything said is infinitely more important and memorable if sung.
4. I would like a walking bass line to accompany my actions, and a violin to harmonize my thoughts.
5. Even a terrible day couldn't be SO bad if I could still dance...with puppets.
6. Avenue Q already managed to document my life and put it on stage in the form of a musical show starring...puppets.

Aside from that London is great. Overwhelming, as many great things often are, London's the equivalent of an unbelievably delicous 7 course meal that is laid before you on an enormous table and you're told you've got one hour to enjoy. I guess I'll be back, Londonown, ready or not, and I haven't even left yet.

a poem inspired by amsterdam

untitled

stab a canvas with a knife 

and what do you find?

behind the paint and texture

is nothing

but torn canvas.

behind the perfect symmetry

centuries of figure study

symbolism and chiaroscuro

is nothing

but blank canvas.

but beauty is so powerful,

the façade so convincing,

the image captivates the eye

and the mind won't admit

the canvas could be bare.

painting is subjective,

a matter of perspective,

so from what artist

do we derive 

our reality?

"doesn't God exist?" you may ask me,

a question meant to function as an answer,

and i'll spare you insincerity.

i'll espouse no set belief

until i've cut the world open and know what's underneath.

is life another Rembrant?

or is it something more?

if i rip apart the sky,

carve off a mountain's peak,

perform a vivisection on an oak,

do I find a vacant canvas,

or another work of art?

There’s something about being awake really late at night or really early in the morning.  Something about the stillness, the darkness, the tranquility.  It leaves you contemplative, makes you take stock of your life, consider what the hell you’re doing.  I wonder why.  There are certain thoughts that you’ll only stumble across when you’re alone, when the rest of the people around you are either asleep or just in another zone of consciousness.  There are some things that cross your mind when you’re sitting by yourself, when the moon and stars are complimented by the light of a candle’s flame.

I think about a lot of things.  Maybe too many.  I think about myself, about the way I fit into the world, the way I fit into the lives of my family and friends.  About people I love, about people I've hurt.  Maybe the darkness makes this easier, you know?  Maybe since the sun isn’t shining, since daylight doesn’t illuminate the scenery, focusing on yourself becomes a bit easier; there are no distractions.  Even if you want them.

  Self reflection is a difficult task, I think.  Its like looking at a funhouse mirror sometimes – you don’t really know what is the real image of yourself.  You see the good, you see the bad, but what does it mean?  I just think that an accurate visual of yourself is hard to find.  I think we all look at ourselves in a skewed fashion so often.  We’re tough on ourselves – I’m too fat, I’m to thin, I need a better tan, I’m not charming enough – or we don’t see our situations clearly – she’s being such a bitch these days, I can’t believe he said that – we’ve got a lot of steam to wipe away before we really see ourselves.  And even when all the bullshit is out of the way, even then it is hard to see ourselves, because sometimes the clear image isn’t what we expected, what we’d been thinking all along.  So maybe when we look and see the truth, it’s different than what we built up and created as reality.  Or maybe it’s just a trick of the moonlight. 

In other news, I went to Norway over the weekend.  Oslo was cold, dark and expensive.  The trip was fun, I saw some pretty scenery, and spent time with quality people.  But I'll admit, I'm happy to be back in a land with sunlight and cheap beer.

Laundrolamentations

Laundry is always an issue.  Murphy must've been washing his clothes when he proclaimed that whatever can go wrong, will.  I cannot tell you the amount of times I've screwed up while doing laundry.  For a brief moment it is comical experience, like when you pluck a sweater out of the dryer and it is now suitable for the wardrobe of  a Chiuaua, or when your white tanks tops are suddenly appropriate for February 14th and only February 14th.  But then you realize... shit.  The sweater I sprung for at J. Crew may now be adorably tiny, but it sure as hell won't fit me, I don't have a puppy, and I hate wearing the color pink.

Laundry plagues me.  Here in Europe it costs me 4 euro every time I want to use a washing machine, and 50 cents for every 8 minutes of hot air I want to use.  So basically I pay 5 euro for 45 minutes to an hour of anxiety, wondering what item of clothing I'll never wear again.  And then there's the socks.  The god damn socks.  Why, for the love of God, do I always lose a sock?  They're not that small, and most of mine are pretty and argyle, so you'd think they'd be clearly visible to me when I go to empty out the machines.  But no, it isn't so simple.  Perhaps the laundromat fairy has it out for me.  Yes, that must be it.  A tiny winged creature, the keeper of suds, must have a penchant for single socks.  She probably gets a big chuckle every time I sort through my clean laundry and am left with a few lonely socks.  I don't mind mismatching them, but I feel so bad when a sock is left without its mate.  I wonder if it's sad when I put it back in my closet, left violently separated from its twin.  Poor little things.

You know what else?  Public displays of undergarments.  When emptying machines, it is inevitable that I will drop something.  Furthermore, said item will in fact be a 'delicate.'  Most likely an item purchased at Victoria's Secret.  No longer a secret, all fellow laundry doers now receive a glimpse into my life.  A glimpse unwillingly given by yours truly.  Then I'll try and pick it up.  3 more will fall out.  I'll chuckle, but really I'm dying inside.  A slow and embarrassing demise I'll endure, and then I'll sit in the presence of those who have just seen my underwear for another 20 minutes while they dry.

Honestly.  Will this ever get easier?  At least a girl can dream - some day, I'll have my own washer and dryer, and my clothes will come out fresh, dry, and not seen by the public eye, and what a glorious day that will be. 

I kissed an Irish...pony

Wins in Ireland:

 

1. While wandering disoriented after a bus-ride from the airport, the hostel appeared on my left side after 1 block.
2. When I asked a man if I could please ask him a question, he responded with, “Oohh why yes, deary, what can I help ya with?” and gave me directions.
3. A tour guide told us to watch the low ceilings by exclaiming, “Now I don’t want anyone to be hittin’ their noggin,” but assured the crowd that, “this one,” meaning me, “hasn’t a thing to worry about.”
4. My first pub experience in Ireland included a Smithwicks and a live Irish band, in which the violin player was such an adorable old man that I wanted to take him home.
5. Perfect Guinness at the Gravity Bar in the Guinness Storehouse, complete with a shamrock in the foam – and the glass made its way home with me.
6. The Guinness Storehouse provided us with shelter from a raging rainstorm.
7. The greatest day of my life*
8. My first taste of Shepherd’s pie...paradise with potatoes on top.
9. Watching a friend get a tattoo she’s wanted for years.
10. Free shots of Jameson during a pub-crawl on Halloween.

 

Losses in Ireland:

1. South American man whom I had to elbow in the ribs to get away from me.
2. The terrible pizza that preceded the event of loss 1.
3. Bad fish and chips**

  So I the luck of the Irish rubbed off of me while in Dublin.  Isn’t that clever?  But really; by far my favorite city so far, Dublin has a special place in my heart.

* I bet you’re wondering about the best day of my life.  Alright, well I’ll tell you.  Now when I say that this was the best day of my life, I don’t think that I’m lying.  I mean, people say that all the time, don’t they?  “This is the GREATEST sandwich of all time.”  “That was the most epic night EVER.”  And it isn’t always true.  Sometimes it’s just a well-constructed tuna sub or dollar beers.  However, I assure you in my case I’m being as honest as possible, because by the “best day of my life” I mean that the feeling I experienced during the day was such a pure happiness that I have to claim the day as such.

On the recommendation of a former English teacher, some friends and I decided to take a train to the seaside city of Bray and hike up Bray Head.  Granted, when I awoke at 7 am to the sound of pouring rain and was nursing a slight headache from the pub crawl, there were moments when my thoughts were...uh-oh...but my friends, upon arriving at Bray, the clouds did literally part, and the sun came out to create the most beautiful rainbow I have ever seen.  It was a full rainbow, stretching from the town to the sea, with every Roy G. Biv stripe visible, and I’m in Ireland at this point right, so I am still convinced there was a pot of gold somewhere. 

We took a walk around the cliff walk first, and the higher we walked, the closer we seemed to get to the rainbow.  I’ve always wondered what it would be like to stand in a rainbow.  It’s simply the air, tricks of light, photons and the like, but there is a certain magical quality to the arches, and I was certainly fascinated.  Looking out over the cliffs, the colors in the sky only added to the surreality that is hovering over my life these days.

Have you ever ended up with a landscape that literally takes your breath away?  I’ll admit, I was out of breath from ascending up rocks, but the view hit me square in the chest.  On the top of Bray Head, I felt the way little kids’ smiles look.  Genuine, content and amazed.  We wandered over to a herd of ponies and one let me touch its soft nose, and I decided to admit to being the luckiest girl in the world.

The trek back down was interesting, but no matter how wet and cold my feet were, or how many times thorns scratched my hands and arms...well, I wish I could’ve bottled up the feeling I had and kept it.  Hell, I could market it. 

Heaven must be filled with Irish fresh air.

 

**Easily avoided.  Do not purchase fish and chips at 3 am from a bagel shop.

if the soul were contained in a material object, it would need a big box.

  On Friday I'll be flying into Dublin, Ireland.  I put mass at St. Patrick's cathedral on my list of things I want to do, somewhere near the Guinness factory and the Museum of Modern Art.  But when I look at the list, mass sticks out as a question mark.

I think about religion often; or perhaps more accurately, why I am not a devoted member of one. I was raised catholic, but to tell the truth it never really caught on.  I'd go through the motions, learn the prayers, go to Sunday school, but it was never something I wanted to do, never something that made me want to follow Christ with a burning passion.  Sermons never did anything for me, they just came off as a few minutes of rhetoric that I either didn't understand or simply didn't care to. 

So when occasionally the topic of religion comes up, my answer is, "well, uh...I'm kind of catholic?  Well confirmed catholic...but I haven't gone to church in ages."  This answer inevitably leads to a questioning of my innermost thoughts.  What do you believe in?  And sometimes I don't know.

I believe in questioning that which I think I know.  I believe in love.  I believe that a warm hug can't solve everything, but it sure as hell can help.  I believe that music is a vital part of life.  I believe that dreams mean something.  I believe a lot of things, but what do I believe in?

Some people believe in magic.  Some in fate.  Some in divine intelligence.  Some in chance.  Some would argue they have nothing at all to believe in.  But whatever you believe in, whatever you put your faith into becomes an intrinsic piece of your identity.  So then what, do I call my faith, my religion?  A hodgepodge of various thoughts?

I suppose what I believe in is a realm outside our physical world.  I believe that what we call 'reality' isn't the only game in town.  I believe that there's a peace to be found in my unknown, unnamed realm, and living a life of curiosity, acceptance and a touch of adventure can take me there.  So do I believe in God?  Sure, if you want to call it that, a higher power, a transcending presence, whatever, to me thats just semantics.

So maybe I don't go to church.  But I do believe in something, and for me that something can be found in the strangest of places, like a great back-beat, a first kiss, a poem that feels like it was written for you, a best friends consoling words...I could go on, but it doesn't really matter.  But that feeling, that sensation of true consciousness, of blood-pumping life?  That is what I pray to. 

So what do you believe in?

visual pleasantries.

unidentified water-foliage, germany.

coffee...coffee in holland.

dachau concentration camp, germany.

river-surfer in the english garden, munich, germany.

peace angel in munich, germany.

luxembourg city, luxembourg.

the wax dolls playing on the oude market in leuven.

a few friends i met at mt. st. michel in france.

american cemetary in normandy, france.

st. malo, france. also my current desktop background.

eiffel tower, in case you didn't know that.

I've just painted my fingernails, O.P.I.'s 'Malaga Wine," so instead of pecking away awkwardly at the keyboard for too long, I thought I'd share a few photographs.

ethical adventures and wooden shoes

"We are what we are in a process of becoming ourselves,"  or so says Dr. William Desmond, a well acclaimed philosophy scholar who also happens to be the professor of my Introduction to Ethics course.  Now granted, my academic experience here in Leuven has been less than strenuous in terms of hours clocked in; however, i will go with the theory of quality over quantity for this situation, and say I'm learning a thing or two.

            Why did I choose to become a philosophy major?  Well, I took intro to philosophy back in Maryland, enjoyed the class and wanted to have an affair with the professor.  I mean, there was a bit more thought put into my declaration, but I'll boil it down to that.  So luck being upon my shoulders, I wind up choosing a study abroad program which tosses me into a university well known for an exceptional philosophy faculty.  So I sit there and I stare at this man who has written books and explored theories that go so far over my head that they don't even resemble constellations; the understanding of them is something I just have to trust exists, and I think, well perhaps life is working in my favor.

            If I were to write out a list of things that make me happy, being in a classroom with an engaging professor lecturing on a topic I find interesting ranks up there with tiny furry animals and a nice glass of red wine.  I've come to realize that if I could be a student for the rest of my life, if learning could be my chosen profession, I'd choose that path in a heartbeat.  I think that's why I love philosophy - it is the farthest thing from finite.  A study of questions about life that lead to 'answers' which are really just deeper versions of the original question, with about 19 little tangents, exceptions and connections.  Philosophy to me is like an endless web.  I'm here at one corner, I'll go straight, have a fanned out spread of choices of ways to go next, and I'll continue along, probably end up somewhere close to where I started, but it will look different.  I find that the further I explore philosophy, the further I explore myself.  

            Isn't that such a big part of every moment?  Self exploration?  It certainly is for me.  I mean, to be honest, I've never known who the hell I am.  What am I?  Am I what I do - a student, a friend, a writer?  Am I a summation of my actions - playing the guitar, throwing rocks at cars when I was 6, buying a birthday present?  Am I what I love - good music, laughter, coffee, pistachio ice cream?  Am I my emotions - contemplative, happy, stressed, compassionate?  The easy answer is, well duh, a combination of it all.  A veritable heap of qualities and experiences, thoughts and sensations, physical attributes and vocal patterns.  But today I think, if what I am isn’t necessarily these quantifiable or named...things...if what I am is my own motion, by own expanding understanding of my place in the world, well then I’m more ‘myself’ now than ever.

      I always thought it would be cliché to go abroad and have it change your life.  I don’t mean that I didn’t find picking up and moving to another country wasn’t a life change, but I mean I was skeptical of that experience changing your outlook in a drastic matter.  I pictured someone trotting off to Europe and coming back with a more stylish wardrobe, lofty ideals and a nicotine addiction.

Then I went abroad, and within two months, I’m changing.  Add this to the list of things I’ve been wrong about along with the spelling of ‘necessary’ and the pronunciation of the name ‘Hermione’ from Harry Potter.  It’s not so much a radical change in mindset or opinion, but rather a shift to self-discovery rather than self-invention.  This is not a transformation for me – a transformation would imply a firmly established state of self that becomes malleable and is then sculpted into something else.  No, I haven’t been transformed.  I think I’ve just become more aware of my own existence.

The other day I ventured into Holland, specifically the town of Maastricht, with a few friends for the day.  Now in this region, weed is legal – well, sort of, what I mean is I smoked in a coffee shop without fear of arrest, and this is common.  So if you’re skeptical that these thoughts of mine are a result of a plant, I can see where you’re coming from.  But like, here’s what I mean man, you just gotta flow.  But seriously.  I’m finding that the more I focus internally, the clearer I see things externally, and I’ve been surprised to find how much there is inside.  For the first time, I’m becoming myself by exploring who I am.  And if this self-study is life, then there’s a reason to be content – I’ll be a student for the rest of my life.

Revisiting Munich

400 steps.  400 strides, 400 separate displacements of gravel, perhaps more accurately 376 steps and 24 shuffles.  That's what it took for me to get from the gate of Dachau concentration camp to the barracks that still remain standing.  The amount of steps would vary person to person, or day to day, depending on height, footwear or mood, but the distance remains the same - not terribly far.  One can cross the stony courtyard in something like 2 minutes or less.  For me, 400 steps, or 2 minutes between entering the camp and entering the exhibit.  For someone walking this same path sixty years ago, those 400 steps and 2 minute block of time were between freedom and chains.  Humanity and hell.  Morality and depravity.

 When you're in middle school, you read the Diary of Anne Frank.  Maybe you read Night by Elie Wiesel, watch Life is Beautiful or Schindler's list, visit a Holocaust museum or Memorial, listen to testimonies of survivors, or study the political factors that allowed Hitler to rise to power and kindle a fire of genocide and torture.   All of these exposures spark thoughts in your mind about the horrors, bring a heavy weight down on the chest, feelings of sympathy for families, disgust at human nature, nausea from the images of piled bodies or emaciated faces.  But a place - a physical presence at the site of the real events - now that is an emotion all together different. 

Out of body experience is used so often that I hesitate to use it as a descriptor for the feeling of walking along the barbed wire fences where prisoners were shot by SS officers with the ease of a farmer shooting a rodent who has been a pest to his crops, or the chills that went up my spine as I stared at the furnaces in the crematorium where bodies were burnt, souls completely disregarded, or the sharp pain in my stomach when I looked at the remaining personal belongings of inmates including a letter announcing a new birth with a picture of an adorable smiling little girl, a little girl who probably never saw her uncle, or if she did, saw him with scars on his arms, back and in his eyes.  Pain, suffering and regret is palpable just inside the gates at Dachau, and it lingers like a thick fog.  Memorials and signs engraved with statements such as "Never Again" act as soft lights of hope, but still, the fog is dense. 

I visited Dachau this past weekend during my trip to Munich and this was the second time I walked these grounds.  The first time was the summer after my sophomore year of high school, at age 16.  Marcel Proust wrote that, "The real voyage of discovery consists of not seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes."  At 20, I saw this landscape with eyes 4 years older, 4 years changed.  Back then, I felt the anguish.  I remember feeling angry, frustrated and confused, and I remember a silent bus ride.  I understood "crimes against humanity," I felt the hopelessness in the eyes of the prisoners in the photos, grasped the idea of hatred and inhumane treatment, pictured the horrible conditions in hygiene, nutrition and health care.  I resented the absence of humanity, asked myself how the hell this could happen, cried for the men women and children reduced to animals and eradicated for false and disturbing ideals.

So what did 4 years change?  I still felt similar waves of emotions, I walked the same paths, read the same panels in the museum.  But what 4 years changed in my vision, or rather what 4 years added to my vision, is responsibility.  I don't feel so separate anymore.  4 years ago I looked at reminders of a disgusting stain on world history, and thanked God it ended.  Yesterday I looked at the words "Never Again," and realized its up to me (and by me I mean us, our generation) to make that reality.  Hatred, abuse of power, torture and brutality didn't end with the liberation of Concentration camps in 1949.  Persecution still exists.  The Geneva convention didn't erase war crimes.  I think about the terrorism alerts that almost kept me from making my visit to Germany, and I see how close we are to the edge.  Dachau serves as a reminder of a hideous past, but what I saw yesterday was a warning of an equally monstrous future.  I suppose what I'm getting at is that my 20 year old eyes aren't just that of an emotional observer, but as an involved citizen of a world in danger of repeating its worst habits.

I'm a college student now, not just a kid.  I had an Ethics class today, and it came to my attention: I'm not just here to learn these things, I'm here to live them.  I'm not here to simply pass a test, I'm here to become an intellectual being.  I'm not just here to learn about history and its problems, I'm here to live in a way that hopefully takes a better path.  So as a 20 year old student, I didn't come to Dachau and see it through a tourist's eyes.  I didn't just take pictures of the past.  Standing behind the camera wasn't that 16 year old, but a 20 year old trying to figure out where she fits in the effort to make sure the landscape doesn't become a portrait of what's to come. 

ATTENTION!

Travel Warning!

If you order an irish coffee in the hopes of being served a steaming cup of java with a bit of Bailey's Irish Cream to sweeten the deal, you'll be disappointed to find that the smooth Bailey's is absent, and in its place is Jameson Irish Whiskey.  

addendum: If you want to get drunk off of an afternoon coffee, then order an irish coffee.

End.

Thank God I don't really like peanut butter, or else I may have been homesick by now...

Steps to appear out of place in Brussels, Belgium:

1. Walk out of the train station with confidence, only to walk back in to make sure you’re at the correct stop.
2. Have headphones in whilst performing the aforementioned task.
3. Repeat these actions twice.
4. Look for a city map at a kiosk with a sign that clearly reads, “NO CITY MAPS” in English.
5. Trip on the sidewalk.
6. Pet the dogs of strangers.
7. Walk past a Jewish Temple and give the guards outside with AK47’s quizzical looks.
8. Be an American.
9. Look for crossroad signs with confusion.
10. Have your photo taken with your arms outstretched at angles mimicking a clock, while your friend taking a photo directs you so your posture matches the actual time.

 

Number 10 isn’t my personal experience, simply an FYI.  I spotted that gem perched up on a railing on the Mont d’Arts.  I floated into Brussels late in the afternoon because I bought a ticket with plans to come for the open air art market, open from 6 am to 1 pm, but refused to get out of my nest until 12:30 pm.  Moving along.

I went on a trip to Luxembourg yesterday.  The richest city in the world per capita, Luxembourg City is a beautiful woman dressed in Dolce and Gabbana, sporting Jimmy Choo heels, carrying her Prada bag, wearing Chanel perfume and Tiffany’s jewelry and who is a graduate of Harvard Law.  I was exceedingly impressed with the views in the city.  I walked along the Chemin de la Corniche, also known as the “most beautiful balcony in Europe,” and took a photograph with every head movement.  The view was down on the Abbey, renovated in the 17^th century, the river that surrounds it, lush greenery, and the commanding rock structure of the Bock Casements.  Beauty meets intelligence, the city is incredibly rich in both pretty scenery and history.

I had hoped to visit the Am Tunnel, part of an old bank building, now a contemporary art museum, but unfortunately it is closed only one day a week, and that happens to be Saturday, when I arrived expectantly to its closed revolving door.  After a few moments of sulking, I was convinced by friends to take a walk to a gallery called “Casino,” which featured an exhibition with the theme of Science and Art.  I will just preface this with “best spent 3 euro ever,” and “don’t bring small children.”

There were a number of exhibits, including a fur coat made from road kill specimens, glass boxes showcasing hymens (yes, you read correctly,) a wall-sized projection screen showing close up footage of black heads popping and other skin eruptions, a video of surgery to implant an ear into a man’s arm,  biological art – growing human and animal cells in the shape of 3 tiny shirts, worry dolls hanging in little test tubes – made of real cells, naturally, re-creations of truth sirum tests, video of a man who secrets blue, and walls coated with a synthetic recreation of human sweat aiming to re-create the “scent of fear.”  These are just a few off the top of my head.  I was intruiged, to say the least.

The exhibit which struck me the most was not the shocking feats of odd technology and creative energy, but rather one room that resembled a large scale video game.  The room is dark, save for the enormous screen in the front.  As you walk in, you put on 3-D glasses which create before you a landscape of war.  The sound of machine guns pervade as you look at full figures of soldiers, children, buildings, tanks and bombs, all of which are constantly changing and create the she sensation that you are really there, gliding through a battle zone.  Three cameras hang from the ceiling, and ask you look through the lens and press the button, the images change form, layers peel off, the frame fades, and eventually your view turns to black, the war completely hidden by the lens.

I didn’t get it at first.  But after reading the artists intentions, and standing there for a while, the meaning sunk in.  The purpose of the piece is to show the power the media has to dull the senses.  As you look through the lens, at first the scene is more focused, but eventually it goes away.  As you watch, the once 3-D lifelike forms become 2-D and then gone altogether.  Think of the war in Iraq – the televised war – did we not become desensitized?  Unless a loved one is directly involved, isn’t it far too easy to go about your daily life without thinking of what goes on every single day across the world?  It seems paradoxical that perpetually seeing images of pain and war would make it easier for the scenes to leave your mind, but I think the artist has a point.  The more it is put on display as a news story, as simply another video, picture or story on the evening news, the less humanized it becomes, the easier it becomes to separate oneself from the actions of the world.  After all, its just happening over there, and the pictures of the car bomb, that’s just one of many.  We’ve seen it all before. And there’s the chasm.  The reality of day to day life becomes separate from the reality of war. 

Isn’t that why it still goes on?  The terror of war, of constant fighting, is partitioned off from humanity.  But it isn’t meant to be that way.  It isn’t some foreign being or entity that starts and continues wars, it’s people.  It’s us, all of us, and if we forget that it’s humanity at war, or humanity that’s struggling or starving or being oppressed then hell, what’s the point in trying to stop it?  But if we remember it’s our brothers and sisters, if we humanize our problems, then perhaps we’ll wake up and realize it’s time to save our selves. 

...

Top 10 Reasons Why I'd Like to Purchase a Goat:

10. I could name him Billy or Beowulf 

9. Billy/Beowulf would graze on grass and I'd never have to mow the lawn

8. A pet goat is far more original than a cat or dog

7. Imagine the scenario of walking a goat around the neighborhood

6. I would walk outside in the morning to find a goat basking in the sun, and he would be mine

5. Cheese.

4. Milk.

3. I could participate in goat races

2. I could eventually invest in a pot-belly pig and they would be mismatched friends

1. 'Baaaaaaa'  -  direct quote

In other news, I tried to attend another class yesterday but the teacher never showed up.  This turned out to be a small victory, however, as I ended up having a cup of free coffee and talking for a few hours with friends about some big ideas.  I love these types of conversations, the ones where you learn so much about each other by hearing opinions and perspectives.  Often times I find myself surprised, and thats a feeling I truly enjoy, realizing there is always so much more to a person than you may originally pick up on.  The intake of caffeine can make it a bit interesting, your words diving out of your mouth like a baseball player going for a big catch, trying so hard to capture your thoughts.  Same goes for talks after a few belgian brews, except rather than an athlete, words can be likened more to a first time unicycle rider. 

Last night was a free concert in the Oude Market, a welcome back for students.  I saw two bands, the second of which was the Wax Dolls.  I'm getting into Belgian electronica music...how cool am I, right?  No but seriously they're great.  It's safe to say I rocked out.  After buying two stellas from the stand on the stairs where I perched myself for the shows, and one more at de Rector, I am now down to 20 euro cents.  Therefore, today's adventure will be a free bike ride to the countryside.  On a scale of 1 - 10, how unethical would it be to thieve a goat?

class dismissed

I attempted to attend my first class today.  English Literature: Postromantic Materialisms.  Now, class for me starts at 2 pm and goes until 4 pm on Tuesdays.  Thus, I awakened at the sensible hour of 12:30 pm in order to start my day.  I had breakfast/lunch, unlocked the panda, saddled up, and headed over to the MSI building all dressed up and ready to learn.  I left with enough time so I could spare a few minutes to getting lost, stopping to avoid collision with busses and/or other bicycles, or perhaps purchasing an iced coffee.  No obstacles came into my path, however, and I meandered across cobblestone and parked, locked 'er up, and climbed many stairs to arrive in front of 001.08, the site of my first official class at KU Leuven.

I arrived to a closed door with a note scribbled in red pen "POSTROMANTIC MATERIALISMS TO START NEXT WEEK, 29.10.09."  Fail.  So I returned to the huis.  Now I've experienced class cancellation an inordinate amount of times in my day.  But typically I get an email and can roll back into bed again, or worst case scenario I walk back approximately three minutes.  This piece of paper left me all dressed up with no place to go.  Naturally, I decided to take an afternoon nap with the windows open and a cool breeze coming in.  I accomplished that goal, and woke up only when someone came knocking on my door.  My hall received a new resident today, a third year belgian student, who was looking for someone to go grab a drink.  In an effort to assimilate, I joined and sipped on one of my new favorites - the Westmalle Tripel.

Following this excursion, during which I decided it necessary and proper to entertain the small crowd with tales from my childhood, I returned and made dinner.  Translation, I tossed some prosciutto and brie cheese on top of a frozen pizza and cooked it.  This was dinner 1.  Then a polish girl made me her "famous salad," and then the Italians started cooking.  In an effort to assimilate further, I ate with them for dinner 2.5.  Now the Italians are singing along to the Red Hot Chili peppers, and I'm sitting here very full, about to watch a movie.  

What I'm trying to say is that my first day of academic session consisted of sleeping until well past noon, biking around for a while, a nap, a beer, a three course meal and a movie.  

Maybe I'll try class tomorrow.

iced cappuccino is an american idea.

It has been quite a while.  That's because nothing interesting has happened. Ohhh wait that's a total lie......

     I love sitting in the corner in cafés.  Call it asocial, an attempt to enter the indie culture, or call it nothing at all, but I’ve always chosen this location.  Any time I venture out on my own, which tends to be a path to a haven of music and caffeinated beverages, I settle in a spot where I have a 270 degree view of my surroundings.  Why?  Simply put, I live a life driven by observation; I’m a full time people watcher.

            Europe is a holy land for people watchers, so as I sit outside at Café Onan in Leuven I feel as though I’ve reached my Mecca.  There are people all around me, sipping espresso or tea, playing with their babies, walking home from the market, riding bikes to who knows where.  As I sit here, my ears filled with my handpicked soundtrack for the afternoon, I imagine their conversations.  It’s just as well that I’m listening to Passion Pit and not their own flowing chatter, as I wouldn’t be able to understand the Dutch anyway.  But I watch friends laugh, and think that they’re probably recounting old jokes and playing off of each other just as I do with my friends.  I look at the elderly couple next to me, quietly holding hands, and wonder what they’re remembering.

            Something I notice quite blatantly is that no one looks like me.  What I mean by that is, no one has a laptop out, and no one has headphones in.  Back at home, my favorite café is evenly populated with humans and MacBooks, everyone plugged in via headphone to their own virtual hub, and stranger to stranger interaction is prevalent only when one tunes into someone else’s music collection through the free wireless internet.  But here, imagine this: people talk and pay attention.  I notice the same thing when I run at the track.  Everyone else seems content to run or play soccer without a personal world of sound.

            Now believe me.  No matter how many scarves I wear to try and fit in here (though as one Belgian friend told me, “many have tried, all have failed,” in terms of Americans trying to look European), I won’t give up my headphones nor iPod.  Music at all times matching my mood is like my heartbeat.  But it leads me to wonder.

            I have a Belgian cell phone, but I rarely use it.  I find out the location of friends so we can meet up.  That’s it.  I’m also on the computer less.  I’m less “connected” than I’ve ever been.  Yet when I sit and have a cup of coffee or a beer with someone, I’m not breaking up their speech with the sound of the keys on my cell phone as I respond to a message.  My phone isn’t ringing to interrupt an important discussion.  Within my disconnection, I’ve become more connected with the moment than I ever have before.

            I’m happier here.  And while, in the words of a friend, we’re still in the “honeymoon phase” of the trip, I can confidently say that I’m enjoying each moment because I’m actually living it.  I’m not planning or worrying, just trying to do what I feel, and it makes a difference.

            I’m perfectly content in the corner of this café.  I’ll probably spend a few hours here.  But my laptop does indeed pick up a non-password protected wireless internet source, and I did just change my Facebook default photo.   

eisenhower's cigar

I've just returned from a whirlwind 8 day trip to France.  I will explain.  No, there is too much.  I will sum up:

Hopped on over to Paris, rediscovered the lovely metro, passed a Michael Jackson memorial with gloves moon-walking included, weaved around the hand-holding "heal the world" circle and saw the Eiffel Tower which never fails to take you aback, wandered around the gardens, the peace wall, circled the Arc de Triomphe, passed stores on the Champs Elysees that my imagination cannot even afford, ate some escargot.  Went to mass for the first time in...a very long time...at Notre Dame, fell off a seesaw shaped like a duck, toured St. Chapelle and Conciergerie, lunch in the Latin Courter, made it to the Dali museum and found an appreciation for surrealism, had my breath taken away by Sacre Cour and a talented man with a soccer ball, wine, brie cheese and a baguette by the Eiffel Tower at night, lit up and sparkling while the boys smoked cigars.  Wandered the Louvre, overwhelmed is an understatement, realized how much I don't know about art, saw the Moulin Rouge, went to Paris' sex museum (wouldn't fly in the States), beer at a bar by the metro, many beers in a bar around the corner where every third song was the Temptations "Stand by Me."  Modern Art Museum - beautiful - complete with a Bresson photo exhibit, fell in love with the Musée D'Orsay and found a Renoir portrait with an eerie resemblance to my face (clearly a past life), drank espresso and discussed life, closed another bar.  Found a new appreciation for stained glass at Chartes Cathedral where the tourguide claimed that there are too many Japanese to fit in Japan so they send them out in tour groups, felt homesick for a place I've lived three days, made it to St. Malo in a storm, had the most incredible dinner of my life for which I have no words.  Scaled some rocks at Mont St. Michel and realized my life is taking an unbelievable turn, ate a galette.  Saw the Bayeux Tapistry, the scarred landscape of the Point d'Hoc, dinner with a view of one of Normandy's beaches, played darts and drank Bailey's on the rocks with a couple from England, Ally loving Margaret Thatcher's ability to tell the Unions to "sod off," and Paul's theory that the cigar of the phrase 'close but no cigar' was smoked by Eisenhower.  Swindled by the clouds out of a sunrise, humbled by the American cemetery above Omaha beach, I slept in a ball for most of the 6 hour bus ride to Belgium.

But I did get a minute or two to think.

While I was climbing around the rocks around St. Michel, an excited kid in a jungle gym, I stumbled, not literally of course, across a peach pit and picked it up. I looked at it for a while, focusing my eyes like a camera lens between the tiny fruit core, the yellow, burnt orange and white speckled boulders, and the deep blue and green water that ebbs and flows between where I sat and the Brittany coast.  Peach pits always make me think of my grandfather.  He used to save them, allow them to dry out, the widdle them, hollowing out the middle but leaving an arch, creating a small basket, which he would sometimes lacquer.  I love them, and to my glory, he widdled boxes full of them.  My favorites were the smallest ones, the ones that, I would imagine, took the most patience, intricacy and delicacy. 

So while I sat looking at the French countryside, secluded momentarily on top of my rock, what came to mind was that I am where I am because of a number of circumstances beyond my control.  My grandfather carved peach pit baskets while he raised my mother, who in turn raised me, who along with my family supported me enough to send me to college and to send me abroad.  Maybe it was the European air or my lack of sleep that caused me to wax philosophic about a peach pit, but what my feelings led me to was this: there is a continuity to life, a reason, a plan, and all the restlessness I've been feeling throughout my life is a result of me fighting it.  Sitting there, I realized that perhaps the way to control our lives, to "find our way" so to speak, is not necessarily making plans and following a set of rules or ideas, but just letting go.  There's some rhyme or reason that carried me over to the rocks, and I think there's some rhyme or reason thats going to carry me to a whole lot more.  So I'll take words from the Brit I met in an Irish pub in Arromanches, "sod it all," and make the most of this freedom.  I feel like on the horizon, along with the pink clouds I saw at 7 am this morning, is the time of my life.

tew.

Where am I?

I arrived in Brussels jet lagged and confused.  During the six hour flight I managed to loose the ability to walk, talk, and think cohesively.  Nothing felt real.  I blame that on the plane; there's something disorienting about being in that cabin, cramped in, knowing your ground speed is approximately 6 times speedier than anything Dale Earnhardt Jr. ever sees on his dashboard, and flying to a different time zone and losing time.  Thats something I've always wondered about...consider this.  When you fly to Tokyo, you basically lose a day, but then on your return trip you get it back.  What if you move there?  I mean, do you lose a day of your life?  Do you just have a stockpile of days?

Anyway, so I was supremely jet lagged.  The house is pretty incredible, and everything about Leuven is simply... cooler.  The architecture is gorgeous, there are gardens everywhere, and every local seems infinitely more sophisticated and talented than I am.  Speaking of talent, I saw a woman wearing a backpack on the front of her body, a guitar on her back, and she was carrying a cat in a pet-carrier.  Oh, and on a bike.

Thats another thing entirely.  Bikes.  I rented a bike for the year the first day we got here.  My bike is my life.  Its the transportation of choice around here and I love it.  It's like being twelve again, but instead of biking to your friends house or to, say, Turkey Hill for a delicious green tea, you're biking around doing grown up things, like going to the grocery store.  And the grocery store?  I was fascinated.  Perhaps its my easy amusement, but there's a machine to slice the loaf of bread you buy.  I could do that all day long!  Outrageously nifty.

My bike is named "Panda," and my bell (yes, I have a bell! and a kick stand!) sounds exactly like a bull frog croaking.  I used it today in a practical situation.  I felt like that was a big step, because I croaked and people scooted out of my way.  There have already been a few bike issues, running into walls, moving vehicles, et cetera, but surprisingly enough I am thus far, safe.

Fun Fact:  The beer is stronger here.  Much stronger.  And cheaper.  Hoo boy.  First night out was...well my friends, it was.  Story for a rainy day.

I'm still in a daze about everything.  This is the first time I've actually sat down for any period of time and written, or really even considered what's going on in my life.  This town that feels like a vacation spot?  This is where I'm going to call home for a year.  The buildings that I want to constantly photograph?  They'll be the scenery I pass every day on my bike on the way to class.  The outdoor cafes and pubs?  I'll meet up with friends there, or sit there and do work like I would at Prince Street cafe in downtown Lancaster.  The Belgian brews?  I'll be able to drop a few names to the beer experts at home.  The bread slicer? The bread slicer... that won't loose its edge.

Life is good.

won.

Well, ladies and gentlemen, I'm "that kid."  I'm a twenty year old college student who has decided, after tons of brochures, lectures and posters, to study abroad.  Yes, yes, shocking, isn't it?  I've made the choice to leave behind the pristine manicured quad of my small Jesuit institution in Maryland.  Why?  Because it has come to my attention that "myself" may be located somewhere on the continent of Europe, and hot damn, I'm gonna find it. 

Ahem...really, though, I am studying abroad in Leuven, Belgium for two semesters.  Here on this virtual scroll is where I will chronicle my journeys, life lessons, fun history facts, witty anecdotes, fuck-ups, vacation tips and so on and so forth.  So, if you're my friend and want to follow what I'm up to, my enemy and want to laugh at my misfortunes, or just anyone tickled pink at the idea of stories of travel, check back in.