Souvenirs | Spring 2019 by Souvenirs

Discover your wanderlust

Spring 2019

Spring 2019 Editors in Chief Ruth Brandt Sophia Dramm

Art Director

Kynala Phillips

Associate Art Director Lily Oberstein

Editors

Ana Demendoza Mason Hakes Emma Liverseed Chandler Maas

Contributing Photographers Claudia Belawski Trace Carrasco Conley Clark Isabelle Cook Hailey Eisenrich Kaitlin Fenn Austin Gladden Sarah Godfrey Cecilia Grinis Amanda Janquart Claire Krieger Maggie Meyer Megan Nelson Sinclair Richards Max Taylor Ashley Thomas Jane Thompson Haley Winckler Moriah Ziman

On the Cover

Clayton Jannusch, Greece

Contributing Writers Quinn BeauprĂŠ Joey Mancinelli

Staff Writers

Kim Asseily Abbigail Friday Megan Janssen Kiersten McDevitt Megan Nelson Diana Powers Caysi Simpson Paige Strigel Tobin Zolkowski

WUD Publications Committee Director Fernanda Martinez

WUD Publications Committee Advisor Jen Farley

Wisconsin Union President Mills Botham

Through the publishing of our seven student-run journals and magazines, the Publications Committee of the Wisconsin Union Directorate provides a creative outlet for UW-Madison students interested in creating poetry and prose, reporting on travel, music and fashion, or delving into research in science and public policy. We celebrate creativity on campus by providing hands-on experience in publishing, editing, writing and artmaking.

LETTER FROM the editors

LILY OBERSTEIN

e met for the first time at the Starbucks on State Street. We were complete strangers, and we were the new co-editors in chief of Souvenirs Magazine. We had no staff, no experience and no idea what we were getting ourselves into. All we knew is that we shared a love of travel and writing, and we had abounding inspiration for the magazine. Two years later, we find ourselves again at the Starbucks on State Street, putting the finishing touches on our fourth and final print magazine as editors in chief. A lot can happen in two years. We completely rebuilt Souvenirs from the ground up and turned it into a stunning, award-winning publication. We grew our staff, many of who poured their heart and soul into Souvenirsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; success. We established a popular blog and significantly increased our social media presence. We traveled the world. And two complete strangers became two best friends. Running this travel magazine has been a journey of its own, and we hope that, along the way, our pages brought you beauty from afar and inspired a desire to see that beauty for yourself. Thank you to everyone who supported us and our vision along the way. Most importantly, thank you to our incredible staff, because without you, this magazine would be nothing. Souvenirs turned a bunch of strangers into family. And isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t that the point of travel, bringing people together?

Ruth

Sophia

SPRING 2019

IN THIS ISSUE Spring 2019 6

Madison Is My Abroad

Pancakes For Dinner

New York Shitty

The Beauty Of “Leave No Trace”

Seat 24B

To The One Who Called Me “Adventurer”

A Man So Familiar

Safety First

The 90th Minute

How India Changed My Perspective On Beauty

Extraordinary Discoveries

My Heart Is In Venezuela

Nigeria On Film

What It’s Like To Be A Deaf Traveler

Una Mattina Romana

White Butterflies

Home

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HALEY WINCKLER, MOROCCO

DISCOVER YOUR Wanderlust

FOR MORE WANDERLUST, FOLLOW @SOUVENIRSMADISON ON SOCIAL MEDIA AND VISIT SOUVENIRSMADISON.COM

CLAUDIA BELAWSKI, USA

BVED

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SPRING 2019

KIM ASSEILY

ike most high school students, my senior year was spent being anxious about college applications, excited about high school being over for good and looking forward to an endless, stress-free summer. I was ecstatic when I got my acceptance letter from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Madison was where I wanted to spend the next four years learning and growing; I’d been visiting family there since I was 9 years old. Unlike most UW students, however, my enrollment meant I had to travel exactly 6,086.13 miles across the world to attend UW. You see, I come from Beirut, Lebanon, and Madison is my abroad. With over 50 percent of the student body hailing from in-state, many UW students don’t realize the distinctive qualities of Wisconsin culture that us 15 percent from outside of the U.S. notice when we arrive. So, what’s it like living in Madison as a Lebanese student?

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LILY OBERSTEIN, USA

MADISON IS MY ABROAD

GREETINGS

LILY OBERSTEIN, USA

I found out the hard way that people in Wisconsin either greet each other with a simple handshake or a wave. In the spring of my freshman year, I was walking on University Avenue when I ran into a friend whom I hadn’t seen since before winter break. I instinctively went in for a hug, which got completely ignored, turning a cute reunion into an awkward encounter. I concluded that there is no room for the Lebanese three kisses on the cheek and a half-hug to which I was accustomed. Instead, if you meet someone in Wisconsin and go in for a hug, you must excitedly lead with the phrase, “Excuse me, I’m a hugger!” with a big smile plastered on your face.

FOOD

Sharing food is a custom in Lebanon. The majority of the time, especially in Lebanese restaurants, no one orders their own dish and everyone shares everything. We call it a regular meal; apparently, that’s what people here refer to as a “potluck.” To this day, the word “potluck” cracks me up. And to all of my fellow international students, no, it is not a lucky pot of gold at the end of a rainbow (not like I thought that’s what it was or anything...).

WEATHER

What people don’t tell you when you say you’re moving to the Midwest is how unpredictable the weather is. You’re told winters are freezing (which is an understatement for 2019’s polar vortex winter), summers are warm, and fall and spring are pleasant. However, you’re not told how on some days it feels like you’re living in Antarctica and others in Bali within the same week… Oh, and that Madison has one season – construction season! All in all, Madison is a pretty great city - especially in the non-winter months, an ideal time to spend an evening at Memorial Union and sip on refreshing beverages while watching the sunset and listening to live music. Or studying for exams on Bascom Hill while soaking up the sun you missed out on in winter.

Source: UW-Madison Office of the Registrar

SPRING 2019

PANCAKES FOR DINNER Eating through the Netherlands MEGAN NELSON

here is an expansive list of reasons why one should travel. The experience of meeting new people, seeing historical architecture and submerging oneself around people with foreign beliefs and identities are a few of the noble rationalities to explore the world. I shamelessly put none of these on top of my list. Food is the unshakeable top priority for all of my adventures, so when I traveled to the Netherlands, this was the focal point of my experience. To begin our food excursion, my friend and I woke up early on a Saturday to check out the market - or, how I remember it, the food mecca of our trip. The city transformed from its prior lazy, romantic canal streets to a bustling maze of vendors and customers with cups and cuisine in hand. We stopped at a small restaurant and watched the stream of tall, blonde pedestrians enjoying their morning shopping. With the aid of my friend, I picked out the most obscure and traditional Dutch entrée on the menu. I gladly ordered the bitterballen and gave my best “Bedankt” to our server. Promptly I was served the mysterious dish; eight battered brown orbs sat in front of me in a crisp white bowl. I dunked a ball into the small cup of seasoned mustard and instantly fell in love. It was cheesy, meaty, battered and covered in mustard, everything a Wisconsin student looks for in comfort food. With these battered delicacies in mind, my friend insisted we continue to dine traditionally, that night at a Dutch pancake restaurant. It definitely wasn’t like any late-night trip to IHOP. Traditional pannenkoeken is a thin, unsweetened pancake that can be ordered with various toppings of savory meats and cheeses. The serving size was similar to an extra

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large pizza, and again I was enraptured with this blend of soul food and breakfast. My excitement to box up the large portion that I couldn’t demolish was met with an uncomfortable look from our server when I asked for a to-go box. My friend explained that taking food to go was considered taboo in the Netherlands. Traditionally, people spend uninterrupted hours at a restaurant and eat the entirety of their meal within that sitting. This wasn’t the only dining etiquette that I learned while eating my way through the country. After awkwardly waiting for service, I discovered that the servers won’t approach your table unless you catch their attention and wave them down. These initial encounters were followed by shaking away guilt for not leaving a tip on the table, which my friend insisted is considered more rude than welcomed. Although I stumbled through dining formalities, the slight embarrassments were well worth the food I was experiencing. One way I avoided these dining mishaps was ordering from the vendor stalls on the market streets. On one of our last occasions at De Markt, we continued our submersion into the Netherlands’ culture by buying Dutch-style herring. I approached this Dutch favorite with a little apprehension. This small fish was served raw and whole on a long bun and was topped with diced onions and other typical deli toppings. Any unease I had quickly melted away with the first bite, the onions blending with the fish, creating a strong but unified flavor. With that, I felt accomplished in my goal of exploring Dutch cuisine. I had conquered the popular and traditional delicacies of Holland and blended into the market crowd, herring in hand.

SPRING 2019

AUSTIN GLADDEN, NETHERLANDS

MEGAN NELSON, NETHERLANDS

PAIGE STRIGEL, SWEDEN

KYNALA PHILLIPS, NETHERLANDS

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HALEY WINCKLER, MOROCCO

SPRING 2019

LILY OBERSTEIN

o one is ever going to say that they hate where you are from. Everyone’s home is a special place. But mine? It is too crowded. Too dirty. Too much. My city is the place they go to drink. The place they go to say that they have been. The place they go to get their Instagram pictures. The place they lie about living in from their suburban mansions miles away. But New York City is more than that. We are not just the

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dirty rat-infested streets or rich and privileged socialites that you want us to be. Just because a bodega owner was mean to you doesn’t mean all 8.6 million New Yorkers are the same way. Just because you hear about all of the city crime on TV doesn’t mean it is unsafe to walk the streets. New York City is where I took my pants off on the 6 line for the no-pants subway ride. Where my brother does standup comedy. Where my friends got tickets for jumping the turn-

LILY OBERSTEIN, USA

NEW YORK SHITTY

stiles on 103rd Street. Where my grandmother picks up couches off the street. New York is where people live. And I love it. Despite the chaos and grime and stereotypes, I love my home. I love the sound of cars honking at 3 a.m. I love grocery shopping in suffocatingly tight, colorful aisles. I love even the smell of urine when I get out of the subway. So if you want to hate on my big city, go right ahead. I will keep loving it.

Just because I smile doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t mean

LILY OBERSTEIN, USA

I am not a New Yorker

SPRING 2019

THE BEAUTY OF “LEAVE NO TRACE” DIANA POWERS

ow often do we take advantage of the fact that we live somewhere with gorgeous lake views and endless outdoor activities? When we do, we often forget some of the common courtesies we should pay to the Earth, like caring for wildlife and picking up our trash. These kind deeds done to the land are known as the Leave No Trace principles. Contrary to common belief, the Leave No Trace principles are not just practiced by grizzly hikers who spend all day in the woods. Anyone can work to preserve the world we live in and the nature we enjoy. And don’t forget that this policy also applies to many of our favorite travel destinations. The beauty of nature is hard to overlook when hiking, for example. Sometimes you want to take a piece of that beauty home, a little souvenir that will help you remember your trip forever - a rock, a perfectly shaped leaf, a handful of wildflowers. One of the most important parts of having natural resources available to explore is the fact that they are available. If everyone takes a little something, there would be substantially less for others to admire. By leaving nature the way we find it, we give others the opportunity to also see it for themselves. Similarly, it is important to stay on designated trails. I enjoy seeing wildlife when I hike and so do many other hikers. Not only does it destroy vegetation, but the further we venture off-trail, the deeper into the woods frightened animals go. Speaking of animals, never feed them no matter how hungry they look. Trust me, even that cute squirrel knows how to find his next meal. Animals can get sick from human food or become dependent on us to feed them, making them more miserable than they may have seemed before. By safely practicing these principles, the purpose of Leave No Trace becomes simple: the preservation of the environment. Treat the Earth as it should be treated and follow guidelines so others can enjoy their own adventures. It comes down to being kind to other explorers and what we are exploring, too.

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Anyone can work to preserve

the world we live in and the

SPRING 2019

CLAUDIA BELAWSKI, USA

nature we enjoy

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HALEY WINCKLER, MOROCCO

SEAT 24B EMMA LIVERSEED

If static had a smell it would be the inside of an airplaneâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; molecules spreading as the cabin pressure drops, a telltale pop, ears stuffed with cotton. Over the next nine hours, an inkling of radiation will dapple my cells with a dose not enough for a chest X-Ray, though I wish I could see inside my chest, my back, for proof that the twin milky scapulae are still ready for flight because did you know that shoulder blades are also called wingbones? That your body contains both feathers and knives?

leaving in its wake contrails that splice the sky with white scars. This is our path, our ache, our promise of arrival.

SPRING 2019

DIANA POWERS, USA

Instead the buckle around my waist tethers me to the belly of a whale humming with jet engine groans,

TO THE ONE WHO CALLED ME “ADVENTURER” PAIGE STRIGEL

o travel, I first had to dream. So I did. I imagined journeys on trains with verdant countryside flying by outside the window. I envisioned strange languages and craggy mountains and rushing blue waters. I dreamed of friendships formed on the road and of stories written in notebooks that would one day be read by thousands. I felt myself zipping through alleyways on vespas, gliding through the crispest blue waters in a small sailboat, and watching the sun set over city after city as I traversed continents and filled my passport with stamps. I never would have thought those dreams could even approach reality without you. I was barely out of elementary school and had no real grasp of what it would truly mean when I told you I wanted to backpack across Europe. You said I must. You told me of days stationed in Europe while in the army. You described the seven hills of Rome and the newfound friend who offered to drive you on a tour. This was hardly a surprise - you made friends everywhere and with everyone, never mind little things like barriers of culture, religion or language. You gave my smoke-wisp dreams back to me fully formed and tangible through your words about young women just like me who hitchhiked across the continent, helped along with a ride whenever they ran into you. When I traveled to Italy, you were ecstatic. We spent hours pouring over pictures together,

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exchanging stories of our individual experiences in places we had both visited, and you prayed the rosary I brought you from the Vatican like clockwork until your last ten days on this earth. You never waited a moment to chase adventure - now was always the right time. Now is always the right time. You could make me equally excited and jealous with your stories of eating the freshest seafood, bartering in street markets and making friends in places I’d never experienced. Israel, Vietnam, Croatia, France the list goes on and on and yet I still don’t know every story. To travel, I first had to dream. So I did. And maybe that would have been all I ever did if you hadn’t sent the wind under my feet. Your advice was not to be wise or cautious but to be brave and adventurous. You advice was not to waitbut to go. You spent your last summer traveling Italy with your best friends, though you already knew that you were sick. In your last week on Earth, you told me that we would go to New Orleans together when you regained your health, because I’d never had beignets (which was truly criminal in your book). So now, as I wake each morning in a tiny flat to a panoramic view of the London skies, I can’t help but say thank you. As I make new friends, as I list off plane tickets to buy and as I take thousands of pictures of places I can barely believe I’m seeing, all I can remember is that you gave me this. You gave me the adventure.

Thank you.

CLAIRE KRIEGER, ITALY

WRITTEN IN LOVING MEMORY OF RALPH HIMROD

SPRING 2019

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TRACE CARRASCO, ICELAND

SPRING 2019

TRACE CARRASCO, ICELAND

MORIAH ZIMAN, ITALY

A Man SO FAMILIAR JOEY MANCINELLI

“Hai un’aria familiare,” said an old man in a short-sleeve collared shirt and tan slacks, drifting out of the doorway of the tabbacchi, about to stroll away in leather shoes across the ash sprinkled pavement of Viale di Trastevere into the dim evening home. Until his eyes crossed mine and gazed down upon me, sitting and smoking on a stone ledge at the bottom of a shopfront garage door. “What?” I said, looking up from my place beside the shut metal entrance, revealing with my tongue, though my face could be mistaken, that I was not a native. And so, he clarified in English that I looked familiar, like someone he recognized from some other time. 22

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We did not exchange names, although he asked where I was from, a question people have the urge to know, especially in Europe. And I described Milwaukee, the city north of Chicago, but he knew where it was. He said he once lived for 10 years in Florida.

here” - Out here in Italy or out here in the street?

“Young men like yourself are supposed to be out with the girls, fucking pussy or playing sports. I was a runner and didn’t start to smoke until I was fifty. But yet you sit here like a bum, just I stood up as the old man un- smoking.” wrapped the cellophane of his cigarette package, while the road He spoke these words with both vibrated underneath our feet encouragement and disdain, as if the tram plowing down Viale di he was trying to do a pitiful friend Trastevere, rigidly in place on its a favor. It felt so natural; the Italian people had grown accustomed worn steel tracks. to favors. “What are you doing out here?” questioned the old man with an Inhaling my cigarette, the smoke extended hand. I paused, deci- entered silently into my raw phering what he meant by “out lungs. Another tram advanced on

I strolled the other way down the road, put my key into the 10-foot-tall door, walked down the hall of granite floor and out into the courtyard, where I lit a smoke on the stairs beside a waxy leafed bush under the lime tree and “And what are those?” he said, touching began to think. his right earlobe while looking at me. “This jewelry is for women.” Shaking I thought about how I feared the my hand, he said, “I must be going shame of saying I do not really like home now, my wife may be wondering pussy, and how I did not want, in my where I am.” deep voice, to explain myself and the lover whom I helped move to Grape Standing beside the metal door, he Street in Denver. warned with a grin, “Be careful out here. You know Italian people are not To do this would be too tangling, like a the same as the Romans. That was a dried vine in a rusted-wire trellis, I do different race long ago.” not want doubt to cling to me again through the words of a man stating, He turned opposite, drifting off into “Really?” the humidity under the orange glow of the street lamps, another figure come If I was a person of greater courage, like and gone down a dim boulevard of an orange stone of carnelian, I should the city, the old center of the Western have told him that is no way to speak world. of women. But I didn’t.

Maybe the silence was because of the sinews in the muscle of my father’s tanned arm, rubbing olive oil between his hands to remove the color of paint from them after work, as he said words like “family jewels” and “ball-dinos” to me in childhood. Or maybe it was because of the dome of the Basilica standing over the Tiber and the reflection of the crescent moon in the dark water. Maybe it was because I was reminded of when my father said, “Look Joe, that’s God’s fingernail.” Maybe that is why I saw mostly boys in the watery dreams of my youth, but felt unworthy and unable to kiss whom I desired for 19 years. Maybe that is why I felt I could tell neither my father nor my mother that I lost a love while coming to Rome. Maybe ocean and time do not dissolve all bonds. Maybe that’s why I once looked so familiar.

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CECILIA GRINIS, ITALY

the other side of the track toward Piazza Venezia. The foundation softly rumbled beneath our feet once more, then returned to the stable status quo.

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SARAH GODFREY, USA

MAX TAYLOR JORDAN

SPRING 2019

ASHLEY THOMAS, USA

SAFETY FIRST

QUINN BEAUPRÉ,, BELGIUM

CHANDLER MAAS

e take risks when we travel. We know not what we are getting ourselves into. Mistakes are inevitable. I found myself at the hands of fate in a country where I could not communicate, a host family with whom I caused a divide. There was a wine-induced fight, a cell phone thrown and words flung at me from all sides. My stomach had dropped, the way it does at the peak of a rollercoaster when you lose control. It was all my fault, and I needed to leave, but I had nowhere to go. The morning after the fight, I sat silently on the subway with my host mother, heading toward her apartment in the suburbs. Her fur coat carried the scent of cigarettes, making my head pulsate. Neither of us dared talk about what occurred the night before. I offered her a headphone bud and jazz drifted over the moment as graffiti rushed by. I felt sick. They were the ones with whom I entrusted my safety, and they were the ones who took it away from me. I knew I needed to find a flight home, immediately; even a day or two more seemed too much to 26 bear. SOUVENIRS

I shut myself in a side room of the apartment, raindrops racing down a single-pane window looking out over a dense, green patch of raw earth nestled between pastel-colored buildings. The patch felt like a secret, festering and wild. It reminded me of myself, in that 4 p.m. fading light - calm and collected, but stuck in a liminal space, harboring an innate need to flee. Two hundred Euros for a flight change. Add on bus fare. With trembling hands, I checked my bank account. I still had enough. I could make it work, had to make it work, did make it work. “My mother,” I explained the next night, “she just needs me. I leave tomorrow.” I broke the news to my host family so it was irreversible, not a choice. I gathered my things, which I had left scattered about the apartment like debris after a storm. A cashmere sweater of mine, dark purple, still hides in the darkness of a deep closet there, along with my memories of that place.

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QUINN BEAUPRÃ&#x2030;, NETHERLANDS

THE 90TH MINUTE QUINN BEAUPRÃ&#x2030;

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QUINN BEAUPRÉ, FRANCE

t was the 90th minute. The France national football team was moments away from defeating Croatia in the 2018 World Cup Final. I found myself with some friends in the middle of Paris, swallowed up by the excitement of it all. The streets were waiting to erupt at the final whistle. Then it happened. For the second time in history, France was crowned Word Cup champion. After the win, everyone flowed to the Champs Élysées, and we followed the crowd. The avenue was filled with more than one million fans, all sporting the French tricolor, spanning as far as the eye could see. The energy was electric as fans lit flares and set off fireworks, pridefully chanting the now-familiar phase, “Allez les Bleus” over and over again. After the celebration, I left for home with ringing in my ears but energy in my heart. SPRING 2019

HOW INDIA CHANGED MY PERSPECTIVE ON Beauty

MAGGIE MEYER, INDIA

CAYSI SIMPSON

he concept of beauty is just that - a concept. There is no decisive definition of beauty. As the saying goes, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Especially with the rise of social media and the pressure of American society of conform to a specific beauty standard, it is so easy for us to compare ourselves to others. Even sadder is that it is so easy for every individual to never see themselves as good enough. 30

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If I look at myself in the mirror, there are so many things that I could criticize, every piece of myself that makes up “me.” It’s instinctive, but why? Why is it so easy to tear ourselves apart instead of seeing our beauty and even the beauty in our flaws? For two weeks during the summer of 2016, I volunteered at a school for underprivileged children in Faridabad, India, which is about an hour’s drive from New Delhi. I could go on and on about how

I fell in love with the students and founder of the beautiful. The person that they saw in my two weeks school, as well as the culture of India in general, but there was, in my own eyes, pasty-white, had dark something else made an especially big impact on circles under her eyes, non-existent eyelashes, a face me: the perception of beauty I encountered there. spotty from acne and a lot of other things that I was In India, I found it particularly hard to feel embarrassed to let them see. physically and mentally confident in myself. The Out of curiosity, and absolute disbelief, I asked heat (always over 100 degrees Fahrenheit) made it them why they thought I was pretty. hard to wear makeup because it would just sweat In the easiest way they could explain to me in off while I was working. I was wearing clothing that English, one girl started by saying, “Your smile was “conservative” by my makes me happy.” Another girl standards in order to respect Why is it so easy to said that she thought my laugh Indian culture; therefore, I was pretty. The next explained felt like I lost the physical tear ourselves apart that my eyes were bright. Lastly, appeal that I, egotistically, a girl with a sparkle in her eyes am happy with. My hair instead of seeing our simply said she thought I was was always up in a loose, very kind and lovely. messy bun (the heat and beauty and even the Normally, I’m not one humidity really got to me, as take compliments or feel beauty in our flaws? to you can probably tell). And comfortable receiving them. there was another female But their words really touched volunteer who I thought was unbelievably gorgeous, me. It didn’t take in-depth explanations to get the in a natural way that I felt I could never replicate.- message across, but a few simple words: Beauty is There was another female volunteer who I thought internal, just as much as society says it is external. was unbelievably gorgeous, in a natural way that I These girls had only known me for two short felt I could never replicate. weeks, yet they had heard my laugh, seen my eyes Basically, I felt like an ugly slob for the two weeks light up with excitement and thought that I was that I was in India. a truly kind person. It wasn’t really about outside However, the day before I left, a group of looks to them; they thought I was beautiful because schoolgirls were graciously applying henna to my of how I presented myself and treated them. hands as we had a conversation about beauty. I was I can genuinely say that today, though I still rambling about the beauty standards in the U.S. and struggle with insecurities, I can look in the mirror how I really appreciated the beauty in the culture and much easier count the things I find beautiful and the people of India; I felt like there was a lot within myself than the things I wish I could change. Western culture could learn. I also included a couple Sure, I still compare myself to other people, but I of self-deprecating comments, which I usually try to also realize that other people probably compare avoid. themselves to me, as well. The girls listened to me and even though they We all - especially in Western culture - struggle to didn’t understand everything I said, they got the love ourselves for all that we are. I am beyond grateful gist of it all. In broken English, one girl responded, for those astounding, inspiring and breathtakingly “You are very beautiful.” Another girl said, “You beautiful girls I met in India. Although they didn’t are prettier than her” (referring to the other girl know me for long, they appreciated the time we had volunteer who I thought was naturally beautiful). and recognized a beauty in myself that I neglected Now, as a disclaimer, I want to remind everyone to appreciate. Beauty really is in the eye of the that beauty is not a competition. I am not prettier beholder. India helped me see that and has forever than the other volunteer, nor is she prettier than me; changed my perspective on beauty in the world and we are pretty in our own unique ways. However, in myself. I was taken aback, because I couldn’t believe that these girls thought that I was anywhere close to SPRING 2019

R ST

U ,A

EXTRAORDINARY DISCOVERIES KIERSTEN MCDEVITT

he breeze ruffled my flyaways as I stepped out of the hotel to lace up my running shoes in Killarney, Ireland. It was 6:30 a.m., and the town was quiet save for the chirping blackbirds and the few people that milled around, opening up shops. I started my watch and began running through the compact streets of cream and pastel buildings with flower boxes and gold lettering, all bearing different signs for restaurants, pubs and bike shops. The stone beneath my feet turned into dirt and gravel as I entered Killarney National Park. Running while abroad, for me, is seeing the sights of a travel destination in a new, interactive way; it’s a travel experience of its own. As I started through the park, trees arched over me like a tunnel. Through them I could spot a tall cathedral tower poking out 32

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over the distant rooftops I was leaving behind. The trees became sparser until I was moving between fields of green with low, mossy mountains in the distance. Two cows watched me from behind a fence as I passed, and I felt worlds away from the sleeping town I had just left. After hitting my target mileage I wasn’t ready to stop exploring, so instead of turning around, I ran farther. Moments later, there it was. I crossed a wooden bridge over a creek and came to an immediate halt in utter disbelief. Before me stood a castle of crumbling gray stone from the 15th century. It was tall and rectangular, surrounded by a wall that connected rounded guard towers. Narrow, slitted windows dotted the castle’s sides.

I crossed under an arched doorway on the outer wall, entering the main structure. Rough stone grew from the base of the castle back, as if the craftsmen had built directly into the rock. The rear gave way to a terrace that overlooked a vast lake surrounded by mountains. There wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t a ripple on the water, though canoes that were tied to the terrace bobbed slightly. The property was void of tourists, and this dream-like moment was uniquely mine. Out on a run in a foreign land, I had stumbled upon a breathtaking castle from the Middle Ages. The excursion was an unforgettable experience that I carry with me every time I explore somewhere new. It is the memory of the castle walls and green fields that has me looking forward to lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s unexpected adventures that are yet to come.

Y LE

SPRING 2019

MY Heart IS IN VENEZUELA ANA DEMENDOZA

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JANE THOMPSON, SOUTH AMERICA

very day, more and more, my country’s name appears in American headlines and colloquially in conversations about crisis and suffering. To me, Venezuela is not just another distant country suffering from a dictatorship. It’s the roots of my heritage and identity. Growing up, visiting Venezuela was out of the question. My parents feared that the American accents my brother and I had would be heard by someone who could do us harm. It wasn’t until we were older that my parents decided it was time for us to visit the country we had heard about for so long. I was 17 years old in 2015 when I landed in Venezuela’s capital, Caracas. The last time I was there I was only 6 months old, and it was due-time to make my own memories in the country my parents called home. As soon as the plane touched the ground, the excitement of having the next two weeks to connect with my roots was realized. My parents set some rules to keep us safe in Caracas, the world’s most violent city. If we were at a restaurant, I would quietly tell my mom what I wanted to order, and she would speak on my behalf to keep our accents undetected from potential criminals. Anytime we were out in a public place, our phones had to stay somewhere unseen. We were not to share anything about our life in the United States with anyone who was not family. And finally, we were not to go anywhere without a native VenezuelanSpanish speaker my parents trusted. The morning after we landed in Caracas, I opened the blinds of our hotel window to a city of sunshine, cradled by a mountain range called El Ávila. Back in the United States, it was typical to hear about the violence in

Caracas, but looking from above, the city appeared to embrace the calmness of the morning. Adhering to my parent’s guidelines, I spent the next two beautiful weeks in Venezuela. I rode horses above the clouds on the El Ávila mountain range, spent Christmas on the island of Margarita off the shore of mainland Venezuela and ate authentic arepas cooked by locals. Most importantly, I spent time with family members I hadn’t previously met. We talked and laughed as we took part in a unique cultural exchange, trying to understand each others’ upbringings in completely different circumstances. Although I was enjoying my time as a tourist in Venezuela, my family members living in the country shared their daily realities with me. A typical trip to the grocery store consists of waiting in line for over eight hours only to be met with empty aisles and limited goods. Robbery and gun violence are commonplace. Public hospitals often have no medical supplies, and many die from easily treatable diseases. As I see depictions of Caracas on the news today, I remember that my beautiful visit to Venezuela was temporary, while others live in danger every day. With misinformation about Venezuela floating around America media, I find it is my responsibility to give context and an insider’s perspective to the international news story. My visit to Venezuela was more than a trip or even an overdue family gathering - it was my opportunity to connect with a heritage and a culture I love. The country will always be in my heart, and I hope I can one day return to an opportunity-filled, democratic Venezuela to continue to connect with my identity. 35 SPRING 2019 35

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NIGERIA ON FILM ISABELLE COOK

“Always hold a true friend with both of your hands.” NIGERIAN PROVERB

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37 SPRING 2019

WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE A DEAF TRAVELER TOBIN ZOLKOWSKI

here’s no doubt that Deaf people encounter certain challenges that Hearing people never have to face. When traveling to a new place with different culture, it can be especially challenging. But it can still be done. I’m a Deaf person and I have been traveling my whole life. There are both advantages and disadvantages to travel as a Deaf person, but overall it’s a fun experience as Deaf travelers can get priority and be left alone by Hearing people. The ignorance of Hearing people is a disadvantage faced by Deaf travelers, who seem to be confused sometimes about exactly what being Deaf means. I had an embarrassing encounter at an airport. When I bought a flight from Indonesia to the U.S., I answered “yes” to the question of if I am hearingimpaired. Upon arriving in Chicago and exiting 38

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the plane, an employee stood up and held a sign with my name on it. Next to him was a wheelchair. Everyone was looking at us and wondering why the wheelchair was not being used. It was embarrassing. Another time, I had a bizarre experience at the Lincoln Home National Historic Site with my family. When we entered the house, a guide appeared and handed me a piece of paper printed in Braille. I was confused and asked my parents why I had received something so strange. They confronted the guide and clarified the difference between Blindness and Deafness. Occasionally, Deaf people receive documents printed in Braille like I did. I think it’s funny. Despite these annoying situations due to the ignorance of Hearing people, traveling as a Deaf person can be fun. Sometimes we get the advantage

TOBIN ZOLKOWSKI, INDONESIA

Deaf travelers see the world in a different way... but that doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t mean our travel experiences are lesser

of priority. One time, I was in a long queue at an airport. I decided to reveal my Deafness to an employee who then let me be the first to enter the gate, which saved me so much time. A different time, I was at Narita International Airport in Japan and got lost. An employee recognized my Deafness, and she helped me go through long queues and took care of everything for me; I did not have to deal with any of the airport hassle! On a vacation in Malaysia, I received some special discounts that Hearing people did not get, saving me some money. In my opinion, the main reason Deaf travelers can have fun is that Hearing people leave them alone. Once I was driving a little too fast on a motorcycle in Indonesia. There was a checkpoint in front of me, and I slowed down. However, a policeman walked towards me, and I pulled to the side of the road. The

policeman spoke to me, but I could not understand him, revealing my Deafness. The policeman was perplexed and let me continue driving without asking for my license or giving me a speeding ticket. It is clear, then, that even though Deaf travelers can face obstacles, they can have fun. Deaf travelers see the world in a different way from Hearing travelers, but that doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t mean our travel experiences are lesser than theirs. Our experiences are just as fulfilling. Are you a little jealous of Deaf travelers now?

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SOUVENIRS

CLAIRE KRIEGER, ITALY

UNA MATTINA ROMANA KIERSTEN MCDEVITT

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CLAIRE KRIEGER, ITALY

The sunlight is warm, illuminating orange and red roofs through a thin haze of light clouds. A network of black cobblestones winds through the city below, wrapping around the ancients Foro Romano, Pantheon, Fontana di Trevi - that slumber amongst modern life. In this majestic maze, the street artist takes his first brush stroke, and the gelato shop opens a corner door. Mopeds buzz along with chattered “Buongiornos” through the watercolor of pastel and Cypress that stretches far into the hills. Overlooking it all, the Basilica di San Pietro stands with golden trim glinting in the waking light. The dome’s shadow begins to recede while birds chirp louder, singing that it is morning in the Eternal City.

WHITE BUTTERFLIES MEGAN JANSSEN

ast summer, they took on the form of white butterflies - a pair at least - for their family; they reappeared again together and forever will remain so... Before leaving to study abroad this semester, and every time I set out to see more of the world, many people told me with slight criticism that I have my whole life to travel - why go now? What those who say these things often do not remember or recognize, however, is simply the brevity of life, and that for some, time will not allow for seeing what they would like to see of the world. I arrived in Madrid in January hoping to fulfill my long-time goal of becoming fluent in the Spanish language along with gaining a new depth of understanding of the Spanish culture. But I first and foremost arrived wishing for my time in Madrid to further clarify my purpose in life and to help me understand why they - my best friend and her oldest sister - passed away so young half a year ago. I never imagined in my early years at the University of Wisconsin-Madison that when my time finally came to study abroad, I would arrive with the heaviest baggage of them all: to now have to face each new challenge while grieving the incomprehensible loss of my loved ones. Each day abroad further reinforces the idea that physically leaving behind reminders of ones you have lost does not mean your grief will dissipate, and it also 42

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does not necessarily mean your grief will augment. What leaving these individuals and reminders behind does permit is for your grief to change. Like travel, grief can force you to grow in ways you never thought possible. Living in a new

city and different culture while grieving can be disorienting and overwhelming to say the least, but it is also an opportunity for introspection and immense selfgrowth when youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re out of your comfort zone - a time to find what really matters in your life, if

WRITTEN IN LOVING MEMORY OF CASSIE JOY AND LAUREN ELIZABETH LAABS

you so allow it. For those who must also unfortunately grapple with the process of grieving while traveling or living abroad, I recommend that you aim for nothing less than to take every moment in stride, every encounter with an open

TRACE CARRASCO, ICELAND

new person you meet, every food you try, every song you hear, and every brilliant sunrise and sunset coloring the sky ablaze you see, I urge you to perceive these experiences through their eyes the ones you know so well and love so deeply. In this way, I have not only kept the memory of those lost so very alive, but I have found that the world has never been all the more beautiful and awe-inspiring as I consciously strive to see it through their eyes. So, if traveling is what you truly desire, then explore as far and as long as you are able, for those who can only join you in spirit. I am confident they will be overjoyed to see you living out your dreams. Last month, they again took on the form of white butterflies - this time while hiking with a view of the snow-capped Sierra Nevada mountains, surrounded by endless rows of yellow flowers and an entire landscape bathed in sunshine. My loved ones reminded me that they will never leave my side, because the white butterflies in your life remain with you forever, no matter how far away you go.

mind and every experience with a heart full of gratitude for all that you are able to see and do. You know the way your loved ones perceive the world, which is likely among the top reasons you love them so. Thus, with every day that you wake up, every SPRING 2019

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SINCLAIR RICHARDS, CARIBBEAN

AMANDA JANQUART, SPAIN

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HAILEY EISENRICH, ITALY

PAIGE STRIGEL, SWEDEN

HALEY WINCKLER, MOROCCO

HOME RUTH BRANDT

I grew up thinking that Home is a big blue house On the corner of Jackson and Cass 100-year-old scrapbook of skinned knees and night-lights and sleepy Sunday mornings I quickly learned that Home is also a three-story house stuck between two frozen lakes Chipped paint, front porch cluttered with empty pizza boxes Shitty, drafty house filled with laughter and empty bottles of Riesling But Most of all Home is not just a place A star on the map in the crease between the thumb and pointer finger

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Home is a sweet little boy in Barrio Guiñazú Big, light eyes and messy blonde hair Stealing glances from the front of the bus Blotchy red cheeks and runny nose and shy smile Whisper, Hola Home is a tiny apartment in Seville Calentador turned on underneath the table Listen to the hum of people on the street below Big red dress with big red sleeves, stained with mud and rebujito Hand your host-mother a bouquet of flowers Tell her, Gracias por todo

Home is an airport in Mexico City Look for the girl with the big smile and even bigger eyes waiting for you at the gate with her father Run to her, wordlessly crash into a hug A collision delayed by a year and a border Fall to the floor Cry, I missed you Home is a hole-in-the-wall club in Berlin Walls and people, pulsing Blonde boy pinches tobacco from a crumpled packet of American Spirit Handrolls cigarettes and smokes them Say goodbye at the bottom of the hostel stairs Think, He should’ve kissed me

Home is an orphanage in Cusco Rosy-cheeked children playing on concrete Little girl approaches you shyly, gives you a necklace she made Yellow wooden heart with red polka dots strung onto a piece of yarn Heart broken, cracked voice Say, Gracias Home is a 1:30am reunion in Bordeaux Embrace in the middle of

Cours Balguerie Stuttenberg Joke as though years hadn’t passed Wine and cheese at a café next to a cathedral House party in his parents’ apartment Know years will pass before you see him again Tell him, Thank you

Home is an overlook in Rome Dance drunkenly in the moonlight to Fleetwood Mac, carefree White wine and cacio e pepe Let the twinkling skyline steal your breath Stand on the guardrail, open your arms Sing, Amore

Home is a hug goodbye in Córdoba On a rainy street at 3am Besos on the cheek and forehead and neck mixed with tears and raindrops Words left unsaid hang in the air Try to memorize everything about him, his eyes and the million memories behind them Lie, Nos vemos pronto

Home is a big blue house On the corner of Jackson and Cass 100-year-old scrapbook of skinned knees and night-lights and sleepy Sunday mornings A star on the map in the crease between the thumb and pointer finger

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AMANDA JANQUART, SPAIN

Home is an apartment in Buenos Aires Tiled floors and tiny kitchen Glasses of Malbec paired with botched dinners Strangers, now family Pile onto the sofa spend the night inside Admit, I never want to leave

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Souvenirs is a collection of travel and multicultural experiences from students at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Souvenirsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; mission is to provide a platform for students to share lessons they learned while traveling and to provide readers with quality information while inspiring wanderlust.

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