Melissa's Travels

There's No Turning Back Now.

missmelissa — Mon, 7 Sep 2009 06:42:00 GMT

Fall is officially here.

Technically, we should still have two more weeks of summer to enjoy before it is officially fall. Regardless of the fact that I've lived in Seattle for 25 years, I still find myself constantly surprised at this city's bipolar weather tendencies. Staring at the ginormous puddle forming outside the front door of the gym (dubbed by a member, "Lake HAC"), I can't help but feel cheated out of opportunities to wear summer skirts and sandals. But wait, this is not a typical turning of the seasons for me. Because halfway across the world is a city where it is still in the upper 80's, where I can show off my end-of-the-season clearance tanktops and head out on the town without needing to tuck an umbrella in my purse. This place of wonderfully long summers is noneother than Madrid. And Madrid, as I'm sure you know by now, is one week away from being the place I call home.

Just typing those words "one week," sends chills up my spine. This ambiguous future event is suddenly an undeniable reality. Even the most trivial of events is taking on infinite significance. "My last opportunity to go to First Thursday!" (I still have yet to go, although I pencil it into my planner every month without fail), "My last time going to the library!" (actually not such a bad thing since my fines are getting dangerously close to the $10 account freeze point), "My last Sunday where I'll actually get a good night of sleep because next Sunday I will be freaking out about my flight on Monday morning!" There is no shortage of moments worthy of being blown out of proportion. You would think I was planning on relocating to Spain! (This of course, is my Mother's greatest fear. And regardless of my love for Spain, I am honestly not moving there with plans on staying permanently).

Before I even begin my job on October 1st I've packed in two weeks of back to back adventures. The first chapter starts next Monday morning when I'll hopefully be boarding a 6am flight to Madrid. I say "hopefully" because I'll be flying standby. Which means even if I get on my first flight, there is still the potential of getting stranded at JFK in New York. And with a one way, stand by ticket and visa, my blonde, smiling self is assured a date to get checked out by airport security. If I do have the luck of getting aboard my intended flight then I'll arrive in Madrid on Tuesday morning, hopefully with minimal jetlag because I wont be able to check into my hostel. Then the week-long apartment hunting marathon will commence! I've selected the area of town I want to live in and have been obsessively checking online listings to get a feel for what's available. Not that this is actually doing anything more than adding to my paranoia that I wont find anything but an overpriced, overcrowded, granny furnished flat in a sketchy part of town.

Regardless of whether or not I find an apartment, after one week in Madrid, I'll be jetting off for a 5 day vacation in Italy. Thankfully I will have a Vespa chauffeur in charge of quickly escorting me away from the "Urban Jungle" of Napoli to the coastal paradise of Positano. Be assured, this will be a blog worthy vacation. I'll arrive back in Spain on Sunday morning, just in time to head to my orientation class the following day. My new job officially starts October 1st. There are numerous unanswered questions and still to be discovered details that loom ahead. What age of kids am I teaching? How much Spanish am I actually going to need? What subjects will I be teaching? How close to a half an hour will my commute on the Spanish bus system actually be?

Ready or not, the week long countdown to Madrid (and sunnier skies!) has begun!

Dov'e la spiaggia? (Which way to the beach?)

missmelissa — Sun, 9 Aug 2009 04:47:00 GMT

I am officially half way through my summer vacation. Only six weeks (and that visa I'm still waiting for) lie between me and my year in Spain. I couldn't be more excited. I could however deal with being less nervous. I've found it hard to enjoy siestas since returning home from Europe without my mind racing with all of the more productive things I could be doing with my time:: Studying Spanish, earning money, taking advantage of the gym, packing up my stuff or reading up on life in Madrid. Even the seemingly minor detail of packing already has me confounded and overwhelmed. First of all, I'm going to be flying standby which means that if the airlines loses my luggage I am s.o.l. This is going to require some strategic packing of my carry on bag. Then is the ever present dilemma of what can actually be classified as "necessary." Yes, I can save money by packing only the essentials of my wardrobe and travel size bottles of toiletries, but will I actually have money to afford to go out and buy a new bottle of Bumble & Bumble hair creme when my 3oz run out? The exchange rate is starting to look scary and my first euros wont start rolling in until the end of October.

Even if I can figure out which clothes I'm most likely to wear during the fall and winter months I am also faced with another dilemma:: I want to take a vacation before I start school in October. OK yes, maybe it seems like going to Madrid should be seen as a vacation in itself, but I will be there for 9 months and I want to get plenty of side trips in. It is never too early to start, right? Plus, I love a challenge and how exciting to arrive in Madrid jet lagged and overwhelmed with the clock ticking on finding an apartment in the 6 days I've set aside before I board another plane and set off to vacation? There will be no time to worry if my Spanish is up to par with the demands of apartment hunting in Madrid.

The other reason for getting out of Spain so quickly lies in a town across the Mediterranean on the Amalfi Coast of Italy:: Positano. You may have read my blog from a few weeks ago where I gushed about the fairy tale week that had unfolded for my friends and I as we'd basked in the sun and danced til dawn in this gem of an Italian city. I've had a terrible time trying to forget this village. This is partly due to international phone calls with a certain local, but even more because of the mysterious ways that Positano keeps popping up in my life. You know when you hear about a new type of car or particular brand of clothing and suddenly it seems like everyone is wearing those shoes or driving that vehicle through the streets? That's Positano for me.

It really started when we arrived at our hostel in Rome and I discovered that the photograph at the end of our hallway was of none other than this coastal paradise. Once at home, the coincidences continued. In cleaning out my room at my parent's house I came across my calendar from 2008 which I'd saved because it had showcased breathtaking pictures of destinations throughout the world. I gasped as I pulled it out of my closet and got a look at the cover. For an entire year the photo gracing the cover of my calendar had been of Positano. In talking with some members at the gym about my adventures through Europe I learned that one of them had been in Positano only a week after my stay. Soon after I met a new friend whose sister had traveled to Positano a few years ago where she'd met a local guy who'd later visited her in Seattle and proposed to her. The coincidences continued...I received an email from Rick Steves notifying me that his special on the Amalfi Coast and Positano would be on Ch 9 that week. Then just the other day I watched "Under the Tuscan Sun" with my family only to discover (could it really be??) that my favorite small town disco was in the background. Yes, that is right, Music on the Rocks had a moment of fame in this chick flick. Unfortunately in this story the girl falls in love in Positano only to return to visit him months later and discovers he has a girlfriend. However, she also managed to make the roundtrip trek from Cortona to Positano in only one day and according to the TrenItalia website the shortest journey from Cortona to Sorrento (not to mention the hour bus ride from Sorrento to Positano) would take almost 7 hours. Then take into account the "timeliness" of transportation in Italy and you've got yourself a whole mess of an unrealistic scenario. Hopefully my attempts to prove Frances Mayes wrong will be more successful than the mission I undertook to disprove Elizabeth Gilbert (see previous blog).

Then just yesterday I came across this article by John Steinbeck published in "Harpers Bazaar" in 1953, which supposedly introduced the rest of the world to this tiny town on the Amalfi Coast: http://www.krisandsusanna.com/Travel/Italy/Positano/steinbeck%27s_positano.htm. I laughed at the picture he painted of the men wandering the streets shoes in hand. No local wears shoes by choice. My sister mentioned the other day that she believes that girls don't actually fall for guys who remind them of their parents, but actually of their siblings. Considering that my own sister desperately tried to make it to kindergarten without anything on her feet, she may have a good theory here. And although Positano has certainly seen an influx of tourists since the 1950's, I don't imagine it will face the same fate destined for other small towns in Italy, such as Cinque Terre, which faces losing all of it's Italian authenticity. Despite the town bus and the numerous taxis lining the hillside, there is still no way to reach the beach without an inevitable climb up some stairs.

Time will tell if I actually decide I'm in need of an Italian vacation or up for the adventure of crashing an Italian birthday party. Spending my first two weeks in Europe acclimating to the time zone change, leisurely searching for an apartment and hunting down favored nighttime haunts of the locals in Madrid could certainly be just as exciting. However, I wouldn't mind spending the last days of September enjoying a belated birthday present to myself. Soaking up the last summer rays on the Mediterranean, swimming through the salty clear blue sea, enjoying local limoncello and the very best caprese sandwich, utilizing my meager Italian skills (pretty much limited to "spiaggia," "medusa," "buon giorno" and some creative attempts to twist Spanish phrases). And lately I have been practicing "That's Amore" on my harmonica. What better place to play that just south of ol' Napoli?

Taking on the Spanish Education System. One subject at a time.

missmelissa — Sun, 2 Aug 2009 03:08:00 GMT

I never thought I would add "ESL teacher" to the list of jobs I've held. Truth be told, I was one of those children in elementary school who steered clear of the kids in the ESL classes. I read books condemning the horrific history of segregation and organized presentations for school assemblies proclaiming the uselessness of racism. I definitely wasn't going to judge anyone based on their appearance. However, if you weren't mainstreamed with the English speaking kids then you just didn't make the cut to be on my friends list. I think "mainstreamed" is the key word here. I didn't hang out with the ESL kids because I never really had the opportunity to get to know them. They were segregated from the rest of the school in their own classroom, they ate lunch together, played together at recess and had their own P.E., library and music sessions. The only time I learned anything about them was when they did a little performance at the annual multicultural assembly. I probably assumed that since their friend group consisted of solely their fellow ESL classmates, that they had no interest of being my friend.

Times have changed since the early 90's. ESL programs have taken on the more politically correct name of "ELL" (English Language Learners) and schools are working to integrate these kids whenever possible. I've grown up from the 6 year old girl who didn't find it necessary to put forth the effort (or break through my shyness) to reach out and befriend the kids from cultures different from my own and I'm now scouring the Internet to make new friends around the world. Whereas learning a new language once seemed pointless, I now find it essential. I'm sure all of this growing up will aid me as I embark on the adventure awaiting me this fall, teaching English at a bilingual elementary school in the suburbs outside of Madrid, Spain.

I've been spending this summer taking advantage of my free time (I am "partially unemployed," a term I prefer to saying instead I have a part time job because that doesn't seem to fully express my state of financial distress and I was told that if I am working 20 hours a week I am technically not allowed to lament about being unemployed). Anyhow, I have been meeting weekly with a new friend from Madrid, who lives in Seattle at the moment, to practice my Spanish. Of course, I am also helping her with her English and realizing how little I really know about the English language. Having discovered this, I am also enjoying the literary delight of English Grammar for Students of Spanish and will likely take English Grammar for Dummies for a whirl in the upcoming weeks. I'm a Spanish flash card toting fanatic at the moment (great for studying on the elliptical at the gym) and I am proud to say that I watched my first full length Spanish movie sans subtitles last week.

Of course, I still have miles, or kilometers rather--must prepare for the metric system, to walk before I feel comfortable enough to arrive in Madrid and search for an apartment. Just last week I was hiding out in Starbucks to escape from the unusually inferno-esqu day we were having in Seattle and two guys sat down beside me with their frappucinos and began to talk in Spanish. I lowered the volume on my iPod and commenced to eavesdrop. I considered interrupting them and inquiring where they were from. They were around my age, talkative and as I learned, headed to the beach. I'm sure they would've been delighted and surprised to discover that this blonde Seattleite could speak a little Español. However, I was certain they weren't from Spain and what if they made fun of my lisp, or accidental use of vosotros? Even worse, what if I couldn't understand their rapid central American Spanish or god forbid, they could be from Argentina and stump me with words like "plasha" and "esha." So rather than take advantage of the real life study opportunity sitting next to me, I instead opted to bury my nose in my Spanish grammar book. I felt like an ecologist sitting on the outskirts of the Amazon reading an encyclopedia on plants rather than just trekking into the jungle and exploring it first hand. I vowed I would never let such an opportunity pass me by again.

Of course, in my actual job I'll be speaking in English rather than Spanish. At least, that is what should happen in theory. However, from what I hear it sounds like theory and practice don't necessarily look the same. Although I'm preparing to teach English grammar and organize fun games in English, a girl I've met who participated in this program last year was in charge of teaching science and P.E. (a task I do not feel like I could rise to. How can I represent America if I don't even know the rules of baseball?). This girl had no teaching certificate, but she was teaching these subjects in English, a subject with which she had an entire lifetime of real world experience (this was the school's rationalization). Other teaching assistant's have complained that their school's don't seem to know what to do with them so they've wound up spending most days sitting in front of a computer. Getting paid to sit in front of facebook for 16 hrs a week in Spain? Not for me. I'm pretty confident that the folks in Madrid have got their act together. Especially since they're now competing with Catalunya (the region where Barcelona is located) to get their students up to speed on national testing outcomes (http://www.elpais.com/articulo/cataluna/examenes/ver/mismo/elpepiespcat/20090727elpcat_8/Tes).

Any updates to the education system would be great news since I've been less than impressed with the education levels I've found amongst the Spaniards of my age. Although I overall find it charming that Spain is a country of Western Europe unadulterated by the English language, where thanks to the language barrier, traveling feels a little more adventurous than a visit to England or even Germany. However, the reality is that Spain lags behind most Western European countries in the number of citizens able to speak English (with only Italy touting less English language speakers). Charming as it may be, it certainly is not good for tourism, other aspects of their economy or their attempts to have an international presence. Any Spaniards I've met who speak English have been lucky enough to have parents who spoke English, went to a private or International school or made a significant effort on their own part to study English (such as living abroad, enrolling in optional language school or took it upon themselves to learn the language in their free time). Now in their late twenties or thirties and settled in careers (though possibly still living with parents), many Spaniards find it pointless to study English. I see the same sentiments amongst my friends in the states. They rarely encounter scenarios where they'd need anything but their native language so why try? Plus, isn't it true that you can really only learn a language when you're a kid, why waste time now?

Learning a new language is different for everyone, both in learning style and ease at picking up the language. And although it is not by any stretch impossible to learn a language as an adult, it is certainly more desirable to begin learning the language as a child. This is why I'm so excited that in the past few years Madrid has instituted bilingual programs in many of their schools (which I get to be a part of!). In between watching Spanish movies and planning my weekend trips while in Spain I've been spending a lot of time researching ESL/ELL websites. I have a lot to learn when it comes to teaching English. Last week I expressed my enthusiasm to a friend about reading Dr. Seuss to Spanish 1st graders. This friend, who has experience with teaching English as part of the Peace Corps, politely pointed out that Dr. Seuss vocabulary may not necessarily be the best introduction to English. Point taken. Now I'm struggling to figure out if Hickory-Dickory-Dock and "Hey Diddle Diddle" are even appropriate songs to teach? In fact, I am beginning to wonder how children in the states really ever learn proper English when they are hearing about guys playing "knick-knack," throwing ears over shoulders like a continental shoulder and a giant egg practically committing suicide. Forget learning English, how do kids here even have a grasp on reality?? Regardless, I am having a great time reminiscing about my childhood and remembering all the points along my educational path that helped turn me into a lifelong lover of learning.

The most exciting part about teaching in Spain? I can finally work with elementary schoolers again, without the fear of getting a chair thrown at me or school supplies being snuck away to create makeshift weapons. Bring on the scissors and sharpened pencils!

Gallery: Reunion in Positano

missmelissa — Thu, 2 Jul 2009 05:48:00 GMT

Back to Reality

missmelissa — Thu, 2 Jul 2009 05:31:00 GMT

I am officially back in the PST Time zone, calling Seattle (or rather Burien) home again. Although, I can't say I have actually adjusted to this time. The sun is telling me I should be enjoying breakfast and morning errands, but my internal clock says I should just be awaking from a siesta and heading to tapas. In an attempt to get myself back in the groove I've opted for granola and yogurt over greasy bar food, which I'm enjoying in my parent's backyard, reminiscing about the unbelievable three month adventure I just enjoyed. There is no Mediterranean Sea to admire as I sip my morning coffee and no beach to look forward to lazing at during the afternoon ahead. But regardless of the European sun I am missing and the mixture of languages I long to hear, I am happy to be home.

Only a few days ago I could've barely given you a handful of things I was looking forward to back at home. I was heading back to Seattle unemployed and teetering on debt, with three months of living at my parents to welcome me home. I had finally reached the point where I was missing family and friends, but after 13 weeks abroad I had adjusted to my life in Europe. I would've been perfectly content remaining there for a longer period of time. However, after a full day of traveling from Madrid to Berlin to London to the states, I found my eyes welling with tears of joy as our pilot announced we were only 40 minutes from landing at SeaTac. There was Mt. Rainier! And the beautiful Pudget Sound! Although I'd spent the past 3 months telling other travelers and Europeans whom I'd met that they absolutely must visit Seattle in the summer, I had somehow forgotten that I was actually going to have the fortune of spending this season in Seattle myself.

Agnes E. Benedict said, "Trips don't end when we return home, in a sense it's when they usually begin." I'm excited to discover how this trip has changed me and what wisdom I've gained that will affect my lifestyle at home. And as one of my friends said to me last night, if you're going to be unemployed, summertime is the best time for it! Of course, I'm not sure how much truth there is to this statement when I am trying to get back to Spain this fall. I've accepted a position with Spain's Ministry of Education to teach English in a bilingual elementary school outside of Madrid. This summer I'll be working on obtaining my visa, practicing my Spanish and some way or another making enough money to purchase my ticket back over to Europe. I may be foolish to believe that this is all going to work out, especially considering our economic state, but my mind refuses to let go of Paolo Coehlo's wisdom from his well known bestseller, "The Alchemist" that "When you want something, all of the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it."

I hope I have the fortune of seeing all of you this summer. Just as much as you may want to hear about my travels, I too want to hear about your life during spring 2009.

Dance, Pray,...Love?

missmelissa — Sat, 20 Jun 2009 05:28:00 GMT

Many of you already know that Elizabeth Gilbert's much-acclaimed memoir, "Eat Pray Love" is a personal favorite of mine. Her tale of her attempts to rediscover her identity post-divorce as she traveled the world has been a bible of sorts for my own past 3 months of travel. My copy of the book is almost ready to lose its cover and is littered with coffee stains and frantic pen marks highlighting passages that resonated with my own experience or that I felt were so perfectly articulated.

When I decided that this book would be my sole read for my three month journey, I worried I may grow bored with the story the second time around. However, my intuition told me to take it along regardless. I tried to savor the bite size chapters throughout my ten weeks of travel and inadvertently found my own journey mirroring that of Gilbert's in many ways. Rather than finding pleasure in food as she'd done in Italy (the food in Spain is no comparison to the luscious pizza and pasta she enjoyed in Roma), I found my own joy in the form of late nights dancing in Spain, singing in the streets with my students and an occasional kiss to attractive European men who happened to cross my path (or in a certain case, when they showed up at my hostel door). By the time I reached Germany, it was time to put away the dancing shoes for a while and hit the floor with almost daily yoga and moments of connecting with God to help me persevere through moments of homesickness, stress from my job and the world-view shattering history that litters Germany's landscape.

By the time I parted ways from my students, I was ready for the "beaches of Bali," where Liz Gilbert spent the final section of her book. Here she chronicled her attempts to find balance amidst the pursuit of pleasure and spirituality. Well, at least this is what she claims to write about during her time in Indonesia. This pursuit of balance is what she originally set out to achieve, but instead she met a handsome Brazilian man who swept her off her feet, ending what is otherwise a delightful story of female independence and empowerment in a somewhat sickening Fairy Tale fashion. Well I was determined to head to the beach (Positano, Italy rather than Bali, Indonesia) to accomplish Gilbert's original mission.

Before I get too far into the story, let me say that I never actually wanted to go to Positano. My girlfriends and I had all made plans to rendezvous in Rome and fly over to Eastern Italy where we'd ferry over to Croatia for a week in the undiscovered gem of Europe. We had even booked our airline tickets, but on my final day in Paris, I received an email from home notifying me that Croatia was off. My heart sank, head swam and stomach churned. I had put all my energy into planning the 2-week trip for my sister and I and I had no more energy for travel plans. I wanted to go to Croatia, dammit! I easily downed a half bottle of cheap, but delicious French wine as I begrudgingly packed my bag (remember, this was before the part of the trip when I used my spiritual resources to cope) and wound up with a nasty hangover to accompany me on my travels to Strasbourg.

I spent the next week trying to figure out a plan B. Finally, we all agreed to skip the flight to Eastern Italy and instead would head south to the Amalfi Coast. I still hadn't completely shed my bitterness at having my dreams of Croatia smashed, but a reunion with college friends was far more important. Moreover, this trip had given me every reason to believe that all things happen for a reason. In Eat, Pray, Love Elizabeth Gilbert quotes a Sufi poem that says, "long ago God drew a circle in the sand exactly around the spot where you are standing right now." So although I thought I was going to Croatia, I really was never going anywhere but Positano.

I'm not sure who ended up deciding that Positano would be our exact destination on the Amalfi Coast. We wound up renting a villa that entirely too large for only the 4 of us, but its grand patio overlooking the sea was the perfect location for morning yoga, writing and evening gourmet dinners courtesy of our fellow traveler who just happened to be an aspiring chef! I honestly felt my heart would beat out of my chest in pure joy every morning when I awoke to the sun rising over the multi colored houses lining the hillside and every evening, after a long day at the beach, when we'd watch the blood orange moon rise over the horizon and toast to being world travelers at only 24. By our third night, we were ready to mingle with the locals and so we headed down to the village's one disco, "Music on the Rocks." I assumed that we'd be greeted by a local strumming his guitar while sitting perched up on the cliffside at the beach, but we were pleasantly surprised to discover a legit disco where we danced with the locals late into the night (even a couple of twins who happened to be Dolce and Gabana models). A.M. yoga, meditating on the beach, drinking and dancing until dawn...I was actually doing this balance thing right!

We quickly befriended our eccentric Australian landlord and decided to celebrate our second to last night going to his favorite local family owned restaurant, Ristorante Saraceno d'Oro. Before heading down the street to the restaurant we got the inside scoop on who was who (mother, son-in-law, aunt, etc.). All of the names and relationships went right over my head. We'd only be eating there once anyways, what was the point in memorizing this?

Upon arriving at Saraceno d’Oro, we were instantly greeted with the best Italian hospitality--complimentary champagne to start the night off right with a toast to a fabulous week in Positano. We enjoyed grilled Mediterranean vegetables, mouth-watering pizza, more champagne and the local specialty licquor- limoncello (compliments of the house!). During the meal, we put faces to the names and personalities we'd heard about earlier. Then, tragedy hit. At least this is what it was in the eyes of someone desperately avoiding anything (or anyone) that might distract them from their mission to balance time with friends with time for yoga. My attempts to avoid Elizabeth Gilbert's Balinese "mistake" were about to go right out the window.

Halfway through dinner the brother-in-law (or maybe nephew? or cousin? I still hadn't figured out how everyone was related. Maybe I should've paid more attention to the tutorial from earlier) of the restaurant owners wandered up the street from his own restaurant down the road. Coincidence? Probably not, our landlord suspects that one of the waiters at Saraceno had wandered down to tell him about the four attractive American girls he did not want to miss meeting. We giggled like 8th grade girls as we met charming, attractive Lorenzo who spoke English in a perfectly sexy Italian accent. We learned he had recently broken up with his girlfriend (who we learned throughout the night was from the Dominican Republic. But, was also Irish. And blonde? Needless to say, the visual image morphed quite drastically as we picked up more details). He had also just returned from Naples that morning were he tested to become a boat captain. Did he want to come to Music on the Rocks with us to celebrate? It turns out that this very night was "Alexander Night," a weekly celebration on the night that his friend Alex has off work. There was always a party on this night.

After Lorenzo headed back to work, we finished our limoncello, took some necessary photos and headed down to M.O.R. (our nickname for the disco). On the way, we stopped at Ristorante Mediterraneo where Lorenzo worked. He'd have to meet up with us after it closed, but in the meantime, could we please head down the street to the next bar where his friend Alex was and surprise him? Of course we could so we set off in search of this stranger. As it turns out, he wasn't hard to find. In fact, he started talking to us before we could even get the words out that we were there to see someone named Alexander. He was so delighted and surprised that he joined our table and bought us shots of a local special liquor. We were introduced to another friend, Enzo, and learned all about the risk of sharks in Positano (or "Scooter Sharks" rather, the sleazy Italian guys that zoom around the windy streets of Positano in search of vulnerable female tourists). We also heard about Alexander's latest boat-- "Paradise Love Boat III" (the first two were "stolen" by the sea,) before heading back up the road to retrieve Lorenzo. As we waited for Lorenzo to count out the money, Enzo jumped behind the bar to serve up more local specialties (liquor from artichokes? Not so bad) and our landlord showed up with Lorenzo's mom to join in on the drinks. Just as we were getting set to make the long trek down the hill to the disco, Lorenzo's friend (or maybe his cousin? Everyone seems to be cousins in that town) showed up in his taxi and offered us a ride. Perfect!

We finally all rendezvoused at Music on the Rocks a while later and the dance party began! It was more of a little dance circle than anything else, with no one really singling out another person in particular to dance with, except for the occasional spin or one of the guys cutting in to save us from a local creepster (A "Scooter Shark" sans scooter). Of course, if there was anyone in particular we wanted to dance with, they could arrange that as well. Hmmm...Did I dare tell them who I wanted to twirl me across the dance floor? I'd been watching Lorenzo out of the corner of my eye as he'd chatted it up with people all throughout the club, always smiles, and occasionally gracing up with his presence in our communal dance party. But why ruin the fun with the prospects of disappointment when I was having such a great time as merely an audience member? I didn't think I stood a chance against some of the leggy, tanned girls in the club and moreover, I had been hurt by guys from Europe in the past; there was no point in risking that disappointment again. But as luck would have it, my skills at miscommunication trumped my lack of assertiveness and a little later in the night I mentioned to Lorenzo that my friend and I were heading back inside to dance, which he mistook as an invitation to dance with me. And the rest, as they so clichély say in the movies, is history. We danced until they kicked us out, as our tired friends sat out on the sidelines, kicking off their heels and snapping photos. We parted ways promising to meet again the next day--maybe even on Paradise Love Boat III--and I floated up the 300 stairs leading from the beach to our villa.

What had originally been planned as a 5-day stay in Positano slowly turned into eight. Two of the girls had flights to catch, but Christina and I stayed behind, wondering if we'd really ever find motivation to leave. We returned to Saraceno d'Oro, allowed Lorenzo to spoil us at his restaurant, where we dined in four-hour stretches, always meeting new friends who sketched our portraits or serenaded us with their guitar. We made friends on the beach who offered us free beach chairs during the day and took us out squid fishing in the depths of the night. We even made it out on Paradise Love Boat III for a tour of the coast and a swim to the shore to collect mussels for dinner. We raced around on motorbikes and danced until nearly morning.

With every day I was falling more in love with Positano. I had lived walking distance from the beach last spring in Alicante, but had only gone a handful of times and here I was in Positano, almost in tears when the sun fell behind the cliffs at 6pm (of course this may have had something to do with the fact that leaving the beach meant a 30 minute trek uphill to the villa). I watched with envy at the children playing on the shores. What luck they have to grow up amidst such a picturesque and tranquil setting! And what joy for their parents and grandparents to watch each generation learning to swim in the salty sea. Of course, I could never be a successful Italian. I suck at cooking (at least in comparison) and would fail at the art of doing nothing. Christina and I lay on the beach one afternoon discussing how lovely it would be to enjoy a life where you had nothing to do. You could read, paint, practice languages, play the piano...our list went on and on before we realized that our American concept of "doing nothing" would never fly in Italia. Still, lounging on the beach with the biggest dilemma being "Should I read, meditate, siesta or swim?" got very comfortable.

I'm sure I could've lived that life for several more weeks, but thankfully (or maybe not? I still haven't decided) I had a date to meet my sister in Rome on Tuesday morning. I toyed with the idea of flaking out, but the imagined consequences, along with Lorenzo's encouragement to "be the good example," persuaded me to follow through with meeting her. However, not before a final night in Positano for San Vitto Day (their village saint). Christina and I enjoyed our fireworks send-off and headed to M.O.R. for one last time, to wait for Lorenzo. All of the words we'd been holding in since we met (and maybe should've kept inside forever?) came tumbling out, as we danced, went out on a friend's boat and road through the hills of Positano on his scooter. If it wasn't for the overpriced taxi I had scheduled to rush me to the Naples train station on Tuesday morning, I don't know if I would've ever made it out the door. All of my obligations to my sister seemed so much less important as I watched the sunrise over Positano in the arms of this Italiano.

Nevertheless, I inevitably had to go, promising to return soon. I greeted my sister and Trisha in Rome in much worse shape than they were after a night of no sleep. Then came the two weeks of me gushing every last detail of my week in Positano. At the end of our hallway in Rome was a photo of Positano, a cruel, daily reminder of where my heart longed to be. By the end of the first week, the girls had started referring to Positano as "La La Land" and were certainly tuning out my constant onslaught of stories. I tried to get back into the groove of seeking balance. I did a little yoga and went out dancing, but I, the girl who traditionally refused to leave a dance club in Spain before 6am without a fuss, found myself more than ready to retire at 2 am. What had happened to me? None of these guys could dance like Lorenzo, no one smiled like him and I had no desire to give any of them the chance to prove if they could kiss like him.

So where did I go wrong? How did I wind up being so swept away in the moment only to find myself lonely and heartsick in Spain, the country I claimed affinity to? Towards the end of her section in Indonesia, after she's decided to risk liking the Brazilian guy, Elizabeth Gilbert is told, "to lose balance sometimes for love is part of living a balanced life." Kahlil Gibran says something similar in his book, The Prophet,

"But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears."

Living a life of balance does not mean living in a constant state of equilibrium, or even a perfect pairing of late night dancing and early morning prayer. I want my balanced life to also include my heart beating beneath my ribs in joy for the moments I am living now, even if they may be fleeting and lead to long summers interspersed with an aching in my chest, distracted only by scheming ways to return to Positano. I want to have this, even if only to repeat this cycle all over again.

It looks like Elizabeth Gilbert didn't go astray after all.

Roman Holiday: Burien Style

missmelissa — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 04:38:00 GMT

I almost didn't make it to Roma. I'd spent countless hours planning out the itinerary for my whirlwind 2 week trip through Europe with my sister and her BFF, Trisha. Ridiculous amounts of euros had been wasted on researching the best hostels and sending excessive emails to my sister to ensure this vacation met up to everyone's expectations. I think it was thanks to all this planning that I figured it might possibly be ok to skip out on the vacation myself. They had the hostel reservation numbers and a modified list of Rick Steves do's and don'ts in Europe. Did they really need their tour guide?

Thankfully my common sense (and my fear of the wrath of my parents for leaving my sister and Trisha to fend for themselves in Europe) got the best of me. I shelled out more euros than I'd like to admit on a taxi that whisked me away from the paradise of coastal Positano and into the dirty chaos of the Naples train station. Within two hours I had arrived at Rome's Termini Station and was all set to wait for my sister's arrival. Afterwhat seemed like much longer than thirty minutes I finally spotted the two recent college graduates making their way towards me up the platform. After being away from Seattle for nearly three months I expected to be greeted with "I missed you!" "You look fabulous!" "You are the best sister EVER for planning this trip!" Instead, the first words out of my sister's mouth were, "What is on your teeth!?" Some things never change. Sometimes I think my sister is training for motherhood by taking me on as her practice child; she is always quick to point out smeared eye makeup and wouldn't think twice about spitting on her hand and publicly rubbing off a barely noticeable mark from my cheek. Assuming this to be one of her typical overreactions, I launched into my own enthusiastic onslaught of how much I'd missed her and how excited I was for the adventure ahead. However, I barely got a few words out before she interjected, "I'm sorry, but WHAT did you eat!?" I begrudgingly pulled a mirror out of my purse to check this out for myself and was horrified to discover that this was not one of my sister's OCD comments, it really did appear that I had brushed my teeth with swamp sludge that morning. My God, what had I eaten!? After racking my brain I finally settled on the only possible cause. After pulling an all nighter filled with celebratory drinking I'd decided to pop a couple pepto bismol tablets to avoid any unnecessary stomachaches during my morning of travel. Perhaps there had been some sort of oxidizing effect turning the bright pink tablets into the black goo that now lined my teeth? I quickly realized that this meant I had been traveling through Italy all morning, my usually smiley self (probably even more than usual as I tend to smile even more in unfamiliar situations), showcasing my horrific teeth to everyone I encountered. My only hope was that I had been mistaken (and quickly forgiven for my horrible smile) as being British and on holiday in Italy.

As soon as we'd located our hostel I headed to the bathroom to restore my teeth. Then it was off to explore Roma. However thanks to Steph and Trisha's jet lag and my own sleep deprivation, we didn't make it much farther than a two block radius outside of Termini Train Station before we returned to our hostel for a siesta. Day one as the tour guide and I was already being a terrible role model breaking rule #1 of traveling:: no naps for jet lag! You must fight exhaustion and stay awake to get your body to adjust. I didn't fully realize how big of a mistake I'd made until I awoke at 6pm, refreshed and ready to go and tried to awake Steph and Trisha, who were now happily snoozing in REM zone. No talk of gelato, pizza or photos at the Trevi Fountain was going to rouse these two, at least not very quickly. It wasn't until an hour later that these two begrudgingly followed me out made it out the door and into the bustle of the evening in Rome.

A quick note about our hostel. Inappropriately named Hostel Beautiful (2), we spent our stay there brainstorming new names that our accommodations actually warranted. Among the replacements we tossed around were "Hostel Sketchy," "Hostel Ghetto" and "Hostel of Terror." Now, in truth, the actual rooms of our hostel really weren't so bad, but we'd only located the establishment thanks to the help we received from the owner of the local laundromat/internet cafe who quickly realized we were lost tourists when we wandered by his business twice within five minutes. He graciously led us to Hostel Beautiful (2), where we encountered the first less-than-beautiful part of the hostel, the giant metal cage-like tower in the center of the building containing the elevator. This elevator was fairly similar to many I'd encountered (and survived) in Spain, but something about the dark, cold stone stairwell made it seem that much scarier. Add to it that it was Steph and Trisha's first time stepping in to such a cage, made me think twice about trusting such an antique contraption. Indeed, I am still not sure how such an elevator functions in a youth hostel where drunk, oblivious travelers are likely to forget to shut the cage door, rendering it useless and unable to travel to any other floors. As much as we could we opted for the stairs during our stay at Hostel Beautiful (2).

After an introduction to the metro system in Rome (which we quickly learned lived up to its reputation of being dirty, sketchy and crowded) we arrived at the Spanish Steps. I was disappointed to discover this landmark to be more beautiful and impressive in photos. After our own necessary snapshots of the steps and surrounding fountains, we were off to locate Piazza Navona, home of Bernini's Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi (Fountain of Four Rivers). This turned out to be the perfect location for enjoying Italian pizza and people watching. Before making our way to the Trevi Fountain, we stopped at a to-die-for gelateria where Trisha quickly made friends with the guy behind the counter who was eager to try out his limited English vocab on us and trade generous servings of gelato samples in exchange for a chance to try on Trisha's aviator glasses.

Probably the coolest part about Rome is that you are completely surrounded by history and can easily stumble across infinitely important landmarks. Such a thing happened on our first night when we came across a massive, important (and very old) looking building. Thankfully I had Rick Steves in tow and we quickly learned that oh, it is just the Pantheon. Just the Pantheon? Wow. This is epic! After accidentally encountering a few other important landmarks we finally arrived at the overcrowded, yet breathtakingly beautiful, Trevi fountain. In truth, it did feel a little reminiscent of Caesar's Palace in Vegas, but I kept reminding myself that this was the real thing and joined in on the tourists snapping photos and tossing coins over their shoulders for good luck.

Day #2 took us to Vatican City. First stop was the Vatican Museum, which we found to be surprisingly empty. We later learned that this was the case because all of the really wise tourists had procured tickets to see the pope speak that morning. Strike two for the tour guide. We hurried past important statues, books and paintings in search of the Sistine Chapel, all while Trisha expressed her disappointment that they did not have a shortcut to this highlight of the museum. Around 92 rooms later we finally arrived and craned our necks to see Michaelangelo's masterpiece. Now this was the kind of thing you need to see in person!

Then it was back out in the scorching 90 degree heat where we learned we'd missed the pope and had to wait 20 minutes until the reopened St. Peter's Basilica. We almost skipped it altogether since we were dressed entirely appropriately for the church, knees and shoulders covered, and not at all for baking in the sun. Just as we were about to head towards the metro they reopened the gates and we were on our way (that is, after all the overly enthusiastic Asian tourists rushed past us, ignoring all rules of line etiquette. You would've thought they'd heard the pope was giving an encore performance, right in the cathedral). We admired the high ceilings and impressive frescoes, scoffed at the excessive gold and grew squeamish at the sight of the former pope's corpses on display. Then it was time to head back to the hostel for an afternoon siesta, but not before Stephanie elegantly fell off of one of the high curbs, narrowly dodged a speeding Roman motorist and began worrying that she'd sprained her ankle.

Our final night in Rome we joined other hostel guests at the complimentary wine party (I had heard them say "Hawaiian" and was utterly disappointed to arrive and see an absence of leis and grass skirts). We made a new friend from the states who my sister and Trisha desperately tried to get me interested in (after only two days they'd already grown tired of my blubbering about Positano). I was more interested in the free wine than this guy and after several cups we decided around 11pm that it was time to get some dinner. One traditional and delicious Italian meal (including more wine) later we discovered that Tuesday night in Rome was not the night for dancing so we snagged some cheap, but delicious wine from the grocery store and headed back to the hostel for a classy game of King's cup, Italian style. Despite my afternoon siesta, I did not last long and decided to curl up in my bed while everyone else played. My attempt to rest up for our long day of travel ahead of us was not kosher with everyone else and I wound up doused in water and pushed onto the floor. Needless to say, we woke up the next morning with wine stained sheets, half a deck of playing cards and suitcases that had exploded throughout the room. We had exactly one hour to push pass our exhaustion and headaches to reassemble our bags and make our way to the train station bound for Cinque Terre and the adventures that awaited.

A Journey Shared

missmelissa — Mon, 8 Jun 2009 05:33:00 GMT

My journey started last fall
or maybe sooner
You prayed, paid, studied.
I journaled, wept and shared.
Preparing to learn, explore and befriend.
Setting up to mentor, impart and guide.
We both google searched images,
set up blogs for family, friends.

Some stepped on the flight scared, doubtful, overjoyed
or relieved.
Onward to Madrid,
for better or for worse.
To learn a language, make a friend,
escape from something
or someone.

We hauled our luggage across the Atlantic
Maybe hoping to ditch baggage along the way.
Crammed in rooms,
creaking beds.
Hopping on and off too much.
Photos snapped, days recorded,
glances of frustration and giggles shared.

You cultivated patience, spontaneity and the now dreaded-
"flexibility."
Swam in foreign waters,
lost shoes,
sprained wrists,
prayed hand in hand.

To love or hate paella?
Day or night?
Big cities?
Or small towns?
You asked yourself these questions,
whether aloud or only within.

Homesickness
rolled around in your mouth,
dirty taste on an enviable journey.
You endured.
Weeks passed as wished.
And now Berlin threatens to be a memory.

One week, one month from here you'll sit,
sunny day while night rolls on,
through your home of 10 weeks.
With other friends,
eager to hear,
unable to know,
you will find a secret dawning::
The return to your home doesn't end the journey,
it is here where the journey truly begins.

My Final Hours as a T.A.

missmelissa — Mon, 8 Jun 2009 02:31:00 GMT

On my last day in Berlin I feel like I should be out visiting museums, snapping photos of the remaining Berlin wall and picking up souveniers for family members at home. Instead I am frantically completing our group's financial spreadsheet, double checking flight plans and job searching for this summer. Thankfully, it is a drizzly afternoon so I feel little obligation to get outdoors, especially since I mailed home my umbrella on Friday in anticipation of summer weather. And amidst my final day of T.A. duties I am finding time to reminisce with the students about the "epic" 10 week adventure we will soon add to our list of life accomplishments.

At some moments it feels like ages ago that I arrived at SeaTac airport to greet these 12 college "kids." I remember walking towards security and wondering to myself how I was ever going to survive the 10 weeks that lay ahead. I was already exhausted from being so enthusiastic and "on." How was I going to sustain that for over 2 months? Turns out, I wasn't. I would be learning the lesson that even a free trip abroad can seem less exciting when you discover the challenges of working 24/7. I would need to navigate the precarious territory of balancing the roles of being an authority figure and a peer to these students. I would have to figure out the best way to deal with my own emotional highs and lows in order to appropriately do my job and model appropriate self care.

My first real challenge as a T.A. came when I had to lead myself and two of the students (along with all our luggage) through rush hour on the Madrid Metro to our hostel. We'd been seperated from the rest of the group, but I was excited and ready to get to Madrid as soon as possible and "prove" my worth as the T.A. While in Madrid I discovered that I would have some real challenges in store in combatting group gossip and helping students cope with genuinely tough stuff. My quest to rid the group of gossip and drama would in the end turn out to be my own challenge to let go of my need for control. My hope is that some hurt feelings were prevented and unlikely friendships bloomed as well.

In Sevilla I learned that being "game" or seizing the moment was not always the best option and we all faced the fear that our trip might be cut short when the professor's daughter was in an accident back home. However, we all endured and a family game night combined with some group tears and prayer brought us all closer. In Granada I discovered that even the most prepared of T.A.s still make mistakes and unfortunately the students missed out on one of the best parts of the World Heritage site, The Alhambra. Barcelona proved to be a city that challenged the students, as 8 girls piled into a crowded (as therefore steamy and smelly) room for the week. I thankfully avoided the drama and stench in my 2 person room and prepared myself to say "Adios Barcelona" (and "Adios Spain") in a few short days.

By Paris the girls were starting to get on eachother's nerves and I was soon going through Spain withdrawals. Heading to France put me on the same playing field as the students, in a country where I spoke none of the language. I empathized with their anxiety about travel and rediscovered my "Inexhaustible Self" thanks to a 2 day museum pass. Then it was off to Strasbourg where the students had a taste of Germany (it was across the river) and the opportunity to sit in on an EU Plenary Session. Unfortunately, we all faced the challenges of reaching our limit with our prof's "flexibility" mantra.

Next it was off to Weinheim to enjoy outdoor sports and family meals. The lucky few of us got away for a weekend while those that remained found themselves missing home without the distraction of tourist attractions. We headed to Erfurt in need of a change and we got it in the form of our German prof who'd arrived from SPU. The students wowed him with their mastery of the German language (this is what happens when you need to get by in a small German town) and he wowed us with his enthusiasm for travel. We embraced the beauty of Germany's history in seeing opera, concerts and musicals. It was a much needed respite before heading to Erfurt where we discovered the other side of Germany's history in our viist to the former Buchenwald concentration camp. I pulled out my psych unit toolbox to prep the students for the emotional experience. Thankfully we were also able to relax and rejuvinate in the 4 star hotel we stayed at where we roomed next to a pro soccer team and possibly Obama's secret service team.

Finally we arrived in Berlin. Mixed feelings abounded. Even the most homesick now wondered if they were really ready to return to reality. How to deal with a life where your dilemmas involved more then whether to spend the afternoon napping, journaling or drinking coffee with friends? Of course, a couple of the girls on the trip with boyfriends were more than ready to get back to the states and their feelings restored my own enthusiasm for the single life. This week we spent time going to the opera, discovering the rich (and often painfully recent) history of Berlin. We discussed our favorite memories, most loved cities and memorable quotes. We accepted the reality that this will never be the same again. Back at home there will be other friends and obligations competing for our attention. Some of us may not even return to Seattle. But regardless of what awaits us back at home we have all reached a point of gratitude for this experience.

Today I sat having lunch with a group of my students in the bar in the ground floor of our hostel and "On the Road Again" started playing. Hearing the lyrics brought tears to my eyes. Yes, I am more than excited for the adventure that awaits in the next 3 weeks. I am meeting friends I made on my own European Quarter in '05 to enjoy the Amalfi Coast and after 10 weeks of watching others fall in love with Europe I will have the chance to watch my own sister catch the travel bug. I will be discovering new cities in Italy (best of all the birthplaces of gelato and pizza!), returning to my home of 1 month in Alicante where I will get to hang out with one of my profs from my language school and I will end in Madrid, my favorite city in Europa. But still, I have bonded with these students. Who will know what I mean when I say "uh-oh" or realize the significance of "vamanosing?" And what about moments like this afternoon when I was wandering through Alexanderplatz and at an open air fruit stand I heard the song "Day and Night" playing (it is basically my theme song of the trip and all anyone has to do is hum the first few notes and I am dancing!)?

There will be new memories made and new friends to hang out with in Seattle. Friends who are excited to seize First Thursday or Seattle Symphony Campus Club. Who may be up for Salsa dancing or The George and Dragon. I've had moments during these past 10 weeks when I wondered why I was here? How in the world had I wound up in Europe with a group of college kids? But today, on my last day as their T.A., I am realizing there was absolutely no other place I'd rather have been in Spring '09 and that this was exactly where I was meant to be. I only hope they head back to the states feeling the same way.

Thank you EQ '09 group for an amazing experience!!!

A Gem in the Former GDR

missmelissa — Mon, 25 May 2009 03:07:00 GMT

I'm writing this as we rumble along the 30 minute stretch inbetween Erfurt and Weimar. Only 15 miles seperate the two cities so we've chosen to travel this leg of the journey by bus. A last minute change of plans caused us to reschedule our departure time which turned out would mean that the owner himself of the bus company would come to pick us up and escort us to Weimar. He was more than delighted to share with us info about his beloved hometown of Weimar. Unfortunately, it was all in German but thanks to his insider info (and our German prof's translation), we learned that next week our very own president Obama will be visiting Weimar! It turns out Obama's great uncle was involved in the liberation of Buchenwald, a nearby concentration camp which we'll be visiting ourselves on Thursday.

We arrived in Erfurt on Wednesday, May 20th and were finally united with our German professor. The change in teaching style and command of the language was just the pick me up our travel weary group was in need of. After a restful 12 days in Weinheim, accompanied by a weekend break from my "work duties" (which I spend visiting a best friend in Frankfurt), I was feling ready to once again hit the ground running. Our first day in Erfurt I took advantage of our free afternoon to get out and explore the city center. Most of the city was destroyed during WWII, but has been completely rebuilt in historical fashion. A fairly small city of the former GDR (East Germany), Erfurt hosts its fair share of adorable, spacious plazas, along with a few cathedrals, churches and monuments. My favorite destination of all was the Fischmarkt where I could lounge on a couch, sip a cappucino and people watch to my heart's content. If you ever visit Erfurt this is the must see part of the city.

On Thursday we visited an Augustinian Monastery where Martin Luther had once lived. I believe it was here that Luther first began to realize that what he had learned in church did not match up with what he was discovering in his own reading of the Bible. Now The Augustinerkloster serves as a conference center or home to travelers in need of a spiritual retreat of sorts. While we were visiting the Monastery a thunderstrom erupted and we learned that one of Luther's motivations for seeking the monastic life was because he had narrowly escapted being struck by lightning himself. Thankfully we too made it out of harm's way and took refuge in an Italian cafe to wait out the storm.

On Thursday our group took a day trip to Eisenach, home of the Wartberg Castle and birthplace of Johann Sebastian Bach. We learned a great deal about a former queen of the castle, Elisabeth, who had been betrothed at age 4, married by 14 and dead by 24. During her short life she was able to establish charities and tend to the poor (despite her husband's disapproval), earning herself the title of "St. Elisabeth." After soaking up a great deal of history regarding this former fortress/palace we headed to the Bach Haus. Here we learned about the history and influence of Bach's music and explored an interactive exhibit--a science center of sorts for Bach's music. I could have spent all afternoon relaxing in the egg shaped chair dangling from the ceiling, letting Bach's music ripple out of the headphones and down to my fingertips, but we had a mini concert to attend downstairs. Unfortunately, I do not have enough knowledge regarding music to adequately articulate and describe the performance we witnessed, but I can tell you that the sounds brought tears to my eyes and temporarily melted my heart. Our German prof is constantly talking about earthly experiences that are glimpses or echos of paradise. The Bach Haus was certainly one of these glimpses.

Friday night we made our way to the sole laundromat across town. I've come to the conclusion that Germans are not fans of washing their clothes (which is something my High School German teacher always used to say as well). It had been an embarassingly long amount of time since our clothes had received a legitimate washing and the makeshift sink washing just wasn't cutting it anymore. We loaded up our bags, put on our pajamas (the only thing we could possibly get away with not washing) and arrived at the Schongang waschsalon. Walking in we were greeted by dim lighting, hookahs and Reggae music. Hmmm...had we mistakingly walked into a bar instead of the laundromat? As it turns out, this bar also doubles as a laundromat AND an Internet Cafe. It was multitasking at its finest. Clean clothes, a strawberry juice and vodka cocktail and the statisfaction of being up to date on my emails. We all jokingly commented on our way back to the hostel that now that we had clean clothes, we could probably rule the world.

Saturday was devote to lounging in cafes, exploring the Dom St. Marien and Serverikirche (home to the sarcophagus of St. Severus) and that evening we headed back to the Augustinian Monastery for a Nacht Konzert (Night Concert). The choir from The Netherlands had compiled a number of Luther Hymn's and sang different composer's versions of the hymn. Again, words fail me here but suffice to say that the performance was another glimpse. On Sunday we headed to Erfurt's theater for an afternoon matinee of "My Fair Lady." The music was lively and entertaining, despite being entirely in German and left me jazzed to one day see Audrey Hepburn in the English silver screen version. Another glimpse. By Monday it was already time to head to a new city. Time once again to pack up. Worn out clothes were finally tossed, books were attempted to be left behind (unfortunately, our "helpful" hostel staff prevented this from happening and returned the books that were of course "accidentally" left behind). We all had to face the reality that 13 days from now we will be heading our seperate ways. Most of us will head back to Seattle where they'll scatter for summer jobs, Peace Corps prep and family vacations. The lucky few will have a week or more to continue avoiding reality before returning to a world filled with credit card bills, car payments, relationships to reconcile, tragedies to accept and friendships to mourn the loss of. What gives me hope is that returning to "reality" does not necessarily mean we need to give up the zest for adventure, hope for magical moments and quest for knowledge. The other day our prof noted that growth is not giving up former mindsets. This is called change. Genuine growth is building upon what we already know and have faith in. I hope that none of us forget this despite the distractions of to-do lists, financial obligations and family pressures that await us back at home.

A Dozen Days of Restful "Productivity"

missmelissa — Wed, 20 May 2009 06:36:00 GMT

gAfter a 12 day stay in Weinheim, it's finally time to say goodbye (or auf weidersehen rather) and head NE for a week in Erfurt.

Weinheim is located in the Baden-Wurttemberg state of Germany, situated pretty much between Stuttgart and Frankfurt. This little geographical fact was something I learned after our arrival in the city as it was nowhere to be found in any of the numerous guidebooks I'd scoured and could not be located on a map. I was nervous for the adventures that awaited us since only two of us spoke any German (with myself being counted in that duo!) and we had almost two weeks ahead of us before the German prof would arrive. Sure, of all Europeans, Germans are the ones most likely to speak English, but since we'd be staying in what I imagined to be a teeny tiny village, all bets for fluent English speakers were off.

As luck would have it, Weinheim was slightly bigger than I'd imagined. Home to a tram system, internet cafe and grocery store, we quickly settled into our home away from home. Unfortunately, the walk to get into town was 45 minutes from our hostel so we often reluctantly shelled out money for the overpriced tram. We also discovered that self service laundry was nowhere to be found in Weinheim. In my mind that instantly meant plan b:: "wash clothes in my sink," but for many of the students it meant paying far too much money to a woman operating a laundromat of sorts out of her basement. Drop off your clothes, she decides how much to charge you (based on some unknown calculations) and you return the next day for your freshly laundered clothes.

Thankfully, being in the middle of nowhere proved to have many perks as well. Without the distraction of nearby nighclubs, cafes or tourist attractions, we had a great deal of time for bonding, rest and rejuvination. After our nightly "family dinners," (homemade and courtesy of the hostel owner--which we literally cheered for every night it was wheeled in to the dining room), we often teamed up for group games--basketball, volleyball versus a group of french teenagers and my new beloved past time-- bocci ball! And even better, there was a track right next door which was perfectly suited for knee and back friendly running. We were also able to bring the siesta to Germany and gear up for the whirlwind adventures that surely awaited us as we headed through Erfurt, Weimar and Berlin. For myself, I'll still have another 3 weeks after that as well, which involve a week in a villa on the Amalfi Coast of Italy (yes, I am TOO lucky!!) and a jam packed sightseeing trip through Italy and Spain after my sister and her friend, Trisha, join me in Rome on June 16th.

Another perk of being situated in Weinheim was that it allowed for daytrips to nearby cities, which we did our best to take advantage of. First stop was Heidelberg--a university town south of us that I'd already visited back in 2005. It had been muggy all weekend so I finally decided to dress appropriately in a skirt and leggings. Unfortunately, my fashion change just so happened to coincide with a change in the weather. We were greeted in Heidelberg by a rainstorm reminiscent of February in Seattle. I was left to suffer through the day torn in two by my feelings of excitement to see the city and also wishing we could get home ASAP so I could put on socks, sweats, a hoodie, blankets, etc--anything but a dress and leggings!! Thankfully our tour guide's enthusiasm and knowledge left me distracted enough to survive the afternoon. Dr. Brian Tracy (Heidelberg prof in charge of their American exchange program) led us through a tour of the university's library, museum (we learned that the city was spared during WWII because an American student who'd attended Heidelberg was assisting with the plans of the air raids and has convinced the person in charge that the city would be a great location for headquarters following the war), and finally the student jail. I hadn't had the fortune this last destination in '05 and was delightfully amused at seeing the locations where Heidelberg's misbehaving students were "jailed." If a student did not spend time in this jail during their time at the university, they were considered a disgrace. The walls were lined with silohuettes of former prisoners created out of soot and paintings recounting the tales of their innocence.

After lunch it was time to head up the hill to Heidelberg's castle. One particular student was beyond excited for this part of the day. She had signe dup for this trip based largely on her love and enthusiasm for castles and had been thoroughly dissapointed that all we had seen so far were palaces. Personally, I never realized there was such a difference between castles and palaces. Apparently there is. I'd already visited the Heidelberg castle 4 years ago, but I still managed to soak up a few new things thanks to my audioguide. After wandering through the crumbling remains, we wandered back into town and took refuge from the rain in where else than Starbucks. If you're going to have weather reminiscent of Seattle, you might as well get the whole experience, right?

Our next trip started off with an early train to Worms. We visited the very cathedral where Martin Luther defended his thesis. Sitting there in one of the pews, gazing up at the grandiose altar adorned in gold, got me thinking about the purpose of cathedrals. Now maybe I have just reached the point in my trip where I am feeling burnt out on cathedrals, or maybe it's the fact that I don't identify as a Catholic myself, but I found myself thinking that maybe all of this was a little (dare I say it) excessive? I understand the purpose of churches are to bring people together--to create community and a place to support one another in your relationship with God. I understand how the light streaming in through the stained glass and the high vaulted ceilings are all symbolic of God and His creation. But didn't Christ preach to people in the streets? And isn't much of Christianity about seeking a life of simplicity? I'm certainly no expert on theology. One of my friends pointed to a Bible passage that seems to justify the aesthetic exuberance of cathedrals, but I don't feel like going into this here. Really, I don't want to argue one way or another. Especially since I am a huge fan of certain cathedrals I've been in, but I do feel like I need to nonetheless mention that the question crossed my mind.

After the cathedral and a quick stop at the once upon a time meeting place of Charles V and Martin Luther, we headed to the site of the oldest Jewish cemetary in Europe. The oldest legible headstone in Holy Sands dates back to 1076 and the most recent is from 1940. It is remarkable that the cemetary survived under the Third Reich. Walking amongst the headstones inscribed with a mix of German and Hebrew, I found myself filled with a deep appreciation for the opportunity to be there. It was surreal and holy and bittersweet. I am a fan of cemetaries (can you call yourself that? A fan? Of cemetaries?), but it really is impossible to walk through them without feeling a little blue after the blatant reminder of mortality. However, I had a little awakening as I left through the gates of Heiliger (Holy in German) Sand--hidden in my scarf was a tiny flower that had fallen from the trees as I was strolling the grounds. It was a befitting reminder that many of the things we enjoy and consider beautiful are actually endings. A boquet of picked flowers, the beginning of summer, a trip abroad, etc. A beginning? Or an end? All a matter of perspective.

Next it was on to Manneheim. It turned out to be a brief and slighlty disappointing afternoon. We arrived to discover that the art museum and palace (our intended destination) was just closing. I'm very impressed at how gracious and flexible my students are becoming when faced with unexpected turns such as this. Whenever something doesn't go as planned we all glance at one another and more often than not respond with, "it is an adventure!" When traveling you really have to go overboard on the optimism at times. Misfortunes become good stories to tell at home, material for journaling or adventures shared. Humor and optimism are essential. As it turned out, our trip to Mannheim wasn't a complete waste of time either--a few blocks away we discovered a beautiful fountain and water tower where we relaxed until the next train arrived to whisk us back home to Weinheim.

All in all, our week and a half in Weinheim was relatively "unproductive" by many traveling standards. There were probably many local castles, cathedrals and museums we missed out on seeing and we spend most afternoons holed up in the city's sole internet cafe. However, we made numerous new friends. The French High School students we challenged to an impromptu volleyball tournament, the woman who frequented the internet cafe and local ice cream shop (a former pilot and aspiring deep sea diver who wore a parrot on her shoulder), the internet cafe owner himself who frequently bestowed us with complimentary cups of tea and gifted us with ice cream bars on our final night in town, the Chinese restaurant workers who chatted it up with us in a mix of French, English and German and gave us free shots of Chinese liquor, and the Subway Sandwich worker who gave us free cookies and invited us to see his punck band play in Mannheim. In the travel adventures I've had in the past few years have allowed me to "refine" my "travel philosophy" and judging by our standards I think our time in Weinheim was as "productive" as could be. Traveling is about more than just how many sites you see, it's about the people you meet, the "adventures" you have and the siestas and journaling opportunities you indulge in. Weinheim left us rested, rejuvinated, slightly homesick, but with a great first impression of Germany and ready to make the most of our final 19 days together.

Travel Loves

missmelissa — Fri, 1 May 2009 10:15:00 GMT

To clear up any confusion at the beginning, this blog is about things I love about traveling, not people I have loved while traveling. Because that is an entire other subject in itself. And really, what is "love" when you are traveling? Because I really am sure I was in love with that incredibly attractive waiter in Barcelona at the Italian cafe who spoke Spanish with the perfect hint of Italian lust in his voice...but is it really possible to fall in love in less than 20 minutes over a cappuccino and panini? Anyways, like I said this blog is about what makes travel attractive, not what makes Italian men speaking Spanish attractive.

THINGS I LOVE ABOUT TRAVELING::

*Mini adventures that lurk around every corner

*New found friends spilling out their life stories

*The cafe culture of Europe

*Lots of time to write (at least in theory)

*The minimal need to know time (which is probably why I am perpetually late)

*A vacation from English. The freedom to tune out

*The inevitable need to challenge myself to be flexible

*The constant buzz of plazas in Europe

*The joy of living out of a suitcase. Seriously! It is refreshing to live like a hermit crab at times

*Permission to wear dirty clothes

*Running (which doesn't happen too frequently, but is always a good way to see a city)

*Staying up til dawn. Especially when it involves dancing.

*People watching, which a socially acceptable practice on the road.

*Continually discovering how small the world really is and how many more places I want to say.

*And because I already broached the topic and because I have officially been reading too much of "Eat, Pray, Love," I must mention that a delightful part of travel is the amazingly handsome and charming men that you meet while traveling. Who always remind me how lucky it is that I am merely passing through.

What do YOU love about travel?

Granda: A Disproportionate Summary

missmelissa — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 10:08:00 GMT

On our way to Barcelona from Sevilla we had a 3 day stopover in the Andalucian town of Granada. Our early afternoon train ride was filled with moments fit for journaling, reading or siesta-ing. Trains are certainly a romantic way to travel (unless they take place during the night, more on that later). However, I always find myself feeling a little guilty for watching the countryside pass by in such a cushy setting. Shouldn't train travel epitomize the Kerouac experience? I should be traveling lighter, playing my harmonica, stowing away in a freight car, downing whiskey to keep warm amongst my newfound friends. I certainly should not be drinking overpriced cafe con leches in the dining car or watching my fellow travelers type away on their macbooks or play away their afternoon on their DS. But as someone recently told me, "Melissa, we are not living in the 60's anymore" (which I suppose rules out the 40's and 50's as well). Still, bound for Granada I harbored a hope that I could briefly escape from the 21st century before setting foot into the storybook setting that awaited me in Southern Spain.

Once in Granada, there were no time for siestas. I had to hit the ground running, first stop:: The Albaycin. I was a little doubtful of my ability to lead the group through the winding stone walkways towards the Mirador de San Nicolas (St Nicolas' Lookout), but after a few wrong turns (and reminders to the students that this was not the neighborhood to head to if you had any sort of time commitment. Getting lost is inevitable), I finally heard the drums and guitar that characterize afternoons in this plaza and followed my ears. And there, to our right sprung the magnificent Alhambra, former residence of Granada's Muslim rulers and our main reason for visiting the city. There were the necessary photos to be taken amongst the other tourists as stray dogs (and children--parents have no fear of losing their kids here in Spain) scurried through the plaza filled with mini drum circles and craft selling locals. One of the students inquired with a tone of disdain, "Do a lot of hippies live here?" to which I gleefully responded, "Yes!!" The lazy meandering streets of the mellow Albaycin, where most locations are impossible to reach by car, is the perfect setting to kick back and pretend that the 60's are alive and well. I briefly considered resigning from my job as a T.A., renting out a second story flat in a white washed building and sending notice to my parents to ship my record player over to my new residence. I'd have easy access to incense, tea and all things "hippie" right at my backdoor. And maybe I could start playing the tambourine or become a water color master? Maybe I could set up an illegal counseling business for homesick tourists? Or open a hostel? The options were endless, but I knew my sister would kill me if I bailed on our plan to meet up and travel through Italy in June so I had to snap out of dreamland and get back to work.

Probably the very best part of Granada was that I was able to experience it free from strep throat. Last May I took a weekend trip there with my friend Liz and I awoke the morning of our departure with swollen glands and the telltale white spots. Hiking up to the Albaycin and Alhambra with a fever was far from the highlight of my stay in Spain. My 5 weeks spent on the couch recovery from my tonsillectomy never seemed so worthwhile when I was forced to awake on Day 2 in Granada at 6:30 for the walk to procure tickets to The Alhambra. The prof refuses to buy tickets online so it was my job to recruit two students to join me on an early morning hike to secure tickets for that afternoon. Unfortunately, our hostel was so far away from the city centre that by the time we'd made the 45 minute walk into town we were dangerously close to running out of time. We decided to cough up the money to take the bus (later the prof would scold me for not doing this sooner), waited in line for almost an hour and with tickets in hand made the steep journey back into town. Granada is a town famous for "tapa hopping" (basically bar hopping, but you get a generous plate of food with every drink) and with it only being 9am we decided to put our own spin on things and try out some "breakfast hopping" on the walk back to the hostel. After weeks of cornflakes, warm milk and stale bread (the hostels in Spain have obviously never heard that breakfast is the most important meal of the day), the fresh squeezed orange juice and chocolate pastries were a welcome respite. I have yet to find another breakfast in Spain quite as delicious. Four hours after we'd set out to buy tickets we finally returned to our hostel. For the rest of the class the day had barely begun and we had already had an adventure that we'd appropriately deemed "epic." Needless to say, a siesta was in order.

Post-siesta it was time to head back to The Alhambra. I'd insisted that we have at least an hour to travel before our entrance time, but unfortunately my words of warning were ignored and we all wound up waiting at the bus stop restless and nervous that we wouldn't reach the site by our scheduled time. We couldn't come all the way to Granada and miss The Alhambra! We made it in the gates with barely 10 minutes to spare and all set out on our separate ways. Halfway towards the palace it suddenly occurred to me that the time on our tickets was not to enter the main gates but to enter the palace. I shared my realization with the 3 students I was with and we quickly wound through the masses of tour groups slowly making there way down the pedestrian paths. We reached the palace 25 minutes after our scheduled time, but I used my meager Spanish to convince the guard to give us "VIP treatment" and escort us into the palace. Once inside we breathed a sigh of relief. However, it was short lived when we realized that the rest of the class would likely not have the same luck. As it turned out, this was exactly the case. I had failed my job as the T.A.! We had traveled all this way to see this UNESCO World Heritage site, only to be denied entrance? Thankfully my students accepted the disappointment well and no fingers of blame were pointed in my direction. The fact that this was my 3rd trip to The Alhambra and I didn't remember this small, but significant detail can certainly be blamed on the fact that the first trip I was merely playing follow the leader and the second trip my logic was stolen away by strep throat.

It always surprises me how quickly you can adjust to a new place while traveling. Within 2.5 days I made the 45 min trek to the center of town multiple times, discovered my favorite internet cafe, best place for tapas, the best gelato outside of Italy (seriously--THE BEST), oriented to the bus system and discovered which intersections to avoid for crossing the street. And getting cozy in a place means that I will inevitably have a hard time saying good-bye. I spent my last day in Granada mourning the fact that I wouldn't be able to siesta and trying to fill the time between breakfast and the overnight train that awaited us that evening. Once I'd resigned myself to spending the day shopping and eating (with a fair bit of wandering inbetween), the hours did pass reasonably quickly and we were headed to the train station.

And finally I can rant about the hell that is overnight train travel. I have vague memories of my group in '05 complaining about the terror of overnight trains, but I had no such memories of my own discomfort. One of my friends from the trip assured me that this time it would be great and that we'd just had the misfortune in '05 of having the heater broken on our train. However, once I stepped onto the train I discovered that the sweltering, stuffy quarters were not a result of a heater malfunction. The next debacle to deal with was the fact that our travel agent had failed to consider the school's "Lifestyle Expectation" rules when making our reservations and had booked two girls and two guys in the same sleeping car. Most of the female students were eager to "take one for the team" and stay with the guys, but this would not fly with the prof. In the end myself and another student were the ones stuck being relocated to another car with a stranger. During the middle of the night the student awoke me with terror in her voice, announcing that someone had just been in our car and that we should check our belongings. Half-asleep I mumbled that I was sure it was fine, and fell back asleep. It wasn't until the morning that I realized the significance of what she'd seen. As it turns out, during the night someone had wandered up and down the halls of the train, creeping into unlocked rooms and digging through people's valuables. Luckily the student had scared him away, but one of the students wasn't so lucky. His entire wallet was stolen during the night. By now the damage has been taken care of, but this certainly didn't help to leave anyone with a good first impression of overnight trains.

And now here we are, Barcelona. The metropolitan city of Gaudi. Where Spanish is of little use as Catalan is the official language and most people speak language. I'm sure the nearness of the beach will keep us all sufficiently distracted from this disappointment.

Deja Vu, Words of Wisdom and Rediscovering Sevilla Without the April Fair Glamour

missmelissa — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 10:35:00 GMT

There are several things that are amusing to me about this post::

1) It is a post all about Sevilla, although these stories are now 2 weeks and 2 cities behind me 2) I am drinking a Coca Cola Light and it is almost midnight here. I'm not drinking it because I'm tired. Or because it tastes remarkably delicious. But really just because I have yet to drink a Coca Cola Light in Europe and somehow this seems like a tragedy. 3) I am typing this blog on one of my student's laptops, which is amusing because I explicitly told ALL of the students not to bring their laptops since internet cafes are easily accessible. Thankfully my students are grace filled, generous and have yet to call me a hypocrite.

So, Sevilla. Leaving Madrid bound for Andalusia was hard, but for me saying goodbye to any city is always a mini-tragedy. Thankfully I am surrounded by energetic, enthusiastic college students and their zeal for embracing the next destination on our itinerary keeps me too distracted to weep any nostalgic tears.

Although I really had no idea what to expect when I accepted the invitation to serve as a T.A., I expected to encounter problems such as feeling too lazy, anxious or shy to do my job well. No matter how much I prepared to face the unexpected, I was not ready for the challenges that would greet me in my two weeks of travel. The personal details involving others are not exactly blog appropriate, but suffice to say that my amateur counseling skills have been well used and my emotional reserves drained several times. Also, I had a big reality check that the majority of college aged students are not by nature mellow and mature. Especially when a 3:1 ratio of girls to guys is involved. Thankfully by this point things have calmed down, walls have disappeared and perhaps everyone is finally on the same page. Or at least all reading the same book, which has been a lesson in itself--that I can't set my own agenda for the students on this trip. On a related note, the night before I left for this trip I stumbled across the following Bible verse which I wrote in the front of my journal as it seemed appropriate for easing my fears about the unknown path that lay ahead:: "Do not worry about what to say or how to say it. At that time you will be given what to say, for it will not be you speaking, but the Spirit of your Father speaking through you." (Matthew 10:19-20). Ironically, during my week in Sevilla when I was feeling my most overwhelmed this exact verse appeared in my email inbox as part of a daily words of wisdom email I receive. Serendipity. Fate. Once again a moment while traveling reassures me that all things happen for a reason.

I wish I could say that our hostel in Sevilla had us situated right outside the Barrio de Santa Cruz (the city centre) or that we had cushy accomodations in this location that touted itself as "brand new." Unfortunately, "new facilities" means "newly changed from dorm to hostel," the city centre was a bus ride away (or an hour walk, as I would later find out), the entire hallway and all areas surrounding the hostel reeked of rotten cauliflower (imagine "The Aroma of Tacoma" x 10) and there was no free internet! (which shouldn't matter, but really did after being so spoiled in Madrid). But by the end of the week we discovered that being out in the boonies does have some benefits. We discovered 2 euro sandwiches, a beloved bulk candy shop and dirt cheap and delicious cafe con leches. And we were walking distance from the Parque Maria Luisa which was a phenomenal destination for running, journaling and people watching.

When I visited Sevilla back in '05 I had the great fortune of being there at the same time as the Feria de Abril, a week long event where Sevillanos head to the fairgrounds that have been converted into a carnival of sorts. The grounds are filled with a circus, amusement park and dozens of tents called "casetas" which families rent out to host parties filled with food, drinks and plenty of flamenco. All of the city's residents dress in flamenco dresses and suits and ride around in horsedrawn carriages. I had no idea what to expect from a Sevilla that wasn't adorned in ruffles and flamenco music and I feared that I would be severly dissapointed.

However, my fears were washed away as I set sight on the neighborhoods of the year-round picturesque neighborhoods of Triana and Santa Cruz, smelled the orange scented air and discovered that Sevilla had been a city of inspiration for many famous writers. The thought even crossed my mind that perhaps my undying love for Madrid might have some competition...By the end of the week I realized that Madrid is still where my heart is, but I left the city with a great affinity for this white washed Andalusian mecca. We had enjoyed tapas, visited the breathtaking palace and gardens of the Real Alcazar, climbed to the top of the Cathedral's bell tower for a view of the city, experienced flamenco in an intimate setting, took advantage of siestas and even enjoyed an afternoon at the beach on the Strait of Gibraltar--which was unfortunately overcast and drizzling. But it was the beach. In Spain! And so I jumped into the water anyways. And then realized that I am not a fan of saltwater...

Everywhere I went in Sevilla I was plagued by feelings of "deja vu." I recalled conversations over breakfast with friends, falling asleep in my tights and skirt after a long day at the fair and running through the windy streets of Santa Cruz towards the tour bus bound for the beach when my alarm clock had failed. One of the strangest occurences of all was when we arrived at an Italian restaurant I'd been raving about (only because my guidebook suggested it) and once we were seated in the back my mind suddenly was flooded with a whole host of memories from the evening I'd dined there with a large group of my fellow students in '05. An event I'd had no recollection of was suddenly uncovered and left me wondering, if this was hidden somewhere in the recesses of my brain, what else lies buried in there awaiting the perfect external cue to unlock it?

The week in Sevilla was also filed with some other lightbulb moments. Such as when I was taking in the view of the gardens in the Alcazar and overheard a Spanish high schooler playing "Oh Susanna" on his harmonica. My heart sprang in joy at the sound of this instrument and my soul begrudgingly replied "ok. ok. I guess you can start practicing your harmonica since you did drag it with you all the way from Seattle." So a few days later at the beach I put all my effort into mastering "Oh Susanna," only to discover that harmonica is not as easy as it seems and that my students can only handle so much of my novice playing.

I also learned that my Carpe Diem attitude may get me into trouble and that sometimes listening to your body is just as good (if not more important) than seizing the moment. It was a Wednesday night and I wasn't feeling well after a day filled with too many cafe con leches and not nearly enough agua so I turned down the invitation from my students to go out dancing. Even though one of them knew a promoter at the club and promised it would be a fun filled evening. However, once they started playing dance music and getting ready for the night, my dancing self was swayed and I agreed to go. Looking back, I probably should've decided to change my mind again when we missed the last bus and realized we'd be walking to the city centre, but I had committed at this point and there was no turning back. By the time we actually reached the dance club, an hour later, my feet were tired, all I craved was a large bottle of water and a migraine headache was inevitably headed my way. The cigarette smoke, loud music and red bull and vodka did nothing to help how I was feeling, but I toughed it out for 2 hours until I could convince someone to accompany on the marathon trek home. We distracted ourselves by discussing what fast food places or grocery stores we might frequent if we were back in Seattle (we had definitely worked up an appetite after so much activity!) and the most joyous part of the journey was when we recalled that our hostel was home to an ice cream vending machine in the lobby. A vanilla ice cream bar has never tasted so delicious. By the time I got back to my room I was tired, cranky, dehydrated, still hungry and dissapointed with myself for not sticking with my gut. I pride myself on always "being game," but as it turns out when your days necessitate constant "gameness," it is wise to take advantage of the free moments when relaxing and rejuvinating is allowed.

Next up:: Granada. A quick 2 day stop in this city and I am already aware of how very soon I'll be saying adios to Spain and heading for Paris:: home of overpriced internet. I will do my best to stay uptodate with this blog, but can make no promises.

Semana Santa in Madrid

missmelissa — Sun, 12 Apr 2009 06:26:00 GMT

I´m homesick. Not in a ¨I wish I could catch the next flight home and end this experience early¨kind of way, but in an ¨oh it would be really nice to go to the gym, sleep in my own bed, pick up cheap shampoo at Target, hug my family, hang out with friends at Mick Kelly´s¨kind of way. Really I just want a mini 2 hour vacation from Europe without the reality of flight time and jet lag. I feel guilty for writing any of this. How can I not enjoy every single moment of this experience when so many people would kill for this opportunity? Why am I wasting time thinking about life in Seattle when I should be enjoying the history, culture and people that surround me halfway around the world from home? Because I´m human. Because as much as I hate to admit it, Europe will never feel completely as comfy as Burien. And life is life even amidst the historical monuments of Madrid and orange tree lines streets of Andalusia. Ghosts from home pop up around unexpected corners, the spectrum of human emotion eventually arises and you realize that coping skills, support systems and a healthy balance between optimism and realism is necessary even when you´re having the ¨experience of a lifetime.¨

I was lucky enough to be greeted last Monday by my best friend and beloved travel companion--Tina. Working in Frankfurt for the past three months as an aupair, she was fortunately able to snag some vacation time and fulfill her longing to see Madrid--with yours truly serving as her tour guide. Our week together was jam packed with adventures. We toured Madrid´s top museums, the oasis of the city (Retiro Park), took photos of our favorite Madrid locations from European Quarter ´05 (Hostal Lisboa and our beloved bodega to name a few) and dined daily at our all time favorite ¨restaurant¨in Madrid--Maoz, where you can purchase a whole wheat pita filled with deliciously healthy falafels and jam packed with veggies. A definite MUST if you visit Madrid.

I also filled Tina in on my adventures from living in Madrid last spring--my barrio Vallehermoso, favorite tapas destination (El Tigre), my preferred cafe for journaling, favorites of Retiro Park, and of course we rediscovered our mutual love for the Madrid nightlife at DREAMS and Joy. Sadly, dancing alongside my 20 year old students we also were faced with the undeniable reality that our energy levels and sense of responsibility truly have brought us halfway to 30. Back in ´05 we were overwhelmed by the creepy old men that crowded the dance floors, and now only 4 years later we are faced with the worry that all the guys are younger than they appear and that now we are the ones treading dangerously close to oldness and creepiness territory.

On Saturday, I had to bid farewell to Tina (thankfully we´ll reunite in a few short weeks when I´m in Germany) and coincidentally this is when homesickness arrived at my door. Being a T.A. has more lonely moments than I´d imagined and I certainly enjoyed having the week to confide in a peer of my own. However, despite these challenges I am finding a lot of joy in getting to know all of the students and watching their own European adventures unfold. It´s certainly a smaller group (only 12 students whereas there were almost 30 on my trip!), but this also means students are making new friends outside the group as well, which I think will truly benefit them in the long run. A smaller group also means less anxiety on my part when we´re traveling together. Less chance of students getting stuck on trains or seperated during tours. Less tests to correct and fewer numbers to add when taking care of the finances side of things. It´s hard not to compare this group to my own ´05 experience, but having the patience to let friendships manifests and group dynamics work themselves out is a good challenge for me in itself. I am thriving on the continous challenge that are coming my way and appreciating the chance to balance traveling with the group with times of initiated solitude. I´m finding both of them are essential for my ¨success¨and contentment as a traveler.

This trip is truly like no other I have been on. When I first traveled to Europe in ´05 my parents warned me that the reason I found so much joy and freedom in the experience was because for the first time in quite awhile I was not working and had such minimal responsibilities. I shrugged off their comments, completely convinced that being abroad was entirely responsibile for my newfound inner peace. However, living in Spain last year made me realize that perhaps there was some truth to my parent´s words. Like I said above, the stresses of life occur regardless of where in the world you are. Being in Europe is not a magical cure for reduced anxiety. However, I have been happy to discover that even when my life abroad is filled with more responsibilty, I am still able to find joy and peace in much of what I´m learning and experiencing. Right now I am appreciating the chance to balance the responsbility of work with the carefree feelings of traveling abroad. This will be great practice if I wind up working in Madrid this fall teaching English. In the end work is work and I don´t want to have a false hope that work will be completely easy just because it is unfolding in a city I love. It will also be interesting to see how my professional life unfolds in a city that never sleeps. A city that draws you into the fiesta current and can easily tow you under when you´re blinded by the music and dancing and sangria and carpe diem attitude. But I´m accepting that although I´ll never be a true ¨Madrileña,¨I can still consider the city as my 2nd home. I´ve loved seeing the students responses to Madrid the past couple of weeks. Madrid is a city where the experience simply does not translate, you have to go to know and you are bound to love it or hate it. I´m realizing that for me, Madrid is not a city I like to visit but more a city I like to live in. Once considered ¨my lover, Madrid¨my affinity for the city has now faded to a feeling of comfort, appreciation and sustenance. The rose colored glasses have come off, but my heart will forever skip a beat every time I hear mention of my beloved city.

Late Nighs and Caffeine Withdrawals:: My First Week as a T.A. Abroad

missmelissa — Tue, 7 Apr 2009 00:24:00 GMT

The unfortunate reason behind why I have time to write this blog while the day is wasting away in Madrid is because I am confined to my hostel as I am sick! I am hoping that I´ll get this unavoidable aspect of travel out of the way early so I can get on with taking advantage of the adventures that await. The sleepy afternoon in Madrid is cooing my name, but I´ll have to be content with spending the hours holed up in the bleak computer lab of my hostel. If I can´t be out and about snapping photos and making new friends, the least I can do is take advantage of free internet.

We hadn´t even left Seattle before I was presented with my first challenge as a Teaching Assistant. Our flight to Heathrow had been delayed and so our connecting flight had been rebooked. All but 2 students and myself were rebooked to a flight bound for Madrid at 7pm. Somehow the 3 of us had been detached from the reservation and were therefore rebooked for a 3:30 flight. We´d arrive at Madrid´s Barajas airport almost 3 hours before the rest of our group and I would be in charge of navigating us through the metro from the airport to our hostel. I was relieved to avoid an afternoon in Heathrow (and excited to arrive in Madrid as soon as possible!), although the prospect of lugging our suitcases around the potentially escalator-less metro stops made the entire experience a bit overwhelming. Nevertheless, aside from a few speedbumps, like an absence of street signs near our hostel and our luggage arriving 30 minutes behind the rest of the people on our flight, we made it to the hostel and were on our way to Puerta del Sol for dinner before the rest of our group had left the ground in London.

The professor I´m working with had dubbed our trio the ¨John the Baptist¨of the group, going ahead to pave the way. I´m doubtful that John the Baptist´s work involved paving the way with sangria and paella, but I´m sure that he would´ve taken advantage of these token elements of Spanish culture, had Christ been bound for Madrid. I resisted the urge to pave the way through Madrid´s abundance of late night clubs and was in bed by midnight, surely a first for me in this European city that never sleeps (with the exception of the afternoon siesta).

Our days here in Madrid began in quintissential touristic fashion. The majority of Thursday was spent on a ¨Hop On Hop Off,¨tour bus that surprisingly enough showed me a few sights I´d yet to see during my last two jaunts through Madrid. Friday we headed to the nearby sights of Segovia and El Escorial and I decided it was about time to reintroduce myself to Madrid´s nightlife. As a Teaching Assistant for SPU students I find myself faced with the dilemma of how to respond towards their drinking alcohol. A number of students from SPU turn their heads at the university´s ban on the consumption of alcoholic beverages by their students (regardless of age). I´d certainly blocked out any memories of my own struggle with how to respond to the dilemma posed by the school´s ¨lifestyle expectations,¨yet here it is in a way staring back at me once again. When it comes to the heart of it though I´ve decided that the students I´m spending the next few weeks with are adults and can decide amongst themselves how they´ll each individually respond to the lifestyle expectations in a culture that boasts an overall healthy appreciation for alcohol. And on my own plate is the opportunity to show them places where they can enjoy approved leisure activities, such as dancing, live music and watching futbol games. And from there they simply have to decide if reeking of smoke and potentially missing out on valuable sleep would make the experience worth their while.

There´s a quote I like by Helen Bevington that says, “I have learned this strange thing, too, about travel: one may return to a place and quite unexpectedly meet oneself still lingering there from the last time.¨Since arriving last week I´ve found this to be absolutely true and moreover that you not only find pieces of yourself that you didn´t know where missing, but that you also find the ghosts of your friends still lingering there. I cannot wander down the streets surrounding Puerta del Sol without longing for the friends that accompanied me on late night adventures last spring. Nor can I wander towards Retiro Park without recalling my friends from Spanish class and the afternoons we shared together near El Estanque post-class. I´ve found a lot of joy in introducing these students to the charm of Madrid, but I am unable to shake my desire to relive the memories I created last spring. Of course, this is an inevitible part of life, but throwing in the travel aspect adds an entirely different spin to the longing for the past conundrum.

I´ve certainly had a number of adventures to keep me distracted from missing my friends for too long. It began the night of our flight in and has only continued since. Such examples include: Getting my paypal account hacked into, shopping for/purchasing a prepaid cell phone in a solely Spanish speaking store, and getting a group of students stuck on the outskirts of Madrid after the metro closed. The final example is the most interesting of all. We had headed far from the city center by metro to listen to live music and made plenty of time to get back before it closed at 2am. As we descended into the metro stop we found ourselves distracted by a group of teenagers toting a fifth of vodka and screaming ¨Borracho yo!¨ ´(basically ´¨I´m drunk¨). I´m still not certain how it happened but we boarded the metro, continued laughing at the drunk antics of these teenagers lounging on the metro benches and taking swigs of vodka and after 20 minutes I realized that we were heading in the entirely opposite direction of our metro stop!! We hopped off as soon as possible, raced for the other metro, only to be faced with the dissapointing news by the metro security guard--the metro had closed! I remained cool, calm and collective. I had a map and a cell phone. Certainly we could walk back without trouble? Lucky for us the metro stop we arrived at was surrounded by freeways, which pretty much ruled out the possibility of walking home. I say it was ¨lucky¨because I later realized that strolling home would´ve been a 2 hour minimum walk. We secured a taxi number from the security guard and I successfully ordered us a taxi. When the driver arrived and we announced our desired destination, he responded ¨¿en Madrid?¨Had we really gotten so far from the city that we now were no longer in Madrid?? We opted to have him drop us off 20 minutes from our hostel in order to avoid some of the ridiculously high fare that cabs charge after 2am. And by 3am we were sound asleep in our beds, as ready as we could be to head to Palm Sunday mass the following morning.

Amidst the adventures and time zone adjustment I´ve also been navigating the ambiguous territory of life as a Teaching Assistant. The professor and I have entirely different communication styles and overall approaches to life. I´m hoping that in the end we balance eachother out, but right now I am plauged with moments of wanting to rip my hair out in confusion. I´ve recently been dubbed the ¨accountant¨ of the trip. Although at one time I prided myself on an uptodate bank account, one look at the chicken scratch on the back of my current book of checks would clue someone in to my inadqueacy in keeping track of funds. Maybe this is God´s way of helping me get back on the ball with finances. I just wish I´d been practicing with my own accounts before taking on those of an institution.

When I left Seattle last week, I was determined to steer clear from coffee once I arrived in Spain. The caffeine headaches, strain on my wallet (and my stomach) were all things I wished to avoid. Unfortunately, I didn´t take into consideration that the allure of European coffee, jet lag, long days and the reality of my caffeine addiction would not make my first week in Madrid the ideal location to endure caffeine withdrawals. By day three I´d succumbed to the deliciousness of cafe con leches and I haven´t looked back. Maybe returning to the states I´ll try again. I doubt Starbucks chais and frappucinos wont suck my unemployed self in the same way as Europe´s cafe culture.

Overall my first week in Spain has been a success. I boarded the plane, mastered the names of the twelve students and have visited a majority of my favorite Madrid destinations. This afternoon (assuming I´m feeling back to my usual self) I´ll be greeting my long lost best friend at the metro near our hostel and will be diving into yet another adventure filled week that involves reminiscing with another European Quarter 2005 alum, preventing cliques amongst the current EQ students and taking advantage of all Madrid has to offer, particularly the siestas.

European Quarter Round II

missmelissa — Tue, 31 Mar 2009 00:19:00 GMT

Yes, it's that time again--time for me to head out of the country for an extended adventure! This time around I'll be traveling alongside 12 undergrad students from Seattle Pacific University and working as a Teaching Assistant for their European Studies professor. This is the very same program I was a part of back in 2005 and I'm delighted and honored to have the chance to shed some of my worldly "wisdom" on these college students. This opportunity to travel through Europe in this capacity practically fell into my lap and I am excited to discover what exactly this cosmic generosity is going to mean for my life.

We'll be traveling through Spain, France and Germany for the next ten weeks, visiting a number of cities where we'll stay for anywhere from 3 to 12 days. In June I'll say goodbye to the students (which by then I'm sure will be lifelong friends) and head off to Croatia to rendezvous with some friends from college who I first explored Europe with four years ago. Then Stephanie (my sister) and my adopted sis, Trisha, are heading over to Italy where we'll stay for a week, hopping over to Spain (of course!) for another week and then I'm back home to Seattle by June 29th. The next 12 weeks will without a doubt be a whirlwind journey!!

Although I have fallen in love with travel, I know that along the road I will inevitably be plagued by moments of loneliness and homesickness. Living out of a suitcase for 3 months is tough and the constant onslaught of new sights, sounds and people can be inspiring as well as overwhelming. I look forward to keeping in touch with all of you while I'm away on this travel adventure. For me, writing is such an important way to find meaning in the journey so I'm sure I will spend a number of afternoons downloading my experiences into mass emails and blogs. I hope you'll keep me posted on what's going on in your life as well.

Wish me lots of luck in living out the words of one of my favorite authors, Paulo Coelho, throughout this journey: “If you can concentrate always on the present, you’ll be a happy man. Life will be a party for you, a grand festival, because life is the moment we’re living now.”

Ciao!

One Week and Counting!

missmelissa — Tue, 24 Mar 2009 16:47:00 GMT

Today marks the one week countdown until I'm heading back to Spain. Now that the trip is almost here I feel nothing but excitement and gratitude. The time for stressing about money or prepping to be the best TA on record has passed. Although I'm still crossing my fingers in hopes of becoming independently wealthy within the next week, I've decided that relying on my parent's wealth and a book by the travel master Rick Steves is going to have to suffice. Since I've begun telling people about this adventure I'm about to embark on, the overwhelming response has been "how can I do that??" I wish I had a simple answer for everyone. Yes, I feel like I could guide someone in planning a backpacking tour around Europe (even though I've never actually toted a "backpack" myself), or studying, working or volunteering abroad. But securing the opportunity to travel around three European countries as a teaching assistant...I am lost? Because I don't even know how I was lucky enough to stumble across it? And "stumble" isn't even the appropriate verb because it was basically thrust upon me after returning from Spain and thankfully I had the wisdom to respond with an enthusiastic "count me in!!" And here I am, 8 months later, still in disbelief that this whole thing actually worked out and in one week I will be reliving the European adventure I went on back in 2005 with SPU. Only this time I'll be the seasoned traveler, helping coordinate excursions and within city adventures. In charge of mass museum ticket purchases, assembling a group journal and escorting students to the doctor if need be. Of course, amidst my TA responsibilities, I also plan to find time to enjoy the cities myself. Drinking sangria in Madrid, enjoying Flamenco in Sevilla, spending an afternoon drinking tea in one of the hillside tea shops lining the winding hills up to the Albycin in Granada and finally making it to the Picasso Museum in Barcelona (after 2 failed attempts in my life). I'm planning a picnic in Paris on their labor day, renting a bike in Strasbourg, soaking up the history of Berlin and exploring the never before seen (by my eyes) sights of the other cities I'll be visiting in Germany. And despite my lack of funds I am going ahead with the three week journey I'd hoped for post-European Quarter. I'll be reuniting with friends I'd traveled with back on my inagural Eurotrip back in '05 for a week in Croatia. Then I've managed to convince my parents and sister that there is no better graduation gift than a plane ticket for her to Europe so she'll be heading over for her first European adventure, with her BFF in tow and I'll once again have the chance to be tour guide through Italy and Spain. I spent Saturday and Sunday evening hanging out with one of my teachers from Spain, who just happened to be visiting Seattle for the weekend as part of 10 day spring break trip. It brought back so many memories of my time in Spain last spring and bumbling through Spanish with him and his friends (also from Spain), my anxiety finally melted into the jazzed attitude I've been hoping for. I have my doubts and every morning I wake up thinking "how can I be this lucky??" But next Tuesday I'm heading for Madrid. There's no denying that. And there is no denying the fact that my heart is swooning in anticipation for finally being reunited with this city that's kept half my heart hostage for the past 9 months.

The Magic of Disney

missmelissa — Thu, 12 Mar 2009 17:25:00 GMT

Today has officially been one of the best of the year. It all started with an eye doctor appointment that involved me avoiding having my eyes dilated. I absolutely hate having my eyes dilated and I didn't have the luxury of lounging around the house all day encouraging my pupils to shrink. I did however decide I had the perfect amount of time for a mid-morning siesta. It is never too early to start practicing the Spanish way of life. Unfortunately, I discovered that pop tarts are not the best pre-siesta snack and therefore my nap was tainted by a restless sugar high.

I was finally awoken shortly after noon by the blazing sun and jetted off to the gym. Then it was off to caffeinate with one of my favorite coffee dates. We discussed the irony of the people we tend to spend much of our time with, our career and life ambitions and the challenge of sharing our religious/spiritual beliefs without alienating others. Then I was off to the dentist, which was slightly awkward since I had run into my dentist at the gym and I hadn't yet had a chance to shower...thankfully he either didn't notice or refrained from pointing it out.

I haven't yet heard back from grad schools so forever the planner I've quickly moved on to generating a Plan B list. My backup plan of late has been to reapply for a teaching assistant position in Spain. There are numerous reasons why I turned down the chance to teach in Spain this past fall but I feel like I would finally be ready to go abroad for the 8 months required. In fact, if pursuit of a PhD is not in the cards for me this fall, I don't believe there is any other place I'd rather be than Spain. Of course, the Rick Steves podcast I recently heard may have me swayed--a Seattleite discussing falling in love with a Spaniard and marrying and relocating to Spain. I can't say any of the men I met over there were even close to marriage material (especially those 30 year olds who still live with their mothers, which there are an abundance of), but I am refusing to give up hope.

But the biggest highlight of my day by far was attending "The Lion King" at The Paramount Theatre in Seattle. I was a little wary (not to mention dizzy) when we arrived at our seats way up high in the 3rd tier--row T. This wasn't helped by the woman sitting next to me who smelled reminiscent of the kids on the psych unit who refuse to bathe during their entire stay. I didn't know if I'd make it, and under any other circumstances, I would've demanded that my sister change seats with me. However, I had bought the tickets for her as a birthday gift and I knew that vomiting into her purse from the unbearable stench would not feel exactly "celebratory." So I settled into me seat, accepted the fact that I'd be breathing through my mouth for the next 3 hours and waited for the lights to dim.

I'd heard rave reviews of this performance, but nothing prepared for the tears that fled from my eyes during the opener of "Circle of Life," as the animals spun on the stage, drums beat along the sidelines and life-size elephants rumbled down the aisle ways. I was on the edge of my seat during the entire performance, wide eyed in suspense the same way I had been back in 3rd grade as I absorbed the sights and sounds of the Lion King on the big screen for the first time, my eight year old mind trying the best it could to make sense of the elaborate themes hidden behind the storyline. At 24 I still don't think my mind is fully capable of grasping the potential significance behind the storyline. I was in awe at reading my pastor's reflections on the parallels in the storyline (which you can read here:: http://raincitypastor.blogspot.com/2009/02/king.html). But with a big transition fact approaching there is much to be taken away from the melodies of "Hakuna Matata" and "Circle of Life." And I walked away from the musical with a new love for the storyline. For Rafiki's words of wisdom that "Oh yes, the past can hurt. But the way I see it, you can either run from it, or... learn from it." Who knew that back in '92 my mind was being filled with such powerful lessons by a Disney flick?

Unfortunately no day can be without its disappointments. Hearing young Simba's voice wasn't nearly as exciting as the first time I heard the JTT speaking through the movie version lion cub. And saddest of all I learned on my drive home that my favorite after hours dancing establishment, Contour, has closed its doors. Thankfully, my night ended on a happy note. I discovered a recently translated book by my favorite author, Paulo Coelho, is now in paperback (and so of course I couldn't resist the impulse buy as we made our way in from the cold through Barnes and Noble and towards the car). Also, on the way home I noted that I was really craving a glass of red wine. However, I didn't have the money to indulge in buying a bottle (especially after the book purchase) and so I thought, "I really wish someone would just appear with free wine." I was a bit nervous that a homeless person would soon after appear tapping at my car window, bearing boxed wine, but something even better happened. I came home to discover my parents had picked up a couple of bottles of red wine at Costco. This is certainly something I'll miss when I move out.

So here I am, one day closer to getting over to Europe where more plays, opera, musicals and live music await. Where I will have plenty of options for dancing until dawn and although I am unlikely to be greeted by free wine, I may be lucky enough to score a few free "chupitos" (shots) or a cheap glass of wine with a side of tapas and plenty of ambiance.

Prepping for a Bittersweet Goodbye

missmelissa — Wed, 11 Mar 2009 18:44:00 GMT

It's weird to think that I will never again think "It's a full moon tonight, wonder how that's going to effect the psych unit?" Three weeks from now I will be boarding a plane bound for Europe and my days (and nights) of employment on an Inpatient Psychiatric Unit will officially be over. Since deciding to leave my job, I have had many on the job moments where I've wondered if I could even handle the couple of months that lay ahead of working with psych patients, but the closer the day comes to saying good-bye to Children's IPU, the more I begin to wonder if I am going to be able to withstand a job outside the confines of locked doors and picture schedules.

Seriously. I've worked in office jobs and the tedious nature of the paperwork and detachment from those I'm aiming to help has left me dizzy and bored. There is something life-affirming about walking into your workplace not knowing what to expect and knowing that thinking the worse is not "catastrophizing behavior" but merely part of prepping for the work day. Of course this very same suspense of the unknown has also been known to keep me up late at night when I work the next morning. It's moments like that in which I think leaving the unit will probably be the very best thing for my health.

But in a way have I been spoiled by my job? Less than full time, more or less laid back atmosphere, frequent opportunities for creativity, art projects and kickball? Is life outside the psych unit going to fulfill me or will I find myself wishing that someone would throw a carton of milk at my face or hoping that one day when glancing over my shoulder (as I'm now frequently accustomed to do), I would actually come face to face with someone holding a sharpened pencil aimed directly at my pupil?

What stories will I share with new friends? What other work environments endow you with stories about teens hot-boxing the bathrooms, running down the hallways naked or bursting out of their rooms on a Sunday morning and declaring in a full-on manic voice "Get me to church!!" Will I feel fulfilled if I don't leave work with stories of getting choked for not being a doctor, a bruised thumb from dodging a chair and a bent ring from a patient who tried to bite it right off my finger? Sometimes I worry I will find myself making picture schedules for kids that don't exist, coaching parents in the grocery store on how to support their children or worse of all, instigating fights on neighborhood playgrounds so that I can intervene and have a time to shine.

My memories from my two years on the psych unit are invaluable. Coming home from a concert to learn I was called in overnight to sit with a girl who'd tried to commit suicide. Coming in to work one morning wondering why I'd dreamed about one patient in particular, only to learn the night before this same patient had a near-successful suicide attempt on the unit. Two teenage guys standing on a couch together lip-synching Akon's "Don't Matter." Numerous diaper changes for autistic kids, on in particular who tore their clothes to shreds and shoved their entire fist in their mouth to make themself vomit. Another who led me into their bedroom and invited me to remove my shoes and watch Spongebob with them--their personal show of hospitality. Exposure to drug-induced psychosis, med-psych patients, foster care rejects. The times I missed out on eating lunch because the eating disorder patient I was coaching started vomiting halfway through the meal. The afternoon we took a kid to the seclusion room from what began as a case of taking too many fruit snacks. The morning I saw a teenager come in who I'd worked with at Ruth Dykeman, even more ravaged by foster care, and sent off to a different hospital. The day I left work physically shaken from all of the pre-pubescent boys I'd seen pummel eachother. The time a kiddo escaped and made it all the way on to a city bus with his teddy bear in tow. Thank God the bus driver didn't allow barefoot ten year olds onto his bus.

My job has varied with every moment, of every day. I walk in the doors ready to face anything that lies ahead. What I'm told I'll deal with during my shift usually doesn't match that which actually occurs. Working on a psych unit teaches you when to work as a team and when to take initiative. You're forced to be creative while following the rules. Simultaneously maintain awareness of patient safety, chart-able behavior, the daily schedule and unit-wide concerns. In a very delicate way your own priorities take the back seat while also modeling superb self-care. It's a job that demands self-confidence, satisfaction, peace and self-awareness both inside and outside of the workplace.

Working at the hospital I've learned my own triggers, the essential nature of emotional intelligence and distress tolerance skills. I've been inspired by the patients I've encountered to take care of my own self and challenge my own fears and limitations. I've finally begun to understand the saying "To Whom Much Has Been Given, Much Is Expected." And I see that this doesn't necessarily mean saving the world as much as it means taking care of your own self and following your heart. In many ways my life has become so much more balanced than ever before as I have grown to practice what I preach.

The patients I am empathizing with the most lately are the ones just getting set to go back home. I can fully relate to their anxiety about the unknown and appreciate their awareness of the magical transience of the psych unit. I often think of how lucky these kids are to have a place to reflect on their "real" life and get a little insider info on emotions and coping skills. I guess in the same way I feel so lucky to have learned these same things and to have had my life graced by so very many invaluable people--both the patients and staff alike. Saying good-bye is always a hard thing. But I am not the same person I was back in February 2007 and now I am ready for a transition. No matter how scary I am for what lies outside the walls of the psych unit, I know that now is the time to put into practice all that I have learned from the unforgettable people I've encountered through this phenomenal job.