UI Girls Gone Wild… Abroad
Lauren & Brittney do Europe

Archive for May, 2010

Fin.

Tuesday, May 18th, 2010

Incoherent at 3 a.m. before flying home seemed like a cheap way to end a full semester of overseas blogging. I’m home now — not home really, but in Iowa — and thought I’d spend a minute or 60 writing here to tie up all my loose ends.

I didn’t sleep before my flight. Instead I said tearful goodbyes and started strategically packing at the last minute to ensure my jar of knockoff Nutella wouldn’t explode all over my jeggings. I took a cab to the airport with another girl from my program, and the cabdriver probably contemplated speeding into a brick wall as two American girls wept and sniffled while passing each cervecería, each bridge and plaza for the last time til who-knows-when. After that I completely stopped crying, because my face hurt and I was too sleep deprived to have feelings. Oh, and a thought: Why do girls my age get so dolled up to sit on an airplane for 10 hours? I was a real coyote ugly when I rolled into the airport at 5 a.m. Friday, makeup-free with my worst-fitting pair of jeans, an over-sized Sevilla FC T-shirt and beat-up black combat boots. I looked like a meth dealer; everyone else in line for the Iberia check-in was on their way to the Golden Globes.

Being home didn’t feel strange. Everything was the way it was when I left, minus the snow and the ice and the misery of winter. I didn’t forget how to drive (although I had a nightmare that I did). I got my new driver’s license, I ran a marathon of errands, I saw my aunt and uncle, saw one of my best friends, went to my little brother’s prom photos and moved to Iowa. Perhaps I’ve been so busy that there hasn’t been enough time for my new reality (or my return to this reality) to sink in, because now it’s starting to feel weird. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little more melancholy than I am excited to be back on this side of the Atlantic. After four months I was finally starting to feel at home in Sevilla. My biggest (and perhaps only) regret is that I didn’t study abroad for a full year.

I don’t want to spit up the same recycled study-abroad-experience dribble that everyone has heard from That Annoying Friend Who Went to Europe. I don’t think that Europe, or Spain, is superior to the U.S.; nor do I think that my own country is superior to Spain. I just know that if I hadn’t broken my Midwestern bubble and gone overseas, I would be short not only the new sights and travels, but the opportunity to completely reevaluate my perspectives and myself. Not everyone I studied with agrees with me — some people liked their semester in Sevilla, but aren’t so in love with it, or so affected by it, in the same ways I was. Before I came abroad I was suffocating in my own mental routine, obsessing over the same petty concerns and insecurities, and getting out of here and seeing the world shook me up precisely when I needed a hard slap across the face. And I think I’m better for it.

I know that I could write another 2,000 words without ever being able to form an adequate summary of what the past four months mean to me. I suppose I’ll save myself the certain disappointment by skipping that summary altogether. I miss Sevilla madly, along with all the people I befriended there. This isn’t some kind of knee-jerk sadness caused by being taken out of one environment and plopped into another. Of course I’ll slip out of my mopey state, because this is my life now — at least until December, I’m living in Iowa. I’m already two days deep into summer school, slowly piecing together my new bedroom, reconnecting with old friends and being distracted by the daily-life crap I haven’t thought much about since December (grocery shopping, cars that leak antifreeze, buying a bed, pending job interviews). But I also know that one day returning to Sevilla isn’t so much a desire, but a necessity. I’m a debilitatingly (not a word, not sorry) indecisive person, but I can guarantee you that my return to Spain is a statement, not a question.

And thanks again to our legion of followers who actually kept up with our (or just my) narcissistic nonsense. The five of you have been great. I contemplated starting a blog of my own, since I’ll miss this little son-of-a-bitch now that the semester’s done, but then I realized that if Brittney and I have a combined legion of five people, a Lauren-only blog would maybe have 2.5, assuming the Brittney-Lauren legion distribution is equal. So don’t worry about it, you’ll never hear from me again after this. LOL JK except for when I continue to write incessantly for anywhere that wants me (or doesn’t want me) until I finally snag the writing career I’ve been dreaming of since age five (the same career that I’ve been depending on since age 18, when I made the ill-advised decision to become a journalism major). Yep, I’m not going anywhere. Besides Sevilla, as soon as I determine my way back.

Besos, kisses, and lots of other flagrant displays of affection,

Lauren

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Huh.

Thursday, May 13th, 2010

Taxi to the airport arrives in one hour. Local time: 3:49 a.m. I woke up this morning: 9 a.m. I went to sleep last night: I don’t know a.m. Three a.m.? Late a.m. Time until my 10-hour flight to Chicago departs: eight hours. Amount of time I must carry on awake, functional, mostly living: eight hours. Amount of time I’m capable of carrying on this way: maybe 20 minutes. It’s going to be a long, long long journey home.

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Snapping out of denial

Wednesday, May 12th, 2010

Today I made it until 12:45 p.m. before choking back sobs on my walk to class, which means nothing, because I groggily rolled out of bed at 11. I would like to formally say “Fuck you” to my program for specifically scheduling finals for our last two days in Sevilla. They have a strict policy about changing test times, and when I asked to move one of my Thursday finals to today, I was told no, because my schedule wasn’t shitty enough. Then I said, “Listen, I’m going to be an emotional disaster on Thursday and I have no business taking two final exams,” and they responded, “Sucks to be you!” (in so many words, in Spanish) before showing me the door.

I could go on in agonizing detail about my horrific sleep schedule, the way I’ve been abusing my body between coffee and sleep aids while trying to simultaneously study, pack and not cry every time I realize it’s the last time I’ll be doing/seeing/speaking with X, Y or Z. But we’ll leave it at that. People read this, in theory, and perhaps the more maudlin details are best saved to wallow over on my own.

I’m not ready to leave Sevilla, and it feels like I’m being yanked from this place far too early. The taxi to the airport comes at 4:45 a.m. on Friday. By late Friday afternoon Central time, I will (hopefully) land (on time) at ORD in Chicago. By Sunday afternoon, I’ll be moved into my Iowa City apartment. The proximity of all this activity has forced me to snap out of denial, and apparently all I’m missing now are the proper coping mechanisms to accept it.

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LISTS, à la Brittney.

Monday, May 10th, 2010

Things I’ll Miss About Spain

  • The climate.
  • The overall beauty of this place. The Cathedral, the Giralda, the graffiti-covered path along Guadalquivir River, the Triana Bridge…. the churro stand at the end of the Triana Bridge.
  • Cruzcampo…? I’m slightly more Spanish than I was in January, by virtue of my recently developed love for this shittastic beer.
  • The fact that my life is a sitcom. Actually, there are parts of this that I won’t miss. But sometimes I find myself in such ridiculous situations that I have to look around and wonder when the tech guy is going to press the “canned laughter” button.
  • Drinking in public/never being carded.
  • The Misadventures of Lauren and Francesca. Enough said. Subcategory of this bullet point: abusing the word “jovenes” and speaking like a true Trianera, miarma.
  • Constantly improving my Spanish. Living in Iowa doesn’t lend itself well to interacting with native Spanish speakers.
  • The overall life philosophy. People just don’t stress as much as Americans do. I can’t say that Spain has killed my pragmatism, but I have started thinking more whimsically since I’ve been here. Although I guess this philosophy also explains Andalucía’s staggering unemployment rate… meh.

Things I Won’t Miss About Spain

  • The symphony of god-awful noises in my neighborhood: Triana’s anonymous pan flute artist, the neighbor’s dog who is fortunate to still be alive, the other neighbor whose screaming children obsessively listen to Ke$ha (bless her soul), the guy who clanks giant slabs of metal together midday.
  • The occasional important communication that gets hopelessly lost in translation.
  • Semi-regular cat calls, ass grabs and harassment from slimy viejos verdes and gilipollas.
  • Siesta. Because I never actually sleep, and I can’t even buy a freakin’ pack of gum since the whole country shuts down between 2 and 5 p.m.
  • The lack of culinary diversity. I would do unspeakable things for a burrito, for some shrimp tempura, for some grapefruit.
  • Never being able to articulate precisely what I’m thinking. Although I may not appear excessively eloquent, I’m obsessed with words and sentences and the way they’re constructed. I have a nuanced way of speaking in English that simply doesn’t translate in Spanish, which also kills a lot of the bad jokes I try to make to Spaniards.
  • The overall life philosophy. Going back to the siesta: how does a country operate around a three-hour midday nap? Why is it inconceivable to propose a dinner time earlier than 10 p.m.? Sometimes I’m enamored with this idea of, “Hey we’re in Andalucía, live it up! Don’t take life so seriously!!!” Other times, I want to make this country a chore chart and impose a few new house rules; give the place a sense of order.

PS — The volcanic ash cloud strikes back, this time on Spain. Damnit. And I thought I had escaped it’s wrath… here’s hoping that I can get out of Madrid come Friday morning.
PPS — Ohmygod Friday morning. It’s 10:30 p.m. on Monday and I’ve gone all day without sobbing. 10 points for Lauren. 10 more points if I make it to midnight.

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Tori Amos on a Saturday afternoon? Goodbyes commence now

Saturday, May 8th, 2010

In one week I’ll be in Naperville, Illinois. It will be 8 a.m. I will either be awake, rummaging through my parents’ freezer for bagels, or at the DMV retrieving my much-anticipated horizontal driver’s license. I still don’t think I fully realize the gravity of my departure; I also don’t think that sentence makes sense. Going home is permanent, not just a weekend visit. I’m freaking out about it, although my current state of severe sleep deprivation makes it easier to subdue the panic for a moment.

As of ~1 p.m. local time I’ve checked off the first of several important goodbyes, this one to Pedro. Our farewell proceeded the consumption of baked potatoes the size of 10-pound babies, Silent Bob en español and a win for the Phoenix Suns. I was instructed not to cry. Although I wasn’t completely capable of complying with this request, I managed to mostly keep my shit together. Pedro pointed out that if I’m struggling now, a week before I even leave for the airport, I’m going to be a wholly dysfunctional disaster come 7 a.m. Friday morning at the Aeropuerto Sevilla. I tend to agree.

Now it’s almost 3:30 p.m. here. I’m still in pajamas, and the alarming amount Tori Amos coming from my iTunes (“From the Choirgirl Hotel” and “Little Earthquakes”?!?! Christ) is a testament to my dire need (and fervent desire) for a siesta. Finals? Essays? Packing? That’s what next week is for.

note– this blog is being published post-siesta, due to an unexpected Internet failure at the intended press time of 3:30 p.m.

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The return

Saturday, May 8th, 2010

It’s 6 a.m. in Iowa– my  brain turned on like a light around 5:30 and despite my pleads and bargaining myself, I guess I’m up for the day.  Apparently it’s easier to fall into your sleep pattern when returning to the US from Europe, but in my little experience with it before, that is so not the case for me.  Also, I’m ravenously hungry.  All of my flights were for the most part on time yesterday, and I arrived in Des Moines at 10:30 p.m. to a ridiculously happy Savannah, and my dad who had come prepared with a can of Diet Pepsi and my new cell phone.  What a guy.  The bags under my eyes betrayed that I’d had about a combined hour of sleep during my entire 20-ish hour journey from alarm clock to baggage claim yesterday.  Upon arriving home, I was too excited to unwrap all my wares (mustard! chocolate! shot glasses!  …an odd amount of shot glasses!) to fall right into bed.  Once I did, I dreamt of nothing but airports, airplanes, and last-minute Mother’s Day gift shopping (which will happening some time today.)

I’m looking forward to many things this week, but am also quite frankly scared shitless of being thrust back into it all, and holy heartache, Batman– I miss Germany and D-Bag.  So much.  When I got to the US-bound flights terminal in the Munich airport, the American-ness was palpable.  So many overweight senior citizens complaining about the extra security or something they didn’t like about their bus tour of Germany, while sweating away in their Mickey Mouse track suits and visors.  Once we landed in Chicago and it was REAL, like real-real, yours truly wasn’t exactly bowling people over in the aisles to get my feet on American soil.  Let’s just try not and get salty tears all over your customs declaration form, okay Ma’am?  I guess this is my last post on the ol’ Iowa Girls Gone Wild; as we all know, you can find me here.  Good luck to Lauren in her return journey, but mostly with the whole saying of good-byes thing; it really does suck more than you could prepare yourself for.  WOW this post was much more Debbie Downer depressing than I’d planned on it being.  Overall, studying abroad was the BEST DECISION EVER and I MISS IT and it was GREAT, but I’m still REALLY hungry so will bid you Auf Wiedersehen, dear readers.  You’re the best (ok, you could have commented more.)  Thanks for putting up with my bipolarity and general uninteresting observations on all things about life abroad.  Time to go drink Diet Pepsi by the gallon and pee in public restaurants just because I can.

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Ready or not…

Thursday, May 6th, 2010

….here I come, America!

I got a surprising amount of sleep last night and am already showered, caffeinated, and marzipaned with plenty of time to get to the airport.  It’s raining and gloomy; typical Germany refusing to give me one last sunshine-y memory.  One of my two suitcases is quite certainly overweight, and just maneuvering both of them through bus, train, subway, and airport is the greatest source of my anxiety right now.  Either way, in just over 22 hours I should be coming down the escalator towards my father and Savannah in the Des Moines International (giggle) Airport.  I’ve left my flatmates a lovely note (because that’s really the most fitting good-bye considering our relationship) and got enormous bear hugs from the Slovak and my other neighbor last night.  I suppose I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, OH AND GUESS WHAT– my friend Katie and I WON karaoke the other night (D-Bag and I left early.)  The prize is a 50 Euro tab to be used at the bar, so while I’m sad I wasn’t there to claim my prize or use it, it’s probably for the best.  And by “won” I mean they put all of the participants’ names in a hat and randomly draw a winner each week, so it’s not like the judges were super impressed by my coordinated and oft-rehearsed boy band moves.

AUF WIEDERSEHEN, DEUTSCHLAND!  ICH LIEBE DICH UND ICH WERDE DICH VERMISSEN!!

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Karaoke

Thursday, May 6th, 2010

We’ve hit the 24 hour mark, and these last ones will be filled with packing (since I haven’t started, though at least all my clothes are finally clean) and cleaning and not hanging out with D-Bag because he’s GONE.  Perhaps I’ll touch on that later, perhaps I won’t, but at least if any tears were shed, they happened after our hallway parting in the solace of one’s empty, cold, clean laundry-strewn room.  Oh yes, that definitely does not not need to be touched upon.  Since my sheets are drying for my room-check later today, I slept on my couch last night and will again this evening.  And by couch, I mean half of a loveseat that wakes me up at 6:30 a.m. because of shooting back spasms and is no way fit to make one feel even remotely like sitting on a plane for a very long time very soon.

Last night I sang karaoke for the first time in my life– Backstreet Boys’ “I Want it That Way” AND Guns ‘n Roses’ “Sweet Child o Mine.”  The best part about these two songs, besides of course my obvious sobriety, was that I can sing them verbatim without the words on the screen.  This is especially helpful when one wants to really emote on stage, or if you were to say have the Sweet Child o Mine video memorized and want to swing the microphone by it’s cord during Slash’s last guitar solo, only to be verbally reprimanded by the German karaoke controller man.  My bad, sir.  My friend Katie also sang these with me so I didn’t feel like a complete fool, and there may be photos but I feel those are best left in the blackmail vault.

Is this my last post?  Am I supposed to come back with some sort of drawn out good-bye or a list of thank yous or multiple personal revelations about how studying abroad has changed my life?  I suppose I’ll save that for the plane, then give you one last nugget of wisdom so you know I’ve arrived safely.  In the meantime, get prepared for my triumphant return to blogging solo (the link is just a shameless plug to my other blog; like this one, only less direction, no Lauren, and more embarrassing self-promotion.)

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On leaving my señorita

Wednesday, May 5th, 2010

In the past four months I’ve developed a close relationship with Elisa (or, my host lady; or, the woman with whom I live; or, my señorita). I’ve had to attach a lot of names to Elisa to explain my atypical living situation: Most students in Sevilla live with old ladies (to put it bluntly) and the study abroad lingo for an older woman hosting an American student is señora. Simple enough. But my señora, at only 35, isn’t old enough to warrant the title — it suggests a certain age. “Host lady” is a little cold, and “roommate” isn’t quite right; Tyler never did my laundry or met daily obligations to feed me. But compared to most of my college-aged comrades abroad, my living situation more closely mirrored a roommate setup than anything else.

Ever since my first day here, Elisa and I have had some in-depth conversations, at least for a guiri (me; derogatory Spanish term for foreigners) living with a native Spaniard. I remember talking about abortion, the death penalty and the Catholic priest scandal all within week one. Tonight we chatted over fish pizza and Nutella sandwiches about the mortgage crisis. I read a bunch of cheesy testimonies before I came here about how the best language practice is at home with a host family, and I can now confirm that there is something to those cheesy testimonies.

Most people wrote heartwarming accounts: memories of telling stories to their snot-nosed Spanish host siblings. If my program asked, I could come up with 500 words about Elisa’s philosophy on men and marriage. It’s true that I sometimes feel like an idiot here. I’m often acutely aware of my own foreignness, which only heightens my inhibitions. Sometimes I’m more self conscious at home than anywhere else, especially on a hypersensitive day when I’m tired of hearing my accent mocked. We went a few weeks sporadically where I behaved like a surly teenager, moping in my room and blabbing in English on Skype. But aside from these fleeting frustrations, living with Elisa was one of the best parts of my experience here (and in turn, sort-of living with her sort-of boyfriend, who I would equate to that one uncle, or your dad’s creepy cousin — the guy in every family — who moves in as if to kiss you on the cheek but then goes for your mouth. Whatever, I love him anyways). So when I leave in eight days, expect waterworks.

If I hadn’t lived here, who else would have dragged me to a shady discoteca midday on a Saturday 20 minutes outside of the city? Who else would have fed me snails and introduced me to the kickass dual-flavor off brand of Nutella? Who else would have encouraged me to make questionable life decisions every time I went out on a Thursday night (well, maybe I could have found someone to do that)? Who else would have gotten drunk on a Tuesday for my birthday and then dealt with the resulting hangover when she got up for work at 7 a.m. the next day? You may love your 70-year-old señora, and I’m sure she’s a sweetheart, but I wouldn’t change my living situation for the world.

I’ve never been sure if Elisa liked me all that much, but she made a comment Monday night that after me, she doesn’t think she’ll have a better student. I’m the first one she’s hosted. I told her not to make me cry. Then she said how great I am because I’m the equivalent of a human garbage disposal and will eat anything she puts in front of me. So okay, even if she’s hated me this whole time, she at least appreciates how embarrassingly not picky I am. If that’s not a moving cross-cultural bond worthy of being transformed into a made-for-TV movie, then I don’t know what is.

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Gift-less

Wednesday, May 5th, 2010

I board my flight home (Hamburg to Munich to Chicago to Des Moines) in 49 hours!  Perhaps it’s because I had some pleasant dreams of home last night, but I am in a very peppy mood about the coming two days.  (Yes, I just said peppy.  This could also possibly be attributed to the fact I’m trying to use up the rest of my instant coffee before I leave.  I still have half a jar left– this day could get interesting, fast.)

Most people in my program met at the Hofbrauhaus in Hamburg on Monday for some last liters of beer and good-byes and photos.  I also now really really really want my parents to redo our basement bar into a Hofbrauhaus theme.  GO WITH ME ON THIS, I think it’ll be great.  Yesterday I spent the better part of the afternoon walking around Luneburg, window shopping, browsing, souvenir-shopping… and came up pretty much empty handed.  I got some panoramic postcards of the place for myself and a new pair of jeans (on sale! 15 Euro!)  Oh and some gelato, but that was really just implied.  I am in no way joking or planning a secret souvenir surprise when I say I am literally empty-handed for all of you readers.  Oh wait, my brother’s getting a t-shirt.  Feel free to send in desperate last-minute e-mails if you were expecting something specific, but there’s nothing I’ve found that screams “Kayla HAS to have that” or “THIS would make a good Mother’s Day gift.”  Really, my presence is all anyone needs, and all anyone will be getting.  I don’t even have anything for NPH, and it’s his birthday in five days.  MY BAD.

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Leggy mistakes in Spain, second helpings of Portugal

Monday, May 3rd, 2010

An observation, before I launch into a description of Lagos, Portugal, one of the most beautiful places I’ve seen in my 21 years:

Shorts are a fashion faux pas in Spain. I could have told you this before I got here, but now that springtime in Sevilla has arrived, I’ve given up my ongoing endeavor to be fashionably correct in Europe.

Last week it got up to almost 100 degrees Fahrenheit here. I, like any marginally sane person, decided the time was nigh to bare a little thigh, but Spaniards dress like they’re traveling to the Iditarod until mid-July. What’s worse is the way people stare when you wander around in shorts here, as if you were meandering the city in nothing but a pair of nipple tassels. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t exactly have the body of a Victoria’s Secret model; people aren’t staring because there’s any novelty to my body shape. And I’m not busting out the Daisy Dukes. I just think it’s high time the locals put away their leather jackets, scarves and boots. I know the summer gets a trillion times nastier than this, but c’mon. Does anyone really need so many layers when you could possibly cook an egg over easy on the sidewalk? Survey says no.

I don’t know how to transition from that into my recap of Lagos, so I’m not going to. I went to Lagos this weekend; it was beautiful.

In April I was lucky enough to see two cities in Portugal, Lisbon and now Lagos, and I’ve got to say; Portugal is a pretty great country. I hope to one day return. Lisbon was urban and quirky, with castles and history alongside a young downtown scene and the backdrop of the river. Lagos was a small beach town with an enormous expat community, and my God it was breathtaking. Six of us decided to take the bus from Sevilla to Lagos — a nauseating six-hour ride, although by car the cities are only about two hours away — and book a hostel together. Coincidentally, we chose to go the same weekend as 500 other students from Sevilla. That mass of humanity went with a student travel agency that organizes different trips, complete with bOoZe CrUiSeS and PrIVaTe PArTIeeZzzzz. We went the frugal route and forfeited the booze cruise, although it wasn’t exactly a dry weekend.

We camped out most of our time at a beach about five minutes from our hostel, tanning and eating grocery store goodies including (but not limited to) sandwiches with wheat bread — a novelty on this side of the Atlantic — and Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Also on this side of the Atlantic, I realized it was the first time I swam in that particular body of water. Another notch on my beach belt. We did a little bit of swimming from our beach to another one nearby, going through a grotto or two and avoiding any fatal injuries by rocks. I can’t emphasize how much I loved it… all of it. I reflected not long ago about my striking similarities to my mother and our mutual interest in wine. This weekend I had the same sort of reflection about my likeness to my father. He’s a restless beachgoer, constantly asking Who wants to go for a walk? Who wants to go swimming? Who wants to check out the coral reef? and tirelessly commenting on how amazing the water is, how blue it is, how cool the rocks look, how nice the sand is… this weekend I was something of a Greg 2.0. Imploring anyone in our group to go swimming with me (despite the water being extremity-numbingly cold). Getting restless an hour after laying out and seeing who was ready for a walk. I also pushed hard for a boat tour of the grottos, and I’m infinitely glad we decided to do it. There was a bit of a communication barrier with our Portuguese boat driver, and one or two close encounters when he almost smashed us into a fellow boat and then into the inside wall of a grotto, but I can’t complain too much. I eventually got off the boat intact.

In summary, if you ever find yourself bored in southern Europe, hop a bus to Lagos and it shan’t disappoint. I’m a complete beach fiend, and I’m beyond pleased that Lagos was my one beach trip in this short time abroad. As a rule I become excessively emotional while traveling, always thinking something along the lines of, “Oh my God this is my life? I’m on a beach in Portugal??” Not to sound all Academy Awards, but I’m indescribably grateful to be here, although I still can’t quite grasp that I even am here.

In other news, this depressing new blog countdown has rudely announced that I fly home in 10 days, 8 hours and 37 minutes. Deep breaths, deep breaths, deep breaths.

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I LOVE LISTS

Monday, May 3rd, 2010

Things I will miss upon my return to America:

1. Drinking in public.  Germany has no open-container laws; I’ve never bowed down to non-existent legislature before.  If we’re walking to bowling and someone hasn’t finished their beer, they can just take it with them!  How much better would the world be if we could all just pop a beer on the walk home after class instead of remaining sober for the entire journey?  Get your act together, Iowa.

2. Bakeries.  They’re on every single corner, and that is in no way an exaggeration.  It is completely acceptable to be eating bread at absolutely any hour of the day, in any venue or life situation.  Bus, bike, train?  Eating pastries, pretzels, bread rolls.  Before, during, and after meals?  More bread.  Class?  Carbs!  And no one here is 400 pounds!  Germans are CONSTANTLY EATING, something that will be sorely missed by yours truly.

3. D-Bag.  My neighbor, best buddy, and personal therapist– Darin.  I am 100% convinced I would have been mauled by a bear if it weren’t for him.  Knowledgeable from having already been here a semester, he graciously let me follow his every move and showed me the ropes of this sometimes scary, always foreign place.  While it would seem we have little in common save for our extreme sarcasm and general “I couldn’t give a shit less about 95% of the things happening around me if I tried” attitude, our oppositeness played nicely off each other and I’MGONNAMISSHIM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

4. Sassy German women.  I’m speaking to the ones in the over 50-set– these women have spunk.  Also, while we’re on the subject of spitfire generations, there are plenty of extremely active elderly people (we’re talking geriatrics who have stories from the war) who ride the bus with me every day.  I’m continually amazed by them, mostly because I don’t plan on getting off the couch after I qualify for AARP.

5. Places only taking cash.  I spend so much less money not being able to swipe a plastic card every time I want to make a purchase.

6. To lump many other things together: the beer/ the beauty (everyone told me it’s such a beautiful country, but you don’t realize til you’re here HOLY SCHMOLIGANS that’s a pretty landscape)/ ubiquitous public transportation/ my Slovakian neighbor/ my running trails/ soft pretzels/ H&M/ learning the language.

7. Getting A’s on everything because I’m treated like a five-year-old.  This is perhaps just program-specific, but essentially if I showed up to class even half alive and turned in something by the end of the semester, I was received with heaps of praise.  If I were treated with such kid gloves at home, my grades would be far improved.  Now that it’s over (and as of 12:15 today, I am officially a senior in college) I can say I never got anything less than an A this entire semester.

Things I will not miss:

1. Getting stared at for being obviously foreign.

2. Having four roommates.

3. The entire country being shut down on Sundays/ weekdays after 6 p.m.

4. The language barrier

5. Being a slave to Skype/ Facebook/ Gmail if I want to talk to people from home

6. The USD to Euro conversion rate

7. Germans’ obsession with mayonnaise, their lack of spicy food, and their refusal to acknowledge barbecue sauce as a condiment

8.  Paying for water.  FREE REFILLS, here I come.  Also, paying to pee in public.  I’ve probably spent more money so I wouldn’t pee my pants than I have on beer.  (That was a blatant lie, but I feel a strong comparison was needed to show how unjust I find spending 30-70 cents just to save my insides.)

I’m looking forward to: gas station fountain soda, tortilla chips and salsa, movie theater kettle corn, spicy chicken wings, and Oasis’ falafel and hummus.  Sorry, NPH, but it will be a long, long time before I crave bratwurst again.  Ooh, maybe a nice steak though.  And funfetti cake.  Dammit, I probably shouldn’t be writing this list while hungry.

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Eat fresh: in which I geek out and describe my trip to Subway in great detail

Sunday, May 2nd, 2010

As far advanced as Germany is in so many areas, they missed the boat on the whole WINDOW SCREENS thing.  The bee currently buzzing around my room is the third one this week.  My windows have to be open for temperature control, since they also never received the air-conditioning memo.

I saw part of a robin’s egg on my run this morning (ok, my jog this morning.  My legs were not feeling movement today, which proved just fine since I might not have spotted the bright teal little gem if I’d been going at a normal pace.)  I don’t really have much else to say about it, except it made me think of my mom.

A few hours after aforementioned physical activity, there was a rumbly in my tumbly that needed satiated.  My shelves are pretty bare due to my imminent departure, so I ventured into Am Sande for lunch.  Normally only McDonald’s and the Turkish Doner places are open on Sundays (both are pretty barf-tastic) but since everything was closed yesterday for the holiday, most eateries, bakeries, and gelato places were open today.  So where did I go?  For the first time since arriving here… SUBWAY!!!  I figured I’d give it a try, having worked there for over three years during high school, and to hopefully satisfy my recent craving for lettuce.  The menu was in English, and I ordered a toasted turkey on Vollkorn brot (“fitness” bread covered in seeds.  It’s way good.)  You only get to choose between sliced or cream cheese, and they have less veggies to put on it.  I also thought it was hella expensive, but then remembered American Subways aren’t always known for their ease on the pocketbook, either.  I got a meal since I was ready to gnaw off my arm at this point, though their chip selection was much more limited and you’re only allowed to fill your drink cup once.  After inhaling my salt and vinegar chips at the bus stop, I came home and added some of my Regensburg mustard to my sandwich and chowed.  IT WAS SO GOOD.  The turkey tasted (and looked!) like real turkey instead of the slimy fart turkey our Subways have.  Since my best friend Kayla has worked there for, what is it now… 6 years?  7?  Your whole life?– I took a picture for her and will now share it with you (let’s ignore my general appearance, including whatever’s going on with my fingernail polish.)

Post-church trips to Subway can be added to my list of reasons I’m excited to live at home this summer, along with eating at Gateway Market, finally visiting the downtown Des Moines’ farmer’s market, and easily accessible Jordan Creek kettle corn.  And yes, I realize those all have to do with food.

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Labor Day

Saturday, May 1st, 2010

Today, besides being only ONE MONTH from my 21st birthday, is Labor Day in Germany.  This holiday is traditionally characterized by political riots in the larger cities (especially in the Kreuzberg neighborhood of Berlin) and insane drunkenness everywhere else.  It was supposed to rain this weekend, but when I woke up– much too early for a Saturday, damn you insanely vivid dreams– the weather could not have been more perfect.  This called for a venture out of doors, and not just because I had seen people setting up bratwurst tents in the downtown area last night.  Since Luneburg is far too family friendly for political unrest, the “gathering” near Am Sande was literally called a Family Festival, replete with marching band, inflatable play areas, and a face painting stand.  When I got there, some guy was on stage speaking in staccato-ed German to a crowd holding party signs and homemade banners against military involvement in Afghanistan.  Essentially, something NPH would have been far more interested in than I was.  I turned my attention to the bratwurst stand, beer tent, and Kuchenbuffet (cake buffet.  Let me say that again: CAKE. BUFFET.)  Since it wasn’t even 11 a.m., I made a beeline towards the tent with the church ladies and their wares.  Sorry, Lutherans schlepping coffee and bars back home, but these German Fraus know what’s up in the dessert for breakfast department.  After much oggling, I settled on some sort of Quarkkuchen with apricots (peaches?) and slivered almonds on top.  As if I need to tell you, it did not disappoint.  The next couple of hours involved me walking around town, soaking in my last weekend here, taking pictures, and wondering why I didn’t get the memo on today’s holiday also doubling as “Large groups of older people getting really dressed up and taking guided tours of the city Day.”

Today could not have been more beautiful (ok, the first part anyway.  The second part involves me attempting to study for my final on Monday but probably catching up on episodes of 16 & Pregnant online.)  This came at a perfect time, because the whole “leaving” thing hit me like a ton of bricks yesterday when I was filling out my program evaluation.  Wondering if I’m mentally ill because of my ever-changing feelings on going home is getting quite old, and I have to agree 100% with Lauren when she said she has much more anxiety about going home than when coming to Europe.  I woke up and I was DREADING everything about America, but then I walked by someone today who smelled like my grandmother and I got really excited to be seeing family again in just a week for Mother’s Day.  D-Bag decided to go all Yoda on me yesterday and explain that all good things must come to an end, and if we prepare for the inevitable good-bye, we can enjoy the time we have left (or something like that, my eyes tend to glaze over at these kinds of pep-talks.)  I did kind of start cleaning my room yesterday, though far too much laundry needs to be done before I can pack, so I settled on starting random piles around my room.  I really don’t have much in the souvenirs for loved ones department (sorry, Grandma, but pastries will NOT survive the flight back) because I don’t know what they’d want and most things here wouldn’t mean much to those who haven’t experienced it anyway.  Oh, feel free to read this about the study abroad experience, something I contributed to The Next Great Generation’s week on education.

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