Souvenirs | Fall 2015 by Souvenirs

FALL 2015

DISCOVERING WANDERLUST

THOMAS YONASH (DOCHULA PASS, BHUTAN)

EDITOR’S NOTE

SOUVENIRS STAFF Editor in Chief JOSIE HOPKINS Editors BAILEY JAWORSKI JACKIE BANNON ABBY LOS Designers AMANDA KUJAWA CLAIRE LORAN

It was in my high school’s Spanish II class when I decided I would study abroad. My class was watching an episode from an old Spanish soap opera that was set in Seville, Spain, and it was then that I was hit with an odd gut feeling that I wanted to live there. Five years later, in the spring of 2015, I jetted off to this wonderful city. With each day, my enchantment with the place grew. There is something charming about the orange trees that line the winding, narrow cobblestone streets; the 600-year-old cathedral that reflects a soft, golden glow at night; the Guadalvivir River that sparkles at sunset surrounded by Sevillanos on their nightly stroll. I embraced the days studying at cafes echoing with Spanish chatter and the nights that ended in snacking on churros at 6:00 a.m.

Wisconsin Union Directorate Publications Committee Director RACHEL WANAT

Leaving your comfort zone to travel abroad is daunting but infinitely more exciting. The people you meet and the places you explore leave impressions so grand that your life takes a new path, even if you don’t know it in that moment. Traveling has left me with many souvenirs, including new meanings of patience, understanding and curiosity.

Wisconsin Union Directorate Publications Association JIM ROGERS

I hope Souvenirs brings you back to the places your heart yearns for, as well as inspires a wanderlust for the places you haven’t been.

Marketing Director ANNAMARIA GRINIS

Enjoy,

COVER PHOTO BY EDWARD KNUDSEN (NORTHERN THAILAND) BACK COVER BY KARINA BARRETTO (LONDON, ENGLAND)

PATRICK COOK (VICENZA, ITALY)

THE AMERICAS

EUROPE

Connor Larsen 10 Andrew Schmiege 5

Brianna Karis

IN THIS ISSUE Anna Zabiega

Rachel Plummer 21 Claire Raddatz 23 Jackie Bannon 24 Gabi King 20

AFRICA

ASIA AND OCEANIA

Rebecca Radix

Lana Mahgoub

Lydia Odegard 37 Danielle Dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Silva 38 Thomas Yonash 35

Camille McKee

Rosalie Sellman

AMANDA KUJAWA (SNOQUALMIE, WASHINGTON)

NORTH & CENTRAL AMERICA

WILLIAM LUNDEEN (LAKE MCDONALD, MONTANA)

DOWN A BLACK TOP ROAD NO NAME BY CONNOR LARSEN I find comfort in thinking about a black hole far off in the milky way. A black hole where time is a spectrum that never ends. I find comfort even when it feels like I’ll never be happy again, that within that spectrum, you’ll find four young souls sitting on the hood of a Buick, their eyes looking at an infinite Utah night sky. And that’s where we’ll always be.

AMANDA KUJAWA (CANNON BEACH, OREGON)

ELLIE KALGREN (SALT FLATS OF ATACAMA, CHILE)

SOUTH AMERICA

WANDERLUST

ELLIE KALGREN (PICHILEMU, CHILE)

ARIELLE KORNER (PISCO ELQUI, CHILE)

“I ANSWER THAT I CANNOT ANSWER,, YOU MUST FIND OUT FOR YOURSELF.”

SUBTERRANEAN CAPRICE BY ANDREW SCHMIEGE, EDITED BY BAILEY JAWORSKI I met a girl in the subway and we never exchanged names; I’ll never see her again. But that’s how the subway works, isn’t it? The subway promises nothing. It is assumed that the commuter agrees to the contract on one of those signs upon entering: “The subway is NOT RESPONSIBLE for lost or stolen items.” Its only concession is that it will take you where you want to go; however, many times upon entering, one remembers that he doesn’t know exactly where he wants to go, yet he is swiftly ushered forward regardless. At 8:00 a.m. the red line in Santiago, Chile is packed. Many times no one can enter the train at the Moneda station, which is right downtown—those trying to get to work in the suburbs need to either take a bus (many times equally full) or wait for their chance to box-out the rest of the commuters and smash their way into a wagon. She, like me, had a greater measure of manners than those who had lived their lives there in Santiago and had thrown subway chivalry and decorum out the window long ago. We preferred to squeeze into the train with more dignity—many times costing expediency. Fortunately, because of this we found ourselves waiting together, hoping that, on the next train, at least one person would get out so that one of us could get in. She always got to the Moneda station at 8:05 a.m. We waited with each other a couple days a week for about three weeks. She was from Venezuela. Absolutely gorgeous. Never really discovered why exactly she wanted to talk to me. Perhaps because I was a gringo who spoke Spanish better than 99 percent of other gringos. Her smile was the size of a scimitar, and it had not a tinge of dissimulation or inauthenticity. She was inquisitive about me and why I was only in Santiago for five weeks. It’s an exciting sensation when an attractive person is interested in you. Many times it is as if we bachelors are asking all the questions only to receive one word responses, but with esta venezolana we had a balanced amount of give and take dialogue. Most times we didn’t ride the train together, for only one person could squeeze on at a time. I tried to be

as chivalrous as possible and help push her in first while I would just wait for the next train. Her smile would thank me as the train disappeared horizontally into a renaissance vanishing point, and I stood there behind the yellow line with subway security workers making sure I was behind the yellow line. One morning it was packed as usual. The train came up and a person got off. One gets off, one gets on: that was the accepted and unwritten norm. We did the usual, making sure she would be able to coalesce with the rest of the riding mob. Then, this day, she pushed and boxed out and pushed and looked at me cajolingly. So I got on with her. This confined mob is many times a lawless and disgusting thing so early in the morning. One must hope that everyone brushed their teeth. The best part of this crowded twenty-minute ride was that I was smashed up against her. We talked, of course. Sometimes looking at each other, but if we both looked at each other we basically would have had to kiss, so most times we talk passed each other. It would have been weird to kiss her then and there... even though other couples showed little restraint. Maybe I should have done it. One day my travel companion and I just got sick of using the subway at its peak hour, and I never saw her again. Meeting someone in a foreign country is just as exciting as visiting a foreign country. The assumed attitude of Carpe Diem seeps from you like Oxygen from a plant. But this feeling is like the subway: it makes no promises, you can decide to get on, but you may not know what direction to take once you’re on your way. Whitman said, “You are also asking me questions and I hear you, I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself.” I never found out the venezolana’s name because I never asked, and I never asked because I had previously found a different Chilean girl. But when finding a girl in a foreign country there are no promises. It’s a circumstance as impetuous as the subway. I may see her again someday, but probably not; I may be heading down the rails in the right direction, and I may not. 10

ARIELLE KORNER (ZUMBAHUA, ECUADOR)

“I FOUND BEAUTY, PEACE, FAITH AND HOPE IN THE PEOPLE AND PLACES I ENCOUNTERED.” - ROSALIE SELLMAN

ARIELLE KORNER (ZUMBAHUA, ECUADOR)

MONICA HALL (LOMA DEL TIGRE, ECUADOR)

PATRICK COOK (MANAROLA, ITALY)

“...TRAVEL IS ABOUT ALLOWING YOURSELF TO BE VULNERABLE SO YOUR EXPERIENCES CAN CHANGE THE VERY WAY YOU SEE AND PROCESS THE WORLD AROUND YOU…” - JACKIE BANNON

EUROPE

KARINA BARRETTO (LONDON, ENGLAND)

DISCOVERING AMERICA THROUGH THE EYES OF A HUNGARIAN CHILD BY BRIANNA KARIS, EDITED BY ABBY LOS The setting: RuralHungary, small houses, a smaller town, yards dotted with chickens and ducklings and geese. In other words: the organic ingredients for supper. A small girl comes running down the street toward me. She recognizes me as that strange American come to teach English. I ask her how old she is. She asks me how Justin Beiber is doing. I ask her what her favorite movie is. She replies: New Moon. I ask her what she wants to do when she grows up. She says, leave this town. Learn better English. Visit America. She runs off to join a group of her friends playing down the street. Two of her friends wear t-shirts spangled red, white and blue. The trip: fly to a small Eastern European country to learn about a new culture, teach the only thing I have any experience in, explore another way of life. What do I find? Kids wearing the American flag, talking about J-Bieb and Selena Gomez, dancing in the streets to Beyonce. It almost feels like home. But it´s not—there aren't any kids in this town my age. They all left, seeking their fortunes elsewhere, looking for opportunities and futures in places that actually have jobs. It's weird as hell being the only 22-year-old in a town. 15

And it gets me thinking about American freedom—how it´s a responsibility and a privilege. How it´s easy to wish for directions, direct commands from an omnipotent above. Easy to wish away the freedom our ancestors believed in, fought for, left their homelands to create. America—a little girl´s dream. My country by luck, by chance, by birthright. Created by rebels, by glory—hunters and believers searching for jewels, for spices for fame and prestige. My country. Stolen from others, and refilled with the many peoples of the world united in a common goal: life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. The stream of people into this country continues frightening some, upsetting others changing the colors in the pot. Some say: complacency has set in a slow rot. That paler generations far removed from the original dream of property of passion of the freedom to learn and grow and p rosper

are falling behind. Falling down that ladder. Because they never had to fight. Because they never had to sacrifice, never had to play a game with stakes that high and cruel. Leave your friends, leave your family, leave your whole world and just go. And hope/work/dream like hell for a better tomorrow. That upper tier is still tantalizingly close. You can almost dream you've touched it. It glitters, that American dream and cuts too. Encrusted with billions sparkling with a shine that promises the greatest happiness the world has ever known. And it´s always out of reach. It just keeps moving upward: heights. and higher and higher scaling higher

and it´s a mighty long fall back down.

So what is American? The color white? A farmer's tan? Or is it rather the dream the d rive the a mbition to reach the top and create a future of your own making? So bring us your dreamers, your doers, your architects of tomorrow and let us work for an American dream that we can be proud of. Something made of more than bubblegum pop and Team Edward t-shirts. Where people know us for our equality and justice and not just for our brash tactics, our lewd reality shows, and our really fucking b ig guns. There is still something here to be proud of. Freedom can still be found if you squint your eyes and stare real hard.

Sometimes our government works. Sometimes justice is served. Sometimes America is worth more than a Fourth of July t-shirt on clearance at walmart.

Sometimes.

KARINA BARRETTO (LONDON, ENGLAND)

GABI KING (ISLE OF SKYE, SCOTLAND)

PATRICK COOK (RING OF KERRY, IRELAND)

ODE TO IRELAND BY ANNA ZABIEGA, EDITED BY ABBY LOS

Four fields of green, Eternally so green, Thriving, growing, nourished By the unremitting rain That blesses these hills and cliffs, Existent longer than time itself. Buildings tall and small, Reds, yellows, blues, stone and art, Murals of giant faces and dead rock stars. Musicians busking fill the air With melodies that thrill your soul. Flowers and lights ornament streets and shops, Stone streets and stone fences. The same stone that lies beneath Our feet and builds the high hills, Out of the city. Farms unrolling for miles With cows and horses sauntering and feasting. Wildflowers grow out of cracks Between rocks, so small and colorful, Tiny pieces of a shattered rainbow Sprouting out of the ground. Grassy hills covered with sheep, Specks of white against the green. Valleys with streams, strong currents, Tides rising and falling as the minutes go by. Castles and ancient homes withering On the side of the road. Bullet marks still etched into the columns Of a post office. History is everywhere. Rocky beaches, water always frigid to the touch. On a sweet warm night, relax At wooden pubs with local beers, That bitter black stuff refreshes. Enjoy the live music, guitars and woodwinds Mesmerize the crowd. Indulge in potatoes, cheese and dark bread, One hundred percent Irish beef and chicken, Delicious as the weekend market Where farmers sell fresh produce And food trucks serve crepes and donuts. Craftsmen sell their leather and wooden goods. All the craic encompassed within these Four fields of green, Eternally so green. 18

KARINA BARRETTO (AMSTERDAM, NETHERLANDS)

“IT IS A CITY FULL WITH CHARM, CULTURE AND MAGIC.” - RHIANNA STEPIEN (SEVILLE, SPAIN) 19

A VICTORIAN STUDY “After I returned from my time abroad in London, England, I felt very inspired to base work off of my experience. The Victorian architecture in London is incredibly unique and embodies the spirit of the city. I had the pleasure of being surrounded by these buildings every day for four months and my amazement never dwindled throughout my time abroad. I created this watercolor painting of my flat based on a photo I took on my last day in the city.” BY RACHEL PLUMMER

KARINA BARRETTO (LONDON, ENGLAND)

“THIS IS WHY WE LOVE WINE,” SHE GIGGLED. “WINE MAKES EVERYONE HAPPY.”

CLAIRE RADDATZ (MONTEPULCIANO, ITALY)

AN AGED TRADITION DISCOVERING A FAMILIAR TASTE IN A FOREIGN COUNTRY BY CLAIRE RADDATZ, EDITED BY ABBY LOS

I had high hopes as I boarded the bus to Tuscany. It wasn’t just about the rolling hills or the world-class wines. It wasn’t even about the cliché of being “under the Tuscan sun.” The sun was shining and the hills were rolling, but I was looking for something more than a wine-buzzed afternoon.

I never really understood his passion, beyond the fact that it was connected to his birthplace. It almost seemed frivolous to care so much about an alcoholic drink. I hoped upon coming to Italy that I would feel that passion and connection to one of my distant roots.

There’s something about a good wine that seems to deliver passion. The taste, the careful process, the tradition and the cultural meanings all taste like passion—a passion that I saw in my Italian grandfather. Let me clarify, I am no wine connoisseur, just a 21-year-old who still hesitates to order more than a vodka lemonade at the bar. But I know wine is something special —or at least more special than vodka lemonades—by the way my Gampy has always lit up at the opportunity to share it with his grandchildren.

We arrived in Montepulciano at the Winery Gattavecchi, greeted by a sweet older woman named Daniela. She was bundled up in thick winter clothes and apologized profusely for the heavy wind that day. We descended into the cellar, the 12th century convent of Padre Serviti, which had been rebuilt as the family business. Daniela explained that the underground stone, cave-like space helped keep a constant cool temperature and humidity for the wine to mature. I thought it felt rather cozy.

To preserve the appreciation for our Italian heritage, Gampy would sneak us glasses of wine at Christmas or a summer barbeque long before our parents would have allowed it. These favors were not without a price. He would take us through the entire tasting process, swirling it in the glass, checking the legs for acidity, sniffing it for notes of blackberry or licorice or chocolate, then finally sipping it and savoring it on our palette. After he’d had a few, he could talk about wine making for hours before my Gammy would gently try to change the subject to golf or the Powerball.

Giant oak barrels occupied the room, along with corks and empty bottles ready to be filled. She explained that the family has to buy new oak barrels every few years in order to keep the oaky flavor in the more aged wines. There is a careful balance between the contents of the wine and the length of time it spends aging and moving from larger barrels to smaller barrels to maintain a certain purity and consistency of taste. They meticulously check these barrels every day for ensured perfection. And when they are satisfied, they fill the bottles by hand, to assure nothing

contaminates their wine. “Integrità!” Daniela exclaimed. “The most important thing about our wine.” We gathered upstairs in an intimate dining room with long tables covered with bread, fresh olive oil, cold cuts and fine cheeses. Empty crystal clear wine glasses lined the table, waiting to be filled with the ruby drink. We began to snack, anxiously awaiting the first sip. Daniela did not think this should happen so fast. Instead, she walked around with her decanter that looked just like the one Gampy brings to every family gathering. She filled glass after glass with Vino Nobile de Montepulciano, a wine named for its royal status in ancient Italy, insisting that we all try it together. Her eyes lit up as she instructed us to hold a white plate behind the glass to inspect the color—a rich, glimmering deep red. We swirled it in the glass, looked for legs and sniffed for flavor notes. “This wine,” she beamed, “is the fruit of this land. What you are about to drink is only the Prugnolo Gentile grapes from our Montepulciano estate, the plums and berries from our trees. By tasting this wine, you are tasting the land on which we live.” And with that, we raised our glasses and drank. I swirled it on my tongue as Gampy had taught me, the sweet grape and plum flavors with the oaky bitterness coming alive. She encouraged us to feel the warmth of the wine as it went down our throats, and the warmth that it brought to our bodies. The contentment and joy in the room as everyone conversed and laughed and indulged was palpable. Daniela walked around, hugging and laughing and making us feel as if we were now a part of her family tradition. “This is why we love wine,” she giggled. “Wine makes everyone happy.” ABIGAIL ZEMACH (ROME, ITALY)

MADELINE KELLY (PARIS, FRANCE)

RHIANNA STEPIEN (LISBON, PORTUGAL)

A LESSON FROM A GRIMY BUS BY JACKIE BANNON, EDITED BY ABBY LOS The grand finale of my six-months abroad was a mere commercial bus ride. I had just finished hiking 100 miles through the heart of the Scottish Highlands, waddling along with my 35-pound backpack – amongst the inviting mountains and pristine lakes and gentle patches of bluebells. But like I said, the grand finale wasn’t this incredible mountain scenery. It was a musty, humid bus ride. Backtracking my nine days worth of hiking in just three hours, that bus took me back to reality. We zigzagged back and forth across the West Highland Way trail that I had learned to know so well. We raced by Devil’s Staircase, a humbling hill I had trudged up, covered in sweat, just days before. We raced by the very spot a herd of sheep surrounded my tent and kept me awake with their obnoxiously loud baa’s all night. And we raced by fellow West Highland Way hikers who reminded me of old friends, even though I had never even met them. Riding that stuffy bus was like rewinding my journey. It was flashing before my eyes, begging for my attention. And so, that grimy bus taught me the importance of remembering what I’ve done and where I’ve been. 23

As we drove through scenes that meant so much to me, I wished that bus would continue on, rewinding each one of my journeys abroad so all those precious memories could unfold before me once more. I wanted one last glimpse of Lisbon’s brightly tiled plazas. One last glimpse of Munich’s beer gardens. Salzburg’s dominating fortress. London’s antique markets and perfectly manicured parks. Iceland’s otherworldly lava fields, glacial lagoons and black sand beaches. Edinburgh’s medieval architecture. Madeira’s terraced farming and dramatic ocean cliffs. One last glimpse of Germany’s mighty Bavarian Alps. As I rode along in a state of nostalgia and fear that I’d forget all these memories, I realized that travel isn’t only about the journey. Travel is about reflection and remembrance. It’s about picking up all those memories and carrying them onto the return flight home, suitcase in one hand and journal full of ticket stubs in the other. And in the end, travel is about allowing yourself to be vulnerable so your experiences can change the very way you see and process the world around you… just like that musty bus did for me.

SKYE “A lot of times it feels like my mind is a place of one million trails of thoughts and worries, some I’m so deeply lost in, some that cross paths with others, some that I have to do everything in my power not to return to. Directions and signs come from the good people in my life, a moment of clarity, looking at all around me instead of inside. Isle of Skye was just that. When I think of what I saw there and what I felt, it feels like the deepest breath I could take. The clearest path in the world.” -GABI KING (ISLE OF SKYE, SCOTLAND)

ROSE KRATCHMAN (KNYSNA ELEPHANT SANCTUARY, SOUTH AFRICA)

AFRICA

“Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.” - MARK TWAIN

TOP OF THE WORLD Travel is a glory-word I think. It conjures up images of the exotic—a crowded market in Jaipur that teems with people and spices and noise, monkeys screeching and swinging through a misty green jungle canopy, a fishing boat slipping quietly through the mist and the cliffs of Hai Long Bay. It equals opportunity and it screams of the bigger world, the bigger picture and bigger horizons. It’s a glory-word because it fills you up and spits you out a more complete version of yourself than when you started. I know, because I’m not the same girl as the one who sat one cold January night in O’Hare Airport waiting for Turkish Airlines flight TK16 to whisk me away to the bottom of the world. I moved to Cape Town, South Africa and what I anticipated to be a study abroad experience was in reality an exercise of the heart—of deep, searing longing for the ones I loved back home; of the intense and child-like joy of new friendships and shiny, new adventure; of the strength that comes from creating a life for yourself from scratch. I’m not the same as I was, the lens has shifted. My heart has shifted. It’s a funny thing about life—how quickly a place can make a home in your heart. - BY REBECCA RADIX

REBECCA RADIX (CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA)

AFRICA RHIANNA STEPIEN (CHEFCHAOUEN, MOROCCO)

“WHAT I ANTICIPATED TO BE A STUDY ABROAD EXPERIENCE WAS IN REALITY AN EXERCISE OF THE HEART—OF DEEP, SEARING LONGING FOR THE ONES I LOVED BACK HOME; OF THE INTENSE AND CHILD-LIKE JOY OF NEW FRIENDSHIPS AND SHINY, NEW ADVENTURE; OF THE STRENGTH THAT COMES FROM CREATING A LIFE FOR YOURSELF FROM SCRATCH.” - REBECCA RADIX

KRISTIN KIRKEGAARD (NOORDNOEK, SOUTH AFRICA)

KRISTIN KIRKEGAARD (CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA)

#THISISSUDAN BY LANA MAHGOUB, EDITED BY JACKIE BANNON Now, I’ll admit that I don’t visit Sudan very often, but with each new visit every four to five years, I view the country through a new lens. A lens that offers a better understanding and appreciation for its beautiful culture and people. I also encounter a new wave of introductions to a handful of newly born cousins. Sudan is a poorly understood country. I’m saddened by the reality of many fellow Americans who are not even able to point the country out on a map, identify that the (now) South Sudan emancipated from Sudan in 2011 or recognize that several southerners still live with the Sudanese in the north in peace and harmony. I’ve been asked if I speak “Sudanese” and have had people play the guessing game when it comes to identifying my “exotic” looking ethnicity. Rather than implicating these misconceptions and sources of microaggressions all to ignorance, I partially blame the flawed representation of Sudan through biased U.S. media outlets that pick and choose which aspects of foreign countries to place in the spotlight. For Sudan, it’s often very negative. As a U.S. born citizen with family roots in Sudan, I’ve struggled to find accurate portrayals of my homeland’s

history, culture and traditions. Any Google search for images or information about the country yields images of starving children, talk of genocide, war and internal conflict. Sudan is by no means perfect and surely still requires a lot of growth and change. To alter misconceptions and achieve change, however, requires both internal and external aid, a fair understanding of how the country has already made strides in evolving in a multitude of ways, as well as an appreciation for its diversity. Sudan is one of the most diverse countries in Africa. It consists of rain forests, deserts, swamps and mountain ranges. You’ll find people with a wide range of beautiful skin tones— even within the same families. Very rarely are there accurate depictions of the beautiful parts of Sudan. The purpose of these photos is to share with you the images that you will not see through a Google image search. The images are of some of the kindest, most generous and caring people I’ve ever met in my life. Through these images, I hope to paint a picture of the beautiful art, architecture and culture of my scarcely represented motherland. [To see more of Lana’s photography, please visit souvenirsmadison.com]

â&#x20AC;&#x153;To alter misconceptions and achieve change, however, requires both internal and external aid, a fair understanding of how the country has already made strides in evolving in a multitude of ways, as well as an appreciation for its diversity.â&#x20AC;? LANA MAHGOUB (KHARTOUM, SUDAN)

ASIA & OCEANIA

THOMAS YONASH (RINCHENGANG VILLAGE, BHUTAN)

THOMAS YONASH (CHUMEY VILLAGE, BHUTAN)

NOT A

DISTRACTION; AN INTERACTION BY LYDIA ODEGARD, EDITED BY BAILEY JAWORSKI

THOMAS YONASH (BUMTHANG, BHUTAN)

THOMAS YONASH (JALAOR VALLEY, BHUTAN)

Wherever I have practiced yoga in the U.S., it is unspoken etiquette to leave your phones outside, to whisper if you absolutely have to speak to others in class and to fully dedicate yourself to what is happening in the room—more specifically in your body and mind—and nowhere else. People seem to let a giant breath out as they enter the yoga studio, knowing that they can escape from the otherwise in-their-face emails, texts, kids, conversations, work, noise and other potential stressors. One of my favorite parts about my study abroad program in Varanasi, India was the opportunity to study and practice yoga and meditation with an amazing teacher, Smriti ji. Not surprisingly, however, I found that the lack of noise etiquette in Indian culture transferred also to my yoga practice. I knew that in Varanasi I would not find the almost silent atmosphere I found in the U.S., considering the unceasing chorus of bells, horns, bhajans, voices, engines, pressure cooker whistles, etc. that hums in the background virtually every hour of the day. I was a bit surprised, though, when Smriti ji would submit to her generic Nokia ringtone in the middle of teaching. Her behavior initially struck me as unprofessional—why would she interrupt class just to answer a casual call, let alone not bother to switch her phone on silent? As my classes progressed, so did Smriti ji’s patterns of answering phone calls and opening the door to knocks. She would frequently leave the door ajar, inviting in the loud echoes of bicycle rickshaw bells and the drone of a postcard vendor’s voice.

“...A STATE OF EQUANIMITY IS POSSIBLE ANYWHERE.” HAILEY KIELTYKA (VARANASI, INDIA)

After my first few classes and an understanding that Smirit ji’s behavior was not due to her being impolite but rather a result of cultural differences, I learned to chuckle when she would pick up her phone and announce into the receiver, “Haan, ham class le rahe hain! I am teaching a class right now!” One day while meditating during a class, the chiming of Smriti ji’s phone passed through one ear and the chorus of street traffic through the other. I was in a stable enough mental state that they were not bothering me. The sounds just felt like part of my practice, noises that were happening around me but didn’t seem distracting. I was immediately reminded of a meditation session I attended in Madison, during which a group of people got together on a Saturday morning and quietly sipped tea together. To preface the meditation, our leader encouraged us to think of the potential people entering and

joining as not a distraction, but rather as an interaction. I have carried that phrase with me ever since. Previously I had always believed that I needed to be in a “distraction-free” spot in order to be in a meditative state. While it may be easiest to meditate in a quiet space, ultimately a state of equanimity is possible anywhere. Though I still often felt frustrated by and wanted to escape the perpetual sound waves infiltrating my eardrums every place I went in Varanasi, practicing meditation within it allowed me practice finding serenity within the hodgepodge of stimulation. I gradually began to think of these distractions not so much as “noise” but rather “sound,” understanding that the goal is to embody a state of peace not just in a yoga studio or on top of a mountain in a silent abyss, but also to gracefully embrace the potential chaos of your daily life. 36

EDWARD KNUDSEN (BANGKOTE, THAILAND)

Undeveloped Expectations BY DANIELLE D’SILVA, EDITED BY JACKIE BANNON As I sat down to write this article, I found myself shuffling through many of the clichéd anecdotes that one often hears when they are told about a developing country. However, from the year I lived in India and the several months I worked in South East Asia, I have many stories quite similar to those I had during the time I spent in Madison—spending all day in a café working on a paper or a drunken trip to our favorite late-night eatery on a weekend out. But these stories aren’t what people want to hear upon my return to the Western world. In recounting my time in a developing country, I feel I have no choice other than to speak to what people want to hear; the exotic India—not the modern one. They want to see the photo that highlights the “unique” dichotomy between tradition and modernity, listen to the stories of the destitute by which I was surrounded, or try and grasp the spiritual revelation I felt while floating down the Ganges River. These are often funny, exciting and compelling stories that do give insight into a reality quite different than the one in which many of us are living. They do point to many of the issues in politics, global poverty reduction, healthcare, environmental degradation, etc. and they can inspire people to learn more, visit and/or contribute to a solution. However, we also run the risk of editing out the aspects of these countries that make them similar to our own. Through the stories we want to hear and therefore elect to tell, we disassociate ourselves and our problems from them and theirs and solidify the barrier between their world and ours. The places that we visit become diluted and simplified to serve the purpose of providing contrast to Madison, Wisconsin, or the United States. We sensationalize particular stories because in our culture, they seem 37

absurd. We happily categorize and label these places and their people as different from us, and when we find too many similarities or when the situation is not shocking enough, we are left wanting. This summer I stopped in Bangkok for a week before continuing to my final destination of Phnom Penh. It was my first time back in a developing country after India, and I was ready to be confronted with a challenge. However, it felt so... developed. I could drink water at restaurants, the streets and public transportation were orderly and efficient, and I could enjoy a perfectly mixed cocktail at a lovely rooftop bar all while being serenaded by the live-musician. I had to admit I was disappointed. Had I been in Europe, my enjoyment would have dictated my positive evaluation of the visit. But instead, because I expected a developing country and the challenges that come with one, it was my enjoyment of Bangkok that paradoxically caused my dissatisfaction. This sentiment was common among travelers I encountered in Southeast Asia: some said they didn’t like Bangkok because Thailand is practically a developed country, while others cut their stay short in search of “more of a challenge.” We have simplified and exoticized developing countries to such an extent that their lack of development and dissimilarities to the West are their only identifying features. Furthermore, it seems as though we are secretly disinterested in their development (which is certainly problematic for me since I am pursuing a masters in international development) because in many ways development quells the allure for us thrill-seeking travelers. At a certain point, are we not valuing the challenge, or even more cynically, the story it can give us over the place itself ? Just some food for thought.

EDWARD KNUDSEN (BANGKOTE, THAILAND)

You can be in the mountains. The grandness and immensity of it all. Have you ever heard The thunder in the mountains? Have you ever felt The rain in the mountains? So cold but present. It doesn’t apologize. You can feel the sun. A brother of the rain, It doesn’t apologize. Cloudy sadness, 11:59a. Harsh sun, 12:00p.

LAND OF THE

THUNDER DRAGON

BY THOMAS YONASH, EDITED BY JACKIE BANNON The Bhutanese were once scared of nature. I understand that now. You can taste the food. Usually with too many green chiles. But you’ll learn to love it. And a new craving for spice. You can speak the language. Kuzampo la! Kaden-che la. You can meet the people. Oh, the people. You’ve never felt more at home. You’ve never known such a humor. You’ll miss the people the most. Mountains. Sun. Food. Language. People. You can see all these things. But you have to go there.

EDWARD KNUDSEN (TON LE SAP LAKE, CAMBODIA)38

WHAT GOES UP

BY CAMILLE MCKEE, EDITED BY JACKIE BANNON I was in Hobart, Tasmania in the middle of June: comfort in my Minnesotan upbringing, though, the heart of winter for our friends Down Under. I and any concerns of mine dissipated almost immehad flown in from Melbourne earlier that day with diately. my friend Victoria and after exploring the town, we settled into our hostel. I had been rather hot Upon reaching the top of Mount Wellington and throughout the day, wearing an otherwise agreeexiting our bus, I did notice that it was somewhat able vest and sweater combination and decided to cooler than at the base of the mountain. This is leave my vest in our room. This would prove to be to be expected 4,000 feet above sea level, near the my first mistake of the day. South Pole. Nevertheless, I persevered. Hobart is located at the base of Mount Wellington, and as we were only in town for a few days, we wanted to get up the mountain as quickly as possible. We inquired with a tourist agency the best way to reach the top and were delighted to find that a bus was leaving for the peak in just 15 short minutes, with another leaving in a few hours. Once at the top, we had the option to either take the bus back down or to make the three-hour off-road hike. Being the adventurous tourists that we were, Victoria and I were certain that the latter was the choice for us. With nothing but my aforementioned sweater, leggings and a pair of Sperrys that were ever prepared for adventure, I was ready. Victoria, donning just a sweater, jeans and a trendy pair of boots, opted to purchase a hat before our departure. Being from Louisiana, this was the sensible thing to do. When the other adventure seekers questioned my dress, I all too confidently boasted that I was from Minnesota, where we’re born with ice in our veins. We continued to shock our travel companions when they learned we were planning on hiking down Mount Wellington. Their disbelief should have forced Victoria and I to question our upcoming endeavor, but it only seemed to fuel us. As the 30-minute drive up the mountain progressed, it came to my attention that snow was becoming more and more prevalent. I again took

The view was truly quite spectacular, causing me to dismiss the once menacing prospect of wind-chill as negligible. Wind cutting through my sweater, I gazed over Hobart. We made our rounds along the top, with the common members of the “driving group.” Victoria and I decided a trip to the bathroom before our three-hour descent was in order. In hindsight, I should have been wary of the amount of time we spent in that indoor bathroom. Though how could I know then that it was the heating that lulled us into a lengthy chat near the sink? Finally, it was time. The bus would leave in about ten minutes, and we began our journey. Spirits were high. We walked happily along the snowy path, truly in tune with nature. We were as jovial as any two girls could be. Flash forward about five minutes. Slowly but ominously, our adventure began to take on a new air. The tread on my Sperrys now seemed unfit for the ice that hid beneath the snow, preferring instead the harbor in Hobart itself. Victoria’s boots, too, did not seem to be fairing as well as we had expected. Our shoes were soaked and our feet were cold. Then, suddenly, things took a turn for the worse. After recovering from a few close calls, Victoria’s footwear finally failed her. She hit a patch of what

“STILL, WE CARRIED ON.” THOMAS YONASH (JALAOR VALLEY, BHUTAN)

I can only assume was black ice and went down hard. This was devastating for morale; in that instant, we both realized we had made a terrible mistake. However, to save face, we lingered for a few minutes contemplating our next move. After an appropriate amount of time had passed, we both agreed we should make our way back to the bus. We turned around, reassuring ourselves that had we been more prepared, we would have indeed continued the trek. To our horror, when we returned to the parking lot, the bus was nowhere to be found. We had missed it by a matter of minutes (as our hike hadn’t lasted long) and were now faced with the daunting reality that we would have to walk down the winding road. After some rough calculations with my two fingers and a tourist map, I guessed that it would take us about eight hours to reach the bottom of the mountain. Nevertheless, we had no choice but to begin our descent. For an hour or so, we were filled with an unexpected sense of optimism. We laughed at our folly and took solace in the fact that as we descended, it would get warmer and the snow would eventually melt away. As that hour came and went, the snow did not, in fact, melt away. Additionally, not only was the sun beginning to set, but the second bus from the tourist agency was sure to be making its way up the mountain shortly. After our foolhardy claims on the way up, we could not risk being seen by the bus driver. That would be the ultimate humiliation. We knew we had to get back to Hobart, and fast. After some deliberation, we agreed that hitchhiking would be our best option. Calling a cab would be egregiously expensive and continuing our walk was out of the question. We resolved that Australians are a generally peaceful people and the chances of any harm coming our way was minuscule and greatly outweighed by the certain shame we would feel if the bus driver were to see us walking along the road. We contemplated telling our future rescue team that we were Canadian, so as not to confirm any preconceived notions about “ignorant Americans.” After bouncing our Canadian accents off each other for a short while we decided against it. After getting off to a rather timid start, Victoria and I both boldly stuck our thumbs in the air, as hitchhikers are accustomed to do. As the first car approached, driv-

en by a couple with an open backseat that could easily fit the two of us, my adrenaline reached an all time high. This was it; we were saved. I could feel my blood finding its way back into my toes already. Then, nothing. The car didn’t so much as slow down to look at us. My pride was shot. We were forced to continue our descent on foot. Car after car flagrantly ignored us, despite our obvious despair. Night continued to fall, fewer cars were out, and the second bus was undoubtedly near. Then, by the work of what I could only assume to be of some higher power, a car began to slow; hope was instilled. Somewhat dumbfounded, we did not move at first. When we realized what was happening, though, Victoria and I rushed into the car and did not think twice about climbing into the back seat.

“THOUGH HOW COULD I KNOW THEN THAT IT WAS THE HEATING THAT LULLED US INTO A LENGTHY CHAT NEAR THE SINK?” To our good fortune, it was an old Aussie couple behind the wheel. After getting acquainted (and forgoing our Canadian accents), we explained the peril we were in. To make ourselves seem less thoughtless, we told the couple that our bus had left without us, by no fault of our own. They were astounded that a bus driver could be so careless. We concurred. We drove about 25 minutes with our new friends and were kindly dropped off at a hotel with a bar. Victoria and I decided we deserved a beer and some bar food, this allegedly taking precedence over our wet and cold clothing. We reminisced on our little adventure until finally returning to our hostel. In the following days, we returned to Sydney, where Victoria and I were both studying at the time. We vowed to tell only a select few of what happened that fateful day in Tasmania. However, we would eventually find humor in our excursion and chalk it up to being “one of those things.” Mistakes were made. I can now only hope that I learn and grow from my actions and in future endeavors elect to keep my vest on my person. 40

THINGS WE CANNOT SEE BY ROSALIE SELLMAN, EDITED BY BAILEY JAWORSKI

There is beauty in faith. For thousands of years people have devoted themselves to things they cannot see. We build connections with beliefs, with abstract ideas that we subject to meaning. However, you don’t have to believe anything to see the idea that a higher power has so much beauty. But, they say seeing is believing, so I put my own faith to the test with my trip to Israel this past summer. I had the opportunity to travel to Israel with twelve of my family members for my younger cousin’s Bar Mitzvah, or Jewish coming of age. This was my grandmother’s dream. For years she had planned to take my family to Israel, and her dream finally came true. The way there was stationed with plane delays, flight transfers and countless “please holds” from travel agents who were fed up with my anxious family. We made some progress and ended up in Italy for a ten-hour layover. If anything, my family has perfected the “making lemonade” theory. That is, we take what life gives us, spin it and turn it into an experience. In this case, we decided to tour Rome. We hired a taxi driver for the day, exchanging a couple Euros for a private tour of the city. He took us to all the main attractions, including his favorite coffee shop and favorite pizza restaurant. He drove us past the Vatican, giving us a brief history, although he confessed that he was not a faithful man. Nonetheless, it is a spiritual center for people all around the world; It is old, it is sacred, and it is beautiful. My family and I quickly boarded another flight. We were struck with wanderlust from our short visit to Rome and were ready to take on Israel. For me, I was waiting. Being Jewish, I grew up with the idea of Israel being this divine place. I assumed it would be life-changing in some way. I didn’t know how, or why, but I put my trust in this idea that I would come home feeling changed. Indeed, the things I experienced in Israel were incredible: I scaled waterfalls in the Black Canyons, I covered myself in mud while in the Dead Sea, I toured Jerusalem, at midnight on bike, taking in the nightlife of this incredible city. However, while in Israel, I was struck with one of the same feelings I had felt while in Rome. Jerusalem, the Old City, is sectioned into four quarters: The Jewish Quarter, the Muslim Quarter, the Armenian Quarter and the Christian Quarter. I was awe inspired by the fact that in a so-called “Jewish State,” so many groups have found religious refuge. It’s settling and inspiring to see all

of these people living peacefully together, contrasting what the media tends to highlight. These people respect each other and find peace in knowing Israel is a safe haven for all. Walking through the Old City, I felt safe as well. I let my mind wander, appreciating the contrasts that the city had to offer; the sights and scents, the old versus the new. I recall watching a young boy skip to an old well in the Muslim Quarter. For hundreds or even thousands of years, this marble well has been used for water to drink and to clean, and even for rituals. I watched the boy, wondering if he will ever realize the same beauty that I found in this visual. A week passed, and I was on my way home. I felt a sense of understanding from my time in Israel. I found beauty, peace, faith and hope in the people and places I had encountered. I loved what I had experienced. I bonded with my family and my grandma’s dream had finally come true. However, I did not feel the spiritual change that I had so hoped and expected to find. I did not find it, that is, until less than a week later. Three days after I had returned home and my family had dispersed back to our own homes and own lives, we heard tragic news. My grandma was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. This lively, loving and incredibly spirited woman was someone who had always inspired me and continues to do so. It was unthought of that she would ever become ill. The other unbelievable part is that she was sick during the full duration of our trip, even long before that. With stage four cancer, it was strange that there were no earlier signs. However, she was well enough to live out her dream of taking my family to Israel. That’s when it hit me. Suddenly everything made sense. For so many people throughout history, our faith is put in these higher powers. We have built monuments, churches, synagogues, mosques, museums and even whole cities under this idea that everything has a purpose, that things happen for a reason. This was finally the feeling I had been seeking. There was a reason my grandma got sick when she did. There was a reason my grandma, now fighting this terrible disease, was able to be so well for so long. I thank God for the experience I was able to have with my grandma during our time in Israel, a place she holds so close to her heart. I don’t know if she will ever be able to go back or if I will have any more amazing experiences that I will be able to share with her. She is still alive, however, and continues to inspire me and serve as a constant reminder that there is beauty in things we cannot see.

THOMAS YONASH (PARO, BHUTAN)

EDWARD KNUDSEN (BATU CAVES, MALAYSIA)

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