RABAT, Morocco — After studying Modern Standard Arabic (MSA) for three years at the university level, I thought I was ready to study in Morocco. I also study French, so that would work in the case of an Arabic meltdown. The one thing I felt linguistically unprepared for was Darija — colloquial Moroccan Arabic. Before I left, I thought it couldn’t be that hard, right?

Wrong. After a few days of orientation, we started learning “survival” Darija. I learned things like hello, goodbye, where I’m from, and what my name is. It felt like I was back in beginning Arabic. A few class sessions later, I learned things like how to order in a restaurant, how to tell my host mom I’m full, and how to tell a taxi to take me somewhere. While I had spoken MSA several times and was used to the sounds and the pronounciations, the Darija felt weird on my tongue. It was like they kept the consonants, but threw the vowels out the window—cottony “ma-f’hemptsh” meaning “I don’t understand.” However, I knew I would need to use Darija to talk to the locals—to order a tagine, tell my host mom the food is good, and bargain at the souk.

My first real success came on Saturday around noon. Some friends and I were going to take a bus to a nearby beach. I approached a man selling books and magazines, all in Arabic or French, and asked him where to wait for bus 33. In Darija. We waited for the bus and surely enough, it came.

Later that evening, when we returned from the beach, my roommate and I were going to take a taxi back to our home stay. I had agreed before to pay the eight or nine dirhams, since she’d paid for the way there. When we got to our house, I pulled out my 50 bill and asked, in my best Darija, “do you have change?” He did, and we got out of the cab.

After these two exchanges, I felt very proud of my baby steps. If I could do this, I could learn more, and hopefully have an all-Darija conversation with my host family—no broken French or translations from my English-speaking host-sister.

NICOLE GLASS / THE EAGLE

BERLIN —Berlin, 2010. A cold war mausoleum. A city that has been burnt, bombed, destroyed and rebuilt. Haunted by images of World War II. Cold War remnants are scattered throughout the city. Berlin is a city whose past is part of its present, whose past is visible in everyday life.

As I walk down the street, I can easily tell whether I am in former East Berlin or the West. A brick path marks the former location of the Berlin Wall, making the border eternally visible. Sections of the wall remain standing, the western part covered entirely in graffiti, filled with art and depicting messages of peace, hope and anger. Soviet-built streetlights are still in use in the East, while the Allies’ version is quite different.

When asked where they are from, Berlin locals will often specify the “East” or the “West,” even though the city has been unified for 20 years. Many from the older generation are stuck in the past. A crazy old man walks down the street, saying, “The East! The East! I am from the East,” apparently unaware that no one is listening. An old woman on the U-Bahn tells stories of her Cold War past to the teenager beside her, who has headphones on and wants to be left alone. Everyone here has a story. The 21-year old girl who I met yesterday told me what life was like for her parents, who never left East Berlin, during the Cold War. The girl, born months before the wall fell, was born and raised in the same apartment where her parents spent their East German lives.

Memories of tragedies and death flood the city. Memorials for the deceased, whether it be Jews or attempted East German escapees, are scattered throughout the city. Berlin is a city that will never forget its past.

         

Every day Berliners face the history of their country, and the young generations generally have very tolerant, liberal and peaceful attitudes because of their education. Students in local schools spend years reading literature about World War II and the Cold War. The law prohibits bookstores from selling “Mein Kampf.” The only place where graffiti is legal is on the remaining pieces of the Berlin Wall. Hitler’s bunker is not a tourist attraction. In fact, until recently it was unrecognized, nothing more than a parking lot. Now there is a sign marking its location, but nothing more. It is not preserved. It is a part of history that Germans want to forget and not open up for tourism. Instead, major tourist attractions include the Holocaust Memorial and the Soviet Memorial, which honor those who were killed during the war.

Berlin itself is a museum of German history, with 20th century remnants and artifacts dispersed throughout. Even my study abroad program’s building has history to it, being a gift from the Americans to the Germans during the Cold War, with the aim to improve German-American friendship. Berlin, 2010 – a city that will never forget.

CAIRO — Students studying in D.C. live to find internships. It’s ingrained into our very consciousness as D.C. college folk — everyone complains about their internship, or complains about how they don’t have one to complain about. The entire D.C. college community assumes this strange, pre-professional attitude. Work experience even comes before education on college resumes.

How strange it is, therefore, that my best internships came once I left the nation’s beltway.

It’s simply supply and demand. The sheer number of DC students competing for the honor of fetching coffee for free has made the process of becoming an intern akin to a job application process anywhere else. There are online applications and deadlines by which they must be submitted. There are interviews and offers of water. Suits are donned, ties are nervously knotted, and interviews are conducted — complete with nervous jokes and potboiler small talk. Everything — the dress, the demeanor, the job profiles, the resumes, the questionnaires, the applications — is very professional.

The Middle East is the opposite of professional. I don’t mean that disparagingly; I’ve done my best work here. But consider how I got my internships:

In Turkey, I called a friend of a friend who ran the Istanbul office of a non-profit called The Hollings Center. We met, chatted over some tea (nothing business-related; I think we talked about students at Bryn Mawr), and made plans to meet again. Two weeks later I was in her office, setting up my desk to be her “Intern and Executive Assistant to the Istanbul Office Director” or some equally presumptuous and nonsensical title.

While working there, I planned a conference attended by dignitaries from all over the region. I wrote strategy memos and assigned readings. I only made coffee when I wanted some.

Egypt offers an even more extreme example. I’ve always enjoyed journalism and have wanted to work for an actual daily paper before they all die out. One day, while sitting in AMIDEAST’s Cairo library, I glanced at The Daily News Egypt and noticed its editorial headquarters was two blocks from where I was sitting.

Why not? I thought. I have an hour.

Ten minutes later I stood at the Daily News Egypt/International Herald Tribune’s entrance, a copy of my resume still warm in my hand. I rang the bell, and an Egyptian man opened the door, clearly wondering who I was. I mangled the little Arabic I knew, managing to get out the word “internship.”  The man nodded and walked away.

Just as I prepared to make a hasty exit, a woman in a very modern hijab walked out to the hall. Shaking my hand, she introduced herself as Rania Al Malky — editor-in-chief. No formal interview, just a repeat of the question “who are you?”

I tried to explain my presence — where I went to school (she had never heard of AMIDEAST and tried to correct me by saying “AUC”), what I studied, and where I was from. I mumbled my answers. She finally stopped me.

“Do you have clips?” she asked.

Yes, I said — from my college newspaper days and some free-lancing in Turkey.

“Send them to me,” she said. “Then we’ll talk.”

So I did. Apparently she liked them. Two days later I was invited back to the office. By the next week I was filing a story on Nubian Cultural Day.

Since then, I’ve been published by The Daily News Egypt/International Herald Tribune almost a dozen times — twice on the front page. I’ve gotten a feel for the life of a newsroom. I’ve started to figure out my career path. I’ve never made tea for any employee but myself.

And I never had to knot a necktie.

LINDSEY ANDERSON / THE EAGLE Playa Brasilito, the less-popular beach just over the hill from Playa Conchal.

PLAYA CONCHAL, COSTA RICA – The idea of a solitary vacation has never appealed to me. Something about being without company and backup in case of an emergency or over-friendly men makes me very nervous. Flying alone on an airplane is one thing. But taking a six-hour bus ride in a Spanish-speaking country with no means of finding out where your friends are and possibly spending the entire weekend alone is something else. Everyone in the group except me headed to the beach on Friday. But I wanted to spend my host mom’s birthday with her, so I journeyed alone on Saturday.

“Are you sure you want to go?” My host mom asked, as I got ready to walk out the door Saturday morning.

No! I wanted to say. What if I didn’t find my friends? Would I be brave enough to spend the weekend alone or would I trek back home with my tail between my legs?

But I was heading to Playa Conchal, supposedly the most beautiful beach in Costa Rica. I was not going to give up turquoise water and “sand” made of millions of crushed shells just because I was afraid.

Besides, I told myself, if I didn’t find my friends, I could get my own hotel room, try to avoid abundant piropos (catcalls) from tico men and read Cormac McCarthy on the beach. It was a worse case scenario that didn’t sound too horrible.

My friend had said she would e-mail me information Friday on where they were staying. Of course she didn’t. So I got off the bus at Playa Brasilito and walked to the hostel where the group had talked about staying.

“Is there a group of gringas staying here?” I asked a member of the hostel staff.

“Yes,” the women replied, “but they already left for the beach.”

“They didn’t leave me a message?” I asked. Of course not.

The woman let me into their room, where I rummaged through a few backpacks to make sure it was the room of my friends and not some random group of tourists.

I despondently changed into my swimsuit and left an angry note. “I am here alone and have no idea where you are. I will be at Playa Brasilito. Come find me.”

I started to right “Next time, try leaving a note!”, crossed it out and stomped to the beach. Alone.

I cautiously walked down the street, ignoring the few stares and comments of “Hola, bonita!” Alone, I laid out my towel on the near-empty beach and sat down.  Playa Brasilito is like the ugly little sister of Playa Conchal with its plain, gray sand and sandy water. With sparkling Conchal just over the hill, it didn’t surprise me Brasilito was nearly empty. The perfect place to mope.

I set my towel somewhat near another woman who was alone—safety in numbers, I thought—and, taking tips from her, I laid down to catch some sun
. A few pages into “All the Pretty Horses” and after lots of lonely people watching, I was non-angry—and hot—enough to venture into the waves.

After a while of aimless bobbing, I began to appreciate the solitude. There was something beautiful in having no cell phone, no iPod, no friend to share with. It was pure experience, something that I as a journalist, caught up in documenting and sharing, often forget.

Just as I was thinking, maybe I could try an entire trip alone someday, a foot-long stingray swam not too far from my feet.

Remembering Steve Irwin and my utter aloneness, I scurried toward the beach.

I read, thought of home, made a crabby enemy who swiped at me with his claws when I chased him down the beach. I squished my toes in the sand and greeted wandering dogs. I even ventured back into the waves but my stingray friend was gone.

Eventually, my friends arrived and I ventured over to the famed Playa Conchal. It was crowded with barbeques and snorkelers and people offering Jet Ski rides. The clear water sparkled against the seashell sand.

It was beautiful, yes.

But something about the loneliness of its ugly little sister over the hill and our bond of solitude made the beach dull in comparison.

MARISA KENDALL / THE EAGLE

LO PRADO, CHILE — The other night I went to bed early (which prompted some teasing from my host family about why I wasn’t out at a carrete, or party) so I could get up at 7:30 and spend all day doing hard physical labor. It was actually a lot more fun than it sounds. I went to clean up earthquake rubble with the organization Un Techo Para Chile, and was part of a group made up of about 10 gringos and 10 Chilenos from various universities. Like the gringos we are, the Americans all arrived roughly on time to our meeting location. The Chileans, of course were on Chilean time, meaning they arrived an hour or more late. When everyone finally got together, we all hopped into the back of a pickup truck with a bunch of shovels, brooms and wheelbarrows, and headed off. We were driving through the streets of Lo Prado, a neighborhood much poorer than the upscale Las Condes, where I live. While the earthquake had damaged almost nothing in Las Condes, each street we drove down in Lo Prado had huge piles of rubble scattered about every 20 feet. I’m not sure what made our driver pick the particular piles we did, but once he made his selection, we all jumped down while a huge tow truck type machine unloaded an enormous dumpster for us to use.

We spent the next six hours or so hurling pieces of walls, broken furniture, fragments of roofs, etc. into the dumpster, using shovels to dispose of the enormous mounds of dirt. Once we started going, the air around us became a cloud of dust that coated every inch of our bodies, including the insides of our noses. So we came home very, very dirty.

Even with the dirt, I would say this was probably the best volunteer experience I’ve ever had, and I’m in APO, AU’s community service organization, so I have volunteered quite a bit (although not as much as I was supposed to). None of the other jobs I’ve had have seemed nearly as important. Maybe it was because the people whose rubble it was were so grateful. Every new place we went, someone invariably came out of their house with some water for us or a huge bottle of soda and cups. By the end of the day, we had at least one bottle of every flavor imaginable.

I also liked how tangible our progress was. When we arrived, there was a big pile of escombros (rubble) and an empty dumpster. And when we left, there was a clean sidewalk and a full dumpster. This made for a very rewarding feeling after we disposed of each pile. The experience also made me realize the extent of the damage that did happen right here in Santiago. While most buildings look intact, many older houses crumbled inside. The rubble we were carting away came from the piles people carted out of their homes after their inside walls fell down. For those interested in learning more, this article tells about unseen damages in Santiago.

RYAN LESTER / BROWN UNIVERSITY

SIWA OASIS, EGYPT — When Alexander the Great decided to visit Siwa Oasis, he set out on horseback. According to legend, guided by birds, he rode across the vast deserts surrounding the Oasis, ultimately arriving dirty and tired – so much so that he demanded a bath before meeting with the Oracle of Ammon. When the caliphate attempted to conquer Siwa, an army of 60,000 was dispatched. The army never made it; a sandstorm buried the soldiers alive.

I rode on a bus. The trip took about 10 hours.We ate homemade sandwiches and stopped once for tea.

Though anyone with some Egyptian pounds in their pocket can now visit Siwa Oasis, the area still preserves an isolated charm. Villagers are friendly – far more so than in Cairo, said my Egyptian traveling companion. It’s just as common to see a donkey as a car. Villagers have gotten clever about it, too: when there’s no donkey around to pull a wagon, they latch the thing up to a motorcycle, using that as their temporary beast of burden.

A short trip away from the Sahara Desert (you can pay a jeep driver to take you out there — luckily, they’re better at finding landmarks in the “Great Sea of Sand” than I was), Siwa nevertheless has plenty of water. An abundance. In fact, there’s too much.

Siwa’s farmers are a private people. They’re not Arab; they’re part of the Berber peoples. Many of them don’t even speak Arabic. Local commerce, everyday life and the like is conducted in Seewee, descended from a separate language family.

Siwa’s farms are famous for their dates and olives. But they used to grow far more than that. As of 30 years ago, Siwa’s farms blossomed with pomegranates, lemons and all sorts of vegetables.

Those days are gone. The culprit is the gasoline water pump.

Here’s the situation: because Siwa is now easily connected to the outside world, farmers no longer have to trudge to distant springs to collect heavy buckets of water they use to irrigate their fields. Now, they can use gasoline imported from other parts of Egypt to power homemade water wells located right on their farms. The wells quickly flood the fields, the crops are satisfied, and the farmers go back to their tea, a day’s work accomplished.

Unfortunately, the farmers, no longer bound by carrying heavy quantities of water, are using far more than they need to. That means there’s more water in the ground than normal – so much so that the water can’t drain properly. The ground therefore becomes waterlogged and, except for the hardy olives and dates, all of the crops die. The government has allocated money to build more irrigation, but the locals say they haven’t seen any of it.

“Our ground is sick from too much water,” one man said. “There is no more farming here.”

Some residents are pivoting their livelihood over to the hotel business. A whole crop of “eco-friendly, resort lodges” has sprung up, and the desert road is filled with buses of tourists coming to see the next new location for Egyptian vacationing.

Siwa’s accessibility will allow the oasis to continue—maybe even thrive. But now the only thing to eat will be olives and dates.

SANTIAGO, CHILE — The full name of the main street running through Santiago is la Avenida Libertador General Bernardo O’Higgins. When I first saw this street sign, I thought it was funny to see such a “gringo” name as O’Higgins on anything in Chile, much less on the city’s main thoroughfare. After my third day of living in Santiago, however, I’ve realized that nothing could be a more normal or more fitting representation of Chile than General O’Higgins: an illegitimately-born, half-Irish, half-Chilean hero of Chile’s revolution.

When I first began exploring my new neighborhood in Las Condes de Santiago, I felt like I was walking through a suburb in Californian. Palm trees were scattered throughout the plots of neatly trimmed grass, and everything from the houses I passed to the outfits people wore looked just like home. I was nervous for my first lunch at my new home because it meant my first extended conversation with my new host family, and I had heard Chileans use so much slang that the Spanish classes I’d been taking for 8 years would be useless. But I found I could understand almost everything they told me, and I even got most of their jokes.

All my illusions were shattered, however, when I went to my first party with my Chilean “sister.” After a few introductions and questions about where I was from in the U.S., they started talking amongst themselves and I couldn’t understand a single word anyone said. I could barely even tell where one word ended and another began. To make matters worse, they tried to teach me how to play “Cacho,” an extremely complicated dice game involving a lot of numbers and probability, neither of which I’m very good at even in English.

So I lost my first game of Cacho, but the Chileans were nice about my ineptitude (I think they thought I was kind of funny, being the clueless gringa). Now, I won’t let the familiar appearance of Santiago fool me again. Instead I’m trying to learn my “Chilenismos,” (though it may take a while, I have an entire 100 page dictionary full of them…).

CAIRO — Tyler and I were eating when the SMS came.

“Just a heads up that tonight’s soccer game is going to make the streets crazy. Please stay away from the crowds and enjoy from a safe distance. —Matthew”

We had been wondering where to watch the anticipated Egypt-Algeria re-match in the Africa Cups’  semi-final because the last time Egypt and Algeria played each other — a World Cup qualifying round — Algeria won and Egypt rioted for a week. Now our program director had answered our question, perhaps unintentionally. Tyler looked at me, returning his cell phone to his pocket.

“Downtown?” he said.

I nodded. “Downtown.”

Twenty minutes and one Metro ride later we were seated in the midst of a massive crowd in the middle of Tahrir Square, watching a giant projector screen. Pepsi flowed like water (no beer though) and men, old and young alike, smoked sheesha with abandon.

Our presence didn’t go unnoticed. A guy sitting next to us started with the usual pleasantries (“Where are you from? What do you study? Welcome in Egypt!”) but then looked around at the crowd, now filling every inch of the square. A nearby boy yelling “Death to Algeria!” spurned him.

“When the game ends,” our new friend said, “stay with me.”

Egypt played very well that night, winning 4-0. With each goal, the crowd around us became crazier. Firecrackers were set off. Steel wool was lit and spun, creating a cascade of sparks. With the assistance of lighters, young men turned WD-40 cans into flame throwers, filling the night air with light and heat every time Egypt scored a goal or Algeria got a red card.

After the game’s end, the streets became crazier. As our self-appointed guide (a Syrian named Ahmed, it turned out) led us down side-streets to a quiet back-alley bar, cars raced by, young men (or — in one memorable instance — a fully veiled woman) leaning out the side, waving an Egyptian flag.

As we chatted with Ahmed and his friends, I went outside for a little air. Curiosity got the best of me, and I wandered down the street to a nearby roundabout.

More homemade flame-throwers. More steel wool. Some teens had climbed onto a statue, tied an Egyptian flag around the figure’s fez, and now were throwing firecrackers onto the street, where they smoked and sparked. A few blocks away, I could see fireworks shot into the air, their explosions reflected in the Nile’s ripples.

Tyler and Ahmed came down the street to check on me. Together, we watched some street children produce an Algerian flag, light it on fire, and trample it, singing all the while. An ambulance raced by, sirens blaring.

“Come on,” said Ahmed. “Let’s go back to the bar.”

As we walked back, staying to the road’s side to avoid speeding cabs and honking sports cars, I looked back at the last embers of Algeria’s flag curled up and blowing away.

MONTEVERDE, COSTA RICA — My heart was pounding as I walked around and around the first and
second floor of the building, scanning the room numbers and trying not
to look too out of place. I had already asked someone if I was in the
right building for my first class at the Univiersidad Nacional in
Costa Rica. It was time to ask someone how to find my evasive room.

The receptionist gave me that look that says, “You’re not from around
here, are you?” and told me to go upstairs.

I only had one class today: Political and Economic Geography. It
seemed easy enough, but it was the one class where I knew a total of
zero people. Tico (Costa Rican) students normally only take classes in
their major and do not choose their courses, so everyone in the class
knew each other from other International Relations classes.

I was the only non-tico in the class. Or maybe there was one other
American. The conversation was in Spanish so I was not entirely sure
what was happening. I thought I could speak Spanish pretty well, but
studying abroad crushes all illusions.

The three-hour lecture sounded a bit like this: “Geografia politica es
sflkjbakljf wejlksafjsdf Estados Unidos awetiocvb as,zcvjlewr.” And so
forth. But by the third hour of class, I understood more and more of
what the professor was saying. Anything important, like the homework
and the professor’s e-mail address, I confirmed with my neighbor
Jonathon. He is repeating the year so he did not know anyone in the
class either. I don’t think he would mind if I called him my first
tico friend.

And I have hope that each class will get easier. One of the books we
have to read is in English. And for next Monday’s class we have to
bring blank world maps and colored pencils. I sure hope coloring is
the same in any language.

CAIRO—When I left Istanbul, it was snowing.

Not just light snow either—heavy drifts, canceling flights, delaying others, and causing ever-speedy Turkish cab drivers to slow down. Not much, mind you, but enough to make me wonder if they’d lost their nerve.

A two-hour plane ride and one last cup of vişne suyu later, I was in Cairo—the “Mother of the World,” as the locals call it. Some differences struck me immediately. I, still bundled from my morning dash to the airport, stripped layers off in the Cairo heat. As I passed customs, my jacket, scarves, and sweaters dangled from my rucksack’s straps, betraying my foreign origins.

I first came to this region last June. While living in Turkey, I began yearning for something different—an experience that would expose me to the Middle East’s diversity, rather than just pigeon-holing me in Anatolia. So, eight months after I arrived in Turkey, there I was, standing outside Cairo International Airport, sweating from the unexpected heat, squinting from the unexpected sunlight (Istanbul is currently in the midst of what locals call “the rainy season”).

Honestly, my first impressions show more similarities than differences. The language is different and the strange alphabet makes me yearn for the simplicity of Turkish’s undotted i (”ı”). Men wear long kaftans, something I have only before seen in images of early sultans. More women wear the hijab, and the Metro has women-only cars.

Yet the similarities persist. I cross the streets the same way—a game of Frogger, with purposeful strides, brief pauses, and an attitude saying “I dare you to hit me.” Food is still cheap, and old men still sit and watch you while smoking their water pipes (though here they call them “sheesha,” not “nargile”).

I’m fairly sure differences will become more apparent over time—indeed, in some ways, they’ve already begun. Tonight at dinner, I was speaking with an Egyptian man and, as we discussed the similarities between Turkish and Arabic (in short—a bit of vocabulary, but the grammar’s entirely different), I mentioned Mustafa Kemal Atatürk.

“Atatürk?” my new dinner companion said. “That guy—and I’m not sure how to say this in English—but he was a jerk.”

My eyes instinctively glanced around the room. Insulting Atatürk—the “Father of Turks” and the founder of Turkey—is a crime against the Turkish state. Furthermore, he is almost universally beloved by Turks. No one would dare say a word against him in public, and for someone to do so is grounds for confrontation—even physical violence.

But this was not Turkey. Another Egyptian—a college student—joined in on our conversation. “Yeah,” he said. “Atatürk was a dick.”

No one called the police. No elderly Turkish man grabbed this student to punish him for his offense. The conversation just moves on, glasses clinking, the Nile drifting by in the background.

Yeah—I’m not in Turkey anymore.

VIENNA — I expected a lot from Vienna.  Mainly, I expected lots of cake, opera and waltzing.  However, a few elements truly surprised me. 

1.    If you go outside, you will smell like smoke once you come back inside.  You do not need to stand by someone smoking or be in a crowded smoky bar.  As long as you enter a café, restaurant or any means of public transit, you will need to douse yourself in Febreeze when you return.

2.    The Viennese are green.  They recycle everything.  On street corners, there are about 10 dumpsters labeled with different materials.  Vendors expect customers to bring their own reusable shopping bags, and therefore don’t even have bags in grocery stores.  For a metropolitan area, Vienna is surprisingly environmentally friendly.

3.    Everyone listens to retro American music.  Even if comments from the disc jockey and ads for dish soap are in German, the radio will not play a single German song.  Expect to hear Bryan Adams over coffee and Austrians singing “Free Bird” at bars.

4.    There are “pizza and kebab” stands galore.  If downtown or near public transit, pizza and kebab stands are more common than even bratwurst stands.  More intriguing is how pizza and kebab never seem to be sold separately.  There is even a kebab pizza.

5.    Austrians capitalize off the confusion with Australia.  Apparently, people so often confuse Austria with Australia that it created a series of witty souvenirs and establishments.  The phrase “There are no kangaroos in Austria” adorns lots of touristy trinkets.  There is even an Australian themed bar called “Roo Bar” that attracts both Austrians and Americans.

PHOENIX — I know it’s probably a bit premature to begin blogging about my Costa Rica experience when I am sitting in the Phoenix airport waiting to get there. But I have already discovered the first study abroad experience: no cell phone.

I know it is so overdramatic, but I feel sad without it. You might laugh when I say my phone is my life, but what I mean is, my phone encompasses my life. It has photos of my friends and family, whom I love. It has texts that I have saved for months because they made me smile.

People have said the nicest and the meanest things via text. People have loved me and left me through that phone. My littlest sister giggled. My middlest sister called me strange pet names. New friends were made with that phone, and I smiled every time our texts planned countless dinners and get-togethers. An old friend told me he missed me, and I never thought he did. Another assured me that everything would be okay when I was in the middle of a fight with someone else. Someone randomly told me she loved me every month or so in cute, sweet ways. Someone else said she just might be okay today, and that sometimes the sun’s rays made her think of angels. And one person stole my heart with a few kind, mushy text messages.

I almost brought my phone with me just so I could keep those things close. I keep a running conversation with people via text, and it makes me feel like I’m a part of their life even when I’m far away. Without my phone I feel very far from everyone.

That being said, not having my phone just means I expect lots of e-mails and video chatting instead, even if I have to walk miles to an Internet cafe once a week. So, goodbye, my dear cell phone. Hello, “old school” communication; I hope we can be good friends.

PARIS – Taking a night bus sounds like a good deal.  It’s cheap, you get to sleep right through the boring parts, and you save on hotels.  Or so you’d think.

I discovered the horrible truth recently on a round trip from Paris to London.  Everyone gets on the bus, and instantly takes their shoes off.  Some people then continuously apply spray-on deodorant.  Others aren’t so thoughtful.  Then they stretch out across the seats in whatever position they find most comfortable.  Heads are on window sills, arms are splayed over headrests, and feet are in the aisles.  This works well, unless you happen to be 6-foot four, in which case your feet just go across the aisle into somebody else’s seat, which typically ends up being a bit of an awkward situation.  Then, assuming you do get any sleep (an unlikely event), you wake up with your neck in severe pain from whatever angle your head has been at.

To make matters worse is the Chunnel.  A masterpiece of engineering, the Chunnel is also a sparkling masterpiece of bureaucracy.  First, you get off the bus, take all your bags, and put them through an x-ray for at French customs.  Now, I’m not calling security pointless.  I just question the usefulness of all the French’s hard work considering the fact that their British counterparts on the return trip don’t check luggage at all.  Once their bags have been placed on the conveyor belt, a highly paid man asks each traveler, “français ou anglais?” leaving Americans like myself scrambling to determine if he’s asking about language or nationality.  The latter seems odd, considering that all passports have just been checked by another highly-paid officer, while a third stood and watched, but the former doesn’t make a lot more sense either, considering that nobody else says anything to you in any language as you grab your bags and get back on the bus.

After French customs comes British immigration control.  The bus moves forward about 20 feet, and everyone gets back off and walks into a different building.  In this building, all non-EU citizens are directed to a counter to fill out an immigration card.  The British kindly thought to provide a five-foot-long writing surface to the dozens of people who crowd around to fill these out, but it never seemed to cross their minds that those people might also need writing utensils.  Once the weary traveler has managed to beg a pen off an elderly Pakistani couple, he is then directed to a podium, where he presents his passport and is asked a series of questions irrelevant to his stay in the United Kingdom (“How long will you be staying in France after you return?  When will you return to the United States?  Where will you be going after your return to the US?”).

After immigration control comes the waiting.  The bus waits in the dark for about half an hour before finally moving onto a train.  The train is stuffy, illuminated with nasty yellow lights, and very similar to what I imagine hell will be.  After a 30 minute ride, the bus gets off the train, and unceremoniously proceeds to drive along the wrong side of the road (i.e., it drives on the left side) all the way to London, where it arrives two hours early, stranding the traveler on a dark and desolate street, devoid of pubs, coffee shops, or public transportation.

By far the worst part of the traveler’s journey, however, is when he gets to the bus station for the return journey, only to find he has purchased the wrong ticket and will not be returning until the next day.  The traveler is then forced to find expensive lodging for the night, thus negating all the money he saved by using this barbaric mode of transport.

ALEX PRIEST / THE EAGLE Old Town "Gamla Stan" in Stockholm, Sweden

BRUSSELS – Although I am studying abroad in Denmark, I never planned to stay in Copenhagen the whole semester. In fact, I’m taking full advantage of my travel break to see as much of Europe as I can.

To preface: I’ve found over the past several weeks I needed a change in scenery. Copenhagen is a wonderful city, the Danes are wonderful people and there are plenty of wonderful sights I have yet to see in Copenhagen. But after two months of work (harder work than expected from a study abroad program), dreary weather and miserable Mexican food, I needed to get out for a bit.

Luckily our program timed a two-week travel break for the first two weeks of November, likely in anticipation of our restlessness in Denmark. So now, midway through that break, where have I been? I spent the first few days in Stockholm, Sweden. Then I took an overnight ferry to Helsinki, Finland, followed by a 26-hour ferry ride to Rostock, Germany. I rode the rails to Amsterdam, the Netherlands to meet a friend and together we traveled from there to Brussels, Belgium. As I write this, I’m sitting in the Brussels train station preparing to leave for Paris, France where we’ll be until Friday night – when we fly out to spend the final weekend of the break in Dublin, Ireland,.

It’s been an absolute blast comparing and contrasting cultures in Europe. The Danish culture, I’ve found, is pretty closed – immigration is a big issue in the country and although everyone speaks English, they aren’t necessarily enthusiastic about having to speak it to foreigners like myself. The lack of diversity in food varieties available (ethnic foods are pretty limited to falafel and pizza, unfortunately) and the feel of the city is more laid-back, easy-going and worry-free.

Take Brussels, for example. The similarities between Brussels and Copenhagen are limited to their somewhat closed nature and European location. Also, like Copenhagen, businesses are rarely open 24/7 and on Armistice Day, November 11th, businesses were actually closed. English is spoken less widely, as it’s already a bilingual country (French and German, mostly). Once the headquarters for the European Union, the city is more business-like and has a “big city” feel. Food varieties are a little more diverse and, as a result of literally being a bigger city, more widely available.

Paris will no doubt be quite a contrast to Copenhagen, because it is immense. I’m eager to explore it!

Anyway, more updates to come as my travels (and abroad experiences) continue. Continue to read my updates on my Twitter and see my photos on my Flickr page.

PARIS – Recently I had the chance (i.e., I paid 12 euros) to attend a chocolate show at a convention center in Paris.  Chocolatiers had gathered from around the world to present their most elegant goods. 

There were the finest bars of chocolate from almost every continent, dresses made from chocolate, full-sized chocolate flutes and chocolate miniatures of Paris landmarks.  There were pralines and nougats and all the most fancy and beautiful looking desserts I had ever seen.  But to be completely honest, they didn’t taste nearly as good as they looked.

Some may argue that it fits in with the French character, but French desserts seem to be built for style, not taste. 

Each one has an elegant dollop of fondant or sculpted mousse so beautiful as to make one wonder whether it should be eaten or placed in a glass case.  Even the simple butter cookies sold for children have intricate carvings of castles and princes and the pearly gates of heaven.  The expectation, naturally, is that eating these desserts will lead one to a world of taste pleasure so intense that most would not even dream of it.  Actually eating them, thus, is rather anti-climactic. 

This is in stark contrast to the world of American desserts.  If there’s one thing we do right in America, it’s that we don’t waste our time making our desserts look good at the expense of taste.  Take the humble chocolate chip cookie (relatively uncommon in France) as an example.  It doesn’t look like much: just a hunk of beige dough that was tossed in the oven. Perhaps I shall be stoned by foodies for this, but I would much rather eat a fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie than anything found in your average French pastry shop. The only possible exception? Lemon tarts, which are excellently utilitarian.