(I wrote this a few months ago and never got around to posting it because it felt too sentimental. Rereading it today it didn't sound so bad. Here is a last post for Videza. For now.)
So this blog needs a coda. We made it back in one piece, twelve hours on a plane not withstanding.
This is hard to write because I do not have anything revelatory to offer. I don’t actually travel with the purpose of reworking my perspective on life, or finding deeper truths.
I travel because I love it. Because waking up somewhere new, learning a new set of streets, new words for “entrance” and “exit” are exciting. Travel makes time for other things, for thinking and brainstorming without the intrusion of routine, for breathing space.
It’s almost three weeks since I got back to Ohio. Life is different and the same. The strangest part is realizing that most people, everyone except Chelsea, can’t really understand the anomaly of the last three months. It was three months for most people – they worked, they read, they studied and lived.
And for me, looking at the pictures, at this blog. Remembering everything that happened and was said off the camera, it feels intangible. It would not take much to convince me that I never left. That it was a dream.
Which is why it is best to travel with someone you trust, because they will remind you that you were awake. Of the moments when you put your foot in your mouth and the pictures you deleted. And of the occasional dumb wonder that struck at unexpected times, when we realized that first a week, and then a month and then three had passed.
Well, I know you all believed in us, and knew we’d make it safely home. But now we are, and the fact is perhaps better comfort than your confidence. Thanks for reading and traveling with us.
Cheers.
Showing posts with label hanna. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hanna. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Friday, September 3, 2010
Ocean (Sans Ponies)
Most of you know that three years ago I did the Semester at Sea program – studied on a cruise ship while it sailed places and wandered those places when we got there and there were no diamond ponies in the ocean.
*brief skirmish*
(and I got my computer back from Chelsea…)
I blather about it often, so I beg your indulgence if I go back to it briefly.
Before Semester at Sea I was hugely excited about spending so much time close to the ocean. I’ve been relatively close to Lake Erie most of my life, but it isn’t quite the same thing. The oceans, the seven seas, have inspired so much. Poets and explorers alike have been captivated by the sea for thousands of years. And I admit, I was looking to be impressed.
And I wasn’t, really. It was vast, incomprehensibly so – I remember realizing that it would take me an hour or so walking straight down to reach the earth beneath my feet – but not what I was looking for. It also gave me horrific motion sickness.
I found the ocean fascinating in the way a screensaver can be, or the DVD symbol bouncing ever closer to the corners of a TV. While diverting, it was not the stuff of poetry.
And thus it remained for the first week or so. Then we hit rough water between Hawaii and Japan. The waves were double my height, and the forbidding storm grey, steel gray that is the province of poets. The sun set on this ocean, unobstructed save for the horizon and I leaned out on the slick rail. Sea spray hit my face and I tasted salt. And I have loved the ocean since.
And I have missed her for three years.
So getting to spend time in places near the various oceans and seas has been important, like running into an old friend. Who still makes me queasy if I’m not careful.
We’ve skimmed over our ocean voyages so far on the blog – mostly because the first few we slept through, and our last was governed by incredibly rough water and our gloom at having departed the Englands and England.
I would like to put in a good word for the Irish Sea, as providing a gorgeous backdrop for Wicklow and a sunrise I had not intended to see over it. The residents insisted that it was possible to swim, but Chelsea and I declined.
In Barcelona and Nice we actually went and fluttered about in the ocean. In Nice especially the waves had a kick to them, enough to knock the knees from under you if you weren’t paying attention. And I find it strangely comforting to be so very small and to play, carefully, with something so very big.
In Nice too we got to see jellyfish. Chelsea noticed them first – small black leaf-like critters – and decided it was best to evacuate the area.
She did not tell me what led to her haste. I chilled in the water for another moment and upon perceiving that Chelsea was done with the water I too climbed out. Then she explained why she retreated to dry land. To her credit, she was not sure they were jellyfish, they might just as easily have been leaves and paranoia.
A minute later an older man came towards us, holding out a Pringles can. As Chelsea and I tried to politely decline his offer of chips he showed us a tiny captive jellyfish. He had mistaken it for a condom until he noticed there were lots of them.
We have since learned that these were velella velella and they are Chelsea’s new favorite jellyfish. We have also learned that they are harmless to humans, although one should wash ones hands before touching ones eyes and face after handling them. And nudibranchs eat them.
Now we are on the way to Geneva, and away from the ocean. For now.
(ps. the ponies will make sense next time. Promise)
*brief skirmish*
(and I got my computer back from Chelsea…)
I blather about it often, so I beg your indulgence if I go back to it briefly.
Before Semester at Sea I was hugely excited about spending so much time close to the ocean. I’ve been relatively close to Lake Erie most of my life, but it isn’t quite the same thing. The oceans, the seven seas, have inspired so much. Poets and explorers alike have been captivated by the sea for thousands of years. And I admit, I was looking to be impressed.
And I wasn’t, really. It was vast, incomprehensibly so – I remember realizing that it would take me an hour or so walking straight down to reach the earth beneath my feet – but not what I was looking for. It also gave me horrific motion sickness.
I found the ocean fascinating in the way a screensaver can be, or the DVD symbol bouncing ever closer to the corners of a TV. While diverting, it was not the stuff of poetry.
And thus it remained for the first week or so. Then we hit rough water between Hawaii and Japan. The waves were double my height, and the forbidding storm grey, steel gray that is the province of poets. The sun set on this ocean, unobstructed save for the horizon and I leaned out on the slick rail. Sea spray hit my face and I tasted salt. And I have loved the ocean since.
And I have missed her for three years.
So getting to spend time in places near the various oceans and seas has been important, like running into an old friend. Who still makes me queasy if I’m not careful.
We’ve skimmed over our ocean voyages so far on the blog – mostly because the first few we slept through, and our last was governed by incredibly rough water and our gloom at having departed the Englands and England.
I would like to put in a good word for the Irish Sea, as providing a gorgeous backdrop for Wicklow and a sunrise I had not intended to see over it. The residents insisted that it was possible to swim, but Chelsea and I declined.
In Barcelona and Nice we actually went and fluttered about in the ocean. In Nice especially the waves had a kick to them, enough to knock the knees from under you if you weren’t paying attention. And I find it strangely comforting to be so very small and to play, carefully, with something so very big.
In Nice too we got to see jellyfish. Chelsea noticed them first – small black leaf-like critters – and decided it was best to evacuate the area.
She did not tell me what led to her haste. I chilled in the water for another moment and upon perceiving that Chelsea was done with the water I too climbed out. Then she explained why she retreated to dry land. To her credit, she was not sure they were jellyfish, they might just as easily have been leaves and paranoia.
A minute later an older man came towards us, holding out a Pringles can. As Chelsea and I tried to politely decline his offer of chips he showed us a tiny captive jellyfish. He had mistaken it for a condom until he noticed there were lots of them.
We have since learned that these were velella velella and they are Chelsea’s new favorite jellyfish. We have also learned that they are harmless to humans, although one should wash ones hands before touching ones eyes and face after handling them. And nudibranchs eat them.
Now we are on the way to Geneva, and away from the ocean. For now.
(ps. the ponies will make sense next time. Promise)
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Barcelona is a Dangerous Place
As we climbed down the stairs to the entrance of Parc Güell, Chelsea and I were damning Barcelona. Our feet ached and bled, the various straps of our bags had embedded themselves so deeply into our sunburnt shoulders that to shift them even slightly sent sharp pains through our skin, and our legs were raw from rubbing together as we walked.
And as we came down these stairs we stopped. Music echoed up from an artificial cavern conceived by one of Barcelona’s patron saints, Gaudí. A man sat over what looked like a metal tortoise shell, and by bouncing his fingers on the indentations of this instrument he produced a sound similar to a steel drum, but sweeter and so full of color that it matched the mosaics marching along the walls. And we forgave Barcelona.
This city made us forget, in one moment, how tired and resentful we had been a second before. The bitterness came back a short distance down the road as our flip flops dug into the tender flesh between our toes, and yet the enchantment lingered and we laughed on our way to the hostel.
Barcelona is a beautiful city, from the Gothic Quarter’s narrow streets to the curved and colorful architecture of the aforementioned Gaudi. And these too, have their dangers. The danger of the fabulous architecture in general is very mundane: one looks up rather than where one is walking.
This phenomenon is made more dangerous not only by the usual hazards (walking into other people, walking into each other, walking into walls, telephone poles, street vendors, bicyclists, etc…) but by the fact that around each of the many trees littering the streets and adding to the urge to look skyward, there is a pit. Now this is not always a deep pit; some are scarcely six inches. Others range to about a foot or so. One can, I hope, readily see the dangers inherent in this.
You are not convinced yet of the dangers?
Would you like to know how many pairs of pants we have bought in the two days since we arrived?
Four.
And this only, by exercising the greatest restraint.
Now, in my defense, three of these four are Chelsea’s.
In her defense. Well. Nothing.
I joke. These are giant poofy pants that come in all manner of colors and textures (including orange and soft. Chelsea got one of each. Well, two orange). They are magnificent and full of win. The pants have been our splurge. But so much more could have been.
The clothing here is amazing: bright colors and strange designs (http://www.desigual.com/#/videos/). And the sandals. You know there is something strange going on when Chelsea and I have to resist shoe shopping. And possibly also with somewhere where we both wanted to go to the beach.
One final word of warning: Chocolate con churros are wonderful.
Adios amigos!
And as we came down these stairs we stopped. Music echoed up from an artificial cavern conceived by one of Barcelona’s patron saints, Gaudí. A man sat over what looked like a metal tortoise shell, and by bouncing his fingers on the indentations of this instrument he produced a sound similar to a steel drum, but sweeter and so full of color that it matched the mosaics marching along the walls. And we forgave Barcelona.
This city made us forget, in one moment, how tired and resentful we had been a second before. The bitterness came back a short distance down the road as our flip flops dug into the tender flesh between our toes, and yet the enchantment lingered and we laughed on our way to the hostel.
Barcelona is a beautiful city, from the Gothic Quarter’s narrow streets to the curved and colorful architecture of the aforementioned Gaudi. And these too, have their dangers. The danger of the fabulous architecture in general is very mundane: one looks up rather than where one is walking.
This phenomenon is made more dangerous not only by the usual hazards (walking into other people, walking into each other, walking into walls, telephone poles, street vendors, bicyclists, etc…) but by the fact that around each of the many trees littering the streets and adding to the urge to look skyward, there is a pit. Now this is not always a deep pit; some are scarcely six inches. Others range to about a foot or so. One can, I hope, readily see the dangers inherent in this.
You are not convinced yet of the dangers?
Would you like to know how many pairs of pants we have bought in the two days since we arrived?
Four.
And this only, by exercising the greatest restraint.
Now, in my defense, three of these four are Chelsea’s.
In her defense. Well. Nothing.
I joke. These are giant poofy pants that come in all manner of colors and textures (including orange and soft. Chelsea got one of each. Well, two orange). They are magnificent and full of win. The pants have been our splurge. But so much more could have been.
The clothing here is amazing: bright colors and strange designs (http://www.desigual.com/#/videos/). And the sandals. You know there is something strange going on when Chelsea and I have to resist shoe shopping. And possibly also with somewhere where we both wanted to go to the beach.
One final word of warning: Chocolate con churros are wonderful.
Adios amigos!
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Tower
So today we spent our morning at the Tower of London.
Now this is tricky. The Tower is a major historical site, a huge tourist trap, a checkmark on the superficial list of must sees in London. It has guards in red coats and black hats who march five paces in each direction in front of a little wooden structure about the size of a telephone booth with absolutely nothing in it. People take pictures of their children smiling in front of these guards.
And yet. It is the Tower.
We walked through rooms where prisoners had carved their names into the stone, a man who was part of the Gunpowder Plot. Some carved symbols of faith. One carved an astronomical chart. Towers and rooms were marked to show which monarch constructed them, right back to William the Conqueror. Traitor’s gate still rests in shallow water, and the ravens prance and cackle. And the jewels. You can’t forget the jewels.
And in the end, no amount of Henry VIII collectible dolls, no amount of fellow tourists exclaiming “It’s a unicorn!” in derision and disbelief, can really destroy the power that lives in that place.
The reason that I wanted to see the Tower was Lady Jane Grey.
For those of you who haven’t heard me babble about Jane Grey, she was Queen of England for nine days between Edward VI and Mary Tudor. She was seventeen when she was crowned, deposed and beheaded. And she was imprisoned and beheaded in the Tower.
It is not strange to encounter a historical figure who enchants you, and Jane Grey has always been one of mine. I’m not remotely alone in that. If you want a dramatized version there is a movie called “Lady Jane” with Helena Bohnam Carter and Cary Elwes which I adore and my family is sick of. Or you can read her letters.
One in particular. A letter to Thomas Hardy, written in the Tower, extolling him not to break with his faith, with Protestantism, for the sake of his immortal soul. It is beautifully written. And it was written when a conversion to Catholicism would probably have saved her own life.
At the Tower is a monument, two glass circles with the names of those given the honor of an execution within the Tower grounds. It is an unremarkable space, a field off a walkway, the walls are far away and it is open to the sky. Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard are there, and Countess Rochford who was Anne Boleyn’s sister-in-law and survived that queen only to be taken down in Katherine Howard’s fall.
And there is Jane Grey, the nine days queen.
I heard someone remark that it was too modern an object, out of place with the rest of the Tower.
Perhaps. But we are out of place, voyeurs who half understand what we are seeing. We don’t have time to really know this place, we who have a morning to spend glimpsing the behemoth that is history. I stood over Jane Grey’s name and mourned for her a little. Because I think she was brave. Because seventeen is too young. Because there was a person who walked from the Tower to this patch of ground and who, blind-folded, could not find the block.
That’s it really. I went looking for that moment and I found it, created it maybe. But I think that is what you have to do. It’s easy to forget the human beings involved in light of little paper dolls demonstrating how the rack worked.
“The soul takes flight into the world which is invisible, and there arriving she is sure of bliss and forever dwells in paradise.” – Plato, translated by Jane Grey for John Feckenham, who, bless him, wrote it down.
Now this is tricky. The Tower is a major historical site, a huge tourist trap, a checkmark on the superficial list of must sees in London. It has guards in red coats and black hats who march five paces in each direction in front of a little wooden structure about the size of a telephone booth with absolutely nothing in it. People take pictures of their children smiling in front of these guards.
And yet. It is the Tower.
We walked through rooms where prisoners had carved their names into the stone, a man who was part of the Gunpowder Plot. Some carved symbols of faith. One carved an astronomical chart. Towers and rooms were marked to show which monarch constructed them, right back to William the Conqueror. Traitor’s gate still rests in shallow water, and the ravens prance and cackle. And the jewels. You can’t forget the jewels.
And in the end, no amount of Henry VIII collectible dolls, no amount of fellow tourists exclaiming “It’s a unicorn!” in derision and disbelief, can really destroy the power that lives in that place.
The reason that I wanted to see the Tower was Lady Jane Grey.
For those of you who haven’t heard me babble about Jane Grey, she was Queen of England for nine days between Edward VI and Mary Tudor. She was seventeen when she was crowned, deposed and beheaded. And she was imprisoned and beheaded in the Tower.
It is not strange to encounter a historical figure who enchants you, and Jane Grey has always been one of mine. I’m not remotely alone in that. If you want a dramatized version there is a movie called “Lady Jane” with Helena Bohnam Carter and Cary Elwes which I adore and my family is sick of. Or you can read her letters.
One in particular. A letter to Thomas Hardy, written in the Tower, extolling him not to break with his faith, with Protestantism, for the sake of his immortal soul. It is beautifully written. And it was written when a conversion to Catholicism would probably have saved her own life.
At the Tower is a monument, two glass circles with the names of those given the honor of an execution within the Tower grounds. It is an unremarkable space, a field off a walkway, the walls are far away and it is open to the sky. Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard are there, and Countess Rochford who was Anne Boleyn’s sister-in-law and survived that queen only to be taken down in Katherine Howard’s fall.
And there is Jane Grey, the nine days queen.
I heard someone remark that it was too modern an object, out of place with the rest of the Tower.
Perhaps. But we are out of place, voyeurs who half understand what we are seeing. We don’t have time to really know this place, we who have a morning to spend glimpsing the behemoth that is history. I stood over Jane Grey’s name and mourned for her a little. Because I think she was brave. Because seventeen is too young. Because there was a person who walked from the Tower to this patch of ground and who, blind-folded, could not find the block.
That’s it really. I went looking for that moment and I found it, created it maybe. But I think that is what you have to do. It’s easy to forget the human beings involved in light of little paper dolls demonstrating how the rack worked.
“The soul takes flight into the world which is invisible, and there arriving she is sure of bliss and forever dwells in paradise.” – Plato, translated by Jane Grey for John Feckenham, who, bless him, wrote it down.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Ponderings a Month Before - 2
Part 2 - Hanna
In this past year my life has been laden with projects. I had a thesis and a portfolio, a play to stage manage, a club to run and a workshop to organize. And when I needed a break from that I would look for things to do in Europe. I would put away the word documents and spend some time wandering the internet. I looked for hostels and chocolate museums, train tickets and castles, rail passes and city passes and ferries and flights. And nudibranchs. It was a calming exercise, looking forward past the stresses of senior year.
In this past year my life has been laden with projects. I had a thesis and a portfolio, a play to stage manage, a club to run and a workshop to organize. And when I needed a break from that I would look for things to do in Europe. I would put away the word documents and spend some time wandering the internet. I looked for hostels and chocolate museums, train tickets and castles, rail passes and city passes and ferries and flights. And nudibranchs. It was a calming exercise, looking forward past the stresses of senior year.
I built an itinerary, stealing bits and pieces from professional tour routes and making up the rest with what may turn out to be a hopeful naivety. Part of it is guessing, part rumors of places I want to see and a few stops are for family or visiting places for a second look. Luck will also be making a cameo or two.
And for all that work, for all the giddy panic of looking at the calendar, I still cannot entirely wrap my mind around the fact that Chelsea and I are going to wander around these countries. In the end, all my planning will be useful, but ultimately insufficient. Photos and confirmation emails don’t prepare you. I won’t believe it until we touch down, until we step out into Heathrow Airport. I might not believe it then.
Wow. Heathrow. *shivers*
Last night my parents and I ran some basic German and French, when I remembered: “I need to know how to say ‘platform’.”
It’s funny how things like that stick with you. Not knowing “platform” was the hardest part of traveling by train and not knowing the language. If you walk up to a ticket booth, hold up two fingers and say “Paris” then the meaning is hard to miss. But what gesture do you use for “platform”? I've tried a few. Unsuccessfully.
“Bahnsteig.” Right. Now I just have to remember. And learn it in a few more languages.
Most of my projects are done now, and trip research has taken on a more serious bent. It’s time to reserve trains and ferries. Time to make sure we have a place to stay during Fringe Fest and a way to get to Andorra and a bus from Garmisch to Neuschwanstien. Time to come to terms with panicking because of everything I won't know before we get there.
I have shopping lists and a packing list. Things we need to buy in London and what we should bring. I’m still struggling with how many books to let myself take. I’m gathering email addresses and physical addresses for postcards. The next month will go too fast. The following three will go so much faster.
We’re almost there. How crazy is that?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)