Souvenirs | Spring 2016 by Souvenirs

ANNAMARIA GRINIS MARKETING DIRECTOR

WINNIE DRESDEN

SOCIAL MEDIA COORDINATOR

JOSIE HOPKINS EDITOR IN CHIEF

AMANDA KUJAWA LAYOUT EDITOR

ABBY LOS EDITOR

CLAIRE LORAN DESIGNER

First off, I want to thank my incredible staff for always being entertaining, dependable and creative, even though prior to September we were all strangers to one another. Another tremendous thank you goes out to Rachel Wanat, our PubCom director, for without her strong leadership and high-reaching goals this issue would not even have existed.

Not pictured:

To me, individual growth usually thrives with difficult experiences. However, traveling has always been a unique outlet where we can grow in such a way that we’re unaware we’re even changing. Delayed flights and language barriers have taught me patience while cultural practices different than my own have developed new perspectives. I hope you find our contributors’ photographs and stories to be souvenirs of their own personal growth.

BRENDA ZHU

Bon Voyage,

JACKIE BANNON EDITOR

WEBMASTER

With special thanks to:

RACHEL WANAT

PUBLICATIONS COMMITTEE DIRECTOR

JIM ROGERS BAILEY JAWORSKI EDITOR

PUBLICATIONS COMMITTEE ADVISOR

Cover photo: Timothy Pyzyk “Sunsets on the Copland Track,” New Zealand

WELCOME HOME TO RHOTIA...6 Kate Bathurst HOW FAST DO YOU WALK...16 Matthew Johnson FINDING YOUR PEOPLE ABROAD...19 Marlowe Jacobsen WHEN YOUR HEART IS SCATTERED ACROSS THE WORLD, HOME IS AN ARBITRARY PLACE...21 Katey Van Ort I DON’T WANT TO TRAVEL THE WORLD...23 Katey Van Ort ITALY THROUGH ITS OWN EYES...24 Scott Bembenek

THE ALASKAN WILDERNESS...44 Rose Lundy

ON WHITENESS & CULTURAL CAPITAL...32 Lydia Odegard

MY FERNWEH...49 Heather McCarty

THE TRANSFORMATION EXPECTATION...38 Anna Miller

RESILIENT...52 Bailey Jaworski THE IN-BETWEEN...56 Jessie Wright

Photo by Allie Folino (Florence, Italy)

Kerbi Cavanor (Lweza Village, Uganda)

WELCOME HOME TO RHOTIA...6 Kate Bathurst

WELCOME HOME TO RHOTIA

By Kate Bathurst I love to witness the shocked expressions people give me when I tell them that I had a strictly enforced 6 p.m. curfew every single night while I was studying abroad in Tanzania. For three months, I lived in a rural village that doesn’t even exist on Google maps. The other students and I were not allowed to show our knees in public, nor could we venture anywhere off campus by ourselves, and we could only go out to the bars on Sunday afternoons. This was truly the antithesis of a typical college study abroad program, but it was also the most beautiful and outlandish three months of my life. Although we were fortunate enough to go on plenty of incredible game drives in the Serengeti and the Ngorongoro Crater, among other national parks, those experiences were not nearly as special to me as living in a strange and wonderful place called Rhotia.

I originally thought of Rhotia as a “tiny village,” but I soon realized that was not the case. My friends and I spent hours upon hours exploring the endless red dirt roads, dried-up riverbeds and windy hilltops that overlooked the vast green countryside. Every place we went was indescribably beautiful, in the dry and rainy seasons alike. Our daily three-hour hikes involved being engulfed in about nine or 10 passing goat herds, being invited to drink tea with complete strangers in their mud houses and being spied upon and ambushed by hordes of small children and their highpitched shrieks of “wazungu!” (white people!) In Rhotia, it was impossible to be lonely— every single person we passed on the road would smile and ask where we came from and where we were going. Sometimes they would invite us inside their homes to sit and chat

For three months, I lived in a rural village that doesn't even exist on Google maps.

for a while. We usually burned through our entire Swahili vocabulary pretty quickly by discussing our favorite African animals, but the language barrier didn’t seem to bother our Rhotian friends too much. Smiling, laughing and sign language seemed to be sufficient communication for all of us. In the midst of our adventures, my walking companions and I somehow became best friends with “the Macarena family,” who lived on top of a hill with a gorgeous view of the countryside. Once a week, we made the trek to their mud house where the three Macarena girls seemed both overjoyed and mystified by our presence. Even though their English was quite limited and our Swahili was atrocious, we somehow managed to talk to the girls for hours while they offered us generous portions of beans and ugali (cornmeal mush). The portions were, in fact, so generous that we could never actually finish eating them. The Macarena girls would notice immediately if we left the beans untouched for more than one minute, and they would encouragingly shout “continue eat!” until we painfully forced ourselves to ingest more beans. Occasionally, with our stomachs on the verge of explosion, we all danced to ABBA together under the hot sun, surrounded by cows and goats and sheep and chickens and stray, flea-infested dogs. Moments like those made me especially happy to be alive. Another moment that made me happy to be alive was our final interaction with Rhotian

locals, on our very last day in Tanzania. A man named Dudieck, who we had met on a walk a few days earlier, kept insisting that we visit him at his home. We had no idea what to expect, but he seemed absolutely beside himself with excitement that a bunch of white kids were coming over. When we finally arrived at his house, every single one of his relatives was in the yard preparing a feast. Dudieck presented us as his “brothers and sisters.” He herded us all into his house, where we sat in a circle on the dirt floor and tried not to appear too bewildered. Dudieck, after learning all of our names, began to pass around Polaroid pictures of his relatives standing beside his mother at her open-casket funeral. We were all quite shocked but he didn’t appear bothered at all. In fact, he somehow made us promise to create T-shirts displaying his mother’s name, birth date and death date so we could proudly wear them all over America. After we promised, he assembled all of us in front of his mother’s fresh grave in the front yard, where we posed for several solemn photographs. None of us knew quite how to respond to any of this, so we just didn’t ask questions. Dudieck, however, had a lot of questions. He wanted to know our phone numbers, email addresses, mailing addresses, our parents’ names, our grandparents’ names, how many siblings we had and most importantly, when we were coming back to Rhotia. I ask myself that question too. A return trip to such a secluded place seems unlikely, but one can never be sure. As time goes by, Rhotia

“...Rhotia continues to linger in my mind like a strange

dream of a different world - a place where everyone treats one another like family, where the

moon hangs upside down in the sky, where every plant looks like Dr. Seuss invented it.”

continues to linger in my mind like a strange dream of a different world—a place where everyone treats one another like family, where the moon hangs upside down in the sky, where every plant looks like Dr. Seuss invented it. It’s no wonder I went through some pretty terrible reverse culture shock when I came back to America. Part of me wishes I could have stayed longer, but I know there will be more traveling in my future now that I’ve caught the wanderlust bug. As of now, Dudieck has sent me 41 invitations over Facebook that say something along the lines of “welcome home to Rhotia!” — so I know that whatever happens, I’ll still have friends waiting for me in my favorite Tanzanian village.

Photos by Kate Bathurst (Rhotia, Tanzania)

TANZANIA CLAIRE GRUMMON

Penguins and zebras: Megan Michel Mendonca (Cape Town, South Africa); Man and lion: Claire Grummon (Tanzania)

Irina Shavlik (Medina of Fez, Morocco)

Untouched African (Lweza Village, Uganda)

B eauty Kerbi Cavanor

Timothy Pyzyk (“Awaroa Hut at Night,” New Zealand)

HOW FAST DO YOU WALK...16 Matthew Johnson FINDING YOUR PEOPLE ABROAD...19 Marlowe Jacobsen WHEN YOUR HEART IS SCATTERED ACROSS THE WORLD, HOME IS AN ARBITRARY PLACE...21 Katey Van Ort I DON’T WANT TO TRAVEL THE WORLD...23 Katey Van Ort ITALY THROUGH ITS OWN EYES...24 Scott Bembenek

Scott Bembenek (Venice, Italy)

HOW F A S T DO YOU WALK? By Matthew Johnson

Allie Folino (Tuscany, Italy)

shower. The rest of my morning will consist of drinking a cup or two of coffee, watching the morning news and going over what I need to complete for the day.

Like many of you, I found myself waking up to the dreadful routines of student life we all inevitably fall victim too. This is why I decided to join two study abroad trips during the summer of 2015 to Italy, Greece, Turkey and Germany. Not only did it provide a long list of experiences and impressions that will never leave me, but it provided context to better understand my own culture and native surroundings. There is vast contrast between the two following accounts, but the lasting effects it had on how I viewed the things around me was both profound and surreal. Waking up in Madison, Wis.— What starts as a muffled, distant, background buzzing, quickly becomes a sharp, repeating ringing noise. I sluggishly open my eyelids, reach for my phone next to my bed and instinctively press the power button. Alas, it’s what I feared. It’s 7 a.m. and that’s not a fire alarm, but my wake up call. After whipping both my legs over the side of my bed, I rush over to my Keurig, slam the handle down onto my k-cup, push brew and jump into the

Allie Folino (Florence, Italy)

Like every other weekday, I pack the materials and books needed for class that day, sling my backpack over both shoulders and rush out the door twenty minutes prior to lecture. As I trot down the five flights of stairs and through the apartment entryway, I see a couple familiar faces to whom I greet with a generic half smile. As I burst through the front door and into the already busy sidewalk, I take an immediate right and follow the exact route to class as I do every other Wednesday. As I walk down State Street, I speedily walk past the still motionless bodies of sleeping homeless men, closed street shops and already buzzing cafes. I only hear the music playing in my earbuds, see what’s straight in front of me, faintly smell various breakfast aromas and feel nothing but the force of my heels connecting with the concrete below. Just as a lawyer walks through a courtroom, the environment is so

familiar, that getting to where I need to go becomes my only focus. I’m consciously unaware of my surroundings and I’m ok with that. Waking up in Greece— A sharp light pierces through the outside of my eyelids, jolting me awake after a short night’s rest. It’s too early for the sun’s rays to be very warm but paired with the cool breeze coming from the open casement window at the foot of my bed, it’s perfect. It takes me a few moments to realize, but after spotting my suitcase I remember that yes, it’s day two in Athens, Greece. I’m beyond enthusiastic for today’s adventure, and I don’t even remember what we’re doing yet.Taking advantage of waking up before my roommates, I quickly get ready for the day and walk downstairs where breakfast awaits. This is my first breakfast in Greece and just like the other European countries I’ve visited, it’s very much centered around bread and meat. Although I’ve never craved a ham and salami sandwich for breakfast in the United States, the deliciousness of their freshly baked crescent rolls and assorted chilled meats assured I would never question their meal tendencies again. I am the first one downstairs, so I spend the next hour drinking coffee and journaling until my classmates joined me. Around 9 a.m. our tour guide arrives, and we start walking towards the Acropolis. As we step out of our hotel we are greeted with all the noises and sights affiliated with being located on Syntagma Square, Athens parliament center. Having lived in a small town most of my life, I welcome the overwhelming of my senses. I

Anna Olla (London England)

inhale deeply as I walk by cafes in an effort to absorb as much of their enchanting smells as possible. The scents of freshly baked bread and steaming hot coffee linger for half a block after we pass. People are speaking in a language I don’t understand, so I look to body language. I start looking for non-verbal cues to what they could be conversing about. I feel like a cat whipping its head from left to right, trying to follow a laser, as I try to soak up everything around me. I’m in a constant state of alertness, as I attempt to simultaneously observe and analyze the foreign architecture and Greek mannerisms while still listening to our guide. Contradicting my usual walking speed, I shorten my stride and slow my pace in order to accommodate the overabundance of sounds, smells and sights.

Just as the sun was reaching its highest point, we completed the tiring march up the elevated jut of land on which the Acropolis sits. Neither the sweat or violent sun beating down on my face and neck could stop me from admiring the marvel before me. As I stared at this seemingly simple structure, our guide began to go into detail about its construction and history. Whether it was explaining how there isn’t a single straight line in the entire structure, illustrating how they were able to lift such heavy marble slabs with such primitive equipment, or how the British won’t return some of the most in tact

pieces, I couldn’t stop staring at it. Seeing one of mankind’s most impressive ancient engineering feats proved gratifying in every sense of the word. Later that day we had the opportunity to walk up Lycabettus Hill, a vantage point that gave us a 360 degree panoramic view of the city and coastline. Standing around 300 meters above it’s surroundings and covered in vegetation, Lycabettus hill was a green sore thumb amongst a sea of white buildings. When given the option to either walk or take a cable car up the hill, I chose to walk. This was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made, for I never could have known the spectacular views that laid ahead. The stone staircase would stretch left all the way across the hill, just to turn and go all the way right. The entire time only having a slight inclination, making the trip up much longer than expected. As we wound back and forth, each level provided a different view of what lay below. Although spectacular, all views would fall exponentially short of what awaited us atop the hill. Having the ability to spin around in a circle and be able to view Athens and all its coastal beauty is a site to behold. Each degree the sun dropped as it slowly descended toward the mountains, presented a new filter in which to view the city beneath. Before I knew it, the sun was set and another spectacle presented itself. Building by building the now dark structures slowly started to illuminate themselves, eventually resulting in the entire city being lit.

Standing atop this hill, a cool headwind present, and looking down on the lit city and the nearby coast left me in a state of mind I didn’t want to leave. Although physically relaxed, my mind was as busy as rush hour in Chicago. Similar to what I would imagine a meditative state, I stood for what must have been only 20 minutes, but my thoughts had covered hours of ground. It’s not until you experience different cultures, places, people and ideas that you can acquire true perspective on your own. This is an epiphany that I didn’t understand until I went through the transformation myself. In retrospect to before I started traveling, it’s like my senses and curiosity were numbed or at least contained to what I chose to open them too. I found that once I escaped that bubble called home, my senses were heightened, curiosity peaked and ideals challenged.

Stephanie Kluz (Prague, Czech Republic)

“...ONCE I ESCAPED THAT BUBBLE CALLED HOME, MY SENSES WERE HEIGHTENED, CURIOSITY PEAKED, AND IDEALS CHALLENGED.”

The best thing about it is that it happened naturally and without me even noticing. I found myself paying attention to particular smells, ingredients to dishes, types of architecture, vehicles, hand gestures, among other things that I had previously given little attention too. Then I imagined waking up every day and looking at everything with a critical eye, being intuitively interested in everything around me and asking the right questions. If something as simple as how fast or slow I walk to class can determine how deeply I understand my native culture, language and everything else pertaining, imagine the possibilities if that mindset could always be present. Now I try to hear anything within range, look at everything with a critical eye, smell deeply with appreciation and feel everything except the force of my heel connecting with the concrete below.

Returning my travels this past year, first on an exchange program in Copenhagen, then to Australia, people often ask me: “What was the most beautiful place you went?” “What was your favorite part about this city and that city?” “Did you do anything crazy?” I made wonderful memories during my times abroad. My travels were filled with the most incredible experiences, but I sometimes still have a hard time telling people about the special moments. One day, my friends and I watched the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy in our pajamas, and I can honestly say that was one of my favorite memories. But oftentimes you just can’t say that to people after living in a foreign country. I mean, let’s face it, that’s not what grandma (who gave you some serious cash for this trip), wants to hear. Marlowe Jacobsen (Copenhagen,

Denmark)

FINDING YOUR PEOPLE

AB RO AD

By Marlowe Jacobsen

Those same friends I made in Copenhagen ended up inviting me to their homes in Australia, where I spent the winter holiday. These are friends I now know I will have for life, and I thank the stars everyday for sending these incredible people to me. No matter how many miles there are between us or how many years pass, we will have these experiences for the rest of our lives.

So, of course, I answer with the classics: “Italy is so beautiful! You just have to go.” I rave about the romance in Paris, the nightlife in Barcelona and the culture in Berlin: And that’s all real. Those places are truly amazing (and you totally should go), but what I often don’t tell people is that those places were special not because I crossed off every single tourist attraction and posted the perfect sunsets on social media. They were special because of the people I shared them with.

“[THOSE PLACES] WERE SPECIAL BECAUSE OF THE PEOPLE I SHARED THEM WITH.” Not every experience will be alike, and I’m not claiming to have the ultimate travel handbook. After all, there are many different reasons people wander this incredible planet. However, if you find people who truly get you to your core, who have your same innate drive to discover the world and laugh/cry with you when a cockroach runs across your foot in a hostel, hang on to those people. They will make your experience not only beautiful and profound, but lasting. They say a person remembers emotions more than any sense you perceive. The beautiful scenes of a city will undoubtedly fade in your mind with time, but you will remember how you felt in those moments and the thrilling buzz of electricity that surrounded the friends you shared those moments with.

Marlowe Jacobsen (Copenhagen, Denmark)

different. When you take that dive into the unknown, that is when you truly allow yourself to grow. And in my case, it also led to very unexpected places.

So if I had one piece of advice for those going abroad; find your people. I encourage you to branch out from the circle of your home university and embrace what’s new and

Allie Folino (Manorola, Italy)

In the end, I promise you that it’s not the places you go, but the people you share the moments with. Dedicated to my Copenhagen Crew: “This isn’t the end, it’s just the beginning.”

Saskia Van Riessen (London, England)

When Your Heart is Scattered Across the World,

Home

is an Arbitrary Place By Katey Van Ort

was in high school the first time I thought about leaving home for good. Like really leaving home and coming back from time to time. The idea of being alone has always enchanted me. To start over somewhere new in place where I knew no one. Completely alone, with just me, my thoughts and new adventures. Unfortunately, my dad did not like the idea of me going to boarding school on the East Coast, so I stayed in Minnesota. But I always knew that I was meant for more than just one place, I just never knew where.

in my quiet spaces. Somehow my introverted dad and extroverted mother raised three extremely introverted kids, but I think it speaks to our intelligence. We love to explore and do things on our own. Fiercely independent.

College was my next chance to get away from everyone and everything that I knew. I ended up choosing Wisconsin. Wow, Katey, you made it four hours away from home. Congratulations, you’re awful at going far away. It turned out to be a good decision with my dad’s leukemia rearing its ugly head. Ten months later he was gone.

As London leaves its permanent stain on me, I live to embrace the familiarity of my past. By this, I mean my love for the outdoors. You can take the girl out of Minnesota but never the Minnesota out of the girl.

For a few months after his death, I did not mind being close to home because I knew that is where I needed to be. I needed to be somewhere familiar, but then the dull days turned into winter and I knew that I needed to get away. Now do not mistake this feeling of wanderlust for “winter blues” because I am a born and raised Minnesotan. The snow hardens you, but you learn to love it. I decided that I wanted to move to another country and be away from the United States, but the weather could not be terribly hot. At first I thought that I could just up and move away for a whole year, but course requirements deterred me from a whole year abroad. When I decided to come to London for the spring semester, I knew I made the best possible choice for me. Considering my very European ancestry, with a majority being from the United Kingdom, I became ready to embrace the crazy of London. I had a whole year to wrap my head around the idea of studying abroad in London. All the build up to London could not have prepared me for what London really has been. It’s the idea where anything is possible. Every idea is possible if you only work hard. The wind whispers a constant buzz into your ear at all times, pulsing through your veins. There is always something happening here in London, and it is always breathtaking. It forces you out of the comfortable bubble you’ve been confined to your whole life. It forces you to go out and look at the world with fresh eyes and a bleeding heart, to feel the stains of the past and to just be free. From street food vendors to daily markets to walking around SoHo, there is this constant excitement that beats on throughout the city. Regardless of the day, the people or the borough, London is strongly united as a bustling metropolis. I knew I would be okay being away from home, as I have always been fiercely independent. I am not ashamed to say that I love being alone. I’m a loner, and in this city, surrounded by millions of people, I thrive

I love Hampstead Heath. It’s a magical place in Northern London that fills me with such immense hope and love. If I could just live right next to the park, I would be so happy. You could find me running the trails or following the off-beaten, mud-slinging paths to new places. I feel like fairy-trodding along paths to places that I should not go but traverse nonetheless. Forging my way through the thick branches coated with moss and dew, breathing in the fresh air. There is no place else but here that I would rather be. I love the quiet moments outside my flat when the restaurant across the street closes for the night. I love the way that I fall in love with a stranger every day. I love this city that has become my home, my place. I have spent as much time as possible in London because I love this place. I came to Europe to travel, but I came to London to live. I want to know this city like I know the scars on my heart. I want to feel the drum beyond my days here. I want to be a part of its pulse. At the same time, I want to see the world. I want to be places I have never been. I want to explore the world, but I want to come home at the end of the day. Home is such an undefined word, too. What really makes up a home? My home is wherever I feel I need to be. My home is not Woodbury, Minn. anymore. A piece of my heart is in Woodbury, and pieces are in Madison, Wis. Some exist in New York City, and some are in Chicago. Most of my heart exists within the places and the people that I know. But right now, most of my heart exists right here in this drum of the city, and I feel as though I cannot leave it yet. I’m most afraid that when I do leave this city, I’ll never feel whole again. I cannot let that thought deter me because I am here now. I exist here, and I live here. I can worry about this later, or at least until I find another place where I am supposed to be—

SU N SE TS

A C RO SS

PREIKESTOLEN, NORWAY

EU RO PE

KYLER LYMAN

SEVILLE, SPAIN KAITLYN TIERNEY

BUDAPEST, HUNGARY STEPHANIE KLUZ

GRANADA, SPAIN SHEILA GRIFFIN

DON’T WANT TO TRAVEL THE WORLD By Katey Van Ort I thought that I wanted to travel the world, but I don’t. Let me explain. I love visiting places, but I always feel like my visit is superficial and not without good taste. I’m seeing the places that I visit from a tourist’s perspective. I’m seeing what someone deemed worth seeing in this foreign city, but it’s not the city. Every city has its own march, its own drum and its own secrets.

Visiting a city for a day is just one peel of the layer, with millions of layers underneath. It depresses me. It makes me crave my safehaven in London. Why? Because I know the city. I have been able to feel the deep pulses in its veins. I am able to delve into the city and get to know it. But at the same time, I still have so much to learn. So I’ve amended my “I want to travel the world” statement. I want to live in the world. I want to discover the world and feel the city from the true perspective of those who live there and not just on a superficial level. I want to live in London, and then I want to live in another city. I have traveled outside of my safe-haven dungeon of a room in Shoreditch to see the most of London, but there is still so much to see in London and in the world. I want to physically tear my heart into multiple pieces because I do not want to be stuck in Minnesota. I don’t want to regret not having not moved onto another place. I want to move to a new city and feel the pulse of the city, make new friends and create new memories.

I want to travel the world, but I don’t. I want to live in it. Live in different cities for months and figure out the each city. I visited Cardiff in Wales, and it was no London. I was bored, and I spent most of my time comparing the city to the city that I knew and loved. The city that was three hours away. Cardiff was easy to see and easy to know, but it was so much less than what I wanted it to be. Then I visited Copenhagen. It is so pretty there, and the streets all flow together and create an interesting feel for the city. I could have spent more time in Copenhagen to venture out farther than just the city and been able to understand and explore the area. It was gorgeous, but I was bored with how I didn’t know what I was doing. Part of this could have been fueled because someone stole my credit card (RIP U.S. Bank card), but also because of the language barrier. I visited Dublin, and it is fantastic. It’s a piece of the puzzle, but it’s not quite for me. Dublin is dirty and smelly, but historical and fast-paced. It has its moments, but it has its downfalls too. When we left Dublin and visited Galway, I wished that I had more time in Galway because of its feeling. The city gave off a very happy and interesting vibe. I think it could take a lot of time to get to understand and feel the city. My next trip will be somewhere else. I hope I find glimpses of the real city, as I travel through it like a tourist. As I pass through the cities and the people and the places, I hope that I can find a place for my heart to break, so I’ll have to come back to it. I want to find pieces of me in cities that I haven’t been too and people that I haven’t met yet because that means that there are people out there like me, just looking for the next place to go. I want to leave my heart in places, so I can rediscover it. I don’t really want to travel the world.

I want to live in it. Katey is one of our bloggers. To read more of her work, please visit souvenirsmadison.com.

Rose Lundy (Galway, Ireland)

ITALY THROUGH ITS OWN

Allie Folino (Venice, Italy)

By Scott Bembenek The email first blinked into my inbox while I was sitting in the Vilas basement writing up a news story, as I had spent more than plenty of nights that semester already. I breezed through it, and thought the idea sounded exciting. After all, how many people can say they volunteered in high schools while abroad? It was for the Italy Reads Program, run by John Cabot University each semester. Participating schools read a novel (the one for my quickly approaching semester in Rome was Ernest Hemingway’s “A Farewell to Arms”). Then, I’d just have to go with the other volunteers and run an in-class discussion about the book as a way for students to improve their English skills. Sounds simple enough, I thought. Seems like a cool way to put a unique twist on studying abroad. After consulting with some close friends and family, though, I was nearly talked out of it. While some people had the same train of thought as me, a lot of other people had a different perspective. “You’ll be busy enough during a semester abroad as it is. Why would you want to take up hours you could be using to explore volunteering?” After hearing that statement (or ones like it) enough times, I started to agree. Why use up my time that way? Although the idea still hid the back of my mind and made a nasty habit of creeping out over and over. The first time the itch really hit hard again was at the airport in Atlanta. I had just arrived from Milwaukee and was waiting for my flight to Rome when I saw the girl next to me reading none other than “A Farewell to Arms.” I thought about asking her about Italy Reads and if she was planning on doing it, but decided against it and put my headphones in to pass the time.

It was the second info session for us procrastinators who didn’t make it to the first, so the room was pretty empty. The head of the program came in after a bit and described Italy Reads to us and to be honest, a notion that started as no big deal got ever more intimidating as I thought about the details. How do I connect with these teachers? What about the kids? What are they like? How will I find the schools? How in the world do I talk to them about Hemingway for an hour? What if I get lost going there? In short, I was nearly scared out of it. That night, I resolved to just do it anyway. I hopped online, found the website for a local bookstore and picked up the book up the next day. And that’s the story of how I got started with Italy Reads. Oh yeah, I pretty much missed my first day. Yep, honestly. I woke up about ten minutes before the session was supposed to start, and, needless to say, just about had a panic attack. I kept trying to call the volunteer I was paired with, to no avail, and I got in touch with the head of the program to let her know I’d be late but was on my way. Did I mention there was a heavy downpour outside? Because there was. By some miracle, I got to the school without getting lost. It wasn’t too far from my apartment, so I was only about 15 minutes late or so. But now I couldn’t get in the school. What I thought was the main gate was locked, and I had no way in. Standing in the heavy rain shower, trying

Allie Folino (Rome, Italy)

desperately to coordinate a way in, I stood outside the main gate for the next 45 minutes without getting in. I felt absolutely horrible when I got back to JCU and sent emails profusely apologizing to the program head, my fellow volunteer and the professor whose class I was scheduled to meet. It wasn’t as bad as you might think though.The Italy Reads administrators forgave me, and my partner had actually completely forgotten we were scheduled that day. But I didn’t learn the best part until my next visit with the class. I got there, and in a fractured amalgamation of Italian and English said something like “Mi dispiace, couldn’t get in la scuola last time. I’m so sorry.” (To touch on an earlier point, I was standing at the wrong gate in the rain before, so I could’ve gotten in if I had walked half a block up the street). The professor’s response? “Oh. I thought you just didn’t come because of the rain. I didn’t expect you’d make it in that.” So the next couple visits came and went, but not quite as expected. We spent almost no time talking about Hemingway or the book. We just sat and talked. About Italy. About the U.S. and about what high school was like in each country. And how in the world I managed at a school with a student population of about 40,000 back home (let alone in all that snow!). These short hours taught me more about my host nation than I could ever have hoped to on my own. Not to mention the fact that those kids were brilliant. Many of them were multilingual and spoke English about as well as the average high schooler back home. Allie Folino (Florence, Italy)

That first class became my most visited and was, to be honest, a bit of a

favorite of mine. It was the only class I saw more than twice (it was more like five times), and I got to know those kids the best. Not to mention, after each class, the professor would send one student down to the school coffee bar with my partner and me to get us some cappucini. As anyone who knows me well will tell you, I been obsessed with cappuccinos ever since. The student who usually accompanied us was a nice young woman who, on top of Italian and English, was also fluent in French. There she’d usually talk about the day-to-day workings of the school and how some kids used to sneak a cigarette behind cars between classes before she had to speed back upstairs for her next lesson. This class was also the source of what’s become one of my most cherished memories. On about my third trip there, the other volunteer had beaten me by about ten minutes. He was spot on time, I was now used to “Italian Time” (alright, that’s part of it, but sometimes I was just running late again). But here’s the thing: the class refused to start without me. They were so used to me being there with the other volunteers that they made him wait for me (I visited that class more than just about anyone). Then, when I finally arrived, they all turned and excitedly shouted my name, ready to start another one of our too-short sessions together. They wanted me there just as much as I wanted to be there, and that honestly was one of my happiest moments in my entire 117 days in Rome. There were other schools I went to besides that first gated, concrete Vilas Hall-esque fortress in Trastevere. One was no more than a few city blocks away from the Colosseum. I’m not kidding when I say you can see it from the front steps of the school. The first time there, we broke the class up into small groups and mine wanted to learn about how the United States government worked. Unsure where to start, I stammered through what I know. They then tried to explain the Italian government to me, which was about as confusing to me as I imagine my explanation of the U.S. government was to them. The next time, my group was four boys, all about 17, and we had the obligatory Messi vs. Ronaldo debate. It was a bit one-sided as all but one of the kids in my group agreed Messi is the best. They then quizzed me on AS Roma, and were nothing short of amazed when I said not only did I know, but had been to the recent AS Roma v. Juventus match. Then they asked who my favorite NBA team is, and I was equally astounded to learn that not only were they aware of the Milwaukee Bucks, but could name one of their players (Giannis is a bit of a worldwide star, I suppose). A bit of a stereotypical conversation I admit, but one that was a lot of fun nonetheless. Some classes did want a bit more of a structured experience, though. There was one class near the Castel Sant’Angelo, where

after getting there by asking some people around where the room was (in Italian! No small feat, I assure you.) They then expected me to give a full-blown lecture about Hemingway and his life and works. These kids knew the book better than I did, but it was still a fun and productive class. I was still particularly proud because I had to do this by myself, as I was left partnerless for this round. One of the more eye-opening experiences came in my secondto-last class visit. Here, we were asked to talk to the class about American views of World War II. So, I skimmed their history book and made sure I had my facts right. Then, one student asked me what Americans think about the use of the atomic bombs in Japan. I, frankly, was left fumbling for an answer, and just gave my perspective on it and its gravity, but it was a far cry from other conversations I’d had to that point in my visits. It all ended were it began: at the school where I had once stood in front of at the wrong gate in the pouring rain. It was much more relaxed than any of my past visits. We had talked “A Farewell to Arms” to death, and we just sat and talked about what they wanted to do in the future, what I wanted to do when I got home (only about two weeks away, now) and who some of our favorite guitarists were. It was an easy afternoon chat, and that was that. I was done, with nothing more to come than a certificate ceremony honoring successful volunteers at an endof-the-year event for John Cabot. To say choosing to be a part of Italy Reads was one of the best and most impactful choices I made in my semester in Rome wouldn’t be entirely correct. In fact, it’s a vast understatement. It was one of the best decisions I’ve made, period. It gave me a glimpse of Italy (and the U.S.) through its youth, one I wouldn’t have dreamed of having otherwise, and it taught me more about connecting with other people. It showed me how to experience your own home through perspectives you couldn’t get in a classroom or over the occasional weekend trip. What did I really learn in the process of helping these kids wade through Hemingway? Reach out. To everyone, look through their eyes, walk in their shoes and most importantly, listen. It will give you more than you could ever imagine, I promise.

“...LOOK THROUGH THEIR EYES, WALK IN THEIR SHOES, AND MOST IMPORTANTLY,

LISTEN.”

By Christopher Morgan

An off the beaten path guide to the Emerald Isle

Projection: Transverse Mercator (IRENET95) Central Meridian: 9°W Data Source: Natural Earth, Noun Project, Lonely Planet Cartographer: Christopher Morgan

3 2 2

Donegal

4. Giant’s Causeway 5. Copper Coast

Omagh

6 2

Monaghan

Dundalk

Capitals 1. Northern Ireland 2. Republic of Ireland Holy Sites 1. St. Colman’s Cathedral 2. Rock of Cashel 3. Clonmacnoise 4. Skellig Michael 5. Glendalough

To D

Drogheda

Roscommon 5

Galway

4 1

1 4

Shannon

Limerick

4. Dublin 5. Rosslare 6. Cork

Kilkenny

2 7 3

Waterford

Tralee

Cork

,F u rg

Killarney

To Fishguard, WAL

o erb Ch To

1 To R

osc off, FR

Land Cover A

Forest Cropland Grassland Bogland Urban

0 0

25 25

50 50

Railroad Motorways Lake River City Large City Historical Province Boundary Ferry Route

100 Miles 100 Kilometers Near its namesake city, Killarney National Park offers beautiful lakes, mountains, a castle, and multiple species of deer. You can also go for a carriage ride if you’re so inclined.

Keane’s Pub is a home away from home tucked in the Maumturks. Warm up by the peat fires after a hike in the mountains and enjoy a pint and a ‘toastie’(a grilled ham & cheese sandwich).

To Liverpool, ENG

Airports 1. BFS 3. ORK 2. DUB 4. SNN

IOM las, oug

ds Islan To Ara n

Dublin

Premium Pubs 1. Stag’s Head 2. The Franciscan Well 3. The Laurels 4. Tig Coili 5. Keane’s 6. Tricky's McGarrigle's 7. Kyteler's Inn 8. Peadar O'Donnell’s

G l, EN

Neolithic Sites 1. Inishmurray 2. Carrowmore 3. Newgrange 4. Dun Aengus

To D

Dungannon

Sligo

Belfast

CT an, S rnry Cai To

o erpo / Liv

Castles 1. Doe 5. Kylemore Abbey 2. Blarney 6. Ashford 3. Cahir 7. Kilkenny 4. Bunratty

Ferries 1. Rossaveal 2. Larne 3. Belfast

s, IO M gla ou

Sightseeing 1. Cliffs of Moher 2. Slieve League 3. Horn Head

Derry

T SC

Parks & Areas of Outstanding Natural Beauty 1. Glenveagh 6. Killarney 2. Sperrin 7. The Burren 3. Causeway & 8. Connemara Antrim Coast 9. Ballycroy 4. Mourne 10. Pheonix 5. Wicklow Mtns. 11. Lough Key Forest

Tr oo n,

Often overshadowed by the Cliffs of Moher to the south, Slieve League is tucked away in Donegal and boasts cliffs almost three times taller than its neighbours in County Clare.

Cobh, just outside of Cork City, is known for St. Colman’s Cathedral and it’s brightly colored cottages built on the hill. Cobh was also famously the final port of call for the RMS Titanic.

Lauren Sklba (Lauterbrunnen, Switzerland

ON WHITENESS & CULTURAL CAPITAL...32 Lydia Odegard THE TRANSFORMATION EXPECTATION...38 Anna Miller

Timothy Pyzyk (Copland Track, New Zealand)

WHITENESS

C U L T U R A L

C A P I T A L

Jessica Schmidt (Cambodia)

By Lydia Odegard

n each public space I entered in India, I did everything I could to go unnoticed. No matter how hard I tried to blend into the crowds by wearing a tailored salwar-kameez (Indian women’s clothes), my blonde hair revealed me unmistakably foreign, eliciting frequent blatant stares and occasional discomforting cat calls. I dreamed that the hundreds of hours spent studying Hindi would pay off and convince rickshaw drivers that I was actually Indian (so I could pay the Indian rate), but the pasty skin my northern European ancestors bestowed upon me would never let me pass as a native. My acute awareness of being a foreigner in every public space left me selfconscious and, at the end of the day, wanting to escape my whiteness. I wanted to escape being a spectacle, a display worthy of scrutiny, and to “pass” as Indian. I believed this would free me from the stares and grant me implicit and explicit invitations into circles and experiences my whiteness barred me from entering.

It’s hard being white here, no? I admittedly caught myself thinking. This must be how people of color in the U.S. feel, I thought. A second analysis of those naïve moments of perceived “understanding” revealed the extreme position of privilege I embody, both in the context of the U.S. and in the context of India. Of course, there is no way I could ever claim to know what it is like to be a person of color living in the U.S. Even though I was part of the ethnic minority in India, the attention I received because of it was more often than not based in curiosity rather than prejudice. Shopkeepers frequently started conversations with me about my country and my culture, and I typically didn’t leave interactions with locals feeling threatened by them. Despite the discomfort I experienced

being a minority in India, I knew that it was temporary and escapable in many other situations and places. My identity as a white woman adds an element of gender; I felt threatened by cat calls, immature men blatantly taking photos of me without my consent and sometimes conversations with men that turned unsettling partway through. But despite the subordination I sometimes experienced as a woman, I also became hyper-aware of the power my skin color reflected and granted me.

Nithin Charlly (Jaipur, India)

My presence as a white body is a reminder of the power that white people in affluent countries exert over the Global South politically, economically, culturally and socially. I would often overhear conversations in “Hinglish,” speakers indexing their class status as proportionate to the amount of English they incorporated into their discourse. Face “whitening” creams reminded me of the wish many Indians have to be fair-skinned, which would allow them to be perceived as more attractive and desirable in their culture, a pressure particularly exerted upon women. Jeans and shirts are gradually replacing traditional clothing styles, the former often considered more “stylish” and the latter more “old-fashioned.” These markers of Global Northern cultures indicate those who have the resources to embrace them as upper-class, while those who stick to traditional ways of life are often members of the lower-class. While I found myself vainly wishing I could look more “like an Indian” in order to blend in, many Indians strive to mimic aspects of cultures of the Global North that have asserted dominance over their nation for centuries—and understandably, as doing so elevates their position on the socioeconomic ladder.

“[I] became hyper-aware of the power my skin color reflected and granted me.”

My presence as a white body, born and raised in the U.S., and living in India is a stark reminder of the privileges that allowed me to be there in the first place. I was lucky to be born into a middle class family and fortunate to have the resources to attend college and study abroad. The Hindi that I flaunted in conversations with locals signifies that I had access to the educational resources that allowed me to become proficient in another language. My ability to speak Hindi granted me an added privilege as well; I used it to my advantage, bargaining my way to discounts and stopping street harassers in their tracks by directing harsh retorts in Hindi toward them. In these ways and more, I benefitted from the very structures of social, economic and educational inequality that allowed me to travel to and navigate India in the first place.

Nithin Charlly (Delhi, India)

I can’t, and shouldn’t want to, change the color of my skin to alleviate the feelings of discomfort I experienced in India; the very wish to do so undermines the struggles that people of color endure worldwide. So yes, it was humbling to experience moments of uneasiness when I was the only white person on the streets. But it was even more humbling to realize that I can’t compare that discomfort to the historical and contemporary burdens of racism, economic inequality and cultural capitalism that have impacted people of color globally.

CAMB

ODIA

Jessica Schmidt

YANGTZE RIVER, CHINA Liu Sitong

THE

Transformation EXPECTATION By Anna Miller

I assumed that if I went abroad an apple, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d come back an orange, dissatisfied with anything less than a flat white and driving on the left side of the road.

Jessica Schmidt (Cambodia)

took off for New Zealand expecting to come back a different person (and to meet Peter Jackson, if I was lucky enough.) Everyone talks about study abroad as a grand, life-changing experience, so I assumed that if I went abroad an apple, I’d come back an orange, dissatisfied with anything less than a flat white and driving on the left side of the road. Indeed, I fell so in love with New Zealand that I avoided homesickness for the whole semester. But because of the transformation expectation, I became nervous when I got too excited over anything Wisconsin-related. I never thought I cared much for Madison until I saw another student wearing a Badger shirt, or found a restaurant in Queenstown called “Fat Badgers” or chatted with a bus driver in Waitomo who had been to the dairy state. I felt pride in wearing my Packers shirt to the bars in Wellington, and I was thrilled when a man passed us on a hike on the Tongariro Pass and, upon seeing my Green Bay sweatshirt, cheered enthusiastically for the team 8,000 miles away. I was even lucky enough to visit with my cousin who was touring with his band and

happened to play a set in Auckland. I couldn’t help this excitement and yet it felt wrong. After all, I was abroad! I thought that I shouldn’t be dwelling on where I came from but where I was and finding all those life-changing experiences. But that’s the thing with studying abroad. You don’t fundamentally change. You don’t escape who you’ve been for 20 years, or the experiences you’ve carried with you. You don’t come back an orange. What happens instead, amongst all the new perspectives you gain and new customs you adapt to, is that you connect with yourself in ways that are just not possible if you restrict yourself to one context and one set of experiences. New Zealand was my new context to connect with, and even though I didn’t achieve the grand transformation I was expecting, I came back with two places I could call home and yet still feeling more grounded than before. To me, that’s what the experience was. To liberate myself from a single context, and to ground myself in who I am, rather than just where my feet happen to fall.

o liberate myself from a single context, and to ground myself in who I am, rather than just where my feet happen to fall.

Go. Serve. Learn.

Who we are: Wisconsin Union Directorateâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Alternative Breaks Committee is a group of University of Wisconsin-Madison students that is dedicated to planning service-learning trips for winter and spring breaks.

What we do: We provide as many UW-Madison students as possible the opportunity to make a difference for a community in need somewhere in the United States. Since 1990, we have sent over 4,500 Badgers across the country on our volunteer trips.

For more information: Website: http://www.union.wisc.edu/wud/altbreaks-info.htm Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/WUDAltBreaks Twitter: @WUDAltBreaks

Join WUD Alt Breaks during the 2016-2017 school year!

Karina Barretto (San Francisco, California)

THE ALASKAN WILDERNESS...44 Rose Lundy MY FERNWEH...49 Heather McCarty

“THE REALIZATION THAT HUMANS CAN NEVER REALLY CONQUER NATURE SEEPED INTO MY BONES.” 44

the American Midwest is home to subtle beauty, Alaska boasts overwhelming natural landforms—the water is bluer, the sky clearer and the terrain rougher. As a Minnesotan city-girl, that kind of dramatic scenery has never been a part of my life, so it came as a shock to spend a summer in Alaska, constantly surrounded by mountains. During my 10 weeks as an intern at Wrangell-St. Elias National Park, I woke up in the shadow of Mount St. Elias, cleared hiking trails on Skookum Mountain and drove through the Richardson Highway mountain range to Valdez. Living in a one-stop-sign town nestled in dramatic landscapes, it was impossible to ignore my own insignificance. Nothing is more humbling than attempting to conquer the wilderness. My last weekend in Alaska, I climbed Gunsight Mountain with Tessa, a fellow intern. The 9,000foot mountain is named for the dipped notch in the peak that resembles a rifle. Gunsight is a couple hours out from the National Park Headquarters in Copper Center, so Tessa and I borrowed a Park Ranger’s car and left as early in the morning as we could manage. We drove for two hours toward Anchorage and pulled into an empty parking lot as the hazy dawn began to lift. There was no need for ceremony, so Tessa and I put on our packs, shrugged at each other and started toward the mountain.

IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE TO IGNORE MY OWN INSIGNIFICANCE. It is important to note that rules don’t apply in Alaska. As the last remnant of frontier life, Alaskan hikers have free reign on public land: no trails and no markings. In Wrangell-St. Elias, it is common to drop hikers off deep in the mountains and wait for them to hike their way out again. This independence and self-sufficiency is foreign yet freeing for a city-dweller. After wandering around the base of Gunsight in search of the best way up, Tessa and I eventually settled on a thin, twisting animal path to follow. Hours drifted by as the terrain rolled from sparse and rocky to overgrown and ragged. Shoulder-high shrubs pulled at our backpacks as we shoved our way through tiny openings in the branches. The dull gray skies had kept the morning cool, but by midday the sun had melted through the gloom, and I began to peel off layers of clothing.

THE ALASKAN

WILDER NESS By Rose Lundy

Even as we stumbled on through mud and thistles, the peak of Gunsight never felt any closer. Mountains stretched in every direction, piercing the sky and blocking the horizon. Just as our cause began to feel hopeless, the overgrowth fell away, first to soft, grassy inclines and then suddenly into steep rocky cliffs. Soon after, I was scrambling on my hands and knees upwards as rocks scattered with every movement. The clouds had finally dissipated, and sun glinted off the rocky cliffs as wind whipped around the mountain. Tessa and I finally pulled ourselves up to the peak, wobbling on the thin ledge.

Mountains stretched in every direction, piercing the sky and blocking the horizon.

And yet, after hours of effort, I was struck by how mediocre the view was. The other mountains felt just as tall, just as far away and just as intimidating as they had when I stood at the base of Gunsight. What we thought was the “peak” stretched out before us, eventually connecting to another peak of a different mountaintop. I realized, swiftly and achingly, that I could hike forever and never truly feel like I had reached the summit. I stood on that mountain ledge as the realization that humans can never really conquer nature seeped into my bones, and for a moment I felt incredibly small. But then I came to an even more important realization: we don’t hike mountains or travel to distant places in order to conquer them. We seek adventure for adventure’s sake. To learn something new, to meet someone different, to see the world in a different way. I did not conquer Gunsight Mountain. Instead, I caught a glimpse of myself and who I am in the face of the rough Alaskan terrain.

45 Rose Lundy (Gunsight Mountain, Alaska)

Kerbi Cavanor (Flagstaff, Arizona)

Kerbi Cavanor (Phoenix, Arizona)

WHEN YOU TAKE

THAT DIVE INTO THE UNKNOWN, THAT IS WHEN YOU TRULY ALLOW YOURSELF TO GROW. – Marlowe Jacobsen

Kerbi Cavanor (Scottsdale, Arizona)

Karina Barretto (The Muir Woods, California)

â&#x20AC;Śgo out and look at the world with fresh eyes and a bleeding heart to feel the stains of the past, and

JUST BE FREE.

â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Katey Van Ort

Kerbi Cavanor (Minneapolis, Minnesota)

My Fernweh

By Heather McCarty

F ernweh. A homesickness for places I’ve never been. For as long as I can remember, I have had a burning

passion to travel. Family vacations still excite me to this day. Breathing in the fresh San Francisco air in three weeks is the only thing getting me through this finals week. Seeing new places, hearing new sounds, and meeting new people all give me a sense of pure happiness. I am so grateful to my parents for providing me with a wealth of world experience. But I long for so much more. There are so many ways of life in this big, wide world. My hope is that as I grow older, I can come to appreciate and better understand the lifestyles around me. When I travel to new places, the Earth and all its beauty always astound me. Sure, driving through Illinois for four straight hours is an experience that few may call beautiful. But it is this familiar road that leads me to some place magnificent. Biking through the Smoky Mountains. Walking down Times Square during the middle of rush hour. Marching in the Outback Bowl. Rebuilding homes in New Orleans. Cheering on the Badgers in Dallas, Texas. Watching Niagara Falls flow endlessly. Enjoying my first crawfish boil on the southern banks of the Mississippi. These are the moments that have changed my life for the better. I become speechless as I take in the surrounding land and admire the beauty that emerges. It is overwhelming to think about how many places exist in the world. I have a deep desire to see it all. As Susan Sontag puts it, “I haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list.” Every city, every village, every community before it’s too late. This is the fuel to my fernweh.

These are the moments that have changed my life for the better. 49

RESILIENT...52 Bailey Jaworski THE IN-BETWEEN...56 Jessie Wright

Megan R. M. Medonca (Panama)

RESILIENT I didn’t think I was going to make it. A hopeless feeling set in as I stared at the wall of muddy terrain that lay before me. Beads of sweat dripped down my face as I struggled to adjust my breathing in the high altitude. The heat and humidity of the dense rainforest clung to my body in an eternal embrace. My tennis shoes were caked in mud, and my muscles quivered at the thought of taking one more step. As tears swelled in my eyes, I entertained the thought of defeat and turning back. I looked down, I looked up. I didn’t know what remained of what felt like an infinite hike to the peak of Cerro Chato. What was supposed to be an enjoyable afternoon hike quickly turned into one of the most difficult physical and mental challenges I’ve ever faced. I continued to gaze at the muddy wall of terrain. It was oddly poetic the way the tree roots danced across the slope of the volcano creating steps for the brave adventurer to climb. The ambiguous chatter of the wildlife transformed into a chorus of encouragement opposing the negative thoughts that echoed inside my head. I paused, made a decision to push through and took one step. One step turned into two steps, two steps turned into three and with an exasperated grimace on my face, I broke through the barrier to the peak of Cerro Chato one hour later. A cool breeze welcomed me as I gazed around the tropical oasis that had been waiting for me. The lush greenery contrasted against the reflection of the sky on the crater lake below. I let out a deep sigh and released every negative voice in my head telling me I wasn’t going to make it. In that moment I knew: If I could conquer Cerro Chato, I could conquer anything.

ile

aw ors

CO Ba

ile

ors

RI ki

I HAVE A DEEP DESIRE TO

See it all.

– Heather McCarty

MEXICO Mia Gambucci

PuraVida 55

PI amiledmetintoagain a red, battered automobile just outside the airport, with the intoxicating air that keeps me coming back to Cuba. Salty warmth, the smell of fried fruit and fat, the low rumble of music and the whiff of a different world, captured and blossoming.

I spend a week in Havana before going to Matanzas, my home for the summer. It is a week spent laying in the thick heat of a church attic. A week of writing stilted, halting poetry in Spanish, a week of fried plantains and rice with the church’s housekeeper, Daisy. She chatters about her favorite telenovella characters. I make sure I’m sitting on her couch with the lace throw blanket every night at 9 p.m. to eagerly watch their dramas unfold with her. There is a particularly gruesome night where our favorite character is killed by a member of her own rogue acting troupe. Daisy’s eyes shine with girlish excitement, and she pours me another cup of café con leche. The week is like the inhalation of a breath. Like a midwife, Daisy gently ushers me into my first Cuban days and nights, wiping me clean of the pace back home and settling me into the warmth and pulse of the island. On Monday, I load back up into the familiar red car and head toward Matanzas. I’m to work at the university seminary there, specifically in the library, sorting books and translating newsletters. The man driving is a new friend—bald and chatty—named Joe. “Like Joe DiMaggio,” he jokes. He proudly tells me about his children and teaches me the word for lightning as a storm rolls in around us. The smells of the ocean and gasoline slip by me through the car’s rusted windows as we putter east.

THE IN–

I walk to a group of men painting each of the campus buildings. Their skin tanned brown from the sun, wearing tattered baseball caps. They quietly focus together, moving in synchronized movements, brushing top to bottom, corner to center. I stumble through the Spanish to offer my help. They graciously assure me I don’t need to be working in the hot sun. I finally beg for a brush, the key to feeling like I should be here. We paint all morning and afternoon. The dormitory building first, squishing rust-red color into the crevices of the bumpy stucco. Then, hours of window trim and door frames, following the long drips of paint with our brushes into straight edges kissing the cement. I become an arm of the synchronized team, reaching the tall parts on my tip-toes, prompting smiles and friendly warmth between my new group. We stop for lunch, and when we turn back to our brushes, they have turned sludgy in the sun.

B E T W E E N

The day has a hazy rhythm to it. I count the seconds by the sound of brush strokes. The smell of paint mingles with the smell of our sweat. Ten words are said between us the entire day, but at the end of the last wall, we know one another. We sip guava juice together as the paint dries, the pink pulp clinging to the space between my two front teeth. The summer becomes a living meditation. I help when I can, but I slowly accept that my job here is simply to live, to be aware of the breath in my lungs and the blood beneath my skin. I spend my afternoons writing in the gazebo overlooking the ocean and my nights listening to summer rains against my wooden window shades. Some days, the most I accomplish is to chase the little green frog who lives in my toilet out of the doorway or to bring pitchers or water to the neighborhood kids who gather to play soccer during the day.

I awaken my first morning in the seminary in a small dormitory room with two goats grazing in the grass beside it. I walk towards the library building, with first-day nervousness pooling in my palms. The next The blustery afterglow of a midday By Jessie Wright minute or so dismantles the plans for my rainstorm one afternoon brings me outside summer quite quickly. The library is closed to sit on a concrete slab overlooking until the fall, and the woman I find inside the city. I let my thoughts wander in the assures me they are not in need of any help humidity as a slight little man walks up until then. Somewhere the reason for my and gestures to ask if he may join me. I stay at the seminary was lost in translation, and I walk back out have seen him around the grounds before, and he surprises me into the sunshine, lost. when he introduces himself in English. With the summer stretching before me, and the library unexpectedly closed, I feel as though I must find a way to justify my presence in this beautiful place. The groundskeepers and live-in professors are the only people here, and they move about maintaining and preparing the buildings and grounds for the school year to come. All around me people are at work— wheeling wheelbarrows, mopping floors. I sit in a gazebo screwing up the courage to ask if I can help.

This is the first time I meet Manuel. We talk for close to two hours under the clouds and fresh breezes that give us brief respite from the sun. He talks in English, I reply in Spanish. “We both need to practice,” he says.

...THE WHIFF OF A DIFFERENT WORLD,

It is the picture of young love in old bodies, and I can’t think of a time where I’ve felt more content.

Bailey Jaworski (Costa Rica)

He tells me stories of growing up with eight brothers. His eyes look far away when he recalls his lonely times as the singular seminary student here during Castro’s stringently atheistic 1960’s. I learn of the history of the train that went between the sugar mills of our Matanzas and the Havana I had left weeks earlier. He and his wife have been living on the grounds of the seminary for decades, and Manuel invites me for dinner— breakfast or lunch for that matter—any day I feel like some company. I join them for dinner the very next night. Ducking under crisscrossed laundry lines, I enter the tiny bungalow tucked behind the library building. Manuel’s wife, Alicia, immediately leaves the stove where something delicious is simmering and wraps me in a motherly hug. Manuel turns on the radio, and an old, familiar jazz song comes scratching forth. He turns Alicia away from the stove once more, and they slowly dance around the kitchen. It is the picture of young love in old bodies, and I can’t think of a time where I’ve felt more content. After dinner, I join them on the couch, where we sip café con leche and watch the television series of “Les Miserables” in Spanish. I tell Alicia of the telenovellas with Daisy, and she laughs in excitement when she realizes we have the same favorite characters as she does. Manuel and Alicia become my mother and father, my coffee companions and one of many oases of friendship during my days of introspective solitude. I develop a morning routine. After coffee with Manuel and Alicia, I walk the seminary’s labyrinth. Covered in red petals from the Flamboyanes trees stretched above it, the labyrinth

CAPTURED AND BLOSSOMING.

looks as though it sprung out from the soil, a natural crop circle stamped into the earth. The days are quiet. Someone pulls weeds from the garden on the hill beside me as I walk the pathway inwards and outwards, never sure of where I am in the circle until I find myself outside of it again. I wander to the gate house, where the groundskeepers gather around a tiny television set playing the World Cup soccer matches in grainy black and white. They always make room in the huddle for me, and when one of my fellow painters catches my eye, we smile at one another. I wake up one morning to the sounds of activity and new voices in my sleepy, summertime seminary. I wander out into the hazy sunlight and see dozens of women, young and old, milling about, kissing each other’s cheeks. Husky Spanish and light laughter wash over the now-dried paint on the walls of the meeting hall. The seminary is holding a daylong women’s retreat, and from the looks of the syllabus eagerly put into my hands, I am invited. We pull up our chairs around a pull-down screen displaying the words “Envejecimiento y Sexualidad.” With the ceiling fans heaving and the screen doors flung wide to let in the breeze, I am swept up for the next several hours in the stories and playful teasing of forty Cuban women. We talk about living in a culture where machismo pervades much of the male-female dynamic, yet how much strength and power a Cuban woman maintains in her household. A woman with a lavender blouse loosely hanging over her sagging breasts gives a gut-achingly funny account of keeping the “fire alive” in a marriage. A younger woman with light mocha skin asks how to feel beautiful as you feel your body aging and changing around you. When one of the men from the cafeteria comes in with a tray of strong coffee and tiny cups, he gets a good-natured ribbing from all of us as the unwitting representative of all the men we’ve ever met.

We finish the day by walking outside, a storm trembling above us. The back of our thighs speckled from the cane mesh of our chairs, we join hands in a circle. We thank the swollen air, the sky above us, the God of somewhere and everything and each other for the gift of being women. I hold a crepey, boney hand in my left, and the smooth, firm fingers of a young university professor in my right. The first drops of rain fall as I look around the circle. I feel housed in my body yet connected by some imperceptible energy to the women around me. My edges blur, and I feel my deepest corners stir and acknowledge the beautiful pieces of me that live within the women standing together on the petal-laden ground. The group disperses, and the women leave in the battered cars and old school bus they arrived in. My seminary is quiet again, but my heart repeats the words from the day with every beat, sounding a lullaby that sings until I drift to sleep. I leave the seminary with my borders pushed farther than when I arrived. I am a painter, a daughter, a teacher, a woman, a walker of labyrinths. In the sleepy in-between life of summer, I have become more. In the cracks of bold friendship that exist between a resolute division between my home and Cuba, I have become part of a new family. In the pauses between words, the hesitations of clumsy translations, I hear, or rather, feel, a resounding message. Life is lived in the in-between. In the changes, and the fear of the new, in the cups of coffee with strangers and the loss of the familiar. Youth on one side and age on the other, I am enveloped by the fullness of life.

I haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list. – Susan Sontag

Allie Folino (Florence, Italy)