EurOnlyLiveOnce

Five months. One journey of self discovery in Europe.

[euronlyliveonce-blog]

Nearly eight months after my own Western European tour, I was reunited with two of my Irish aunts over the weekend and have been trapped in travel nostalgia ever since. My aunts came to visit my mom who hasn’t seen them in a few years now. My brother Colin and sister Mary Cate saw them last year around this time. I said my farewells to the aunties shortly after the New Year (which, yes I know, I still have to write about).

For now, I’m just sharing a preview of my most recent travel indulgence (thank you, Netflix): a moving, inspirational documentary half-made by the main character Laura Dekker, the now-16-year-old Dutch girl who sailed the world in 519 days -- alone. SHE is brave, strong, passionate, fearless and wise beyond her teenage years. 

While only a 1.5 hour documentary of Laura’s many many more hours at sea, the picture portrays a truly admirable young woman who sees life beyond the superficial aspects of modernity, including many of the Western social norms and often limiting expectations many of us place on ourselves. She questions, provokes, challenges. What is “success”? Who defines it? What is happiness and loneliness? What is time and does it matter?

I don’t know how Laura stayed sane and mentally silenced all the noise -- as I tried to many times on my own journey -- for over a year alone on a boat in some of the most dangerous waters in the world. To be in her shoes, I would if I knew how to sail. But that thought didn’t stop me from smiling and dreaming up the next big journey in my head as I watched this young, curious spirit take the bull by the horns and live out her life passion and chase after her dream.

There is indeed another trip in me yet. It’s just a matter of when the right door opens, not if.

[euronlyliveonce-blog]

Prior to saturating international media headlines after the Charlie Hebdo attacks, Paris showed me its "je ne sais quoi" when I visited “la ville d’amour” to celebrate my birthday. It was a grey December morning when I arrived in Paris after a long 15-hour overnight bus ride from Berlin. At the time of booking my ticket, I thought an overnight bus was genius, considering I wouldn’t waste a day of travel and could sleep most of the way. Wrong. I boarded the bus at 7:30 p.m. and watched as it filled to nearly full capacity with not just adult travelers, but also families with small children, who cried and screamed more than half way. Not to mention, German bus drivers apparently are required to stop every two hours, which meant bathroom breaks at 1 a.m. We also approached Brussels around 3:30 a.m. and border patrol officers came on the bus to check passports. One African man, probably only five to 10 years older than me, was taken off the bus for lack of documentation. Witnessing the cops stern treatment of the man, I looked around the bus to field the reactions of the other passengers, all of whom were predominantly European. Many watched silently as the African man was questioned, verbally demeaned and then removed. When I arrived in Paris, I was sleep deprived and disoriented. My French was also rusty, as I had only spoken the language on a few occasions since leaving southern France during the first week of September. I managed to ask an older gentlemen for directions to Julien and Ariane’s house. I was so excited to see this young couple that stayed with me this summer in Lake George. They were one of my first Couchsurfing guests, as they had contacted me shortly after I made up my mind that I wanted to see Europe through the eyes of locals. While Julien and Ariane only stayed with me for one night, we bonded over a night spent inside, chatting around the kitchen table as a incredible thunderstorm was passing over. They invited me to stay with them in Paris, and celebrate my birthday with Ariane because we are only three days apart. Once I found Julien and Ariane’s apartment, I was intrigued by the eco-efficient building tucked on a charming side street in the Parisian suburb of Montreuil. Aside from being a 10-minute bike ride into Paris, Julien and Ariane are a few minute’s walking distance to the metro, a food cooperative and a bike-share rack, which became my favorite mode of transportation. I spent a few afternoons and evenings biking Paris with Julien in Ariane, starting with a zip through Bois de Vincennes and into Paris, just before the island leading to Notre Dame. We also biked along la Seine (river) to la Tour d’Eiffel, which I climbed with Julien. It was the most touristy thing I had done my entire trip yet one of the most memorable, for the views and atmosphere while standing at 115 meters. Aside from being my personal tour guides, Ariane and Julien showed me such incredible friendship during the week I spent with them. My first Saturday night in the city, we had a dinner party at their house with a bunch of their friends. Nibbles and red wine, followed by a delicious vegetarian meal, and then a dessert of carrot cake and cheese, kept us stimulated as our conversation and laughter loosely floated about the room. But as the wine bottles ran dry and the clock struck 3 a.m., I hardly was able to keep myself awake let alone speak French. Fortunately, I managed to talk to everyone and become close with Ariane’s friend Charlotte, who told me all about her dream of moving to Montreal. Luckily, we reunited a few nights later when Ariane and Julien coordinated a birthday party for me and their friend Clement, who was also born on December 9. And it wasn’t just an ordinary birthday celebration, for the main feature was “raclette,” a Swiss dish that involves heating the same-named cheese and scraping off (racler) the melted part onto boiled potatoes. For dessert, Clement’s girlfriend baked us a cake, and Clement and I jointly blew out the candles. As we continued drinking and chatting throughout the night, I was so thankful to have a loving, warm group of people around me to celebrate my 23rd year of life. The love of friendship seemed to be a theme in Paris, as I also spent time with my German friend Andrea as well as a fellow Ithacan editor who now lives just outside the city. Andrea went back to Dittlingen, her German village in the Black Forest, for the weekend. I stayed in her apartment in the Montmarte district, and spent one night walking around the Sacre Cœur and down to Moulin Rouge, making it back to the cathedral just in time to watch the hourly light show cast from the Eiffel Tower. The night Andrea returned from Germany, I cooked her an Italian dinner of pasta and salad, and she shared the homemade Christmas cookies she and her mom made. The next day, Andrea wished me farewell and happy birthday with a small gift of the most scrumptious macaroons from the famed Ladurée! I finished off my last macaroons while waiting at Notre Dame for Vicky, the chief copy editor for The Ithacan during my year as editor in chief. Vicky is living just outside Paris where she teaches English to young students. Being so close to each other, we met up for a little tour around the Sorbonne, the historic Latin Quarter where the university is also located. En route, we dipped into the Shakespeare & Co. bookstore, ogling at all the new titles to add to our Goodreads list. We finished our little walking tour with a stop at Mariage Frères, a tea shop and museum that details the history of tea around the world. I must have sniffed about 40 tins of tea before stopping at a box labeled “Marco Polo,” which turned out to be the store’s original blend. I purchased a box for myself, one of the few souvenirs for myself. When the time came to pack my bag and hop on the next bus, I did not want to leave Paris. Yes, I walked along the Champs d’Elysees to the Arc de Triomphe and through the Jardin des Tuileries to the Louvre, but that wasn’t what made Paris special for me. I had fallen in love with the city for the warm and open-minded people and the artsy yet sophisticated culture. Even the rainy days I spent at la Musée d’Orsay and Versailles were captivating. For an international metropolis, even when struck with terror and violence, Paris cast a spell on me. It’s only a matter of time before I go back.

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Why we painted over Berlin’s most famous graffiti | Lutz Henke

Lutz Henke: Berlin’s gentrification and zombification is in full swing. We would rather destroy our street art than let it contribute to that process

The artists who created some of Berlin’s most famous graffiti have painted over their own art to stop the city’s “art scene” from being preserved as an amusement park for tourists and newcomers who can afford the rising rents.

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After bussing across Germany for an expat Thanksgiving with a fellow Ithacan, I was thankful for my 65-liter backpack and all the layers stuffed inside so I could survive Berrrrrlin. My weather app read -1 degrees Celsius when I arrived to Berlin on November 27. It wasn't so much the cold air or grey skies as it was the sharp, sideways wind that indicated it would be a very cold week ahead. Luckily, I had a quick walk from the SBahn station to the toasty warm apartment where Evan, a friend from Ithaca College, was busily chopping carrots and potatoes in the kitchen. As I entered the room, the smell of rosemary permeated from the hot oven where our Thanksgiving chicken was roasting. While cooking a 20-pound turkey on this American holiday is quite traditional, we opted for second-best -- chicken. Germans supermarkets only sell turkey breast slices and a full-size turkey wouldn't fit in the apartment oven, so we opted for the smaller bird of a similar feather. Thanks to Evan's exceptional cooking skills, we shared a delicious meal of roast chicken and vegetables, his grandmother's sausage stuffing, followed by a homemade pumpkin pie (sans the canned stuff!) Spending a full week with Evan gave us time to catch up since we graduated in May, and also get to know each other better. While we share mutual friends, Evan and I never spent one-on-one time together -- until Berlin. I learned that Evan's family is German and, shortly after getting dual American-German citizenship, he moved to Berlin in September for an internship with a film production company. I was impressed by Evan's ambition and courage to go overseas for his first post-graduate job, and excited to learn all about his near-future plans of starting an independent production company in the city with some other Ithaca College grads. Professional goals aside, Evan also is a tremendously mindful person who I learned from in both conversation and observation: he woke most mornings to meditate for one hour before work, took time after a long day at the office to Skype with his family and friends in the U.S., and always had interesting ethical points to raise while discussing current events or German history. One of the most memorable nights with Evan was when his German neighbors, John and Monique, invited us over for Sunday dinner. They were "fasting," on a strictly vegan diet, when I met them but Sunday was the only night of the week they allowed themselves a drink -- or more, considering four of us went through five bottles of red wine. Needless to say, our casual dinner got rather rowdy as more drinks flowed. John and Evan began telling jokes and demonstrating their theatrical skills while Monique played DJ and began dancing around, and I roared with laughter throughout. In moments like these I grew to appreciate the generosity and friendship that people can show each other, and how sharing meals can turn strangers into friends. But this reflection about meals creating community is by no means a new revelation; it is rather a pattern I have continually come across in my travels. While in Berlin, I sought out these opportunities by browsing the Couchsurfing app. As I scrolled through what seemed like an endless Events page, I grew more impressed with how active Berlin's members were. Comedy showcases, späti crawls, yoga classes and "bed & breakslow" gatherings, among other activities, abounded. With the weather being so brutally chilling and the sun going down early, I decided to attended a "cosy Saturday tea time" hosted by Ondaretta, a Couchsurfing member originally from China and now living in Berlin. Since launching the first cafe meeting in March, Ondaretta has brought any average of 20 hosts and travelers together each week for a chance to exchange dialogue and culture. As newcomers flowed into the meeting space, people passed chairs over heads and moved around tables to accommodate everyone. After three hours, more than 30 of us had taken over the entire back room of the cafe. My "cosy Saturday" afternoon at the Couchsurfing event flew by, largely because I was in great company, particularly that of Chris, a German born in Bavaria and now living in Berlin. Whether dorking out over books or bringing feminism into every other topic, Chris and I shared many similar interests that made our conversations dynamic yet genuine and incredibly fluid. I was really inspired by how balanced of a person Chris seemed to be. When he wasn't working his tail off producing short films or creating special-effect graphics, Chris was going to yoga class, training for a marathon or coming up with new vegan recipes. The passion exuding from all aspects of his daily life, while juggling his many commitments, was toxic, even a bit envious... He proved to me the absolute possibility of living each and every day with authenticity. Two other inspiring individuals who I met in Berlin were Rachel and Ashleigh. Cousins from Australia, the girls began their European trip a few weeks before I met them on a walking tour of Berlin. We had all mistakenly chosen the coldest week in November to learn about the city's history as a battlefield from World War II through the Cold War, which saw its end as civilians knocked down the Berlin Wall. But the girls' positivity and energy made the freezing temperature negligible, beginning with the moment we all bear-hugged a giant radiator to defrost our numb fingers and buns after a three-hour walking tour. We warmed up with glühwein at a Christmas market, took selfies and goofy group pictures along the East Side Gallery, and clinked glasses of cheap drinks from their hostel bar in celebration of Rachel's birthday. But Germany's capital city is not just all fun and play. My walking tour guide, Nigel, made this clear when he rhetorically asked the group, "How is Germany now the fourth largest economy and keeping Europe afloat? It's dealing with its past. Something not many other countries are doing." This proved true by the dozens of memorial sites and free museums dedicated to the Jewish holocaust, Nazi regime and Soviet resistance. These troubled times are portrayed through photography, sculptures and even interactive maps -- no information withheld. However, the best overview I received was still from Nigel, who humanized the history with stories about the people. As an American who attended public school, I never learned detailed information about German history, let alone Berlin's. As Nigel unfolded the rise and fall of Hitler and the Berlin Wall, I understood how history hinders on moments. At the end of the Cold War, the press secretary of Germany's ruling party didn't know the answers to journalists' questions about travel between the East and West, and so he issued an allowance of private travel into foreign countries without conditions of passports or family connections, which almost instantly provoked movement in the streets toward the wall to tear it down. Today, graffiti and public art serve as reminders of Berlin's contemporary struggles, like unjust warfare and discrimination, which resonate with a global community. One artist was commissioned to paint two masked people, one throwing up the east-side gesture with one hand while the other throws up a west-side sign, both lifting up the mask of the other to unveil the "enemy." This same artist painted a man's torso donning a dress shirt and tie, and his wrists bearing gold watches linked together by a golden chain, marking him a slave to "the man." Consuming alternative art, visiting monuments and exposing myself to as much history as possible were my priorities in Berlin. I didn't go clubbing or rave. I wanted to meet people and understand Berlin's pivotal role in shaping European politics and foreign relations. After having traveled in France, Spain and Italy, I began to put into greater perspective some of my earlier conversations about the EU and observations about socioeconomic status. But most importantly, Berlin taught me to avoid its harsh winters and make a summertime return when I can walk along its gorgeous river and through its parks without turning purple.

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From concentration camps to Christmas markets, Germany's cultural extremes seemed to clash in the lead-up to the holidays. I finished out my time in Bavaria with a trip to Dachau, the site of the first-ever labor camp during the Nazi regime (1933-1945). Arriving at the Dachau train station, which is only a few kilometers outside Munich, I began the "Path of Remembrance." The walk is made up of twelve information panels along the route prisoners marched by foot from Dachau railway station to the former camp, which is now a memorial site. For about 45 minutes, I walked alone on the path, which is paved over an old set of train tracks. Leaves and mud crunched under my shoes while a crisp wind nipped my face as I approached the memorial site. Not knowing the history of Dachau, I went on a tour, which began with the guide asking our nationalities. He followed with figures about the 206,000 prisoners from 37 nations at the camp: "35 came from the United States." With that eerie tone set, we proceeded from the visitor center to the entrance gate of the camp, which bears the motto"Arbeit macht frei" (work will make you free). This saying embodied the Nazi ideology, which manifested in the entire structure of the camp. The goal of the SS Guards was to break the mind and break the personality. Upon entering the camp, prisoners had to hand over all their valuables and documents, shave their heads, wear a uniform, and receive an identification number as well as a colored patch distributed via a classification hierarchy. Viewing the chart, I was overwhelmed by the complex categorization of people, including politicians, homosexuals and Jews, among other types, into groups whose color determined their treatment -- and usually predicted their life expectancy. For example, someone with a black triangle was considered a societal "outcast" (homeless, ill, disabled or a minority) and therefore given more laborious work and smaller food rations than a political prisoner with a red triangle. One of the more difficult parts was walking through the reconstructed prisoner bunks and imagining how 800 men could sleep stacked on nothing more than wooden planks. We also passed through a washroom, learning that 2,000 with 30 languages had to coordinate showering and using the bathroom in only 30 minutes. Doing the math, it was clear that most men wouldn't be able to shower for months, for it was impossible to do in the allotted time -- unless the prisoners wished risking punishment for going over the half-hour limit. Even more traumatizing, for me, was standing on the grass before the barbed wire wall where many prisoners tried to either escape or throw themselves toward, for dying by gun fire or electrocution was better than starvation. Just beyond the wall was the crematory, which still stands in its original form today. When the Americans liberated the camp in 1945, the soldiers wouldn't allow anyone to destroy the gas chambers or crematory stoves; they wanted to keep them as evidence and a reminder of the inhumane crimes. I found this a bit troubling, as most Germans didn't know these murders were happening in their backyards, for the Nazis had a very cunning propaganda system. The SS Guards had staged photos and persuaded journalists writing for pro-Nazi papers to release positive information about the laborers, who they purported were contributing to Germany's war economy. Having understood the complexity, I found it troubling to stay inside the gas chambers for more than a few seconds. Millions of people had passed through the torture site where I too was standing, helping keep alive the painful past. While Dachau was emotionally draining, I felt more distressed after flipping between days spent immersed in Germany's tragic history and those clinking mugs of glühwein to celebrate the joyous tradition of Christmas markets. I first felt conflicted as I left Bavaria for Heidelberg, where holiday season was beginning. When I arrived, I noticed festive banners hanging from either sides of buildings, creating arches over the streets on which I walked. Old bridges over the River Neckar were decked out with colorful baubles, and teams of men hammered away at the wooden slabs to set up the vendor booths at the Christmas market. I only had a few hours to experience Heidelberg's small yet commercial market, but it paled in comparison to the forest walks and German food and beer I had there. While Heidelberg is a small university city, it has a calm atmosphere and is abundant with nature. Rolling hills border either side of the river, and homes of every color beam as the sun light shines on them. Behind the dwellings are footpaths for nature enthusiasts to climb up to places like Königstuhl or trails like Philosophenweg (The Philosopher's Way) for meandering. I shared these experiences with my hosts, Katha and Jonas, who graciously shared with me their company and traditional German meals of spaetzle and stuffed potato-dumpling soup; and with Lily and Marcus, a young Australian couple who are traveling Europe together for one year. The five of us spent hours talking about travel, our families, the lack of food culture in America and Australia, and other conversation topics that had us roaring with laughter and trapped deep in reflection. When I left Heidelberg and reached Frankfurt, my expectations were surpassed, mostly because of its holiday charm. Upon telling people about going to Frankfurt, I was cautioned against visiting Germany's "boring" financial capital. But the people I stayed with made up for the industrial feel of the city. Anna, who I Couchsurfed with for a few nights in Nice, France, hosted me at her apartment, which she shares with Rica, a fellow student at the University of Frankfurt. We spent our evenings drinking beer and eating traditional Frankfurt cuisine like green sauce and eggs. The winter season really set in for me when all three of us went to the opening night of Frankfurt's Christmas market. There, we drank hot malt wine and ate crepes and lebkuchen in between gawking at all the ornaments and edible gifts for sale. Amid the swarms of people tightly packed together at the market was a fluid movement of laughter and excitement. Friends embraced one another, lovers held hands, and children beamed with smiles as they licked their red candy apples. In this space, Germans seemed united by their shared holiday spirit and happiness. The atmosphere felt a bit like the ending scene of "The Grinch," where all the Whos in Whoville join hands and sing aloud to spread holiday cheer -- though less fanciful in Frankfurt's Römer square. At the market, I observed no political tensions nor heard of any negative associations with this part of German history. Perhaps part of what made the Christmas markets seem so communal derives from the genuine nationwide effort to address Germany's prejudiced past and build toward a more tolerant future.

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Beer and bretzel were the major food groups fulfilling my dietary needs while brauhaus hopping in the home of Oktoberfest. With the offseason being too cold for outdoor biergartens and the world's largest beer festival having passed, I got my taste of München (Munich) the more traditional way. While many tourists flock to the Hoftbrauhaus or Augustiner breweries, locals also go there for a liter of helles (light blonde beer) or Bavarian dishes like weisswurst (white sausage) and knödel (bread- or potato-based dumplings). In fact, this is almost exactly how I discovered these two famous brauhausen, along with a few other treasures of this city. Not knowing anyone in Munich before beginning my travels, I reached out to the faithful Couchsurfing community for a place to stay. Jana, a 27-year-old PhD student originally from Hamburg, excitedly accepted my request to spend a few nights at her apartment. "Stay as long as you want!" was one of the first generous offers she made when I arrived. "Are you hungry? Do you want some wine?" followed soon after, and the two of us spent our first night drinking to traveling and discovering the similarities in our family lives. Like me, Jana's parents separated when she was 10, and she became a quasi-mother figure to her younger siblings while living with her father. Jana, however, doesn't often see her mother but rather her grandparents who she said give her unconditional support. In talking to Jana, I reflected on my life since my parents' divorce, and I realized how happy I was to not be trapped in the past, which blocks one's self from being fully present in the now. Only in hearing Jana tell a story I knew all too well did I begin to dissociate from it, not wanting the past to define my current state of happiness or my positive family relationships. After a late night of deep chats with Jana, I walked it off for at least 15 kilometers the next day. The sun was shining, though the November winds were heavy, so I seized the dry, cloudless weather and headed straight for the parks! Jana lives only a few blocks from Hirschgarten, so I began my green tour of Munich with a stroll through there. I passed by a few people walking dogs, some joggers and a group of old men playing shuffle board before reaching the biergarten, which was already closed for the season. I stared amusingly at the two dozen deer fenced in a square plot next to the biergarten, with a big sign describing them as protected wildlife, which is quite opposite the "pest problem" they're labeled as in the U.S. Not having much of a reason to stay longer at Hirscharten, I continued walking toward Schloss Nymphenburg, the Baroque-styled summer palace of former German rulers. The best part is the outdoor park, which stretches for 490 acres and contains random pavilions like Magdalenenklause, a prayer room resembling a Spanish grotto, and Pagodenburg, an octagonal building whose design has Chinese influence. With the pavilions and allegedly beautiful botanical gardens already closed, I decided to escape the nippy wind rushing through the open park and continue strolling on. Following bike signs to Olympia Park, I arrived almost one hour later to the site of the 1972 Olympic Games. While tourists flock to this park to see the TV tower or climb up a hill for a 360-degree view of Munich, unfortunately there is not much else to do. And the giant Olympic stadium just sits there unused, and is quite an eyesore compared to the rest of the park. Not very impressed, I left Olympia world and headed to my second-to-last stop of the day: Englischer Garten. As one of the world's largest public parks -- even bigger than New York City's Central Park -- the English Garden attracts active bikers and runners as well as the casual walkers who want an escape from Munich's city streets for some stunning natural scenery. Rivers and streams flow in between twisting pathways allowing people to get lost in the garden. Long fields of grass and big lakes are surrounded by giant trees bearing red and yellow autumn leaves that block out the city skyline. My first time to the garden, I only managed to see a quarter of it before the sun went down. I came back a second time with Armin, a 19-year-old living just outside Munich who I got in touch with via Couchsurfing. We spent one afternoon in the garden, walking and chatting, and also stopping to see in famous surfers riding the single standing wave on the Eisbach stream. With a temperature of about 2 degrees Celsius in mid-Novemeber, I applauded the eight surfers for not only their skill but also their bravery. Another region of Munich where I spent quite a bit of time was around the Viktualienmarkt, the market where people shop for all types of wurst, bread, booze, produce and fish! I discovered an amazing little both with all vegan spreads, dips and other products, all of which come from the produce grown on five farms close to Munich. The farms use whatever in-season crops they have to make the spreads, which when bottled last the whole year. The flavors were so dynamic and powerful on the palette, providing me with yet another delicious incentive to make a dietary switch! After some nibbles at the market my first full day in Munich, I met Jana at Zwickl, a chic restaurant serving typical Bavarian dumplings. I ordered a wildflower salad with zucchini stuffed potato dumplings on top, dashed with some of the house-made curry mustard, and a large Paulaner weissbier (wheat beer) to wash it all down. Mmm! This was just the first of a few other traditional licks I would get in Munich, for Jana was quite the queen of finding perfect spots for us to grab a drink or a bite to eat. One night, the two of us went to a Bavarian pub where I ordered knödel, one potato-based ball and the other bread-based, both soaked in a warm gravy sauce. After, we went to Schneider Weiss for some more drinks and a taste of obatzda, a spread mix of soft cheese, butter and a dash of beer and spices topped with onions and parsley. It was the perfect dip for the bretzels piled into a basket on our table. We were good and managed to eat just one each, for pretzels are not free like most bread served in other restaurants worldwide. Rather, each pretzel is an additional cost. I got this tip from my friend Sarah, who had warned me prior to arriving in Munich about the sneaky trap, and I was reminded once again when I met Patrick, an Irish expat working in Germany, for a beer at the famous Augustiner Keller. Brewing since 1328, the Augustiner eventually built a cellar to store its beer once demand grew for the craft, and the original site is now a pub that sells the Augustiner brews and traditional Bavarian food. When Patrick and I arrived, the Keller was jam packed with people. We entered through the top floor and headed below to the original cellar for a drink at one of the few open tables. I also connected with Patrick via Couchsurfing when I first sent requests out to the community living in Munich. While he couldn't offer a place to stay, Patrick willingly met up for a drink to spend some time getting to know a bit about me, my travels and my Irish roots. I found Patrick's background quite interesting, as his mother is German and his father Irish, both of who live and work on a farm outside Galway. Patrick left the farm to pursue a degree in Germany, attending university in Heidelberg and then moving to Munich for a position after completing a temporary project management job in India. With Patrick, I was engaged even while covering the basic in our introductions, which is usually one of my least favorite and most routine parts when chatting with new people I meet in my travels. Patrick's background as a tour guide soon led to an interesting history lesson about Munich, and in particular places like Dachau and Hoftbrauhaus, both of which I visited before leaving the city. Not wanting to experience the Hoftbrauhaus alone, I reached out to Wenke, a friend of a friend of my friend Medhi, who I met in Cologne for the 11/11 Karnivale kick off. Wenke is currently studying law in Munich, and happens to have no Wednesday classes, which made an afternoon visit to Hoftbrauhaus ideal. We entered the old building, which was formerly the main Nazi meeting hall during the Third Reich era. In fact, Hitler formed many of his policies inside the beer hall. Today, the Hoftbrauhaus remains the most famous brewery where locals and tourists alike visit, particularly to see the oompah band playing traditional Bavarian music while donning feathered caps and lederhosen. Careful observers can still notice traces from the Nazi Regime, as swastika marks have been painted over some ceilings and bathroom floors, according to Patrick. Wenke and I toured parts of the brewery ourselves, opening random doors and climbing a staircase to rooms where private functions are held. We then sat at one of the long hall tables, just across the stammtisch (table reserved for VIPs) where a group of old men sang along to the band and swing their personalized beer mugs to the tunes. Observing this table was entertainment enough in the three hours Wenke and I spent at the brewery, chatting about everything from the social pressure of being posh and materialistic in Munich, to our shared passion for human rights. One aspect I loved about Munich was how many chances I had to meet new people who I genuinely enjoyed spending time with. My last night in Münich encapsulated this feeling particularly well. Jana hosted a dinner party with a few of her colleagues, who I got chatting with instantly about my traveling. We enjoyed the delicious lasagne Jana had made, while sipping on the beer, wine and Italian spritz her colleagues brought. With enough booze to keep us going until 3 a.m., our conversation had shifted toward spiritual mediation, shamanism and pharmacists partying with pure ethanol in university. The crazy topics caused both belly laughter and insightful reflection about life. By the end of the night, I felt so happy to be in the company of yet another great group of people, who sent me off to my next travel stop with high spirits and only a small hangover.

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From sharing a couch for one week in Morocco to 2.5 years of emails, I finally reunited with my German "sister" in the enchanting Black Forest. During the last week of the Spring 2012 semester I spent abroad in Rabat, Morocco, my host family took in Andrea, a (now) 29-year-old German woman who came to the Moroccan capital as a volunteer English teacher. My host family thought I was leaving a week earlier, and therefore double booked me and Andrea in their tiny three-room home in the old medina of Rabat. My "bed" for four months had been on the long couch of what I called the sitting-eating-sleeping room; my host sister Zineb slept on the shorter couch across from me. When Andrea arrived, we agreed to share the long couch, which we managed to do by scrunching up our bodies as close as we could to either edge so we wouldn't play footsies all night. Our sleeping arrangement, albeit extra cosy, helped us bond rather quickly and ultimately forge a friendship that would lead to our reunion a few years later. Leaving Cologne, I took a BlaBlaCar to Stuttgart where I agreed to meet Andrea, who was coming from a work conference and had to transfer trains in order to get to her parents' home in Dittlingen, a village of 400 residents. Andrea had told me all about growing up in the Black Forest, a region in the very southwest corner of Germany that borders Switzerland and attracts locals and tourists alike for its stunning natural lands and special chocolate cherry cake. I was excited to get out of the city and explore this more remote part of Germany, known as Swabia, and to also meet Andrea's parents, who I had learned so much about through email correspondence. At Stuttgart Hauptbahnhof (main train station), Andrea greeted me with a big hug and an even bigger smile. We scurried to the ticket machine with our luggage so I could buy yet another pricey ticket (€16 for a one-hour ride) to board the crowded regional train heading out of the city to Andrea's home town. We found two seats, one in front of the other, and twisted our bodies in awkward positions for the entire ride, just so we could catch up on everything from my European travels to her life in Paris. After arriving at the station, we hopped into Andrea's parents' car, which they had parked there so we could drive the 8 kilometers to Dittlingen. Pulling up to the driveway in the dark, I could barely make out the "forest" apparently surrounding her home. But as I stepped through the front door and into the foyer, I immediately got a sense of the area through the cosy charm of Andrea's wood-paneled home, which was warmly lit and decorated with decades worth of children's art projects, family heirlooms and little trinkets. I peered through the glass windows and into the living room where I saw a wagging tail, shaking eagerly at the sound of Andrea's voice. Her dog, Cherie, was not as excited to see me, however; as she barked protectively when I approached her while speaking English to Andrea. Fortunately, Cherie and I became friends in the next few hours after she warmed up to me, which was a huge relief considering Andrea and I planned to take the dog with us on a hiking adventure the next day. After a good night's rest, I woke to another wonderful German breakfast of breads, spreads and meat galore! It was the perfect meal to fuel our bodies in preparation for the afternoon hike through a part of the Black Forest. To complement the big family-style meal, I chatted with Andrea's parents, whose English was great considering they hadn't spoken any since their school years. I enjoyed learning about the history of Brandenburg, the German "state" in which the family lived, as well as their personal hobbies like gardening and puppet making. After a few cups of coffee (which I don't often drink, but it was too good to pass up) and nearly four little breakfast sandwiches, I felt full and ready for our outdoor excursion! Andrea and I packed the leftover bread as lunch, along with some water and dog treats for Cherie, before heading to the Black Forest Nature Park, where we would begin our hike. The sky was dim and cloudy when we reached the neatly manicured hiking path. Despite the chance of rain, we layered up, zipped our jackets tight and excitedly ventured forward. Thick evergreen trees dominated the wood foliage, which created a deep and dark shadow that made "black" seem like a fair name for this forest. Yet in November, there were far more trees with orange and yellow leaves, still hanging on for the last few weeks of autumn. In the stillness of the forest, Andrea and I passed the next few hours talking as we walked with Cherie in front of us, bravely leading the way. Once we reached the halfway mark, we stopped at a small pond for a lunch break to eat our sandwiches and some fruit, and finish with some favorite sweets: Haribo gummies and Hanuta wafer cookies! Feeling energized and optimistic about the lack of rainfall, we packed up our lunches and decided to take a detour on the "adventure path," which turned out to be an ungroomed, muddy track full of large rocks and fallen branches for us to climb over. Until that point, I had managed to keep my feet dry. But the watery mud puddles were an inevitable trap for my sneakers (which still smell from that swampy trap!) We descended from the adventure path and walked about two kilometers more before reaching the car -- and just in time to pop the trunk to use as an umbrella as the rain we had avoided all afternoon finally came pouring down. Driving back to Dittlingen, Andrea suggested we stop in Freudenstadt, a small village with the largest market in Germany, for which reason draws thousands of tourists there each year. We shared an umbrella while making a quick tour of the market before all the shops closed for the evening. The sun had set by the time we returned to the car, so we decided to head back to Dittlingen in time for the dinner that Andrea's parents were preparing for us. When we were only a few kilometers away from the house, Andrea slowed down the car as she noticed dozens of cars parked bumper-to-bumper on the main albeit narrow road. She pondered for a few seconds about what could be causing the commotion, and no sooner did she let out an excited "Ah!" and swerve the car to find a spot herself. It was the first and only Christmas market of the season in this particular spot. As we approached the small square, lights illuminated the two lines of food trucks bordering the flower shop and red barn where people flowed in and out to buy holiday decor. Andrea and I admired the handmade flower and candle arrangements, though we were far more tempted by the smell of waffles and spaetzle just around the corner. We decided to save our appetites for the homemade dinner waiting for us, but we did warm up with hot coco and glühwein, the hot spiced-wine drink I would come to crave in Germany. We arrived back to Andrea's home wet and cold, though feeling spirited after having some holiday drinks at the market. Andrea's parents were glad to see us come through the door, as dinner was ready and, by the smell of smokey spices in the air, they were probably eager to eat. Staring at my plate of handmade spaetzle, lentils and wurst (sausage), I was more than excited to try the Swabian dish that Andrea's parents had prepared. To make the dinner extra special, they also added some Black Forest smoked ham to the traditional recipe. While I don't care for ham, mostly because the Americana kind comes in the form of smelly, slimy and packaged deli slices, I have enjoyed tasting fresh, regional meat while traveling. I got my first taste of "jamón" in Spain, and then a second surprise treat of ham in this region of Germany. After eating my meal and an extra eloing, I pleasantly fell into a food coma and enjoyed relaxing at the dinner table just listening to the rain tap on the rooftop. Tired after our active day, Andrea and I decided to spend that Saturday night in our pajamas and play board games and "memory" with a card set from Andrea's youth. The next morning I enjoyed sleeping in again and coming downstairs to a fully set breakfast table and freshly brewed coffee. There, I shared my upcoming travel plans with Andrea and her family, who were eager to offer suggestions of places to visit around their country. But not wanting to get too ahead of myself, I shifted the conversation back to Dittlingen, which I had yet to properly see! With a few hours before having to catch the train to my next destination, Andrea suggested we take a walk through her village. First, we took Cherie for a walk in the open farmland just behind Andrea's home, which was actually a great starting point for the historic overview of Dittlingen. When we reached the main road, Andrea led the way and began narrating the story of her community: her neighbor lives in an apartment one floor above her parents; the only cafe in the village was shut down for lack of business, and similarly the kindergarten class stopped as fewer young families moved into town; and Andrea's Latin teacher used to rent a house at the other end of the street from the woman who has a biological garden and sells her own herbal concoctions. Visiting Andrea in her hometown gave me a deeper understanding of my friend and a more intimate connection to the stories she had told me years before. It felt more organic spending simple yet quality time with Andrea and her family in a few days, rather than meeting up in a big touristy city to catch up over the usual drinks and a bite to eat. This weekend also revived me after having been set back physically and mentally by Germany's cold weather. So while I was sad to say goodbye to the beautiful Black Forest, I was excited to see what else the country had to offer, especially if more spaetzle, glühwein and Haribo were involved.

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Spoiled with six weeks of Italy's warm autumn, I underestimated the transition to grey and wintry Germany, where I arrived with no worries, no coat and therefore no chance of avoiding the common cold. I flew out of Rome on a torrentially rainy Nov. 6 morning, and I landed two hours later in Cologne, Germany, where the temperature had dropped 10 degrees (Celsius) and dark, thick clouds covered the sky. As I stepped out of the plane and onto the Tarmac, a gust of wind whipped my face and pierced through every layer of clothing I had on. Winter was on its way. Luckily, my friend Mehdi, who I originally met in Granada, warmed me up once I arrived to his studio apartment in Bonn, the capital city of former West Germany, located only 20 minutes by train south of Cologne (Köln, in German). Upon arrival, Mehdi brewed continuous pots of herbal tea and gave me extra layers of fleece jackets and long socks to wear, which did the trick of initially warming me up. But with each passing hour my nose got stuffier and my body more achy, eventually leading to three days of bed rest in the middle of the week I spent in Bonn and Cologne. But getting sick was probably my own fault, considering my defiance of the cold in the first few action-packed days I had in the area. Only a few hours after arriving, Mehdi invited me along to a free Pilates course at his university. It was my first go at this type of exercise, and I was surprised by how much I could sweat after an hour of mostly just stretching and breathing. When we got back to the apartment, cold and damp, Mehdi and I showered quick and then met up with his friend Sabrina for a few drinks. We hopped around a few bars and then stopped for a second, late-night dinner of pizza that kept us going until 3 a.m. Mehdi and I slept in until noon that day, and we excitedly went to the market to buy some bread and spreads so I could have my first ever traditional German breakfast. I was really impressed with the quality and variety of breads and pretzels, which didn't help curb my craving for carbs after all the pasta and pizza I devoured in Italy. After filling our bellies, Mehdi showed me around Bonn, which is a small yet beautiful city with plenty of shops in the central market -- my favorite being the Haribo store where I bought a 300-gram packet of golden bears for €0.89. I was in gummy heaven! Mehdi also took me to see the University of Bonn, which he attended last year before transferring to a university in Cologne. I was mesmerized by the building's yellow walls blending with the nearby trees bearing orange autumn leaves, which contrasted beautifully with the neatly trimmed, green grass of the Hofgarten near the university entrance. On the sunnier days of the week, parents brought their kids to the lawn to fly kites or have a picnic, and men of all ages took over the field on weekends for pickup football (soccer) matches. I particularly loved walking to the river Rhein, which is nearby the university. On the sunniest day of the week I spent in Bonn, I escaped the apartment for some fresh air and exercise, running along the river all the way to the Beethoven orchestral hall and the house where the famous composer grew up. While I spent more time in Bonn than Cologne, I was able to get a real "taste" of the region, largely in the form of Kölsch beer and schnitzel. One night, I met up with Maria, a German woman who volunteered for one month at Meals on Wheels of San Francisco while I was working there two summers ago. We both have backgrounds in media, and were on the same communications team at the nonprofit, which gave us instant common interests upon which to build a friendship and keep in touch. Maria lives in Cologne, so we reunited at a bar called Oma Klienmann, known for its homemade schnitzel. Her husband Mark also joined us, and we spent the evening eating traditional German dishes, drinking local Kölsch beer and schnapps, and viewing some wonky art. The city was hosting an art tour that night, where one ticket provided access to more than 40 galleries and museums until 3 a.m. We decided to check out the event after our dinner, but we only made it until 2 a.m., and in that time saw just three exhibits. My favorite was the pop art at Museum Ludwig, which also turned its lobby into a dance floor where DJs turned tables all night. Knackered from the late night out, I stayed in bed most of the next day, catching up on reading and administrative things like emails and blogging. Feeling the illness sinking in by this point, I wanted to rest up so I could celebrate 11/11, arguably the biggest day of the year in Germany. At 11:11 on Nov. 11, people across Germany flock to Cologne to kickoff Karnivale season, which lasts for almost five months but hits its peak in February. Similar to the American equivalent of PRIDE celebrations, 11/11 beckons Germans to the main city square where live music, curry wurst stands and bars are already open by 9 a.m. so people can keep hydrated and energized to party the whole day through. Everyone is dressed in colorful and crazy costumes and double-fisting plastic bottles filled with liquor as they weave through crowds of people in the streets. Mehdi and I celebrated the day first by going to his friend's apartment for a morning mimosa pregame. There, I met university-aged students from not only Cologne, but also Frankfurt, Stuttgart and as far as Münich who came to the city to celebrate the big holiday. While drinking games and dancing in the streets mostly forged our bonds, I had a blast partying the day away with other young, vibrant people who wanted to just enjoy life in that moment. I was happy to have survived the Karnivale madness until 6 p.m., at which time I had arrived back to Bonn and crashed in bed for the next 15 hours. I felt like a bear hibernating for winter, which actually wasn't desirable considering how I didn't foresee feeling so unmotivated and tired all week. During my seven days in Bonn/Cologne, I spent more time alone and indoors, mostly because the weather and my cold dissuaded me from the outdoor adventures and city walking I had loved doing daily before coming to Germany. While I managed to go for one long walk in the protected natural lands of Bonn, passing through a horse farm and a former volcanic site, I spent more time cooped up inside and mulling over thoughts about home and the future. Coincidentally, I had been (and still am) reading "A New Earth," by Eckhart Tolle, which is all about being present and becoming conscious of the unconscious ego's control over our daily emotions and perceptions. Tolle's insights actually helped me break out of the rut and recognize that every day doesn't have to be -- and can't be -- paradise while traveling. Rather, every day presents new opportunities to meet people and have experiences that could shape my worldview and enrich my life. And on a way less philosophical and far more practical level, I came to terms with reality and bought a jacket to embrace the inevitable: winter.

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DAY THREE: Villa Borghese & Frascadi With one full yet grey day left, I reserved a place for the Galleria Borghese, which has a small art collection in a museum at the grand Villa Borghese. Having spent the previous day looking at 16th- and 17th-century paintings, and with a two-hour time limit in the gallery, I skipped some exhibits to spend more time viewing the statues of Ancient Greek mythology and the featured exhibit "Black Mirror." The British artist, Mat Collishaw, uses mixed media (photography, sculpture, video) to "magnetize the viewer's attention," which was quite an adequate description for how I felt upon looking at his Caravaggio inspired pieces. Three electronic canvases depicted one of Caravaggio's original works -- my favorite was his "David with the Head of Goliath" -- but with Collishaw's touch of motion animation that both attracted and repulsed the viewer seeing the dark imagery come to life. With the sky still dark and cloudy but the rain holding off, I strolled through the Picino, the villa's beautiful garden that ends overlooking Piazza del Popolo, the old papal square of Rome. I walked from there to Piazza di Spagna and climbed up the Spanish Steps -- which were actually built by the French -- for one last sunset view of the city. I spent the next hour walking to another quarter where I met Antonino, the BlaBlaCar driver who brought me from Orvieto to Rome, for a farewell drink at an Irish pub. My last Italian spritz tasted like heaven after a long and chilly day. For the last time, I hopped on the tram and arrived at the stop for Marco's office. He was already waiting for me outside, eager to hit the road to Frascadi, a small town outside Rome known for its meats and slightly carbonated (though not champagne) red wine. We celebrated our new friendship and good times together at an osteria that used to be a wine cellar. Like any normal osteria, the butcher counter is tucked close to the doorway with a few tables and benches nearby for diners to enjoy their meat and cheese platters, perhaps while watching a football match. Marco and I headed to the back and descended for at least 50 meters down a ramp that was lined with tables on either side. We tucked into one of them and ordered a variety of the "house bests," which ended up including a plate of three-cheese and mushroom lasagna, antipasta, a platter with six different blocks of cheese, and a meat board with enough to feed five people. After devouring the meal, we decided to walk around the old little town -- partially to help with digestion. As the clock approached 11 p.m., hardly any shops were open. But one bar, packed with what seemed like the whole village, was still alive and seemed welcoming, for "Buonasera" called from the balcony as onlookers saw Marco and I stroll by. I smiled almost the entire 40-minute car ride home as I thought about my wonderful time in Italy. The warm people, exquisite food and wine culture, and jovial atmosphere showed me how such a dynamic can change a person: I was so happy, free spirited and fully engaged with what I did each day for six weeks in Italy. When rain began to fall on the windshield, it was as if Rome was crying at my departure for Germany, where I would have an entirely different style of adventure.

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Animated sculpture part of Mat Collishaw's "Black Mirror" exhibit at Galleria Borghese

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DAY TWO: The Vatican and San Pietro After dreaming of Spartans and mythological figures, I woke to an early sunrise and mentally shifted gears in preparation for the holy tour. On my agenda for the day was Basilica di San Pietro and the Sistine Chapel. I anticipated spending half the day waiting in line, but was pleasantly surprised when I arrived to Piazza San Pietro. A line nearly half as long as usual, and moving rather fluidly, formed at the security gates before the church entrance. I passed by the 30 minutes of waiting by snacking on grapes and people watching. Upon entering the church, I looked up at the ceiling, sparkling gold with its decor, and bounced my eyes around to every other statue coated in liquid money. While I observed other people gawk at San Pietro's beauty and magnificence, snapping pictures in rapid fire, I was overwhelmed with how much wealth covered the walls -- probably worth enough to drastically reduce if not end global hunger. Once I moved beyond my conflicting first impression, I walked around the aisles and peered into chapels for any noticeable differences between San Pietro and other Catholic churches. Perhaps the most unique element was the dark, morbid imagery, like the black skull bearing a golden crown and hovering above two white-winger cherubs, displayed prominently on some columns. The papal tombs kept in the cellar of the church were also impressive, as each one was customized to signify the pope's respective reigning era. After two trips around the church, I headed toward the Vatican Museum and scored an awesome half-price entrance ticket with my student ID. I grabbed a map and headed in the direction of the Sistine Chapel. As I neared the chapel entrance, more people began funneling into a small doorway next to the altar where Michel Angelo's magnificent murals began. Every inch of the walls as ceilings were rich in detail and religious symbolism. Most interesting, to me, was the imagery of angels from heaven, people from earth and demon-like figures from hell battling in the mural behind the altar. It was complex, emotional and somewhat evil, rather than pure and "good," as is often the case with religious depictions. I spent nearly an hour in the tiny chapel, shoulder-to-shoulder with other visitors, and left to explore the rest of the museum. But I found myself breezing through hallways lined with silver plates and ceramic vases as well as the pinoteca full of Christian paintings. My favorite exhibit was actually one featuring aboriginal artifacts and costuming from Indonesia and Australia. It was strange to find elements of these tribal cultures in the Vatican Museum, but I was pleasantly surprised because of my curiosity about modern aboriginal lifestyle.

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DAY ONE: Colosseum, Foro Romano, Palatino I rose to an early 7 a.m. alarm to prepare for my first big day in Rome. After a hot shower and breakfast, I packed water, snacks and my camera into a bag. I then unfolded a city map and began asking sleepy-eyed Marco questions about where to go after touring the Colosseum, Foro Romano and Palatino. He suggested I begin in Piazza Venezia and walk through the Vittorio during the daytime and later wander along the main streets and piazzas. His suggestion turned out to be wonderful for a hot, sunny day, which made for excellent panoramic viewing conditions from the Vittorio balcony. After leaving the palace, I entered the Colosseum and spent at least an hour walking inside the middle ring, which functions as a museum that contains artifacts and signs with historical data. As I read each poster, I absorbed the information as if it were brand new. I recall learning about the Colosseum and its historical implications during senior year of high school in Mrs. Burke's "Humanities" course. Our discussions were about the Roman games that first took place in the Colosseum and how they have since evolved into global sports that people watch from modern arenas and Olympic stadiums. As a former athlete, I've felt the rush of adrenaline that comes while stepping into sports complexes; but entering the Colosseum brought on a different kind of energy. It was eerie yet magnificent to see hundreds of people pack the arena yet meander around the bare-bone structure whose sandy toned surfaces are fading away. After leaving the Colosseum, I entered the Foro Romano and Palatino for more historical context. Inside the ruins of Ancient Rome are miles of pathways leading tourists through what used to be residential neighborhoods, political quarters, shopping markets and public bath houses. A whole society here, walking on the very earth where I stood and building a society that set a precedent for where we are today -- or perhaps could be. Looking at the sophisticated architecture of the remaining structures, I couldn't help but think about the complex aspects of modernity that have surpassed the efficiency found in simplicity. Heavy thoughts on my mind and my feet sore and dirty from walking for hours around the ancient city, I hopped back on the tram and met Marco at his office. We headed back to the house and "wined down" with a bottle of red wine form Le Chiantigiane vineyard while I told Marco about my day. At the same time, he prepared a traditional Roman pasta dish: bucatini all'amatriciana. I learned that one must use a fatter type of spaghetti for this dish because "buca" means hole in Italian, and this dish is particular for allowing the tomato sauce to enter inside the spaghetti. Also, the pancetta (pork), local to the region, is the most important part of the meal and makes it truly Roman -- a very important distinction for Marco. We washed down the tasty meal with a few more glasses of wine before bed began calling me. I had one history-saturated day down, but two more to go.

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Four nights and three days in Rome was only enough time for a quick impression of the city's ancient history, but it was more than plenty to get a real taste of Italy's capital flavor. Unlike most other cities I've visited, Rome is so spatially huge and culturally dense that I made a daily agenda of top sites and quarters I wanted to see. But I soon found how, even with a plan, one can discover so many hidden treasures that cause alluring detours and inevitable delays while en route to any tourist destination. Around each street corner would appear an intriguing alleyway with forking paths to wander or yet another one of the 900 churches crammed within Italy's largest city. Glancing up as I walked through archways or looking down at my dust-coated shoes, I was often thinking intensely about the thousands of years of civilization that had lived exactly where I stood. After spending my days alone with these thoughts, I looked forward to evenings where I would share them with my Couchsurfing host, Marco, a native Roman who was always eager to listen, especially while we shared a bottle of wine and a Romano meal. This evening routine was sparked almost upon meeting Marco when I arrived in Rome. It was nearly 5 p.m. and, no soon after dropping my bags in the bedroom, Marco suggested we get back into the car and hit the city for his version of a Roman tour. "You will see all of Rome in one night," Marco promised me -- and boy, did he deliver! For the next eight hours, Marco played chauffeur, driving in circles so I could see Rome's most historical monuments and, from there, decide which to return to in the following three (short) days I had in the city. The tour began at the Giardino degli Aranci (Orange Garden), which is located more on the city outskirts. We entered the garden and I stood on one of the benches to peer over the heads of the crowd blocking the panoramic view of Rome. With a quick glance, I followed Marco a few hundred meters away, down a road fencing in houses the size of villas, where nearly 50 people waited in a line stretching from one side of the street to the other. "What are they waiting for?" I asked Marco, who smiled and joined the line, telling me it was a surprise. After nearly 30 minutes shuffling in the line, I discovered the mystery. All were waiting for their chance to peep through a small eyehole in a large, green iron door to see a nighttime view of the glowing San Pietro cathedral. "You'll see it again later," Marco reassured me as we hurried back to the car for our next stop. From the garden we drove past the Terme di Caracalla and the Stadio delle Terme into the heart of Rome. Marco pulled the car into Piazza Venezia, and my eyes widened at the sight of the Vittorio whose ginormous marble statues guarding the entrance looked regal in the nighttime. "This isn't even Roman," Marco said spitefully as he motioned toward the palace. According to Marco, Berlusconi ordered the destruction of an older monument and in its place built the Vittorio for him and the army. Not lingering on the subject, Marco turned down a few more streets, passing pizzerias and cafes before parking the car. "Are you up for a walk?" Marco asked, with the Colosseum directly in view. I nodded my head and flashed a big smile, and we headed toward the ancient Roman stadium to continue the tour. Circling around the Colosseum, Marco pointed out the most interesting parts of the ruins. I was particularly intrigued by the most-outer remaining portion, which was damaged by earthquakes and warfare, so nothing but a sliver of the last wall remains today. The history lesson continued as Marco led me along Via del Fori Imperiali, which aptly lines the Foro Romano -- the ruins of the ancient city's marketplace and government buildings. Later, we strolled by Palatine Hill, the oldest in Rome bordering the Foro, which was said to be the birthplace of Romulus and Remus. The ruins appeared to continue for what seemed like miles, making it easy to imagine the people who not only lived there but also physically laid the foundation of modern civilization, easily observable mere centimeters outside the ancient city walls. Leaving the ruins, we walked up the back side of the Vittorio and down its grand staircase through Piazza Venezia to Via Nazionale, the most tourist trodden street in Rome. Overpriced restaurants and shops lure in shoppers from every nation to stop in between long treks from Fontana di Trevi, which I only partially saw because of the scaffolding for a restoration project, to Campo de'Fiori, where Marco and I stopped for apertivo. After refueling with a glass of wine and a typical Roman plate of meats, cheese and bread, Marco and I walked back to the car and drove off toward Vatican City. We parked and then walked to the Bridge of Angels, which crosses over the river Tevere, to catch a quite symbolic view of San Pietro glowing regally between the guardian angel statues. "Now, we go closer," Marco said pointing to the cathedral. The wind picked up so we walked rather speedily toward Piazza San Pietro and managed to enter minutes before the gate closing. I walked to the central tower and planted myself in front of the cathedral. Slowly, I pivoted my foot to get a 360-degree view of the circular piazza, awkwardly twisting my neck in the other direction so I could keep my eyes locked on THE church -- the one that embodies the religion my family practices. For awhile, I fixated my gaze on the window from where the pope addresses the public each week. Though it was dark, I pictured the daytime ceremony and, more strangely, my Grandma Mary sitting in one of the many plastic chairs stacked against the stage-like platform in the piazza. All four of my grandparents, most coming from an Irish Catholic family, have demonstrated religious values that were not just a strong part of my childhood but also shaped me into who I am and try to be today. Yet standing before San Pietro, like every time I enter a church, I felt hypocritical; I was arguably in one of the most sacred places in the world, however, I willingly do not practice religion and did not confirm my faith to Catholicism. With an unsettling rush of emotions passing through me, I looked to Marco and bobbed my head, as if tapping out for the night. Reading my mind but eagerly wanting to finish the tour, Marco asked if I was up for one more stop before going home. Nodding in agreement while simultaneously yawning, I shook off the sleepiness and bucked up. Marco drove to the "hip" part of his neighborhood, Trastevere, whose nightlife was characterized by stone streets with jam-packed bars overflowing as people clink beer bottles and chain-smoke cigarettes. As if the atmosphere was shifting his mood, Marco claimed his need for a glass of wine. After a few minutes of searching for his friend's bar, we dipped in for one drink before officially calling it a night. When we got back to the house just before 1 a.m., our tummies were rumbling for a second dinner. "Do you want pasta?" Marco asked me, already reaching into the cabinet and grabbing olive oil, garlic and enough spaghetti for two. He whipped up a quick dish with these three ingredients, adding salt to the boiling water and parsley for garnishing the plated meal. We devoured the pasta to satisfy our hunger and quickly fell into a food coma -- the first of four that I would experience while dining with this Romano. After saying goodnight to Marco, I curled into bed and set an early alarm. If my first full day in Rome would be anything like that night, some preparation would be in order.

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Jennifer Karchmer, an Ithaca College alumna and freelance journalist with whom I've been in contact for a few years, left the U.S. for France to pursue her dream of becoming fluent in French. I admire her courage, and I'm inspired by her bold move. I too have a dream of being fluent in French (and eventually Spanish), as traveling has shown me how language opens a world of opportunities. When describing this to my German friend Anna, she told me, "Just move to France." The step is really that simple. The hard part is taking it.

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HAPPINESS IS NOT A DESTINATION. IT IS A WAY OF LIFE. Thanks for the reminder, Frankfurt.

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Knocking on people’s doors or heading back to the beach were two options on my mind while stranded at a McDonalds in Formia, Italy.

I had just returned from a spontaneous day trip to Sperlonga, a beautiful “long” beach strand an hour north of Naples, where Andrea, my host in Salerno, recommended I visit before heading to Rome. Andrea also suggested I stay in Gaeta, the port city next to Sperlonga, to experience its quaint, non-touristy atmosphere similar to some of the smaller cities, like Atrani, on the Amalfi Coast. Sounding like a great way to spend a few days, I messaged all the Couchsurfing hosts in Gaeta in hopes of securing a place to stay. I received just one reply, which was surprisingly marked with an “accepted” status, and with that looked up train departure times from Salerno.

With 25 minutes to catch the train, I hopped on Andrea’s small scooter so we could pass by traffic heading into Salerno for the work day in order to get to station on time. As we zipped across the highway, I held onto my backpack with one hand and gripped Andrea’s leather jacket with the other, my head smushed between his back and my rucksack the entire way. We made it to the station with three minutes to spare, so I gave Andrea a big hug goodbye and then jogged with my bags to the platform where the train to Formia-Gaeta waited.

But as it turned out, the train doesn’t actually go to Gaeta. Instead, it stops at a tiny station near the center of Formia, another small city about 20 kilometers away from Sperlonga. Really wanting to spend the sunny day at the beach, I left the station and followed signs for the “Centro.” Along the way I asked passersby where a bus to Sperlonga may be. Surprisingly, no one seemed to know. As the heat of the early afternoon picked up, I was getting anxious to find a way out of Formia and get to the beach. I walked about 100 more meters, and saw a small tourist office tucked into the ground level of an old building. This was my first blessing in disguise of the day. An older man in the office spoke English and explained the bus route to me. With that, I headed to the tobacco shop to buy a ticket and soon was on my way to the beach.

The 40-minute bus ride to Sperlonga left less time for exploring but enough to walk the strand and make friends with Beni, the owner of the only beach bar still open, who treated me to homemade wine and cookies, which was great after eating the rather shitty friend chicken panini I bought there. At the end of the beach, I discovered the ancient grotto (cave) of Tiberius who was the Roman-era ruler in Sperlonga. The ruins of his villa are part of a nearby archaeological museum.

For the last hour in Sperlonga, I sat with my toes in the sand and watched the sun go down before getting the bus back to Formia — because it also turned out my host wasn’t in Gaeta either. We had set a meeting time for 7 p.m. at the McDonalds in the center of Formia, so I headed there to wait. Having been in Italy for over a month at that point, I was used to Italians laid-back sense of timeliness. But when one hour passed, I started to question whether this Couchsurfing host was coming. A middle-aged man had stopped outside the McDonalds, so I used the opportunity to ask to borrow his phone, as I had no wifi connection and didn’t see a phone booth in sight. I struggled with my travel-acquired Italian to explain my situation, and his expression clearly indicated he wasn’t getting it either.

Just when I thought all hope was lost as I uttered “Sono americana,” a woman and her son who were passing by stopped as they overheard my cry.

"Do you need help?" the woman asked. I must have been in "fight or flight" mode, because as soon as I heard her American accent my head turned so quickly toward her and I smiled with relief. "Yes…" I admitted half embarrassingly, as I stood with all my luggage in a sparsely populated place for a weekday night. We quickly exchanged introductions and Katherine, the woman, let me use her phone to try and call my mysteriously missing Couchsurfing host while her 10-year-old son, Caelan, got a hamburger. When the phone rang through multiple times without a response and no possibility to leave a message, I sighed, handing the phone back to Katherine.

"Do you want to come home with us?"

I stared at her, repeating her question in my head once more before responding. “Are you sure that’s OK?”

When Katherine reassured me, I hopped into their car where I was greeted by Cairo, the family’s little Chihuahua who wagged and snorted excitedly. Little did I know this car ride would be the beginning of our bonding, which eventually grew to dubbing me the “big sister” of the family. We got back to the house and Caelan was eager to show me his “shop,” a small part of his room equipped with a soda fountain, cotton candy machine, jelly bean dispenser, snack basket and plenty of other goodies! “He’s had a shop since he was a little toddler,” his mom explained to me as we sat on the couch together having the fizzy water and cotton candy Caelan served to us. Shortly after, Caelan got ready for bed, as he had school early the next morning, and Katherine and I headed upstairs and chatted for a bit before calling it a night ourselves. Katherine told me that the family had only been in Formia since May because her husband, Ian, is a Navy officer and received a deployment to the ship stationed in Gaeta. So, as it happened, I was their first guest in the home — and an American at that!

Hearing just the beginning of their story, I empathized with the family and Caelan especially, who is the same age as my youngest brother Shain. Traveling and living in places like Morocco, I have experienced some of the difficulties that come with adapting to a completely new lifestyle, language and physical location. But for a 10 year old, I couldn’t imagine what it was like. “Caelan is really excited to have you here,” Katherine said to me. In that same moment, she also offered their home as a place where I could stay for the next few days. With Halloween around the corner, I thought it would be fun to stay and “celebrate” with Americans — which turned into Katherine and I sipping tea and chatting for hours on the sofa while Caelan and Ian went to a Halloween party on the NATO base in Napoli. (We did have one group of six trick-or-treaters come to the house, causing us to scavenger candy from Caelan’s snack shop so we could fill the children’s baskets).

In the end, I did stay for a few days and even went with the family on part of their weekend vacation to small towns near Rome, where I was headed next. We really had a wonderful time together, enjoying simple things like eating pizza, making “cace e pepe” (spaghetti made with Parmesan cheese and fresh cracked pepper) and having dessert wines while chatting in the living room at night. I also got to explore Gaeta’s charm as a former Roman fortress area as well as its more recent history as a hub for American military presence since World War II. And I was very excited when they invited me along for their family weekend trip because I had the chance to visit some incredible places: the ancient Gardens of Bomarzo, built in the 1500s and adorned with marble statues of mythological gods and creatures; Soriano nel Cimino where we spent the night in an old palace, and I tasted the most amazing local red wine and homemade ravioli with mushroom sauce; and the small yet touristy medieval city of Orvieto, known for a delicious “classico” white wine that pairs excellently with seafood.

While I was excited to go Rome, I was sad saying goodbye to the family after our five days together. I was not only thankful for their generosity and hospitality, but I also grew to really enjoy their company and especially admire their determination to immerse themselves into Italian life. Between Caelan going to an Italian school and Katherine having a language tutor, on top of Ian working for the American Navy in a small Italian town, the family was really trying to make this foreign place “home.” While I was saved by the Nesbitts and found some comforts of home and American lifestyle with them, part of me believes the peculiarity of how we met was a blessing in disguise for us all as we navigated daily life in Italy.

[euronlyliveonce-blog]

A stranger is a friend you've never met before

Torbjørn C. Pedersen (Thor)