How Do We Know Where To Go

when the road is long and bumpy
without a map or scale for how far
how much longer
when can I stop to rest
when will I reach my goals

how do we know where to go
when our minds tell us to turn back
when our bodies cry in revolt
when our fears tell us it's far better to play it safe
or to make sure to please our others along the way

how do we know where to go
when we've never been here before
when the light is so bright it hurts the eyes
and the dark is so black that hearts try to escape the chest
when standing on the edge
on the brink of the utterly unfathomable
is so mind blowing that we don't even consider we might be alright

how do we know where to go
when we've broken down so much of our construction
that it seems like insanity to start to rebuild 
when people are saying stop stop
you've gone too far
you are in danger of losing yourself
when we start to second guess why we thought it was a good idea in the first place
when we feel too tiny and weak and fragile to go on

how do we know where to go

when we knew all along but couldn't believe it
or state it to any other person around us
when we felt it was right but couldn't make sense of it

how do we know where to go
when there is something calling us
but it's too weird to admit
when we know we are alive
and dying every moment
when supposed mistakes are rich experiences in this thing called life

we make tiny steps

we lay in puddles of muck

just to feel what it's like

we watch our selves die slowly

morphing strangely into worlds with new views

we beat our heads against pillows

asking questions that don't have answers 

at least not ones we really want to hear

we spend days uneasy

stopping only briefly at unexpected avenues 

where a speck of sunlight reflects the illuminating quality of a human mind

where the light suddenly highlights how matter manifests stories our spirit begs to speak

where simplicity somehow subtly circumnavigates crisis 

saying there is still something unseen and carrying us in coalescence

there is magnificence in meandering through 

to various yous

there is inexplicable grace in the force of creation

that inspires a sense of exploding out of these confines 

and the fear of losing what we thought we knew

we make up theories and rules to try to explain what we can't understand 

and expect that next time we will be able to say we learned 

meanwhile progressing within and without us

a dance of dynamic players and pieces 

beside what minds make believe

we are expression ever moving

we play with time as time plays with us

we are access points

to times we don't remember and people we thought we lost

we are access points to words that haven't been written yet

& sensations that can't be crafted into novels 

the everything 

that is nothing like anything

we are making it up as we go along 

while it makes us up as it goes along

an introduction

here i sit
feeling the ages i've waited to write to us
as i come into presence, i feel all the planes lining up, like the interworkings of lock mechanisms
it occurs to i, this will be a place of refuge
for me, for you, for we
it takes a considerable amount of effort to calm the sides of my mind that urge me to shut my mouth (or my fingers, as the case is)
'you're going to get bad feedback' 'you'll say something someone doesn't understand, and they will hate you or curse you for it' 'you don't even know what you're saying or why you're saying it'
i am forging forth
i am opening to vulnerability and transparency
there is a story that yearns to be told

this space is rooted in intentions of wholistic integration of various working parts (sometimes seemingly contradictory in nature),
transparent consideration, the wisdom of trees who speak to a natural order,
conscious existence, playful curiosity
i speak to the future, never removed from now
using language appealing to undercurrents immeasurable
but by the unspeakable descriptors of the soul
feeling, we will call it feeling
which is processed through our language, so innately interconnected to language
yet with reverence to the dynamic interplay with and between countless types and degrees of input

i'm already hearing doubts of the clarity of this writing
'will people think this is nonsense' 'this writing style is so vague'
i am open and willing and tending to explore realms beyond literal definition,
taking into account common conception and structure
i am a hybrid
there is much written here that is not written here

we are creating new ways of being never before seen or known
they are unique to this time and place
they are genuinely ours, unknown to others yet beautifully demonstrative 
informing us of the expanses of thought, of form, of existence

and ultimately in vast and profound honoring and acceptance of that which already is,
even if we don't know or believe it yet

the goals of this post are
-to introduce the being writing, free from rigid encapsulation or inaccurate (though definitive) descriptors
-to allude to ways of being and communicating that broaden our minds and sense of existence, allowing us to explore worlds and ideas yet unknown and thus 
-welcome a opening and playful relationship with this, being human
-encouraging a felt sense of belonging and sustainable engagement with the expressive world around and within us

that covers it for now

stay tuned for further collective awakenings

it occurs to i

I know not who i am
To the majority of people living in this age
We, mere ants, just a very small sliver of the vastness of time
And still we know not time nor the nature of time
Exploding, pausing
Warping and morphing to these varied perceptive experience platforms
We wrap around each other
Electricity pulsing from 'you' to 'i'
As i shade my eyes from peering into yours
Almost timid with the force of pure essence
To know you without knowing your name

To feel you without entrance or exit

I speak knowing it's just so you'll see what I'm saying
Taking back
Taken aback
By the pulse of life
Pulsating presence puts people at peace
Or pretending they can't see
This light blasting through the curtains
Fierce
Vibrant
Undeniable
And still it seems like no one sees
Or is it just me ?

Instituto Italiano

There must be at least fifteen different language immersion schools in Florence and I know because I researched each one when I decided I wanted to come to Italy. I had the hardest time wagering which would be the best and deciding which one to attend. After countless thoughtful hours and with help from my dad and sister, I decided on Instituto Italiano. It turned out to be a pretty good choice, but by now I feel as though all my pensive agony was a bit silly; my hours probably would have been better spent learning the exchange rate between dollars and euros or taking lessons on effective packing techniques. At my basic level, I think any of the schools would have given me a good foundation. The school is a friendly, small institution that offers language immersion courses for students hoping to learn Italian or who already know some and want to improve their skills. The school itself sits on the top floor of an apartment building about three doors down from one of Florence’s most famous architectural marvels: the Duomo. We were introduced to the view of the magnificent church the first day we arrived in class and were graced by its presence peeking through the window each subsequent day.

Not to mention it had the perfect stairs at its entrance for sitting and eating lunch on the few days it was sunny enough to do so.

This will have been my second time studying language in a classroom. I am becoming increasingly fascinated by the interconnectedness of languages and how ideas and concepts are translated across them. The language school is full of students coming from all over the world, so unlike my Spanish classes in high school, the teacher spoke almost entirely in Italian. I found it to be more effective for learning the language but also felt bad for the students that had a harder time understanding it right off the bat. My background in Spanish has been very helpful for understanding Italian because many words are similar if not the same. On the other hand, my knowledge of Spanish has made it difficult to speak Italian because my brain has a hard time differentiating between the two languages. I heard many conversations in school between students as well as teachers discussing the difficulty of learning Italian. I could not begin to make a judgment on its complexity because I have nothing against which to compare. I would imagine learning Japanese would be far more difficult but perhaps there is something even more difficult than that. Being spoken to in a language that I do not fully understand really emphasizes the importance of body language and hand expressions (something that Italians use rather often). When travelling, you must master the “I-don’t-understand-anything-you-are-saying-but-really-wish-I-could” facial expression along with a really first-rate index finger point. Unfortunately, I am not quite as adventurous with my Italian speaking skills as my American friend Brigitte who is not bothered at all by approaching someone and saying (translated from Italian), “Where I go I eat Gelato a lot?” They pretty much always understand what she is saying though, so I am really the one who is missing out.

I have not only been paying close attention to my Spanish and Italian skills, but to my English as well. I have had to speak almost exclusively to people for whom English is their second (or sometimes third) language. I honor my position as grammar/pronunciation corrector but consequently, I find myself speaking as if English was my second language also, occasionally omitting prepositions and putting adjectives after nouns. My Mexican friend, Indira, has been reliable in pointing out the little things I say unconsciously such as, “and also” (in a high pitched voice that she enjoys imitating), and “though” randomly at the end of sentences (i.e. “I will be okay, though” or “We won’t make it there in time, though”). I have had to switch my focus from utilizing a more complex vocabulary for describing situations or feelings to searching my vocabulary for the most simplistic descriptions in order to be easily understood. I have felt disappointed at times by the decline in my English skills but have rather enjoyed the change in perspective. I am now very conscious of little catch-phrases or expressions I use that I did not think much about previously. I have also become aware of the importance of tone of voice and pronunciation, especially after learning that the difference between dad (papá) and pope (papa) is only determined by an emphasis on the last syllable.

I am so impressed with the people that speak three or more languages, especially when they can speak them well. A couple of my friends spoke about the moments when they began thinking in a new language. I can only imagine knowing another language well enough that I could feel content thinking to myself in that language. I will get there one day…and I do intend on getting there. I look forward to the day that Italian switches from being just combinations of sounds that I have to contemplate and translate in my head to actually sounding like intelligible communication. It is interesting to listen to the teacher swap between English and Italian because she goes from sounding confident and articulate to sounding frankly a bit silly. I realized that I have often, without thinking about it, considered not-so-good English speakers to be somewhat less intelligent, but I see that there is a lot that is lost in translation when you are not fluent. The nervous laughing and hand flailing one must engage in when trying to convey messages without using words is all too familiar and ridiculous until you are forced to engage in the acts yourself. You put yourself in a vulnerable position when you make the effort to communicate to someone that does not speak your language but the only real mistake you can make is not doing so. I know that I will now be a great deal more helpful and welcoming to non-English speakers in my neck of the woods. I do not think I ever wasn’t per say, but now I have walked a mile in their shoes; actually, I have walked many miles in their shoes.


Ciao!
j

Bad-Luck-Followed-By-Good-Luck

If it were possible for a place to be made out of gelato and dreams, Florence would be that place.

Italy has taken me by surprise, but I needed to experience a bit of hardship before I arrived in order to begin enjoying all it has to offer. I was worried prior to arriving. I was worried that the people with whom I would be staying would not be welcoming or that I would not like the language school. On January 30th, with all the optimism I could muster, I shoved all the doubts that would fit into the crevasses of Aaron’s couch and tucked the remainder into the far reaches of my massive suitcase. I knew that anxiety would do me little good on my venture out of a now somewhat familiar Germany into new territory. I left the little apartment on the top floor with renewed confidence and a positive attitude. An attitude that was instantly trampled one hundred feet down the road when I realized it was eight fifteen a.m. and my train was scheduled to leave at eight. I was immediately transported to a state of panic that allowed me, shaking all the while, to run with my one ton suitcase back to the house and up the ten flights of stairs in what must have been about twelve and a half seconds. Lightly chuckling at me for having left the house at eight o’clock to catch an eight o’clock train, Aaron instructed me to report to the train station and request a new ticket. Heart still pounding, almost entirely still in a state of panic, I dragged my stuff across Nuremberg arriving at the ticket counter in front of a middle-aged male clerk. I explained that I had missed my train and inquired about receiving a new ticket and a refund. I was lucky to have received delight in response to my English communication because as I have concluded from my experiences in Germany, you pretty much have a 50/50 chance of being embraced or cursed for expecting a German to speak English with you. This male clerk became my first “bad-luck-followed-by-good-luck” of the day as he searched for a loophole in the “no ticket refund” policy and helped me to find a group of people with whom to share a five person, all day, anywhere in Bavaria Bahn ticket. Approximately one hour later than I had planned, I was on a train to Munich in the company of three very nice German twenty-somethings. Still a bit shaken up by the whole ordeal, I calmed myself down by doing a crossword and indulging in some tunes. Upon arriving in Munich, our group said our goodbyes and I, suitcase at toe, bought a sandwich, a ticket to Brennero, Italy, and boarded a new train. This train was different than the trains we had been taking to travel around Germany; it had individual rooms, reserved seats, and the man announcing information over the intercom spoke German, Italian and English. It was the first train I had taken that left Germany and I was pleased by the change of scenery as we travelled through magnificent Austrian mountain ranges and into Italy. I had lost track of time and before I knew it, we had arrived at the station where I was supposed to disembark. Peering out the window, I became apprehensive of leaving my spiffy train with its English speaking announcer and getting off at a very deserted looking station somewhere on the border of Austria and Italy. I wearily got off the train and went to look for a schedule that included either “Florence" or "Firenze” in between all the other words I could not understand and would confirm the time I had planned to leave the station. I proved unlucky for the second time that day and did not see Florence anywhere on the schedule nor did I see any train leaving at the time I had seen posted on the internet. I walked back and forth from the platform to the station entrance hoping that, despite the fact that it was Sunday and I was in a small, foreign town, I would happen upon someone speaking English or a ticket office which I had previously missed. Much to my dismay, I found no such thing and became very worried. I did not have a ticket, I did not know the correct train to take, and I was supposed to have activated my Eurail pass at a ticket counter. After pacing back and forth repeatedly wondering what I would do, I passed by the office where the train technicians worked and attempted to ask a woman what train I needed to take to get to Florence. Not speaking a word of English, she told me to take the train coming to “Gleis 7” in ten minutes. After I nodded my head expectantly and repeated “Florence” about five times, she confirmed that it was in fact the correct train to take and I left the office. Feeling unsure that I was taking the correct train, and quite sure that I was going to be kicked off once the ticket-checker saw that I did not have an active ticket, I boarded and waited.

I sat nervously and anticipated the request for a ticket that I did not have. When the train employee arrived, I nonchalantly showed him my Eurial pass sans activation stamp or supplementary ticket, he simply nodded and continued on. Relieved, I happily embraced my second "bad-luck-followed-by-good-luck" of the day. Even so, I was still unsure if I had boarded the correct train so without taking out my journal or iPod, I sat and anxiously reviewed the signs at every station I passed. After about an hour, I found a map of Italy in my Eurail info packet just as we arrived at a station that looked relatively well-inhabited. Curiously, I stumbled off the train with my belongings and encountered the third "bad-luck-followed-by-good-luck" of my trip. My instincts had urged me to remove myself from the train and inquire about the possibility that it would take me to Florence. I ended up purchasing a ticket for a direct train to Florence and with thirty minutes before my new train was to leave, I called my hostess, Maria, to tell her I would arrive later than I had planned. In broken English she told me to take a taxi to her house and she would be waiting for me. After a very, very packed train ride on which I sat next to a very nice Italian girl, I arrived in Florence, got a taxi and finally ended up at Via del Pellegrino 45.

I rang the bell and was greeted by a short, grey-haired woman with a big smile on her face. She ushered me in and showed me to my room. Finally my crazy day was over and I was safely in Florence under the care of my very nice Italian hostess and in the company of two other students.


My day was trying but ended up teaching me a good lesson about staying calm and never forgetting the importance of asking for help.

Keep smilin'


j

Illuminated Green Man

My trip to Ireland came to its end and I am pleased with my new count of countries I have travelled to outside the United States. My new total comes to a whopping… TWO! That is, if we are not counting a tourist resort in Mexico at age ten and the airplane in Belgium for an hour or so…which I am not. My trip to Ireland was my first divergence from Germany which gives me at least a little more variation in order to properly relate experiences. It was again a rather long day of travel which included a substantial amount of time waiting outside the train station in a small German town called Memmingen. It was perhaps the coldest weather I have experienced yet. Needless to say, I was ecstatic when the 811 arrived and so were the three French girls that ended up asking me if they were at the correct bus stop in order to get to the airport. I told them they were in the right place as if I hadn’t been just as confused 45 minutes earlier when I myself pestered someone else for that same answer. The bus arrived and took us to the smallest airport I have ever stepped foot in which served as a liaison for a plane that thankfully, did not follow suit in the size department. The airport somewhat resembled a large circus tent of which you could see all corners from the entrance. It turned out not to be so bad however, especially when the other Ryanair travelers began accumulating near the gate reminding me for the first time in a couple weeks that I was not the only person in the world besides Sequoia and Aaron that speak English. After catching wind of all the accents, it started to hit me that after all the years I had fancied going, I was actually about to be in Ireland. I spent the next two hours enjoying the sounds and wondering why anyone would have desired to leave Ireland in the first place.
The airplane arrived safely at Dublin Airport and I was directed to an airport bus that was equipped with free travelling internet and a video screen depicting upcoming destinations with impressive graphics. It was nice to be able to confidently ask questions again which inconveniently slipped my mind once the bus dropped me off downtown at one o’clock in the morning and I was lost, to say the least. I only had vague written directions to the hostel I was staying at which were zero help with navigating streets that were free of any signage at all. Unlike Germany whose streets are very clearly labeled (with long names and strange letters, but labeled nevertheless), Dublin has very few street signs and the ones they do have are located on the sides of buildings…often in different locations…or on the ground. After walking up and down the same street literally six times, I decided to ask a security guard—the only person on the streets and not intoxicated at that hour—for directions. She gave me a good-hearted but rather cryptic description of the path I was to take. Eventually, I arrived in the lobby of a very dingy, smoky, but traditionally homey hostel and hotel combo. I was handed my room key and travelled to my room where I came upon 12 other travelers stuffed into a very small room that smelled strongly of food and feet. The bed was adorned with one large sheet, folded in half atop the bed to act as a quasi sleeping bag, as well as a comforter without a cover. And, the bathroom was…less than clean. After having stayed at such a well-kept hostel in Munich, I had become a bit of a hostel snob for which I received adequate ridicule later on from the listeners of my story. I switched the next morning to a delightful, clean alternative located in the center of the city. I stayed in a six bed room in which I was the only occupant all three nights. There was a clean bathroom, clean beds, and a very nice staff. And with that we have come to the end of this episode of “Jitana’s Irish Hostel Reviews.”
After transporting my suitcase to the new hostel, I went on a self-guided tour of the city. Relying solely on my whims, I travelled by foot to the far reaches of Dublin (it was not really the far reaches, it just felt like it because I walked in one giant circle.) I enjoyed the architecture which reminded me of the areas of Britain I have seen via the Harry Potter movies; not to mention the abundance of double-decker buses. I observed many, many bookstores (about as many as there are bread shops in Germany), a beautiful park called Stephen’s Green with LOTS of birds, and a man making a sand sculpture in the middle of Grafton Street.

[That is what you were missing all those years mom, an exhibit of your skills in the middle of a busy shopping street.] Later, the internet led me to a delicious vegetarian restaurant that was surely not authentic Irish food but was scrumptious anyway. The following day was kicked off by an unanticipated free walking tour of the city. We began at Dublin castle which, much to my surprise was not really very castle-like at all. It was like one giant stone tower accompanied by a smaller, Georgian style building next to a small collection of square buildings in quite un-castle-like colors.

The tour guide, a cute, gregarious, born-and-raised Dubliner named Helena said that when the architect was asked what the meaning of the colors on the building were, he simply said that they were chosen because he liked those colors. The tour took us to every important landmark in Dublin city and was complemented with loads and loads of really fascinating history and silly stories about the Irish people. It lasted about three and a half hours during which we saw an old Viking house, Irish Parliament, Trinity College, Temple Bar, the Ha’penny Bridge, the birthplace of Jonathan Swift, and the tallest building in Ireland.




It ended at a pub where we got the option of sitting down with the tour guide to an authentic Irish meal. I enjoyed Beef and Guinness Stew for the sake of adventure and had a number of delicious sides including parsnips, cooked carrots, and collard greens. The tour was well worth the zero Euro I paid for it (plus ten for the meal).
That night I attended a play put on by the college called “Jurass-tastic” and to put it bluntly, it was a “Jurass-tastrophy.” It was a musical spin off of Jurassic Park with subpar renditions of American pop culture tunes, blowup dinosaurs, and frequent usage of the word “fuck.” The next day, I attempted to avoid getting hit by a car while making my way to catch a bus to the sea. The cross-walk situation in Dublin is a bit nuts. No one waits for it to tell you to cross unless there is absolutely no other option. If you are forced to wait until traffic is slowed, you most certainly do not wait until the illuminated green man appears. Rather, you just start walking as soon as you can be sure you will not get hit by a car. Finally, when the little green man does appear, he only stays for at most five seconds and if you have not cleared the road by that time, you should be worried. One time I had to shove someone out of my way to make it across to safety before a bus came storming at me without slowing in the least. When I finally made it to the bus stop, the bus took me out to Howth, a small town on the outskirts of Dublin that is surrounded by ocean. It was exactly the rural, green, stereotypical Irish scene I had hoped for. I spent a couple hours smelling the sea, hearing the sail boat masts, feeling the rain, seeing the cute houses, and buying cashews.


The return flight left at eight in the morning and they forced me to pay an extra thirty-five Euro for the same sized bag that had been acceptable on the way there. It was nice to be back in the company of friends (or friend, rather) upon my return to Germany but I was not excited to return to the freezing weather and lack of English. I hope to return one day to Ireland and travel to the other points of interest in the country but it was delightful to be there at all. I could not be more excited for my next adventure.

j

Kanoodle.

A quick yet pleasant trip to Munich further proved that most cities share the same general characteristics: bustling crowds, shopping, buses/taxis, sidewalk food vendors, and McDonald's. I have noticed relatively little variation from one city to the next beyond slight architectural and language differences. Of course, visiting each one is no less intriguing especially having witnessed my first real snow fall in far too long.

Munich's famous Hofbräuhaus beer hall welcomed us with liters of beer and authentically prepared pork knuckle. Oh, and how could I forget, kanoodles!

(photograph courtesy of Sequoia Alba)

Munich became the home of my first hostel experience which with I was not at all displeased. The rooms were surprisingly clean and the staff, welcoming, not to mention, the delicious aptly named continental breakfast equipped with clementines and individual portions of liverwurst.

Really, what more could you ask for? We took the train to an extremely creepy deserted adult theme park that consisted of a bunch of strangely themed bars and casinos gathered together in the middle of a neighborhood of office buildings. Considering the entirety of the German population is only ever seen wearing various shades of black and brown and the environment seems to follow suit, it was particularly odd to witness such a kitschy composition of color and theme.

Then, we visited a second-hand clothing store that had thousands of scarves as well as traditional dirndl and lederhosen. I had to stop myself from buying out the whole store. Did I mention that you can buy loaves of bread almost anywhere in Germany, including random shops located every ten feet in the train station?

As you can see, they take their carbohydrates very seriously here.
On a last and final note of the night, it is very cold here, and when I say cold, I mean cold. Don't let the pretty clouds fool you.


We can't deny the freezing temperature.

Neither can this guy.

Auf wiedersehen,
j

A Tribute.

A few days ago Sequoia and I traveled to Dachau, about ten miles outside of Munich in Germany. [The following are excerpts from Wikipedia] Now a popular residential area for people working in Munich, the town is home to the site of what was the first Nazi concentration camp opened in Germany. Located on the grounds of an abandoned munitions factory, Dachau was opened on March 22nd, 1933. Dachau served as a prototype and model for the other Nazi concentration camps that followed. Almost every community in Germany had members taken away to these camps. The camp was in use from 1933 to 1960, for twelve years.

For me, this visit was one of my first and surely the most prominent example of history coming to life. The explanation of those horrible events comprising what we now know as the Holocaust was always that part of history class that gave me chills but was just inconceivable enough to seem like nothing more than a riveting movie plot. Having had the opportunity to visit an actual concentration camp that was involved in the tragedy has offered me some invaluable insight. Unquestionably, heavy feelings are provoked from merely being in the presence of history so taut with gloom. Mostly I have realized, being no less grateful for having had the experience, that I am small compared to this event. My wordy descriptions are only diminutive, petty attempts at justifying what is far beyond my naive grasp. I am humbled by the experience and offer only this small picture montage to mark my respect.



At each tree, there was once a barrack containing beds, toilets, cabinets for clothings, etc. Each concrete foundation marks the previous spot of one of these barracks.


The bunk beds that prisoners slept in. Some had dividers, some were more trough-like similar to this one. The camp was originally meant for 6,000 inhabitants and by the end contained 36,000.






"Work will make you free."



Gas chamber disguised as showers.

The Reptilian Era

Germany has welcomed me with open arms, as if to say let me lead you into a world of hidden lessons. It has been a bit of a trip (pun intended) to be somewhere that is so similar to the culture I am used to yet so different. You expect things to be the same, for people to understand you when you speak. It does not get any easier each time you have no choice but to shake your head and shrug your brows hoping that will convey your lack of proficiency in the German language. Usually, it just comes off rudely as I'm sorry your cat died, or you're batshit crazy. Some are irritated, others are compassionate. While we were walking yesterday, a woman stopped in her car to ask if we had been looking for the entrance to some special garden. Both in awe at her unrequested hospitality, my sister and I thanked her graciously and silently agreed not to announce that we had really been more curious about the run down building with the fire escape. Sequoia claims it to be the only building she has come across in the country that has a fire-escape; I was previously ignorant to her keen eye for spotting safety equipment. Regrettably, the mystery of the potential old paint brush factory was left unsolved. However, our bummed-out-ed-ness was quickly reversed upon the sighting of a fascinatingly shingled house. Unlike your average abode, this one was adorned with square stone shingles that had been plastered not to the roof of the house, but to the side of the house. It ended up producing a silvery scaled look which I suppose marks the beginning of the reptilian era of architecture. You heard it here first, folks.

Further on down the road we stumbled upon a graveyard which, after its initial creepiness wore off, was actually rather captivating. It is always the times you don't have your camera that you end up needing it most, ey? The gated space was cholk-full of large stone coffins decorated with names and dates, some so old that they had begun sinking into the soft, wet ground. The most interesting part was the density and assortment of flora that was strewn across the coffins. Each stone had at least one large pot of dry looking flowering plants in what I can only describe as a morbid color scheme. Mauve, lavender, and sage colored plants stole our vision. We wondered if there were guidelines for the type of plants one could bring to the graveyard and supposed that the only way for that quantity to be maintained would be by means of a tender of some sort.

After leaving the graveyard, we discussed my art school application project about objects in everyday life that we tend to overlook. Moss was one we came up with. Pigeons were another.

I guess the hardest part about figuring out things we overlook, is that they are so easy to overlook.

Nighttime is when homesickness is at its most vivid. I subsist by reminding myself of the characteristics that flow throughout all earthly locales:

shadows


sunsets


& art


Tomorrow we are off to Munich and after that, Dublin!

Stay classy, San Diego.


j

Willkommen in Deutschland

Conveniently, this epic view from above the clouds was the only thing that could have made me completely lose sight of the fact that I was on a stuffy airplane, squished between a row of seats, two walls, and snoring foreigners. Arriving in Germany took nothing more than a plane from San Francisco to Philadelphia, from Philadelphia to Brussels, from Brussels to Munich, getting on a "BART"-esque train to somewhere else in Germany where we hopped a train to Nürnberg. Then there was a walk with my two very large, over-stuffed bags on a completely cobblestone path, half uphill, just to arrive at the bottom of ten flights of stairs. Sitting quaintly at the top of these stairs was my sister's apartment which was the first thing that made my long journey seem worthwhile.

It is a small, lovely apartment adorned appropriately with a combination of handed-down furniture and Ikea accessories. It is on the top floor and on a corner making it a convenient location to survey the scenery from any room in the apartment. I nestled in and quickly claimed my space with the help of my large suitcase as it began to spew its contents into every corner of their living room/ work space. I have chosen to snub my sister and Aaron's pestering and stick with good-ol'-dad-words, it was a lesson you needed to learn on your own.

I will now mention a few interesting/funny/strange things I have seen since being in Germany, in list form as to be thorough and concise. I apologize if any of my remarks are crass; without much room for detail, I am simply making generalizations and superficial observations.

1. Europeans love cars. Both European airports that I visited in Germany and Belgium had a large array of graphic automobile advertisements in addition to fancy, nice, new cars on display in most areas of space that would allow for them.

2. Germans love red roofs.


3. Culture cross-breeding often is quite hilarious.

(This was an ad in the window of the store. The other end of the window said, "Stupid is Spreading.")

4. German toilets are different.

5. You have to pay for grocery bags (which I like) and you also have to promptly bag all your own groceries (which I also like).

6. Germans are very polite.

7. They have fantastic architecture (I hear that most of Europe does, but this is the first place I have visited thus far so that is what I am going on).

The St. Sebaldus Church in Nürnberg (not the building pictured) was destroyed in World War II and was rebuilt to look almost exactly the same and with use of many of the same materials. Sequoia told me that you rarely see dilapidated buildings because when/if one reaches that state, they tear it down and build something else in its place.

8. Most Germans speak English (especially the younger ones) and if asked, will claim they know very little when really, they are actually quite proficient.

9. What I can remember of the "American" aisle of one of the grocery stores contained cheese dip, marshmallows, poptarts, BBQ sauce, and yellow mustard.


I have found that coming to a foreign country for the first time is difficult, especially when you are alone. Granted, I have my sister and Aaron which has been a huge help and comfort but my trip is self-motivated and I will be doing most of the travelling on my own. My brain has been on overdrive observing and analyzing all there is to observe and analyze even while doing simple tasks like walking down the street. When you are submersed in a foreign language your brain subconsciously recognizes word similarities and common phrases while consciously reading facial expressions and body language. You are constantly considering differences in social customs and observing differences in dress and behavior all while being surrounded by massive, intricate architecture. I find my ears have tuned themselves to English making it surprising and exciting every time I hear a conversation in a familiar tone. In stores, my instinct is to make conversation or ask for help, both of which end up feeling like daunting tasks. Travelling to a different country is giving me a refreshed yet dreary outlook on the treatment of foreigners in the United States and what I would imagine to be many other countries as well. We easily lose sight of the fact that language is simply an artsy form of communication and should not, in my opinion, be used as a means for oppression. I would guess that foreigners would be far more willing to learn and adapt to a new language if they felt welcomed, accepted, and aided in such a task. Nevertheless, I understand the obstacle that lies in a communication gap and see how it inevitably creates separation.

On a lighter note, being in Germany has reminded me of why it is I love sociology and the great human diversity (a term I have coined to explain the phenomenon that is, the intrinsic quality of humanity characterized by vast diversity on many, many levels and in many, many areas. The great human diversity, as I have defined it, accepts these differences as fixed and strives to take that into account whilst realizing that diversity is ultimately what makes us similar.) Which is, because each culture and/or group of people operates meticulously and ends up functioning and making sense in the end. Also, no matter how different we seem at times, we all have basic human likenesses. I am humbled by the idea that it all works out so perfectly. Even though I agree realistically that our planet is in turmoil, the "libra" in me says that with bad comes good (and vice versa); and that makes it hard for me to focus on the mayhem without also keeping my eyes open and focused on the miracles in life. I had a sensational day today where I contemplated our many wondrous sense receptors and thanked them for allowing me to hear guitar, taste salt, feel wind, see and comprehend color, and even to feel fear due to peering over this very tall, rickety, wooden, spiral staircase in the tower of a castle.


Stay tuned for further adventure updates.

j